An American Intervention: Part I

Prologue

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The Doctor to be portrayed in the prologue of this fanfiction is the 10th Doctor, played by David Tennant*. Throughout the rest of this particular fanfiction is the 11th Doctor played by Matt Smith. I just felt the need to specify that, but I supposed you can re-imagine him into the Doctor of your desire as you read. Enjoy!

I sat outside a little coffee house on the corner of a busy little intersection. Which intersection and which coffee house, Heaven knows… but I remember that this coffee house was sweet to the nose and to the eyes. It was washed in the gentle brown of cocoa beans and striped in a dark forest green. There were iron tables where I sat waiting for my father. Inside there was a lot of cigarette smoke, and since my asthma was worse when I was younger, I was forced to stay outside for my well-being. But when the door opened, and just beneath the smoke, I would smell the sickening sweet smell of icing and warm coffee.

Those days, I refused to have my sketchpad anywhere that wasn't by my side. I remember how I clutched it tightly to my little chest, my lead pencils in my fist. Even though I was right by the door and could see my father at the counter, ordering his afternoon coffee and getting me a slice of pie to go, I was so scared of every stranger that passed. My older sister, before she moved out, had been mugged and nearly beaten to death, which has caused me from an early age to be terrified of anyone I didn't know. My sketchpad that held all of my secret doodles, my wishes, was the only thing that calmed me down.

As I sat there, marveling at the foreign city of London, so much like my home in New York, I remember hearing this… this whirring sound, like a machine trying to start up. Then suddenly, there across the street, was a great blue police box. I searched through my mind, but I knew it wasn't there before. It was strange and so out of place… stranger still was the fact that no one seemed to bother paying attention to it. Like, it was normal for them.

Then a man stepped out of it, nearly as out-of-place as the police box. Tall, skinny sort of fellow, with his ginger hair frayed at the top, a modern, stylish mess. He wore a long brown coat and a vest, and relatively plain trousers and shoes. Casually, he stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around wildly, like he was waiting for someone. Then he walked off into the crowd and practically disappeared.

It was then that I threw open my sketchpad to a clean, pristine white page. The police box was just in my line of sight, and I picked my best pencil and began to sketch. I was ten at the time, I think, and the lines weren't very good, but I was well on my way until I heard a voice above me.

"Is that the Tardis?"

I looked up shyly. It was him.

"The police box. Are you drawing that blue police box over there?" He pointed across the street. Barely giving me any time to nod, he talked on.

"I say, that's actually very good. How old are you?" He sat down in the metal chair beside me. I whispered, "Ten,"

"Well, that a wonderful drawing for a ten-year-old."

"Thank you," I whispered, and ceased my sketching.

"Now, don't stop on my account." He glanced around the area. "Are you waiting for you parents?"

I nodded.

"I'm waiting for someone too. Someone very, very important…" His eyes were distant as he looked around the area we sat in again. "Tell you what – since we're both waiting, why don't we have a chat?"

I said nothing. I was too nervous, thinking about my sister and her near-death experience. And even at the age of ten I was aware of pedophiles and perverts. He seemed to guess this and nodded.

"Alright then. I was always more of a talker anyways. I love London in December. It's nearly always snowing."

Just moments ago, flurries had drifted down from the swelling grey skies. He looked up.

"Do you like snow?"

I nodded.

"Good. Good… expect lots of it." The strange man tapped his finger impatiently on the table before looking at me, almost as if he recognized me."What's your name?"

"Grace," I said before I could stop myself. I should be worried about what this man could do to me, but I saw no evil in him. And, even when I was younger, I could sort of feel the evil and darkness inside people. Everyone had the darkness to some extent, but not many had pure evil. Even less had good shining through, and that's all I saw in this man. Good and hope and care, laced with a sort of pain that runs deep into the core of one's being.

"That's a very pretty name. Did you know, 'Grace' means 'forgiving and gentle?'"

I shook my head.

"Well, its meaning really derives from–"

"Grace,"

My father stood behind the man, his coffee and my pie in his hands. He eyed the man warily, but I could tell that he found no harm in him. My father nodded his head.

"Let's head back to the hotel, alright? This'll turn into a blizzard in no time."

Without a word, I rose to leave. The man seemed ready to do the same, until I paused and opened my sketchpad. I carefully tore out the paper with his Tardis on it, scribbled the date and my name on the back, and handed it to him. I don't know why I wanted him to have it, but I know it mad me happy when he took it carefully from me.

"Thank you. I'll be keeping this safe until we meet again."

As we walked away, I could help but look back at him, holding my scribbling in his hand. He was so sure that we would meet sometime in the future, but at the time I highly doubted it.

If I had known what I knew now, I would have stopped myself from ever going back to London. It would have saved me so much heartache.