Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who. I am sure everyone is VASTLY surprised to discover that I do not write for the BBC.
A/N: I'm not sure what brought this on, except that I've been thinking about Lis Sladen tribute fics; I don't know if this counts (certainly I'm late to the party, as I started watching Doctor Who/The Sarah Jane Adventures just too late), but...it got me thinking about how Sarah Jane might die, and how perhaps it wouldn't be alone...
A/N 2: Technically, this work is a crossover between Doctor Who and the Time Quartet series by Madeleine L'Engle, but I'm posting it under Doctor Who alone, because it's much more heavily focused on the Doctor Who side of affairs.
Everybody Knows
The stars burned hot across the dark silence of space; Meg Murry could hear them singing. The heavenly chorus swelled in perfect harmony, a wild music that she could almost not bear to listen to in its perfection. She gazed upward into the multitude of blazing lights, and the colors sang and danced and twisted in celestial spirals.
Then a wrong note sounded, a star moved out of step. The cool darkness grew cold, and a star screamed and was snuffed out, frozen, unmoving. Meg was running through the night sky, and the angry screech of the notes twisted into a discordant jangling, as first one note, then another, stretched on and on, heedless of the time they should have ended, a horrible, endless shriek.
She ran toward the epicenter of the wrongness, hoping there was something she could do, calling, as she ran, for her younger brother, Charles Wallace, for her boyfriend, Calvin, for anyone to come and help. The stink of death was in her nostrils, and suddenly, she was there, and she saw the blue box writhing in the center of nothing. Tendrils of cold blackness were stretching out from what she thought must be a battle, and everywhere they touched, time stopped. Growth stopped. Everything went cold. This was not even the state of maximum entropy; this was absolute zero, in which nothing dynamic could exist, the ultimate death from which there could be no escape.
Meg Murry sat up in her college dorm room with the words the Starsnuffer is coming ringing in her head.
It took several long minutes for her to wake up sufficiently to force herself out of bed, and, as soon as she had, she crossed the room and stared outside at the sun, relieved to see that it was at least rising. But she was still trembling from the dream, and she was certain it hadn't just been a dream.
Charles Wallace, she kythed—and immediately her senses were overloaded with a cry of pain that echoed through her head and brought her to her knees, her hands over her ears even though there was no sound. She almost vomited before she realized that she had not recognized the voice. It was not Charles Wallace. There was someone else crying out so strongly that he had somehow overloaded all her ability to connect mind-to-mind.
The Starsnuffer is coming.
What was the Starsnuffer? Judging from her dream, Meg mused, as she made her way across the room to her bookshelf, some kind of Echthros. Her heart was still pounding quickly, and her hands were trembling, as she got down the instant cocoa that she kept on the shelf.
She would call Charles in a little while. First, she would have to find the phone card that she used to call her parents, but she didn't call them as often as she talked to Charles, so it was probably hidden under a pile of textbooks and scribbled homework. But right now, she needed to find out what was happening. Whatever it was, she was almost certain she had never felt anything so terrible or terribly powerful.
"Now, Meg," she told herself out loud. "You aren't allowed to panic," but her voice was high and shaking.
She set the milk on her hot-plate to boil and managed to locate her phone card. It was a good thing, she reflected, that her room-mates were both out of town for the night; they probably wouldn't have been happy about waking up this early. Once the milk was hot, she sipped it gingerly as she reached for the phone.
It was early, but someone in the house would probably already be awake. The frantic vibration of the rings brought to mind the screaming cacophony she had witnessed, and Meg felt her stomach constricting in time to some arrhythmic beat. The phone rang eight times, and the answering machine clicked on.
Meg pressed the disconnect button and dialed again. Probably everyone was just sleeping late.
After five rings, her mother picked up. "Meg?" she said breathlessly, and Meg felt a vague chill run across her.
"Yes, it's me," she said.
"Meg, I can't talk right now; we're taking Charles Wallace to the hospital. He collapsed."
"Of course, Mother," Meg said numbly and put the phone back down.
Charles Wallace had collapsed. Why? Because the Echthroi were afraid he would be able to stop them? Or just because the pain pulsing through their kything channels had overwhelmed him? Had she brought it on when she tried to contact him? Meg put her hands to her forehead, where a pulse-pounding pain was starting to form behind her eyes. She almost didn't notice the knock on the door, echoing, as it did, the exact cadence of her pain.
When she recognized the noise, she stumbled to her feet, wondering who it was. Probably one of the other students on the hall, who had heard her bumbling around. She yanked the door open.
"Hello," said the smiling blond man standing outside.
He looked somewhat too old to be a student, and Meg, even through the pain clouding her emotional senses, wasn't certain she trusted him. "Who are you?' she asked.
He put out a hand, still smiling a salesman's broad smile. "Master," he said. "Mister Master, if you please."
*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS
Sarah Jane Smith was tired. If she was to be really honest, she was old. She made a face at herself in the mirror and laughed. "At least you're growing old gracefully," she remarked to her reflection. She hadn't seen the Doctor in some time now—though he was getting old as well, even for a timelord. What was the last incarnation she had seen? Twelve? Thirteen? Old enough to start being careful, if the Doctor would ever be careful (unlikely).
She had intended to go for a brisk job this morning—as brisk a one as she could manage—because, to be honest, she wasn't always careful either and still occasionally found herself running from the latest crowd of world-threatening aliens (though she was careful that Luke, Maria, Rani and Clyde remained blissfully unaware of such exploits). She made herself some oatmeal from breakfast and was considering whether it would really be such a bad thing to be lazy today (she was spectacularly tired for no particularly good reason; the half an hour spent yesterday trying to track down Artemesian spores in the attic hardly counted), when the doorbell rang.
Who could it be? Bit on the early side for Gita, and none of the kids were currently in town. It was probably the Girl Guides or someone fundraising again. Really, didn't she do enough for the planet without having to be bothered to bring art to the public schools or whatever else they were campaigning for these days? Oh well.
The girl standing on the stoop was a bit too old to be a Guide, a serious girl on the verge of beauty with brown hair tired back in a practical plait and a pair of librarian spectacles perched severely on her nose.
"Sarah Jane Smith?" she asked as the door was opened. She had a pronounced American accent. "I'm Meg Murry. I have a message for you."
It was a common enough name, but somehow Sarah Jane was reminded of the well-known astrophysicist of about her own age, with whom she had taken tea several times and saved the world once or twice. She also noted the skirt—pleated, several inches longer than the current fashion, and the brightly-colored vest (of which she still had several hanging in her own wardrobe, relics of the seventies). Besides, by now Sarah could smell a time-traveler a mile away.
"That's me," she said in answer to the first question. "How may I help you?"
Meg Murry lifted her eyes and gave Sarah a clear, brilliant smile. "The message is: the Doctor needs your help."
Sarah Jane felt a twinge in her heart but smiled back. "Always."
*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS
The Doctor screamed. He had been screaming for a very long time, long enough that even his vocal cords had given out and now the scream was purely mental. Pain coursed through every nerve, every point, on his body.
He was dying. Well, he'd expected that, ever since the TARDIS had seen the thing that had awoken and was moving through the universe. It had been a long time since the Doctor had fought the creatures the humans called Echthroi, the alien lifeforms (if that was what they were) that fed on chaos and destruction and nothingness—the original nihilists.
And it had been longer still since the creature had shown itself, so long ago that the Doctor had still been at the Academy on Gallifrey, that the Master had not yet started properly his descent, that they had been friends.
It had taken all the machinery of Gallifrey, all the ingenuity of all the timelords combined, to stop this Starsnuffer the first time. It wasn't destroyed by positive emotion, precisely, but it could be weakened—the non-energy of its nothingness filled (replaced?) with the energy of somethingness. Making it into a force of creation rather than of destruction. All the beauty and glory and love of Gallifrey had combined to send it into what was supposed to be an eternal sleep. But Gallifrey had been supposed to last forever, too.
So now here he was, the last of the timelords, alone and fighting the Starsnuffer—if this could be called a fight, when he was pouring all the love and joy of his long, long life in Nothing, filling it, Naming it, making it Something. He would give it all if he had to (and the mournful tolling of the Cloister Bell echoing in his ears, still as loud as when the TARDIS had first warned him, told him he would have to)—and that was all right; he had had a long (so long, too long) life, full of love and light (and death and darkness, but those wouldn't fill the creature; they might even strengthen it), and perhaps it was his time (and he'd always expected, somehow, to die alone, the Lonely Angel), but he was afraid that—it wasn't enough, his strength failing already and so much—so much—left to fill, to Name, and if he didn't, if it escaped and he died, in the boiling eerie light at the center of this temporal anomaly, the Nothing would spread and spread until the stars went cold because there was no time left for them in which to burn. And would the earth be stilled forever, trapped in a heartbeat? Or would they watch the sun blink out and linger on for a few hours, or days, until the cold devoured them, all of them, everywhere, throughout time? Jo and Jamie and the Brigadier and Rose and Mickey Donna Victoria Liz Grace Jack Charlie, even Romana, all of them born and not born to cold and nothing and Sarah Jane—he wished he weren't alone as the agony of absolute cold seared through his muscles, his limbs, his two desperately beating hearts.
The door to the TARDIS opened. The figure standing in the doorway was backlit by the raging fire that roared outside, the star fighting for its life (or existence), his lone ally (if you could call it that). The shadow stretched enormous, all the way across the floor to the base of the console, and then she slipped inside and shut the door, and her stature diminished.
"Sarah?" croaked the Doctor in disbelief.
*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS
"You. What are you doing here?" Sarah Jane stopped, automatically pushing Meg behind her.
"It's all a little complicated, and there isn't much time for explanation," the Master said, smiling his brilliant, charming, slightly-too-wide smile.
"Oh no," Sarah Jane said, marching up to him and waving her finger in his face. "Oh no, you caused a bloody great year to happen and then get yanked out of time. You killed half the population and enslaved the rest. Give me one good reason I shouldn't turn around right now and lock myself into my house with this young lady and call UNIT to have you taken care of."
The Master carefully reached out a hand and removed her finger from his personal space.
"I can give you three," he said genially. "The universe is dying, the Doctor is dying, and only you can save mankind. That last one might be a wee bit redundant, though."
"Perhaps I should rephrase. Why on earth should I believe you?"
Meg tugged at her sleeve. "Whoever he is, he's telling the truth—about the universe anyway. There's something very evil—an Echthros, if you've heard of them—that has woken up, and someone in a blue box is fighting it, but I'm afraid he is going to lose."
"And how do you know that?" Sarah Jane demanded. It wasn't in her nature to be suspicious of a friend's younger self, but anything he Master was involved in warranted careful examination.
Meg swallowed, and Sarah Jane realized the girl had been looking pale and slightly ill the whole time. "Because I can feel it," she said. "It's been getting worse."
Sarah Jane dug out her watch and played with the settings. "Massive disturbance in the psychic fields," she muttered. "And you say it's the Doctor, fighting this—this thing?"
Meg nodded. "If the Doctor is the lonely man who travels in a blue box—that's all I can—" She winced. "—tell."
Sarah Jane was beginning to believe. She turned back to the Master. "Then I have one last question," she said severely. "Why? Why would you want to help?"
"I live in the universe," the Master pointed out. "I'd like it if it didn't go freezie pop-pop."
"Then why get me?" Sarah asked. There was still something she wasn't quite comprehending.
"That's two question," the Master pointed out. But when she kept looking at him, he looked away. Looked back. The manic grin widened. "You don't think he'd let me help?"
His voice was—bitter? Sarah Jane blinked and saw—herself—a long time ago, walking down an unfamiliar road that turned out to be located in Aberdeen. She took a deep breath. "Tell me what I have to do," she said.
*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS
Meg waited awkwardly at the foot of Sarah Jane's stairs with Mr. Master. They needed to hurry, but Sarah Jane had said she would only be a moment. Meg got a strange feeling from the man who had brought her here; Charles Wallace would have known what to make of him, probably, but she didn't. She had the barest sense, somehow, that he could feel the kything-pain as well, clearer than she could, but it might have been her imagination. She would never have agreed to come with him if she hadn't honestly seen no way in which the situation could get worse. Dong something was better than doing nothing, after all.
Sarah Jane came hurrying down the staircase. "Ready," she said briskly, although her voice was heavy and her eyes were teary. She sniffed slightly. "Oh dear, look at me," she said. "Sometimes I'm such an idiot."
Meg smiled at her, reached out, and took her hand. "You're amazing," she said fervently,. "Sarah Jane Smith."
"Well then," said Mr. Master brightly. "Take us there, Meg."
Meg stared at him. "Me? How?"
"Tesser us, of course oh dear the young these days I don't know what the world's coming to." He spoke mostly through his teeth.
Meg pushed her glassed up her nose. "But I've never—I don't know how," she protested.
"Nonsense, I can smell the Time Vortex on you. Quite a stink it makes too," said Mr. Master brightly.
"Can't we just go the way we came here?" Meg asked, shivering involuntarily as she remembered the last untrained tesser she had experienced. "I've never done this myself, and I could kill us," she pointed out sensibly. (Though it had to be admitted that after her return from Camazotz, she had studied her father's work extensively enough that she might, in fact, be able to reproduce his results.)
"Don't worry," Mr. Master said blithely. "I can shield you both. It won't hurt me."
Meg tried to push her glasses up her nose again and found that they wouldn't go any farther. "All right, I'll try," she said brusquely. With what Sarah Jane was going to do, she couldn't very well not, could she?
She reached out and caught the hands of Mr. Master and Sarah Jane. The physical contact was enough to jolt her emotional barriers, already vulnerable from the waves of pain someone kept kything to her, and she felt a wave of sadness and anger and a deep, deep double rhythmic beat that should have been arrhythmic, unsteady, but it wasn't anymore; it was just a deep, sad drum. Sarah Jane squeezed her hand tightly, and Meg braced herself, because there was only one way she was going to get there, and that was to kythe her way to the center of the agony and try to follow.
When she opened herself, it was worse than before, or maybe she had simply blocked it out. Pure, liquid fire seared through every nerve-ending, and the freezing cold ate at her, and she trembled and was diminished, and she was lost, so lost, who was she.
You are Meg Murry, a voice murmured inside her, and it was Charles Wallace, grimly riding with her from the hospital room where he was hooked up to an intermittently-beeping machine, and Mother was holding his hand. And there was Calvin, hearing her call and lending her strength from a cool, underwater room where he was measuring the vital signs of his dolphins, two of whom had nearly died in the morning when they went belly-up and their brainwave readings spiked jangly and jittery and wrong.
And then the drumbeat pounded into her head, got and fierce, a quick-pulsing life-beat, maddening because the tattoo was not quite in a rhythm, but it blocked the cold, somehow, and she was able to follow the lines of agony back to their source until
They stumbled, pale, sweating, and exhausted, onto the bare, rocky ground that shouldn't exist, beneath a blood-red sky that boiled an froze at the same time, beside an incongruous blue box labeled "Emergency Police Call Box."
Mr. Master crumpled to the ground, blood trickling sluggishly from his nose, lumpy and congealing already. Meg grabbed futilely at his shoulder, and he looked up at her with eyes dyed incarnadine from the bursting of the capillaries. Sarah Jane put a hand beneath his back and helped Meg lower him to the ground, where he lay panting stertorously.
"Don't worry," he said in Sarah Jane's direction. "I'll get the girl back safe."
"Thank you," Sarah Jane whispered, but he didn't smile, not at all. His "you're welcome" was said without a twitch.
"And thank you," Sarah Jane turned to Meg.
Meg smiled, and then put her arms around Sarah Jane. The old woman was tiny and fragile-boned as a bird. "Thank you," she said. "You're a hero. You're a world-saver." Into the statement she put all the love she could muster, love-as-a-verb, as a thing-you-do, though it wasn't hard because love-as-the-thing-you-feel was sweeping through her for Sarah Jane, though she couldn't tell if it was all hers or not. The lines of her emotions were blurring. So she just blinked aside the tears and thanked her companion again and went to kneel by Mr. Master.
Sarah Jane halted just before entering the call box.
"Goodbye," she said, and Meg tessered.
*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS
He was lying in front of the console, as she'd seen him hundred of times before, but not often so pale, so drawn, so old…
She was kneeling beside him in what seemed like no time at all.
"Sarah," he gasped, and he was still the only person from whom the half-name sounded like her, "You can't be—what are you doing here?"
"Oh, you silly Doctor," she said fondly. She didn't think she had seen this face often before, but once or twice, perhaps—it was hard to tell, with the way her eyesight had been getting lately. She'd forgotten her glasses again, but who could get used to glasses after so many decades of perfect vision? "I'm here to help you save the universe."
"But," he managed to gasp. "Sarah, you'll die."
She rocked back a little on her heels, her back protesting. "Oh you," she said. "And you won't?"
"But…" he whispered weakly, and she leaned forward and took his face gently between her hands and kissed him, his lips still soft and young against her old, dry, thin ones, and he caught her hands with his and pulled her forward onto him, as if she were just a girl again.
She landed against him with a laugh, and now she could feel it burning, writhing, trying to get free, and he had almost defeated it; he had poured so much of his love for life and humans and oh God Doctor yes his love for her dark and all encompassing and how had she never known, how had she never felt how deep it ran and all the bright things he had seen, over more than a millennium, pouring, filling, Naming (for Meg had used that word, hadn't she?) the Nothing that roared and fought and sought to drain him. But it wasn't enough, and it could never be enough, no matter how much love he had for the whole rest of the universe, because he didn't—he couldn't—couldn't ever—
At first he had just been running, the whole universe stretched out before him in all its glory, and perhaps he was frightened, and sometimes he liked to say that it was the Time Vortex that he was running from, but mostly, it was the sheer joy of running, not from something, but to somewhere. Somewhere that, more often than not, was Earth.
But gradually, he found himself running from the Time Lords, from their laws and their rigidity (and perhaps from his own responsibilities), after what had happened to Jamie and Zoe, running from monsters his own people had created, and then there was Sarah Jane, his Sarah Jane (how strange it was to look at oneself from the outside!) and together the running became a game, a dance, a song (she felt the Starsnuffer screaming, she felt the Doctor weakening), and then his people called him back and he left her safe in 1980—and then came the Time War, and the running wasn't fun anymore. This life—possibly more sensitive than he had ever been, caring even more than he ever had before—this life was the life he ended as he ended the lives of millions of others, and in his next life he was born running, grasping the hand of a blonde girl and whispering run into her ear, but this wasn't running like a dance, this was running for real, running away and away, further and further (seriously, there's an outrageous amount of running involved), but never escaping…
Because now he was running from himself. Look at all the things he had done…and it would never be enough.
Yes, Doctor, look at all the things you've done. She wasn't certain if she said it aloud, but she knew that he had heard her, because his arms fell across her back and bundled her closer to him, like a child cuddling his favorite teddy bear.
"Oh, Doctor," she murmured again, and she kissed lightly across his forehead, eyes, nose, lips, and she found herself tumbling roughly into his mind, sprawling ungainly in (she had never been very good at this, little unpracticed human—and she found herself laughing because she had picked up on that thought and knew he had intended her to, which meant he was still capable of teasing her), and she took hold of the pain—
And she screamed—
But she held on, because the Doctor's arms were around her, and she could do this for him—and for Luke and Maria, and their little daughter, Sarah, for Clyde and Rani and their son Harry, for Meg Murry, and for her little brother (whom Sarah Jane had learned to know during their nightmarish trip to the TARDIS), and she felt the Doctor's love for them echoing and reverberating with her own (resonant frequency), and their love for Earth in all her glory, for the TARDIS, her funny noise of sad complaint on landing and taking off, for running not from but to, for night-times in the TARDIS, and daytimes in the universe, for UNIT and the Brigadier, for K-9, and for Mr. Smith—
And for the Doctor. He'd been running from himself for five incarnations now, hadn't he (haven't you?), and he couldn't help her now. She was alone, quite suddenly. Just Sarah Jane Smith, and her love for the Doctor, against the end of everything. She had never been quite so alone before, except, perhaps, walking down a street on a cold Scottish night a few hours after the TARDIS door had shut behind her.
(I love you, Doctor. I'll always love you.) There she was, just Sarah Jane Smith and her love standing before the Starsnuffer, which had been lulled into stony sleep once before, only by the combined might of all the timelords of Gallifrey. And it was screaming. (Sarah Jane Smith, you never cease to amaze me.)
There was light filling the TARDIS. Sarah Jane was weakening fast now, but the Starsnuffer was weakening faster, wilting and melting away beneath the combined force of her and the Doctor's desperate, impromptu assault.
Beneath her, the Doctor shifted, and pressing herself so close it would have been embarrassing if it had been anyone else, she could see the planes of his face tilt and shift. He lost pounds as she watched, and her hips jolted suddenly against his. The skinny face sent a jolt through her, and she was at the school again, staring at this Mr. Smith who loomed so suddenly out of the darkness. Just as she recognized him, he was gone again, and in his place was a rough soldier with bulbous nose and ears whom she'd never seen—then he cried out, again, and a soft face, surrounded by long ringlets was gazing at her. She felt his long fingers tangling in her hair and wondered why it was so difficult to draw breath.
The Starsnuffer was still screaming, and she still stood between it and Earth, but now the Doctor was back, was holding her, pouring his strength into hers. Ringlets (whom she had seen—of course she had—just confusingly not until after she had seen the skinny one god Doctor your timelines are tangled) The next wave of pain doubled her over and shut her eyes, covered her vision in blurry fuzzing black dots, so she only felt the next few transformations, which went by rapidly, each accompanied by a low cry of pain from the Doctor.
When she opened her eyes again—and by now it took all her strength to do so—she was staring right at him. His face was pale and beaded with sweat, framed by a riot of wild mahogany curls. "My Doctor," she choked, and she kissed him again, small now against his sprawling length, and he held her, groaned against her, kissed her fiercely, and, as he did, she felt him change again, a little skinnier, the curls her hands were tangling in a little flatter, but still her Doctor (always yours, Sarah) and she was laughing and choking against him, because she was home. (So am I, my Sarah Jane.) She gasped against the pain, and she loved the Doctor, and the Starsnuffer screamed and died.
There was an explosion of light.
*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS
In a hospital in America in 1975, Charles Wallace Murry sat up with a gasp. His mother was waiting by the bed, and he was reassuring her that he was all right, when the door to the hospital room opened, and Meg came in. He felt her as she entered and caught desperately at the connection which had been seared shut for some long hours. It's okay, Charles Wallace. I'm here.
*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARD
In an apartment in Washington, DC, in 2006, Meg Murry asked her expected guest if he would like a cup of tea, but he shook his head and thanked her, covering his face with a hand to hide his ruined eyes.
"Thank you," he said.
"Where will you be going now?" she asked him.
"Somewhen else," he mumbled softly, "I suppose."
She put a sympathetic hand on his arm, and he almost looked up at her before remembering not to. "He's not really gone, you know," he said in a voice that had the same wobbly timbre as a small child. "He's all over space and time. And so is she. Lucky girl."
*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARD
In an aquarium in 1975, Calvin O'Keefe was standing by the phone. "Wow," he was saying. "That's—gosh—that's amazing."
"Calvin!" His advisor came hurrying in.
"Don't worry, Professor Scott," he said, covering the mouthpiece of the phone. "Bruiser and Blue woke up, and they're doing fine."
"Thank god," said the professor and went to check on the dolphins herself.
*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARD
At 13 Bannerman Road, in Ealing in 2020, Luke and Maria Smith, and Clyde and Rani Chandra stood in the attack in a tight circle. Maria was pale, and Luke's face was streaked with tears. "Mr. Smith," he said. "I need you."
The computer slid smoothly out from the wall, omitting its customary fanfare. The screen spun in a kaleidoscope of variegated colors for a moment and then resolved into a high-resolution image of Sarah Jane's face. She began to speak immediately.
"Hello, Luke, Maria, Rani, and Clyde," she said, smiling. "If you're watching this, it's because something unfortunate has happened to me. Maybe I didn't even have time for a proper goodbye." She paused. "I'm sorry about that. At least you can take comfort in the fact that if you're watching this, Earth hasn't exploded, been turned into a diamond, pollinated with hostile spores, or any of the other innumerable fates we seem to save it from weekly." Maria giggled feebly, and Clyde exchanged a glance with Rani. "Anyways," Sarah Jane went on briskly. "Just remember—and I know, I know, I'm going to sound such a maudlin old woman when I say this—but no goodbye is forever. Take it from someone who's had a great deal of experience.
"But to make you feel better, I'm not going to say goodbye at all. I'm just going to say I'll see you around. Give my love to Harry and little Sarah." There was a pause, then Luke's voice off-screen called, "Mum!"
"Coming!" Sarah Jane called back, then turned back and flashed a brilliant smile to the screen and winked. "See you around then!"
*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARD
In Aberdeen, in 1980, Sarah Jane Smith stared up at the sky. If I wish on a star, will he come back? It was twilight, the first stares just starting to blossom. A particularly bright one flickered suddenly into view, and she stared at it for a few moments before pulling her jacket more tightly around her. Don't be a silly little girl about this, she thought to herself and deliberately turned her back on it.
*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARDIS*TARD
Somewhere east of the Orion nebula at some time it might be possible to reach without tessering, an old blue emergency police call box rotated gently in orbit around a binary system of two new, blue-hot stars. Its door hung open, and a soft golden glow emanated from the inside, softening the pale white refulgence of the stars' light.