Foreword: Remember when in "Parting of the Ways" the Ninth Doctor sent Rose home? What if she never came back for him? What if the universe got this little bit colder, this little bit less friendly...? I have mixed feelings about this story, but it, kinda, writes itself, and since my Virtual Season Five seems to be writer's deadlocked... Why not let the story unfold? Please, review. And - don't let the first chapter mislead you - the story will pick up the pace (or so I hope) :):):)

A Stich in Time

Chapter One

Alone

Can you imagine how hard it is to be alone? I bet you think you can.

Well, think again.

I first came to this country when I was twelve. I was made to come here. I didn't even speak the language; well, not good enough to blend in. I used to have a tight circle of friends back at home, but I had left them behind. There was a new home, a new country, a new school. Kids were ok, they just wouldn't talk to me. I haven't met any bullies though, and that was probably a blessing.

Count your blessings, Ania, count your blessings.

Then, several months ago, I had to move again. My dad had got that job he was always ranting about – a good job in a large company – and my mum had got a job as well – not as good as dad's, but reasonable – and they'd found a nice house, all freshly refurbished, and it was close to the tube station, and the bus stop, and there was this little newsagent on the street corner, and a large shopping centre just two bus stops away, and I hadn't got any say in it anyway. Nobody asked me.

The house was tiny; you know – two up, two down – with the narrowest stairs I have ever seen. My bedroom was cupboard-sized, but then, all I needed was a bed, a bookshelf and a laptop. My policy – the less you have, the easier to move.

My dad was out most of the time, working. My mum was out as well, doing overtimes to pay the mortgage. I went to a new school. No bullies as well. Nor friends.

My days were boring. Predictable and boring. Except, that when out of the school, and going home, I was walking the streets of the largest town I've ever seen in my life, domesticating this wild and cruel beast, taming London.

It is brilliant, you know? London. It swallows you whole and spits out your bones, but in a weirdly good way. You can fall in love with it so easily; it's enough if you walk its streets and keep your eyes open. Especially if you pick all the narrow and empty streets no travel guide speaks about.

So, fine, you go and see your Westminster and Big Ben first, then your Tower Bridge, and Piccadilly Circus, and the British Museum, and the Buckingham Palace, and Harrods, Soho and Nothing Hill, and St Paul's Cathedral, and 10 Downing Street, and Madame Tussauds, the Dungeon of London, and the O2 Arena. You pay through your nose for the tickets and bus passes, and sweets and treats, as you swim in the wave of other tourists, until you realise that you are no tourist anymore; for good or bad you are the Londoner. You live there. It is your home.

And then you begin to search all the „rooms" very carefully, inch by inch, to get this „feel of the land" that lets you get up in the middle of the night and walk all the way to the fridge in the kitchen downstairs, without switching on the lights. You begin to memorise the sounds – creaks and growls of your walls, gurgling of the plumbing, whistling in the chimney, traffic in the streets.

That's how I came to know London; how I learnt it by heart.

Alone.

It was spring; quite early spring. The kids had half term break at school, but my mum and dad didn't get any annual leave at work, so I was supposed to go visit my grandma on my own; but then this volcano in Iceland erupted and most flights were cancelled due to the plume of ashes endangering the planes' engines, and so I stayed at home. I was wandering the streets a lot, because my cupboard bedroom seemed to be suffocating me. I used to sit somewhere, on a bench or some stairs, and read my books. I was watching other kids running in their little herds, all chatty and happy and loud. I was watching the trees burst into bloom, the sky turn into lapis-lazuli, the new wave of tourists flood the embankments. I used to return home by dusk, walking my favourite narrow streets and feeling incredibly lonely.

And it was then when I noticed something I've never seen there before.

It was a box. A tall, pale blue box. There was a sign above its door saying „POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX". I had no idea what it was supposed to mean. I had seen my share of red and black telephone boxes, but this was… different.

The blue box was dusty and old; the paint dingy and peeling off; the little windows shattered. Weeds surrounding the box's plinth grew so tall, some of them were actually reaching its roof. Ivy was working its way inside the box through broken glass and cracked wood. There was a holly bush guarding the way to the box's door – something I would often see in the village I'd lived before, but not a common sight in central London.

But the weirdest thing was – I walked down this street million times before. I passed this street corner on my way almost each day, and I've never, ever noticed the box. But it wasn't new. It seemed ingrown – almost melted into the greenery and rubble. It must have stood there for ages.

I walked closer and bent forward, trying to avoid sharp edges of holly leaves. Then I pushed the door. Nothing happened, it was closed. I just turned away and walked home.

But that night I had a dream. A panoramic dream. A high definition, Dolby stereo, 3D dream. I woke up with a start and anxiously tried to grasp at the dream, as it was melting away in the daylight. What was it about? Why was there a blue box in my dream?

In the morning I ran all the way to the street corner, half expecting that the box would be gone. No, it was still there. The day was grey and sunless, and the box looked even more derelict and old. I found a stick and pacified the holly bush creating a path leading to the box's door. Then I knocked.

Which was funny, since I didn't expect anybody to actually live in the box.

Still, the door squeaked open.

It was dark inside, and it smelled of damp and mould. But it also smelled of something else – a thousand fragrances and smells, all mixed together and not quite unpleasant, drifted in the air. I wished I had a torch. I looked back over my shoulder at the narrow and deserted street.

'Bye, London,' I thought with sudden sadness. I didn't know why. Not like I was going somewhere, except of going inside the box.

Then I crossed the threshold. As I did so, the door swung closed with a loud bang, and I was surrounded by darkness. I stretched my hands in front of me and moved a step forward, expecting to touch the opposite wall. Then I made another step and another, and another, walking slightly upwards, as if the floor was climbing. Finally I stopped – my heart pounding – in complete darkness. I still couldn't reach the wall – none of them. I waved my arm around and my hand hit a low, metal railing. I grabbed it and held on for my dear life.

Because now… I could hear something… A whisper…

The faintest of whispers, so distant, so weak, and yet so powerful. Somebody was talking to me in a strange language, quietly hissing, and growling and rustling, and… singing. The voice wasn't louder than my own breath or heartbeat, but it was very real. It was quiet, but it was clear. Whatever language it was speaking in, it was telling a tale of sadness.

"Who… Who's there?" I whispered. "Is there anybody here?"

The darkness sighed.

"I… I can't see you," I continued. "It's too dark. Are you all right? Are you hurt? Can I help you?"

Somebody sobbed.

"Please, I don't know where you are, it's too dark in here!" I said nervously. "I'll open the door, ok?"

I turned and tried to walk back to the door, but I just caught my hip on the railing. I grabbed it and walked alongside – it seemed to be curving slightly inwards. My hand was wiping a thick layer of dust as I kept moving it along the rail. One thing was for sure – nobody disturbed this dust for years.

And then it hit me!

I was walking and walking, and I was inside the blue box. None of the box's walls were wider than two steps. Yet I was walking inside, never able to touch the wood I'd seen from the outside.

The box was bigger on the inside!

"Oh… my…"

Suddenly I panicked, let go of the railing and rushed forward. I collided with something large, bounced back and fell to the floor. My fingers grabbed the holes in a metal mesh covering the floor, and the back of my head connected with wooden planks.

With a painful squeak the door opened and grey light rushed into the blue box. I lain sprawled on its floor, my legs bent, tips of my trainers touching the opposite wall. There was no railing inside, no mesh on the floor. Just an unusual amount of spider webs, covering everything like dirty rags.

But… But…

I got up to my feet slowly, dusting off my backside. I felt last shreds of dignity leaving me as I was looking around and seeing nothing else but the insides of a desolate wooden container. I grabbed the doorframe, ready to run away.

"Don't… want… die…"

It was as faint as a faraway rustle.

"Don't… die…"

I turned again.

"Who…?"

"So… alone… now… So… lonely…"

I ran all the way back home.

To be continued...

Author's note: No, I am NOT Ania. I am a LOT older. Still, I'd love to find the TARDIS on the street corner. It'd probably be just a prop or a bit of the Exhibition, though... Still, wouldn't it be lovely?

Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who. I do not own London neither. Nor the Moon. Still, I can write about them:)