A/N: I'm starting to portray the Doctor as a true, self-righteous psychopath here, which is the main AU feature of the story. As well as changing the basic physical elements of Doctor Who, I'm changing his character to suit the vision I have for him as a very, very old man who's on the road to cynicism and destruction as a result of being overzealous. Clara's gone a bit loopy too, but that's what you get. Each psychopath to themselves, I suppose. Sorry for making you all wait so long! School started, and I'd rather give you quality chapters spaced apart than heaps of crap chapters, you feel me? Small filler-ish chapter, good to give you all a break. Easy reading and whatnot. Well, in comparison to the rest of the story LOL.

Chapter Ten: The Sidewalk Family

1334 words

Clara and The Doctor

And isn't that the truest thing there ever was. Madness surrounds us everywhere we go – in happy screaming children on sugar highs, in jealous and heartbroken teenagers that would do anything for that boy – in absolutely anyone at all.

But of course she'd always go back to him in the end. It would take weeks, or months, or years – she would always, always return to her Doctor and save him from himself or others.

So she would just have to get used to it. Living with a psychopath means never revealing how much they scare you.

"Tell me about the mass murder. That sounds interesting," she spoke as casually as she could, shaking internally. He smiled fondly at the memory.

"We were in a planetarium where they'd recreated the surface of Mars. So many people. So very many people were there, crowding the place, defacing it with the debris of their children. Hang on, that was after I killed them... Um, anyway – you should have seen them, Clara. Dribbling from the mouth, lips chapped from the dry winter air – like monsters. Aliens, if you will. They needed to die. I felt only a small portion of remorse after hacking the first baby apart with my meat cleaver."

She busied herself making tea for them both as a means to mask her deep concern. "Anything else you want me to tell you?" he enquired cheerfully. Clara immediately shook her head. "No, no, no, I'm quite alright thank you," she replied briskly.

They were silent for a moment after she handed him the other mug, which he slurped at an awkwardly high volume. "I'm bored," the Doctor stated plainly.

She raised an eyebrow at that. "What should we do?" Clara mused in reply.

"Let's go live out Sherlock, you can be my Mary and be all secret agent-y."

"Okay, Chin Boy."

"Okay, Soufflé Girl."

"We are slaying 'em with the references today."

"Yes we are, dear. We definitely are. Thank you for giving me a little infinity though our days are numbered."

"That book made me cry. We will not speak of that book."

After no more than five minutes they were bored again after having combed the newspapers for something remotely interesting. "You know," began the Doctor, "we could be the ones to make the news more... alluring."

Clara laughed at that. "What, are we gonna go kill people now?" she joked. His face looked excited and business-like at the same time. She would never know how he did that all in one look. His eyes remained set in that meaningful stare, like she was that one person at the party who didn't get the joke.

"Oh, you're serious..."

"Dead serious, my love."

He winked and she punched him playfully in the arm. "You can't joke about that!" she mock-scolded. They burst into laughter, but Clara stopped abruptly when he shimmied his hand into his skinny jeans pocket for something, pulling out two joints. Her mouth fell open.

"But – but – I only just..."

"Shh..." he soothed, "we'll light it together. Just like we used to. I want to dream of you tonight."

Clara fell into the familiar trap once more as his face lit up in that hopeful smile that only served to raise his non-existent eyebrows and make his prominent chin look even bigger. But she still loved him anyway. Of course she did. And so Clara broke the promise she made to her father all those years ago.

They laid there until the early hours of the morning, laughing at and with each other, words bumping and rolling together like bumper cars at a children's carnival. When the effects started to wear off, they realised the extent of their hunger and enthusiastically raided the nearby twenty-four hours grocery store, buying nearly everything except the building. After their atypical hunger had been well satiated, they set out to the streets of downtown London to see what they could do about their boredom.

Something about the Doctor brought out every psychotic thought, every dark whisper that had lived in her mind. He showed her the hidden side of herself, something denied and pushed away for so long. Clara needed to be relieved of her pre-psychosis tension. The people swarmed around them, some staggering drunkenly, some walking briskly and upright back to their homes for whatever reason they had to stay out so late. They grinned at each other when they saw two young children sitting with their sleeping father by the sidewalk, shaking empty coin tins. The perfect choices. It was just so easy for them to sweep the young teens away. So easy.

"Hello loves! Might I ask why you're out here instead of inside a nice house? Somewhere warmer?" Clara chirped with astonishing enthusiasm. The Doctor withheld a smirk and smiled at the children, who were too stunned to respond. The father did not stir, the beer bottle in his hand clutched tightly. Poor soul, Clara thought to herself. It would be rude if we didn't. It was time for the Doctor to let Clara do the bad things. But they were good things, in their eyes. They were being merciful by removing the children's father from his earth-bound misery. All it took was a look between them, and the plan was birthed. The Doctor guided the children to the local fish and chip shop for a quick dinner while Clara contemplated the humble kitchen knife in the pocket of her crimson trench coat, turning it over and over in her dental glove-covered hand. The man still slept even as her knife slipped between his ribs, almost like an accidental fall down the bus aisle. This was no accident. His eyes snapped open in confusion, the breaths wheezing in and out of him until Clara stabbed him three more times with vigour she had not known, and they stopped. The alcoholic homeless man and father of the two children was dead, slain at her hands. And she felt alive. The blood from the wound kept pulsing, dark and thick and beautiful, all over the pavement by her feet. She wiped the knife off and placed it in his hand, careful not to leave fingerprints. It would look like suicide.

It took about fifteen minutes and the Doctor returning alone for her to figure out the children were dead now, too. He grinned at the site of her, and she ran to his waiting arms desperately, seeking some sort of assurance that yes, she had just killed someone. The Doctor pressed feathery kisses to her forehead, proud of his Clara for slaying the man so heartlessly. The arterial blood had congealed by the time a woman across the road screamed and dialled the police, but by then the Doctor had removed his bowtie and left it there with his 'business' card, and they were long gone into the night.

Needless to say, the police department weren't very happy.