She's not sure why they picked Toronto.
She knows why they moved, of course, but she's not sure why Toronto, why this cold city, full of unfriendly people, but empty of everything else. She had never even heard of this Canadian city eight months ago. It had seemed like such a good idea a few weeks ago.
"Clara, could you get me the hammer?" Clara heard John calling from upstairs.
The woman felt her shoulders tense in irritation. She looked at the box she had only just started unpacking on the kitchen counter, items still in her hand, yet to be set down on a flat surface.
"I could honestly use your help." he sounded tired.
She was tired too.
Swallowing a sigh, Clara put the items she was holding back into the cardboard box and wiped her hands on her jeans. Stomping out into the living area, she rummaged around for a few seconds, before asking,
"I can't find the toolbox."
"It's up here, by the door."
Clara blinked disbelievingly, looking up the stairway. Sighing, she shook her head and walked up. Turning the corner into their bedroom, she found her husband propping a bookcase against the wall with his right shoulder.
"I've got to anchor this in." he smiled at her, though his smile was strained. "It's going to fall on us in our sleep, otherwise. Don't think we'll be moving this old gal again."
The sunlight streaming in through the window glinted in his silver hair; once upon a time, she would have stood and stared at him and marveled at how handsome he was.
Clara picked John's hammer out of the box and took two steps further into the bedroom, just close enough to hand him the tool.
"I can't believe you called me from downstairs just to hand you something sittin' two feet away." She said. There was no humour in her words.
"Clara…" she heard him sigh behind her. "Why don't you stay up here with me? I could use the company. This domestic stuff is boring."
Her movements stilled for a moment but she did not turn back to look at him. After half a minute had passed with neither of them doing anything, he sighed.
"…it's fine. I'll see you downstairs when I'm done."
As she walked away, she turned around briefly, and caught sight of John staring off into nothing, shoulder still propping up the bookcase. Her heart twisted inside her, but she couldn't seem to stop herself from leaving him alone anyway.
Close to the foot of the stairs, with one hand on the polished banister, Clara found herself stumbling abruptly as the room spun around her.
Blinking rapidly, she realized that she was no longer in their rented house. Instead, she was lying on her side in a dark room; the metallic ground was extremely uncomfortable against her cheek.
Her legs felt cold, and she looked down to see that she was no longer wearing jeans, but rather a short pleated skirt that ended above her knees.
It was a rather cute skirt.
Groaning, Clara sat up and rubbed her eyes. When her vision cleared, she looked around her, and sucked in a deep breath in fright.
John lay unconscious only a few feet away, eyes closed and dead to the world around him.
Doctor, she though. He was the Doctor. Not John. That wasn't his real name.
Attempting to stand, Clara found that she could barely lift her limbs; it took a titanic effort to even hoist herself up on her hands and knees in an attempt to reach the Doctor's side. She was only inches away from him when she felt her eyelids begin to droop again.
"No…" she whispered softly, before collapsing to the ground. She blinked sluggishly and…
…looked up at John's face as he hovered over her, hands on her shoulders, looking both concerned and afraid.
"Clara can you hear me?" he asked urgently.
"What happened?" she asked, pushing herself off the ground with her right arm.
"I heard a loud thump and when I came downstairs, you were just lying here," he gathered her into his arms in a tight hug. His chin rested on her head, and Clara hesitantly allowed herself to sink into his embrace. Her arms crept around him gingerly.
"Are you feeling ok?" he asked, his chest vibrating with each consonant.
"I got dizzy." She said with a small laugh, hoping it would reassure him. "Must be the stress of movin'"
"Should I call for an ambulance?" he asked, pulling away just enough to study her face carefully. "It's 999 here right? Canada is basically the UK. Must be, the bloody Queen's all over their money."
Her strained giggle became an all out laugh. John answered with a small smile, relief clearly evident. Clara could have stayed that way forever, in the comfort of John's arms, laughing and happy. She leaned forward and kissed him.
His hold on her tightened as his lips pressed firmly against hers; long fingers threaded through her hair, pulling at the silky strands with slight pressure.
Clara allowed a whimper to escape from her lips, and that was all the encouragement John needed to continue, as he shifted his kisses along her jaw, ending at her earlobe, which he bit down on, eliciting a gasp.
His other hand didn't stay idle. Rather, they drifted towards her fly, unbuttoning her jeans before slipping past the waistband of her underwear. His mouth continued its work on her neck, and by the time his fingers found her clit, she was already wet and ready for him.
"Eager little thing…" he murmured, pulling away to smile mischievously at her.
"Shut up and fuck me," she said, and as she expected, he smacked her jaw very lightly with the hand that he had withdrawn from between her legs. It left a damp streak on her skin.
"Be quiet," his eyes were almost flinty but for the spark she could see. "You don't get to make the rules here."
Clara had to work hard to keep from grinning.
After, as she lay in his arms, the two of them still huddled in their stairway, Clara held on to her gently dozing husband, wishing she could hold on to that moment forever.
"I love you," she whispered against his skin.
He let out a gentle snore in response.
What an odious little man, John thought as he settled down in front of his new client, who also happened to be the reason why him and his wife had relocated to Toronto for the moment. One of the reasons.
He crossed his long legs, watching as the other man clicked around on his desktop monitor, pretending his new financial executive wasn't in the room. John catalogued the many ways in which his new manager resembled a pig, from his doughy cheeks to his tiny eyes, his pudgy hands to his bulging belly, the unattractive package further exacerbated by the harsh, ill-fitting black suit he donned.
Money can't buy taste, John reminded himself, waiting for his new boss to remember that they were supposed to be in a meeting.
Another minute passed, before the CEO of Gallifrey Investments turned to regard him.
"John Smith, I presume." He said, not extending a hand in greeting.
"At your service, Mr. Cunningham," John smiled his most winning smile. "Nice to finally meet you – I hadn't realized you were English."
"You haven't been doing your research." Mr. Cunningham responded, peering at him over his wire rimmed glasses. "Or perhaps you would have turned it down had you found out?"
"And why would that be?" the financial expert asked, a little discomfited at the direction the conversation was taking. He wondered if the executive would actually make a dig at his Scottish accent while expecting that John would simply take it with a cowering smile.
"I tend to research the background of the corporations I contract myself out to, in areas actually relevant to my work. The cultural background of the staff generally fails to interest me."
John wondered briefly if he had been far too blunt with this self-important fuck. Perhaps he had gone too far too fast.
Mr. Cunningham said nothing.
"I understand from our mutual contact that I was hired to sort out your books, because of some untrustworthy accounting that has been taking place for over a decade." John refused to be intimidated by the strangely hostile man he had only just met. "Some twenty-five billion dollars worth of untrustworthy accounting that may end up sending this company face first into the ground."
The man across from him looked irritated as he nodded.
"I also understand that your Board doesn't know about this 'little' fact, and my presence – my very expensive presence – was called because I'm the only one in the world capable of saving your arse from the very, very hot fires of the auditors your stakeholders tend to employ. Not to mention the Canadian Revenue Agency – I understand that the jails here are terrible places to be in, yes? Overcrowded and violent, if I'm not mistaken."
"That's quite enough Mr. Smith." The executive was turning red in impotent rage.
Sometimes, John loved his job.
"If the board finds out, the whole company will indeed fall apart." Mr. Cunningham continued. "Two thousand livelihoods are at stake. If you'd like to continue being a smug prat, go ahead, but please don't forget that the fate of two thousand blameless employees are in your hands."
Sometimes, John hated his job. He stared at his new employer as they sat in the shining office at the top of a skyscraper in the financial district of Toronto.
He opened his mouth to say something, anything in retaliation, but did a double take instead.
Suddenly, the both of them were in a dimly lit place, illuminated only by the glowing column set behind Mr. Cunningham, who grinned nastily at John. They were no longer sitting.
A soft moan came from somewhere to his right. Looking down, both his hearts started to pound furiously – Clara lay on the ground, her eyes closed and her breathing uneven.
The Doctor knelt down, reaching out to shake her awake, but she did not respond.
"She can't hear you." The Dreamlord said. The Doctor could hear the malice in his voice.
"We've done this before. All I have to do is wake us up." The Doctor said, attempting to make for the console. But every step he felt harder and harder. It was like wading through a patch of quicksand. Sinking down, he looked over at the Dreamlord in rage and horror.
"Uh-uh." The Dreamlord smirked. "I'm capable of learning from my mistakes. As for you…"
"…you'll be given your own office – it's the one right beside mine. You will get your own assistant if you should require one. Whatever helps you to help me." The CEO leaned forward menacingly. "But if you fail me, I promise you, I will ensure that you will never find so much as a clerk's position ever again. Anywhere."
John blinked at the man in front of him.
"If I fail, you'll be behind bars." He smiled an unpleasant smile at the executive, fighting down a strange urge to snarl at the other man like an animal instead. "I believe I'll still be at the better end of that deal."
Standing up without being dismissed, John picked up his coat, hoping his cell phone was in one of its pockets.
He needed to call Clara, and he needed to call her immediately.
"I would say that it was a pleasure to meet you." He said coldly. "But that would make me a liar."
Not waiting for a response, John stalked out of the CEO's presence and into his new office. Closing the door behind him, he dialed Clara's number immediately.
It seemed to take forever. He paced the hardwood floor as the phone rang and kept on ringing, pulling at his hair with his one free hand.
"Clara Oswald speaking,"
John thought his heart would explode with relief.
"It's me." He said, pausing mid-step. "Are you ok?"
"What?" she sounded extremely confused.
"Just…are you ok?" he repeated.
"Yes." she sounded annoyed. "Are you?"
John breathed in and out, feeling his heart rate slow to a normal pace.
"I am now."
He gazed out his window, which overlooked the cold expanse of Lake Ontario.
"As long as you're safe."