Just Playing the Game
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. This was made for the purpose of entertainment.
*A/N* I didn't do it justice. I know. I never will. However, there was one line in Silence in the Library that just killed me and it never appears in any fic I know. It was so simple, and it bloody well broke my heart. Again. Thank you, Moffat.
So I made it the last paragraph of this.
Fellow Sherlockians know how the quote above (from A Scandal in Belgravia) goes on, eh? It just made for such a lovely title.
-"I was just playing the game." -"I know. And this is just losing."
I will be brave, I will not let anything take away
What's standing in front of me
Every breath, every hour has come to this
One step closer
I have died everyday waiting for you
Darling, don't be afraid
I have loved you for a thousand years
I'll love you for a thousand more
-from "A Thousand Years" by Christina Perri
"Get out."
Those two words were all she needed to notice there was something wrong with him. Judging by the face, this was pretty early days for him, but still, she had thought she could expect so much as a smile. Manners, sweetie.
But fine, if he wanted to act like he didn't know her (because there was no way she would consider he really didn't know her), she was going to act like she knew all about him. She knew a whole damn lot, after all, all those years of, however messed up, married life had made her quite an expert. She could play this game, even though she wasn't willing to play it.
She'd never had to introduce herself to him, and it felt wrong. But she did it anyway, forcing a smile on her lips and shutting up the voice in her head.
She knew she was getting desperate, and she could have slapped herself for it, but that blank look in his eyes was the scariest thing she'd ever seen (and Professor River Song had seen quite a few things in her life). None of the things she rattled off seemed to ring any bells. And then she looked up and finally allowed herself to realize it.
It wasn't that it wasn't the face she'd come to expect, the companions she'd come to know. It was the way he was looking at her. That odd look that had never left his eyes, somewhere between hope and love and sadness and anger and guilt. It wasn't there. It had always, always been there.
"Please tell me you know who I am." She hadn't even meant to say it out loud, but she was starting to feel so cold inside and she'd forgotten how to breathe and she couldn't live with that expression in those kind, confused hazel eyes for another second.
I'll look into that man's eyes, my doctor… and he won't have the faintest idea who I am. And I think it's going to kill me.
She wondered whether he could see her dying right there in front of him at the sound of his answer.
Three little words that shattered her just like that, like she was nothing.
But who could blame her, when he'd always been all she had?
"Who are you?"
An alarm went off, saving her from answering. She wouldn't have known what to say anyway.
She wasn't crying, she wasn't sad after all. She really wasn't.
She was empty. Breathing, functioning.
Dead and gone inside.
Yes, she'd known it would kill her. She'd known all along. The moment she'd first seen a glint of something really old in his eyes and an unfamiliar distance in his voice, realizing in that second they were hundreds of years apart.
And she'd had a taste of it, had she not?
Because every time he'd left her, he had slipped through her fingers a little more, and a tiny piece of herself had died every time.
Waking up this morning with a silly smile on her lips seemed light years away. He'd already been gone, of course. He never stayed until morning. And sometimes she hated him for that, because every time she woke to find the bed cold and empty she wondered whether he'd really been there at all or whether it had all just been another dream.
He'd never given any reason for his behaviour (he hardly ever did), maybe he was just forever fleeing the morning after. And she let him. Even though, in her eyes, it was cheating.
The way he was looking at her diary now… it was full of him, full of stories about him, angry ramblings and pages and pages full of happy, bright memories, pages were tears had drenched the paper, hastily scribbled reports where she'd already been halfway off to the next adventure when she'd noted them down.
He was holding their life in his hands and all he saw was a battered old notebook.
Had she had time to think about this, it would have killed her all over again. Instead, she gently took the diary away from him and said, in the most composed voice she could muster:
"Sorry, you're not allowed to see inside the book. It's against the rules."
"Whose rules?" he asked defiantly.
She'd lived with him not remembering for so long now, she hadn't expected such a little detail to be this bad.
His rules had always been so important to him. He had set them up long, long ago and he'd repeated them to her time and time again: keep away from major plot developments. No hints about the future. Be careful what you tell me.
"Your rules." she replied, her voice almost failing her.
He'd taught her how to play, he'd taught her the rules and she'd stick to them until the very end, even if he didn't anymore.
She would finish their game.
Even though she knew this was the final round, and she was losing.
Please take a moment to review.