Doctor Who: God Is Dead

1: The Cottage

The Doctor was a Time Lord.
A fearsome being, now in his twelfth incarnation – depending on how you counted. He'd transcended the limits of regeneration, walked the universe for millennia, made marks on history so consequential that to remove his contributions would be to unwind reality itself.
So why was it always his turn to go and get the milk?

"Oh, Doctor, I'm busy- there's a dig by the Singing Towers, one of your past selves needs saving from a solar storm -- it's a time machine, and we can both fly it, that's all I'm saying."
Silence. He was grumbling to thin air. As per usual. Great use of the Scottish accent, though.
With a groan of the TARDIS to match his own complaining, the police box settled into its new environment. Everything that ever happened or ever will... and today, that was a Londis. Well, it was different, at least.
"Better than that Corralinan goods market," he muttered. "Someone could have mentioned their currency consisted of nose hair clippings."
Stepping outside, he kept his gaze on the door, refusing to acknowledge his circumstances.
Which was a mistake, really. Because this wasn't a Londis. It wasn't even a Tesco.
Instead of some basic 21st-century shopping street, the Doctor had landed in an empty void, pure white, nothing to be seen for miles beyond.
"Okay, this is different," he commented, taking in the view. "Looks like my old desktop theme, except without the round things. This place should have round things. Then I could see the walls... if there are walls."
That was an unsettling thought. No walls meant nothing to escape past in a dramatic fashion. He glanced around, looking past the TARDIS, and found himself gladly proven wrong. Behind him was a wall. Four of them, in fact, composing the framework of a quaint English cottage, all cobblestone and smoking chimneys, the curtains drawn. Curiosity getting the better of him as it always did, he approached the building, giving a tentative knock on the wooden door. Immediately he could make out a shuffling on the other side, the dragging of feet unable to be coalesced. He braced himself, ready for anything except the figure who emerged... an elderly woman, face lined with age and fear. Not a threat. So far. "God?" she greeted him, her voice hoarse from lack of use. "God, is that you?"
The Doctor froze, his ego leaping from its seat before being forcibly restrained by a reluctant modesty. "I... I'm not your God. Probably not in your culture, anyway."
"Oh." The woman's shoulders seemed to deflate, like she'd left her armbands on after swimming and they'd finally given up on the prospect of seeing water. "I was expecting God, you see. But... I think He might have died."
"I see." The Doctor didn't see. Was he meant to do something now? Walk away? Provide comfort? Pretend to be a Jehovah's Witness and offer an alternative deity?
The woman seemed unbothered by his hesitance. "Well, now you're here, do you fancy a cup of tea?"
"I shouldn't. I've got errands to run, and besides..." the words died on his lips. Whatever his grasp on basic customs, he was sure 'I don't want to' was entirely the wrong response. His refusal had not reached the woman however; she'd trotted back inside, an excited grin taking over her at the prospect of company.
Sighing, the Doctor followed. The milk could wait.

Indoors was slightly less chilling than its backdrop. It seemed ordinary: a coat rack in the hall; trinkets christening the peeling wallpaper; a corridor spiralling off into the rest of the cottage.
And the layers of dust and cobwebs didn't appear remotely atmospheric until he saw the skeletons.
As the woman guided him into the living room, the Doctor immediately took note of half a dozen corpses, human as far as he could tell, all rotted down to bones. Each stared into the charred tinder of the fireplace with frozen grimaces of pure terror and pain. What had happened here?
"Well, make yourself comfy," the woman said, gesturing to a love seat in the corner, only slightly occupied by one of the dearly departed. The Doctor sat, slightly on edge – of the seat, that is. The skeleton's arm was a little close. "Now you sit there, and I'll pop the kettle on."
With that, off she toddled, leaving the Doctor alone. An ideal time to escape this madhouse. Except he didn't, his gaze trapped by natural nosiness, weighing up his surroundings. Beyond the dead, the room was unusual enough, every surface taken up by religious artefacts. There were the expected: a Christian cross, a Jewish Star of David, Islam's crescent moon. There were the obscure: a tapestry of the Greek Olympians, a crude sketch of the Aztecs' Quetzalcoatl. Then the alien: A Draconian Zodiac, the Begging Orb as worshipped by the Church of the Tin Vagabond. Whoever this woman was, she wasn't fussy about her beliefs. Which raised the question: if God was indeed dead as this woman claimed, which one was she mourning? Was it all of them; the collective entity? And what exactly did that mean for the universe?
With this thought praying on the Doctor's mind, the woman re-entered the room, carrying with her not the answers but the next best thing, in the form of two steaming mugs. She set one down on a small end table, breaking the flat pattern of the dust. "I added sugar," she informed him as he reached for the cup. "I hope that's alright."
"Well, you probably didn't add enough- "Cutting himself off by taking a sip, the Doctor almost spat it back out in shock. Seventeen sugars? How had she known? Humans never prepared it correctly, always lowballing the sugar for the sake of not overwhelming the dental industry, which wasn't an issue he had to worry about – one of the advantages of space teeth. Apparently, Faith didn't worry either. "Never mind."
"Lovely." Faith took a seat of her own, brushing away a stray femur. "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"I'm the Doctor. Yourself?"
"Oh..." The woman frowned as if trying to remember. "Faith. Faith Summers."
"Right." Interesting. "And what about your other housemates? Are they going to chip in?"
"My other...?" Faith looked around, seemingly noticing the skeletons for the first time. "Ah, my family. That's my husband next to you, then my sister over here... the children trying to break through the window.... Oh yes, and my aunt with her head on the mantle. Silly woman."
The Doctor didn't even blink. He'd met weirder families. "Well they all look very much alike. I hate to break it to you like this, but you might have been adopted."
Faith chuckled; a throaty gurgle. "Ooh, what a thought."
A topic change seemed to be in order. "So..." If only he could think of something good. "God's dead, then? How long has that been a thing?"
"Hmm..." Faith took a thoughtful swig of her tea. "About a year, I'd say."
"Okay." Ask a metaphysical question, get a nonsensical answer. "Not long then."
Another chuckle, a little clearer. "Oh no, dearie. Not long."
Using his expert medical knowledge, the Doctor could conclude that this woman was nuts. Maybe he could pilfer a pint of milk from her fridge and dash out the door, leaving Faith to her delusions. No. Of course he couldn't. Whatever was going on here, it needed to end. Problem was the 'whatever'. Clearly Faith wasn't going to provide much coherent information, suggesting a Plan B was in order.
"Do you mind if I use your toilet?" he asked. "Hot drinks go right through me."
"Certainly, dear." Faith smiled, oblivious to his intentions. "It's just down the hall, on the left."
With a nod, the Doctor rose from his seat, heading for the door. Behind him, Faith stared silently into the empty hearth, unblinking. "Easiest excuse in the book," he muttered as he took off down the corridor, out of earshot. "How many empires must have fallen because a despot believed a lie about bowel movements?"
The cottage was small, yet the hallway seemed to stretch out in infinite capacities, the ground a superficial treadmill beneath his feet as he walked without motion. Reaching the end, he found two doorways. One indeed led to a bathroom; perfectly functional. The other, a bedroom, prison-like in its simplicity, just a single bed and antique wardrobe. Nothing too unusual. Perhaps that was the point.
It was then that something caught his eye. Something in the floor. Two dents in the wood, each about two inches wide. No discernible cause, unless...
The Doctor looked up. Above was a hatch in the ceiling, presumably the type with an attached ladder. The sort of place many secrets could be stored. On instinct, he looked for a way to lower it, a rope or switch, before stopping himself.
"Come on, Doctor," he chastised himself, "You can't break into the attic of every woman who offers you tea. For starters, the tea will get cold while you're doing so."
Still, it was a way to pass the time. He reached upwards, seeing if he could dislodge it-
"Doctor? Are you alright, dear?"
The Doctor whipped around, caught in the act by Faith, a rictus smile on her face. An average man would have the decency to look sheepish. But the Doctor merely stared at her, searching for the truth, managing two words:
"Your family."
Whatever words Faith was expecting, they weren't it. "I'm sorry?"
"You've got a husband and children – well, you did. Plus an aunt, plus a sister. Did they live here?"
"Well... yes, why?"
"Where were they staying?" The Doctor gestured about. "You've no room for anybody here, ten in the bed, you're living like a student – just substitute the intoxicated for cadavers."
For the first time, Faith looked around at her sparse surroundings, fear finally slashing through the curtain. "I think you should leave, right now-"
"In a minute, I fancy some biscuits-" In a flash, the Doctor was away, rushing down the hallway to the kitchen door, slamming it open.
But when he got there, the cupboard was bare. As were the furnishings; the countertops. The room had been stripped of every feature. Which raised the most important question of all...
"Where did you get the cups of tea?" The Doctor glanced at Faith, now beside him. "I thought only I could do that."
She didn't meet his gaze, a single tear dropping to the floor. The Doctor noticed. Time to take the emotional approach.
Slowly he crouched, bringing himself to her level with an expression he considered empathetic. "Tell me what's going on. I can help. Trust me."
Faith straightened up, wiping her face. "I think we're going to need some more tea."