Warnings: Character Study, Introspection, Mild Angst, Dark!Fic
A/N: Written for who_contest's Prompt:Trouble and (as always) comprised of my usual overly angsty-thinky (dark) ramblings. This prompt gave me a bit of trouble, I must say. I had two or three ideas, but wasn't really sure how to tackle those ideas. So I sat about dithering as the deadline approached (which always seems to happen), until a conversation with irishvampire13 (a damned fine writer in her own right), sparked off a completely different idea that seemed more than doable - it seemed a must. And in response to that feeling, this fiction was set to metaphorical paper. I don't know how good this is (as exhausted and muzzy as I am right now), but I feel safe in the hands of my Readers, who always figure it out long before I do. I certainly hope you all enjoy! Again, mostly unbeta'd and written in one go, so please forgive any mistakes and/or blatant vagueness. As always, I apologize for any repetition, misspellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-thinky/blithery and unbeta'd.
Disclaimer(s): I do not own the scrumptious Doctor or his lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about!

A man is the sum of his memories, y'know. A Time Lord even more so.

The very phrasing seems arrogant, I know – but at one time, I had said those words exactly. To prove that irony is alive and quite well in the universe, I remember saying them, but the time that they are centered around is hazy; more like a dream than a memory. A lot of my memories are like that, but some of the most important ones are harder to grasp. I try to not dwell on the lack of them (or how I have lost those essential parts of me that make me who I am). Instead I forge ahead to make new memories, hoping that the man I was would approve, even as I am not so sure I should care.

But if I am the sum of what I remember, it would seem (in the grand scheme of things, according to the universe itself), that what I am left with now is…not much. It is (as some of my human friends would say), enough to be going on with. But I feel that constant tug of who I used to be and it makes me melancholy at the worst of times. The worst of times being when I am left alone with my thoughts, the stretch of my remembrance falling through the gaps I have tried many times (and failed) to fill. Even the hum of the TARDIS, the holder of all things past, present and future is of little comfort, Her own memories a secret – and any thoughts She may have –

Well, let's just say, the Old Girl wasn't big on sharing in any sense.

Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that what I was currently doing was repetitious: the soft scratching-hiss of my gramophone, the needle carding over the grooves of the record on the turntable familiar and warm, though unsettling all at once. The actual music didn't matter. It was the feeling that washed over me, a type of dread that was only marginally unknown to me. Even now I am hesitant to acknowledge any deep comprehension of that particular emotion, though I am quite sure I have encountered it many times.

This is one of those occasions where the lack of any solid memory wasn't just a source of frustration. I was well aware in these moments how they were a hindrance that could put me in serious jeopardy one day, if I became too reckless. It didn't solve the problem, but it did give me that extra edge of caution. Needless to say I was keenly aware of my surroundings at this point, alert to what might be the cause of my current state of dis-ease; the quiet exacerbating my sense of dread instead of lessening it.

The book within my hands didn't help, though it was a favorite and one I often read when I was feeling mellow and in the mood for silent relaxation. I met HG Wells once at a party, long before he wrote the book. But I could never quite remember if I gave him the idea for it, or if I overheard him discussing it with his small circle of friends. It was another one of those frustrating gaps that eluded me and no manner of grasping deep within would draw them forth. Worrying. Troublesome even.

More so now that I am alone.

The steady shushing drag of the needle on the record (Vivaldi's 'Winter' on the turntable, volume low so as not to disturb my enjoyment of the book), combined with the weight of the tome in my hands recalled a tantalizing flicker of memory –

'…your kiss was a flame…not the spark that somehow died…'

but as ever it was elusive, that shiver of unknown (that heavy taste of helplessness, of foreboding), thick upon the back of my tongue; the sweet bite of Earl Grey (two sugars, a dash of milk) souring within my mouth, the cravat at my throat suddenly too tight – and it felt…wrong somehow. I was all too aware that the chair I was seated in was made for another self; it still hadn't conformed to my new frame.

But that wasn't it, either.

'…each time I awake…knowing you're not here…'

Déjà vu is an unquantifiable phenomena (quaintly phrased and coyly referenced to by humans), but one that I knew all too well. As a man who had lost his memories time and time again, the feeling of déjà vu never quite left me, though I constantly aquired new memories to add to the older, less stable ones. It was an uphill process, but one that seemed necessary, even if a bit superstitious for a man of my age. There was no positive proof that new memories would make up for the gaps that still existed within my mind, nor would they jog the elusive ones into my grasp. But I was hitting my middle lives, so I could be forgiven my more eccentric proclivities at this point.

At least, that was what I told myself.

I was perched at the edge of 'my' chair, my eyes drawn to the tea-cup beside me, as though I expected it to leap –

(arc)

into the very air – almost able to see it (quite clearly) as it dashed itself across the hardwood floor. The flesh at my shoulders tightened, and I could literally feel my skin 'crawl', a sensation I had heard of from my many Companions, but had never quite experienced myself. At least as far as I could recollect. And really, wasn't that the problem in the end? Recollection and the lack of the same?

'…I call out your name…'

The Time Machine. HG Wells. I had a feeling that it was not important, but it was at the same time. The book slid from my grasp as I shifted in the seat that I always thought of as mine, even as the contours of it declared that it wasn't. It was made for (molded to) a man that I could barely remember, even as I knew that I was him and he was me. I half-wished to be him again, though the sudden chill creeping through my bones told me that I really, really shouldn't wish that.

Something was coming to pass, but I couldn't be sure what. The wash of déjà vu was supernaturally strong, but there was nothing happening to support the feeling. The cup sat serenely in its saucer, the book (now on the floor, the 'thunk' of its landing more felt than heard) out of my reach and the gramophone –

I jumped, almost sliding out of the armchair as I anticipated the needle on the turntable to do the same – the feeling, the idea so sure I could actually hear it happening – even as 'Winter' played on without so much as a bump along the grooved track. That alone was unsettling, my whole self poised to react to a situation that had already occurred and was (evidently) long past. I've been prone to memories surfacing and retreating again before I could capture them, but I'd never felt something like this: a memory trying to reinsert itself into my current reality, thereby making itself a part of that reality. Something that most might shrug off after a moment's reflection before going back to what they were previously doing. But I am not most people – and when given a warning, I generally try to heed it. Even if that warning was a touch more vague than I am used to.

Making a determined effort to shake myself out of what was quickly becoming a fear response (instinctive, paralyzing, stultifying), I forced myself to stand up, what little warmth I had gathered from the confines of the leather armchair dissipating rapidly, my hearts beating out of rhythm for no immediate discernable reason. I needed to get ahold of myself. I needed to –

'…funny how things seem so right…in a dream…'

I glanced at the Time Rotor, noting how the smooth glide seemed slightly out of sync, a sure sign that whatever I was feeling was not déjà vu (even if that was what I wanted to tell myself). It was not memory or the lack of the same (though memory might have aided me at this point). No, the sense of the familiar was the vague warning I had surmised it to be and though I could not access the memories to assist me on unraveling the puzzle, I was quite sure that when push came to shove, I would manage to untangle myself from the trouble that was likely heading my way right now.

But a full set of working memories would not have gone amiss at this point.

Another glance at the console told me that the Rotor was slowing (destination reached?), the groan of the TARDIS' engines faint, almost as if I was being displaced. That had happened before – and recently – so though the prospect was unwelcome, it helped to temper the irrational sense of foreboding that had shaken me so handily out of my leisurely 'afternoon' tea.

It was about that moment that the Cloister Bell rang out. A deep, tolling boom that shook the floor under my feet, the Rotor's slow crawl now frozen mid contraction; the TARDIS destination screen flickering as a ripple from the Time Engines flowed through the main body of the Ship, the displacement now fully active even as I seemed to be the only one to register it. To all intents and purposes, the TARDIS was still flying normally – I just happened to be two steps outside of the Time and Space She was sailing through.

Well. That was new.

The thought had barely crossed my mind before I was galvanized by a wave of memory, flashes almost too fast (even for me) to comprehend hammering into my mind, the next slow roll of booming distress from the Cloister Bell coinciding with the frenzied assault of images and sound that ripped through me. The instinctive panic the Bell induced rose up from my chest, even as the wash of undiluted remembrance crushed me into place, my body caught between the fevered urgency of both, though I was helpless to do anything about either:

SKARO.

Urgent request.

Return to Gallifrey with the remains of –

'…Was real as all those tears I've cried…'

John Smith –

Madame Butterfly…Puccini –

"Rival Time Lord –"

Grace…full of grace –

"The whole of reality will be sucked through it –"

Atomic clock…world's first –

Those eyes, hypnotic and filled with such hate and sheer rage –

Gun sliding smooth from the holster…a magick trick –

"I can make it come true today –"

The Eye is still Open, it must be Closed –

"The universe will never have been –"

Oh, Grace – no. Not you –

"All your lives, Doctor –"

Sentimental Old Thing –

…dreamed of holding back death…

The next rumbling boom of the Cloister Bell knocked me out of my frozen state, the shriek of the Time Rotor crashing back into being as the TARDIS spun and rocked within the vortex, unable to land and unable to move forward; the Time Winds catching Her and tossing Her within the spin of sudden instability, Her Engines screaming as something from within –

As Something from Within tried to pull itself out…despite all the odds. Against the very concept of reality and the rules said reality adhered to.

But then, he was always doing that.

My oldest enemy, my long lost friend – and a creature I feared even more than I feared those most ancient of enemies (Daleks, Vampires, Cybermen). No other beings in the cosmos held the fierce strength of will that he possessed. No other beings had survived long past the lives he had burned through as he had.

It seemed the 'message' was a little late, my feelings of foreboding even more so.

I had grappled with trouble before. I had looked devils in the eye and defeated them with resources that were either scarce, barely adequate or absent altogether – but I knew (even as the mad laughter echoed through the corridors), that all of these things together had barely prepared me for the hells I was about to face. No one knew me better than he did. And I knew myself not at all.

The Master was coming.

I sat down to wait.