"A man is the sum of his memories, you know. A Time Lord even more so."
He remembered things that hadn't happened yet sometimes. Or couldn't have happened. Bits and pieces of lives never lived, places that he's sure he'd never been, places that probably didn't even exist. Couldn't exist. For a long time he thought that perhaps he was going mad; like many other veterans, he'd returned from the war with more scars than you could see. He'd observed the symptoms in servicemen returning from the front often enough to recognise them in himself. But there were times when he wondered if that was all it was.
It didn't help that his recollection of the actual events of his life was muddier than most, thanks to the stray piece of shrapnel to the head that put him in hospital until after the armistice had been signed. He could recite word for word every single line of his service record, but the details themselves played out in his memory as a jumbled cacophony of impossible worlds interspersed with images of death, metal monsters, burning pain, and the sensation that time itself was twisting around him. He didn't like to talk about the war, and did his best not to think about it but there was very little he could do about the dreams.
On good nights, he slept soundly and peacefully, never stirring until the morning. On bad nights, the war invaded his mind and he woke covered in cold sweat, shaking uncontrollably and unable to return to sleep for fear of the horrors that await him there. Then there were the nights when he lied awake and tried to fit the pieces together, work out the puzzle of his memories and why sometimes he knew things that he shouldn't. Those were the worst, because when he considered the possible answers, he knew there was really only one that explained everything. He wasn't going mad, he'd already gone, and it chilled him to the bone.
Late February, 1949. Northeastern British Columbia, Canada.
Heat. Orange and yellow flames climb higher. Oh, it burns, it burns, it burns! He grits his teeth and pushes forward. It's when it stops hurting that he starts to worry. The longer this war goes on, the more brutally simple the Daleks' tactics have become. Fire works just as well at driving them back as anything else and is dead simple to deploy.
He can feel the Loop coming, like a tremor in his fingertips; he has less than twelve minutes until this timeline resets. The inevitability of it weighs on him, because he knows that on the next iteration, the order to retreat will be given sooner, once again abandoning the inhabitants of an innocent world to their fates without even an attempt at saving some of them. It's no wonder that the rest of the universe is beginning to look upon them with as much disgust as the Dalek Empire.
He can smell burnt flesh and hear his skin sizzling but does his best to hold off the crackling regeneration energy rapidly flooding his circulatory system; it'd only be reversed with the rest of this timeline and he always felt ill on the reset when that happened. He didn't particularly enjoy the reminder of what they'd done to him that every regeneration brought now either. Best if he focused on memorizing what he could of the Dalek deployment positions to tell Command when he was returned.
His vision is blurring with the pain though, and he can feel the frantic double heartbeats in his chest growing weaker; he's not going to be able to avoid it this time. He'd just have to try and avoid getting sick all over his boots again. And they call me the Oncoming Storm, he thinks bitterly. Gulping in one final breath, he straightens and unclenches the mental fist he'd had wrapped tightly around the energies inside him. He screams as flames of a different sort entirely engulf him.
He woke in a panic, clutching at the bedclothes and gasping for air. It had been months since he'd last had a dream that vivid; he'd almost started to hope that he'd banished them from his mind forever. He focused on calming his breathing, watching the thin cloud of each exhalation rise and drift away in the moonlight. The fire in the tiny furnace at the centre of the room had dwindled overnight, leaving the cabin air cold against his sweat dampened skin. He shivered and rose to fetch a bit of wood, trying to ignore the thoughts of burning alive that tending the coals inspired.
Wearily, he retrieved his journal from his desk and scratched out what he could recall of the dream before it retreated entirely to his unconscious mind again. He closed the notebook and put it away quickly when he was done; he didn't feel like dwelling on what it all meant right now. He set his glasses down on the desk and rubbed his eyes.
"John?" a sleepy voice called from the bed. "What are you doing up?"
"Just another nightmare," he answered her, "nothing to worry about."
"Come back to bed; you'll freeze if you sit up all night thinking about it."
He smiled and rejoined her under the heavy quilt, wrapping his arms around her. She gave a contented sigh and snuggled against him, sharing her warmth and helping him to dismiss his dark thoughts for now.
May, 1946.
From the back office, Elizabeth heard the bell on the shop's front door jangle. Ernie's here early, she thought, and carefully manoeuvred herself around the stack of books she'd been sorting to go and greet him. Mid-mornings were when she got most of her work done in the shop; after the early rush, very few people came in until after the school let out in the afternoon, though the occasional visitor during the lunch hour was not unheard of. Ernie Pickering was a rare exception; he owned the barbershop down the street and came by regularly every morning with his thermos of coffee to chat with her. Elizabeth didn't mind, he was a friendly old soul and always had the latest news from about town and political goings-on with the mine.
Since moving back home she'd had blessed few people to talk to other than her father, and as much as she loved him, his illness made long conversations difficult. Friends she'd known as a child had either moved away like she had and not returned or settled down with families of their own and regarded her with suspicion. Her stint in the "Big City" marked her as an outsider in their eyes. It wasn't even as though she'd done anything particularly scandalous there, working as a secretary for a lumber company and writing stories at night.
She'd been happy in Vancouver and missed it dearly. She'd still be there right now if her mother hadn't passed away unexpectedly last year.
Exiting the office, she was surprised to see an unfamiliar man in the shop. He had his back to her and stood quietly perusing the bookshelves with his hands in his pockets. She cleared her throat and asked him, "can I help you find anything?"
At the sound of her voice he started and spun to face her, his wide blue eyes registering alarm before he caught himself and schooled his features back to something resembling calm. He was tall and boyishly handsome, perhaps a few years older than her at most, with very short, dark blond hair combed neatly to one side. He was dressed far too nicely to be one of the miners, in a brown tweed suit and tie with a green cable knit sweater vest. Further piquing her curiosity was the jagged pink scar running the length of his scalp above his ear on the right side, just visible in the morning sunshine streaming through the shop window. She resisted the impolite urge to inquire after its origins and instead offered him a pleasant smile.
"No, ah, just looking, thank you," he stammered, becoming visibly embarrassed by her inspection. He had a lovely English accent.
She blinked and looked away from him self consciously. "Sorry, didn't mean to stare, just not used to seeing new faces in here all that often." She offered her hand to him. "I'm Elizabeth Frasier, pleased to meet you."
"Doctor John Foreman," he replied, giving her hand a brief squeeze before returning his hands to his pockets nervously. "I've only just recently arrived in town; I'm working at the hospital," he explained. Belatedly, she noticed the black medical bag resting at his feet. Perched atop it was a slightly battered brown fedora.
Sensing his unease, she retreated to behind the sales counter to give him space; she ought to return to her inventory anyway. "Welcome to Yellow Fork. Give a shout if you find anything you'd like to buy," she told him before making her exit.
Despite that awkward introduction, Dr. Foreman returned later that week and, as he gradually warmed to her more talkative nature, soon became a regular fixture in the shop, stopping in to speak with her on his way to (or from, occasionally) work most days. His company was a welcome addition to her routine; like herself, he was something of an outsider as a well-educated Englishman in a town dominated by its large silver mine and the ever-present Canadian wilderness.
From their frequent conversations she learned that the shy doctor had a keen interest in literature, wry sense of humour, and a positively disarming smile when one could be coaxed out of him. When she finally felt comfortable enough to ask him about the scar, he explained that he had served in the British Army Medical Corp during the war, and been injured by a shell fragment, but that he'd rather not discuss it. She didn't ask him anything more about the war after that; the haunted look in his eyes had told her enough. The scar itself soon disappeared from view as his hair grew out enough to cover it.
John was kind, thoughtful, and, despite his obvious discomfort around most other people, provided her with the much needed friendly companionship that not even her daily chats with Ernie had been able to fulfill. It being a small community, it wasn't long before their friendship became the stuff of gossip and innuendo. As one of the few unmarried young women living in Yellow Fork, she'd endured more than her fair share of attempted suitors and learned quickly to recognise the signs that a man was hoping for more. Since John had never been anything other than perfectly cordial on his visits, she ignored the chatter as idle speculation and went about her business as usual.
It quite took her by surprise when one evening he leant forward and kissed her.
They'd been debating the merits of poetry versus prose at the time, with him vehemently defending the use of puns in both mediums against her laughing protests. They had the shop to themselves and he'd caught her off guard by uttering an egregious example of a successful literary pun that made her groan and roll her eyes. One moment she was shaking her head and trying to come up with a suitable retort, the next, his hand had closed over her own and his lips were gently pressed against hers. The kiss was light and sweet and wholly unexpected.
When she was too stunned to react initially, he pulled back anxiously, cheeks flushed bright red and began a litany of apologies as he tried to flee. She had to grab his arm and drag him into another kiss to keep him from running from the shop.
They were married four months later, just before Christmas.