Ephemeral - "Doctor Who" Short Fiction

Whilst traveling with Clara, the Doctor becomes ill, and his past and memories come to haunt him. He can't run or hide: this time, he will have to reach out to someone with skills even beyond his own.

[Featuring characters and references to the BBC television show, Doctor Who, with Peter            

Capaldi as the Doctor, and Jenna Coleman as Clara Oswald, as designed by current show           

runner Steven Moffat. This story takes place between Season 8 episodes, “Flatline” (Oct. 2014),

and “In the Forest of the Night” (Oct. 2014).]

           

            It was almost uncanny the way I felt it. Like a juggernaut straight into the pit of my

stomach. Something was wrong. Maybe not diabolical wrong. Not even life-or-death wrong. But

it remained: an unsettling unsettlement, the purest of distractions, unshakable.

            And that’s when the Doctor showed up on my doorstep.

---

            2 Days and 500 Years earlier.

            “Is that it?”

            “What do you think?”

            “No, I know. But... really?”

            “Clara Oswald, meet the Mona Lisa. Or, she will be soon.”

            Clara never tired of this feeling. Despite everything she’d seen with the Doctor so far �"

evil snowmen, Daleks, Cybermen, the Ice Warrior, ghosts that weren’t ghosts �" her excitement to

see more never waned. She felt the same now as she approached the Mona Lisa in-progress, in

Leonardo da Vinci’s studio in Florence, Italy, 1515.

            That’s right: she was in Leonardo da Vinci’s studio.

            The Mona Lisa looked back at her. Those observant, clever eyes teased her, as they

would for centuries to come, tease thousands and thousands more. The rest of her face had yet to

be painted, with only a faint outline of the landscape background penciled in.

            Clara examined every brushstroke. “She’s beautiful.”

            The Doctor pursed his lips. “She’s unfinished.”

            “She will be.”

            The Doctor wandered about the studio. The floorboards creaked lightly under the skirting

scuff of his shiny black shoes. He swept back his dark blazer and slipped his hands into his

pockets as he squinted at the peculiar trinkets of da Vinci’s genius lined up on a shelf. Figurines

and models peppered the studio: the physical embodiment of the artist’s ideas.  “I sometimes feel

like I’ve met him before,” the Doctor said, and grabbed a contraption with a purpose he couldn’t

fathom. “Like I’ve been inside his head.”

            “What do you mean?” Clara looked at him quickly. “Wait, have you met him? Please tell

me you have.”

            The Doctor returned the contraption to its rightful place and smiled. “A long time ago.”

            Clara’s ever bright eyes widened. “Can we wait for him? Where’s he gone anyway? To

leave this painting all alone...”

            “He doesn’t understand its worth yet. Right now, he’s just �"”

            The Doctor stopped.

            Clara returned her attention to the Mona Lisa. “Just what? Modest? I doubt it.”

            The Doctor checked if his hearts stopped beating.

            The boy stood there: that little boy, from so very long ago. That little boy stood there, his

eyes fixed on the Doctor. Solemn and small, but gigantic and beyond important - staring at the

Doctor.

            “Come on, Doctor,” Clara said. “Admit it: if I were a genius �" well, look at yourself.

Why would you want to hide it away?”

            The Doctor stepped back. “Clara...”

            “I mean, what bad comes from bringing such wonder to the world? Please, can we wait

for him? I’d really love to pick his brain �"”

            “Clara.”

            She turned around. “What?” And then she saw him, too: the little boy, staring at both of

them. Silent.

            Clara smiled. “Hello, little one. Wait, did da Vinci have a son?” She turned to the Doctor.

Never before had she seen a look like that on his face. He appeared to be frozen to the very core:

a kind of horror and shocked mixed to paralyze. On a face like his, with the kind of Doctor he’d

become since he changed - from Chinny to Eyebrows - the expression scared her. She reached

for him. “Doctor?”

            The Doctor took a breath. “Clara, we have to go.”

            “Why?”

            “We have to go right now.” The Doctor broke into a sprint, darting passed the little boy

and out the door.

            “Doctor!” Clara started after him, then stopped. She looked back at the boy �"

            But, the boy had vanished.

            Clara blinked. She rushed out and back onto the streets of Florence. People, horses and

noise flooded her senses. She spotted the tails of the Doctor’s black coat whip around a corner.

She ran harder. Seconds later, she’d sprinted into the TARDIS. The door closed hard behind her.

            The Doctor blurred around the console.

            Clara tried to catch up. “Doctor?”

            “We have to leave now, so this is us leaving. We are leaving, Clara.”

            “I heard you the first time, just tell me why.”

            The Doctor slid around the console and pulled the main lever into position. The lights

swirled low blue and white hues as the TARDIS warped to life.

            Clara watched the Doctor. His frantic pace finally ceased, and he leaned on the console as

if exhausted. She walked round towards him. “Doctor, why are we leaving? Who was that boy?”

            The Doctor pulled himself up straight. He inclined his head, though he wouldn’t look at

her. “Remember what I told you the first time you set foot in my TARDIS after I regenerated?

How long I’ve lived, all of those years...”

            She nodded. “That not all of them were good.”

            At last, the Doctor looked at her. “That boy is from a very... very old memory. You live

as long as I do, see as much as I’ve seen, your mind starts to layer up. Memories become buried,

deeper and deeper. That was one I’d forgotten... one I didn’t want to remember.”

            “Well, I saw him, too, yeah? It wasn’t just your memory, your mind. I saw him. He was real.”

            “He’s not real. He’s like a projected image, a memory in the flesh.”

            “But he was real enough to scare you �"”

            The Doctor stormed toward her. “Do I look afraid?”

            Clara startled. “Yes. Yes, Doctor, I’d say you look very afraid.”

            He laughed, a dark, mocking sound. “I am not afraid, Clara. I am furious.”

            “Well, it’s hard to tell with a face like yours, isn’t it?”

            “You should talk �" you always look surprised!”

            “Well, you’re just mean!”

            “Good!”

            The TARDIS stopped: landed.

            Clara and the Doctor remained locked in a staring contest. Then, the Doctor trudged to

one of the monitors on the console. What he saw on it made his heart sink.

            Clara refused to move, yet her curiosity got the best of her. “Where are we?”

            The Doctor sighed, the deepest sigh. “Canada.”

 

            Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. Present Day.

            When Clara stepped out of the TARDIS into a dark night, she wondered what could

possibly give the Doctor the creased brow about this place. A slumber beneath an endless, dark

sky, under thousands of those stars she flew across, the city gleamed with street lights and

twinkling garden fixtures in the park they landed in.

            The Doctor exited the TARDIS.

            “So, where in Canada?” she asked.

            “Vancouver, British Columbia,” he said, and shut the TARDIS door.

            “It’s nice. Really. In a sort of non-alien, non-threatening normal way.”

            The Doctor spotted something in the park shrubbery. A young woman peeked out at him

from within the greenery. Her red hair gleamed as if burning compared to the pallor in her

cheeks and the frailty of her tall, slender frame. She looked at the Doctor with a mixture of

sadness and disappointment. He pulled his shoulders back, his chest tightening, and pried his

eyes away. “Never trust normal, Clara.” He started across the grass towards the street.

            “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Clara asked, following.

            “Do you know what it’s like to hear something you don’t want to?”

            Clara almost laughed. “Hi, I’m Clara Oswald. I’ve been travelling with you for a while

now.”

            “You misunderstand. There are things one has to hear, bad and worse. But deeper still,

they want to.”

            “That doesn’t make any sense.”

            The Doctor stopped at a crosswalk. His eyes lingered up the wall of a typical,

unassuming apartment building. He focussed on a window a few floors up.           

            Clara’s ever-curious gaze followed. “Who’s up there?”

            The Doctor ticked his eyes to her. “Truth.”

           

 

            It was almost uncanny the way I felt it. Like a juggernaut straight into the pit of my

stomach. Something was wrong. Maybe not diabolical wrong. Not even life-or-death wrong. But

it remained: an unsettling unsettlement, the purest of distractions, unshakable.

            The knocking persisted as I traipsed down the stairs. The door, a typical door in any

typical home, became a vessel to the unknown. Who was knocking at this hour? I gripped my

baseball bat tighter. I tiptoed closer. I opened the door.

            And I understood everything.

            The Doctor cracked what could pass as a smile. Beside him, a beautiful young brunette

with eyes as big as stars.

            I exhaled and surrendered my bat. “It had to be you.”

                       

            Clara sipped her tea and played ping-pong eyes between the Doctor and the mystery

woman called Alethea. They could recharge her phone with the energy between them. She

wondered what exactly their history was. How did they meet? Was she a Companion, too? Or

more? She looked at the Doctor. Was the Doctor truly capable of loving someone the way human

beings did? She’d seen his capacity for compassion and hope - but real, true love for another?

            Well. River’s a different story.

            Still, Alethea had an air about her. She had long, wavy auburn hair; a slim figure in a

two-piece nightgown. She reminded Clara of the kind of woman who could turn heads in the

streets, but be able to go about her day un-noticed just as well. Because it was something within

her, something in her darkest brown eyes: an intelligence and awareness of life itself that exuded

beyond her face and body. Even as she prepared a cup of tea for the Doctor, she captured his

every attention, just making tea. He was quiet around her �" very quiet. It startled Clara.

            Alethea placed the Doctor’s teacup on the coffee table.

            He glanced at it. That familiar crease in his brow returned. “I don’t take my tea like that

anymore.”

            Alethea sat down opposite, the picture of calm. “I know.”

            The Doctor fixed his gaze upon her for a moment, and then sipped his tea. His expression

suggested it was a bit bitter, but he said nothing.

            At last, Clara cleared her throat. “Sorry, so, what exactly is a Soothsayer?”

            Alethea shuddered. “I’m not really a Soothsayer.”

            “She can read people,” the Doctor said. “See their fate.”

            “What, like telling the future?” Clara asked.

            “It’s never like that. I see people, the truth of who someone is.” Alethea’s eyes drifted

away. “It’s debilitating.”

            “Debilitating?” Clara shook her head. “You don’t look like you’re in pain.”

            The Soothsayer smiled. “You’re not inside my head. And pain, it’s... it’s not always

physical. I don’t like what I can do. It’s incredibly isolating. If someone knew what I knew about

them, without barely introducing themselves... people keep their distance.”

            The Doctor raised his cup to his lips. “Well, they would from an alien.”

            Clara looked at him. “She’s not human?”

            Alethea stared daggers at the Doctor. “I’m not an alien.”

            “Not you, but your powers come from an alien source.”

            “Says the Time Lord.”

            Clara snickered. “Isn’t that the truth?”

            Alethea squeezed her eyes tight. “Doctor... why are you here?”

            The Doctor relented and sat up. “I’m afraid I might be in trouble.”

            Alethea almost laughed. “Must be Saturday.” Then, she looked at him suddenly, as if

entranced. “You’ve seen them. Two, so far. Memories manifest.”

            Clara stared at her, amazed.

            The Doctor looked away. “Why?”

            Alethea shook her head. “I don’t know. But I know one thing: you’re in pain, Doctor.

You have been since you saw the first one.”

            “Pain? Doctor, you’re in pain?”

            “It’s nothing, just the nagging chest pain I’ve started to have. Not important.”      

            His Companion blanched. “What?”

            He waved his hand. “Look, how do you think you’d feel if your memories were snatched

from your mind and brought to life? You wouldn’t feel so healthy. It hurts, and I want to know

why.” He leaned forward in his chair, towards Alethea. “Why am I seeing them?”

            She set her tea aside. “When did it start?”

            “About 500 years ago, in da Vinci’s studio.”

            Alethea squinted. “Wait, 500 years ago... 500 years ago? Or, like, yesterday, but 500

years ago?”

            Clara’s head hurt. First, it’s revealed the Doctor is of ill-health and didn’t say anything.

Now, the technicalities of time travel. These were the moments she dreaded.

            Unawares of her inner turmoil, the Doctor rose to his feet. “In da Vinci’s studio, 500

years ago.”

            Alethea sighed. “Right. Time travel.”

             

            The Doctor busied himself at the TARDIS console, destined again for Florence, Italy,

1515. Every few minutes, the boy appeared, right there in the TARDIS. The Doctor looked to

Clara to gauge whether or not she, too, saw him. This time, she didn’t. The memories were close

to him and him alone now. The woman with the fiery hair appeared again. Then, as the Doctor

walked around the console to another of the controls, an elderly man in a tattered black suit

appeared �" a new memory in the flesh. The old man looked at the Doctor with disappointment

kings couldn’t bear. The Doctor’s chest tightened with every memory. For the first time in a long

time, he felt his true age. He felt weak; his head spun. With every vision, it got worse. Yet he

still breathed. His two hearts hadn’t ceased to beat just yet. That’s the way it would have to be

for Clara and Alethea �" for as long as he could manage.

            He looked at Alethea: the perfect stranger. She wandered around the balcony, tracing her

fingers along the spines of books in his packed shelves. She’d been restless since they boarded;

perhaps because she hated flying, let alone in a time machine. She’d have to ride it out, though,

just as he did - because, even if he hated to admit it, he needed her now more than anyone.

            But, ‘anyone’ wasn’t about to abandon him. Clara wished she could understand the far-

away look in the Doctor’s eyes. He was shaken, distracted. She remembered how lost she felt

when he regenerated. Chinny became Eyebrows, and they had to begin their friendship all over

again �" and he didn’t make it easy for her. By this time, they’d reached a sort of balance,

combustible and chaotic at worst, but full of strength and love at best. This happy medium

seemed to fray at its very centre now, with this strange new woman aboard the TARDIS who

appeared, to Clara at least, to know exactly what was happening.

            Well, only one way to find out.

            Alethea put away the book she’d grabbed and looked up as Clara approached with two

cups of tea.

            “Maybe this’ll help,” she said, and offered a cup.

            Alethea accepted. “You made this in here?”

            Clara sat in one of the Doctor’s wing-back chairs. “Yeah. Don’t worry, it’s not space-tea

or anything. Perfectly English.”

            “Thank you. Sorry, I don’t do this well.”

            “Conversation?”

            Alethea grabbed another wing-back chair and sat down with her. “Being outside. I work

from home.”

            “What do you do?”

            “I’m a youth counsellor.”

            Clara nodded. “Sounds like the perfect job for you.”

            Alethea smiled. “I like it. Otherwise, I go out when I need to. It’s not like I can’t shut off

my abilities completely. I’m better than I used to be. One to two reads instead of... all of them.”

            “Reads?”

            “When I see someone, really see them. I call them reads.”

            Clara shifted closer to her. “Can you read me?”

            “I don’t have to. He’s all over your face.”

            “The Doctor?”

            “Pink.”

            Clara laughed. “Yeah, I don’t know about that.”

            “He does, though. So does the Doctor. You’re his... Impossible Girl. You’ve been around

as long as he has. Well, not you you, but a different you each time.”

            Clara took pause. Somehow that made sense to her, if not making sense at all. Still �" life

with the Doctor. “Speaking of different,” she said, “who was he when you met? The Doctor.”

            “Oh, you mean do I know about his regeneration thing?”

            Clara nodded.

            Alethea looked into her tea. “Yes, I understand how it all works. Never witnessed it

personally, though. When we met, he was... well, still tall. But, younger. Great hair. Glasses.”

            Clara perked up. “Sand Shoes?”

            “And a long, brown coat...”

            “I’ve met that one.”

            Alethea laughed. “My god, him, too?”

            “Oh, I didn’t travel with him. Just �" long story.”

            “I imagine it usually is.”

            They laughed together. Suspicion and nerves drifted away in that moment, like the

TARDIS materializing in-flight.

            Then, Clara, half-laughing, asked, “Have you never travelled with him?”

            Alethea’s laughter stopped.

            At the same time, the familiar whine of the TARDIS engines slowing echoed throughout

the space. All became still.

            The Doctor swung around the console. “We’re here.”

            Alethea nearly spilt her tea.

            Clara jaunted down the steps. “That took a bit longer than usual.”

            “Perhaps the TARDIS doesn’t want to go back either.”

            “And if da Vinci’s home this time?”

            Alethea froze. “da Vinci?”

            The Doctor smiled. “Then we’ll just have to politely ask Mr. Renaissance Man to give us

a moment alone in his studio.”

            Alethea started breathing again. “Right, you did say da Vinci. So, we have time-

travelled?”

            The Doctor waved his hand to the door. “Go and take a look.”

            The stranger in the TARDIS exchanged looks with the Doctor and his Companion. They

gave nothing away: perfect poker faces.

            With shaky breath, Alethea walked towards the TARDIS door, and opened it.

 

            Florence, Italy, approx. 1515.

            No. This wasn’t right at all.

            Alethea didn’t realize how hard she’d gripped the TARDIS door until she let go. Shock

and awe to the fullest flushed every part of her. She stepped out onto the dirty road. Litter and

mud and leaves �" the mess of a busy street nearly five hundred years in the past. She stood, live

and in living colour, in Florence, Italy, 1515. Her senses swooned: the smells �" rather putrid and

deceiving when she remembered time-period dramas on TV �" the sights, the people, so many of

them, in colour and rags and accessories, to and fro, passing through life in their now. The noise,

insatiable, and rampant: shouting, pieces of conversation, dogs, children crying or laughing. But

this was all initial, all observational and tourist. Once she absorbed that, Alethea’s other senses

sparked. Perhaps being thrown out of her time stirred her abilities into overdrive. Within

seconds, she began to read everyone who passed. She knew everything and anything, too much

for someone out of her time. She did not belong here �" and somehow, the people she read

regarded her just the same. The noise bombarded her: voices and secrets and knowledge.

            “Oh, god,” she gasped. “New time and place. Time and place?”     

            The Doctor stood behind her. “Florence, Italy, 1515.”

            “So, you didn’t just spike my tea.”

            Clara joined her side. “Does it feel like that?”

            “Not in the slightest.”

            The Doctor spotted something in the corner of his eye. He turned to see two young

children in rags standing behind barrels of apples. The Doctor knew they weren’t Florentine

peasants. They were more memories manifest. He looked away, winded, as if something passed

through him.

            Clara noticed. “Doctor?”       

            Alethea spotted the same children. She understood right away that they were not of this

world, let alone this time. She read no life, no breath. Two more of the Doctor’s memory visions

then. A quiet sadness quelled in her chest. The Doctor was in such pain after all.

            But, the silver-haired man in black straightened his coat, and closed the TARDIS door

with a firm hand. His icy blue eyes stared dead ahead. “This way.”

 

            The Doctor tried the door to da Vinci’s studio. Despite being the base for one of the, if

not the, most ingenious people in the universe, said genius left his door unlocked. The Doctor

poked his head in. He held his hand out for Clara and Alethea to wait as he scouted the studio.

The genius was not home. The Doctor strode in. Alethea followed and looked all around her at

the amazing place. She marvelled at every nook and cranny, every little dust particle floating in

sun-streams through speckled windows. New air �" no, old air, in a new time, in the home of one

of the most important figures in human history. She felt dizzy as her senses adjusted once again

to new vibes in a new setting. Of course, it being Leonardo da Vinci’s studio, she was tapping

into vibes saturated with ideas and creativity way beyond her.

            Clara closed the studio door behind them and kept her distance. Now, it was Alethea’s

turn to be the Companion.

            Alethea crossed the room. “This is where you saw the first memory?”

            The Doctor nodded. “The little boy stood over there.” A sudden wave, like the onset of

the flu, nearly knocked the Doctor off balance. He tried to ignore it.

            “Who is he?” Alethea asked. 

            “You’re the Soothsayer �" you tell me.”

            Her face darkened. “You’re in pain, Doctor, and it’s getting worse with every passing

vision. I can help you, but I am not you - so save me your ego.”

            Clara tried not to applaud.

            A second later, the little boy appeared, in the same spot as last time.

            Despite himself, the Doctor jumped back. “There! He’s there!”

            Clara frowned. “I can’t see him this time. Is that good or bad?”

            Suddenly, the red-haired woman appeared beside the boy. And then, the elderly man in

the tattered suit. The two children followed.

            The Doctor tried to breathe. “No. No, you weren’t here before. What are you doing

here?”

            Alethea froze. She saw the Doctor’s memories manifest, exactly as he said. They paid her

no mind; they only had eyes for the Doctor: eyes full of grief, disappointment, anger. She felt

their pain and confusion and heartache as if it were her own �" and then, six other memories

appeared. Young, old, different ethnic backgrounds, male, female - and then, a handful more.

She watched them all stare down the Doctor, breathless.

            “Why are you doing that?” The Doctor couldn’t believe the strain in his voice. “Why are

you doing that? Do something, say something!”

            Clara touched his arm. “Doctor...”

            “No, this isn’t a game,” he said. “These things are annoying. Tell me who you are!”

            Alethea ignored his spastic frustration and approached the hoard of memories. “Why are

you here?”

            “You can see them?” Clara asked.

            “Why you?” Alethea looked at the little boy, at the elderly man. “Why any of you?”

            The memories ignored her.

            The Doctor shivered all over. “I forgot you. I forgot all of you. I...”

            As the world faded to black, the Doctor collapsed.

            Clara nearly crumbled to the floor, too, as she caught him. “Doctor? Doctor!”

            The memories vanished.

            Alethea stumbled back. When they disappeared, all of their minds and feelings drained

away with them, away from her. She felt deflated. Her head buzzed with residual reads. She

heard Clara’s muffled panicked voice floating all around her, like what she imagined the world

sounded like after an explosion.

            Clara’s voice gradually cleared. “Thea! Thea! He’s not breathing!”

            Alethea rushed to the Doctor. His already pale pallor became almost white; his eyes,

ashen. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he shivered in Clara’s arms. “Forgot you,” he

muttered. “Forgot... you... forgot....”

            Clara looked at Alethea, her eyes moist. “We have to get back to the TARDIS.”

            Alethea’s mind raced. “The Doctor asked for my help. He brought me here to do that.”

She turned away. Even the slightest little detail in the studio suddenly became paramount.

            Clara watched her, impatient, desperate. Alethea reminded her of how the Doctor could

be, the way she waltzed around the studio with a nearly Sherlockian focus: ever the investigator,

taking her sweet time despite crisis. Meanwhile, the Doctor continued to mutter and shiver in her

arms.

            Alethea tried to quiet her mind. With her senses spun out of kilter from the time travel

itself, not including the chaos of the memory-visions and the Doctor’s ill state, the already

difficult task became even harder. She breathed deep and scanned everything in sight. “Why

here? What’s here in this studio? There’s nothing. Nothing happened... but Florence, 1515... as

good a time as any... politics, the Pope, death, disease... oh, wait... disease...” She turned to the

Doctor again: his pallor, his incoherent babbling under the influence of a fever....

            Clara saw the wheels turning in her head. “What is it?”

            Outside, footfalls approached the studio door.

            Her jaw dropped. “Oh, don’t tell me that’s who I think it is.”

            Alethea remained locked inside her mind. “No, it can’t be.”

            Clara struggled to help the Doctor up. “Well, it is his studio...”       

            “No, the Doctor. He’s sick - his memories are making him sick. Long shot, but... oh my

god.”

            The shadow of shoes stopped outside studio door.

            “What?” Clara was nearly manic. “Thea, what?”

            Alethea looked at her. “I know what’s happening to the Doctor.”

            The studio door clicked.

            Alethea raced to help Clara. “We have to get to the TARDIS, now.” She spotted a small

window �" but not too small. “Window!” With their help, the Doctor managed to crawl out. Clara

followed. Alethea jumped up on the windowsill.

            The door opened.

            Leonardo da Vinci entered his studio.

            Alethea froze.

            One of the most prolific figures in human history stared at the woman trying to crawl out

through his window. “Who are you?”

            Alethea smiled a little and jumped out of the window.

            da Vinci rushed to the window.

            The mystery woman was gone.

 

            Inside the TARDIS, the Doctor seemed to come back to life, if only slightly. Perhaps

being in his one constant home, in the sanctuary of his ship, restored a bit of breath in him yet.

But, the experience back in da Vinci’s studio still exhausted him, and he slumped down into a

chair, fading in and out. Clara dabbed his forehead with a small rag she snagged from da Vinci’s

studio on the way out. She hoped taking it didn’t set off a catastrophic chain of events and

change time, or some other big thing she knew the Doctor would say. But, the Doctor didn’t

seem to make sense of anything right now. That, too, wasn’t new. Still, at least for the moment,

he was stable.

            Alethea raced in and closed the TARDIS door behind her. She stumbled towards Clara,

exhilarated. “I may have just met da Vinci. Well, not met, as in full introduction, but... my god,

da Vinci!”

            Clara tried to breathe. “Thea...”

            “And he’s painting the Mona Lisa. I almost didn’t notice. Wow, is that how you feel

when you travel with the Doctor?”

            “Thea! You said you knew what was happening to the Doctor?”

            Alethea shook her head. “Right, sorry. I think the Doctor is sick. I think he caught a virus

�" an extremely old virus, but incredibly aggressive.”

            The Doctor rolled his head to one side and fixed a glare upon the Soothsayer. “I’m sorry,

but I doubt I simply caught the flu.”

            “It presents itself as the flu: pale skin, sweats and shivers - chest pain, when it becomes

particularly bad. And it can become very bad very quickly.”

            “And when bad becomes worse,” Clara said, “you get hallucinations?”

            The Doctor groaned. “They are not hallucinations.”

            Alethea stepped forward. “No, they’re not. Otherwise, the Doctor would be the only one

who could see them. But you could, Clara, and so could I. But, you can’t anymore. The more

severe the infection becomes, the visions become isolated only to the infected. I can only still see

them because of my abilities.”

            The Doctor bolted out of his chair. “This is ridiculous.”

            Clara grabbed him. “Doctor, you have to sit down. You’re wobbling.”

            “I am not sick. There is something out there that needs attacking.”

            “Doctor, calm down!”

            “I feel fine, I just need to...” The Doctor collapsed back into his chair.

            “Doctor!” Clara touched his head, his chest, and then she sighed. “He’s fainted again.”

            Alethea watched the Time Lord, unimpressed. “You can never be wrong, can you,

Doctor? There is nothing attacking you, not an external force at least. It is within you.”

            “Okay, so he’s got some sort of virus,” Clara said. “Why him? Where did it come from?

And I’ve been with him this whole time. Why haven’t I been infected?”

            Alethea leaned against the TARDIS console. “It’s such an old virus. I’m surprised it’s

still around. It latches onto a person with a... a dark past. Seeps into the darkest memories, the

unknown subconscious. Places you want to forget. The first time it was recorded was before

even the Black Death.”

            Clara’s heart stopped. “How much earlier before the Black Death?”

            “Egyptian times? Etched in hieroglyphics. Born out of a time of deep tragedy and fear.

They say fear is contagious. Imagine a situation, an event where the fear and horror and pain is

so great, it borns a virus.”

            Clara looked at the Doctor. “Sounds impossible.”

            Alethea sighed. “It would be, if we haven’t had more horrors hereafter throughout history

to sustain it.”

            “So, what’s happening in Florence 1515? Why there?”

            “It could be a number of things. The Italian Wars, the Medici, Machiavelli. Savonarola.

Look, this virus is beyond anything the Doctor has ever faced. Even in all his years. I can only

imagine what it’s doing to him, especially with his mind, so full of memories and knowledge and

time.”

            “Then we stop it. Viruses die out and come back all the time. It’s back now, but like any

virus, you fight it. So, how do we fight it?”

            Alethea’s mind burned. So much stimuli, so many reads, time and space and questions,

and no more answers than when she first boarded the TARDIS. “I don’t even know how to

begin.”

            “I do.” Clara stepped forward. “We find a doctor. A doctor for the Doctor.”

            Alethea looked up slowly. “Or... we find a historian.” She turned to the TARDIS

controls. “I’m guessing this thing doesn’t have an instruction manual.”

            Clara walked round the console. “I’ve flown the TARDIS before. The Doctor showed

me.”    

            “How?”

            Clara locked her fingers into the TARDIS’ telepathic circuit. “I link myself �" my mind �"

into the TARDIS and think about where I want to go. Then, I go. Well, in theory.”

            Alethea marvelled at the telepathic circuit, the pulsing colours in its design reflecting on

her face. “In theory.”

            Clara cringed. “It does work, but my focus has to be... well, focussed.”

            “Or?”

            She remembered young Danny Pink at the orphanage. “We end up elsewhere.”

            “May I try?”

            Clara looked at her. The Doctor moaned. The fever had him curled up as tight as he could

for warmth. She looked at the Soothsayer again and freed her hands from the telepathic circuit.

“Quickly.”

            Alethea took her position. “So, I just... grab it?”

            “Yeah, just hold on, and think.”

            She took hold of the TARDIS telepathic circuit.

            Instantly, the TARDIS whined. Not the usual moaning and wheezing, but a whine of

shock, intrusion.

            Clara looked up as the lights dimmed around them. “What’s happening?”

            “I’m sorry, TARDIS,” Alethea said. “It �" she knows what I can do. She’s

uncomfortable.” She stroked the telepathic circuit with her thumb. “Come on now. You know

where we have to go. The Doctor needs you.”

            A moment passed. Then, the engines switched back on.

            Clara smiled. “Where are we going?”

            Alethea closed her eyes, focussed on the image in her mind: an image of one of the last

places the Doctor wanted to be.

 

            The Ood Sphere.

            Snow flurries drifted on waves of unseen wind. The world was white, white forever,

blanketing tall, jagged pillars and bridges carved out of rock and stone, archaic in the darkest

black beneath their shining, snowy drapes. Rock castles and towers stretched up into a bright

blue sky peppered with small clouds. Candlelight illuminated the world through windows, small

burning ambers against the vast, stark winter of this alien place.

            The TARDIS materialized on a field of snow. Alethea stepped out and instantly shivered.

Clara followed, equally shocked by the cold.

            “Has he any spare winter coats in the TARDIS wardrobe?” Alethea asked, squinting

against the flurries.

            Clara hugged herself. “Where are we?”

            “This is the Ood Sphere, home planet of Oodkind.”

            “The who kind?”

            Alethea smiled a little. Then, her smile faded. “I’m sorry, Clara. I haven’t let on exactly

how much I know about the Doctor. I’ve read him. I’ve seen him. The last time the Doctor

interacted with the Ood, he wore a different face �" Sand Shoes.”

            Suddenly, Alethea stumbled back.

            Clara grabbed her. “You alright?”

            Alethea nodded, trying to reconcile the vertigo that tipped the world in her eyes. “Sorry.

My Soothsayer thing, it’s reacting with the Ood kind.”

            “Well, can they help? I mean, can you handle it?”

            Alethea looked back into the TARDIS. The Doctor trembled in his chair, so far away, so

weak and small �" such an impossible sight for the wonderfully, larger-than-life creature he was.

“If anyone can help us,” she said finally, “I have to try.”

            Clara closed the TARDIS door. “Right then. Let’s go before we freeze, and the Doctor

burns up.” She started walking.

            Alethea rushed to her side. “We’re okay to leave him alone, right?”

            “Trust me �" nothing can get through those doors.” Clara looked back at the blue box.

“Nothing that hasn’t gotten him yet.”

           

            Clara remembered she hadn’t seen everything when she and Alethea entered the cavern.

            Ood Sigma �" the Elder Ood - and four other Ood Kind sat in a circle around a table.

Upon the table was placed a device so old, but prophetic, as it aided them in seeing time: past,

present, and future. Candlelight throbbed on the walls. The Ood did not speak, but hummed,

almost in song, linked together as one. They wore simple robes of white and grey, and held in

their hands one small brain attached to an umbilical cord somewhere within the tentacles that

spilled out from where their mouths would be. Their second brain, their main centre of

knowledge, was housed in their higher, dome-shaped skulls. However, Ood Sigma’s brain was

more prominent, discernible in shape through his skin. Large eyelids shielded their equally big,

brown eyes; they had no nose, and short, pointed ears. Though striking at first, Clara quickly

sensed peace from these creatures. They exuded knowledge and calm beyond human kind, or

any other she’d met before with the Doctor. Yet they were humble; they transcended themselves,

yet felt a part of the moment: everywhere and nowhere at once.     

            Alethea, meanwhile, never felt so off-kilter. In the presence of a species as mentally

powerful as the Ood, her readings splintered. She felt like a bee trapped in a window: the odd

calm of the constant buzz, but panicked at the same time. Another change of time and place also

jarred her mental state.

            Ood Sigma noticed her. “Soothsayer.” His voice was soft, fluid.

            Alethea ignored the rapid jab of her heart and stepped forward. “I am.”

            Ood Sigma looked at Clara and blinked slowly. “The Impossible Girl.”

            She waved. “Just Clara.”

            “The Impossible Girl travels with the Doctor.”

            “I do. The Doctor is in trouble.”

            “He’s sick,” Alethea said. “With a virus older than himself. His past returns in visions.

As they get stronger, he becomes weaker.”

            The Ood parted to create a space in the circle. “Take our hand, Soothsayer,” Ood Sigma

said, “so we, too, may see.”   

            Alethea swallowed. She sat down in the space the Ood made for her and crossed her legs.  

An Ood offered his hand. Then, the Ood on her other side offered his. She took them both. The

rest joined their hands, completing the circle. The Ood closed their eyes. Alethea did the same.

            Clara watched, holding one hand to her chest.

            Istantly, a burst of adrenalin blasted through Alethea. Her eyes shot open. The world over

flashed in her mind: images, feelings, world histories. She tried to keep up. All of everything and

anything raced passed her. The Ood, too, felt Alethea. She exuded a power they’d never

experienced in another human, yet she managed to keep stable enough to not influence their

minds. Together, as she saw what they’d seen, they saw what she’d seen.

            Then, as quickly as they began, the Ood parted hands.

            Alethea collapsed in on herself.

            Clara dropped to her knees and held her. “Thea. You alright?”

            Ood Sigma straightened. “The Doctor has a disease.”

            “What is it?” Clara asked.

            “A disease beyond a name.”

            Alethea’s eyes wilted. “From... Egypt...”

            “Not Egypt,” Ood Sigma said. “After Egypt.”

            Clara’s patience ebbed. “For God’s sake, Egypt, Black Death, Italy, yesterday, today �"

enough! Where is this virus from?”

            “Pompeii.”

            Alethea’s breath left her. She transported back to all the images the Ood implanted in her

mind, and then back to when the Doctor knocked on her door in the middle of the night, what felt

like ages ago now. She’d opened the door, baseball bat in hand, and there he stood.

            It had to be you.

            She drank tea with Clara in the TARDIS.

            When I met him, he had a different face.

            Now, she saw him: the Doctor in his blue striped suit, skinny as a pin, with the wild dark

brown hair, big brown eyes, and red sand shoes �" standing in his TARDIS, with his hand out to

someone... someone now so familiar... in Pompeii.

            Alethea gasped. “Oh my god.”

            Clara tried to catch her eyes. “Thea?”

            Ood Sigma looked at her. “It had to be the Doctor, all the time. The Doctor then, the

Doctor now, in one place, in one time, in an event that borned absolute death.”

            “Oh, god,” Clara said. “Borned a virus. The Doctor’s virus.”

            “A recipe of his own creation,” Ood Sigma said. “That fateful day, in Pompeii.”

            Clara’s heart broke. “How do we stop it?”

            “The virus must be suffered through to defeat it.”

            “What does that mean?”

            Alethea tried to sit up. “Like the flu, Clara �" wait ‘till the fever breaks, tough out the

rest.”

            “And if it breaks him first?”

            Ood Sigma nodded. “The Doctor is already broken.”

            Clara sat up a little straighter and fixed a glare upon him. “The Doctor is not broken.”

            The Ood all turned to her. “The Doctor is already broken,” they chanted.

            Alethea felt the world around her quiet down. She looked at the Ood, at Clara’s panicked

expression - and she understood everything.

            Clara staggered to her feet. “No.”

            Alethea reached for her. “Clara -”

            “No. I will not see the Doctor suffer like this.” She turned and raced out.

            Alethea rushed after her.

 

            Clara raced into the TARDIS. Even with the familiar surroundings and the fact that the

Doctor sat safely in a chair in front of her, her anger wouldn’t fade. She strode towards him. He

didn’t acknowledge her, still trapped inside himself. “Doctor, please,” she said. “Please, just stop

this now, okay? Just stop it. You are not broken.”

            Alethea ran in and closed the TARDIS door behind her. She struggled to catch her breath

from the cold air outside. “Clara, you misunderstand.”        

            Clara spun on her heel. “What?”

            “The Doctor is already broken. The pieces of himself, his past and darkest moments,

infected, are coming to life.”

            “We know this, Thea. We’re running out of time. Look at him!”

            Alethea touched her arm. “The pieces are there, Clara. We just have to put them back

together. That’s how we make the Doctor well again.”

            They both looked at the Doctor.

            But, at the moment, the Doctor was not in.

---

            The Doctor dreamed.

            He dreamed of old voices and old faces, of old voices and faces he hadn’t remembered

for over nine hundred years. Nine hundred �" so young then, and he’d gotten so old, so quickly.

So many years, faces, memories. They were all different, from different times and places �" well,

time travel would do that. But, every face, every voice shared one thing in common, if ever just

one thing: they were all voices and faces of the dead. One by one, each face, each voice, dug up

by this virus. Of all the things the Doctor had seen, worlds over in time and space, of all the

things he faced �" aliens and humans alike �" a virus, of all things, sets him back to a state like

this. He hated it. He hated it with every fibre of his two, throbbing hearts, though he couldn’t

shake it off: screaming without making a sound. His memories resurfaced under the influence of

this disease, wanting to be seen and heard. The Doctor passed through each of their lives, in one

way or another, accidentally or completely on purpose; in the peripheral of their eye, or directly

in front. He affected each and every one of them, in a big or small way, but the effect defected

them, and they died.

            This was never the intention. The Doctor never raised his hand, never fired a weapon

(though he understood the trouble his sonic could start).  But, if harm came to someone or

something that became his enemy, he first always gave them a chance to stand down, to make

peace. When they disagreed, the death came �" but not for the Doctor. Not always. The death

came for those who loved him, those who knew him and admired him, those who resurfaced

now, bullied into re-living by the virus. Allowing the Doctor into their lives meant getting caught

in the crossfire, or taking up arms themselves: the soldiers they’d become because of knowing

the Time Lord. The Doctor created ghosts of them all. The alien who looks and walks like a man,

crossing through time and space, and leaving those behind, with death and loss and questions

without answers, until the next calamity strikes, and he returns to help, and then he’s gone again,

leaving more of a void behind him than before.

            The most heartbreaking of those left behind were the ones who loved the companions by

the Doctor’s side. Boyfriends, girlfriends, best friends, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters,

co-workers �" the ones who waited, watching the stars and wondering which one their loved one

�" the Companion �" was visiting at that very moment with the crazy man in the blue box. Who

would they be when they return? Would they return? What would they know that their friends

and family didn’t? What alien qualities would they themselves inhabit? It must rub off. What did

the Doctor do to his Companions?

            Well. Now he knew.

            The Doctor trembled all over. He imagined his immune system orchestrating the most

intense offensive in history. Yet he heard something, something from so far away, whispering all

around him, fragmented pieces of sound. Such a familiar sound, too: the sound of home, the

TARDIS, breathing softly.

            Busy at the console, Alethea said, “He was human once.”

            Clara paused. “The Doctor? Is that a joke?”

            Alethea ducked under the console. “He had to,” she said, prying into the compartments in

there. “He was under attack by aliens who wanted a Time Lord. So, he used something to re-

write his DNA. Made himself human.”

            Clara looked at her, hard. “How do you know so much? I mean, I get it. You can read

people and you know things, but... you don’t travel with the Doctor, yet you’re telling me things

I’ve never even heard. How?”

            Alethea didn’t answer.

            The Doctor’s Companion looked at him. “So many secrets and tricks, Doctor. And now,

those same secrets are trying to hurt you.”

            Alethea was nearly on her hands and knees under the console. “You must still have it...”

            “Wait, used something to re-write his DNA? How?”

            The Doctor bolted upright, eyes wide open. “No, don’t touch that!”

            Clara and Alethea startled.

            Seconds later, the mad man was out of his chair, wiggling his skinny finger at Alethea.

“Don’t touch that or we pancake. Become pancakes? No, that’s not right.”

            Clara approached him. “Doctor, you’re still sick. You have to sit down.”

            The Doctor only had eyes for Alethea. He stomped toward her, his eyes so wide and

fierce, with a rage of such purity that even Clara hadn’t seen before. “Soothsayer,” he said. “I’ve

seen you before. In... somewhere. You’re powerless. I killed it. Can’t remember where.”

            Alethea was an oak. “You can’t do what I do to me, Doctor. But, your mind is strong

enough.”

            “For what?” Clara asked.

            The Doctor swivelled around and eyed the navigation screen. “Where are we? Have we

moved?” He darted to the door.

            “Doctor, don’t!” Clara said.

            The Doctor ripped the door open. He couldn’t believe it: the Ood Sphere, home of

Oodkind. Unmistakable, with all the worlds he’d ever seen. This was the Ood Sphere. He

couldn’t breathe. “No. No, no. I don’t like it here. Last time I was here, Tentacle-Face told me

Time itself would die.”

            “You knew it was coming,” Alethea said, approaching him like he was a lost child.

            Clara looked at her. “Thea, what did he mean by ‘you’re powerless, I killed it’?”

            “He’s delirious, Clara.”

            “Who are you?”

            The Doctor slammed the door and turned to Alethea again. He suddenly looked

weightless. “They’re in my head. It’s getting old.”

            Alethea smiled. “I know. But, Doctor, your mind is strong enough. A door once opened,

may be stepped through in either direction[1].”

            The Doctor took pause. Those words, those exact words, echoed back to him from

somewhere far away, deep in his mind. But, maybe not that deep... she was so beautiful....

            The Soothsayer saw it, too. “You remember her, right? A more recent memory now. She

saw you, like I see you. I can help you, Doctor. But, I need the chameleon arch.”

            He shook his head. “No.”

            “The what?” Clara asked.

            Alethea turned to her. “What he used to re-write his DNA, to become human.”

            “What use would that have?” the Doctor asked.

            “To re-write your DNA, it first has to understand it �" understand you, Doctor. Adjust the

settings, find a way to let me in �" another set, maybe. We can use it as a portal into your mind,

and face the memories.”

            A shadow crossed the Doctor’s face. “These are not to be faced. They are buried for a

reason.”

            “Exactly. Nothing is ever really forgotten. More stuff just gets piled on top of the old

stuff. The present unto the past. We face it. We clear it out.” She smiled a little. “We’re Spring-

cleaning a Time Lord mind.”

            Clara approached him. “Doctor... we have to try. The memories will only get stronger.

You’ll go mad.”

            He smirked. “You say that like it hasn’t already happened.”

            “Question,” Alethea said. “What ghosts lay in wake in almost two thousand years of

memories?”

            The Doctor frowned. She asked a question. By definition of his very being, he had to

answer. He had none. But, he wanted one. If anything ever kept him going this long, it was the

quest for answers to questions �" well, maybe not stupid ones, of which he’d been asked too many

in his long life. Still, even those questions had answers. He looked at the Soothsayer. “We may

never resurface if we dig this deep.”

            She shook her head. “That’s not the answer to my question. Don’t you hate not having

the answer? Can you stand to let this virus know what you do not?”

            The Doctor straightened. “Clara... help me.”

            She stood at his side. “What do you need?”

            “We have a lot of rooms to search. I think. Not quite sure where everything’s gone.”

            Alethea nodded. “Let me. You’re about to embark on something that it going to exhaust

you. You’re already weak.”

            The Doctor looked at her. When he blinked, his memories appeared again, surrounding

her. Not just the group from before, but a whole, new group now: faces of people who wanted to

be heard. He returned his attention to Alethea. “You’ll soon see what no one but me ever should.

That’s help enough.” He trudged passed her, Clara at his side, and resumed the search for the

chameleon arch.

            Alethea stood quietly. She understood his frustration, knew it wasn’t directed at her. Not

really. He was frustrated because he wasn’t winning. In the end, the Doctor always wins. He

relies on his Companions to help him, but in the end, he stands victor: always. Now facing his

own demons, he was losing, and he hated that Alethea understood what that meant more than he

did: hated how she knew so much without knowing anything.

            But, both of them would have to check their egos at the TARDIS door. Once they found

the chameleon arch, Alethea would delve into a place few, if ever one, had before: the Doctor’s

very mind.

---

            The Doctor and Alethea sat opposite each other in the TARDIS. The Doctor wore the

chameleon arch on his head. The headgear was all metal and cold, with three small circular

extensions on both his temples, and his forehead. Placed inside the forehead extension, a Time

Lord fob watch, the same he used to capture his Time Lord essence when he made himself

human. The Doctor kept the watch in place now, lest during the experience he lose himself

against his memories. His essence would go into the fob watch, to then be safely replaced back

inside him �" if things went very badly wrong. Alethea wore another make-shift chameleon arch.

Though sparser than the Doctor’s design, with only extensions to each of her temples, she was

still hooked up to the Doctor’s chameleon arch. Whatever he saw, she’d see, too: the Ood

experience all over again, without the hand-holding.

            Clara stood by, nervous. “You sure we should do this in here?”

            “I think this is the safest place to do it, actually,” Alethea said. “Familiar and safe

surroundings. No outside influences.”

            The Doctor smiled at his Companion. “Don’t worry, Clara. There will be no splashed

brains on the console.”

            Alethea exhaled. “Right. Doctor, are you ready?”    

            The little boy appeared right behind her.

            The Doctor acknowledged him. “Switching on... now.”

            All became quiet.

            Then, the Doctor and Alethea both screamed.

            Clara rushed to them. “What’s happened?”

            Alethea winced. “It’s nothing. Just wired into our brains now. The link, it’s...” She trailed

off. She saw it: the Doctor’s mind. Just like the Ood transported her mind to places she never

believed imaginable, the Doctor’s consciousness revealed to her secrets she knew she shouldn’t �"

nor should anyone �" see. It was a whirlwind, a light speed slideshow: from the beginning,

through all of his incarnations, to this moment. Her senses tumbled; unable to take hold, unable

to focus.

            The Doctor gripped the arms of his chair, as if in an airplane caught in turbulence.

“You’re seeing into my mind, Alethea. My very sub-consciousness.” He cried out, louder and

with more pain than before. When he opened his eyes, the TARDIS was packed full of his

memories manifest. He choked. “They’re here.”

            Clara looked around. “Doctor, I can’t see them.”

            Alethea nodded. “I can. I can see them, Doctor.”

            The Doctor struggled to meet any of their eyes, yet no matter where he looked, another

memory stood before him. They were in his every peripheral: no escape from those faces and

names he wanted to leave behind.

            Alethea felt his pain without tapping into her abilities. “Doctor, don’t look away. Face

them. Every single ghost from your past.”

            “This isn’t a game,” he shouted. “Leave me alone!”

            Clara filled his eye line. “Doctor, concentrate. You can’t let them win.”

            “Doctor, look at them,” Alethea said. “They were lost, lost in your mad head, all these

years. You couldn’t save them like you did in Pompeii.”

            The Doctor stared at her. “What did you say?”

            “They need to know they meant the same to you, that their deaths were not in vain.”

            “What did you say about Pompeii?”

            The TARDIS began to shake. But, the blue box itself did not move. It felt more like an

earthquake, the ground beneath them.

            Alethea held onto her chair. “Doctor, they’re getting stronger! You have to face them!”

            The Doctor looked at them, at all of them: his past, the dead, the lost. Old and new; they

all passed before him, a continuing cycle, one by one. They each looked at him with different

emotions: anger, hurt, pain, remorse, pity. The Doctor couldn’t understand any of it. He couldn’t

place every face, yet he knew how much each of them wanted his recognition �" wanted him to

remember.

            Meanwhile, Alethea sensed something all together different from the memories: rage.

They could tell she was not like the Doctor, nor like Clara. She wasn’t alien, but not entirely

human either, and she tapped into them. How did she do that? Who was this imposter? Alethea

felt her breath jump in and out of her. For the first time, the memories frightened her: every

single one of them.

            Suddenly, she screamed.

            Clara rushed to her. “Thea!”

            “They’re attacking me,” she gasped. “They know what I can do. They don’t like it. Their

pain is not for me.”

            Alethea cried out again. She shook in her seat as the Doctor’s past in the flesh, their anger

and loss and pain and regret, plagued her every inch.

            The Doctor watched her through the chaos. Her state stopped his two hearts. He returned

his eyes to the memories. “You don’t belong here. I’m sorry, but you are forgotten.”

            “No, Doctor.” Alethea struggled to speak up. The TARDIS shook hard. “This is a virus.

It needs to be cured. Tend to them.”

            The Time Lord’s patience frayed. “I’m doing what you said!”

            “No, Doctor, you’re not! Fire with fire is what you’re doing.”

            Alethea screamed. Sweat beaded on her forehead.

            Clara held her. Her own anxiety and fear throbbed in her heart, and she hated not being

 able to see the memories. If she could, one word, she’d only have to have one word with them,

and she’d send them running. No one causes the Doctor and his friends pain if she had a say in it.

But right now, she could only hold Alethea and hope the Doctor was strong enough to win. He

still looked sick to her, but his frustration, his ferocity, was stronger than his illness.

            Alethea trembled. “Oh, god. Time Lord Mind... Time Lord pain... Doctor... they need

you. Please. They won’t let me in. Won’t let me help.”

            The Doctor glared at her through the advancing memories. “This was your idea.”

            “Do your job!”

            “My job is what created these memories!” The Doctor stopped short. His eyes cleared.

“Of course. I’m the Doctor. Alien invasion, I stop it. Bad things happen, I try to make them

good. Never fired a weapon �" well. I’ve made my Companions my weapons.” He looked at the

memories that surrounded him. “I couldn’t save you. Any of you. But, that doesn’t change

anything.” The Doctor rose from his chair. It appeared as if the virus, the fever and sweat and

pale pallor, melted away with the very motion.

            Alethea smiled.

            The memories moved in on the Time Lord.

            The Doctor stood strong. “I live my life. I’ve lived a lot of it. My mind saves me by

locking you lot up in a dark, dusty, deep space in my brain, because that’s where you belong �" in

my memories. You are not forgotten, visions of old. You are... saved.”      

            The chameleon arch shorted out. A blast of white light exploded in the TARDIS.

            Alethea fell forward.

            Clara caught her. “Doctor!”

            The Doctor ripped the chameleon arch off and tossed it aside. He raced to Alethea and

carefully removed the chameleon arch from her head. She blinked, weary, fragile, and then her

eyes drifted up to his. “Doctor?”

            He held her face in his hands. “Can you see them?”

            Alethea looked at the memories, at all of the people from the Doctor’s mind. They looked

back at her, resolute and contented: peace, at last. One at a time, they disappeared like mist. She

looked at the Doctor with tears in her eyes. “It’s over. They’re gone.”

            “What happened?” Clara asked.

            She turned to her. “They were heard. All they wanted was to be remembered, recognized

for their sacrifices. A reminder of what travelling with the Doctor means.”

            “Not forgotten,” the Doctor said. “Saved.”

            Alethea smiled again. “By the Doctor.”

 

            Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. Present Day.

            The TARDIS materialized on the same spot in the same park across from Alethea’s

apartment. Clara stepped out into a crisp night. The city was quiet, alight under a canopy of

endless stars in the blackest blue sky. She felt like home for a moment, even if she knew home

was another country away completely. Still, the surroundings �" the city, the street lights, people

on the sidewalk, one moon �" reminded her of what her home used to be: what it meant before the

Doctor. She thought of what Alethea said about the memories, of what they’d become having

travelled with him �" what inevitably happened to all of them. Clara knew there was darkness in

him, but right now, her place was right beside him.

            Well, once Alethea left. Right now, the two of them needed to be alone.

 

            The Doctor wandered about the TARDIS. A kind of rare serenity seeped into his system.

With the virus and its effects gone, he felt the calm after the storm return. Of course, he being

himself, he knew another storm would hit soon enough, somehow, somewhere. For the moment,

though, he was quiet, if a little solemn. Though the memories physically vanished, they still

resided in him, far deep down inside. These were still his experiences to keep, even if they were

finally at rest.

            Alethea emerged on the top balcony, holding a warm cloth on her head. She took the

stairs down one at a time. Never before had she stretched her abilities this far, never tapped into

powers so strong: time travel, the Ood, the Doctor’s mind. It wore her out.

            The Doctor looked at her. Something at that very moment locked him onto her, and she

onto him in return. Alethea saw more into the Doctor’s mind, his life, than most ever had.

Without words, they understood each other more clearly in this moment than either understood

even themselves. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once, this bond never to be undone.

            The Doctor waltzed toward her. “So! What’s it going to be then, eh? Where do you want

to go? Your choice. I know you love the Sixties. How about Woodstock? I think I still owe

Joplin a fiver. That was a long night. Or, maybe further back: the 1600’s. Rescue some

innocence from the witch trials. Or, the other way? 2066. No flying cars, but coffee machines are

sentient.”

            Alethea smiled. “I just realized I’ve been with you this whole time... in my nightgown.”

            The Doctor noted her appearance and smiled back. “It’s been done before.” He became

quiet then, studying her face. “You’re not coming, are you?”

            “I will never come with you, Doctor.”

            “Well, that’s a bit inaccurate since you did. You met da Vinci. I’ve never had to sell, you

know? Blue box, bigger on the inside, travels anywhere in time and space. Not a word more. But,

you...” He looked straight through Alethea. “I always have to fight for you.”

            She stared at him. “You know why, Doctor.”

            He laughed a little, a bitter chuckle. “Please. I never get tired of this part.”

            “You really want to hear it again?”

            The Doctor leaned against the console and folded his arms, all smiles.

            Alethea slapped her warm cloth down on a chair. “I am the Companion who Never

Travels with the Doctor. I refuse to, because I know with every Companion he chooses, and

every new planet surface and every new time, with every adventure and tragedy, and every time

he’s safely back home in his TARDIS, he becomes even lonelier and more lost than the day he

first set off. Running. Over two thousand years, Doctor. Two thousand years, and every day of

those years: running, exploring, fighting, laughing, and then moving on again. Your life is

madness. Your very existence. You are relentless in your quest to live - but, you must accept it.

When all the worlds in all the realms and universes of all time, when even Time itself dies,

unless you, too, have perished �" a real death, not a regeneration �" you will remain. You will be

all that remains, and you will never know peace. I can’t be a part of that.”

            The Doctor smiled a little. “That’s it? A long, pretentious monologue about my life and

my fate?”

            Alethea frowned. “Your fate is the same as everyone’s. This is what you wanted to hear.”

            “All of time and space, and you say no �"”

            “Don’t spin this on me, not after what we just went through. We know exactly why we’re

in each other’s lives, Doctor. Sometimes you need someone on the outside to dig into what

you’ve long buried, because you can’t do it. Not anymore. You can’t wade through all of those

years to sort out what yours means anymore. That’s why you call, and that’s why I come. I am

Truth.”

            The Doctor’s eyes darkened. “A lobotomy on stand-by.”

            Alethea shook her head, heartbroken as she looked at the face of a man, or the alien who

walks like a man, but who is so much more. “My god. Inside your head, Doctor. That wondrous

spit-fire mind. They’ll study you, you know? They’ll pick you apart, piece by piece �" Last of the

Time Lords. And the things they will see. Such... terrible, wonderful, exceptional and horrible

things they will see.”

            “Not yet.”

            “It doesn’t have to be instantaneous. Why do you think you caught the virus? It peeled

everything back, layer by layer, trying to get to the core by forcing you to face your past.”

            “Well, it failed. I’m all better.” He stormed away from her.

            Alethea followed. “They scared you. That’s a win enough. What does it take to scare the

Doctor?”

            The Doctor stopped. He leaned on the console, gunning for comfort from the one real

home he always knew. The silence screamed.

            Alethea felt it, too: the end. She turned to go. Then, she sighed and turned back. “I’ll give

you one thing. No matter what you’ve done, and whatever you decide to do next, at the very least

you’ll do it while trying to be your truest self. Always following your hearts. Something I could

never do.”

            The Doctor faced her. “Because of what you are.”

            Alethea’s mouth trembled. “Because I’m not that brave.”

 

            When Clara heard the TARDIS door open, she knew. When Alethea stepped out of the

blue box, her breath fogging almost immediately in the sharp, cold air, her eyes down as if she’d

just been stripped of her very heart, Clara knew, and she offered a smile. “I used to think he

wasn’t capable, you know? But to be this furious with you, he really must.”

            Alethea frowned. “Really must what?”

            “Love you?”

            Alethea smiled a little. “Takes one to know one.”

            Clara pulled her into her arms. “Thank you, Thea. I don’t know if I could have done it

this time. Pulled him back from the edge.”

            “No, you would have,” Alethea said as they parted. “Eventually. After all, you’ve

technically been with him the longest. Go on. You know how he gets.”

            Clara laughed. ‘Tell me about it. Take care of yourself, Thea.” Clara strode to the

TARDIS. She opened the door, stepped inside, and turned back with one more smile.

            Alethea waved.

            Clara disappeared inside and closed the door behind her. Within seconds, the TARDIS

wheezed to life. The lantern on top throbbed bright, white light, breathing, and the little blue box

took off, and was gone.

            Alethea mourned the grassy patch where the impossibility of anything just sat. With a

deep breath, she walked back to her apartment.

 

            The Doctor watched Alethea and her world, the good old planet Earth, shrink in the

distance on his monitor. The Soothsayer disappeared into her home: gone again, probably for the

last time. He leaned on the console as if the weight of such knowledge couldn’t even give him

his feet.

            Clara tiptoed towards him. “You okay?”

            The Doctor pushed the monitor away and stood up straight. “Fine. How are you?”

            “Also fine. So, they’re gone then. The memory-ghosts. No more pain?”

            The Doctor smiled at her. Passed her shoulder, he spotted him: the first little boy, the

little boy memory that started it all, from da Vinci’s studio. That little boy looked back at the

Doctor with a sort of watchful assertiveness not fitting such a young child.

            The Doctor’s smile faltered. “For now.”

---

            It was almost uncanny the way I felt it. Like a juggernaut straight into the pit of my

stomach. Something was wrong. Maybe not diabolical wrong. Not even life-or-death wrong. But

it remained: an unsettling unsettlement, the purest of distractions, unshakable.

            And that’s when I knew I’d seen the Doctor for the last time.

---

[1] “The Girl in the Fireplace.” By Steven Moffat. Dir. Euros Lyn. Doctor Who. BBC. 20 Oct. 2006. Television.