Author's Notes: This is something I will later expand on, but it's been bouncing in my head for ages now and I needed to get something posted because I'm in a bit of a fic-writing rut. Hopefully this will help me out, and everyone enjoys it!
There was no bleaker time in Earth's history than the thirty-seventh century. Nations like the United Kingdom, which had once led the world in politics and economics, collapsed into third world conditions. Governments were ruled by dictators or strict oligarchies, and order was maintained by military rule. This wouldn't last for long—there was no holding the British down—but for a good fifty years, Britain (and more specifically London) was one of the most derelict and overcrowded cities in the world.
And now, the Doctor was stuck there.
He had been tinkering with the HADS again before he parked the TARDIS in a dangerous part of London. He had only stepped out for a few moments when the explosions started, and the power from the first blast knocked the Doctor off his feet and caused his ears to ring so powerfully that he feared he might go deaf, but underneath that ear-splitting sound and the shouts and screams of people running to safety, he could hear the groaning of the TARDIS engines as it dematerialised to somewhere safe.
The Doctor checked himself into a pathetic excuse for a hotel in East London later that evening. All he needed was a bath and a good rest before starting his journey towards the North Pole, which was where the TARDIS had rematerialized, according to the readings on his sonic screwdriver. Luckily he wasn't too far away this time. He thought of Clara and their long journey from the Arctic to the South Pole the last time the HADS had separated him from the TARDIS, and the memory of her smile caused an ache in his chest that was so profound that it brought tears to his eyes.
Outside his bathroom window, he could hear the distant wail of sirens and the chatter of people walking on the street below. The faucet dripped loudly into his bath water while someone in the room above his moaned and screamed loudly through the floor. If it weren't for the accompanying rhythm of the bedsprings, the Doctor would worry that someone was being murdered.
He towelled off, redressed, and then for a long time stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The face he'd worn for centuries was somehow rendered unrecognisable, as if it belonged to a completely different man. Not for the first time, the Doctor wondered what the point of his life was, and why he continued carrying on when he had nothing to live for. Everyone he had ever loved was gone.
He had forgotten about his intention to sleep until after he'd already buttoned his waistcoat and straightened his bow tie. He stood in the bathroom doorway and stared dully at the sharp angles of the shadows cast by the streetlight just outside the window and imagined them turning and shifting when the sun eventually rose, and wondered if he'd still be standing there. Perhaps sleep wasn't even an option for him anymore.
He placed his face in his hands and rubbed his tired eyes, but couldn't even muster up the energy to heave a sigh. He was so alone.
A series of three sharp knocks rapped at the door. The Doctor raised his head from his hands and stared at the door in consternation before striding towards it and peering through the peep hole. An icy hand clenched his hearts and he stood there in silence for so long that she knocked again, causing him to jump back from the door in alarm. The sensible part of his brain told him he was imagining things, but still his fingers fumbled with the lock at the door.
The Doctor flung the door open and met her eyes, his lips parted in surprise while hers curved into an alluring grin. Her dark hair was curled in thick ringlets and her lips were painted a deep shade of red, neither of which distracted from the low-cut black dress that clung to her figure like a second skin.
Clara Oswald was supposed to be dead, but there she stood like a gift the universe had left on his doorstep.
"You going to invite me in?" she asked after a good five seconds of his staring.
The Doctor blinked once, twice, and then mutely stepped aside so she could enter. His eyes never left her as she strolled into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. It was only when his mouth felt dry that he realised it was hanging open.
"Lock the door; I don't want to be interrupted," she said simply, as if popping into his hotel room was some sort of routine.
And as the Doctor shut the door and turned the lock, he realised why. This wasn't his Clara. Of course it wasn't; she had died when she jumped into his time stream. This was one of her echoes… and she was a prostitute.
It was as common to receive a visit from prostitute in a thirty-seventh century hotel as it was to receive one from the cleaning staff, something the Doctor had heard about but never actually experienced first hand. Looking at Clara now, he saw neither the glamorous call girl nor the filthy street walker that he had imagined. Instead, he saw the ghost of a woman he'd once cared for. Her dark stockings and impossibly high heeled shoes, the snugness of her dress, the coal black eyeliner surrounding her eyes; all of this masked the signs of malnutrition and sadness that ate away at a person's soul. He swallowed around the lump in his throat as a horrible ache consumed his chest.
She smiled incredulously at him. "You gonna sit down or what?"
He slowly made his way over to the bed and sank onto the edge of it, keeping a good two feet of space between them. Clara leaned back on her hands and peered up at him through her eyelashes.
"You got a name?" she asked.
He looked away from her and shook his head.
"That's OK," she purred, scooting closer to him. "I'll think of something to call you."
She leaned her head against his shoulder and the Doctor closed his eyes, unsure of how much more of this he could bear or why he was even bearing it at all. He felt her fingers trail along the inseam of his trousers, but when her palm came to rest between his legs, his eyes snapped open and he pushed her hand away.
She chuckled with amusement. "Ooh. Bit shy to start, are we? That's OK." She straddled his lap and looped her arms around his neck, making it impossible for him to look away. He tried. "I like your hair," she said, running her fingers through the messy locks he hadn't even bothered to comb after his bath. "And you've got a handsome face. Don't see many of those around here."
"What do you see?" he asked with concern, finally finding his voice.
She shrugged lightly and lowered her eyes between them, her back arching seductively as she slid her fingers down his shoulders. "Nothing for you to worry you lovely little head about." She laced her fingers through his and raised them up to shoulder level, her eyes fixed on his lips. "What about me?" she asked in a silky, almost pouty tone. "See anything you like?"
He could only stare at her mutely as she placed one of his hands on her thigh and moved the other to her left breast. His hearts were thrumming wildly and thoughts were screaming in his head, but the shock of seeing her again and in such a state had rendered him practically catatonic.
"I'm sure we'll find something," she purred, urging him to palm her breast and move his other hand up her thigh.
The Doctor's eyelids felt heavy as she writhed against him, dark eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as she bit her lower lip and let her head fall back to display her long neck. He couldn't control his reaction to her, but when he fully realised what was happening, he shook his head to rouse himself from his stupor and removed his hands from her body.
His voice was shaky when he spoke. "Clara, please…"
Clara's head snapped back up. "What did you say?" She leapt from his lap and took a few steps backwards, eyes round and terrified. "What did you just call me?"
"I'm sorry," he said softly, sensing her alarm.
She'd gone from sultry seductress to cornered rabbit in the blink of an eye. "Are you police? Because I'm registered - you can check with the agency!"
He stood from the bed and raised his hands in a placating manner. "I'm not the police, I promise."
She took another step back, her face contorting with panic as she gave him a once over. "How do you know my name? Who told you my name? How did you know I would be here?"
"I didn't know," he said, taking a hesitant step towards her. "I would never have come here had I thought that you… Believe me, I didn't know, Clara. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
"Stop saying my name!" she shouted breathlessly, covering her ears as if she could stop everything by blocking out the sound of his voice.
He swallowed around the lump in his throat and continued to stare at her. Her eyes never left his, out of suspicion and fear more than anything else, but he could swear he saw a hint of recognition there. It was likely he was imagining it because he wanted her to remember, but there was a part of him that refused to give up hope.
"I'm not the police," he restated calmly once she'd calmed down. "I don't want to hurt you, Cl—"
She sucked in an anxious breath and took another step back. He released a sigh and closed his eyes.
"I'm a friend."
Clara shook her head adamantly, eyes never leaving his. "I don't know you. I've never seen you before in my life."
"Not this life."
She laughed bitterly. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Feeling the hopelessness of this situation weigh down on him, the Doctor lowered his face to his hands and released a shaky breath. He tried to remind himself that this wasn't Clara, but rather a girl who shared her name and face and certain aspects of her personality. She didn't have the real Clara's memories, she wouldn't remember him or anything they'd been through together. That Clara was gone.
But she was all that was left. He couldn't save his Clara, but he would do whatever he could to save this one.
She was still standing there when he lifted his face from his hands. He'd half expected her to run out the door, but then she had been scattered across his timeline to save him, so she must be there for a reason… one that had nothing to do with what she did for a living.
"This is the last place I ever wanted to find you," he told her. "No," he corrected quickly, glancing away. "I suppose the Dalek asylum was worse. But this," he waved his hand about the room, "this is no place for you."
She continued to hold herself, shrinking into the corner of the room like a frightened animal.
"You needn't be afraid; I won't harm you." No more than I already have. She didn't move or say anything. "If you're so scared, then why haven't you left the room?"
Her answer was reluctant. "I can't afford to."
"How do you mean?"
The Doctor saw the threat he posed diminishing in her eyes as she regarded him curiously. She stepped away from the corner, arms still hugging her chest despite relaxing visibly. "I haven't put in enough time this month. I need the money. I can't afford to lose this job."
He didn't know how to respond. Seeing her in such a desperate state filled him with throat-constricting guilt, and he swallowed roughly as he imagined how many hours she spent in rooms like this, seducing strangers who touched her like she was some treat from the minibar that helped them pass the time. He was desperate to hold her, to touch her in a way that would comfort her and not just appease his own longing, but he feared upsetting her or scaring her away.
"What if you could?" he asked.
"Could what?"
"Afford to lose this job. What if you could leave here and never come back?"
It was dark, but he could hear her faint laugh and see the roll of her eyes. "Please don't do the whole 'I can take you away from all this' speech. I've met your type before."
He took an eager step forward. "But I can. You don't remember me, Clara, but I'm your friend. We've travelled together before. We can go anywhere we want and never have to step foot in this horrible place or time again."
She shook her head at him. "You're barking."
In an act of daring, he closed the space between them and took both of her hands in his. Clara gasped and jumped back, but didn't put much effort into retracting her hands. She met his eyes and he saw it again—that flash of recognition. He wasn't imagining it.
"I never understood it before, but I can see it now," he said, a grin tugging on one corner of his lips. "You don't understand it either, but you trust me. I know you think I'm mad, and you are absolutely right, but there's a part of you that knows who I am. Please listen to it."
He knew he was getting to her because she was starting to breathe heavily with emotion. Her features seemed to glow with hope at what he was saying, and he marvelled at how beautiful she was.
"Who are you?" she asked, seemingly in awe of him.
He brought her hands to his chest and held them there, twin heartbeats pulsing beneath her palms. "I'm the Doctor."
"Doctor who?"
His face lit up with a massive grin and he laughed. She tensed when he bowed down and engulfed her in a hug, but after a moment she hesitantly wrapped her arms around his waist and relaxed in his embrace.
Clara had jumped into his time stream to save him, but now she wasn't alone. This time, he was going to save her too.