The Girl Who Waited
by Kiley S. Snape
Manhattan almost held the same bitter shelf as London, but the latter held the freshest grief. Running away to Scotland solved nothing- all that running with the Doctor finally caught up. I could no longer evade my problems. Sherlock Holmes was always there, inside my mind.
John had asked me to come back- begged me to go to the flat with him. I owed my one friend left that much. So I returned to my city of ashes and nightmares. The world went on without Sherlock fine, and John seemed to be trying the same. Three years seemed ample time to everyone, but for me that felt like yesterday…a curse of time traveler- it lost all depth. To always or never remember- the curse of the Doctor's companion.
It wasn't that I cut John and Mrs. Hudson out of my life entirely, but I never really initiated contact. Apart from the few phone calls to Mrs. Hudson… John was beginning to manage- he had a true girlfriend, and he was starting to pick up the pieces that Sherlock Holmes had broken away.
"221B Baker Street," the cabbie announced, "Isn't that the flat of that fake genius, who boffed himse-"
Thankfully, I had already swiped my card and so I launched out of the taxi before the prick could finish. I hurried into the building, and slipped into Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. "Sorry, lost track of the time," I panted.
"Oh, Amy, you look lovely!" Mrs. Hudson trilled, and then turned her attention back to John. "One phone call, John, even Amy calls!" she continued to chide the man.
I ducked away from the two, and made the existential thousand mile journey up to the flat. The door was unlocked, as always, and I hesitantly stepped inside. It was all there, every last piece of him. The microscope, the chemicals, the strewn files and papers, even the skull on the mantel. Everything stayed the same. Even though I knew the hurt I would feel, I padded into Sherlock's bedroom.
The dust that weighed heavy in the air would have irked another, but I had journeyed through all kinds of it. If anything, the microbes brought me solace. I sat on the disused bed's edge, and rubbed my knuckles over my burning heart. I stared vacantly across the room as I unwillingly remembered the last time I was in the room. I had stayed to help- I couldn't abandon Sherlock, but he clearly could abandon me.
A sliver of colour peeked out at me from the crack made from the cracked closet door. Purple. Not TARDIS or Sherlock blue, but purple. I crept across the room and opened the door wider. A sad smile twitched across my face, and I mused, "Hello there."
It was the purple shirt- his purple shirt. I remembered the first time I saw him in it. I don't which would give out first- my heart or the buttons that struggled to hold their place. Every svelte muscle seemed blaring whenever ensconced in that damned- beloved- fabric. Before I really knew what I was doing, I took hold of the shirt. My clammy hands made the fabric feel damp; my chest trembled with my shuddering exhalation. Footsteps sounded on the staircase, and I shoved the shirt into my satchel without thought. I hurried out of the bedroom.
I dropped into Sherlock's chair, my throat tickling unpleasantly at the dust the action stirred. John caught my grimace as he followed Mrs. Hudson in. The elder squeezed my shoulder, and smiled sadly.
"I knew you'd be up here," she mused.
I looked to the floor, at a loss for words, and frowned at the thick layers of dust that smothered the floor around me. How long had it been? Truly- in a proper linear function of time?
"Three years," John grunted softly, knowing the look on my face. He withdrew his hands from his pockets and schooled his features. "I came here to tell you- the both of you- that I met someone."
"So soon?" Mrs. Hudson mused, "So soon after Sherlock?"
"Yeees," John continued, brow furrowed in confusion, "Right. I am going to ask her to marry me tonight-"
"-A woman?! Did you hear that, Amy?"
"I am not gay!" John groaned, looking to me for assistance.
"Sher- hmm…they were not involved with, or inclined to, each other. Believe me, I know- been thought to have been involved with my best friend myself. Quite annoying," I supplied.
"Oh," Mrs. Hudson said with flushed cheeks, "Well, what's she like?"
"First off, her name is Mary…"
A black car with heavily tinted windows was waiting for me outside the flat, but I refused it. I had enough of the Holmes brothers to last me a lifetime, and I knew Mycroft would send me a message if he discovered a way to send me to the Doctor. I slipped into the cab that heeded my outstretched hand, and began to drive back home.
However, that did not stop the phone calls. The number was always blocked, and so I ignored it. But my mobile periodically kept ringing and so I finally answered. "What do you want from me?!" I demanded.
The caller remained silent, and the only sound I heard was the rhythmic rise and fall of their chest. A tense chill trickled down the length of my tense spine.
"If you find yourself incapable of speech, then stop calling or send a text message. Sod off!" I hissed.
The line went blissfully dead, and no text message came. I dropped back into bed, and brought the sleeve of the dress shirt I wore up to my nose. The true scent had faded significantly, but my memory was strong where reality lacked. I stared at the small copy of my sunflowers Vincent had painted for me; I had thought I made a difference in the artist's life, as I had thought about Sherlock Holmes. But both forgot about me; for Vincent, it was the stretch of time and distance along with his own mortality, and for Sherlock Holmes- the man was an unfeeling machine, who regularly deleted what he deemed useless clutter from his mind palace.
I awoke the following morning to five missed calls from John followed by a voicemail, two calls from Molly, and one call and voicemail from Mrs. Hudson. My brow furrowed when I also saw that I had a voicemail from a blocked number. My thumb hovered back and forth over the list of awaiting messages. My first thought was to open John's first- as I was sure it held the result of his proposal to Mary; however, my thumb hesitated over the icon.
What if the unknown voicemail was the Doctor? Perhaps the TARDIS had decided to reprogram its telephone number. I pressed the icon without further ceremony and brought my mobile up to my ear.
"Amelia-"
I locked my phone and tossed it away from me. This had to be a cruel joke. Some reporter desperate for a post-humous(?) story, who somehow tapped one of his calls to me years ago. I curled in on myself as the tears began to fall, and my trembling hands shielded my face. I flinched when my mobile began to ring, and my wariness abated slightly when I saw it was only John. "Please tell me you know what is going on, John. I am scared- properly, properly frightened," I pleaded tremulously.
"Amy, what happened?" John urged, "Tell me exactly what happened."
"I heard him," I moaned faintly, my eyes snapped shut, "Tell me it's some clot head's idea of a joke."
"He's alive, Amy. Sherlock Holmes is alive."
"How?" I cried in earnest, and clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle my sobs.
"Amy, I don't know…I am sorry-"
"-He called me last night- it had to have been him," I interjected wildly, "He called last night."
"Amy, I need you to calm down- for me," John instructed softly, "You need to take some deep breaths."
"How?" I continued, "We watched him…"
"Amy…Amy, I don't know. But he's back- are you going to be all right?"
"I have to be, don't I?" I asked faintly.
It was several days later that I finally got the nerve to listen to the voicemails.
"Amy…I don't know how to tell you this…"
"…Sherlock's back, hon. Er, I mean, he's alive!"
"Isn't it wonderful, Amy? I still can't believe it! He's back in the flat, but obviously things are different now- aren't they? He misses you- quite a lot- but I fancy he's too proud to say it."
John, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson all affirmed one another- along with all networks of social media. Sherlock Holmes was everywhere I did not want him to be. I still had not listened to his voicemail; hearing him say my name brought back enough of the pain- I do not think I could survive his deductions in my current state.
Because, as always, Sherlock Holmes knew. When he made that call the day we believed he died, he knew exactly how much I cared. Had River known that he would fall? Was that why she arrived on the night preluding? Most likely.
"Listen to the voicemail, Amy, he won't talk to anyone." John- loyal friend to a fault. Even when he was extremely hacked off at the consulting detective, John was always looking out for him. He invited- then later, begged- me to come to the wedding. But I couldn't, I wasn't ready. John was a good friend and he knew that I could not face Sherlock Holmes. I lamely apologized, and he simply said, "I understand."
On the day of the wedding, a note was slipped under my flat's door. There was no return address, it did not even bear my address.
He is scared. More scared than he's ever been, and he can't even feel it. He needs you, Amelia, more than I ever did- and he doesn't even know it.
I had never seen his handwriting, really, yet I knew it was the Doctor. For who else would write with a ballpoint pen on parchment circa 1860, France? As I waited for the cab that would take me to the venue, I opened up my voicemail. There it was, unread, my message from Sherlock.
My thumb once again lingered over the icon, and the cab pulled up and sounded its horn. I groaned and hurried out before the driver could have a proper excuse to whinge. "London," I instructed, "Sutton Mallet." I knew I would miss the ceremony, but the reception would be under way still.
I raised my mobile to my ear after hastily pressing the icon. My eyes swiveled back and forth to watch the rolling fields and hedgerows pass by as the voicemail began.
"Amelia…" Sherlock began, only to trail off a he was wont to do. "Amelia Pond. You should never have left London- you suffer from the chemical defect found from the losing side that unlike me, you cannot delete. John would tell me to say I am sorry; however, I am anything but remorseful. I am thankful you fell in our lives, Amelia, because you forced me to think in ways I previously deduced as impossible. You are the impossible, Amelia Pond, good bye."
Night had fallen before the cabbie drove us through the modern labyrinth of London. The cab finally pulled up to the venue, and I nervously tucked a strand of hair behind my ear with a trembling hand. I fiddled with a loose thread on the seam of my dress' skirt as the cab stopped on outskirts of the ornate garden that surrounded the building. Music pulsed cacophonously with the hem of attendees.
And there he was.
He had not seen me yet- he was too busy donning on his coat in his typical flourish. An excited- and frankly, utterly terrified- smile quirked my lips. There he was, London's high functioning sociopath. "I remember you learning to dance should the need arise for a case," I called out, voice trembling, "I'm your current case, Sherlock Holmes, and you are going to dance with me."
He just…stood there.
He stood there like some strange statue amongst the garden, clad in a Belstaff. He stared at me, and I felt the last of my dwindling resolve crumble. I did not have my Raggedy Man, or my Rory, but I had one man. I had Sherlock Holmes. I slowly made my way to him and smiled at the strip of tuxedo peeking out from the shield of his coat. I popped the latter's collar for him, highly amused that he seemed capable of only taking in my flushed face with darting eyes. I looped my arms around his neck, and smiled a smile lost three years ago.
"What is my case rating, Sherlock Holmes?" I mused softly.
"Amelia."
He was the only one who could call me that- he was the only one who could make me believe in fairytales again. Something the Doctor had tried, and started.
"Amelia."
This time he uttered my name with certainty; he realised that I was real- not a figment crafted by his mind palace. I was real- as real as him.
"A nine. There is no way your cab ride could have been delayed- traffic was most ideal," the consulting detective chided, "You purposefully forced me to deal with those hopelessly dull people to prove a point. And don't think I failed to notice you have stolen from me, I want that shirt bac-"
I shut him up the only way I knew how, the only way I wanted to. My lips crashed against his, causing both of us to wince. The kiss was far from perfect; I was too forceful, Sherlock too inexperienced. But it was the greatest kiss nonetheless. We swayed faintly from side to side, completely out of time to the awful music blaring out of the opened doors.
"I missed you," I confessed in earnest, and rested my head on his chest.
"I still want my shirt back," Sherlock remarked.
"You cannot stay here, Amelia."
"I know," I murmured, keeping my back to him as I settled under the bedcovers. I heard him methodically undress, and then slipped behind me. His deft fingers wrapped swiftly around my wrist, and after thirty seconds he smugly announced. "Heart rate accelerated- shortness of breath, you are arous-"
"Do not finish that sentence, Sherlock Holmes," I growled, and was surprised when he listened.
"Are you not going to ask 'how'?" Sherlock murmured, "John did."
"I stopped asking 'how' long before I met you," I answered, and I rolled my eyes when he stewed silently. I rolled over to face him, and shot him a teasing smile as I regarded his narrowed eyes. "Who is playing the game now, Sherlock?" I inquired faintly.
"Charles Augustus Magnesson. You need to leave London- he can't…"
I smiled sadly at him, and said nothing for a time. Even after a kiss, and now sharing a bed, Sherlock Holmes could still delete human sentiment with a brutal efficiency. He would never be infected with it; no parasitic emotion would plague him. "You can forget all the time, Sherlock, but I can't. I tried to make myself hate you, so that I could somehow delete you. But I can't let you go anymore," I explained softly.
The only response I received was his arm wrapping around my waist, and we slept till morning.
Someone shot him- someone shot my consulting detective. Hells and all the Daleks and Cyberman could match my fury as I stormed through the hospital.
Her. I could pluck her eyes out and feed them to one of those Venetian harlots.
"Get out," I ordered simply as I settled at Sherlock's bedside.
"Who the hell're you?!" Janene demanded.
"The woman I imagined when we were intimate," Sherlock explained smoothly.
I bit the inside of my cheek to contain my mirth, but that burst of joy faded when I felt the woman assessing me. I shifted to regard her coldly. "You have two seconds to get out before you learn that I am not nice at all," I growled, and smirked when Janene darted out.
"So that's why I got 'territorial'," Sherlock mused.
"Don't start, Sherlock Holmes," I warned, and rubbed at my aching temples, "You died- someone shot you…"
"I know," the enigmatic man remarked softly, "Amelia, you can't ever see me again."
"Can't? Or won't?" I demanded softly, "I am tired of staying away, Sherlock, don't make me…"
"Leave me alone, have a dull life- one where you won't get hurt by a machine."
"No, I can wait," I concluded resolutely. I rose from the bed and brushed my chapped lips against his tussled curls. "I will wait. Until the next time, Sherlock Holmes," I bid dejectedly, and left the hospital. This was the hardest thing- having to walk away from him. Yes, I had done this many times before, but as I strode down the corridor I felt an anticipatory dread. He was going to do something stupid. Not that I knew him well enough, really, but Sherlock Holmes once again bore an expression previously worn by the Doctor.
My consulting detective had a foolish plan.
"Amelia-"
"-Shut up. You just shut up, Sherlock," I growled tremulously, "Don't say another word."
The line was silent save for our breathing- mine haggard, his rhythmic as always- and my eyes snapped shut on their own accord. Mycroft had apprised me of the situation- I knew that this good bye would be the last I heard from Sherlock Holmes. Neither of us were good with them, with my past hardly anything seemed permanent anymore. Sherlock never did well because his mind held no lodging for backward-thinking sentiment.
In short, he would forget all about me once more. He always did.
"Why are you not here? John and Mary are."
"Your brother has given the order for me to stay where I am- I'm on a temporary blacklist. I thought I told you not to say another word."
At his silence, I could too easily picture him. The latent tell-tale of the detective's thinned lips, the painfully straight spine, and the burning eyes…as much as he tried to believe otherwise, or make himself feel, my words left their mark on him.
"Amelia Pond, the girl who ended up waiting for nothing, I am sorry. Truly, I am. I will not forget a moment."
"Liar," I murmured tremulously, and the first tear rolled down my cheek. He was blatantly lying to try to make me feel better.
"Not entirely, then," Sherlock amended, "Good bye, Amelia."
And just as before, he cut the line before my lips parted to reply.
"Doctor," I prayed, but clapped a hand over my mouth as I felt the first sob bubble up into the back of my throat. I wanted to see him one last time before he was taken from me.
A shuddering, wheezing, groan sputtered into existence in the vacant corner of the flat Mycroft had herded me into. The TARDIS materialised with what I deemed a sigh of relief; my brow furrowed at the char marks, chipped paint, and travel marks that generously littered the exterior. No one made to open the door. Warily, I approached the TARDIS and braced my hand on a corner's edge while the other brushed against the front door. The door opened on its own accord, and I stepped inside.
"Amy! Thank goodness- Clara, didn't I just mention her the other day?" a strange man announced. He flitted about like him, was in the TARDIS, but the old man before me was not my Raggedy Man. His already stern brow cut deeper lines into his aged-new face.
"D-Doctor?" I whispered.
"Amy," Clara began, eyes darting between the last time lord of Gallifrey and me, "He…regenerated."
"You pushed it off for so long," I mused, taking a better look at the twelfth face of the Doctor. "You're finally Scottish," I grunted, "You must be pleased. But not a ginger."
"Whut is that supposed teh mean?!"
"You're probably won't remember, Doctor, I need your help."
"I don't even know how to fly this thing yet, and she's useless," the Doctor grunted, and jabbed his thumb at Clara.
"What?" I demanded incredulously, and felt the hope that had risen in my chest die out. Not only was my Raggedy Man replaced by some stranger with the face of an old man, but I was never going to see Sherlock again. "No, no, you can't mean that, Doctor-"
"-Amy, things have changed. I am not helping people, I have things that I need to-"
SMACK!
"Don't you ever say something like that again," I ground out, in that moment finally understand John with Sherlock. The Doctor clapped a hand over the red mark bearing the shape of my hand, and regarded me as though I was equal to a Dalek. "You are the Doctor, the last timelord of Gallifrey, and you do not say anything like that. You give hope to Vincent Van Gogh, save space whales and dinosaurs, and you save earth over and over again. You may be the Doctor, Grandpa, but you've got a lot of work to do before you're good enough to be my Raggedy Man," I finished.
The TARDIS hummed happily at my words, and a figure appeared at the bottom of the stairs. It was Raggedy Man. At last.
"Doctor, tell me what I'm supposed to do," I beseeched, my throat tight at the opaque image of my best friend.
"I am not the Doctor, I am a voice interface," the hologram argued stiffly.
"Nooo- you are the Doctor. You are my Doctor, my best friend. You promised you would always help me- so I am asking you for help. What. Do. I. Do?"
"I am not the Doctor, I am a voice interface."
"Raggedy Man, please," I sobbed tremulously, "Help me. Please" My eyes clamped shut as fresh tears began to fall, and turned away from the interface puppet that masqueraded as my best mate.
"Amy," Clara Oswald began softly, "I am so sorry."
"Fish fingers and custard."
I wheeled about and bore down upon the voice interface. "What did you say?" I whispered breathlessly.
"Come along, Pond."
Broad grins broke out on both our faces, and the hologram flailed about with his hand. Just like my Doctor.
"Use that marvelous brain, Pond, and think!" my Raggedy Man urged.
"Mycroft won't let me say good bye," I thought aloud, "And the bugger has anticipated me trying to come anyways- he has all forms of transport being patrolled to stop me…"
"Not all," my Doctor gloated.
"Oh, ye brilliant alien!" I laughed in realisation, "I could kiss you!"
"Please, don't," he teased, "River would be so cross."
"What're you doing?!" Grandpa demanded as the hologram and I danced to the control console. "And who is River?"
"Showing you how to properly pilot the TARDIS!" I crowed. My fingers danced across the panel as I rotated around- entering the coordinates, time, and date into the TARDIS. A translucent hand fell over mine as I took hold of the accelerator. I peeked up at my best friend beneath my tear-flecked lashes, and gave him a tremulous smile.
"Come along, Pond," he urged.
I snapped the lever into place, and as the TARDIS hurtled to its destination, we both cried out, "GERONIMO!"
The TARDIS landing with its groan tore me away from my adrenalin-fueled joy. Sherlock was just on the other side of the TARDIS' door. What would the consulting detective say? He would deduce the purpose of my appearance on that plane in less than three seconds.
"Just a moment, Amelia," my Doctor said, though I had not stirred.
I turned away from the door to face the voice interface, and immediately noticed his sad eyes. "Doctor?" I pressed softy.
"Obviously Grandpa over there is the new Doctor, and he won't ever know you like I did…so let this face tell you a few things. Not a day went by where I did not miss my Ponds- not a single moment. Do you want to know something, Amelia Pond? You were the first face this one saw, and you were also the last."
I reached up, vainly trying to cup his face as I was wont to do, as I smiled around my tears. I could not muster another good bye for my best friend, but a farewell needed to be said. "Raggedy Man," I murmured tenderly, "Good night."
"You said that, too." With a burst of light, the voice interface vanished. "Good bye, Amelia Pond, go get him."
And there I was at the TARDIS' door still. I was surprised that no one on the plane possessed the stupidity to knock on the TARDIS. I ran a gentle hand down part of the doorframe, and whispered, "Thank you, beautiful, for coming for me one last time." I smiled when a happy trill echoed in reply, and the door slowly opened.
I stepped out into the aeroplane, and my gaze immediately fell onto Sherlock. The consulting detective looked back at me with that startled, slightly manic gleam in his steely aquamarine eyes. I could see the words from into sentences, and when his lips began to part to utter them I help up a silencing hand. "You can't delete me- can't leave me behind- not this time. You don't get to be the supposed hero and run, not this time. You like to think you're immune, but your body- your heart- betrays you, Sherlock Holmes. Ignoring it will not make it cease to be. Allow yourself to lose, just this once," I rambled, and surprised myself when I found myself standing before him. "I can't be the girl who waited anymore," I finished in a whisper.
"I never lose," Sherlock dismissed, rising to his feet, "You came after all."
And the consulting detective took hold of my face and kissed me, and I knew I had conquered the impossible.
Fin.