WHEN THE BOUGH BREAKS PART 3
"I never really know a killer from a savior/til I break at the bend."
Fuel, "Shimmer." Quote from the song used without permission. But it's all theirs.
"This is my penthouse view?"
The Doctor frowned. His voice sounded fake, the voice of a person who was trying to make light of something. Which he was. But he was failing miserably. All of his usual witty remarks and snappy comebacks seemed to have caught and died in his throat. He didn't feel like being jovial. There was no use trying to pretend otherwise.
He sighed, tossing down the cloth bags that held his purchases. Sarganti was just as he'd remembered it: remote, quiet, and peaceful. Surrounded by the Andurin Sea along this bay area. Perfect for fishing, boating, or simply lazing on the banks. There were several restaurants, a large public library, and shops selling everything from chocolate to clothes. And a pub. There were no Cybermen, Sontarians, ancient Gods, or fanatical would-be universe destroyers. The most menacing thing he'd seen on his way to the inn was a creature that resembled a domestic Earth cat.
In short, it's the perfect place for me to have a nervous breakdown, he thought.
He glanced about his room. Large bed, white bedspread and sheets, soft looking pillows. Small dresser, table with two chairs. Closet with white wooden door. A cooling cube stood near a food replicator. The bathroom had a sunken garden tub as well as a shower. It would do nicely.
He began to unpack. Five more turtlenecks, five sweaters. Six flannel shirts. All of them in various colors. Ten pairs of trousers, all black. A dark blue velvet wide-brimmed hat. Two more pairs of boots. Socks (black) and cotton boxers (black). Two pairs of red and white pinstriped pajamas. A long black leather coat, and a burgundy velvet jacket. His diary, a notebook and a dozen pens. He put fruit, cheese, bread and a meat that tasted like pastrami in the cooling cube, along with several bottles of wine. Vodka, white crème de cacao and Kaluha, all of which he'd gotten from the TARDIS. An assortment of other types of alcohol in exotic bottles from various planets. All of this had been sitting on shelves, never opened. He seldom drank and had rarely thought to ask any of his companions if they'd like something.
"Well," he said aloud briskly, "That was the old me. This is the new me, and drinking is certainly on my agenda."
It struck him of how reckless he sounded, how human. Isn't that what they did? So many of them, drinking to try and escape from their pain, their loneliness. Was he now no different? What would the Time Lords of the Council think if they could see him now?
"What indeed!" He muttered angrily. "It's partly because of that lot that I'm here now! Exiling me to Earth, putting me in peril, sending me to do their dirty work... is it any wonder I feel the way I do?"
Even as he spoke, he knew it wasn't the truth. Not the entire truth, anyway. His life was his own doing. No one had forced him to go round "saving the universe" as Sarah had put it. That had been his own grandiose idea. Here I am, the Doctor, come to fix everything, to help put it all to rights.
He shivered. So... who was going to fix him?
He knew the answer. He had to do it himself, or go mad trying.
The thought of Sarah reminded him of their good-bye. More specifically, of the kiss. He shook his head. How could he have let that happen? She was his friend, his companion. She trusted him. It should not, not have occurred. Except... except that when he had felt her body so close, her lips so soft and yielding, he hadn't wanted to stop it. And apparently, neither had she.
That was equally disturbing. Not only did he kiss her, but she'd wanted it. And if she wanted it, that had to mean...
No, surely not! She was just being... friendly. A friendly farewell kiss. Yes. That was it. Nothing at all to-
Flapdoodle! Another part of his mind retorted. Friendly kisses do not involve dueling tongues!
He sighed, sat down at the table and rested his chin on steepled hands. Well, all right, it wasn't just a friendly kiss. But still, no cause for alarm. Just a spur of the moment thing, it had never happened before, surely it wouldn't ever happen again.
You're awfully good at deceiving yourself, aren't you? That other part of his mind asked.
What do you know about it?
Enough to know that you've wanted to do that for a while now.
As the Doctor glumly digested this idea, the voice added: and so has she.
Now look here, that's pure supposition on your part-
Is it? Is it really? I rather think not. And if you think about it, you'll come to the same conclusion.
He sighed. I must be going mad. I'm arguing with myself.
And losing badly.
He bit back a retort. A bath, that was what he needed. A good soak in some bubbles. And then some sleep. "Sleep, perchance to dream," he said, and headed for the bath.
They were everywhere. He could feel their slime covered tentacles, the razor sharp teeth dripping venom, smell their foul odor as it threatened to choke his breath away. But all he could think of was Sarah. They were after Sarah, and he had to save her...
Now he was on Earth. 1867. What was called the Civil War time. Only there was nothing civil about war, any war. And the boy in his arms was bleeding badly. If he didn't help him, he would die. And if he did, history would be changed. The shots were getting closer. He didn't know what he was going to do. But he knew that he couldn't let the boy die like this, at the hands of his enemies. So he started running, the shots from their primitive guns thundering over his head, raining bullets that he prayed he could miss...
Spiders. Everywhere. Wrapped tightly in a web, unable to move, helpless, at their mercy. Offering the Great One the crystal, slowly being poisoned by radiation so powerful and deadly not even he could withstand it, feeling his body dissolve around him as this new reincarnation pushed forth, the living from the dead...
He bolted upright with a gasp. Nightmares. He hardly ever slept, and here he was having nightmares. His forehead was wet with sweat. He felt his hearts beating erratically and drew several deep breaths, waiting for his body to calm itself. After a minute or so it did, but his mind was in chaos. Time Lords didn't have nightmares... did they? He'd never had any before. Why now?
"Shock," he said to himself. "Stress. On edge. Nothing a nightcap won't help."
He rose and took a bottle from one of his bags. Peach brandy from Earth. Just the ticket.
As he swallowed some of the sweet drink, he wondered what Sarah would think if she could see him now, standing in the middle of his room, sweaty and disheveled, wearing red and white striped pajamas, drinking brandy. He imagined her exotic eyes widening, a rich curve to her lips as she grinned. "You really have gone mad," she'd say, with a gentle affection.
Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. She seems much on your mind.
He frowned at the voice. What are you insinuating?
I don't need to insinuate anything, do I, old chap. We both know why you've got her fixed in your thoughts like a lighthouse beacon.
She is NOT fixed in my thoughts!
No, of course not. And Daleks can fly.
Look, I know you're a part of my mind, but I really don't fancy having this conversation with you.
What's wrong, dear boy? Can't bear to hear the truth?
There is no truth to hear, he thought firmly.
O, but there is. Of course, I doubt it will matter soon. Once she finds out how pathetic you really are she'll not give you another thought.
What do you mean!
The voice laughed, a hollow mocking sound. Do you think she'll be able to forgive you for what you did, what you're doing now? Just because she kissed you doesn't mean she isn't hurt. She won't forget it. Bit by bit it will eat away at her until there's nothing left for you.
Liar, he hissed at the voice.
And your nightmares. How typical, how utterly human. Filled with all your fears and failings. And you have failed, don't forget that. You've failed with a lot of things. Sarah is just the next one on the list. A long list, I might add.
"Stop it!" He said.
Can't handle it, eh? I don't blame you. Why would you want to hear how you've mucked up your life and the lives of everyone who's ever cared about you? Susan, Jo, Harry, Sarah... you've scarred them for life with these little meanderings through the universe of yours. And did you ever think about it, ever stop to consider what you were doing to them? No. Because you're the Doctor, and the Doctor only cares about one thing: himself.
"I SAID STOP!" The Doctor roared. He sank to his knees, hands clamped over his ears as though it would help make the voice go away.
A soft knock sounded. "Sir, are you all right?" The night clerk's anxious voice called.
The Doctor shuddered, forced himself to reply. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you," he called out, feigning a casualness he didn't feel. "Little r'iw bug got in here and was nipping at me. Got me a few times before I could squash it! Sorry about that, I'm not used to bugs."
"All right, sir. Good night."
The footsteps receded, and he shakily got to his feet. Another drink, that's what he needed. It would help settle his nerves.
He poured another glass. And another. He altered his chemistry to allow the alcohol to have the effect he wanted, which was to make him completely soused. One way or another, he would silence that voice.
There were no further whispers. But it took eight glasses before he was able to fall back asleep.
"I never really know a killer from a savior/til I break at the bend."
Fuel, "Shimmer." Quote from the song used without permission. But it's all theirs.
"This is my penthouse view?"
The Doctor frowned. His voice sounded fake, the voice of a person who was trying to make light of something. Which he was. But he was failing miserably. All of his usual witty remarks and snappy comebacks seemed to have caught and died in his throat. He didn't feel like being jovial. There was no use trying to pretend otherwise.
He sighed, tossing down the cloth bags that held his purchases. Sarganti was just as he'd remembered it: remote, quiet, and peaceful. Surrounded by the Andurin Sea along this bay area. Perfect for fishing, boating, or simply lazing on the banks. There were several restaurants, a large public library, and shops selling everything from chocolate to clothes. And a pub. There were no Cybermen, Sontarians, ancient Gods, or fanatical would-be universe destroyers. The most menacing thing he'd seen on his way to the inn was a creature that resembled a domestic Earth cat.
In short, it's the perfect place for me to have a nervous breakdown, he thought.
He glanced about his room. Large bed, white bedspread and sheets, soft looking pillows. Small dresser, table with two chairs. Closet with white wooden door. A cooling cube stood near a food replicator. The bathroom had a sunken garden tub as well as a shower. It would do nicely.
He began to unpack. Five more turtlenecks, five sweaters. Six flannel shirts. All of them in various colors. Ten pairs of trousers, all black. A dark blue velvet wide-brimmed hat. Two more pairs of boots. Socks (black) and cotton boxers (black). Two pairs of red and white pinstriped pajamas. A long black leather coat, and a burgundy velvet jacket. His diary, a notebook and a dozen pens. He put fruit, cheese, bread and a meat that tasted like pastrami in the cooling cube, along with several bottles of wine. Vodka, white crème de cacao and Kaluha, all of which he'd gotten from the TARDIS. An assortment of other types of alcohol in exotic bottles from various planets. All of this had been sitting on shelves, never opened. He seldom drank and had rarely thought to ask any of his companions if they'd like something.
"Well," he said aloud briskly, "That was the old me. This is the new me, and drinking is certainly on my agenda."
It struck him of how reckless he sounded, how human. Isn't that what they did? So many of them, drinking to try and escape from their pain, their loneliness. Was he now no different? What would the Time Lords of the Council think if they could see him now?
"What indeed!" He muttered angrily. "It's partly because of that lot that I'm here now! Exiling me to Earth, putting me in peril, sending me to do their dirty work... is it any wonder I feel the way I do?"
Even as he spoke, he knew it wasn't the truth. Not the entire truth, anyway. His life was his own doing. No one had forced him to go round "saving the universe" as Sarah had put it. That had been his own grandiose idea. Here I am, the Doctor, come to fix everything, to help put it all to rights.
He shivered. So... who was going to fix him?
He knew the answer. He had to do it himself, or go mad trying.
The thought of Sarah reminded him of their good-bye. More specifically, of the kiss. He shook his head. How could he have let that happen? She was his friend, his companion. She trusted him. It should not, not have occurred. Except... except that when he had felt her body so close, her lips so soft and yielding, he hadn't wanted to stop it. And apparently, neither had she.
That was equally disturbing. Not only did he kiss her, but she'd wanted it. And if she wanted it, that had to mean...
No, surely not! She was just being... friendly. A friendly farewell kiss. Yes. That was it. Nothing at all to-
Flapdoodle! Another part of his mind retorted. Friendly kisses do not involve dueling tongues!
He sighed, sat down at the table and rested his chin on steepled hands. Well, all right, it wasn't just a friendly kiss. But still, no cause for alarm. Just a spur of the moment thing, it had never happened before, surely it wouldn't ever happen again.
You're awfully good at deceiving yourself, aren't you? That other part of his mind asked.
What do you know about it?
Enough to know that you've wanted to do that for a while now.
As the Doctor glumly digested this idea, the voice added: and so has she.
Now look here, that's pure supposition on your part-
Is it? Is it really? I rather think not. And if you think about it, you'll come to the same conclusion.
He sighed. I must be going mad. I'm arguing with myself.
And losing badly.
He bit back a retort. A bath, that was what he needed. A good soak in some bubbles. And then some sleep. "Sleep, perchance to dream," he said, and headed for the bath.
They were everywhere. He could feel their slime covered tentacles, the razor sharp teeth dripping venom, smell their foul odor as it threatened to choke his breath away. But all he could think of was Sarah. They were after Sarah, and he had to save her...
Now he was on Earth. 1867. What was called the Civil War time. Only there was nothing civil about war, any war. And the boy in his arms was bleeding badly. If he didn't help him, he would die. And if he did, history would be changed. The shots were getting closer. He didn't know what he was going to do. But he knew that he couldn't let the boy die like this, at the hands of his enemies. So he started running, the shots from their primitive guns thundering over his head, raining bullets that he prayed he could miss...
Spiders. Everywhere. Wrapped tightly in a web, unable to move, helpless, at their mercy. Offering the Great One the crystal, slowly being poisoned by radiation so powerful and deadly not even he could withstand it, feeling his body dissolve around him as this new reincarnation pushed forth, the living from the dead...
He bolted upright with a gasp. Nightmares. He hardly ever slept, and here he was having nightmares. His forehead was wet with sweat. He felt his hearts beating erratically and drew several deep breaths, waiting for his body to calm itself. After a minute or so it did, but his mind was in chaos. Time Lords didn't have nightmares... did they? He'd never had any before. Why now?
"Shock," he said to himself. "Stress. On edge. Nothing a nightcap won't help."
He rose and took a bottle from one of his bags. Peach brandy from Earth. Just the ticket.
As he swallowed some of the sweet drink, he wondered what Sarah would think if she could see him now, standing in the middle of his room, sweaty and disheveled, wearing red and white striped pajamas, drinking brandy. He imagined her exotic eyes widening, a rich curve to her lips as she grinned. "You really have gone mad," she'd say, with a gentle affection.
Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. She seems much on your mind.
He frowned at the voice. What are you insinuating?
I don't need to insinuate anything, do I, old chap. We both know why you've got her fixed in your thoughts like a lighthouse beacon.
She is NOT fixed in my thoughts!
No, of course not. And Daleks can fly.
Look, I know you're a part of my mind, but I really don't fancy having this conversation with you.
What's wrong, dear boy? Can't bear to hear the truth?
There is no truth to hear, he thought firmly.
O, but there is. Of course, I doubt it will matter soon. Once she finds out how pathetic you really are she'll not give you another thought.
What do you mean!
The voice laughed, a hollow mocking sound. Do you think she'll be able to forgive you for what you did, what you're doing now? Just because she kissed you doesn't mean she isn't hurt. She won't forget it. Bit by bit it will eat away at her until there's nothing left for you.
Liar, he hissed at the voice.
And your nightmares. How typical, how utterly human. Filled with all your fears and failings. And you have failed, don't forget that. You've failed with a lot of things. Sarah is just the next one on the list. A long list, I might add.
"Stop it!" He said.
Can't handle it, eh? I don't blame you. Why would you want to hear how you've mucked up your life and the lives of everyone who's ever cared about you? Susan, Jo, Harry, Sarah... you've scarred them for life with these little meanderings through the universe of yours. And did you ever think about it, ever stop to consider what you were doing to them? No. Because you're the Doctor, and the Doctor only cares about one thing: himself.
"I SAID STOP!" The Doctor roared. He sank to his knees, hands clamped over his ears as though it would help make the voice go away.
A soft knock sounded. "Sir, are you all right?" The night clerk's anxious voice called.
The Doctor shuddered, forced himself to reply. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you," he called out, feigning a casualness he didn't feel. "Little r'iw bug got in here and was nipping at me. Got me a few times before I could squash it! Sorry about that, I'm not used to bugs."
"All right, sir. Good night."
The footsteps receded, and he shakily got to his feet. Another drink, that's what he needed. It would help settle his nerves.
He poured another glass. And another. He altered his chemistry to allow the alcohol to have the effect he wanted, which was to make him completely soused. One way or another, he would silence that voice.
There were no further whispers. But it took eight glasses before he was able to fall back asleep.