Hey all, just a short drabble/oneshot about the Doctor post doomsday. No idea why I wrote this, but hey, i did :P
Please R&R:D:D:D:D
No matter how many of them he met, humans continued to surprise him. They always said and did such odd things, things that didn't compute with any of the 5 billion languages he spoke, or the 18 trillion civilisations he had seen. There weren't any links to anywhere else. It came from, he supposed, an ignorance of the outside universes. That was why he kept...falling for was a bad way of saying it, associating, that was it, associating with them. Plain, stupid, simplistic curiosity. No greater scheme, no cynical plot, just curiosity. That same curiosity that had killed 100 cats by now. It's why he did anything that he did. Well, some of it may have been wanted to show them things, show them the rest of their world, and the worlds they missed.
They always had such potential, humans in general had such potential, he wanted to show them things, bring it out perhaps.
And look at what happens, they end up living-and dying. Something that-try as he might-he could never do. But they could, and they would, she could and she
No use thinking about her. They'd said goodbye and that was that. End of story, close the book, put it away and find another one. But what if he wanted it to continue a bit longer? If he wasn't ready to put it down just yet? That was impossible, what was he going to do? Hijack this mysterious author? Demand another chapter? Another book? Easier said than done.
Knowing his luck, the author had in some fit of melodramatic-authorness, jumped off a building.
And he was left with one very finished, very closed book. He could always go back, save he. But how many 'time-continuum' lectures had he been subject to such a long time ago – DO NOT CHANGE TIME (and the small print) unless it is absolutely necessary. There's the problem, if he had to face a council and explain 'why' he had done what he did, well, he doubted they'd be lenient.
So, he was faces with the traumatic fact that he had been faced with so many times. He would start, but leaving. He was rather good at that now. Just leaving for a bit, going about on his own, but curiosity would get in the way. It was very good at that.
He was basically a magnet for curiosity, he had a ship that simply called out for it.
His TARDIS, he never left his TARDIS, and it never left him. After their goodbye, and he had seen her for the last time he had spent ages, watching it work, not remembering where he'd told it to go, not that he cared. Eventually it would come to the point where a sequel would be written. New pen, to new paper yet the same old hand writing the story. Sometimes it took ages to begin a sequel, other times not so long. Because sometimes, try as he might to keep it out, life was let into the TARDIS. And he couldn't stop that.
It was standing right in front of him now, a pearlescent wedding dress and fiery red hair.
Curiosity rarely took time to grieve, sequels had to be written, lives had to be lived. And although he didn't get a death, he had been given a life. A life that had to be lived one way or another.
He looked over the woman in front of him, she looked more angry and sad that he did. His eyes simply widened, his usually expert vocabulary depleted, leaving only 'what!'.
Before he could start to figure out the situation, he sighed and walked over to her, sequels had to be written.