THE SILVER CLOAK
The Doctor isn't paying attention to the world around him, lost in thought as he is. His heavy boots kick up slush. One foot in front of the other. Going forever forwards. But a niggle keeps pulling him back.
Clara. Who is Clara? he thinks, and not for the first time. Where is she?
"Clara, Clara, Clara..." he mutters to himself in time with his footsteps. The repetition feels oddly familiar, and somehow comforting. He taps his chin, willing himself to think, trying desperately to get his scrambled brain into some sort of order.
Tyres screech, too close, and the sound pierces through his thoughts. The Doctor looks up—just inches from his nose a minibus rocks slightly from a sudden stop. Breathing might be a good idea now.
A horn beeps. He inhales. He's standing on the tarmaced road surface. No slush here. The ground's elevation had changed and he didn't even notice. "Stupid," he berates himself. The word is a puff of condensation in the air. He glances around as he steps carefully back and out of the minibus' path. People are watching—he sees a phone's camera flash and scowls at it.
With a hiss the door folds open and someone steps off the bus. He's old—probably—with a kind face. He's wrapped up warm against the cold with a thick woolly hat on his head and a red scarf around his neck. "Oh, blimey," he says. "Are you alright?"
The Doctor waves a hand, abstract. "I'm fine," he says, and then frowns at his hand. It's shaking. The old or young man notices and looks a bit concerned. The Doctor can't look him in the eye—this man, a voice tells him in the back of his head, is important and should not be lied to. The bus' windows are misted with condensation. It must be warm in there. Temptingly so. "Can I have a lift?"
The man smiles, and steers the Doctor towards the bus. "'Course you can—where are you headed? We're on our way to The Lion. There's a free Christmas dinner on today for the over-seventies."
"Sure, why not?"
The doors open, and the heat as it hits his face almost knocks him back. The Doctor and the man step on board.
The bus driver's face is almost as white as his hair. "I'm so sorry. I didn't hit you, did I?" he asks worriedly. "You just stepped out..."
"No harm done," the Doctor says. He tries to smile in a reassuring way, but he doesn't think he gets it quite right, because the bus driver pales further.
"Drive on, Stan, he'll be fine," says Wilf, a step behind.
The Doctor clutches onto a bright orange handle for balance as the bus begins to move again. He can see the tops of half a dozen heads, the hair on each head a different shade of grey—he'll fit right in here, he thinks. He can think in peace. He sits heavily in the nearest seat. He can feel the heat seeping into his bones already. His feet ache. He wonders how long he's been walking, and how much longer it's going to take for his brain to recover from such an expansive memory wipe.
He expects to be left alone, but the man drops into the seat beside him—and the Doctor finds that he doesn't mind this intrusion of his personal space as much as he thought he would. The Doctor is pretty sure this is the same man who came out of the bus to check on him.
The man, despite the heat, is still wrapped in a thick coat, scarf and hat. At the Doctor's raised eyebrow, he shrugs. "I feel the cold a bit more than I used to. I'm Wilf, by the way," he says.
The Doctor feels a warmth in his chest that he doesn't quite understand at the name. Why?
"Thank you," the Doctor says after a few false starts. He really doesn't know how to do this.
The man chuckles, not unkindly. "For what?"
"For being so—" the Doctor pauses, trying to find the right word, "human."
Wilf gives him a sidelong glance. "You're welcome, I think."
A few minutes pass in silence, apart from the rumble of the bus' engine and the hum of quiet conversation in the back seats. The Doctor tries in vain to place the man's face. He is familiar somehow. It's a memory lost to time. He turns to the window, wipes away the condensation with his sleeve so he can see the grey world outside as it is passed by. Rows of near identical brick houses, people with colourful coats, wrapped up against the cold.
"You remind me of someone. My granddaughter," Wilf says suddenly, and the Doctor can hear the proud smile in his voice. "Sometimes I see this look on her face. Like she's so sad, but she can't remember why. I just wondered—who are you looking for?"
Clara.
He presses his nose to the cold glass.
She's probably out there, somewhere, getting coffee or chips or coffee and chips.
"It's okay, you don't have to tell me," Wilf goes on, "but whoever they are, I hope you find them."
"Hmmm," the Doctor hums.
A speed bump jostles the bus. Something falls from the dashboard onto the floor. Wilf gets up with a grunt and hurries to fetch it. It's only when the bus has stopped at a red light that he's able to pick it up—a photograph, the colours slightly faded by the sun. He holds it close, wipes it with his sleeve. He sits down next to the Doctor again.
At the centre of the photo is a young man—or so he appears. It hits the Doctor like a punch. He recognises one of his old faces. And he remembers another old face.
He looks at the man next to him, at Wilfred Mott.
Wilf smiles as he studies the photograph.
"You look sad," the Doctor says gently.
Wilf sighs. "There's fewer of us now than when this was taken. When there's only one of us, then it'll be really sad. We may be old, but we're not lonely. Us here, we're having a great time. We've got each other. And that's better than a lot of people have it."
Wilf continues to stare at the faces in the photograph, and they smile back at him.
The Doctor allows him a moment of privacy and looks out of the window again. A nun is walking a labrador. A man is laden with shopping bags. Colourful festive lights flash on a house's roof.
"What about him?" the Doctor asks, pointing at himself in the photo. Minnie's predatory grin still unnerves him to this day—his past self looks permanently uneasy. "I was so much younger back then—"
Wilf stares at him, barely daring to hope.
"—and I'd still be proud."
Wilf's eyes shine. "Oh my Lord," he breathes. "Hello."
"Hello."
The Doctor meets Wilf's eyes, and lets loose a genuine smile.
He must get it right this time, because Wilf grins back.
THE END
Author's Note: This was supposed to be a Christmas story. Except it isn't really. I found it very hard to write because, for one thing I'm a bit out of practice, and for another, Twelve is such an unpredictable Doctor, I find it difficult to work out what his reactions to things will be. Still, I hope I'm not too far off the mark. I just need my Wilf back.
I hope you had a merry Christmas, and I wish you a very happy 2016. :)
Thanks for reading!