A/N: A week ago my friends and I were watching the premier of 'The Rings of Akhaten'. With most of us being crazy Whovians, we sat in relatively rapt attention (which meant that there was a minimal fraction of our usual interruptions, and these mainly consisted of shouted death threats at the laptop whenever BBC glitched and paused). At the credits we were shocked to silence. Then, we erupted in unison:
"A leaf?"
"They destroyed the star! The hell? Everyone on that planet's going to die! Seven planets, actually. Nice going Clara, here's your ring as a reward! Just run away with the mad man and his blue box."
"A leaf?!"
"Even if the people survived, they destroyed the society's god. And religion. Their main economy, in fact, since this was probably their major tourist selling point."
"Told you Matt Smith's a stalker. Poor Clara; poor Amy! This is why David Tennant is the one and only Doctor."
"Err, guys? THE DOCTOR JUST GAVE AWAY ALL HIS MEMORIES! LIKE, WTF OMG?"
"DID A FREAKING LEAF JUST SAVE THE DAY!?"
This fanfic, perhaps sadly, won't be along the lines of 'the most important leaf in the world' or 'the destroyer of worlds', but on how the Doctor gave away all his memories to a parasitic, soul-eating 'deity'—before walking away as though this wasn't a big deal. No. That's not how it works. Fanon itself won't allow it, nor will I. Thus, I theorise: what if there was a delayed reaction instead? It would take a lot of time to go through eleven regenerations of recollections. The best bit? The story I have planned can technically fit into canon!
I'm very sorry if this first chapter is confusing. The odd structure of this one came about from the Doctor losing his memories. To help your understanding, everything in parenthesis in this chapter are the TARDIS' 'thoughts', and while I focus on the reboot there are references to Classic Who (for example, I mention the Time War, and that the Doctor first travelled to Earth with his granddaughter Susan, who stayed after falling in love with a human).
General Disclaimer: *looks above* And…after that you think I'm Steven Moffat? Really?
"Oh, you like to think you're a god. But you're not a god. You're just a parasite. Eat now with jealousy and envy and longing for the lives of others. You feed on them. On the memory of love and loss and birth and death and joy and sorrow, so… so come on then. Take mine. Take my memories. But I hope you're got a big appetite. Because I've lived a long life and I've seen a few things. I walked away from the last great Time War. I marked the passing of the Time Lords. I saw the birth of the universe and watched as time ran out, moment by moment, until nothing remained. No time, no space. Just me! I walked in universes where the laws of physics were devised by the mind of a madman! And I watched universes freeze and creation burn! I have seen things you wouldn't believe! I have lost things you will never understand! And I know things, secrets that must never be told, knowledge that must never be spoken! Knowledge that will make parasite gods blaze! So come on then! Take it! Take it all, baby! Have it! You have it all!"
The Doctor to 'Grandfather' in 'The Rings of Akhaten' (Season 7, Episode 8).
The door shut.
"Home again, home again." The Doctor repeated with a wain sigh, pacing with nervous energy while absently throwing his sonic screwdriver to the seat. Ever since leaving the Rings of Akhaten, he'd felt off-balanced. Off-kilter. As though he'd spotted a dozen Silence but the memory was lurking out of reach—and wasn't that a pleasant thought. He paused, straightened his bow tie, and tried to throw off the feeling by concentrating on the present. "'Come back tomorrow'. No one ever remembers temporal displacements mean nothing in here! She'd have no idea if I came back in a century or five minutes."
'whHHHiiiRRR…'
"True. Of anybody, Clara would guess. Temporally, biologically impossible and all." He fidgeted with the controls, having decided that, even as a distraction, patience was most certainly not cool. Nor would be waiting a century. Tomorrow's breakfast could come at any moment, so why not this one? Yet even with this decided he still hesitated, for the unbalanced 'something-that-was-not-really-anything-but-perhap s-everything' niggled with more vehemence in the back of his head. "What am I doing? Contemplating the into everything and nothing at once of vanishing charms is completely irrelevant and—" he shook his head, jostled the orange doo-hickeys, and told himself to focus.
Right, focus. No problem. Not letting any thoughts wander astray like lost lambs: his specialty! That, and pressing recollections back with the confidence of a millennium of experiences. Give or take. Most certainly 'give', but who was counting? No no no, hold back, rewind. No wandering! Running! Into tomorrow, that is, to figure out the mystery of the Impossible Girl.
Smiling lightly, the Doctor jumped back into action, pulling and swerving the TARDIS' controls as though he knew precisely what he was doing. Which he most certainly did. River had no idea what she was talking about. Of course he knew how to park, but who didn't like the whirring noise? It was irresistible. Exactly like how he adored the new desktop adorning the console's greyed rafters.
Very grey-ish, in fact.
His hands paused as he gazed up, contemplating the ceiling with his features pulled in a frown. He wasn't sure what was wrong with the old girl these days. Not that there was any lack of heartbreak, but its abundance made any particular cause difficult to pin down. With the Ponds the TARDIS had been swept away in a whirl of kaleidoscopic fairy tales, a regular chocolate factory that would have made Dahl green with envy. It did, actually, and the man had promptly turned around and stolen the idea. But the Doctor had been not-so-secretly thrilled to have Wonka be based off of yours truly. River hadn't stopped laughing for days (minutes, ages?), but he'd been pleased as a pickle. Much made up for Jo's little spat with him over a broken arm—which he fixed, he did; he was called Doctor for a reason—which resulted in a toothy character. Lockhart, mmph. Hadn't even made him a redhead.
Wait, that was odd. It'd been awhile since he'd recalled any of that. Nostalgia was something best left for others since it always dwelt too close to regret for his liking and, no. No. That? He refused. There was a reason he never looked backwards.
But that was all beside the point, and the past was meant to be abandoned somewhere wibbly-wobbly off in the distance! Since the Untempered Schism, the only way onward he knew was to run, charging forward to something forever. Infinite, more infinite than even the most important leaf in existent; different, fascinating, ridiculously alive and open to the touch. Even as the Ponds and, yes, Rivers had swirled away on notes, Sexy had most likely greyed from a dislike of his 'Clara obsession' (though the silly thief insisted he'd be amiss if he didn't investigate such an impossible human—oh, he just loved those), and he was becoming analogical in his middle age. Worst things to be, he supposed. Lonely, for one. But this sort of thought hardly helped. Clara was gone, companions only thudded in his memories, and the last trip had caught him unawares with visions of family.
Of Susan. His dear, dear girl who'd longed to see the stars. So much like her mother, so much like him.
The Doctor gripped the console tightly, head bowed. NO! no No No. Why was he thinking of her now? Search for an off-switch; found, but raced away without pause as his mind continued spiralling with tootootoo many memories. OFF! Off you silly thing! This wasn't what he wanted! Not what he needed, either, so that mustn't dare be a justification!
Hardly noticing the whirring of take off, or the TARDIS' humming to try and draw him back (runRunRun to the present, future, side-ways, whatnot! GOOD BYE! Oh, you've been so sad. Will be? Ought to be? Tenses are funny). The Doctor was deaf to all as his knees began to buckle, whirls of colours and nonsensical shapes cascading past his eyes—and oh, how he suddenly missed the peaceful grey.
Teeth almost biting through lip, he saw it all, everything connecting in two heartbeats: Susan's love of humanity, his failure to keep her safe and so far away from an unwinnable war, to think she was out there lost (so, so very lost. My poor, dear thief; you are so much bigger on the inside), and he could do nothing. Nothing at all, except keep whatever last bit of her safe.
Her love.
They are under my protection. It had never been Clara, River, Amy, Donna, Martha, Rose, Sarah Jane, Romana, or so many others who'd passed through this dimension of a box. Or Earth itself; though don't test their protector, the Oncoming Storm, for he had oh so many rules. And that was the crux of it. The tragic, melodramatic catch: he could solve any problem in this universe or soap bubbles beyond, except for his own.
Why did he taste a drop of metallic copper? Which wasn't actually copper, or metal. He was fairly certain he wasn't metal. Not when he'd last checked, though with the harsh, shivering tremors breaking down his spine—with not even a glimpse of healing gold—he wouldn't have been shocked at anything. Not anymore. But this was wrong! Wrong Wrong WRONG! Something was wrong with him, with his thoughts. He knew it, he did…he knew something. What? Oh, what he'd give for a Rememberall. Though he wasn't sure where that odd word had come from.
The Doctor squabbled in his pockets, his motions far shakier than normal. Help, that's what he needed. A Time Lord distress call. But no, something was also wrong with that. Oh right, no others. All alone. Except, except for a few. He needed psychic paper! Pen something and River would be here five minutes ago, spoilers and all. Maybe she'd even be his wife.
He hesitated, biting back a scream as another series of thoughts fell away. As this passed he jerkily glanced down, eyes lighting in confusion. Why was he searching his pocket? Why was he thinking of Mels? No, wait, someone else. Who? Some kind of doctor. Not a actual kind, he didn't think, but that word did have an infinite amount of definitions. Just like a leaf.
Wait, what? A leaf?
Drifting in puzzlement, the Doctor never noticed the TARDIS draw to a stop. But the oddly gentle bump in landing was the last straw needed to drop him to his knees, a thousand years (and a thousand more, my poor, silly thief) of memories streaming as his hands uselessly clutched his hair—pocket and psychic paper long forgotten; never even contemplated. Not contemplated. Will not contemplate. And he howled. Oh, how he howled, Howled, HOWLED; his Bad Wolf would be proud but sososo sad… if she wasn't lost. Lost, like all the rest who had (will, won't, should have) yearned for the stars. Set adrift with his other hand, a single, unbroken heart for company. Page one again, but he'd missed the possibilities. He was envious. Another chance at life, to be a father.
A storm raged in his head, and he forgot. Almost, that is. Crucial bits of plot and conflict filtered away, and in this moment he found that, no, he didn't particularly mind seeing them go. He was almost grateful for the relief, of his shoulders being unburdened at last. These were easy to lose. The pain came from the rest.
For there was only one thing that the Doctor tightly grasped onto, what he yelled and begged to recall: he had once told a story. No, not singular. Erase. He had told so many tales that he'd lost track himself. The truth was relative, happily separate from subjectivity. The past could be rewritten, and little details hardly mattered. It was the story he loved, the tale that all flocked to. Trust him to lie. That's what made him the Doctor.
Once upon a time, there was a man and his granddaughter.
She had wanted to see the stars. He was a grumpy old man (so, so young, my thief, barely more than a boy) who had wanted to see her smile. Neither had an adventure so they ran away. They borrowed a Type 40 time travel capsule, a TARDIS that had been a museum piece since he was young, and had always meant to return it. Maybe. Someday. But the TARDIS had likewise yearned to find her story, and would forevermore insist that she'd stolen her thief (not 'borrowed', never that, for it implied the eventual intention to return the thing that was taken. And what makes you think I would ever give you back?). They had always (forever, eternally, ever after; synonyms are fun!) wanted to go.
Once upon a time, there was a dark and stormy night.
An oncoming storm, the end of so many songs in a forest without trees. So many Libraries.
He far preferred museums; archeologists, sideways melodies and all. Of lost love, but not quite. Not then, not now, not ever, not with any tense. Mostly, they fell and had happily evers. It was the monsters that came after—Susan leaving her son, Astrid flying in the stars she so craved, Rose twinkling with no more stars to burn, Donna's memories filtering away (had she felt like this? Relief and painPainPain in one?), Amy the fairy tale and Rory the Roman without their melody and parents, the Master who refused the Call of his heartbeats—that lost their songs. They did. Every last one; and he'd been running from his own prophecy for far too long.
Not the four knocks. That was a pause; this was a good bye without a farewell.
Once upon a time, there was a hero.
Who ranRanRAN! Never fast enough, and who could never be a healer, a wise man.
Dratted dichotomy. For protagonist, yes! Fair consolation prize, but it always lagged along with antagonism. One could never be just a hero because, oh! Flip side, what a lark. The Destroyer of Worlds accompanied every knight in silver armour, and no. No no NO! Why couldn't he refuse both? To be happy, content. With no influence whatsoever, a hermit with lots of little hermit friends so that he would never be lonely. Parfait! With a bow tie, with fish fingers and pears—no, that was wrong; was it?—who was never tempted by the big, shiny red buttons of the universe.
Wait, buttons? Who said anything about that? Blue stabilisers, that was it. Not sure what they actually did. Not sure if he ever did. Maybe his melody did, if only he could recall. Something about breaking improperly, of pressing the button and making Gallifrey disapparate with a poof! Just so he could continue his song. Though not, not quite, because that wasn't it.
Again, repeat; what button? Rowling? Gallifrey? He wasn't sure what, but he thought he'd take it back. Everything, take it all away! He dared the so-called-god (goodness knows we've met enough) to live with this. To look through the memories and be haunted every single moment (day, age, era) by all of time that could not be undone. All the moments he'd turned right. All the days he'd turned left, and lost. Was so, so lost.
So take them. The Doctor remembered what was happening, faintly recalled it through the haze of nightmares. "TAKE THEM! TAKE THEM ALL! Aren't you hungry? Full already? TAKE THEM!" Let's see if it'd survive. Was it already dead? Hardly mattered, for the dream was already fading back like all the rest.
In a last frantic clutch, he clasped his eyes shut, concentrating on his final thoughts. For the principle of the matter. To gain peace with this ever after. Because, because he'd prefer to read about history in the dratted libraries rather than rushing about. He would, he would. He was so tired (so exhausted; sleep, my thief) of endangering time and everyone in it with a sightseers' glee. A sightseer who likened himself a deity. A King. A Lord. The Lord of Time, the last. Couldn't remember who'd given him that title; maybe he'd bestowed it himself. Like Napoleon, or so many Bad Wolves who had huffed and puffed, creating themselves out of tales, nightmares. The boogeyman. The being that monsters under the bed were afraid of in the dead of night. No, he wouldn't miss this.
The Doctor let it go with a sigh of relief that, in two heartbeats, turned to puzzlement.
There was something, something he couldn't put his finger on—lots of fingers and toes, none of which were bright, shiny and new. Though his hand ought to be? No, past face, rather foxy, not red like a riding hood, but rude. Right. Maybe?—that he was missing. Some reason why being a hero was rubbish. He contemplated for a microsecond that it was the pain that came from centuries of memories being ripped away without a by-your-means, but dismissed this in the next halted, wilting breath.
Once upon a time, there was a mad man with a box.
Without a box. For the drumming pierced his head and the soothing of the TARDIS only made the memories tug up and out, faster and faster as his hearts broke. 1,000 years? Hah. He'd been lying about his age for longer than he cared to remember. Wasn't sure he'd ever truly recalled it. He'd long lost track of it, just like the stories he told. The ages and tales replaced with whatever the psychic paper saw fit. As easy to change as identities. As heads. As personas.
Not as companions, though. Never them. For it hurt so much… and everything was too bloody loud! The cries went beyond pain, to a loss of something he'd suddenly truly, absolutely, intrinsically lost track of (they fell through your fingers, maybe captured in the matrix? Maybe safe, my dear thief, I'll try). He collapsed back onto his hands, and the position would've been painful if it wasn't surmounted by everything else. The TARDIS whirred in worry, something which, if he'd been thinking properly, would have made him pat her console reassuringly. But this slight noise was still too much; as it clenched his skull in a death-grip all he knew was he had to get out!
The Doctor wasn't sure how he managed to crawl to the entrance. Though the haze, the front door opened of its own accord, and a gentle push sent him sprawling into the open air and slight drizzle. No tongue was stuck into the breeze to determine the coordinates (right where you need to be, silly boy). He didn't contemplate the feel of rough concrete beneath his skin, if River would pop in to save the day, the mystery of the Impossible Girl, the previous adventure, what exactly he'd done by feeding the Old God every last one of his recollections, why his head felt as though it would burst from pain, anguish, and too much joy for anyone to hold, why his memories were slipping away like drops against so many rivered ponds, and why there was an odd whirring noise that sounded as though he was being left behind. Lost (See? Tenses are difficult. But I'm sorry. You understand. You understood. You will understand. HELLO).
Once upon a time, the narrator forgot the story.
Because they had called—will call, always called, never called, did call—him the Doctor. He didn't know why. He thought he called himself that too; still didn't know why. Though one did call him something else, a few syllables meant only for the ears of another impossible girl. But that song had passed. It was in the air, the breeze, sweeping away from him in a rush of terribly grating finite.
Through the pierced screams—his? Theirs? The air's, the world's, all those he had lost to the stars—the Doctor barely noticed the humans emerge onto the Roald Dahl Plass from the monument. Or their rushing and shouting of whowhatwhenwherewhyhow. Only one of these stuck with his dwindling thoughts, and whatever part of him left was surprised even this stayed. As the terrified noise caught in his throat, he fell into the nothing lapsing on everything. All thus vanished except a single question, which faded with a whimper:
'Doctor Who?'
A/N: A terribly cliché end, but it was impossible to resist! Still, at least it's not the actual end as this will be a chaptered fic. I'm not sure how long it will run for; I suppose it entirely depends on interest.
I would ask, 'Any guesses on who's found the Doctor?', but it's pretty clear from the tagline!
