Amy and Rory had searched everywhere—the console room, the second library, even the swimming pool (which was closed for renovations, i.e. actually re-building the whole damn thing)—but they couldn't seem to locate the Doctor. And they were running out of places to look.
"Look, he's tired," Rory said after an hour of Time Lord scavenging had passed, limply tossing his arms into the air to complete the effect of being at one's total wit's end. "He's got a room, hasn't he? Maybe he's just resting."
Amy almost laughed. "The Doctor? Resting? Have you seen the man? He's like an attention-deficit twelve year old, except without the hope that he'll grow out of it eventually."
"Well, he's near-human, right? Surely he's got to sleep every once in a while."
"Yeah, and I'm sure he does sleep, but the point is that he wouldn't sleep—or rest or do whatever the hell Time Lords do to get energy—at a time like this." Amy's eyes lingered on the door of the TARDIS. He wouldn't, she thought to herself semi-calmly. Not without us, at least. Right?
"You know the Doctor," she continued in a strained voice, refusing to believe that he would just go out there and leave them behind again. "Holds a steadfast vow to not interfere—unless children are crying."
Well, some children.
It felt like the first chink in an unsteady dam. Amy faltered in her step and physically shuddered at that thought. No, that hadn't been a good thought at all. Of course he would have saved her, had he known. He loved her, he took care of her, of course he would have helped. Of course, of course… Then again, Amy told this to herself simply for her own want to feel secure. When it came right down to it, she didn't know if he would have interfered.
A bad thought trickled down her spine like the first droplets from the cracked dam, only encouraged into a gradual stream by a slew of sour memories.
It was too horrifying. She felt the need to go scrub herself ten times over. The dark seemed to encase her, trapping her. Amy could almost feel the burns on her wrists forming again, almost see the glint of her own pale fingers clutching at her pillowcase in the dim light of the moon, almost hear the agonizing squeak of her childhood ceiling fan as it slipped in and out of functioning. She had always been irritated by that fan. Why wouldn't it ever just die out completely? It didn't make sense. Everything else in her life was dead and done with, so why not that bloody ceiling fa—
She felt herself jump at Rory's touch.
"Hey," he said quietly, gently taking her shaky hand in his firm one. His light eyes were concerned, understanding. "Don't leave me like that."
Amy nodded, realizing that she must have looked mad just staring off and thinking those awful thoughts, and leaned against him. He hugged her close, and she felt more warmth and family than she ever had—loved, protected, cherished.
Yes, the Doctor did always manage to ruin these rare, tender moments between the couple. So, even if doing nothing but bearing seemingly-eternal tradition, in he walked, dejected and looking altogether like a wounded animal. He could hardly even look Amy in the eyes, and that certainly didn't make Amy feel any better about her recent remembrances.
"And where have you been off to?" She asked, trying to sound less like a mother and more like a worried friend.
"That girl out there needs you, Amy."
A silence dawned on everybody, even if only because of sheer confusion.
"What?" Amy asked, coming out of the strange stupor. "Why? What's the matter with her?"
The Doctor sighed. "Because… Well, because I think she's going through what you went through. She sensed it, somehow. I don't really know yet—possibly some sort of empathy link—but she did and she needs you to help her right now."
He knows? He's not supposed to know! She shouted inside her head. Wait. Keep it up. Maybe he's talking about something else.
"What're you talking about?" With an inward curse, she noticed her voice falter at the end of the badly-delivered cover up.
"Amy…" the Doctor sighed again, more uncomfortably than the one previous. "You know."
Apparently, so did he.
Amy's eyes widened, her mouth falling slightly ajar. She stepped forward, towards him. "How? Who told you?" Her voice was steel and furious. This was her best kept secret. It was her demon that she preferred to keep away from her friends—especially the one friend who felt somehow compelled to feel personal guilt over everything that went wrong in her life.
"Rory?" She asked accusingly, turning to the man behind her.
He shook his head immediately. "No. I said I wouldn't tell anybody and I didn't. I swear."
"It wasn't him, Amy." The Doctor's eyes were so sad now that Amy couldn't tolerate looking at them any longer. "It was me. All me."
"How? Is it that obvious?" Her voice was timid and unsure, once again cracking at the ends of her sentences.
"No. No, it isn't. Oh, Amy—my wonderful little Amy—you've done a great job covering it all up. Really, you have. You got a new life and it was working out beautifully. You've moved on, you aren't wallowing… I'm proud of you. It's more than I'd ever expect from someone who's gone through what you have." The Doctor looked her in the eyes then, letting his words sink into her consciousness. She took them gratefully. They were just what she needed to hear right then.
"But, as I'm sure you've noticed, I'm very perceptive." He added, smiling sadly and letting his eyes meet the floor again. "I see your reactions to yelling, Amy. To touch in general, to suddenness in any situation—I've absorbed all of that. You tense up, flinch. Remember the trip to Elether? You'd accidentally cut your arm, just sliced it all the way down, but you didn't even cry once. The way you process pain is astounding, I'll give you that, but your display of pent-up endurance only lead me to figuring out more."
Amy was left dumbfounded. Here was just another thing for the Doctor to feel sorry over, just another thing about her that he would try and fix. Next would come the interrogations that were set up like average, harmless conversations, then the obligatory comforting that she honestly didn't even need or want (it was all just to make him feel better about himself, though, right?), and then their lives would go back to normal—with him feeling as if he had singlehandedly righted some outrageous wrong, and she still needing simple love.
That's really all she wanted. Love.
"She's just outside, then?" Amy asked, making her way towards the door cautiously.
"Yes." The Doctor supplied the information as awkwardly as ever. "Her name's R-Ro—Ehm. Pardon me. Rosie." Amy didn't know why the name took so long to get out. Maybe he just had a cough or something.
Well, Amy thought as she opened the TARDIS door, maybe all Rosie wants is love, too.
