This fic is an utter beauty.
I stumbled across it by chance while browsing the Tenth Doctor tag - and was immediately captivated, because it is masterfully written, steadfastly in character (oh, all those little mannerisms and the Doctor's incessant mental tossin' about!) and achingly bittersweet. With the emphasis on bitter, mind you, but there's absolutely nothing wrong with that, considering the moment in the Doctor's life when it's happening (aaand the fact that - for some of us at least - hurt is the crucial element of hurt/comfort).
I feel for him. I feel for Grace, too. It's heartbreaking. And it's beautifully, beautifully written. I've re-read it right now and I cried. Again. Twice.
Part 2 of this untitled Doctor Who fic where 10 meets up with Grace Holloway again. Posted for @scaehime, who was interested in more.
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The Doctor jolted awake. He tried to claw the oxygen mask off his face, but a pair of gloved hands held it more firmly in place. “Don’t worry, Mr. Smith,” someone said. “It’s simply a precaution. We—”
But the Doctor wasn’t willing to simply listen. “I’m not signing anything,” he said, albeit with difficulty, and his voice was muffled anyway. “I’m not going to let you do anything. No x-rays, no—”
“Mr. Smith, please remain calm.”
“Calm?” the Doctor repeated, anything but. “Calm? You’re trying to...you…you….” He trailed off. An oxygen mask, he’d thought. But then he’d breathed it, and analyzed it. And it wasn’t just oxygen. At least, not anymore. He had to wonder if he’d even said what he’d meant to say, whether or not it had been heard.
This time he did manage to get the mask off his face. “How long,” he gasped out, “have I been in here?”
“You were brought into emergency three hours ago,” came the steady reply. “You’re stable now. You were in shock. Do you remember what happened?”
“Partially,” the Doctor replied, looking distracted. “Did a Vera Taylor tell you who I was?”
“That’s right. Dr. Taylor has insisted that we treat you as we treated her.” A small laugh. “Like everyone else, in other words. We try to give the best treatment possible. You’re in good hands, Mr. Smith.”
The Doctor thought for a moment, cursing whatever they’d given him. He hated being slow on the uptake. “Did you say,” he finally asked, “that I’ve been here for three hours?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “And, oh, three hours is a long time, isn’t it? Lots of lovely tests you could run.” He sat up abruptly, wincing as his movement partially dislodged an IV from his arm. He pulled it out carefully and turned to assess the nurse who was taking care of him. He scrutinized her for a moment, seeing if he could place her face among his blurred recollections of the time he’d woken up on the operating table, but couldn’t. That was a bit of a relief.
“Mr. Smith, I have to ask you to—”
“Sorry,” he interrupted. He squinted at her nametag. “But, Rachel, I’m fine now. I don’t need oxygen, I don’t need an IV, and I don’t need whatever else you were going to give me.” He glanced down. “Though, I wouldn’t mind my clothes, bloodied or not.” He frowned. “That’ll take a bit of mending. Shame. I hate mending. I can take it to Neo-Sydney, I suppose. They’ve expert tailors there. Then again, the prices, and they don’t fancy taking….” He trailed off and cleared his throat. “Still. Better than making do with a costume again.”
“Mr. Smith—”
“Yes, I know, it’s against regulations and all that, but, without them, I can’t show you my ID to—” He stopped, frustrated. “Oh, what’s it matter. I can’t stay. I have more important things to be doing. I shouldn’t even have come in the first place.”
“Mr. Smith, your condition has stabilized for the moment, but I would advise not disregarding the doctor’s recommendations by—”
“Oh, but I wouldn’t be disregarding the Doctor’s recommendations,” the Doctor cut in. “Because I think I know my body a bit better than you, thanks.” He reached for the chart at the foot of the bed.
Rachel smirked at him. “So it’s true. Doctors are the worst patients.”
The Doctor, however, wasn’t paying attention. He flipped from one page to the next and back again, then skipped ahead and frowned. “You’ve scheduled me for an appointment with a cardiac specialist?” he asked slowly.
“Your heartbeat was erratic,” Rachel pointed out. “Even accounting for the shock, the range was worrisome.”
“Speeding up and slowing down,” the Doctor murmured, deciding he’d better not ramble too much in case she decided to have psychiatric check up on him. Twenty-eight beats a minute, then racing to well over a hundred and twenty-eight in an effort to compensate for the fact that his right heart still wasn’t beating. He was lucky he hadn’t slipped into a healing coma. He was liable to find himself locked up in the morgue again if he did.
At the very least, he was lucky they hadn’t cut him open with the intention of putting in a pacemaker or some such nonsense.
“Dr. Taylor was able to pull a few strings,” Rachel informed him, gently pulling the chart away from his hands. “Dr. Holloway will see to you herself.”
“Oh. Right.” The Doctor frowned. He’d managed to walk right into this, hadn’t he? Sure, he’d been debating having a quick conversation with her, and he had landed and set off, but if he was set to meet up with Grace again, this wasn’t what he’d pictured. Him tracking her down, yes, but if he went into the hospital, he wouldn’t have gone in as a patient. At least, not with injuries of this sort. Still, perhaps just bumping into her on the street would’ve been best. But not this. Well, could be worse, he supposed. He wasn’t on the operating table again.
Nearly had been, but wasn’t.
“Clothes?” he prompted, looking up at Rachel again.
“You’ll want someone to bring you a fresh set,” she admitted.
Oh, brilliant. They’d gone and cut them off him, then. He might just be reduced to making off with someone else’s. Again. What would it be now, the third time? There was his third regeneration, and his eighth, and—
“But my coat?” he asked. He didn’t want to lose his coat. He had important things in that coat. Come to that, he had important things in his suit pockets, too. “And, er, you haven’t disposed of my suit yet, have you?”
“Your things are safe, Mr. Smith.” Rachel stood up. “I’ll ask you to wait here while I call Dr. Miller in to speak with you personally.”
“If I going to talk to a doctor,” the Doctor replied, “I would prefer it to be Grace, if that’s possible. Is she free?”
“She didn’t—”
“Brilliant,” the Doctor interrupted. “Thank you. Off you go now, Rachel; time’s a-wasting.” He settled back into bed, waiting for her to leave. She looked startled, but she did as she was told.
The minute she was out the door, the Doctor allowed himself a small moan. Ooh, how humans could stand it with just one heart, he didn’t know. Though, he was lucky they hadn’t tried to give him anything. Probably had something to do with the good Dr. Taylor, that. She’d held up remarkably well, all things considered. She reminded him a bit of Grace. And even a little of Sarah Jane, come to think of it.
But he didn’t have time to think of it. He had to get out of here. They’d taken x-rays. And he wasn’t sure they’d just chalk it up to a double exposure again. He wasn’t even quite sure when he was—something he hated admitting; he had a reputation to uphold, after all—and he didn’t fancy going through anything like 2012 Utah again, to name one of the more recent unpleasant experiences he’d had on Earth.
Now was not the time to draw attention to himself by trying to start up his right heart.
He slowly made his way down the hallway and a couple flights of stairs, alternately trying doors and dodging into rooms, occupied or otherwise, to avoid anyone who looked overtly official. He wasn’t sure how far he’d get, dressed as he was, but he was willing to give it a shot. And he could always pretend he was lost. It was fair enough, he figured, even if it was, likely as not, going to get him a ticket to psychiatric. Ah, well; he deserved a bit of fun. He hadn’t had as much as he liked lately. The last time he’d gone looking for it, things hadn’t exactly gone according to plan.
If hadn’t been for one wise, stubborn human, he would have knowingly destroyed an entire timeline.
Sure, it had reasserted himself, skirting around a few anomalies, but he’d been willing to…. He’d tried to sacrifice.... He’d….
“These are his things?”
“Yes. That’s all we found his pockets. No ID, no money—nothing to support his claims to Dr. Taylor.”
Grace. And someone he didn’t recognize. He’d better get out of here. Quickly. He could nip back and gather his things, then be on his way no worse for the wear. Grace might wonder, but he didn’t recall carrying anything on him now that she would recognize. He’d even had the locks changed; the TARDIS key was different. Though that was more because he couldn’t stand the constant reminder of Gallifrey than anything else. Still. New key, new sonic screwdriver….
New body.
Twice over.
And he had no right to ask. To ask would be to burden her with his problems, because she was the sort of person who would take the burden without being asked and wouldn’t lay it down, no matter what he told her. No matter how much he pleaded with her. And he had no right to do that. She’d built a wonderful life for herself. Moved on, just like she should have. Because she’d recognized—
The Doctor dashed into the nearest room. “Oh, hello,” he greeted cheerfully as a rather frail lady looked up at him. “I seem to have gotten the wrong room. I was looking for a Ms. Jones?” He phrased it as a question, but spent some time looking about the room, wandering deeper into it—and away from the doorway—and making it clear that he didn’t expect an answer. “Terribly sorry,” he added. “I’m the, ah, man from just down the hall. John Smith.” He stuck out his hand, grinning widely.
“Dorothy Mae,” the woman replied finally, taking his hand. “You shouldn’t be up and about, young man. I may not be a doctor, but I’m a mother and a grandmother, and you should be in bed. You’re too pale. Never mind that this is a hospital. I’m here after my hip replacement. You,” she added pointedly, looking him up and down again, “look like you got on the wrong side of a fight.” She didn’t sound particularly approving.
The Doctor tugged on an ear. “Yeah, well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders a bit. “Wasn’t intentional. Just trying to help, me. Nothing serious. They’ll be letting me out as soon as they can process the paperwork, I daresay. Need the beds, I think. But my friend—”
“If they’re going to release you when you look like that,” Dorothy Mae interrupted, “then I will be speaking with my doctor about the sort of care they’re giving here.”
The Doctor began to think that perhaps engaging the woman in conversation had not been his best idea. He pasted a smile on his face. “Oh, well, no, it’s not the care. I’m checking out. Against their recommendations, admittedly. But, really, it’s just a form or two to sign, and—”
“You,” declared the outspoken, if well-intentioned, Dorothy Mae, “ought to be ashamed of yourself. You’re liable to get yourself killed if you don’t smarten up.”
She looked like she could have berated him for longer, but the Doctor hastily began extracting himself from the conversation. “Yes, true enough; I will reconsider, I suppose, but I ought to go and tell them that, so I’ll just leave you be, won’t I?” He grinned at her and made his escape.
He bumped into someone and tried to continue on his way, but whoever it was caught his arm. “Mr. Smith,” drawled a man’s voice, “I believe you were assigned to room 403?”
“Dr. Miller, I presume?” the Doctor asked, trying not to look guilty. If he’d waited just one more minute.... “Yes. And may I ask why you are a full two floors from your assigned room?” Over Dr. Miller’s shoulder, the Doctor had watched Grace’s face fall. Perhaps she had thought to connect the dots. He didn’t recall telling her that regeneration worked more than once. Granted, he hadn’t exactly had time to explain anything. Common theme in his life, that.
“Oh, well,” he said slowly. “Fancied a bit of a jaunt, that’s all. Looking to see if I could get a cup of tea, to be honest.” Well, partially honest. He wouldn’t mind a cup of tea now. He needed something to clear his head. “And, I was wondering about my things. Could I have them back? Even the suit? I know an excellent tailor.”
“We can discuss this at a later time, once we have you back in your room.” Dr. Miller steered him towards the lift.
“I’ll join you when he’s settled,” Grace said shakily. The Doctor glanced over his shoulder to get a better look at her. She hadn’t changed, really. So perhaps it wasn’t that long after all. Blimey, it better not be before the millennium. He’d be in a spot then. But surely….
The Doctor accepted his scolding meekly, knowing that if he had any chance of getting out of here, it would be better to throw them off guard. And, sometimes, if you played your cards right, and you acted like you really needed something, they’d give it to you. Like shoes. Shoes would be an excellent thing right now. You can only make it so far without shoes. All right, last time he’d made it over to Grace’s house without shoes, but he’d needed the toe tag on as proof, hadn’t he?
The Doctor did his best to ensure that his conversation with Dr. Miller was short. Grace entered shortly after Dr. Miller had finished his scolding—well, chiding, more like, as if he were a child. But when she came in, holding his coat—and it would take a bit to get those stains out—and a small paper bag, presumably his other things, he almost didn’t want Dr. Miller to leave. He regretted being so apologetic and compliant. He might’ve bought more time if he hadn’t been.
Because, really…. He didn’t want to face her.
He shouldn’t have come.
“John Smith?” she asked softly, depositing his things at the foot of the bed and settling down on the chair by its head. He saw the sleeve of his suit jacket poking out from the bundle that was his coat. Excellent; she’d gotten that, too.
Still, he had to answer her question. He hesitated, and nodded once, sharply and definitively.
“Where are you from?” she asked, keeping her voice light.
“Nottingham,” he answered. “Brilliant place. You ought to visit it sometime.”
“And may I ask why you wanted to speak with me, and why you told Dr. Vera Taylor that I knew you?”
“Oh, well, I just….” The Doctor trailed off. Grace was smart, and lying wasn’t his forte in this regeneration. “It’s been a long while, that’s all. I knew you wouldn’t recognize me.”
She was thinking it. He could tell by the expression on her face. Blinking abruptly, she reached for his chart, scanning it. He watched her shoulders fall. “They want to keep you for monitoring,” she noted. “You’ve a bad heart.”
“It’s just overworked,” the Doctor said bluntly. “Temporary. A victim of circumstances, if you will.”
“X-rays inconclusive?” Grace repeated, looking up from the chart. “You’re due for another round, to make sure you didn’t crack a rib. First round was faulty.”
The Doctor was silent for a moment. “Grace,” he said, slowly, deliberately, “may I have my things?” He held out his hand. “Just the bag for now, if you will.”
“I’d prefer Dr. Holloway at the moment, Mr. Smith.”
“Doctor,” the Doctor corrected.
Grace smiled slightly. “Oh, yes,” she amended. “I do recall Vera mentioning that. Dr. Smith, then.”
“Doctor,” the Doctor repeated, watching her hand falter as she reached for the bag.
She turned back to look at him. “I’m afraid, Dr. Smith, that I do not take to calling anyone simply by their profession. Particularly those from Nottingham.” She passed the paper bag to him.
The Doctor took it and smiled. “Well, it’s a bit more than a profession.” He overturned the bag to see what he could find. They hadn’t found much. Sonic screwdriver, TARDIS key, wallet of currently blank psychic paper—pity, that; might be a bit harder to fool them, if they recognized the covering—and his spectacles. Just some surface things, nothing from too deep in his pockets.
And nothing Grace would recognize.
Though, he had to decide, now, whether or not he was going to go through with it. He’d meant to. But then, he thought maybe it would be best if he didn’t. Because the only reasons he’d meant to have any conversation at all with her were selfish reasons. He wanted to know what she’d seen, and how she’d recognized it—how she’d seen what he, and so many others, couldn’t.
A friend had once told him that if you could choose who lives and who dies, you would be a monster. And he’d agreed whole-heartedly at the time. It wasn’t even that long ago. How could he have forgotten that conversation? How could he have turned his back on that so utterly? How could he have disregarded everything and gone and done it anyhow?
He’d needed to be taken down a few pegs.
It hadn’t taken much.
But it was too much all the same.
One life had had to be ended to keep history on track.
And he hadn’t been the one to realize that.
He’d been the one to ignore it.
And then he’d been shown how important it all was, and how foolish and arrogant he’d been, and how wrong he’d been, to stray from that, even once. He’d seen what he’d become.
A monster.
“Dr. Smith? Are you all right?”
The Doctor blinked. Grace repeated her question, moving closer to check on him.
No. He couldn’t just leave. He’d come here, and the TARDIS had made sure he’d come this far, sneaky as she was. He wanted to run from this, like he’d run from everything else. But he couldn’t keep everything inside him forever, keeping silent. He had to tell some things to someone.
Someone who would listen.
Someone who might help him to understand.
Someone he’d touched but not destroyed.
“I’m always all right,” the Doctor croaked, pulling away from Grace. He reached instead for his coat, digging in the pockets. He had some in here, he was sure of it. He’d gotten them the same time he’d picked up that chocolate egg at Easter, since he hadn’t had any for years and he had had a bit of a liking for them. They wouldn’t be too old; a couple of months, that’s all.
“Dr. Smith, you should just relax. Your heart—”
Right. Dr. Miller had insisted on hooking him up to that again. Bother it all. “Is compensating,” the Doctor cut in. “That’s all. Temporary, like I said.”
“You’re not well.”
No, he wasn’t. But he was on the mend, now—if he could just stop running, just for a moment, long enough to have a conversation.
“Grace—”
“Dr. Holloway.”
“Grace,” the Doctor repeated, very deliberately, as his hand closed upon a small paper bag of candy. He pulled it out of his coat pocket and offered it to her. “Jelly baby?”
She looked at him uncertainly. “I was informed that they’d gone through your pockets.”
The Doctor shrugged. “They didn’t know what they were looking for. Would you like a jelly baby?”
Grace’s expression hardened. “Stop it,” she hissed.
The Doctor was taken aback. “What?” he asked, blinking at her. He hadn’t meant to actually offend her. Yet that was how she was acting.
“Who put you up to this?” she continued angrily. “I’m not having it, you hear? I’ve had enough with people laughing at me. I’m not telling that story anymore.”
Oh.
He hadn’t expected that.
Of course, he wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected.
He hadn’t thought about it all too much.
“What year is it?” he asked slowly.
Wrong question, it seemed, with what she thought of him now. “I’ll thank you not to persist in telling tales in an attempt to speak to me again,” she said sharply, rising to her feet. “Good day, Mr. Smith.”
“Doctor,” he corrected again.
She glared at him. “Dr. Smith, then. Good day.”
“I’d missed you, Grace,” he said truthfully. “But I’d still thought that I was doing the right thing by not coming back. After you’d made your choice, I mean.”
It wasn’t enough to catch her attention, and she started out the room, ignoring him.
And, well, now that he’d made the decision to talk to her, he wanted to talk to her.
So he made sure that he did catch her attention. “The Master survived, you know. Getting sucked into the Eye. But she’s closed now. Room’s locked, good and tight. Even I can’t get into it. Don’t think I will, unless circumstances change.”
She turned back at the doorway to look at him. “How long?” she asked, her voice still cold.
“Pardon?”
“How long have you spent listening to my stories, gathering every bit of information from every story I’ve ever told the children in the recovery ward? And why do you insist on patronizing me?”
She was defensive. Hurt.
Because of him.
Because she’d believed in him and had told her story.
He’d still managed to….
“I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely contrite. “I am so, so sorry, Grace. I didn’t know.”
“Dr. Holloway,” she corrected, but her voice had softened slightly.
And then she was gone.