Nineteen Forty-Nine
George Orwell could barely keep his eyes open. He felt tired all the time now. His chest ached. His whole body ached. Sleep was what he needed. Yes, sleep. A very long sleep indeed.
The hospital bed was comfortable enough, though somehow sleep eluded him. He could not rest. It was long past midnight, and the morning light was drawing in. By rights Orwell should have been wandering his dreams. But he was waiting for someone – a much-needed visitor – who he knew would come back to see him, so close to the end.
Orwell looked up as the figure of a man appeared in the doorway. He wore a sad look on his face as he stood watching Orwell. The man said or did nothing. He simply looked on in silence.
"It's okay, Doctor," said Orwell, in almost a whisper. "I'm awake."
The man – the Doctor – stepped out of the shadows and into the room. He took a seat beside the hospital bed and held Orwell's hand in his own. "The TARDIS brought me here." His voice was sad and low. "How are you?"
"Dying," Orwell said. "Tuberculosis." A cough broke out, which he couldn't bring under control for several minutes. When the Doctor looked around for a nurse, Orwell said, "No, it's fine. I'm like this all day. No one can do anything. Not even you, Doctor."
The Doctor looked away. Orwell thought he saw a tear trickle down the Time Lord's face, though he told himself he must've been mistaken.
Orwell craned his neck to look out of the window. Dawn was breaking. He allowed himself a smile. "Christmas Day," he said.
"Christmas?" The Doctor looked up. "That's today?"
Orwell nodded. "My last one, I think."
"I didn't even bring you a present."
Orwell managed to laugh. "Don't concern yourself."
"Is there..." The Doctor cleared his throat. "Is there anything you need me to do? To make you more comfortable or...?"
Orwell shook his head. "Everything is in place. My affairs have been sorted and all my papers are in order. My dear wife makes me smile, even in my darkest hours. And when she goes home, the nurses are pleasant enough. They keep me talking, always asking about my books. Nineteen Eighty-Four seems to be a popular one." He smiled at the Doctor, though he did not return it. "That was quite a day, wasn't it, Doctor? With the Cybermen?"
"Yeah." The Doctor couldn't seem to catch Orwell's gaze. "It was an adventure, eh? Have we... I mean, did we ever meet again, after that? Or even before, and you never mentioned it?" As if noticing Orwell's perplexed expression, the Doctor went on, " I don't always meet people in the right order, you see. I was wondering whether I ever saw you again – the younger you."
Orwell shook his head. "Everything is so hazy now, but... No, not that I recall."
"Oh," said the Doctor sadly. "That's a shame. I never got to know you half as well as I'd have liked, George Orwell."
"Does one ever truly know another? I do not think so. I could say that of you, Doctor. In all the time we spent together, you never told me a thing. Not even your name. Doctor Who?"
That made the Doctor smile, though he didn't answer the question.
"But I'm not important," said the Doctor. "You are. George Orwell. The man who defeated the Cybermen—"
"You did that, Doctor—"
"But I couldn't have without your help. The man who wrote the books that inspired every generation that followed and shaped all of human history. You're a genius. You will be remembered."
"As will you. The Doctor in the TARDIS, saving the universe."
"Except that's not all I do, is it?" the Doctor snapped. Anger flashed in his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder, as if checking to see if anyone had heard his outburst. He continued in a softer voice, "I ruin lives. I pick people up and promise them the stars and deliver nothing but death and pain and destruction instead. Do I really want to be remembered for that?"
Orwell reached out and, now, he was holding the Doctor's hand in his own. "Doctor, has something happened? Why are you so upset?"
The Doctor opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it again quickly. "Doesn't matter. This isn't about me."
"Of course it is. Talk to me, my friend."
The Doctor took a deep breath. "The universe thinks I'm dead. And I'm starting to wonder whether... Maybe everything would be better if I was."
"Death is not something to joke about, Doctor," replied Orwell. "I know that better than you, I think, as I confront it every waking hour."
"I'm not joking." The stern look on the Doctor's face echoed his sentiment. "If I wasn't here, I can't help but think things might be better. For everyone."
"And what about the Cybermen?" asked Orwell. "What about every other monster that falls from the stars and threatens this world and all the others beyond? Where would the human race be without you watching over us?"
"They'd manage—"
"No, they really wouldn't. We need you, Doctor. Everyone needs you. You mustn't contemplate death, neither should you let the universe believe that you are gone. People need to know you're there, keeping them safe. I know it has kept me alive, believing that you would come to visit me again."
The Doctor let out a heavy sigh. "Maybe you're right."
The two of them stared out of the window at the rising sun.
"Where will you go today?" asked Orwell.
"Christmas Day," mused the Doctor. "I don't feel in the spirit of it. That's the thing about having a time machine, see. It can be Christmas whenever you want, and when you don't want it you can go somewhere else."
The Doctor stood up and made his way towards the door.
"The rest of us can't run away, Doctor," Orwell called after him. "You should not take the easy way out. Tell your friends you are alive – tell everyone. Give them the greatest gift of all."
The Doctor turned back to Orwell, and tears sparkled in his sunken eyes. "I don't have anyone. Goodbye, George Orwell."
"Goodbye, Doctor. Thank you."
A few moments later Orwell heard the TARDIS fading away. He smiled at the familiar sound, and closed his eyes.
It was time to sleep, and he was so very tired.