New story guys! First Doctor Who fanfiction! So as you could have guessed from the summary, this story is about the Doctor's mother. Quite honestly, I can't see the Doctor having a particularly normal birth considering he's not really a normal man. And the Eighth Doctor did mention that his mother was human. So this is my take on how the Doctor was born.
Some say our lives are planned out even before we are born.
April 9th 1987
The cries of a newborn echoed throughout the vast and spacious hospital. A jolly old midwife cradled the wailing child in her warm embrace; drawing small and intricate circles into the baby's back to sooth them. The mother, whose short brown hair was matted with sweat, lay panting on the hospital bed, legs still raised in the position she gave birth in not minutes ago. The father, a balding man in his late thirties, peppered kiss after kiss on the heaving mother's neck, silently congratulating his wife on giving him a daughter.
A few moments passed, during which the old midwife cleaned the child and the obstetrician inspected the mother, only to make sure that all was well. Eventually, the baby girl was clean, details of her small face becoming clearer and more pronounced to those around her. The midwife passed the now calm child to the new mother, giving her a soft smile and a nod of congratulations as she did.
"Do we have any names for the little one yet?" she asked quietly to the new parents. After sharing a brief look between them, the father moved forward and placed a large hand on his daughter's face, the contrast in size becoming even more noticeable.
"Isabel. Isabel Melody Black."
Some say our fate is down to our abilities and mentality.
"Come on, come on, come on…" a seventeen year old Isabel Black muttered as she hastily ripped open the letter from Oxford University. More specifically, the Medical College at Oxford University.
At last, Isabel managed to pry the letter from the difficult envelope and impatiently unfolded it. Eyes moving quickly as she scanned the page for the life-changing word, a slow smile crept upon her face as she found it.
'… accepted.'
And I suppose, there are those who believe that it is due to a combination of both.
"Honestly, she's a natural," Professor Hooper professed as he climbed into bed one night, lying next to his young wife.
"Who's this we're talking about now?" she asked from behind her magazine, at the same time lazily flipping the pages.
"Isabel Black. First year, mind you. Although, I suppose, it's not like she's the first. I remember a while back, a girl called Martha Jones. Now she was good too. I wonder what ever happened to her..."
But quite frankly, I think it's all down to sheer dumb luck.
'Do you hear the people sing, singing the songs of angry men,' the dark haired girl sang as she wandered down the streets of Oxford. It was oddly quiet that day, something Isabel basked in rather than questioned. Everyone needs a little peace and quiet every now and then.
It was walking down this street, with the evening sky glowing pale blues and yellows above that Isabel Black disappeared.
Two weeks passed with not a word from Isabel and not one single lead with the police. The general public had only been alerted a week ago to her disappearance, and the family, thinking it would help find her as those in desperation so often do, turned to the media for help.
"So she was last seen on Radcliffe Street in Oxford?" questioned the newswoman gently, a small smile on her face to encourage the jittering couple.
"That's right," said her father, a pleading look in his eye as though the woman before him could answer all his questions herself.
"And this was..?"
"Two weeks ago, yes."
"We are just looking," began the mother, "for anyone who might have seen her. From what the police can tell ('or at least what they've told us', grumbled the father), she was alone and wasn't meeting up with anyone, no mates or anything. At least, no one that we know of."
"Yes, she was heading back to her college. Oxford, you know? She was a bright one, our Isabel."
The pale newswoman nodded sympathetically and cast a soft look at the balding father. "Yes, I'm sure she was. So anyone who knows anything should either call the first or second number, the second if they would like to remain anonymous. Please, please, do not sit on any information. Help this couple get their beautiful daughter back."
Only an hour later, the Oxford police received a phone call from a rather hysterical young woman.
"I'm telling you, sir, she is in bed."
"And she just appeared there, I assume?" replied the answering officer sarcastically.
"Yes, that's right. Bright lights and everything."
Sure enough, Isabel Black had appeared in her bed, bright lights and everything.
Let me know whether you think I should continue it!