Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, I don't own any of the characters from the Doctor Who universe, all credit goes to the BBC. I am not profiting anything from this story. A/N: There are certain scenes taken from episodes that I do not own.

One: Of Roses and Pinstriped Suits

"I'm not the only one to travel with you am I?" I asked The Doctor leaning back on the railing.

"No," said The Doctor flipping a switch.

"Then who else?" I asked.

"Many. I've had many companions," he replied.

"What happened to them?" I asked.

Regret crossed his face. "They got left behind, and some died. Or some chose to leave, or they forgot me," he hangs his head.

"I'm sorry," I expressed.

"It doesn't matter," his voice was barely audible.

I walk over to the console to stand beside him, "Would it help if you talked to me about them?"

"No," he muttered, cleaning off something on the console.

I put a hand on his shoulder comfortably, but he tries to get away, "Tell me." I said in a calm voice.

The Doctor sighs, "Fine. Come on." I follow him to the Sitting Room; there is a lit fireplace. Blue armchairs and sofas, The Doctor's favorite color must be blue, no wonder the TARDIS is blue. He walks over to a chest, and stares at it. I walk over to him.

"Is this where you keep memories?" I ask him, and he nods. "I'll help you open it," I offer.

He looks at me, his face is full of sadness and regret then he nods. He pulls a key out of his pocket and puts it in the keyhole. He turns it then puts a hand on the chest. I do the same and we open the chest. Many things are in it. Photographs, books, clothes, a TARDIS made from a milk carton, a milk carton?

"That's cool," I said aloud.

"What?" he said looking up.

I pick the TARDIS milk carton up, "This."

Loss fills his eyes, and then quickly turns away, "One of my companions made that. When she was little," he started rummaging.

"Little? You had a child companion?"

"No. I crashed in her garden when she was seven and came back twelve years later," hurt was heard perfectly in his voice.

Probably shouldn't push the subject anymore, I thought as I put the TARDIS back in the chest.

I pull out a shirt and The Doctor grunts and turns away. The shirt is a light blue with some purple. It has snap up buttons. Something about it seems familiar, like something Mum would wear. But Mum would never wear this! I smell it, such a familiar smell. Mum's smell; the smell of roses. I pull it away from my face, but Mum doesn't smell like that. She smells like cinnamon! What's wrong with me?

I go to put it back in the chest when I see a photograph. A brown haired man and a blonde woman wearing that same shirt, I pick up the photo. The man's hair is sticking up; he's tall and gangly wearing a blue pinstriped suit. I know that suit, but how? The woman has a big smile on her face, and has chocolate brown eyes. The same as mine but… I look up and walk over to a nearby mirror. The woman's face is the same as mine, and the man's hair is the same color as my hair. I look down at the photo and gasp. Everything around me zones out, nothing matters anymore. Two words are the only thing that matter. Mum. Dad.

"Clara?" said the Doctor jerking me to reality. I look up at him. "Are you alright?" he asks worried.

"Fine," I lied quickly.

He didn't look convinced but he didn't push the matter, "Do you want to go make a soufflé?" he seems to want to lighten me up.

"Yeah," I say cheerfully.

"All right then," he said rubbing his hands together smiling. "I've never made a soufflé before. Should be fun," he added.

I smile, and his eyes move to look at the photo in my hand. His smile fades as he stares at the blonde woman.

"Rose," he mutters.

"Rose?"

"I had shut the door then reopened it. I asked your mother what her name was and so she responded with 'Rose' and I 'the Doctor' and that was the start of a beautiful long-lasting friendship." The voice echoed in my head. It was my father, but it wasn't. It couldn't be; it was the man from the picture, but how do I know that?

"Hmm?" he looks up, "That's Rose," he said jabbing the picture where Mum was smiling. "That's me," he added at the pinstriped suited man.

I walk in the kitchen and find Dad getting something out of the fridge.

"Dad?" I asked.

"Yes, sweetheart?" he responded taking the chocolate cake out of the fridge.

"Why do you call yourself 'the Doctor' within family, and 'John Tyler' outside of the house? Why not, 'the Doctor'?" I asked curiously.

He shuts the door with his leg, and he sets the cake on the counter, "Because Clara, if I went by 'the Doctor' in public then people would start asking questions,"

"But haven't they already?" I asked.

"Those didn't really happen to me," he said flatly turning away.

"Of course they did!" I argued. "You're the Doctor!"

"No," he turns to look at me, "That happened to the other one, the real one," he emphasized on 'real'.

"You're both real," I said bluntly, but he wasn't listening only turning back to his cake. "Never believe you aren't really the Doctor, Dad. Because you are."

"Come on," the Doctor said patting my shoulder, which brought me back to reality. I put the picture back in the chest, and locked it. I follow him to the kitchens, my mind still on the photograph.