And Remember Me
Chapter 1 – Fly
The TARDIS is floating slowly in deep space. Inside, everything is quiet. The Doctor has probably just saved another planet, or stopped a civilization from being erased from history, or invented some new gadgets. But now he just enjoys a moment of quietness before a new storm approaches.
The mild sound of the TARDIS console beeping gently in the background is the only sound that fills the silence. That, and his footsteps. The Doctor climbs the stairs and strolls by the library upstairs. He stops for a second to touch the spine of The Time Traveler's Wife. He used to secretly hide one of his TARDIS keys inside it, before Clara stole them all, he vaguely recalls. What did she steal them for? He can't bring himself to remember that.
His hand moves to the near small set of drawers, and opens one of them. He used to keep some sleep patches there, where are they gone? Oh, Clara took them once for some reason, yes. She probably had trouble sleeping, time travel makes for some hell of a jet lag. Inside the drawer, now the cover of his 2000 Year Diary barely fits next to his yellow yo-yo. He quickly browse through it. The fight against the Mire at a Viking village is one of the latest entries. He remembers how he defeated them precisely, but he can't quite put his fingers on the foggy memory of him dancing with someone in the process. What an unlikely thing to do for him. Did he just dreamed it all?
Below his 2000 Year Diary, a new journal lies alone in the small drawer. The Doctor puts aside his diary, and grasps the new book. On its smoke-grey, sober cover, five letters are inscribed in shiny red: Clara. He opens the cover of the book. Resting on the first page, a single hemerocallis petal. He brings it to his nose, as if its already lost scent could help him remember, then puts it back where it belongs. Turning the page, a couple of paragraphs welcome him. The handwriting is definitely his.
When you live as long as a Time Lord, you inevitably forget something. You forget the unimportant things, the little things, the eye colours, the weather, the food, because you simply don't bother to remember. But I always remember my friends. I never thought for a minute that I could forget one of the most important people I've ever met. And I genuinely thought I would have recognized her if I'd ever met her again. But I was wrong. Meeting her in the diner was like talking to a weirdly familiar stranger at a bus stop; you may feel inexplicably drawn to each other and open to each other, but yet they still remain strangers to you. I still cannot picture her face properly, even though we talked and I've seen her painting on the TARDIS door, because my brain didn't quite record it. For me, she was just a random passerby. She could have been anyone. And that feels so wrong. Because if I remember something right, is that Clara Oswald was not anyone.
The memory of her comes in waves. The ones you've loved can never be completely deleted from your mind, I believe, no matter how much you or some Gallifreyan technology try. I remember most of the facts, the things we did together, the places we went to, but I can't see her there with me in my memories. It's like knowing that a blurry image always accompanied me, but never being able to put it into focus. I remember the jokes I told her, but I can't remember her smile. Sometimes, though, I can see a tiny detail shine through the fog, and remember something about Clara I thought I had forgotten forever. It's just the little things, never the complete picture, but it's better than nothing.
Unfortunately, these memories are not always accessible to me. Sometimes, something pops up in my mind like a flashback or a déjà vu, and then I forget it again. Like a dream you think you'll remember in the morning, but then it's suddenly gone. So I decided to record all these little memories of Clara in this book as I remember them. I sort of copied the idea from Me and the diaries she uses to record all the events and conversations her little human pudding brain could not retain. This way, even if I forget these memories again, I can still read them and know they've been real. So that next time I'll meet Clara maybe, maybe, I'll be able to recognize her.
The Doctor turns the page, skips a few ones, and reaches the first available blank page. He hesitates a moment to think, ruffling his grey hair. Clara used to mock him about it. He then takes a fountain pen out of the inside pocket of his velvet jacket, and scribbles the galactic date on the top right corner of the page.
Absorbed in his thoughts, he moves a few steps down the staircase, then sit on it and continues writing.
Today, I fought off some Sontarans with a bow and a special arrow with a homing device. It was all right. Sontarans and the stupid probic vents in the back of their neck, they'll never learn. Then all of a sudden I remembered why I went looking for Robin Hood with Clara that time. It's because he was her favourite childhood hero, of course. I would have never gone out looking for something so silly if it wasn't for her. For a second, I swear I thought I could still hear her laughs of excitement when we discovered that he was real, but I may have made that up.
It was a nice adventure, all in all. I suppose, in the end it just proves that I don't know everything. That I still haven't seen everything. And God, I hate not knowing, but that's quite right too. It means I can keep traveling and learning, and that there's still hope.
Just before we left, Robin told me that stories are good, even better than history. They can make us fly. Maybe writing this story about Clara is even more important than what really happened. Maybe it's exactly what I need. Cause one thing I know for sure. If stories makes us fly, the one story that makes me fly is Clara. And I'll keep flying for her.
The Doctor closes the book and puts it on the TARDIS console. He walks around it caressing some buttons, but it isn't time to take off for a new adventure yet. He walks to the blackboard and writes a short word with the chalk: Fly. With a quick twitch, he underlines it. Then he takes his guitar, moves back to the upper level, sits in his reclining chair, and starts playing his favourite song.
When that music fills the air, he can almost remember what traveling with Clara felt like.
Author's note: This is the first story I post on this site, hope you enjoyed it. I have quite a few idea for the next entries of Twelve's journal about Clara, so please let me know in the comments if you'd like me to continue this story and what you think of it so far. Thank you for reading.
