A/N Enjoy your first character death~ ;3

Thanks to Angelic Toaster

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock/Doctor Who/Torchwood or any associated characters, events, etc.


CHAPTER EIGHT

The Eleventh Doctor

When we start killing, it's all coming down right now
From the nightmare we've created, I want to be awakened somehow
(Want to be awakened right now)
~ "The Howling," Within Temptation

xxx

None of them know.

And it hurts to see, hurts from every possible angle. Even my happiness burns, because I know that this is the end, that there are a select number of them that I'll never be seeing again after this.

He's different. He's lucky. He hates me, and I can see that now, I accept it, because I remember perfectly well what that felt like, back when I occupied that body, before the run-in with the alien after Donna's departure, the one that stabbed me through the chest and caused an entirely mundane regeneration. I don't blame him for it, because it's understandable enough. It's not only my past forms that despise my current one. I don't think about it, though—don't think about any of it, at least not while I'm around the rest of them, because I can't allow my internal misery to spread.

No, perhaps misery isn't the right way to describe the poison that constantly singes the edges of my two hearts, tingles in my throat and boils in my stomach. Because it's not all negative. It's almost a good pain, to see them alive, their blazingly bright spirits practically blinding me with their vivid existence. I've seen them extinguished once before, though, and I'm going to again. There's no denying it, no changing it, and I've come to accept that. This is the end for me, and it's the end for them, too.

I've trained myself to come to terms with that, and I can't allow it to break now.

So I keep my face bright, keep my laughter loud, but my hands linger every time I touch one of them, and I can't prevent that. It's a tiny, tiny gift to myself, just a miniscule allowance to make up for everything that I know I'm going to have to live through all over again.

It's coming closer, every second, ticking away like the heart of a clock, the ancient instrument used for tracking the element that I traverse so freely, but that I'll never be able to twist in the most important way, never be able to bend to my true advantage.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Always, closer and closer. I don't try to put it off, don't try to deny it—I've learned my lesson with that.

Instead, I hold on to them as tight as I can while they're still here, trying not to let it show just how much I dread the release.


We only linger for a couple more hours after River and I master the first creature, just long enough to get a basic amount of training around all the others. Most everyone can fly them up and down evenly at this point, save Amy, who still refuses to touch them. Even as I try to persuade her to do so, say that her fear is unreasonable, the truth is that every fiber of me sympathizes with the pain in her eyes.

I don't want him to die, either. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that this had to happen, and I'm sorry that I can't fix it.

Nevertheless, the sun is on the downfall by the time we begin the short, increasingly familiar trek back through the trees, towards the base where Martha and Rory wait. The day here is a full sixteen hours and three minutes, if I recall correctly from last time, a good eight-hour change from what they're all used to. Only enough time for two meals, as I let them know on the way.

"Don't you lot go expecting lunch, by the way. We've only got enough supplies to make it on two meals a day, and quite a few hours have been thrown out the window, anyways. Supper should be around in three hours or so, assuming you can all last till then?"

A general murmur of assent fills the warm, moist air, though it's a bit grudging on the parts of Amy and Jack. John just shrugs, and Sherlock doesn't react at all. His eyes have grown distant again, almost misty, but in a very focused way. I find myself staring at the man more and more as time goes by—he's even more remarkable than I remember from last time. Such a unique mind, such an overwhelming capacity—I can't help but admire it.

Still, he does need to eat every so often, even if he seems to make a sport of denying it. I make a mental note to confirm that he does get something in his stomach later, even if John has to shove it in that direction. Then I whirl back around, throwing my arms out in welcome of the door to our little grey bunker.

"Home sweet home!" I give a quick rap on the heavy doors, and they're pushed open moments later by Martha. She looks tired, her dark hair hanging in her wide, shadowed eyes, but she still pulls on a strained smile at the sight of us.

"How did it go?"

"Brilliantly," I assure her. "If we keep making progress like this, the Master and Moriarty won't know what hit them by the time we actually have to face 'em! Rory still hanging in there?"

Her face lights up at this, and we both step in to allow the flow of other people to move a bit faster through the doors. They all settle into their respective beds almost immediately—not lying down, just sitting, letting out various groans of exhaustion.

"He is," Martha confirms, "much better. Actually woke up for a few minutes a ways back, and he seemed remarkably articulate. It looks like we do have some hope after all."

"Good… good." A genuine smile comes to my face, sparked by her obvious belief in her words. It's good to see her happy, even if I know it won't last long. "Well, we made excellent progress on our dino friends, I'm delighted to say. Unless our M&M pals decide to wage a sudden attack on us with no warning whatsoever, we should be all good."

"And will they?"

"Wha…?" Her sharp question catches me off guard, and I make sure to plaster on a confused face before I dare to reveal the answer to it. "Sorry, Jones, can't tell you that one."

I see her lips frame her own surname—Jones—and then she shakes her head, slowly. I tilt my chin in confusion. "What is it?"

"Just… you," she admits, softly. "You've changed."

I only remember it just then—her infatuation with me. It's easy enough to forget, after all, to let go in the light of the entirely platonic friendship that I'd once believed us to share, before she made it all too clear that she was wishing for something else all along. I wish I could have known, almost, so that I didn't hurt her as much as I did in the end. She seems happy with Mickey now, though—happier than we ever could have been, or so I tell myself. After all, she was after Rose, and my companion filling in the place of the brilliant blonde was always destined to be a bit of a rebound.

I cheated you, I realize just then, sudden guilt wracking my chest as she turns to greet the others. I offered you so much, but not what you wanted most of all… you were one in a long line of companions, but there's only ever one Doctor.

I was so absurdly unfair…

I shake myself, though, trying to push it aside, because focusing on the negative is the last thing I can allow myself to do right now. Instead, I bounce over to Sherlock, my 'partner,' simply because he's the nearest one to me and I need to talk to someone. Talking is good—it brings me into the moment, helps me craft a babbling, bubbly mask behind which to hide my inner emotion. People never want to see emotion from me. It scares them off, or at the very least makes them feel awkward. I'm meant to be a cheering agent, a mood-lightening device, and I don't mind taking on that role. When my actions make others smile, the grin on my own face becomes real, and that makes everything worth it.

"Doing alright?" I question of the detective. He shoots me a sharp glance, brows furrowing under his dark curls, and curls his lip, not deigning to respond. Instead, he turns his face away, his pale, perfect profile outlined against the sunlight shining in at a late-afternoon angle from the open door.

"He's fine," John amends with a sigh. The army doctor looks tired, the shadows under his eyes even more pronounced than they were yesterday, but still happy. Happy when he's around Sherlock, always.

It's funny, sometimes, how love can be so obvious from an outsider's point of view, but so hidden to the two clearly woven in its bindings.

"No need to be Mr. Grumpy Face," I mope in the detective's direction, but he does nothing more than roll his eyes and grumble under his breath.

"No need to use childish nicknames for me, Doctor."

"And no need to be quite so melancholy!" I retort. "You're on an alien planet, Sherlock, the ultimate vacation—enjoy it!"

The look he gives me this time is practically comical in its absurdity, as though enjoying something is a completely foreign concept. But the words he utters next chill me with their accuracy, with their reasoning. "We're being tracked down by James Moriarty and an army of aliens as we speak, Doctor; I don't have time to enjoy myself."

It's times like this when I just want to hide, just want to run away and stop having to talk, stop having to always come up with a decent response to his icy remarks. But I can't do that—I have to stand tall, I have to make something up if necessary, just need to keep things flowing, keep my allies confident even if I'm falling apart on the inside. "On the contrary," I offer, my voice graver than intended, "I'd say this is the perfect time to do such a thing. After all, who knows how long it will last for any of us?"

My last words, which slipped out unintentionally, seem to cause my stomach to ice over. I don't let it show, though—don't even hang around long enough to see Sherlock's reaction, as a matter of fact. Instead, I whisk off again, glancing among the others. Everyone seems to be talking amongst themselves, and I'm just resigning myself to sitting alone when a soft, masculine voice sounds behind me.

"Doctor."

"Doctor," I reply evenly, not turning to face myself. I can tell it's him—I can remember it's him, and I know exactly what he's going to say, and I let him get the words out anyway.

"Listen—I'm sure you know this…" His voice is low and rapid-fire, hushed; he clearly wants to get the words out when no one else can hear. "But they're here. Or at least the Master is. He's here, I don't know how, but I'm sure Moriarty's with him, and if so, the aliens are as well…"

"I do know," I murmur. "I… haven't forgotten."

"…It's not the only thing you haven't forgotten, is it?" he goes on, suddenly, determinedly. "You remember—the four of them…"

"How could I not?" I finally turn around, knowing that my eyes are dark, to face him fully. It's a slightly dizzying experience, glaring into my own face, but I don't allow that to deter me. "They were important to me. They are important to me, and important to you, too. It's not something that's just let slide, Doctor. You know as well as I do."

"But… even—?"

"You've noticed all the right ones," I answer simply, with a slight, unwilling sigh. I can remember that perfectly well—seeing the darkness of the four deaths in my own eyes, before they even occurred. Maybe, just maybe, if I hadn't taken it for granted that I'd been correct in my assumptions, they would have survived. If only I expected them to make it, it could have been possible… "It was good, you know—to tell Jack. For someone else to know, other than us… other than me."

"Jack… yeah, I suppose so," he agrees. "He's seen a lot…"

"Felt a lot," I add in an almost teasing way, raising my eyebrows at the memory of the Captain's confession in the TARDIS. The younger version of me flushes, ducking his head down, and I can't help but laugh softly. The whole situation is just so absurd—teasing myself about a man I know perfectly well I have no interest in, and all the while only repeating lines that I recall myself saying, on cues that a future me created once upon a time in the past.

Very confusing, indeed.

"Well, there's hardly any use standing around," I finally announce, not all too keen on continuing to drift mindlessly through conversations. No one's listening to me, though—they all seem fairly absorbed in discussions among themselves. For the most part, people are staying in their same groups as were assigned: Jack and Ianto whispering something in the corner, Martha and Mickey conversing on one of the lower bunk beds, Sherlock and John glancing around as though not sure whether or not they belonged here, Amy and River sitting anxiously by Rory's side—even Rose and Donna seem to have banded together, and I can see them both laughing from where I stand, presumably discussing something that they can both relate to. Possibly me, I realize with a slight jolt—I can't imagine what else the office temp and the young saleswoman would have in common other than traveling the stars.

Having Rose back really is amazing. The thought impresses itself even deeper into my mind as I watch myself step over to join the two women, lounge against the wall and stare as they greet me with grins and welcoming. This version of me, I've learned, is more adept at adjusting to losses than my previous one. I can think about her regularly now, without it stabbing at my hearts every second. But at the same time, I've only numbed myself, not cured. Seeing her face again, her smile, is almost painful. I know her fate, too—know the fate of every person in this room except for myself. I scan the crowd slowly, wishing desperately that I could stop myself from naming off the future of each person my eyes fall upon.

Dead, dead. Alive… alive and relatively well. Also alive. Abandoned… dead. Heartbroken. Miraculously alive. Dead… alive, of course. Dead, but not from today…

That also hurts, to know that at least one of them—who am I kidding? All of them, all of us, save perhaps Jack, are still going to die. Even if we make it through this insane adventure, that's not to say we won't fade away eventually. Because we will.

Everyone always does.

Amy's voice startles me—I didn't notice her approach. "Who's being crabby today?" she taunts, and I'm amazed by the amount of sarcastic poutiness in her tones, enough to glance over with a startled smile crossing my lips. Her face looks less pale than I've seen it since Rory's attack, and a genuine grin is pulling at her own lipstick-painted mouth.

"Not crabby," I retort playfully. "You're looking quite a bit brighter, Pond."

"It's Rory," she explains. "He's loads better—Martha really is something of a miracle worker, it looks like. You should have told me that he survives, Doctor—you had me scared half to death!"

My positive expression falters, but not long enough for her to question it, thankfully. Because then she's talking again, chattering away as she reaches out and grabs my arm. "Come on, you have to look at him—River said she thought he might even wake up for a while, which would be wonderful, of course. It's funny, really…" Now she's dragging me over next to where Rory lays limply, River sitting by his side. "He's the injured one, but in a way, he's the safest of us all. He won't be fighting, after all, when it comes to that—safe and sound in this nifty little metal box." She raps the wall of the bunker affectionately, and I force myself to laugh lightly.

"You do rather have a fondness for boxes, don't you, Doctor?" River teases, glancing up with amusement as I crouch down next to her.

"So it would seem," I snort. My eyes rove over Rory's face. His skin is still waxy, but more colored than yesterday, and his breathing seems much easier. I give the wound itself a quick once-over, just enough to confirm that there's no fresh bleeding. But Martha's done an expert job of wrapping the bandage, and I find myself nodding slightly in approval. Amy has reason to be happy; he really does look wonderful in comparison to his previous appearance.

"Brilliant, right?" the ginger Scot insists, rocking back on her heels.

"Absolutely," I beam, folding my arms and setting my elbows on my knees. "At this rate, he'll be up and bouncing in no time. Congratulations, Amy." My eyes flicker towards her, and I direct my smile towards the wide grin touching her own lips. "Looks like you and your husband will get a happy ending after all."


The hours while away with a number of word games from all corners of the galaxy, courtesy of Jack, Martha, and Mickey, all of whom have traveled around enough to get a good load of them. We all stay surprisingly entertained, and even the Tenth and Sherlock have cracked slight smiles by the time River decides to break out the food. We all gorge ourselves shamelessly; working with the dinosaurs was an exhausting feat, and all too deserving of copious reward. Sherlock eats a good deal more than the night before with John's coaxing—a full serving, in fact—and Martha manages to get a few spoonfuls down Rory's throat, too. All of us are in good spirits once night sets in, though the majority of the group also seems a bit restless. Physically exhausted though they may be, it doesn't change the fact that they're used to several more hours of sunlight. Nonetheless, Sherlock and John drift off relatively soon, snuggled up next to each other as they were the previous night. Donna follows, then Jack and Ianto, Amy, the other Doctor, and finally River.

Martha and Mickey take the longest, their dark eyes shining in the low light from a lantern I've set up for a good while after the steady breathing of the rest fills the air. They murmur to each other, too, low words that I can't quite make out and have no desire to. I don't want to intrude on the privacy of the two, and I make sure to divert my eyes, gazing vaguely at the oppressive metal of the door. The concept of I myself getting to sleep is practically laughable.

I have too much to dread tomorrow.

And even though I know I should be at least trying to get rest, the concept is absurd. Chances are that I won't be able to sleep a wink tonight, and I know it perfectly well. I consider going off, trying to walk in the woods for a couple of hours—I'd be safe enough, and I know for a fact that I do make it through till tomorrow—but the noise of the door opening would probably wake the others, which is something I can't deal with right now. Instead, I suffice to perch on my bunk, the lower half of the bed shared with River, and swing my legs back and forth nervously. A bit later, Martha and Mickey drift off almost simultaneously, leaving me the only conscious person in the room. I tilt my head back, resting it against the dusty metal frame of the bunk. It's cold, but I don't mind the chill seeping into my skull. It's only when a slight cramp begins to set in that I reluctantly duck down again, a low sigh issuing into the air from between my lips.

"Doctor?"

I take a moment to identify the source of the voice, and when I do, my eyes widen in surprise. "Rory?" I breathe, staring amazedly at his pale eyes, shining in the lantern light. He seems lucid enough, his pupils in focus and his breaths coming out shallowly. I stand and take a few shuffling steps over to his bed before kneeling down, the icy cold from the cement floor bleeding into my knees through the thin layer of fabric that my trousers provide.

He looks a bit paler in waking, but still rather strong despite the obvious frailty induced by his wound. For a long, steady handful of seconds, he simply watches my face, breathing in and out, then speaks again. His voice is barely more than a whisper, and I realize that it must have taken all his energy to muster up something loud enough to grab my attention before.

"How… how bad is it?"

I know immediately that he's talking about his wound. "Not bad at all," I reassure mindlessly. "Wonderful, as a matter of fact. You'll heal up just fine, wait and see… this is certainly no time to lose Roranicus the Great, now, is it? You've made it through dying, you've made it through being erased from time, this'll be simplicity itself to recover from, right?" But even as I speak, I can feel the words getting thicker, harder to force through my throat. I still smile, but I know that the expression is crooked—it shows in the steadiness of his eyes.

"Don't lie to me," he says easily, calmly. "I don't care if I die, Doctor. It only makes sense, really. If anyone here wasn't going to make it…" Something flashes in his gaze suddenly, and he sucks in a deep breath. I tense automatically, but it seems as though the affliction was only mental, because he's resumed his shaky trail of speech instants later. "I just want to know that Amy survives. Tell me that Amy survives… after all this. She has to."

"Of course Amy survives," I agree as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We both know that she's far too tough to be beaten by something as pathetic as a couple of psychopaths, right?"

"Rule number one," he murmurs, closing his eyes for a brief minute as if struggling to hold himself together. "The Doctor lies."

The last traces of a smile fall from my face, and I lean forward, reaching up to grasp his hand in one of my own. "But not all the time, Rory… not all the time. I can tell the truth, too. You know I can."

"I know that you can," he allows, "but not when you will. For all I know, I survive and Amy doesn't… no." He shakes his head, a minute action that seems all the more significant for its smallness. "No, I'm not stupid. There's no way in hell that I'm going to make it through this."

"Don't talk like that."

"I'll talk however I like, Doctor." His breathing is getting heavier, quicker—he's going to black out again soon, and we both know it. He suddenly glances down towards our joined hands, his eyes gleaming faintly under their drooping lids. "And I just want you to know… before… before that happens, that…" His words slur and then drop into nothing as his fingers go limp. The movement of his chest becomes steady once more, and I sigh, closing my own eyes for a brief instant and lifting his hand to my forehead. I hold it there for a moment, just feeling his warm skin, savoring it.

Thank you, Rory. For everything. You've been brilliant.

Then I let go and step away, leaving him, retreating to my bunk where I'll spend the rest of the night in anxious dread.


I can sense the first bits of sunlight without seeing them. It's like my brain has been made into a clock—that horrible ticking clock—easily tracking the time on this planet. My stomach rumbles vaguely, apparently feeling cheated for not getting fed during the several long hours that I've been awake since supper. I ignore it, though, hunching forwards and gripping onto the sheets that I've half-pulled over my legs. My heart seems too heavy in my ears, the beats too steady and separate from one another.

Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.

I try to keep my breathing even, standing up with a disgusted jerk of my sheets and looking around the room, at all the sleeping faces. I'm tempted to open the door, to at least, literally, shed some light on the situation, but I'm afraid of what might happen if I do so.

They might get in easier.

I can't remember the exact time that the attack is scheduled to happen, and I try not to put too much thought to it, instead hurrying over to shake the shoulder of my younger self. His eyes flash open almost immediately, and I hold a finger to my lips. After he blinks a few times and sits up foggily, understanding crosses his face, and a dark shadow falls over it.

"They're coming?" he asks.

I simply stare at him for a long moment, then give a small, reluctant nod, turning away to face the door without a word. Rory still looks horribly vulnerable, curled on his bed, and I move towards him instinctively. I've spent hours pondering his words from last night—I just want you to know… and have come to the conclusion that they could have meant anything, but the only thing I know for sure is that it definitely wasn't negative. I don't want to lose Rory, not after that. The thought of him, at this point, brings a painfully sweet sort of throb to my chest, not something that I allow myself time to consider right now, even as his mortality seems to be blinding me.

The first sounds come then.

My hearts seem to leap into my throat, but I force myself to ignore the violent nausea rising up inside of me, instead standing and staring as low thuds reverberate through the floor. They're powerful, massive, and growing larger by the second. I hear the confused mumbles of the sleepy others as the shaking pounds rouse them, but I don't turn to face them, even when Amy calls out my name in desperate confusion. Instead, I stay with my face turned straight towards the door, arms at my sides, jaw tight. The pounding, steady as drumbeats but far more rapid, seems to accelerate yet more, and my heart and lungs are jumping as the murmurs around me turn to first cries, then yells.

"What's happening?" Rose wails, and her voice tears at my heartstrings, but I still don't turn around.

Then I feel a hand on my shoulder—River's hand, warm and firm, and her voice is at my ear, lips brushing against my hair.

"They aren't ready. None of us are ready, Doctor."

"I know," I breathe in response. "I had to live with that knowledge… all this time."

"We're not all going to make it." It's a fact, not a question, and I don't object to it.

"How many?"

I consider lying, or making something up, but the truth forces itself dryly out of my throat, the single syllable hanging cracked in the air. "Three."

I hear her suck in a breath, and I squeeze my eyes shut as the thuds become deafening. John's horrified shout of "What the hell?" burns at my hearing, and I suddenly want to run, want to be out of this bunker so that I can turn around and run as fast as I can, away from this threat, away from all these people who I love, three of whom aren't going to survive the next hour.

"I'm sorry," I whisper suddenly, and I'm reaching out, gripping River and pulling her close, turning her around so that she faces me. Her amber-green eyes are bright and quick, and I focus on them, my breath hitching up in my chest. "River, I'm so sorry, I wish—maybe if I'd done something differently…"

"There's nothing you could have changed, Doctor," she replies firmly. "Not everything is in your control. Is it me? Am I one of them?"

I don't answer her. I can't answer her.

"Well, I'm not afraid," she insists, her voice firm and strong. "Not one bit, do you understand? Because even if this is the end for me, we still have so much ahead of us, you and me. Seeing you this far… you have so far to go, so much to live out. I don't care if this is the end of me, because it's not the end of us. Alright?"

Tears are welling up in my eyes, hot and painful, but I force myself to nod, not letting out a noise in the fear that it might transform itself into a choked sob.

"Good." Her hand slips up, cups my cheek. A smile curves her mouth, and a single tear runs down to her chin. The whole foundation of the building is shaking now, too violently and loudly for me to hear her next words. But I see them, on her lips and in her eyes.

Thank you.

Then the door bursts open, the first shot is fired and I feel her body go limp against mine. My own tears run free now, and a strangled moan works its way out of my throat as River slips to the ground, horribly still.

It's begun.