Author's Note: So, I wrote this a few months ago for the tumblr 11/River AU ficathon. It's been posted on AO3 for a while, but I thought I'd post it here too in case anyone was interested.
Prompt: 'John Smith' (Eleven) Decides to see a therapist after losing too many people in his life. He books an appointment with Professor Song to try and seek help.'
For the-doctors-river.
Shoulders slumped, the man stumbled into the hallway, hands jiggling in his pockets as he approached the door.
A tiny name-plate caught his eye.
'Dr. River Song.'
Heart thudding, he sucked in a breath, his mind whirring and doubting and worrying.
What—what am I doing?
His fingers fiddled with his bowtie—a subconscious action, a nervous habit.
He glanced down at his trembling hands and bit his lip, not at all perturbed by the copper tang of blood on his tongue.
Well, here goes nothing…
The nagging doubts dissipated as soon as he stepped over the threshold.
"Hello Sweetie." The silky voice rang in his ears, an unexpected greeting to say the least.
For a moment he stilled, startled, hand scratching his cheek almost subconsciously, as he silently registered the strange woman.
Her hair rested in a messy bun; soft ringlets of golden curls tumbled around her face, framing a pair of very, very, striking green eyes. Not that he noticed or anything.
"You must be John—" She stopped, eyes meeting his properly for the first time. Her confidence seemed to falter—a strange mixture of pain (and what was it- recognition?) etched in her expression, visible one second and gone the next.
Surely he was going mad. Yes, that was it. Or maybe his new medication was finally settling in. After all, he'd never met this woman before in his life; no one could forget a face like hers.
"Ummm…yes." He mumbled, Adam's apple bobbing as he cleared his throat.
"Sorry, dear. Where are my manners? Do sit down." Her hand flung amid the air, ushering him to a small, but surprisingly comfy chair. "Hello, John. I'm your new therapist, Dr. River Song." Professionalism oozed off her tongue, the vulnerability of the previous moment forgotten.
"River Song. Lovely name," the words escaped his mouth without warning, leaving him both surprised and confused at his own audacity.
A beat of silence.
"Right then. I'm not going to ask too much of you, seeing as this is your first session." Gentleness filled her tone, a kindness, unspoken, yet reassuring. "But I'll start with this. Why are you here, John?"
Inhaling and exhaling slowly, the man sighed, fingers trudging through his hair.
"Clara." John Smith pondered leaving it at that, not terribly intent on divulging the contents of his heart to a stranger, no matter how beautiful or enigmatic she was.
"Clara?"
"Clara, she—she…last week she…she found me unconscious in my flat. I'd OD'd again. If…if it hadn't been for …for her, I would have died. She saved me for about the billionth time. And…I…I guess I just realized how much it hurts her…when I…what I mean to say is, after all she's done for me over the years, I just had to come here; I owe it to her," he stuttered, voice hoarse and low.
"I see. Are you and Clara—"
"No. NO. She's my cousin. First cousin on my mother's side. Probably the only decent person to come out of my family." He chuckled softly, trying to lighten the mood, but Dr. Song remained unconvinced. It was as if she could see past the smiles and the laughter and the lies.
"Hmmm. Are you in close contact with any other family members?"
"Nah. Mum's dead. Dad's a sodding drunk. He left years ago. Haven't seen him since, nor do I want to." Speaking quickly, John blocked the memories of his family.
"Alright. I won't press the issue. Tell me a little about yourself. Just the basics, your interests, whatever. It doesn't have to be too personal."
"I'm John Smith, obviously. 33 years old. Currently non-practicing Doctor. What else is there to say, really?"
Her pen hovered over the paper as she recorded his description.
"Okay. And I just want you to know that everything that happens in this room remains entirely confidential. My notes are for my personal reference. I won't share them with anyone without your consent." Dr. Song's spiel sounded rehearsed, like she was reading words off a page.
Nodding, he glanced down, fringe flopping in his face as he shut his eyes.
A sick feeling swept over him, and he half-wondered why he was there at all. Had he really just stepped into this strange woman's office?
But no, no, he'd thought through this. Hard. He'd come for a reason and he couldn't back out now.
"Did you hear me, John?" she questioned quietly, voice soft and melodic.
"Yeah." The shadow of a grin flashed on his face.
"You have no idea what I just said do you?" sighing, Dr. Song leant in closer.
He couldn't help but notice the way her brow crinkled ever so slightly, the way her nose scrunched up in silent resignation, the way her emerald eyes shone with a hidden—what was it—empathy?
She didn't speak a word. She didn't have to.
And in that moment John Smith knew without a doubt he would be attending the next session.
He hadn't set one foot through the door to his flat before his cousin, feisty and hopeful, started spouting questions.
"So…how did it go?" her eyebrows shot up, begging him to answer.
"Fine. It went fine, Clara." With a wave of the hand, John brushed the matter off.
His ever-persistent cousin, however, did not give up so easily.
"Fine? What do you mean by fine? Good fine? Bad fine? How is your therapist? Nice? Okay? This is important, John!"
"Well, I'm planning on going back next week, if that's any indication. Good fine, I guess. I don't know. My therapist is…interesting. Now, can you please not bombard me with questions? I just got home!" John flushed, irritated.
"Fine. Yes. Sorry." She bit her lip.
"Clara." His voice quieted.
"Hmmm?"
"How was your new job?"
"Now who's asking the questions?" Clara's face erupted into a grin. But something in her expression faltered, like she couldn't quite believe her cousin cared enough to know how she was doing. "It went well. I had a lot of fun. And the kids seemed to like me okay." She shrugged.
"Good. And who wouldn't like you, Clara? You're wonderful."
"Thanks." Her hazel eyes lit up, bright and lively.
Seconds later, a loud crash erupted from the kitchen.
"John!?"
"Everything's fine, Clara! I just…um…I just tripped." He shrugged awkwardly, hand sifting through his hair as his cousin looped an arm around his shoulders as if to steady him.
"Are you sure? You're not injured, are you?" the worry in Clara's voice shot him to the core. How many times had she found a very-not-alright cousin unconscious in his flat?
"No, no. Sorry for scaring you. Just being a clumsy idiot again."
"John…" Clara reprimanded.
"I know, I know, I'll be more careful next time."
"Promise?" And he knew in that moment that she wasn't just talking about clumsiness, but his lifestyle as a whole.
"Cross my heart."
He kept his promise.
Well, mostly.
Fiddling with his bow tie, the man laid back, preparing to attend his third session.
So far, his experience with a therapist had gone a lot smoother than he'd originally anticipated. None of the backlash or judgment or condemnation. But then again, not every therapist was Dr. River Song.
John watched carefully as the patient exited Song's office, taking the cue and entering the now-open room.
Yet even he couldn't prepare for what awaited.
"Hello Sweetie," sang the woman at the desk, her green eyes pouring into his.
Normally, he would've avoided her gaze, but today he couldn't help but stare back.
Before him, Dr. River Song grinned, her often done-up curls now wild and free, dangling around her face like a magnificent lion's mane.
He tried not to notice. He really did.
She's your therapist, he rationed. And she's at least a few years your junior.
But the sight of River Song with her hair down was enough to make any man forget his sanity.
"John?" her gentle voice lulled him out of whatever fantasy he'd begun to concoct.
"You'rewearingyourhairdown," the jumbled statement tumbled off his lips before he could protest.
She chuckled softly, crimson blush creeping into her cheeks.
Slapping a hand over his mouth, John wondered vainly what possessed him to say such a thing.
"Well…since we're commenting on appearances…a bowtie?"
John cleared his throat.
"Hey, it's cool. Bowties are cool." Straightening the blue-colored fabric, the man raised a brow.
"Looks like a cry for help to me." he could tell by the playful gleam in her eye she meant it in jest.
Still, the weary man felt a jab of pain, a long-buried scar re-awaking.
"John?"
"Sorry…it's just…you sound a lot like… an old friend of mine."
His eyes zipped closed, the darkness teeming around him as the images taunted and sneered.
He didn't what to talk about her. Or him. Or any of them. His friends, his companions—remnants of the bitter past, weights that hung on his shoulders without ceasing; he hardly knew how to breathe anymore.
But a burden borne alone can only be borne for so long.
His thoughts turned to his dear cousin, and he remembered his promise to her.
"I haven't always worn a bowtie, you know." John admitted, a sad, grievous smile gracing his cheeks.
"John, I'm sorry, if this is too much, too soon, then we can—"
"No. I…I need to get this out of the way. I've been keeping it to myself for too long. I…I don't know…how much I can say without…well, I'll try…" he took a deep breath, silently preparing himself.
You don't have to say too much. Just something. And if nothing else…do it for her. Do it for Clara.
"I…well…I haven't really…um…what I'm trying to say is…I've only been wearing bowties for about 11 years. Before that, well, let's just say I was a very different person. I…um…13 years ago I lost them. That's—that's pretty much where it all started."
He could still remember that fateful day.
He'd only gotten the call ten minutes ago.
And now, as he knelt down beside the fragile, maimed woman in the hospital bed, his entire world collapsed, his heart crumbling to nothing.
'Freya,' he choked, throat raw. His fingers interlocked with hers, begging her to stay, to hang on.
'Theta,' her beloved nickname for him—one that had caught on at university (he'd always excelled in maths)—shot straight to the depths of his soul, or what was left of it. 'The baby…Susan…' her hand pressed against her stomach protectively.
Squeezing her hand more tightly, John shook his head, tears pouring down his cheeks.
'I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry,' he cried, 'This is all my fault; if I'd been there, if I hadn't…'
'No…Theta…I…" but in that moment that precious voice went silent, as Freya Gallant Smith breathed her last.
It wasn't until he felt the cold, wet drops flowing down his skin that he realized—he was crying.
"Sorry." He mumbled, trying to control his emotions.
"Oh, Sweetie…" Dr. Song placed her pen down immediately, leaning closer to her patient, eyes flashing with understanding rather than the pity he so often received. "You have nothing to be sorry for. No one should have to go through that."
"It…it's alright. It happened so long ago. I can hardly even remember what it was like to…what it was like when she was…when she was still…alive."
"How often do you think about her?"
"Well, it's hard to say, really. I try not to. It's like there's a sort of door in my head. I can keep it shut—under normal circumstances anyway. But sometimes…sometimes the nightmares…they come…and I don't have a choice. After she…after they…you know…the nightmares were horrendous. I couldn't sleep for months. Life seemed unbearable. What was the point if they were gone and I was left to keep on?" his voice quivered.
"Do you still feel that way?"
"Sometimes. I don't know. I've just gotten to point where…where I don't feel anything anymore. Like I've become so numb to the world that it doesn't matter. I'm cursed to lose everyone I've ever loved. It's just what happens. It's what always happens. No matter how much I plead, how fast I run, that will never change."
Hours later, John grasped the white bottle as he sprawled out on the sofa.
The broken part of him cried out, beckoning him to take that extra dosage, to plop another pill into his mouth. But his thoughts shifted to Clara, his cousin; how devastated would she be to find him unconscious again—or worse, dead? And Dr. Song, who tried to help him, who listened, who brought out his deep secrets with those curls and that smile; how could he let her efforts be in vain?
No, I can't do this. Not anymore. I can't let the past direct my future. I have to treasure these moments, this time…because I never know how much…I never know when…when they'll fade from me.
And for the second time that week, John Smith stepped beyond himself, beyond his doubts, into a realm where the tiniest flicker of hope could shine in even the most hopeless souls.
Exhausted, Clara Oswald stumbled into her cousin's flat, glad to finally have a long week of work behind her. Not that she minded work too much; she adored the Maitlands, but taking care of two often rambunctious children would wear anyone out.
Glancing around the room, she expected to find her cousin seated in one of his usual places.
"John?"
No response.
"John, seriously, this isn't funny, don't you dare do this to me again…John?" Before she finished that sentence, the pale-white bottle came into view.
Her heart lurched in her chest. Oh God, please no, please…
Clara immediately crouched to her knees, grabbing the bottle and scouring the general area.
"John?" she gasped, fearing to find an unconscious body somewhere around there…
"Clara?" the familiar voice called from behind the door, sounding confused. "Wh-What's wrong?"
He dashed into the room wearing one of Clara's aprons.
"What? What the hell is wrong with you?" She punched his shoulder.
"Ow! Clara! What was that for, eh?"
"This." Her trembling fingers clasped the medicine bottle. "It was on the floor. Just like the last time—and you were nowhere in sight…what was I supposed to think?"
Clara's voice quivered; she bit her lip hard, holding back the tears.
Bringing his cousin into a tight embrace, John held her head to his chest, whispering soft apologies.
"I'm so sorry, Clara…this was what I was trying to avoid…I'm so sorry…"
He felt her relax against him, the anxiety draining out of her body.
"What were you doing, then? And—here's a better question, why are you wearing my apron?"
"You'll see…"
John's hand tugged hers, dragging her out of the room and to the next door down- her apartment.
A small dish sat on the stove, two oven mitts sprawled beside it.
"Well….?" He bounced on the balls of his heels, awaiting her reaction.
"You made a soufflé?"
"Yeah! For dinner! And don't sound so surprised."
Confusion flickered on her face.
"But I don't understand…you never…"
"I know." His tone grew serious, and he grasped her hands. "But I can't live like that anymore, Clara. Even after what's happened, I've realized that…I still have someone to be thankful for…so as long as I have you…I…I have to think outside myself. Otherwise I'll drown in my own sorrow. I'm trying to make good on my promise…"
The ache of loss seized his soul more firmly than ever, so he buried the pain deep inside.
He'd let it control his life—his thoughts, his feelings, his actions—for far too long.
Step by step, moment by moment, John tried to change.
But the longer he hid the pain, the deeper it sunk, flooding the cracks of his heart like a corrosive poison.
He wished he could rid himself of it forever, to drown it out; If only it were that easy.
So now, leaning back in his chair, John managed to fumble the words he never wanted to say.
"I never did tell you why I wear the bowtie, did I?"
"John…" Dr. Song whispered. "Last time…well, I don't want to push you."
"It's fine. I know. But I can never…never truly get better if I don't let some of this out." His shoulders slumped wearily.
"Okay." Her voice softened. "Last session…you told me about your wife and daughter…"
"Yes. But…but…I never…I never explained what happened after that…well, I started to…but I… I couldn't seem to…you know…get it out." Another sigh. "I think I can now."
He watched Dr. Song relax, felt the intensity of her empathetic eyes as they locked onto his.
"So…after…after I lost them…you…you can imagine I didn't have my life together. I was extremely depressed, suicidal even. I lost my will to live completely. That's what…that's what drove me to do what I did."
His mind whirred, spinning, spinning, spinning out of control.
He couldn't think—everything blurred together—his thoughts, his vision.
One hand clutched the steering wheel, trembling as it twisted and turned.
John's stomach flipped, his lungs heaving as he struggled to breathe.
Blackness flashed back and forth, obscuring his sight.
Was it a dream? Was it—was it real? He wondered.
Then he saw her face—pale and contorted and lifeless—those grey eyes staring at him, looking into his soul.
And he felt it—that hopelessness and agony that dug a deeper trench in his heart as the days rippled on.
No, please, STOP! I can't do it…can't take it anymore…
His hands flailed, trying to break free, but instead meeting the cold sea of darkness
Sinking further,
And further,
And further.
'Where…am I?' he squeaked, hardly recognizing the sound of his own voice.
His surroundings looked fuzzy, but he managed to make out the blur of ginger hair…
'Hey, Raggedy Man. It's okay. You're fine. You're at hospital. My husband found you in our garden. You crashed your car. And ruined our shed. But that can be fixed. The important thing is you're okay,' the unfamiliar woman reassured him, her hand clasping his. 'I'm Amelia, by the way. Amelia Williams.'
'Amelia…' it rolled sweetly on his tongue. 'Like a name in a fairy tale.' Oh, he must have been delirious. 'I'm John. John Smith.'
'I see, John. The doctor says the recovery time might take a bit…but luckily your injuries weren't as severe as they could have been. Though I have to tell you…your clothes were completely ruined. Rory's gone to find you something…'
'Who's Rory?'
'Oh, didn't I mention? He's my—'
'Husband.' The older, salt- and- pepper- haired man finished, entering the room with a pile of clothing in his arms. 'Not the best selection, but it's what they had available.'
John vaguely scanned the clothing topped with a long, thin red strip of cloth—a bowtie? And what was that—a tweed jacket?
'Here you go.' Rory Williams propped the selection beside the injured patient.
'Thank you. You're…you're both very kind.' he whispered, comforted by the couple's caring gazes as he drifted to sleep.
"That day…in that hospital…changed my life. I met…I met some of my closest friends. Amelia and Rory Williams. They practically adopted me…well, not exactly; I mean, they were in their mid-forties, and I was in my mid-twenties…but you know. Rory was originally a nurse, but just around the time of my accident he'd decided to go back to school to become a proper doctor. And of course, when he discovered I'd started med school but never quite finished, he dragged me along for the ride. And what a ride it was. Ten years of learning and traveling together. Ten years of playing football with Rory and getting told off by Amy. I thought it would never end. But I was wrong."
The animated speech fell to a regretful whisper. He'd left far too much out, he knew, condensing the last decade of his life into a brief statement.
"For a time…I had…a family again. I should've known." A shaky breath escaped his lips, "It's only been two years now…two years since…since I…since I lost them. That's why…I'm in my present state. If Clara hadn't found me when she did…I probably wouldn't be here at all." He laughed. "But you wanted to know about the bowtie, didn't you? Why do I wear it? I wear it because I don't care. Because it's my last connection to my friends. A reminder of happier times. That's why it's cool."
When he glanced up at Dr. Song, John felt immediately uneasy.
Too absorbed in his thoughts, he hadn't realized the change in River's demeanor.
An expert of disguise, River Song hid her vulnerability well, but then again, so did John Smith. No wonder he recognized the sorrow in those pools of green, the guilt in the tilt of her mouth, the weariness in the set of her eyes. For reflected in that face, John saw himself.
"River?" there was something else in her expression he didn't understand, but he couldn't quite pinpoint it. "River, are you alright?"
The moment the words left his mouth, River transformed back into her normal self. John briefly pondered the possibility that he imagined the change, but, no, he couldn't have—after all, he'd seen it all before.
"Never better, Sweetie." Her voice sounded hollow, despite her apparent confidence. "And you know…I think you've made a big step, John. Getting this out. After…after keeping it in for so long. Where do you want to go from here?"
"Well, I…I don't know. I guess I didn't tell you…I've already started to make some changes. I haven't…haven't OD'd on my meds anytime recently. I haven't sulked all day. I've started to be more appreciative of Clara. Made her dinner a couple times. I suppose that…talking about this has reminding me of what I still do have. However long that may last, I need to make the best of it. Even…even if I don't always feel that way…because Clara deserves better." His hair flopped in his face. "And I was thinking…that maybe…maybe I could get a job? Just part-time, maybe as a doctor's assistant?"
A few minutes passed, and Dr. Song gave a few encouraging remarks, and the session ended.
But as John Smith exited the room, he couldn't shake the impression of River's eyes—those sad, weary eyes that confirmed a fear of his -– deep beneath the curls and smiles, Dr. River Song was a lot like him.
Sometimes the nightmares plagued him, resurrecting the horrid bits of the past from the trenches of his heart.
He tried to convince himself he was improving; he'd finally shared some of his darkest secrets, after all.
And yet, the moment his head hit the pillow and his mind drifted off to sleep, the dreadful memories returned with a vengeance.
Darkness swallowed him whole, rendering him cold, afraid, helpless.
The New York street spread out before him, and he stared one car in particular—the only car in his line of sight.
Helpless, John closed his eyes, trying to block it out.
Still, the familiar voices filled his ears, screaming, but silenced a second later, never to be heard again.
I should've been there. I should've been there.
Sirens wailed in the distance, coming closer, closer, closer.
Technicians carried the bodies of the ginger and her husband onto stretchers, and his chest compressed. He knew. It was too late.
Distraught, John stumbled towards them, hand reaching out—
But the traffic continued, never stopping, never ceasing, cars still speeding by.
His mind blurred, the memory foggy, his only recollection being the feeling of the hands that pulled him out the way, just before he collided with the car, the inevitable result.
Everything hurt; the blackness swirled and swirled, but her face shone back at him, comforting. He could never make out her features, and yet he knew by the gentle feel of her hands—she was a woman.
"Who are you?" the question always rippled through his mind, forever taunting.
He wondered if he would ever find the answer.
Clara Oswald giggled, eyes dancing at her cousin across the table.
"Seriously? Fish fingers and custard? That's what you made?"
"Yeah! It's brilliant! Used to be a favorite of mine. Still is, as it turns out!"
Though his enthusiasm seemed overpowering, she picked up the unsaid words. 'Used to be.' Must have something to do with Amelia and Rory…
But before she could comment, John shot her a goofy smile. A smile. He actually smiled. A few months ago, she couldn't even hope to wipe the frown off his face, let alone get a smile out of him.
"What's so funny?" She quipped.
"You." A bit of custard drizzled down his cheek.
Pondering a clever comeback, Clara prepared to speak, only to hear a soft ringing. John's mobile.
"Ah, sorry, Clara. It's probably nothing…"
He clasped the phone, furrowing his brows.
"Hmmm…that's odd…why would they be calling? Sorry again, Clara…I think I'd better take this." His mouth fumbled a 'five minutes.'
"John…who?"
"Five minutes, Clara. Promise."
In the kitchen, John paced, running a free hand through his hair.
"What?" The tension in the room escalated.
Oh no. This can't be good…
"What do you mean—why would…okay, okay, sorry. I understand. Goodbye." Slamming his phone on the table, the man in the bowtie grunted.
"John…what is it?" Clara approached the situation cautiously, as she learnt to do many a time, given her cousin's fragile emotional state. "What's wrong? Who was that?"
"Oh…that? I've just been assigned a new therapist. They called to tell me."
"Hang on, let me get this straight—you just threw a mini-tantrum after that phone call, and now you're gonna act like you're fine?"
Gently clasping her shoulders, John tried to explain.
"It's nothing, Clara. Seriously, nothing."
His uneaten meal half an hour later told her otherwise.
"I really don't know why you dragged me here, Clara." His fingers tugged at the black bowtie.
"I can't believe you actually dressed up. And anyway, like I said, John, you didn't have to come. But it'll be fun! A charity ball! Good fun for a good cause. Plus, it's always nice to get out," She beamed, looking rather adorable in her retro dress.
"But I get out enough! I have a job now, remember? And I hate social gatherings of any kind, let alone balls! You know I'm a rubbish dancer!" John's arms flailed amid the air, as if to prove his point.
"Oi! Come on, let's get to our seats! I'm starving!" Grabbing her cousin by the hand, Clara practically yanked him across the room to the dining area.
"Clara—hey—that's my job, that's always meeeeeeeee—"
"We'll see about that chin boy," she smirked, knowing full well he despised that nickname.
"Really, Clara? Was that necessary? I—"
He gulped.
His heart hammered.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
To his far right, the woman stood, long, form-fitting blue dress flowing down to her ankles, golden mane of curls bouncing atop her shoulders.
"John?"
Clara's voice beckoned him to snap out of the fantasy (or whatever it was), but even then, his gaze didn't falter, still attached to the woman in his peripheral vision.
"Yeah…coming—" he stepped forward, half-aware of his surroundings, half-focused on Dr. River Song—
He felt his foot slip, and suddenly John lost his balance completely, causing a loud clamor as he collided with the table.
"Owwwww…"
"Hey, hey, John, it's alright." Clara's grip tightened on his, and she boosted him to his feet. "You okay?"
The chatter of voices around him crescendoed, louder, louder, louder…
"Nooooo."
"Sit down, alright?" Clara lowered him into the chair before taking her seat. "Do you…do you think you might have a concussion?"
"No, no, I'm fine, Clara…just…I don't know. Everyone's staring at me, aren't they?" John blushed, embarrassed.
"Nah. They're going back to their business now."
A waiter came by to take their orders, and soon enough their selections arrived.
But John only maneuvered his fork through his entree, clearly not in the mood for eating.
"I knew this was a bad idea," he groaned, leaning on his hand like a petulant puppy, his elbow on the tabletop.
"Oh, come on, the fun hasn't even started yet…just give this a chance, John!"
"Fiiiiiinnne."
"Blimey, you really like to sulk, don't ya?" She held her best serious face for another second before bursting into laughter.
"Claaara…"
"Okay, okay." Her breathing slowed, her voice drawing to a whisper. "So…" Clara leant in. "Are you gonna tell me?"
"Tell you what?" annoyance rang in his tone.
"Why you've been ogling that woman for the past few minutes…That's why you lost your balance, right?"
Warmth spread across his neck as John grew flustered.
"I…I…don't know what you're talking about, Clara." He declared defiantly.
"Oh, you totally do. Hair like a lion's mane. Curves in all the right places. Admit it; you know exactly who I'm talking about."
"I do not."
"Do too. And now that we're both finished with dinner, and the dance portion is starting…you're going to go talk to her." Clara crossed her arms.
"I most certainly am not talking to her!" as soon as he realized, he covered his mouth, but it was too late.
"Oh, so you admit there's a her!" A smug grin erupted on Clara's face. He liked seeing her happy…but not at his expense. "Come on!"
"No, Clara…you don't understand…she's…"
His cousin dragged him to the corner where River sat.
"Why, hello Sweetie." The curly-haired woman smiled softly.
"River." He nodded, trying to keep his 'cool.'
"Wait—hang on, you know her?" Clara chirped.
"You must be Clara. John was always talking about you. I'm Dr. River Song." She extended her hand to Clara, who just stood there gaping. "John might have mentioned me?"
It took her a moment to make the connection.
"Oh, yeah, 'course he has. Dr. Song. Sorry…I just…never realized you were…a woman…"
River's confident façade crumbled, her face falling briefly.
"'Course not." She hid the hurt with a smile.
"So…you were his therapist, then?"
"Yes." John's eyes seemed to zone in on her. "Well, not anymore. I…got a job opportunity that I couldn't pass up. You see…my passion has always been history…and there was an opening for a history teacher at a local secondary school."
"Okay. Yeah, that makes sense." Clara coughed. "Well…we just came over here because somebody couldn't seem to take his eyes off—"
"Clara, please!" John spluttered, cheeks flushing at her admission.
"Have you got something to tell me, Sweetie?"
"No…no…Clara's just…she's just being…" Panic ensued when he realized his cousin no longer stood beside him. "Clara? Where'd she go?"
"I suppose she must have wandered off." With the absence of Clara, a newfound awkwardness arose between the two. "So…how have you been, John?" River hesitated.
"Fine. Fine. Got a job as a doctor's assistant. Haven't had any accidents lately."
"Then what do you call that stunt you just pulled?"
"What stun—Oh, that." His face flushed. "I'm clumsy, alright?"
"Clumsy enough to walk straight into a table for no reason?"
"I was distracted," he admitted almost too quickly.
"Oh, really?" her green eyes poured into his. "Do tell."
Gulping, John shook his head, trying his very hardest not to think too intensely about the sight of River in that dress.
"M-maybe some other time, River. It was good talking to you. But I'm afraid I've got to find my cousin." His body twirled in a 180-motion like a ballerina, his giraffe legs galloping away.
"John, wait!" River trotted behind him, high heels clacking against the floor as she reached out to place a hand on his shoulder.
His head flipped back in her direction instantly, so fast that he couldn't hide the anguished expression.
"John—"
"What?" He spat, tone bitter, condescending, irritated.
"I'm not an expert or anything, but from what you've told me, I think Clara can handle herself."
"Point being?"
"You don't need to—"
His fingers suddenly coiled around her wrist, squeezing hard.
"Don't you ever try to tell me what I can and can't do, River Song. You're not my therapist anymore."
"Then as your friend, I'm asking you to—"
"You are not my friend." He choked, eyes blazing with anger. "Friends don't desert each other. Friends don't just…leave."
"Okay, then let me start by saying I'm sorry." Grabbing his arm, River willed him to meet her eyes.
"In that case, why don't you tell me why you really left?"
A moment of silence.
"It's complicated. I…I didn't feel like I was being effective. And then there was the job opening…I just…I don't know. I couldn't help but think that my patients needed someone better." Her gaze fell to the ground.
Despite her confession, he couldn't help but sense that she's left something out—the true underlying reason.
"You could've at least warned me."
"I…I didn't realize…" she stared at him, wide-eyed. "…that it mattered."
"River…" he held her gaze. "Okay. I see…and…I'm sorry…for lashing out just now…"
A soft smile graced her cheeks, and John's heart thudded harder.
What am I even doing? I shouldn't be…I shouldn't…
She giggled. River Song giggled.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Glancing down, John gaped, realization striking full force. Sometime during that conversation he'd woven his fingers through hers.
When did I do that?
But before he could ponder the answer, he felt a tingling sensation fill his body as River took his hand and shifted it to the small of her back.
"I love this song." She whispered, breath caressing his ear.
"Stevie Wonder. Classic." His nervous laugh did nothing to suppress the butterflies fluttering in his stomach.
"Mmmm. Hmmm."
Swaying back and forth slowly, River shifted her arms around him, beckoning John to follow suit.
Despite having little control over his own limbs, John compiled, relaxing in her embrace, enjoying the sensation of her curls tickling his neck, savoring the steady rhythm of her heartbeat mingling with his own as the music swelled around them, a blissful melody.
"John, it's late; I think we'd better go." Clara nudged her cousin, who slowly pulled away from his dance partner.
"Okay. Yes, right. River, do you have a ride?"
"Well, I just took a cab here…"
"You're welcome to ride with us. It'll save you the money. London cabs are pretty expensive these days." The young woman piped up.
"Oh…are you…are you sure it'll be no trouble?"
"No trouble at all." John blurted out, rubbing his neck.
"And you can meet Sexy." Clara's grin widened.
"Clara!"
"C'mon, River; this way." Clara chuckled, her index finger pointed toward the parking lot.
The odd man out, John found himself walking behind Clara and River.
"So, who's Sexy?"
"Oh, you'll see."
A few minutes later, the three packed into a blue 90s Ford Fiesta, leaving River's question still hanging in the air.
"This is 'Sexy' as he calls it. Or 'Old Girl,' depending. I know, I don't get it either. But he thinks it's cool. He's had it since he was like 16 or something. It's a wonder it still rides." Laughing, Clara watched her cousin shuffle uncomfortably in the driver's seat.
"Hey, I'll have you know that even after all these years; she still rides like a beauty. Always takes me where I need to go."
"I thought you crashed your car about 10 years ago." River interjected, confused.
"Yes, well, the Old Girl is quite resilient. Got her fixed up with some help from my…friends." His voice lowered as he spoke the last word. "But anyway…where exactly do you live, River?"
"Not too far…does your mobile have a GPS? I could just enter it on there. Might be easier."
"Here you go." John pulled his phone out of his pocket, handing it to River.
After pressing a few buttons, listening to the irritating voice of the GPS navigator, and enduring John's terrible driving, they'd managed to arrive at River's flat.
"Thank you for the ride."
"Here let me walk you out." John exited the car, opening the side door for River.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." He insisted, trailing behind the curly-haired woman as she climbed the stairs.
When they'd reached the top, John and River stopped, awkward silence settling between them.
"I enjoyed tonight." River's quiet confession alleviated some tension.
"Me too." John mumbled, hands in his pockets. "Maybe…maybe we could…I don't know…do it again sometime."
"I'd like that." A smile tugged at her lips, and she leaned forward to kiss his cheek. "Goodnight, Sweetie."
"G-goodnight, River." He stuttered, fingering the place where her lips had touched his skin moments before.
Shifting a hand through his hair, John examined himself in the mirror. His bowtie looked a little tilted, so he tried to straighten it. Repeatedly.
"Blimey, John, you're quite dressed up for a supposed 'friendly outing.' All that time spent fixing yourself up…you'd put a teenage girl to shame." Clara retorted, creeping up behind him.
"Clara, please!"
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say it looks like you're going on a date." She quirked a brow.
"It's not a date! She's just my friend! We're just going to the cinema. And besides, you're coming too."
"Only because you practically begged me to come along. I can't imagine why." Her eyes widened. "So…do you think she's gonna kiss you again?"
"Again? She didn't…she didn't kiss me…"
"I know what I saw…"
"That was a cheek kiss. A friendly gesture, nothing more." His hands flailed as he dismissed her assumption.
"Still counts for something. Just admit it…you fancy her."
"I do not. She's my friend, that's all."
"Oh, come on. You should've seen the two of you at that ball three weeks ago. You kept looking at each other like you were the only two people on the face of the planet. I know attraction when I see it. And that was bloody, in-your-face, undeniably obvious!"
"I—"
At that precise moment, the doorbell rang, and John gave himself one last frenzied look-over.
Clara only smirked.
The days bled into weeks, and his life continued much the same way. Work, and Clara, and nightmares, and therapy, and River, and dates (no, not dates, never dates, he lied to himself,) all spiraling together.
His past could not be forgotten, but for the first time, he could shut the memories behind the doors in his head.
In his dreams (he never really stopped dreaming), he still saw her, the mysterious woman, who rescued him at the very last moment. She evaded him every time, her image blurring more and more, and he came no closer to finding her.
Perhaps she was only a figment of his imagination.
One particular day, John stepped out of his car, his Old Girl, Clara following close behind, only to see none other than River Song perched on the side of the grassy field, decked out in the standard football uniform—sweats and a blue jersey.
His heart pounded at the unexpected sight.
"River?" a puzzled expression spread across his face.
"Hello, Sweetie." she gave her customary greeting. "Hello, Clara."
"What are you doing here?" he wondered.
"You invited me, of course."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did. Remember?" Her phone flashed in front of him, and he briefly scanned the text apparently sent from his number.
"But I never—" he thought for a moment, and the answer suddenly occurred to him. "Clara!"
"So, what? I wanted to surprise you! Our team needed an extra person. River seemed a logical choice."
"But she's—and –I…you didn't have to use my mobile!"
"Mine wasn't charged! And she's here now, so we'd best stop fretting over it." Clara decided, hands on her hips.
"But—"
"John, it's alright, I can go if it's too much troub—"
"No, no. It's fine. Stay. Please."
"Okay."
Waiting for their other teammates to arrive, John, Clara and River kicked the football around.
"So, have you played before, River?"
"Well…it's been a while, but, yes." Her hands fell to her knees, and she panted, out of breath.
"Are you any good?"
"I don't know. Maybe. I'll try my best." She grinned.
"As long as you have fun, River. That's what it's all about." Clara chimed in, passing River the ball. "Hell, I'd never even played 'til recently. John thought it could be something fun to do together. He'd been quite the footballer back before his university days."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah. Sort of." he shrugged, eying the ground, only to be startled by a hand to his back.
Oh no.
"And who's this lovely lady, John?" the man's thick American accent caught River's attention.
"This is my friend, River Song. She's going to be our sub today. Clara's idea." His voice filled with hesitation.
"Jack Harkness, at your service ma'am. All my friends call me Captain Jack." Jack winked, shaking her hand.
"A pleasure, Captain."
"No, let me assure you, Ms. Song, the pleasure is all mine." His gaze fell rather blatantly below her face.
"Don't even start!" John spluttered, limbs flailing. He could've sworn he'd heard Clara giggling beside him.
"Hey, it's not as if she's taken!"
"Just…stop it, alright? We'd better start the match."
Drenched in sweat, River sprinted down the field, open and ready.
To her left, John guarded the ball, his often wiggly limbs suddenly controlled.
The timer counted down, ticking, ticking, ticking.
21…20…19…18…
By then, he'd nearly reached the goal, prepared to shoot. But his opponents teemed around him, ready to charge.
15…14…13…12…11…10…9…
John pondered his options, before turning to her, meeting her eyes for only a fraction of a second. It was enough.
Lunging, he thrust the ball towards River, leaving the other players momentarily confused.
7…6…5…4…3…
A burst of energy rushed through her, and she aimed her foot, kicking the ball straight into the goal, just as the timer rang, ending the match.
"We won!" River's teammates shouted happily, coming over to congratulate her.
"Great job, River!" Clara applauded, once the others had backed off. "You should play with us every week!"
"You were brilliant!" John gushed, pulling her into a tight hug without thinking. When he withdrew, both their faces flushed bright red.
"You were brilliant, too." She whispered softly, in awe. "And you, Clara."
"Quite the friend you have there, John. Beautiful and athletic? My type of woman. Fancy a drink to celebrate, River?" Jack's offer sent a wave of jealousy through John.
"That depends, Captain. Are my friends allowed to come, too?" she batted her eyelashes.
"Well, you know what I always say, the more the merrier!"
"And then, after all that, she throws her shoe at me!" Jack garbled to his newfound friends.
River and Clara roared with laughter, but John sank back in his seat, annoyed, checking his watch every five seconds.
"Oh, look at the time! I think we'd better get going. Clara, River." He tapped them on the shoulders, ready to bolt. "I'm driving." Although Clara and River limited themselves to one glass of wine, he wasn't taking any risks.
"But the fun's only just begun, John!" the American sulked, disappointed.
"Sorry, Captain. But we've had our share of fun tonight."
Sensing his seriousness, Clara and River stood, thanking Jack as they exited the booth.
"Always a pleasure, Miss Oswald." His lips brushed her hand.
"And Miss Song. I certainly hope I'll be seeing more of you." He turned to River, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek.
"It was fun, Captain, we should do it again sometime." With a wave of the hand, she followed John and Clara out of the restaurant.
"You've been awfully quiet, tonight, Sweetie." River pointed out, nothing his solemn demeanor as he ushered her to the door of her flat.
"Hmmmmm."
"I enjoyed the football match. You should thank Clara for inviting me. I'd love to come next week."
"What, so you can flirt with your boyfriend again?" his pent-up anger erupted, but he immediately regretted his harshness when he saw her face.
"John, what—"
"Oh, don't pretend like you don't know. You seemed pretty taken with Jack. And vice- versa. I mean, it only took you about a second to accept his offer." He trailed off.
"You think—no, John, I don't…" her green eyes pled with his.
"You can just admit it, River. I see the allure there. He's handsome, charming and American. And you're amazing and clever and beautiful, so I guess you're the perfect match and I—"
"Oh, shut up!" wrapping her arm around his neck, River pressed her lips to his, kissing him gently, slowly, passionately.
When he flailed, she broke the kiss, flustered.
"I…I don't feel that way about Jack, John." River admitted, startled by his horrified expression. "Wh-What's wrong?"
"Uh…n-nothing. It's just…I didn't expect…I mean…it was…it was good, it was unexpected!" John mumbled, almost tripping as he returned to his car. "You know what they say, there's a first time for everything."
Tapping his foot repeatedly, the man in the bowtie leaned forward, anxious.
"Alright, so when are we going to talk about this?" Clara sighed, taking a place beside him on the sofa.
"About what?"
"About River kissing you."
"What's there to say, Clara?" his face paled.
"Look, John. You clearly like her. And she likes you. So, what's the problem?"
"I…I can't…can't feel this way. I shouldn't. My wife…Freya…I lost her. I am responsible for her death. I don't…I don't deserve to love again. And besides…everything…everything I touch dies…practically. Freya, Susan, Amelia, Rory. I can't…I won't let that happen to River. It wouldn't…it wouldn't be fair to her."
"John…" drawing him in a hug, Clara held him close. "You can't blame yourself for that. I don't ever want you to blame yourself for that. I know that your losses hurt you. It kills me every day to see how burdened you are, how sad you become when you think no-one's looking. I know you're scared. But I've seen the way you look at River. She's something special, John. Something precious. One of a kind. And when you have something precious, you don't walk away. You run. You run as fast as you can until you're out from under the shadow."
Clara's words echoed through his mind, unceasingly.
When you have something precious, you don't walk away. You run. You run as fast as you can until you're out from under the shadow.
He couldn't forget what she said, not for one second. Because deep down, he knew. She was right. Of course, she was.
River Song was worth it.
He wished he could've talked to her sooner. But life and work distracted him, and before he knew it, the notorious day arrived.
The 8th of April. The day Amelia and Rory Williams died.
His guilt weighed on him like never before.
Because it wasn't just a reminder that he'd failed Amy and Rory, it was a reminder that he'd failed River, too. Let her believe she didn't matter, let her believe he didn't care. When that was nothing further from the truth.
Normally on this day, John spent hours at the pub, drinking himself into oblivion.
But not today, not again. Never again.
Clara would worry, so he left her a note, assuring her he'd abandoned the old routine.
Clara, I'll be at the park. That's all. So don't worry about me.
Love,
John
Up above, tiny specks sparkled, bright flecks of light among a sea of darkness.
John lay back on the bench, breathing slowly. In. Out. In. Out.
His chest ached, the physical sense of loss rippling to his soul.
He thought of them. His best friends. How they would've loved a night like this. So peaceful, so tranquil, nothing but the stars for company.
John sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to suppress the inevitable tears.
It was then that he heard it—that soft, yet painfully familiar whimpering.
Even in the darkness, River Song was impossible to miss.
On the next bench over, she sat, head in her hands, crying.
Without a second thought, John wandered over to the other bench, propping himself beside her.
"Hey. Rough day?" his gentle whisper startled her.
"S-Sorry, I—I didn't…didn't expect you to—"
"Nor did I. But I'm here now, River. I've been meaning to talk to you…but…well; today I've been kinda distracted." Draping his arm around her waist, John leant closer.
"I know." She sniffled, holding his hand, her green eyes shining like a beacon. Her face seemed almost indistinguishable in the blackness, blurred by his tears—and suddenly, he saw it. Memory and dream and reality coincided—and he understood.
He'd found her.
"It's you…it's been you all along. I don't…I don't know why…it took me so long to realize. You're the woman in my dream. But how can that be? How could I have dreamt about you before we even met?"
She swallowed, clutching his hand tighter.
"Because we've met before, John. A year ago."
Slowly, this new information sunk in.
"What? How is that possible? I would've remembered—"
"Don't you see? Your dream. It didn't come from nowhere. You were remembering. That night, one year ago, in New York on Angel Avenue. By the library. It's…it's where your friends had died, isn't it? You were there. It was a year after they…you know. You were drunk—and no wonder. You wanted to forget. Yet, you came back, back to where it happened. You weren't thinking straight. You walked into the street, clueless. Or maybe you knew. I don't know. But the cars were speeding past—you know how it is in New York. I saw it coming. Someone would've hit you. So I pulled you out onto the pavement. Broke my wrist in the process. Took you to hospital. Do you remember?"
"I remember waking up…but Clara was there. Not you."
"That's because you had your ID on you. They were able to call your closest relative based on that. Luckily, Clara was already in the city. I left before she got there. They said you'd be fine."
"River…you could've died!" he gasped, shocked and distraught. "You should've never saved me."
"I took a risk that day. But it was worth it. And I wouldn't change what I did." She lowered her gaze. "You were never just a patient, John."
"Which wrist was it?" his voice cracked, pained.
"This one."
He took her right hand in his, holding it as if it were a something delicate, something beautiful, planting a tender kiss where her injuries must have been.
"I'm sorry. I had no idea…" a tear slipped down his cheek as he imagined the alternative—what could've happened to River that night. "But there's something I don't understand. What were you doing in New York on Angel Avenue by the library a year after Amelia and Rory died? It couldn't have been a coincidence."
She'd known that she would have to answer this question one day, and inevitably that day had come.
"John…Amelia and Rory. Did they—do you know if they ever had children?"
What does that have to do with anything?
"I…I think they had a daughter. Melody. They mentioned her once or twice. I never asked though…I just…I just assumed that they'd lost her like I'd lost my daughter and my wife. I didn't…didn't want to pry. But…why did you ask me that? Why does it matter if they had children?"
"Because…then maybe you'll understand. You're right. Amelia and Rory Williams did have a daughter named Melody. And they loved her, they loved her so much. But she…she didn't fully realize until it was too late. And…I… know this because…it's me. I'm Melody Williams. I'm their daughter." She squeezed his hand tighter, her eyes clouding with tears.
"What?" he jumped. "That's—that's not possible. You can't be—how-?"
"Why else would I have been there, John? I was mourning their death too, just like you."
"But—your name is River-"
"Yes, it was legally changed to River Song years before this happened. My birth name is Melody Williams. My mother's maiden name was Pond. So put the two together and you'd have Melody Pond. Shift that around a bit, and you get River Song. Do you understand?"
"Yes—no—what? If you're their daughter, why did they never talk about you? Why did you change your name? What happened?"
"It's complicated. We…had a bit of a falling out. I ran away. Made myself a new identity. I didn't want to be found. So they waited. But I never came back. I checked up on them every now and then, but they didn't know. And after a while, I kept seeing you. They were always with you. Had they adopted? No, you were too old, older than me. But I could see—they loved you, John Smith. I was jealous. I didn't understand. I had thought about talking to them, but I decided against it. I thought they'd replaced me. It wasn't until they…they died that I realized. I saw you—and how much you suffered from their loss—and I knew that I had no right to be jealous. You were feeling the same pain as me. You were like me. I decided to look out for you because it was the least I could do to keep their memory alive. And that night…seeing you, yet again…so helpless…I thought about my parents. They thought you were worth it. So I would too."
"This is just…so much to take in. And you were—you were my therapist?"
"That, I can tell you, was a complete coincidence. Why do you think I was so surprised to see that the John Smith on my roster was indeed the John Smith my parents had loved? At first, I thought that maybe I could help you, as I'd done before. But I was too personally invested. And I…started to feel…differently about you. So I quit. I left the situation and got a job better suited for me. I know…you must hate me for keeping this from you…for pretending…pretending like I'd only just met you. After I left, I thought I could move past it…but then I saw you again at the ball…and I just couldn't stay away…I'm so sorry, John. I wouldn't blame you…if you…if you never talk to me again after this. You should go…"
" 'Fraid it's too late for that, Melody Williams. I'm in over my head. Just like you. I've found something precious. More precious then I could've even realized. And when you have something precious, you don't walk away. You run. You run as fast as you can until you're out from under the shadow." His fingers stroked her hair—those beautiful, wild curls he so adored, and he bent down, sweeping her into a heartfelt kiss, one that reflected the mixed emotions of his heart—the pain, the sorrow, the joy, the shock—all feelings she understood too well. "You and me, Melody Williams, River Song. You watch us run."
"John!" Clara exclaimed, getting up immediately from the couch to embrace her cousin. "I know it's been a hard day for you."
"You shouldn't be here. You should be in your flat next door, sleeping."
"I was worried about you. Did you…did you end up going to the pub?"
"No, Clara. I was at the park. And…River was there, coincidentally."
"Really? How did that go?" she perked up a bit.
"Clara…River is Amelia and Rory's daughter."
For a moment, she was speechless.
"What? You're kidding. No way!"
"I know. We had a long talk about it. Do you remember finding me at that New York hospital last year?"
"Yeah, God, that was awful!"
"Well, River brought me there. It's confusing…I'll try to explain some other time. But the important thing is this, Clara. You were right. When you're holding onto something precious, you don't walk away."
"Dr. Smith? You have a visitor."
He turned his head, only to see River Song standing in the lobby, waiting for him.
"John!" She hugged him tightly, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
"River, what're you doing here?"
"Come on, I have something to show you…"
"Now?"
River nodded, weaving her fingers through his.
"But I'm on duty, River, I can't just—"
"Sweetie, it's fine. I talked to them. They're letting you off for the rest of the day."
"What—why?"
"Just trust me, alright?"
"Can I look, yet?" he asked, River's hands still covering his eyes. "Where are we, anyway?"
"Okay, you can look." The vast expanse of grass drifted before him, and he looked down to find a blue blanket and a basket.
"A picnic at the park, huh?" his face brightened. "What's the occasion?"
"It's your birthday, of course! 23rd of November." River ushered him to sit down. "Happy 34th Birthday, Sweetie!"
"Thank you. I…I completely forgot." He stuttered, watching as River grabbed a bowl of his favorite food. "Is that—fish fingers and custard?"
"Indeed."
"Wow." He gushed. "You put all this together?"
"Well…I had a little help from Clara."
"Not at all surprised by that." His grin faded when her expression changed. "What's wrong?"
"I…I have something to tell you. I wish…I wish…I could've waited another day. But…I just found out yesterday, and I'd already planned this, so it seemed fitting…" she sighed, looking paler and more tired than usual. "I'll wait till you're finished."
A shiver of dread shot through him. His heart lurched; whatever she was going to tell him; it couldn't be good.
"River?" he glanced over at her, worried.
She released a weary lapse of breath. "I'm sorry."
"River, please…whatever it is, we'll work through it—"
"Have you—have you ever wondered what really happened between me and my parents?"
"Well, yes, but you said you had a falling out—"
"I…lied. It wasn't even that. You see…I…I was very sick during my teenage years. My parents…they loved me, they did everything they could…but I got worse and worse. I was dying, John. It killed them to see me dying before their eyes. Everybody knew about my sickness…in Leadworth you can't keep anything a secret for long. They pitied me—I could see it in the way they looked at me every day—a million eyes watching, judging. They didn't understand; how could they? I wanted to live my last moments in peace. And I didn't want my parents to have to see me at my worst. So I ran away. At sixteen years old. But something miraculous happened…after all the treatments I'd received…I started to improve. Slowly my health got better. I went into remission, against all odds. And once I'd gotten past that, I went on to live my life as River Song. The woman whocould. Not Melody Williams, the weakling." Her voice waivered, overcome with emotion. "I always…I always intended to rectify things with my parents, but I never got the chance. And now, I have you…but…it's…it's not like I'd hoped. Because…I've gone into relapse. I have leukemia, John. And it doesn't look good. There's always…there's always the chance that things could improve, but I don't know. This is exactly why…why…I've always tried to stay away from relationships. Because who would want me? My days are numbered, what's the point?" tears trickled down her cheeks, but she let them fall.
"Oh, River…" he choked, running his fingers through her hair, just as he had that night he'd found her in the park.
"I should've never…I should've never let it get to this point. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, my love."
"No…I made my choice a long time ago." He kissed her then, firmly, longingly, with promise, bringing her close to his heart. "Marry me, River." John whispered against her lips.
"You idiot, you're completely mad!" she trembled at his touch. "Did you listen to anything I just said?"
"Every word. And it made me surer than ever. Be my wife."
"You're such a fool."
"I'm in love."
The very next day, John stood in front of the mirror, tugging at his bowtie, the very same way he had all those months ago.
"Ready?" Clara asked, patting his arm lightly.
"Absolutely."
He'd compiled all the necessary paperwork—birth certificates, marriage license; as well as a justice of peace (Jack's many connections came in handy for once). Normally, there'd be a required waiting period, but given the circumstances, an exception had been made.
His bride entered the courthouse—stunning, beautiful, dressed in that blue gown that she'd worn to the ball.
"You look incredible, River." John breathed, amazed.
"So do you."
They stood side by side, two separate people, soon vowing to become one.
Their only witnesses, Clara and Jack, simply grinned as the justice of peace administered the vows.
"Dearly beloved…we gather here today…to join John Smith and River Song in the vows of marriage…"
He went on, and John soaked in every word because he would remember this day forever. They spoke their 'I dos,' reverently, genuinely.
"I, John Smith, take thee, River Song, to be my wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, and I promise my love to you." He took his bowtie and wrapped it around her hand.
"I, River Song, take thee, John Smith, to be my husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, and I promise my love to you."
They both looked to the justice, who finished with a closing statement.
"…I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
With all the love in his heart, John leaned in, kissing his wife tenderly, poignantly, savoring the feel of her lips on his, relishing in the joy of this moment.
When you have something precious, you don't walk away. You run. You run as fast as you can until you're out from under the shadow.
He lived by that motto. Those words Clara had once spoken quietly into his chest.
Despite the frightening truth, John Smith didn't walk away. He did what he'd always done best. He ran.
He ran to River.
And they ran together.
You and me, Melody Williams, River Song. You watch us run.