A/N: The following is the product of when I opened up prompts over on tumblr for a short bit. There's a decent chance I might not continue, but I thought I might as well share it all the same.


The Journal of Things That Don't Fucking Make Sense

"Ah, fuck! Sam! Sammy! Help!"

Samantha stopped typing mid-word and stood from her desk, rushing through the door that separated her office from Malcolm's. He was on the couch this time at least, sitting upright with his eyes wide and breath heavy, having just woken up from another nightmare.

"It's alright Malcolm, I've got you," she assured him as calmly as possible. She went into his desk and grabbed a couple anti-anxiety pills and checked the mug that was still next to his computer. It was cold, but it would have to do. She brought it over to him and had him take it, grimacing at the taste of the tea and still shaking from his terror.

"Every fucking time I want a nap," he hissed. Malcolm forced himself to drink the rest of the tea and held the empty mug in hopes it would level out his hands. "I don't think I've gotten more than an hour of sleep at a time in a month."

"The doctors said you're still doing fine, so don't worry—it'll pass," she said. Samantha sat down next to the trembling, grey-haired wreck and patted his back. "What was it this time?"

"The room was shaking violently; you were there," he recounted quietly. "I was shouting all sorts of technobabble, like an episode of Star Trek, and there was a big lurch. Hit my head on the… thing in the center of the room. Woke up."

"You've had that dream before."

"Yeah, but I remembered a bit more too… a woman named Martha not putting up with me being a cunt, apparently. Good lass, she was, though I feel a bit bad about it here." He placed his hand on the right side of his chest, opposite where his heart sat.

"Anything about Clara?" she asked.

He nodded silently. "She wanted kids, a family life, and I couldn't give that. Is that why she left?"

"I don't know, Malcolm," Samantha said. She stood and walked over to a bookcase, plucking a thin volume off the shelf and bringing it over to her boss. "I think this one might be for the Journal."

"O'course; what would I do without you, Sammy?" he sighed, taking the book. He opened it up halfway through—the first blank page—and pulled a pencil from his breast pocket to being writing.

"Probably too busy being Cal Richards's bitch or something," she laughed. "Say, you hungry? I think I can go for some chips, how about you?"

"Sounds great—though insinuate I'd be that midget's fuckboy again and I'll have some choice words about you for once," he replied, a hint of laughter in his voice.

After making sure he knew she'd be right back, Samantha threw on her coat and grabbed her purse, walking out into the corridors of Number Ten. It was late, for the cleaning crew was out en force and most of the lights were dimmed. She greeted some of the workers as she navigated her way through the complex—if she'd need help one day it would be from them, and if not then there was no harm in remembering her manners. Slipping into a disused cupboard, she went and locked the door behind her, her heart tugging at the sight before her.

The TARDIS, in stealth mode.

Samantha entered and took a quick look around. It was a bit more put-together this time, meaning the ship had been able to pull herself together some in her absence. She went over towards the console and put her hand on the cool metal surface.

"He's remembering," she told the ship. "He thinks Clara is his ex-wife and now he's remembered Martha. I don't know how long I can hold him back with the drugs you gave me."

The TARDIS whirred and beeped sympathetically and somehow the human understood.

"…but one of these days something will go wrong," she protested in exasperation. "Eventually Gallifrey won't be a defunct Scottish village and he will know what happened to Clara. The Doctor will come back and he is going to feel awful for doing this to us. I can feel that day coming; he didn't pick me up for just any reason, you know." She tapped the side of her head, eyes fixed to the console center. "Gran's psychic gifts are getting stronger every day and it's only a matter of time before those poachers come for me as well."

A bell dinged on the other side of the console and Samantha investigated. Sitting there was a bag containing some piping hot fish-and-chips to-go and another containing the falsified anxiety medication—the memory suppressants that were helping keep the Doctor's strong mind at-bay. She thanked the ship, promised to return soon, and went back out into the lonely corridors, pretending she had just come back inside from the bitter cold.

"Here we are, Mister Tucker," she announced as she reentered the office. Samantha placed the bag down on a table and eased out of her coat. "Colder than a witch's tit out there."

"You're too kind," he replied. Malcolm stood and walked over to the table, journal still open in his hand. He held it out as Samantha passed him a takeaway container, prompting her to take it. She flipped through the new pages, finding sketches of Clara and the woman who must have been Martha, new circular scribbles in Gallifreyan, and a very kind description of their first adventure together (kind because she'd much rather forget nearly being killed several times by a masochistic Time Lady).

"Now what do we say?" she prompted.

"Nothing in this book makes fucking sense, and we keep our thoughts in it so that we can concentrate on doing our job when none of the other wanks in this building want to."

"That's right." She put the journal back on its shelf and tried not to watch him as he began to gobble up his food. They were going to get out of this alive, one way or another, and she didn't care who was going to be in their way—she'd make sure they'd stand aside.