Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: I adored Human Nature/Family of Blood. So I put Dancing Round the Issue on hold (though chapter four is on its way) to write this series of proper 100-word drabbles for Human Nature (written before FoB).
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Diarist
It was the picture of the faces that confused John Smith the most.
They were all faces of the Doctor, in his dreams. All of them.
The faces triggered the strangest associations. The curly-haired man in the centre had died in a fire, and Smith knew that as if he had died there too. The short-haired man to his right had been the one who first met Rose. The man in the lower right corner carried celery in his pocket. The man with the hat schemed constantly.
Quirks for interesting characters. He set pen to paper and began to write.
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Absent-minded
It really was as if he'd left the kettle on, Joan mused. He wandered the corridors, carrying far too many books, and tumbled down the stairs because he was too focussed on her to look where he was going. He dreamed and dreamed, and wrote his dreams down.
It was very endearing.
She could understand why his maid hovered around him. Mr. Smith…John…would probably walk off a cliff if it wasn't pointed it out to him. He'd already missed the stairs.
Joan thought she could spend her life pointing out the cliffs to him. She thought she might love him.
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All Sorts of Places
"One more month and I'm free as the wind."
Martha really was an odd one. Head in the clouds as much as her Mr. Smith. They'd arrived two months ago. Smith, it seemed, had plans to stay- oh, Jenny had heard some rumours about him and the matron- but Martha insisted they were both leaving in mid-December. No matter what. It was just for three months.
It was ridiculous, a wild, impossible dream. Martha didn't have money, and Jenny knew she'd never leave Mr. Smith. And besides, where could she go?
"All sorts of places" was all Martha ever said.
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Self-Delusion
"No man should hide himself," Smith had told him.
All the things inside that watch. A wolf howling, a spider-like beast snarling, the metal men marching and the saltshaker machines destroying all in their path. Planets burning, a woman's voice shouting, "Burn with me!"
Things any man would want to hide from. The monsters under the bed come to life, chasing him. Always waiting.
And the man with Smith's face, wielding that blue light, chasing those monsters down. Smith's voice saying, "you are not alone".
Yes, John Smith was a fine one to talk about hiding from oneself, Latimer thought.
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A Just and Proper War (One)
Hutchinson's accusation was perfectly true. He was being deliberately shoddy. He believed in fairness, and machine guns against spears were hardly fair.
Saying so earned him a telling off. "A just and proper war" to fight in…that would be worse. He knew, and he knew he'd fight in it all the same. The enemies would not be armed with spears, and they would not fight on the "Dark Continent".
He would fight in Europe, in the rain and mud. He would fight beside Hutchinson.
And at one minute past the hour, he would die fighting that just and proper war.
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A Just and Proper War (Two)
John had some morbid things written in his diary. This story, for instance, was set in 1914, barely a year from now.
It was a war story. John's messy handwriting told of lines dug into the ground, soldiers fighting in them, of mud and blood and death. She read the words "a shadow across the land" and shivered.
She could remember the Army officers who had come to her door to tell her that Oliver had been killed. A shadow indeed.
But when she talked to John, he smiled and said it was just a dream, and she believed him.
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Artist
"Where did you learn to draw?"
"Gallifrey," Smith said, without any hesitation.
The chill of the night air on his skin, a pencil pressing against his fingers, a paper in front of him,
He drew of places he hadn't seen, different buildings, strange people, unfamiliar constellations. Young voices laughed as he said that he'd go there one day.
More voices, older voices that laughed in wonder as he showed them the buildings, the people, the constellations, and he didn't need to draw.
Then there was just a lopsided scarecrow and Joan, who laughed without needing to see those strange skies.
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Lasting
It was never going to last, Smith and Joan. It couldn't last. Because Smith couldn't last.
Not just for the world's sake, but for hers. Damned if she'd be stuck in 1913 for the rest of her life, scrubbing floors, serving Smith tea and putting up with the students making fun of her skin.
She was a bit sorry that she'd have to take Smith from Joan. But this was so much bigger than just Joan.
An alien in hiding and a matron from 1913? It couldn't last. Shouldn't.
Because ultimately, it wasn't just her who needed the Doctor back.
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Fantasist
He'd never thought Martha was that inclined to fantasy. His sensible if overprotective and definitely improper maid, believing the stories he'd written in his journal.
He'd only told her the one dream. Just the one, where she was his companion. It seemed she'd taken it to heart, because she had been rather too familiar since then. Familiar enough to slap him.
Any why would she be so desperate to find that watch? It obviously hadn't been important enough for him to keep track of.
Never mind all that. There were more important things in his life than a delusional maid.
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Different
Martha had to be crazy. Joan clung to that thought. John couldn't be the Doctor of his journal, the man who had been to so many places, seen so many terrible things. She didn't want to think about the possibility that he'd been separated from this (real?) Rose woman like she'd been separated from Oliver.
Her John couldn't be an alien only pretending to be human. John seemed incapable of deception.
John was not the Doctor. She had to believe that.
But as the gun was held to her head, she began to think that Martha might have been right.