Disclaimer: All rights for Doctor Who go to the BBC

Author's Note: Okay, this is my first attempt at a multi-chaptered Doctor Who fanfiction, so I hope you enjoy it thoroughly and take the time to review, as thus far it is completely kicking my rear. So, to answer a few questions before we begin, this story centers around an Own Character, or an OC. However, I am certainly taking measures to help her abstain from Suedom. Also, this story will feature much timey-wimey-ness, taking the main character from the 9th Doctor with a ten year (ish) tangent with Torchwood 3 and Jack Harkness right up to the 11th Doctor, and on. Also, as I am American, I apologize for any lapses in the dialect. I'm attempting to make it as accurate as I can, but I can't account for everything.

Read on, and again, please review.

The Strange and the Beautiful

1

[A Modest Convention]

Imagine a place, big and bad and wonderful. That's the universe. Now imagine a man, ancient and lonely and kind. That's the Doctor. And now, imagine a story that stretches across eons (from the very beginning to the end, the time when the stars finally stop burning and the universe spirals ever onwards, cold and silent at last) and chronicles the adventures of this man in his bigger-on-the-inside box.

That is this story.

This is where that story begins, in a place that has served many purposes in its long existence, in the city of Cardiff, June 21st, 2003.

The venue had once been a grand old building, situated at the very heart of Cardiff. In the eighteen-hundreds it had served as a brothel for the city's finest, young women dressing themselves scandalously and waiting for the new faces that that night would bring to them. Then in 1885, like a true fairytale, a very rich and very famous man bought up the place and turned it into a social gathering spot for dignitaries and nobility. He gave the girls jobs as waitresses and it served as that opulent place of social standing until 1949, when the very rich and very famous man had died quietly in the night. The venue fell into quiet ruin until 1956, when a similarly rich and not quite so famous man converted it into a cinema that remained quite popular with the young folk until the 1980s, when tragedy yet again struck and the cinema closed its doors for the final time.

It fell into disrepair once more, rats and damp worming their ways into the cracks and crevices of the foundation and walls until the wallpaper swelled and bubbled with rot and the timbers creaked. The city officials couldn't seem to let it fall completely to ruin, however, and so, in 1995, they sent in a crew of workers to fix up the venue for renting.

Down came the wallpapers and out came the faulty wiring and rotted timbers. The stained glass windows that had cracked over the years were replaced with plain glass and the bones of the cinema were torn out and smoothed over. The attic was the attic, and they built nothing there. On the second floor the city officials built a set of fourteen flats, quaint and pretty. In the cellar they built a night club for the younger generation, and the youths of Cardiff yet again flocked to the building. On the first floor they built the true venue, the one that people would rent out for art conventions very similar to the one taking place on the day this story starts.

The story begins with a woman on the date of her maybe-death. She was the one running the show, or at least helping greatly to run it, hovering in the front hall and jotting down the names of the artists and their works that were due to arrive in the hour, as well as ensuring that the venue had been cleaned properly after last week's stag party. The woman's dark hair fell into her eyes as she looked over the banister, looking for the stains created a week ago. Her eyes flickered up, and she waved over a man.

"Oi, Benny boy," she called out, flashing him a smile as he drew closer. The man was of short stature, perhaps in his late forties with a receding hairline and crow's feet forming about his eyes. He grinned broadly, slapping a hand down on her shoulder in a fatherly gesture.

"Darcy, honey," Benjamin Wilson spoke, a nearly mocking tone that defied his delighted grin. "Up so early? And so very ambitious, too!"

The woman called Darcy laughed, her blue eyes sparkling. She slapped Benjamin playfully. "Well someone's going to have to get this place put together by tonight! Look around you, we've gone to the dogs and our doors have to open at five!" She smirked at him. "Now get me a rug, grandpa. Something needs to cover up that stain there because God knows I've already tried bleach and formaldehyde and that just won't cut it."

Benjamin laughed and turned to find a rug. "Persian or contemporary?" he called over his shoulder, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Um, contemporary," Darcy called back, chewing absently on the tip of a pen, looking over the clipboard with utter absorbed attention. Benjamin smiled, and ducked his head, lingering in the door.

"Whatever I did to deserve you, sweetheart, I'd like to do it again," and then he left, off to collect the contemporary rug from a closet somewhere in the building. Darcy nodded and waved at his retreating form, stepping lithely down the halls, taking account of every little growing crack in the ceiling and warp in the walls and stain on the floors. She stopped in the atrium, breathing out a sigh of relief as she tucked the clipboard under her arm and her fingers itched for a cigarette.

Not now, she chided them, and her fingers began twiddling with her hair instead. Later, she promised, and smiled, ducking her head in the light just beginning to stream through the window. She loved the building, had gained many pretty and sweet memories from when she was younger and unbound by adult amenities. Darcy stood like that for a few moments, basking in the sunlight, at peace.

But then, in the corner of her eye, something dark moved.

She followed its movements curiously; it appeared to be the shadow of a man, perhaps, taller than Benjamin and quite a bit thinner. While she watched, it hovered at the end of the hallway, hesitating as if it could sense her eyes on it. "Excuse me," Darcy called out, angry at the incursion into her world. "The doors haven't opened yet. You're gonna have to come back at five with the rest of them."

The shadow seemed to roil and hiss and it darted off down the hallway, back the way it came. "Hey!" Darcy shouted out, running after the shadow, her welsh accent becoming more pronounced with her agitation. "I told you you're gonna have to leave!" She followed the shadow through the exhibits, shouting all the way. A pit of unease gathered in her stomach, and a paranoid part of her mind began to retell all the ghost stories that the venue had accumulated over time. She nearly shrieked when something real and tangible called out to her from the side.

"Darcy?" Benjamin called out, hovering in a doorway with a rug over his shoulder while she paused to catch her breath. The shadow flickered and disappeared, as if it had never been there in the first place. Darcy's eyes widened, but she straightened and faced Benjamin's concerned face with a smile. "Are you all right, love?"

She nodded vigorously, and balled her hands into loose fists, setting them on her hips and trying for a collected air. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine," when Benjamin continued with his concerned look. She laughed, and bit out an extra word. "Perfectly."

Benjamin nodded, and his forehead creased lightly as he frowned. "Okay, love. If you say so…" He set the rug down against the door frame, and smiled. "Here's the rug. You can set it where you like; I've got to go start setting up the paintings," he paused in the doorway again, and nodded at her. "You take care of yourself, sweetheart. Maybe take a break. The doors don't open 'till five."

Darcy smiled, hating the forced feel on her cheeks. "Yeah, I think I'm going to go get some coffee, right after I finish up with this," she gestured at the rug, and Benjamin nodded, his old eyes crinkling up. He shuffled out of the room, and Darcy sagged, picking up the rug with shaking arms and setting it carefully in the hallway. As quickly as she could, she walked for the atrium, grabbing her purse and looking behind herself ever so often. She burst out onto the street, and knew how she must have looked to the passerby's milling about. All the same, she tucked her shoulders in against the breeze and walked away from the building, not looking back once.

Behind a moth-eaten curtain in the attic, something living moved, following her every step.

The convention hummed with life as the people mulled about, looking at the artwork and praising or damning it and its creator. Wine and champagne was served in copious amounts, and Darcy was absolutely sure that a certain heavy woman in red would have a hell of a hangover come morning. From across the room, the woman staggered, and Darcy giggled, hiding her smile behind the palm of her hand.

The people attending the event were a strange bunch of people, far from the dignitaries and politicians Benjamin had made them out to be and more like a bunch of mad musicians and scientists, but Benjamin walked among them like the very ground they walked upon and air they breathed was holy. Darcy watched him with an amused eye, laughing out loud and earning several concerned glances when he tripped over himself to get a sharply dressed young man a new glass of champagne. It was a lovely gesture and so obviously Benjamin that her heart ached in happiness for him, the man who was so like a father to everyone he met.

Darcy ducked her head and blushed ruefully at the odd glances coming her way, slightly adjusting the clipboard propped on her hip. She scanned the room, looking to see any new arrivals for her to take note of on the nearly full sheet. There was one man, on the other side of the room, just barely slipping in through the doors. She pursed her lips and made her way over to him, frowning disapprovingly when he waved something that lit up and buzzed in one of the guest's faces. "Excuse me," she called out, drawing the man's attention to her. He straightened and raised an eyebrow at her, she raising one of her own. "I'm going to need to take your name, and you're going to need to stop harassing the guests."

He rolled his eyes and mumbled something under his breath, sticking his lighty thing back in his battered leather jacket. Darcy narrowed her eyes, and tapped her foot, poising her pencil over the paper. "Your name?" she asked again, and the man heaved a great sigh.

"The Doctor," he said, and her pencil hovered over the paper.

"Doctor who?" she asked again, exasperation creeping into her voice.

"Just the Doctor," the man replied cheerily, all traces of his previous foul mood gone in the blink of an eye. Darcy made a small unbelieving sound at that, but proceeded to pen down the name regardless, and The Doctor joined the list of Angela's, John's, Henry's, and Kate's. The man smiled at her and pushed past, towards the stairs. "Well, come on then. Does this place have an attic?" He called back, Darcy following the wake of his path and apologizing to the guests he disturbed.

"Yeah," she called back uncertainly; handing a woman a towel after a collision with the Doctor had knocked her wine out of the glass and onto her hefty chest. The woman wailed.

"This is never gonna come out! I'm tellin' ya now, you're gonna replace this dress, you are!" Darcy smiled and pushed passed her, ignoring her increasingly louder shrieks and plowing on after the Doctor. "Do you know how much this cost? Do you?"

Darcy waved her off and fell into step with the Doctor, having left her clipboard and pencil on a table a couple of meters back. They reached the stairs to the flats above and the Doctor began to scale them two at a time. "There's no point, if you're looking to get into the attic. They sealed it off with the old cinema, a couple of years back. There's no way in, trust me, I know this place like the back of my hand and I'd have found an entrance if there was one."

The Doctor gave her a withering glance, and went on ahead down the hallways. "You apes, always think you know everything, that the world isn't ever going to change because you are the epitome what you have been and could be. Honestly," his voice rose a bit. "Just think for a bit! If you ever stopped talking and just thought, maybe you'd solve a few of your specie's problems!"

Darcy drew back, shocked at the sudden outburst. Almost unconsciously, she shouted out a response. "Coming from the man who never stops talking in bloody riddles! And- and," she mimicked his voice, sending her own a couple of octaves lower and imitating the northern inflection. "'Your specie's problems'! You talk like you aren't human! What's stopping me from calling the police right now? Well?"

The Doctor stared at her with an unreadable expression, and then without warning he broke back into a grin. "Fantastic! I like you. What's your name?"

Darcy gaped, and brushed at her hair awkwardly. "Darcy Emma Hollinger," she murmured. "You still haven't answered my question. Why shouldn't I just call the police now? I bet you're mad. You could hurt someone."

"Oh, I'm very mad. But I try not to hurt people," his face darkened somewhat, blue eyes losing some light. "It doesn't always work out, but it can't be said that I don't try. And you won't call the police."

He sounded awfully sure of himself, and the slight whimsical tone had returned. Darcy cocked her head, her mind reeling. This man's moods were quite possibly giving her mental whiplash. "And why not? What do you know anyway, you're from the north."

He turned his head to her, nodding and proceeding to continue down the corridor and to the thin flight of stairs. "Yeah, and you're Welsh. And you won't. I'm good with these sorts of things, trust me."

Darcy swallowed, and nodded. "Okay," she said, and frowned. The door at the top of the stairs, the one that led to the attic, was sealed off. Had been for decades. "So why are we going to the attic? It's sealed off, I keep telling you. They painted the door shut back in ninety-five."

The Doctor pulled out his buzzy-lighty thing again, and displayed it to her proudly. "Sonic screwdriver," he said. "It manipulates molecules with a sonic resonance, making them work in my benefit."

Darcy leaned against the wall, glancing back down the rickety and ancient wooden stairs on occasion. "So basically what you're saying is that it's a multi-tool?"

"Yes."

"Brilliant," Darcy murmured, and the Doctor let the screwdriver whir to life, tracing it up and down the seams of where the door met the doorframe. His forehead furrowed in concentration, and Darcy leaned forward. "But I didn't know we made something that could do that yet."

"You can't," the Doctor replied absentmindedly. Darcy pinched the bridge of her nose and made a small frustrated sound when he made no further move to explain.

"Then how…" She trailed off, and the Doctor looked at her.

"It's alien. So is the thing in the attic but I think you've probably suspected that too," he answered matter of fact-ly, and Darcy could physically feel her mind block out everything else and focus on his statement.

"Sorry," she deadpanned, eyes wide. "Did you just say alien?"

The Doctor nodded. "Yeah. I'm sure you've noticed it too, little darting shadows in the corner of your eye. You're just lucky that it's too fast to catch. Well," he inclined his head, apparently deep in thought, his blue eyes clouded. "Unless it wants to catch you. Then things get… messy. Maybe you should go back downstairs now, Darcy Emma Hollinger."

Darcy shook her head vehemently, and crossed her arms over her chest. "No. I want some bloody answers and I want them now, and I'm not leaving 'till I get them."

The Doctor smiled brightly again, lines appearing around his eyes. "Oh, shall we do a sort of tit for tat, then? I'll answer some of your questions and you answer some of mine. Sound good? Great. Let's begin. What's in there?" He brought his knuckles back to rap on the door, and Darcy floundered.

"Nothing, just some old junk, I don't know. I figure it can't be important because they didn't move it before they sealed it, as I keep telling you," she bit out at last, her arms coming to rest at her sides limply. The Doctor smiled softly.

"It's not sealed," he whispered, like he was telling her a great secret, and Darcy's eyes widened. He shushed her, and went on. "How long have you worked here, Darcy?"

"Five years," she said. "Since I was sixteen. Hold on, you said alien, before. But that can't be right, because aliens aren't real, right?" The Doctor made a noise of disagreement.

"You insult me," he scoffed, and turned back to the door. "Doesn't seem to matter how obvious the visitors get," he seemed to tack on as an afterthought. "Humans see only what they want to see. Unless, of course, someone comes along and opens their eyes to the truth of things."

"Is that what you're doing here?" Darcy asked. "Opening our eyes?"

"Oh no. That's just a side effect. Thing is, whatever's living behind that door," he tapped on the old wood again, scanning it for what seemed like the umpteenth time. "Is what's brought me here. It's been taking in massive amounts of energy and spitting out just enough to turn off the sun if harnessed. And it's been here for a very, very long time. I don't know what it is –exactly, but I've got a general idea so I guess I'm about to find out." He shrugged, and turned the doorknob with a creaking shick. Darcy and the Doctor peered into the room, flicking on the single bare bulb (which, amazingly, still glowed softly), and gazed into the swirling eddies of dust kicked up by their entrance. Darcy stepped in first, over an overturned chest and worn photo albums.

"I thought it was sealed," she said in wonderment, picking up a moth eaten Victorian period dress and holding it close to her body, watching herself in the full length mirror. Behind her, the Doctor scanned the room in full, and seemed to read the results on a tiny screen on the body of the screwdriver. He looked up immediately, and strode to where she stood, grabbing the dress from her hands and throwing it back to the floor. She pouted at him, and turned back to the mirror, fluffing up her hair and making various faces at her reflection.

"Darcy," the Doctor warned. "We ought to get out of here." His gaze was riveted on something on the wall behind the mirror, a look akin to awe and horror on his face. She followed his gaze, moving around the mirror to see better, and as she did so the temperature in the room seemed to chill somewhat. On the cracked and faded plaster of the wall was a shadow, cast by nothing, of a very thin and very tall man. It roiled as she watched, scrambling back to distance herself from the creature. The noise in the room around her faded into white noise, and it was only her and the creature and the mirror, all alone in the attic. It spoke to her, in the voices of a thousand dying children, crying out in their final moments.

Welcome, child, it hissed and cackled, stretching down from the wall to caress her face. Where it touched a path of frost marked its movement, and Darcy shuddered. My, my, you have grown.

"What are you?" she whispered, swallowing and tamping down on the fear, though some of it still bubbled up in her chest. She spoke again, louder this time. "What do you want?"

The thing laughed, a clatter of nails on the chalkboard. I have no name. And I want you, it said, quite simply, and a spike of fear drove itself into Darcy's spine. She could vaguely hear the Doctor shouting in the background, and she heard the screwdriver buzz yet again. The man darted around the corners of the fog, blue eyes flashing and leather jacket flapping in his haste. He would have looked quite funny, she mused, if they had been under different circumstances.

"Why me?" she asked, stepping forward towards the mirror, and the shadow slithered up into it, taking her image and tossing her into a stuffy old gray gown in a dilapidated building. The Not-Darcy snarled, baring sharp teeth and wild eyes. Darcy set her jaw and crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow at the creature.

You are fertile. Rich in time dust. Has been will be always shall. Your unborn children will be mine, it hissed in a twisted caricature of Darcy's voice. The thing laughed again, and she shivered, willing herself to remain calm. Oh, do not fear, child… It crooned, almost tender in its smile and it crooked a finger, beckoning her forward. She stumbled towards the mirror, her fingers dipping below the surface like it was mercury. Fire exploded in her veins and she screamed.

A set of strong arms pulled her back, and the spell was broken. The shadow reeled back, screaming, and it hissed from within the mirror. Darcy drew in a gasp of breath, and the Doctor let go of her as her eyes cleared. He stood with a ready stance, as if prepared for an onslaught. She followed his lead, knowing that what the creature had done to her was not the best it could do. It hissed, jumping through forms. In the mirror a quick succession of caricatures of Darcy's mother, father, Benjamin, and even the lady with the wine stained dress glared at her and the Doctor. The Doctor smiled at it.

"Hello there," he said cheerfully, planting himself firmly between Darcy and the mirror-creature. "I don't believe we've met before."

The creature refused to answer, instead lounging against the mirror-frame in the Not-Darcy form. It looked almost bored, inspecting the dirt under its nails. The Doctor continued on.

"So I'm assuming this mirror is how you… I dunno… project yourself?" He asked, pacing up and down in front of the mirror, scanning it with his screwdriver. Darcy watched the creature's reaction, and saw it smile.

"Point one for the doctor-man," it hummed, leaning forward and splaying a hand on the opposite side of the mirror. "But don't bother destroying it. I'll just reform somewhere else. Or take someone else. Either way, I endure." It smirked, tangled hair falling into one eye. The Doctor inclined his head.

"Oh, good. But it doesn't have to be this way. You don't have to take anyone else into that mirror of yours. I can take you with me; find you a quasar for you to feed off of. Do you accept?

The creature snarled, and dragged its fingernails against the mirror's glass. It was silent for a long moment, then: "No."

"Then I am not accountable for what happens next," the Doctor said darkly, his own accent becoming more pronounced. "You've killed at least four times before, since you landed here in 1819. You tried to murder a fifth just now, with me watching. Bad move. Because you see, I think you underestimate me a little bit. I've been kicking around for quite a long while in this big ol' universe," he spread his arms out, gesturing around himself. "And there is nothing that's left – and I mean nothing – and more brilliant than a human being," he inclined his head to Darcy subtly, sending her in the direction of a dusty old desk on the opposite side of the wall. The creature roiled, uneasy. The Doctor smiled, bigger and brighter than ever before. "And guess what I have with me today?"

He turned to Darcy, keeping his screwdriver trained on the mirror. It buzzed at a high frequency, and the creature screamed. "Darcy! The locket!"

She found it, a battered silver square that seemed to thrum with the very shadows that the mirror did. She picked it up, and turned back to the Doctor. "What am I supposed to do with it?" she shouted.

"Destroy it," the Doctor said calmly, and the screwdriver increased in pitch, shattering the glass of the mirror and misshaping the frame. The creature gave one last shriek, and returned to its shadow form, darting across the room and trying to reach the locket. Darcy's eyes widened and she reached for anything that might be of use. Like a godsend, on the chair next to the next was a hammer, tarnished and silver and very, very heavy looking. Her fingers curled around the handle and she set the locket down on the desk, positioning it.

The shadows were very nearly upon her, and she swung.

A horrible screeching filled the room, causing her eardrums to pop with the strain. Darcy squeezed her eyes shut and fell to her knees, clasping her hands in a vice over her ears. A chill passed over her, and faded as quickly as it had come, washed away on a wind from nowhere that scattered all the dust and ancient documents. Slowly, Darcy cracked open her eyes again, and found that the Doctor was standing over her, clapping with a maniac grin on his face. He was saying something, but a ringing in Darcy's ears prevented her from hearing much of anything at all. She grasped the chair and slowly pulled herself to her feet, shaking only slightly. She breathed deeply, trying to calm her heartbeat. She squinted at the Doctor, still rattling on about something or another, and she tilted her head, gesturing to her ears. An expression of understanding fell over his face, and he stepped over to her, holding her chin still while he – apparently – buzzed the sonic screwdriver around her ears, left and right respectively.

Sound came back to her, and her head was filled with the incessant buzzing of the screwdriver. Wincing, she swatted him away, and he grinned. "There we go," he said happily. "That was fantastic, with the hammer. Very resourceful."

Darcy looked about herself, taking in the wreckage of the attic. On the desk were shards of the locket, sparkling like glass, the shadows gone from the pieces. "Is it gone?"

"Yeah," the Doctor said, looking vaguely remorseful for a moment. "Completely. We destroyed its two host objects, and it needed them to survive. It's actually quite like a horcrux…"

"A what?" Darcy asked, wincing as her head pounding. The Doctor looked at her sympathetically, and together they began to move towards the door.

"Sorry, wrong year. Harry Potter. But not yet," he said cryptically, and Darcy rolled her eyes, leaning heavily on the railing while going down the stairs. The Doctor bounded on ahead, waiting for her at the bottom. "So, what did you think?"

"About what?" Darcy asked, her headache lessening with the distance they put between themselves and the attic.

"Aliens, of course," the Doctor snorted, as if that had been obvious, and Darcy tilted her head again.

"I think you're mad," she stated truthfully, and hesitated before continuing. "But… I think I'd like to learn more?"

He grinned, and held out an arm for her to take. "Then walk with me, Darcy Emma Hollinger."

End of Chapter One