The Moment

by star wars for Jesus

Shortly after reuniting with Sarah Jane Smith, The Tenth Doctor finds a mysterious letter in his TARDIS-one that he apparently wrote, and that has ties to the suicide of several local teens. Can the Doctor and Rose discover the reason behind the unknown letter? And, moreover, can they discern its connection to the suicides?

"Everything happens for a reason. The good, the bad, the indifferent."—Taria Damsin

Dear Mrs. Jane,

Time is a funny thing, actually. We all experience it, are subject to it waves and whims—but honestly, how much do we really know about it? It is to us a line, where all points are fixed, set in stone. Irrevocable. But to me, it's more fluid than that, can be altered by the slightest action. By the quietest word.

When time is in flux, it can be re-written.

Just not this time.

And I don't expect you to understand it. Or even accept it, for that matter. I just want you to trust me on this, because sometimes, that's all we can do in situations like this. To trust someone else—even if it's someone we hardly know.

Your (sort of) friend,

John Smith

3/1/1986

Dragging a hand over my face, I scan over those words, again and again and again. I wrote them, obviously: the letter's signed with my alias, after all. With "John Smith". But somehow, I don't recall writing this out—literally. I just happened upon it today while rummaging through some of the TARDIS's storage units, and I swear it wasn't there the last time I been through that area. Not like I'm the universe's neatest being or anything, but still: you'd think I'd recall something like this.

I glance down at the date again, read it slow. 3/1/1986…doesn't sound very significant, if you ask me. But then again, I've crossed paths with quite a few beings whom I thought were useless, worthless, when they were something altogether brilliant. Paramount to history.

Or maybe it's just another date after all.

Now, the name is a different story. That name—blast it, I'll always recall that name. Will always remember her, with those bright, intelligent eyes and razor-sharp wit. With her un-tempered tenacity and dauntless spirit, a fire that matched mine degree for degree. That's difficult to accomplish, you know—I'm a pretty fiery person, will burn and burn and burn till I've either burnt out or gotten bored—and she seemed to do it effortlessly. Like it was as simple as blinking, as breathing. And…well, perhaps it was.

Because Sarah Jane Smith was just that type of woman.

It's a shame, really, that I had to leave her behind. That I had to be recalled to Gallifrey to combat those retched Daleks (they're always putting a crimp in my day, those things). And it's not as if she's resented me for it or anything—at least, not that I saw, anyway—but the last time I saw her she appeared…not whole. As if some part of her had been stripped away, and she was waiting, just waiting for whatever it was to be returned.

Last I saw her was…a couple weeks ago, to be exact. At that bloody school with the tainted fish n' chips. But before that…oh, blimey, I don't know. Was it twenty years ago? Thirty? I drag my hand over my face again, sighing. For a time-traveler, I have a very poor concept of time, of how it passes by. Maybe it's because I skip around so much, darting back and forth between worlds and eras like they're shopping malls; maybe it's because I'm simply so old, so raggedy, that time no longer bears any relevance. The immortal(ish) hardly find themselves worrying over the calendar, after all.

Shaking my head to myself, I stuff the letter into my breast pocket, then push myself to standing. I pick my way past the various items strewn about the room, weave betweens crates and drawers and bureaus. Step over artifacts. Slip past mementos from past trips, which I mostly ignore as I stride toward the TARDIS's deck, where Rose has been waiting. And reading, apparently: her nose is buried in a newspaper as I sidle up to her, forcing the stuff about Sarah Jane and the darned letter to the back of my mind.

I plop down beside her, craning my neck to try and catch a glimpse at what's got her so interested. "You still read the paper then, eh? I thought all you modern humans did was watch it on the telly. Or hear it second-hand from your neighbors."

She glances up from her reading to give me a quizzical look. "That took a while."

"Yes. Well, you know how sentimental I can be. Especially when organizing knick-knacks from varying galaxies of origin." I nod at the newspaper, now stretched across her lap. "Read anything interesting?"

"If you mean 'are you reading about anything that might relate to aliens or possible time paradoxes', then no. You're sadly mistaken." She runs a finger under a headline. "Just an article about the Nix high school tragedy."

"The 'Nix high school tragedy'?" I echo, frowning.

"Yeah. Some kids there made a suicide pact or something—and although no one's sure why they did it, they ended up making good on that pact at the school. In the cafeteria, actually: its say it here in the article, and I kind of remembering hearing about that when I was a kid, too."

My eyes scan over the article, taking it all in. Funny, how I don't recall ever hearing of that. Because I should have with something like that, with a tragedy that big, that destructive. That left such loss and pain in its black wake—but I don't. Except I didn't remember hearing about that whole Bunker's Hill thing until I'd read in some dusty old history book, so…yeah. Me being ignorant of some major historical event isn't entirely impossible.

Then again…yes, something's caught my. The date. The moment of the Nix tragedy frozen in time and numbers, waiting to be remembered. Or unlocked—but in my opinion, they're the same thing. Sort of.

3/1/1986: that's the day. The moment. The exact point in time when those loud and bloody events unfurled, creating a wave in time that would continue to linger to today. Today, when the echoes of the dead fill the silence.

Today: 3/1/2006.

"Oh," I breath. "Oh."

Rose tenses beside me, shoots me a concerned look. "You alright? You look like you've seen a ghost or something." She makes a face. "Knowing you, that actually might not be out of question…"

I should tell her. I really should. But for some reason, that letter in my breast pocket stings, reminding me that it carries difficult memories. Ones that'll only burden Rose if I divulge them (or make her jealous, thanks to the fact that this letter was addressed to a much younger, much more attractive Sarah Jane), so I only shake my head. "Nothing. It's just that I feel like making a trip, is all…Where to?"

As I hop to my feet and make for the TARDIS controls, I detect an inscrutable expression pass over Rose's face. Suspicion? Annoyance? Hurt? All three, maybe—Rose Tyler's a complex woman who can feel without shrinking back, without cowering in its shadow—but I can't quite tell. Because as soon as the look materializes, it's gone, fading into an artfully neutral expression. "Where are we now?"

I rub at the back of my neck. "London, I think. I mean, I hope it's London, because that's where I was trying to land. If I've landed in Scotland again, I swear I'll…" I bite my lip. "Rose, do you mind…ah…checking nice and quick?"

"Uh, sure," she says, heading toward the door. She tosses me a dubious, over-the-shoulder glance. "Oi, what's so bad about Scotland, anyhow? Besides the werewolves, that is."

"It just means that I'm getting really rubbish at pin-pointing trajectory, and that I should probably start wearing glasses when I put in coordinates."

Rose reaches the door, then pauses. Gives me a wry look. A pointed one, at that—and for some reason, I find it undeniably foxy. "I thought you already did that."

"I was referring to actual glasses, Rose."

She nods at my breast pocket, which is toting both the letter and my pair of square-rimmed glasses. "And whaddyou call those, eh?"

I give the pocket a contented little pat. "These are my clever glasses."

"Clever glasses?"

"I wear them because they make me look clever."

She cocks a thin brow. "Look clever."

I shrug. "Well, look as clever as I actually am. Now, open that door and tell me if we haven't landed in bloody Scotland again. Or if haven't squashed any more Scots. Or Celts."

Shaking her head, Rose turns the knobs, then steps outside. Leaving me alone a moment or two before she returns, breathless. Her eyes are wide, wild, and for a moment she simply stands there, shocked. Then she relaxes, sagging against the closed TARDIS door.

Scowling, I rush to meet her. "What happened?"

I didn't think it was possible, but somehow—miraculously—her eyes widen further. "How did you—how did you get here? You were back out there, following me."

My scowl deepens. "I was in here the entire time, Rose."

"No, you weren't. Because you were with me, Doctor. And you found something…" She shoves something at me, pressing it flat to my chest. "Here. Read it."

My hand closes over it slowly, warily. It's paper. Just paper, with letters scrawled across it in neat print that I don't recognize. At least not now, anyway, so I just tuck the thing inside my suit and regard Rose intently. "Rose, how long would you say you were gone for?"

"About an hour," she replies. She shrugs. "Honestly, I stopped trying to keep track when you told me to 'run, Rose! Run!"

I squint down at her. "You were only gone for a minute, Rose. And like I said before, I was in here the entire time."

"But you weren't!" she insists, eyes taking on their full, blue intensity. "You were with me. In London."

"London? When? Present day, or in the past?"

Rose's gaze goes from deadly serious to quiet concern. "Doctor…you seriously don't remember, do you?"

"Remember what?"

"Well, I was out there, walking around, and then bam: I saw you. You were right beside me, and you said you'd seen something. So we went to investigate and—long story short—we ended up running back here to the TARDIS."

"Something was chasing us?"

She chews at her lip. "Actually, you never told me why we were running. Said you'd explain it when we got into the TARDIS."

"Did I follow you into the TARDIS, or did I stay out there?"

"I thought you followed me in…"

Placing my hands on her shoulders gently, I put my face close to hers. Make her meet my gaze full-on. Let her see how serious I am without making her afraid—well, that's the plan, anyway. "Thought and reality are two very different worlds, Rose. You need to tell me what happened, what actually happened, and you need to show me what you said I saw."

"Doctor, I—"

"Tell me what happened, Rose. Tell me exactly."

She chews her lip again. "You didn't come in. I just sort of, you know, assumed you did."

"Alright. That's something to start with." I take a step back, let my hands drop from her shoulders. "Now, show me what it is 'I' saw outside, because I have a feeling that it'll help us get to the bottom of what's going on."

Lips pursed, Rose turns toward the door, pushing it open. She steps out tentatively, as if she's a child stepping onto the edge of a diving board, and scans the area. I step out beside, do the same. Allow my gaze to roam up what appear to be an average London suburb, dotted with quaint little homes and shops. Populated with unremarkable people in unremarkable cars that cruise lazily past, stirring Rose's hair and my suit jacket as my eyes begin to lock onto something…interesting.

Onto a newsstand.

I nod toward it. "We should go check that out."

Rose regards me as if I've just sprouted another head. "That's what you said earlier. When you were here with me."

"It was?"

"Yeah, and next we're going to go and—"

"Check the date on the newspaper?" I supplied.

She blinks. "Actually…yes. That's exactly what's supposed to happen next."

"Well, then let's get to it, shall we?"

With a dramatic flourish, I offer an arm to her, which she takes with a shy smile. She loops it through mine, interlocking them. Weaving us together as we amble across the street, making a bee-line for the newsstand.

Once we've made it there, she drops her arm, and begins fishing in her pockets. I frown at that, wondering for a moment what is she's doing, then I see it: the newsstand is more like a bureau, sheathing it in complete coverage. Albeit a plastic bureau with now drawers, just panels. Panels that won't open, bloom for you unless you've paid, which Rose does with a coin she's produced from her jean pocket.

"Here," she says, plucking a newspaper out from the stand and handing it to me. "Read the date."

Out of habit, I slap my glasses onto my face as I scrutinize the newsprint. It's there. Right there, in the top left-hand corner, written in bold, italicized font. No way you could it miss it, with it being that up-front, that in-your-face—and yet somehow, I begin to wish I had.

Massaging my temples, I hand the 'paper back to Rose. "February twenty-second, nineteen eighty-six."

"And?" she prompts.

I blew out a breath through my teeth, the air creating shwushing sound as it passes through. "And this just got very, very complicated, Rose Tyler."

She shakes her head. "Not what I meant, Doctor. Last time around, you said 'february twenty-second, nineteen eighty-six. One week before the Nix tragedy'."

"I assumed you would've gotten it, since you'd just been reading that article."

"I know. Because last time, I pointed that out to you. That I already got it, since I'm so clever and all."

A slight smiles creeps across my lips. "Well, we should get you your own pair of glasses, then. Let everyone see your inner clever-ness."

"After this is over?"

"Promise," I tell her, sobering. I pull my glasses off, pinching at the bridge of my nose. "Okay. February twenty-second, nineteen eighty-six. Exactly one week before those students kill themselves. And I have no honest recollection of ever setting those time coordinates into the TARDIS, so either I'm in terrible want for actual glasses, or the TARDIS wanted us here." I rub at my chin. "But why? Why here, when's there still a week left till the shooting?"

"What shooting?" pipes in another voice, and I whirl around. So does Rose. There's a woman standing on the opposite side of the newsstand, her head tilted off to one side as if she's a puppy waiting for a treat. She's grasping something in her—a notepad, it looks like—and she appears as if she's poised to open it, to start jotting down whatever floats toward her ears.

Clearing my throat loudly, I face the woman. "And you're wondering this because…?"

"Because I'm not deaf, for one thing," she deadpans, blue eyes flashing. "I'm also a journalist, which makes any and all street-gossip my business. And at the moment I'm still inquiring just to annoy you, because I find you intolerably rude."

As I catch Rose trying—and failing—to conceal a smirk, I finally find myself looking into the woman's face for the first time. No, not just looking—seeing. I see her sky-blue eyes, so deep and brimming with razor-sharp intellect, and see that familiar, witty smile cursing her thin lips. I take in her fair complexion that's so starkly contrasted with her umber hair, study that perfect nose—and just about everything that I haven't seen in over thirty years, basically. Or a few weeks, if you count her older version.

This is Sarah Jane Smith, my companion. The woman who stuck doggedly at my side all those years, facing whatever the galaxy had to throw at us without blinking. Without flinching. Without wavering, or wanting to leave—which I did in the end, I realize. Six regenerations ago, in fact, when I recalled to Gallifrey and I left her here on earth. Alone, and thinking that I would soon return. Expecting it, really…but I never came. The TARDIS never coalesced outside her door, ready to sweep her up into some far-flung time and world—because I never thought to look back. Because I kept running, running, running toward—from—whatever it is that keeps me pelting ahead.

I should apologize. I really should. But somehow, I don't think that's possible—even if I wasn't wearing a stranger's face. Even if I hadn't regenerated those six times, and was still the wiry, eccentric man who wouldn't go anywhere without his scarf, so I don't even try. I just plaster on a pleasant face and return her wry smile. "Then I hope you'll tolerate my rudeness for a second more and direct me to Nix high school."

She lifts one thin, arching brow. "Why?"

"To humor me."

"Humor me first, then: tell me what you were talking about."

For the first time since Sarah Jane's arrival, Rose pipes up. "Mr. Tyler and I were just discussing something we saw on telly the other night about…" She cuts quick glance at the newspaper. "About Russia. Lots of shooting there, you know."

My brow shoots up at the "Mr. Tyler", but I'm not entirely certain that I'm bothered by it. I mean, to be Mr. Tyler would be…well, different, for one thing. And more normal, more mundane. But I thrust contemplations of domestic life aside as I try and gauge Sarah Jane's reaction, which is hovering between downright dubious to too tired or too busy to challenge Rose's statement. "That's hardly news, I suppose."

"No, it's not. So…the school? Where is it?"

Tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear, she turns to the right, squinting down the narrow stretch of street. "Just keep going down that road till you see a big building to your left. Should be label as school, even if you missed the fact that it looks like a school as well."

Ooh, she's a bit sassy now, is she? Well, that's new. And probably to be expected, given that I veritably abandoned her to this droll life with hoards of droll people bustling across a droll planet. "Thank you, Mrs…"

"Smith," she supplies, shoving her notepad back into her blouse's front pocket. She gives us both curt nods. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some mail to pick up at the post office…"

"Of course, Mrs. Smith," I say, and watch her hurry down lane, her chocolate hair swishing about her shoulders. Then I blink, pat around my suit for the letter Rose gave me earlier. The one I put in my suit. The one I never read, because I was too busy trying to discern what in the blazes Rose was talking about. "Did I ever read that letter last time around? The one you gave me?"

"No. You wrote that letter." She stares pointedly at Sarah Jane's retreating back. "And you were supposed to give it to that woman."

Alarm sizzles through my chest. "I was? Personally?"

"Nah, you just hand it off some bloke and tell him to give it to that lady over there." A half-smile touches her full lips, and she snatches the letter out of my jacket. I try and protest, to tell "oi, that's my job", but I don't get the chance. She's already handing it to 'some bloke', gesturing toward Sarah Jane and prodding him along with her hand.

I blink at her, dumb-founded. "Rose…"

She gazes up at me, gives a nonchalant shrug. "You told me last time that it doesn't matter which of us gets him that bloke the letter, so long as he gets it."

I shake my head quickly. "No, no; it's not that. That wasn't a big enough change to create a paradox or anything. It's just…" I tip my head back slightly, regarding her with narrowed eyes. "You're experimenting, aren't you? With time. You want to see if you can change it, and what'll happen when said change occurs."

"Time can be re-written," she says simply.

"You think time's in flux, here."

"Maybe a little," she admits coyly.

"You think we're to stop the shooting, too."

She frowns. "Isn't that why we're here?"

"Rose…" I blow out a long breath, pinch the bridge of my nose. "I honestly have no clue why we're here. I don't. But I'm betting it's not to stop that shooting; it's affected too much in the future to not happen. It's pretty much a fixed point."

"But you're not completely sure," she points out.

"No, not completely—but sometimes I'm not, Rose. Sometimes, I have to go with gut, and stick with it. I—" I cut myself off, frowning. "What was in that letter, anyway?"

"I'm not sure," she admits, shaking her head. "You wrote it."

"Yes, but when I did I write it? Because I couldn't have possibly written it before S—Mrs. Smith-was out of view." I run a hand over my jaw, like an old man stroking his scraggly beard. "I didn't give it to her the first around, did I?"

She doesn't say anything, just purses her lips and stares down at her shoes.

"The other me," I continue, "wanted to see if I he could change time. Alter it without creating a paradox. Which means…" My eyes widen as revelation dawns. "None of this happened before, did it? Me—the other me—gave you instructions on what to do. To tell me what to do, but to make it look as if you were only trying to make sure I was sticking to a certain timeline. Oh, that is—that is brilliant!" I grab her hands, squeezing them excitedly. "You know what that means, Rose Tyler?"

"That time is being re-written," she says simply, as if she's known this all along. And…well, perhaps she has.

"Exactly! Time is in flux, Rose; it's still happening. That's why I don't remember hearing about this shooting: because the moment isn't yet set in stone. Anything could happen." A thought suddenly blossoms, and I drop her hands. "The newspaper…we need to go get it from the TARDIS. Now."

Taking hold of her hand, I take off down the street, pulse hammering in my head. We can do this. I can do this. Am actually doing it, right here, right now, as I bolt for the TARDIS. As I nearly slam into its door as I reach it because I'm going so fast, then hurriedly burst inside and retrieve the 'paper.

"We need to get this to the post office, now!" I exclaim, hurrying back out the door.

Rose's brow climb up forehead. "You're going to give it to that journalist."

"Oh, yes!"

"How're you going to make it in time? I mean, she's already on her way to the post office and everything. She could already be there—"

"I know!" I toss behind me as I streak out of the TARDIS, heading across the street. But this time around, I don't head toward the newsstand. Don't stop there, don't even stop at all. I just keep on sprinting left, following the path I saw Sarah Jane take earlier until I catch sight of the post office, and push into it.

"Sarah Jane Smith!" I call, breathless. "Is there a Sarah Jane Smith here?"

A few heads turn, starring at me. Some with bewilderment or shock, some with indifference—but most with outright irritation. Which makes sense, I suppose: I've barged into their day like a maniac, shattering their relative serenity. So most of the people here shoot me vexed looks, or roll their eyes before returning to their business…save for one woman. She's not Sarah Jane—not with her frizzy blond hair and stout, dumpy frame—but she reacts physically to the name.

I approach her slowly, trying not to arouse any alarm in her. "Sarah Jane Smith—do you know her?"

The woman nods warily. "We went to school together."

"Has she been into the post office today?"

"Yes," she says evenly. Carefully. "She left about five minutes or so."

"Ah. Just my luck." I bite my lip, tasting the metallic twang of blood on my tongue, and stare down at the newspaper. "Do you think you could get something to her for me? It's urgent."

"Get what to her?"

"This," I answer, offering her the somewhat crumple newspaper. "Tell her she needs to read this, and then contact the principal of Nix High."

Eyes guarded, she examines me with a leery expression. "I'm the principal of Nix High."

My pulse hammers once more in my temples. "Oh. Well, in that case, read this, and take warning from it. What's written in…it could really happen. But it doesn't have to." I thrust the newspaper toward her. "I trust you'll know what to do with this."

Cautiously, the woman takes it. Folds it in half. Then she tucks it neatly into her handbag, as if the most insignificant thing in the universe. As if it's merely paper and printed words. "For the sake of Sarah, I'll humor you, Mr…?"

"Smith," I supply, putting on a nervous little smile. "John Smith."

Her eyes widen a little at that, but I don't stay long enough for to begin rattling off questions. Rather, I slip out of the post office, heading back down the street. Weaving through ordinary people who may not or may be hit with an extraordinary tragedy, depending on how what that woman does. On how she reacts, and when I finally step into TARDIS again, it occurs to me that this out of my hands. I've no control over it, none whatsoever, and it bothers me. Enough to make me rush over to the TARDIS control, fingers flying madly over the dashboard as I key in another set of coordinates.

Perched on the edge of the TARDIS, Rose glances up me hopefully. "Done?"

"Done," I affirm, locking in the coordinates. The TARDIS begins its habitual hissing and groaning as it takes off, its systems working hard and true. "Now we're going forward to check our progress."

This seems to pique Rose's interest, because she hurries over to my side, the corners of her mouth lifting in a tentative smile. "You think it worked?"

The TARDIS sounds it final groan, then makes that peculiar ba-doom noise that it always uses when we land. "Well, let's go and see for ourselves, shall we?"

"Granted we're not in Scotland again."

"Nah. Scotland's usually a rougher landing. Those bloody Celts and their trees, I tell you…" I touch her in the small of her back, prodding her forward. "After you, clever girl."

"Clever?" she repeats as she leads the way down the stairs, toward the door. "That mean you'll get me those glasses after all?"

Watching her swing open the door, I pull a boyish grin. "Oh, yes! Your cleverness helped me solve all this mess to begin with; it's only right that everyone should be able to see that."

Together, we step out onto the street—the same street, just twenty years older. And slightly…different. There are more houses than there were previously, jammed against one another like penguins in a blizzard, and the streets are busier. It's louder, too, with all the cars bustling to and fro, honking and screeching and revving, I duck my head against as we make our way to the newsstand.

"Alright," Rose says, fishing another coin out of her pocket and inserting it into the change slot. "Let's see what we did."

The newsstand covering pops open, and Rose bends to slide a newspaper free from inside. Then she straightens, stretching the 'paper wide, her eyes dashing madly over it. She flips pages, flips between them fast. Turns the 'paper this way and that and this way again, and then she stops. Her eyes have settled on something, and judging by the haunted look growing in their blue depths, they'd haven't landed on something good.

Feeling the pit of stomach turn cold, I peer over her shoulder. She's reading the second page this time, or the third. Not even the fourth, or the fifth, or the sixth; instead, she's turned to the very back page, where a handful of articles are clustered together. Hardly any of them are newsworthy—they're all either advice columns or horoscopes—except for one, and only because it's news to us. Sliding my glasses on, I read it carefully…and try not to retch.

REMEMBERING NIX, BY SARAH JANE SMITH

Twenty years ago to the day, the principal of Nix Community High School, Mrs. Claire Marie Reynolds, abruptly ended her own life. Police and local officials are still puzzle as to why she committed such an act—Reynolds, age thirty-three, had a booming career, a loving family, and was known by most of friends as "quiet and content'. She had no previous history of mental illness, and had left no prior warnings; the only thing police psychologists had to go on was the fact that Reynolds appeared to suffer a delusional episode prior to her death, in which she believed a shooting tragedy was imminent at her school. According to a suicide note found at the scene, she had apparently believed she received a newspaper from the future, wherein she had read an article concerning the shooting. This, and the fact that she had begun drinking at the time of the delusion, could account for her unexplained suicide.

But today, officials and teachers at Nix High are not gathering to remember any of these things. They wish to remember her as she was: bright, timid, and passionate in her line of work. According to reports from her co-workers, Reynolds had once majored journalism and creative writing, and had planned on becoming an English professor after she retired from Nix. "She would've been brilliant at it, too," comments her successor, principal Mark Handerson. "She was brilliant at so many things, in fact, and for that she has always been dearly missed."

Strangely enough, one good thing resulted from Reynolds' suicide: eleven teens, who had apparently participated in a suicide pact prior the Reynolds' tragedy, came forward and sought help Nix's school counselor. One of the teens, now in her late thirties, remarked, "it's funny, but somehow hearing about Principal Reynolds woke us up. Suicide was suddenly something very ugly to us, something that caused a lot of pain, and we realized we didn't want to bring something like that into being. And whatever you say about Reynolds, that she was crazy or whatever, I'm grateful for her life."

Regardless, police are still trying to wrap their heads around what happened to Reynolds. Some investigators have re-examined her diaries in an attempt to understand what type of mental illness was plaguing Reynolds, and whether or not her claims weren't at least somewhat founded in reality. According to local witnesses, a mysterious man known only as "John Smith" handed what appeared to be a newspaper to Reynolds at local post office—the newspaper that may very well have sparked her delusions. However, police are still unsure of this theory, as neither the newspaper nor "John Smith" have ever been located.

But whatever the reason—whether it be mental illness or a visit from an ominous stranger—Nix High officials are determined to celebrate the lives of the eleven students, not mourn its Reynolds' untimely end. "I'm not sure why we had to lose Claire," said Matthew Baker, former vice principal and friend of Reynolds, "but I have a feeling that it happened for a reason. It wasn't senseless, this tragedy: some good came out of it. We lost one life, yes, and that is quite a heavy toll—but as a result of Claire's passing, we saved eleven lives. Eleven. And that's a reason to celebrate."

Sarah Jane Smith

3/1/2006

Tugging off my glasses, I rub wearily at my eyes. There are no tears there, no rivers trickling from their corners to roll down my check, slide down the tip of my nose. They're just…dry. As if all moisture has sucked from them, and I haven't managed to blink for hours. Which entirely inaccurate, I suppose—I've been starring at/through the article now for several minutes, as if my mind is still struggling to absorb what it's just read. And perhaps it is.

Rose's hand is on my back, rubbing it in gentle, ceaseless circles. "You okay?"

I blink quickly, swallow. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. It's just that I wasn't expecting this."

"I know," she says softly, removing her hand from my back. She looks down. "I wasn't, either. I thought that maybe, since we'd changed time and everything that—oh, I don't know. Thought everything would turn out alright, I guess. That no one would die."

I sigh heavily. "Everyone has to die, Rose. Even me."

"You know what I mean. I thought we'd prevented suicides, save the day, and then everything would be fine. Would turn out alright in the end—but I guess I was wrong. It was like lottery, really: swapping their lives for hers." She meets my gaze again, and this time I can there are tears brimming her soft blue eyes. "It's not fair. And I don't care what that vice principal guy said, because it's still senseless."

"Aw, Rose. Don't say that. It wasn't senseless; nothing is, really." I brush some her hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ears. "We changed time—deliberately. So there was a reason, Rose. We just didn't see it the time."

A fat tear plops off the tip of her nose. "There's not a reason for everything, though."

"Rose Tyler, don't you say that. There's always a reason, even if nothing good results from it. It's like saying a pear is pointless because it didn't taste brilliant or anything like that." I pause, frown. "Actually, pears are pretty senseless fruits. Forget I brought them up."

She laughs quietly, but because she's been crying it sounds kind of garbled. "You really hate pears, don't you?"

"More than anything in the universe, Rose. But anyway, pears are beside the point: the fact is, we succeeded in changing time. Whatever happened before, when said you saw me outside the TARDIS, never happened. Because time was in flux then, and now it's been re-written." I tap my forehead with an index finger. "So have our memories."

"Then why can I still remember the other past: when all those kids still killed themselves?"

"That's because traveled two separate time streams, and your mind's still trying to retain memories from both. Don't worry, though," I add quickly. "With the Reynolds' suicide now being a fixed point in time, the alternate memory will soon be erased." I tap my forehead again. "So will mine, in a few minutes."

She's shakes her head, laughs again. "You're such a complicated man, you know that?"

"Yes. Well. People have made a habit of pointing that out to me, I'll have you know."

She mock-rolls her eyes. "And I bet they're always making it a point to tell you how clever you are, too."

I pat my breast pocket. "How couldn't they, when they've got these glasses to remind them?" I chew my lip, eyes narrowing down at Rose. "Which reminds me, I've got a promise to keep to you. Be back in just in a jif…"

Tossing Rose a quick wink, I steal away to another room, then enter into a corridor. I wander down the corridor a couple of steps, then stop: this is the storage unit, the same one I'd been attempting to organize before this entire affair began. It's where I found that letter, too, that letter I had written to Sarah Jane (but never sent, apparently). The letter that sort of started it all, in a way, and just out of curiosity I fish it out my breast pocket and read.

Dear Doctor,

I know it's been a while—nearly forty years, in fact—but I wanted to let you know that I've forgiven you. Forgiven you for leaving me here on earth, while you returned to the stars. You couldn't help it, after all: like you said, the Time Lords had recalled you to Gallifrey, and there's really not much one can about those things.

And—oi, I can't believe I've run into you again! After all these years, after all the time I went without seeing you, I'd begun to lose hope. Thought you'd never return, that I'd never again see your face—but I guess I was wrong. And right, from a certain point of view: you have changed your face once or twice since I last you, after all.

But these past few days at the school haven't been the first times I've seen you or your new face. Nearly twenty years ago, back before the Reynolds tragedy—you were there. There with that brilliant girl, that Rose. You were calling yourself Mr. Tyler back then, if I remember correctly, which is why I didn't realize until a couple of days ago that it was you. But I did get your letter—and I realized that you were the man who'd given Claire that newspaper, the one the police are saying drove her mad. I should be angry about that, too—we went grade together, we even friends—but I realize that you did what you had to, even though it was it was difficult. You've always had a knack for that, you know: doing hard things. Because so often the right thing is also the most difficult, the most trying thing.

Now, as for the letter…well, you know what it said. I mean, you wrote it, after all. And honestly, there's point in rehashing the past, so…there you have it.

Your (sort of) friend,

Sarah Jane Smith

2/22/2006

P.S. I know you wrote about not changing time and everything, but I know better. You changed what happened then, in Nix. You saved all those kids…and I'll always remember. As long as I'm able.

A faint smile touches my lips, reading that. It's weird, but I do remember this now, recall receiving this letter. It was after that business at the school, when Sarah Jane and I had been about to part ways. We'd hugged fiercely-me having to stoop low to reach her, she having to stand on tip-toes—and when we'd finally let go, I'd felt it. Felt it there, in my breast pocket. Felt the letter and opened it while I'd wandered into one of the TARDIS' storage units.

So maybe I lied to Rose: perhaps we'll be able to remember the alternate time stream. Sarah Jane obviously did, given her letter; and consequently, so will I. But the letter I wrote to her…I don't ever recall writing it, much less seeing it. Which means I probably did it before all this, when the Nix tragedy had still been in flux.

Thankfully, a lot of things seem to be in flux: the past, the present, the future. They're just there, waiting. Hanging in the air, ready to be plucked down and shaped in our hands, molded into something great. Made into a moment, a tiny point in the ever-spanning path of history that will echo, echo, echo on.

Because every moment counts.