A/N: For SkyeElf and Batmarcus – thank you for the support, guys.
I don't own Doctor Who.
Hands
Deep in the darkest night, there where silence awaits us both, there where he explain the matters of his hearts to me – that is where I will wait for him. For you, Doctor. My doctor.
I will wait forever. I will wait happily if I knew he was coming back to me. I want to feel his hands! His rugged hands holding mine; embracing my slim form; stroking my cheek and patting my hair...
He once said that all you really needed to travel the universe was a hand to hold. Doctor, I need your hand now.
I couldn't handle it anymore. I had to get back, I just had to.
I'm his. I'm completely his. My body and my heart – I know it's only one, but he can have it. I just need his hand to hold. I just… I need him.
I want to feel his hands. It's more than words that I ask; it's intimate and a sort of feeling of soul – it's our hearts communicating.
Hands – just a touch on the shoulder or on the small of your back meant so much more than words. His hand playing with my hair as we waited for a meal, his hugs when he thought I was in gone or in danger or dead and it turned out I wasn't, the times he held my hand as we ran from another danger. My doctor.
I would walk barefoot over a mountain if it meant even the smallest sliver of hope. I would walk miles and miles to see him, barefoot and over thorns and needles and in treacherous terrain if I had to. I don't care about the pain or the time or the fatigue – I would do anything for the Doctor.
I would always do what he wants, even if it did take me a while. The one thing the Doctor did for me was to make me brave. There were so many perils that I just had to be brave. But I wouldn't trade it for the world, because I learned so much and experienced so much. That was why I would do anything to get back to him. Because he taught me so much, because he made me grow up, because he always saved me, because… I love him.
I will always believe in the good things life, even when it seems impossibly dark and dangerous, I will believe, because it was in his eyes. Everything good was reflected in those eyes – the eyes that I would cross mountains barefoot for.
His hands said so much to me. It told me that he cared every time he held my hand and touched my side or shoulder or back to draw my attention to something or just to make sure I was still there. I saw loneliness in his eyes sometimes, but, when he saw me, he smiled brightly.
I miss him.
It was always at night time, when I needed sleep (he didn't like to sleep a lot, something about nightmare), when he would lie next to me on a bed in the TARDIS and he'd open up. In the darkness and unusual silence we found ourselves in, he would talk. It wasn't always profound, sometimes about someone he knew, or about the ones before me. And again his hands spoke chapters. He would lie next to me, my hands on top of one another in front of my pillow, and he would gently lift one hand and replace it with his. He just put it on top of mine, that was all there was to it. When I was asleep, or almost, he would place a kiss on my forehead and wish me sweet dreams.
Hands are important. Hands are very important – because they tell you things you wouldn't notice otherwise, because sometimes… words come too late. Or not at all.
I know he loves me. His hands told me. But I needed to hear him say it, but he vanished before he could. I still need to hear it.
That's why today is my first day at this universe's Torchwood, and I'm completely in the dark.
Wish me luck.
