Author's Note: I had the idea to do this as a missing scene from "Angels Take Manhattan". I know there is an animated scene where Brian Williams gets a letter, but I felt that the Doctor should have felt obligated to be the bearer of bad news, so this story combines that with a letter.

The Doctor knocked on the door to the house and waited. This was not going to be good. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could explain that was going to make Brian understand. Amy and Rory were gone. Gone. Alive, but for all intensive purposes, gone.

The door opened. "Oh," said Brian, "it's you. Hello, Doctor." Brian Williams was a quiet man, but this greeting was subdued even for him.

"Hello, Brian," said the Doctor. "How are you?"

Brian didn't answer for a moment. He just stared at the Doctor. "What can I do for you today, Doctor?"

The Doctor looked down, looked up, looked just about anywhere he could before meeting Brian's gaze. "Well, I am here to give you some bad news, I'm afraid."

"You better come inside," said Brian, who turned and walked away from the door. The Doctor followed him, gently closing the door behind. This was not going well, and things were only going to get worse.

"Have a seat," said Brian, sitting on the couch. The Doctor took a chair opposite the couch. It was facing the big window at the back of the flat. Outside, a small garden was in bloom.

"I need to tell you about Amy and Rory, and it's not going to be easy to explain, but I feel that it's my duty to tell you…" said the Doctor, trailing off as he swallowed back the emotion building up in his throat.

"You've lost them, haven't you?" said Brian flatly.

"Yes and no," said the Doctor. "I know where they are, and I know they were both alive and well and together… but they are lost. Lost in the past." The Doctor ran the fingers of his right hand through the mop of his hair. "And when I say the past, I mean the recent past, not the Middle Ages or anything like that. But long enough ago that they are already… dead. I'm sorry, I'm so very sorry."

"Doctor," said Brian. "I know."

"It couldn't be helped. We had escaped, we were safe and then one moment later Rory was gone and I tried to get Amy… wait, what?" The Doctor suddenly registered what Brian had said. "You know… what do you know?"

Brian got up from the couch and walked over to a drawer. Inside the drawer was an envelope, an old yellowed envelope. Brian sat back down with it and began to explain. "I received this letter in 1989, just a few weeks after Rory was born. You can see the message on the outside of the envelope – do not open before September 2012. It was from America – New York. So I opened it right away, naturally."

The Doctor gave a slight smile at the curiosity of humans.

"I thought it was a joke. I'll read it to you."

Brian carefully slid out the letter and began to read.

Dear Dad,

By the time you read this, I will be dead. Yes, even if you didn't wait until 2012 and instead opened it up right away because you were curious. I know you too well. I don't know when I'll die, but it's highly unlikely I'll live to see 1989, as I'll be nearly 90 by then.

If you are reading this early, I will only ask you to trust me, your son. Keep this letter safe. Put it away somewhere and pull it out every few years to ponder it. When the time is right, it will make sense to you. Just don't show it to me. Don't mention it or let me come across it – that would be very, very bad.

When you read this in 2012, it will make sense. Amy and I went on another adventure with the Doctor. (Thanks for looking after our house, by the way. You've never let a single plant die (which is more than I can say for Amy).) We visited New York City and it was exciting… and dangerous, as usual with the Doctor. Unfortunately we ran into some trouble. There were these angel statues that were actually aliens and if one of them touched you, they would send you into the past. I know, it doesn't make sense, but bear with me. I was sent into the past not just once, but twice. The first time the Doctor and Amy came to rescue me, but the second time I was trapped. I was so afraid, dad, afraid I had lost Amy forever. She's everything to me, as your 2012 self will know. But then she was there… she let an angel touch her so that we could be together. We were stuck in 1938, destined to live out the rest of our lives.

And we have been together for so many wonderful years. Being stuck in New York wasn't so bad. Since it was 1938 and we knew the war was coming, we decided to stay in America, where it was safer. I went to medical school, which was really easy, since most of what I was taught I already knew from nursing school. I'm a doctor, dad, just like you always dreamed for me. Doctors were needed desperately – most of the American born doctors my age were sent overseas, so jobs were plentiful. Amy got work with a newspaper and her insights on the war in Europe won her several awards.

After the war we settled in Connecticut. I started my own practice, tending to local families in the community. Amy began writing novels – I'm sure you could look up some of her works in a library, dad! We took in orphans and raised them as our own – they've all got families of their own now.

As I write this, Amy and I are approaching 80. Whatever years are left to us, we will cherish. I'm leaving this letter with my grandson Thomas, with instructions for him to mail it to you in late 1989. I know you were living in the Leadworth house then, on Charles Street.

Don't worry about us, dad. We were happy. We missed you terribly, and Amy's family, of course. Amy's writing to them, but I don't think they will understand as well as you will. And of course, there's the Doctor. You'll meet him in 2012… and I hope he'll come see you and explain things better than I did. Tell him… tell him we think of him often.

Amy sends her love. Do whatever you'd like with the house… it doesn't matter now.

Thank you, dad, for everything. I tried everyday to live as you did: with honesty, courage, and a smile on my face. I love you,

Rory Williams

"I read this in 1989 and nearly threw it out. But I couldn't. A letter from someone named Rory, talking about the future and the past… there's not a lot of boys named Rory about. Quite a unique name at the time of his birth. So I kept it." Brian began to fold the letter up and place it carefully back in the envelope. "I would pull it out every few years. Imagine what wild ideas ran through my head when Rory came home and announced he had proposed to Amy." Brian laughed, and the Doctor smiled genuinely.

"When did you take it seriously though?" asked the Doctor.

"It's strange, but after I met you, I didn't even think of the letter for a long time. Then one morning, while I was watering their plants and you three were off on some adventure to Ancient Egypt or something, I remembered. I ran here and grabbed the letter and it finally made sense. After that, I knew it was just a matter of time."

"It's always a matter of time, Brian, that's the problem" said the Doctor with a bitter note to his voice.

"I meant, I began to wonder whether each goodbye I said to Rory would be the last. It was a blessing, really. I always made sure I said a proper goodbye when I could and had a nice family dinner when they came back. It's why I spent so much time at their place, you know." Brian fell silent for a moment. "I knew this time. I just knew."

"How?" asked the Doctor.

"Intuition, perhaps? Rory didn't say where you were going. I just… knew. I woke up the other day and felt it. They were gone." Brian got up and put the envelope away. "So I wasn't too surprised when you turned up." Brian turned to face the Doctor. "I don't blame you. I could, you know. But I've decided not to. They loved being with you. And I know that they lived happy lives and were together."

"What will you do now, Brian?"

"Well, first thing I'm going to do is go to the bookseller. I want to see if he has any of Amy's books in stock. I'd like to own them. And I guess I'm going to have to figure out a way to sell their house… though I'm not sure how to prove I've got a right to do so. No death certificates… no written directives." Brian sighed. "Silly, isn't it? You lose someone and end up focusing on all the tiny details that don't really matter. I suppose, at some point, I'll have myself a good cry."

"Yes," said the Doctor. "Let me know if you want company for that."

"Oh, I don't expect to see you again," said Brian. "I know you'll be off again soon. Traveling here and there. Just…" Brian faltered.

"What?"

"Just don't forget them, Doctor."

"Never."