Until We Burn | Dr Who

Chapter One Hundred and Twelve: The End of Time

Leaving him to his work, I decide instead to wait by the window and wire up a crude attempt at a scanner. Every so often, I spare a glance out of the window. It isn't often that I get to see any planet like this. Hours have passed and now the tiny speck that is Britain is in shadow. At this distance, I can see the clear, curved line that separates night from day across the Earth's surface. Slowly, inch by inch, light ebbs over the country. It will be morning soon. I can't help but dread what the new day will bring.

Soft footsteps ring in the silence. I look up to see Wilf in the entrance to the flight deck. We share an awkward smile and I nod encouragingly for him to approach the Doctor, glaring through his glasses at the mess of wires in his lap. He looks up, sees Wilf, and looks back down.

"Aye-aye," the man nervously speaks up. "Got this old tub mended?"

"Just trying to fix the heating."

I smile to myself as the breath of laughter I let out fogs before me. It's getting colder the longer we stay here. I hadn't truly noticed it before now, lost in my daydreams of a slower future.

Wilf joins him on the platform of the controls, legs dangling over the edge. "D'you know, I've always dreamt of a view like that." Laughing, he slaps his knees. "I'm an astronaut!"

A strange quietness takes over then. He sighs, "It's dawn over England, look. Brand new day. My wife's buried down there. I might never visit her again now. Do you think he changed them, in their graves?"

I hadn't thought about it like that. Wilf is alone here. His entire species gone, his granddaughter unaccounted for, possibly in danger. Unless we fix this, he is the last human. It's a different type of mourning when those you lose have nothing left of them to be remembered by. Not even a grave. The Doctor and I share a look, one of understanding. We both know what it's like far too much. "I'm sorry."

Shaking his head weakly, he turns his sombre gaze back to the planet. "No, not your fault."

"Isn't it?"

His mutter stuns me. I sigh and direct a comforting smile his way, silently pleading with him to stop putting himself down like this. He has a way with deflection, hiding his worst fears. Now I see them clearly and without certainty in how to comfort him. Neither of us has ever been brilliant with difficult conversations or emotions.

Urging myself to put it out of mind for now, I focus on Wilf again. He points at one of the land masses below, partly obscured by swirls of cloud. "1948, I was over there. End of the Mandate in Palestine. Private Mott. Skinny little idiot, I was. Stood on this rooftop, the middle of a skirmish. It was like a blizzard, all them bullets in the air. The world gone mad." Sighing wearily, he massages his forehead. "Yeah, you don't want to listen to an old man's tales, do you?"

The Doctor puts down the circuit box he had been examining. I know, with a hint of relief, that he may be ready to talk again, ready to forget his frustration after the incident with the gun. "I'm older than you," he says.

"Get away."

"I'm nine hundred and six."

Eyes widening, he looks him over. "What, really, though?"

"Yeah."

"Nine hundred years..." The Doctor replies with a small nod. He chuckles, still processing the information. "We must look like insects to you."

Brining his knees up to his chest, he watches the Earth's slow turning. "I think you look like giants."

After all this time, I still can't fathom how he sees the world. The way he describes it, all of the probabilities and timelines and questions, makes it sound maddening. The fact that he can view everything in such a way and remain sane and kind is beyond me. I doubt I will ever come close to understanding him, not truly. But there's still time.