Just a quick little oneshot I rattled off at one in the morning because the bunny wouldn't let me sleep. I was so desperate to get it up that it may contain some errors that I've missed, so apologies for that. Please read, review and enjoy!
Disclaimer: The BBC owns Doctor Who and everything to do with it.
One tends not to remember something long lost or forgotten until confronted with said lost or forgotten object. A person can last for years without realising they have forgotten about their favourite childhood toy or who their first crush was. The person may only recall said things when confronted with it in a corner of the attic or at their brother's wedding (apply each setting as appropriate: both are likely for either option). The sudden realisation of the hole left behind will crash upon the person like a tonne of bricks, and they will inwardly berate themselves for losing or forgetting something that had once meant so much to them. Guilt or anger may be involved to a certain extent.
A thousand years of life made the Doctor a past master at forgetting lost things; so much so he often forgot where he'd left his favourite bow tie or the cunning little comb he used to style his fringe into the delightful dark swish this regeneration so favoured. More often than not, however, he forgot people. It was partly out of choice, as remembering all those who had come before drove knives into his hearts as he stared around his empty TARDIS.
It was a hot afternoon in June when he stopped off in central London to help UNIT with a little pest problem they were having in St. Pauls. They'd insisted he take a lunch break, something which he had repeatedly insisted he did not need, but they determinedly thrust him out of the doors into the scorching sunlight beyond. His first instinct was to return to the TARDIS and jump forward an hour, but past experience told him he may well re-emerge in the epicentre of an intergalactic war between humans and Carnafenuvian rats, so he decided against it. Coffee, he decided. That's what humans did at lunchtime, wasn't it? Coffee and a sandwich.
Queues.
What idiotic ape had invented the demon queue?! Fourteen minutes and sixteen seconds of his lunch break had already passed, and the Doctor was beginning to lose patience. He tapped the toe of his boot against the slick tiled floor, gazing absently at the head of the person in front of him. It was a woman with lustrous red hair – shorter and thicker than Amy's, but similar enough. He smiled gently, thinking of Amy and Rory in their little blue house living their lives – he could handle being alone for a little while, if it made them happy. The woman in front shifted slightly, leaning her weight on her left leg and placing her resolutely fisted hands on her hips. His keen ears heard her clicking her tongue quietly. Without warning, she spoke in a loud, demanding voice that filled the stifling shop and caused customers to turn and stare.
"Oi! What's it take to get some bloody service around here?!"
His blood ran cold. Donna turned around, her hazel eyes searching for someone to complain with. When her gaze settled on him, her expression was dubious. She took in his tweed jacket, his bow tie, his slightly too short trousers: her lips formed a pout and her tongue settled behind her bottom teeth as she scrutinised him.
"Hello," he offered tentatively, the samba beat in his chest suddenly uncomfortable. He'd regenerated since they'd last met, and she'd never remember him, but still – how had he forgotten her? He was utterly ashamed of himself. Donna smirked, though not unkindly, and quirked an eyebrow.
"What've you come as? A particle physicist? Bit young for that get up," she remarked, nodding at his eccentric attire. Hooking his thumbs around his braces and straightening them defensively, he secretly thrilled to have her be so delightfully rude to him.
"Well, you know… Just a young, eccentric human man. Y'know."
"Obviously you're human, what else would you be? A bleedin' Martian?" she laughed, stepping backwards slightly as the queue moved.
His reaction was instinctual, and passed his lips so quickly and easily it may as well not have been a hundred years since they last met. "I'm not from Mars!"
Just like the first time they met, she clearly thought he was stark raving bonkers. Her eyes rolled slightly and her eyebrows rose as she chewed her tongue between her molars.
"Right. Weeeeeell… Brilliant. Good to know."
The conversation ended with that, and the Doctor contented himself with watching Donna furtively. She looked well, and her voice softened when a little boy of around two came tottering towards her, arms outstretched.
"Go back to daddy, Johnny. Mummy's getting drinks."
She stroked his shock of ginger hair tenderly then propelled him back the way he'd come to the man waiting at a window table. Her husband, the Doctor now recalled, although his name was long gone. As she stepped forward a waft of extremely expensive perfume met his nose, and he dimly recalled delivering a winning lottery ticket as a wedding gift. That seemed to have paid off, then. Donna paid for her drinks while loudly denouncing the entire café chain, stating she, as the manager of some high and mighty company, would be sending a mystery shopper to see if they were always this shoddy with service. That earned her a free muffin, much to her obvious delight. She turned and smirked knowingly at him.
"Sometimes it's fun to have some power to chuck about," she chuckled, easing past him. "Nice talkin' to you, Martian boy."
It wouldn't be long before the Doctor banished the painful memory of his best friend to the back of his mind once again. The circumstances of their parting had been traumatic for both of them, and now he recalled her he missed her terribly. And, of course, memories of Donna dredged up memories of other people and other places he'd managed to forget for so long. Sometimes he thought he'd lived too long.
A smile crossed his face as he replayed their short conversation as he sent the TARDIS into the vortex. It had been nice, to see her so happy, and to talk to his best friend again, if only briefly. The hardest part of the situation was that she would have no hope of recognising him. A sneaking yearning rose in his chest as he recalled the way she'd spoken – the words she'd used, the stresses on vowels, just the way he used to. Maybe, deep down, deep in the fathoms of her rather excellent mind she had recognised him.
Just maybe. The thought gave him hope.