Yowzah Oneshot Collection (1)

99(G)

No matter how it starts, it always ends the same way – with him grief-stricken and alone, hiding away in his TARDIS to lick his wounds in the solitude he deserves for fashioning another innocent, lion-hearted human into a disfigured version of himself. He doesn’t retreat into the clouds like he had when he lost River but the Doctor feels older and wearier than ever before and this time, he thinks retirement might just stick.

He’s started getting dressed again instead of wandering the TARDIS in a dressing gown, his gray mop of curls an unkempt mess, but he still doesn’t go anywhere. He roams the halls of his ship aimlessly, tinkers with things that probably shouldn’t be tinkered with, and he reads. He reads more than he eats or sleeps or even breathes. It’s his only means of escape.

Going somewhere is out of the question. Hundreds of coordinates spill through his mind any time he contemplates the TARDIS controls and of course there are countless places he could go. He could dine with Marie Antoinette or find the lost colony of Roanoke. He could roam the desert and help Moses lead the Jews out of Egypt. He could go anywhere. Do anything. But he would be going alone. It makes the appeal of any adventure decidedly less.

So he stays and he reads.

He’s in the middle of House of Leaves – out of sheer stubbornness because the TARDIS keeps trying to foist off that Dickens holiday tripe A Christmas Carol on him every time he opens a drawer or reaches for tea in the cupboard and this book was the farthest from holiday cheer he could manage – when the console beeps. He glances up from the page with disinterest, expecting to see the Old Girl flashing a picture of Tiny bloody Tim across the screen at him or something equally smug and infuriating.

Instead, the scanner blinks at him steadily, flashing the red light that usually signifies a distress call. The Doctor scowls and snaps his book shut, heaving himself out of his chair. Once upon a time, he might have ignored it. Retirement is retirement after all and someone somewhere is always going to need something. He can’t always be there. But he’d promised Clara. If he can help, he will. Doesn’t mean he’ll do it with a smile on his face but well, this body isn’t inclined to the urge anyway.

Tossing his book onto his vacated chair and ignoring the Old Girl’s happy hum, the Doctor approaches the scanner and stares at the readings.

S.O.S 45X710///7284//

He frowns and taps the screen, squinting. They’re certainly coordinates but they can’t be the right ones or the ship would be crashing right around the corner. And he’d have heard the engines screaming by now, even from inside the TARDIS. With a harassed sigh, he pushes away from the console and stalks out of his ship and into the snow. He stands there, breath clouding the night air, and listens.

Nothing.

He thinks briefly of turning around and marching back into the TARDIS but curiosity has killed many a Time Lord and he finds himself abandoning the Old Girl to search out the signal, sonic sunglasses perched on his nose to help him trace the ship to its source. It’s close. Very close. If it were any closer he’d bloody well be standing in it.

He rounds the corner, fiddling with the settings on his sunglasses, and smacks right into someone. His glasses drop into the snow. He raises his head to grumble a half-hearted apology and his hearts stop. It’s been over a thousand years – a billion if he wants to get technical about it – but she looks exactly as he remembers her. Her hair wild and her eyes fire-bright, her small hands more capable and more tender than anyone but him knows. His throat closes up and strangles any clever greeting he might have been able to formulate. All he can do is stare at her and wonder if he’s seeing things again. He thought he’d dropped that particular habit with his last regeneration but perhaps it has only lain dormant, waiting for him to need her again.