It was snowing again, and Clara was very afraid. But the Doctor was coming. Vastra had assured her of that.

He would be here soon, and to him time was very important. She expected someone who would never be late, and would expect nothing less than punctuality from those around him, if they were desperate enough to summon him. The squat brown 'man', Strax, gave her her coat and a few words of advice, including something about one day destroying her for the glory of his home. Homeland? Homeworld? What was 'Sontaran'?

She was waiting on the stairs by the door. She was ready to go. She would have to be brave. It was snowing again, and that meant terrible things if she was right. It was like a slide collection in the back of her mind: blurred, still images of snow in the most horrible of shapes, soft like snow, but stiff like ice. Steaming like burning.

It's magic. I'm sure of it. All of this is magic.


The Doctor wasn't what she expected. And at the same time, something about his face and his stride seemed totally familiar. A slight swagger, a hunch that suggested urgency, if not a bad back. He had a young, skeletal face with a prominent chin, and thankfully didn't indulge in the day's taste in moustaches and awful beards. Clara didn't much care for beards. He was actually kind of handsome, if she were into that. Only sometimes, it seemed. Most of her time she was too busy to think about sex, or marriage.

You still haven't told Mr. Latimer you're going to be late.

Oh, God, Mr. Latimer. Him and his awkward advances. One of these days you'll need to tell him straight-up that you've only stayed this long for the children.

Punctuality was very important to her too. It was how she'd managed to provide for herself and her father, after all - always being the hardest worker. She'd never been late before. It was going to eat at her, but she kept telling herself she had to see this through. At least for a little while. Yes. The Doctor would come, he would live up to his mysterious title, and she would be able to go about as normal. Only one (very valid) exception to her spotless self-kept record.

So why did it feel like it would not be that simple?

Well, that might be something to do with the Doctor himself. As soon as she entered, something told her nothing would be that simple:

Jenny called from the nearest room, and Clara perked her head up: "Miss Oswald, the Doctor ap - !"

BAM!

The door flung open with a crash surely no human could inflict to a door. And there stood this thin figure in a brown fur coat and top hat, arms splayed wide like he was parting the Red Sea.

(Historical note: he'd been hungry, sleep-deprived and unable to shave for months, of course he was going to take the shortcut - ironically, also the scenic route! Seemed like the practical thing to do.)

And that big grin on his face, revealing the jut of his chin, his many teeth, his childish eyes. His head was tilted so far back his great top hat fell and thunked against the ground. Behind him, Clara could see the great clumps of snow descending at an angle upon the city.

"...Doctor?"

"Yes?" Suddenly he dropped the pose and stepped inside. He left his hat.

"Erm... are you gonna bring your hat?"

"Oh! Yes." He leaned all the way over with his long arms, long torso and long legs to grab his fallen hat. He brushed it off, put it back on and came back inside. "See? Good as new?"

And then, without missing a beat, took it off and tossed it to the peg nearest the door. And in one swift motion his coat was off too, revealing a matching waistcoat. But no tie or cravat around his neck that she could see, only the little corners of white collar. He moved swiftly, more swiftly than most men she'd ever seen, if not all of them.

"See, everyone here says top hats are cool, but they're not." He leaned in incredibly close to Clara. Now his eyes were big, haunted. How many different shades had his face and eyes taken in these few seconds she'd seen him? His voice was hollow, ghostlike. "I know what's truly cool."

Trying to lean back, to get him out of her space, Clara craned her head every other which way, hoping to get a view of what he was wearing, if there were any unusual tools in his pockets, any animal companions, anything not of this world.

She saw he had a purple pea coat and waistcoat, a pocket watch, some odd shoes and pants, a bowtie and an upturned collar. Outside of his fashion and sheer level of expressiveness, there was nothing particularly odd about him. He was not squat and leathery, lithe and green and scaled, not made of snow or metal or covered in the hair of a great ape. He was just... a person.

So why did she feel like he'd start speaking in tongues any moment now, or sprout wings, spontaneously combust, remove his head for a joke?

If it's all magic, then this Doctor is definitely Merlin. He's got to be. Maybe Merlin's grandson.

"What are you staring at me for?" She just realized she'd gotten lost in her curiosity again.

"Well, what are you staring at me for, eh, Doctor?" He drew back, rubbed his chin.

"Yes, my apologies. Would you happen to know where a Miss Clara Oswald is? I can't seem to find her."

"Er, Doctor, I'm - " Too late. He was pacing, examining the pictures on the walls, peeking into every doorway, down the corridor even!

"She's been brought here by some friends of mine, and they wouldn't stop nagging me until I gave her an appointment."

"Doctor..." Oh, great. Now he was off down the corridor, flinging open every door, never even taking a breath to stop his monologue.

"Yes, Doctor! I'm the Doctor and she is my, erm... patient! Yes, all doctors... have patients. And sometimes offices! But not me though, I'm a travelling Doctor!"

"Yeah, about that, Doc - " He screamed into a closet.

"IS THERE A CLARA OSWALD IN THERE?!"

Blimey, he's a bright one. Did he hit his head when it fell out of the clouds?

"DOCTOR, WOULD YOU JUST SHUT UUUUPPPPP!" He turned, startled. But suddenly his face became something else. An authority, all narrow eyes and little smirk. Again he took another lunking step towards her.

"And why should I do that?"

She swallowed. It was like she could see his face slowly morphing into the face of every demon she'd ever seen in her nightmares. He'd probably been all of them at one point or another.

"Erm, because..." She tugged at her sleeves, straightened her dress. And her next few sentences kept a tentativeness to them, as if she was scared she would blurt the wrong answer to a question that hadn't been asked. "I'm... Clara Oswald. I-I'm the one who... followed you, or so they tell me, can't remember it."

He hesitated a moment. His face hardly moved. God, is this why he kept moving so fast, changing expressions - because his face became the stuff of horror when he stood still?

"You can't?" She shook her head.

"N-n-no, sir."

Another hesitation.

"Don't call me sir."

And then he was animated again. In a fluid swinging motion he'd spun about, seemingly moving all the way around her in two steps, heading back out the corridor. And she was again the one following behind. His arms were swinging widely as he walked, his legs joggling this way and that, like something out of the early two-frame animations of walking men. Nothing about him was level, proper or stiff.

"Why not?"

"I'm the Doctor. If that's not a good enough title for you, don't call me."

"So no one calls you unless they really need you."

"Exactly! It's funny, no one seems to get that."

"Well, I mean, didn't half take some trouble to get you down here."

"There's a mystery at hand, and I can't run from it. Neither can you, and if you're right, neither can the whole of London, maybe England, maybe greater Britain, maybe Europe, maybe the whole world!" With that last word he reached the door, swept up his hat and coat, and again, Clara saw that he didn't even put them on. It was like they came to him, stuck to him like magnets. And he was out into the street, as if the stairs weren't even there. Clara immediately ran after him.

"Erm, Doctor, shouldn't we get the others?" He turned around.

"What others?"

"The, erm..." What should she call them? She remembered their names: Strax, Jenny and Vastra. But... together, what were they?

"The uhm... other members of your cult."

He was puzzled.

"Cult?"

"Yeah, the one that called you in."

"Oh, them! Yes, them, they're called the Paternoster Gang. Lovely name, rolls right off the tongue!"

"Yes, but... won't we need them?"

"Maybe. But I'll more likely handle this on my own." Clara looked to the snow still falling around them, shivered - or shuddered. Somewhere down the street was the sound of children laughing as they slid across the ice. They were so in danger, she wanted to run down and scream for them to get inside, and she barely even knew why! What about the snow made her think it could remember? What about that frightened her so?

The Doctor caught her staring off in that direction.

"Clara?" She turned sharply.

"Yes?"

"You're scared."

"...what gives you that impression?"

"It wasn't a question."

"I can stop being scared if that helps."

"No, don't. Keep being scared. Sometimes one needs scared to stay alive. And when it's over, then you can stop being scared."

Clara just nodded sceptically.

"Alright then. I'll keep being scared." The Doctor smiled at her. It was an impossible grin that made his silly little ears go up.

And so the Doctor started off again - opposite the direction of the children. Clara hoped he really knew what he was doing.


...


"Right! So where do we start?" Clara was hugging herself against the cold. She'd somehow still managed to forget her coat. She never forgot anything.

"Brrrr, I don't know, look around you! You see snow, pick it up, see what it does?"

"No, that's a terrible way of going about it! So inefficient. Especially if the snow does do something - in which case, someone could lose something valuable."

"S-so what're you suggesting?" He stopped over the nearest snowpile, leaned forward and picked some snow up, sifted it through his fingers. He returned to his feet and held it up for Clara to examine. Exactly what he'd warned her not to do.

"What do you see?" She didn't look down at it, just kept giving him a puzzling look: Who are you?

"You tell me. I thought that was a terrible and inefficient way to go about it."

"Yes, perhaps, but look!" So Clara did look.

It was not quite like normal snow. It was thicker, much larger, clumping into chunks big enough to discern crystal patterns. Despite how clearly Clara would feel a breeze right now, she felt none. Yet, this snow seemed to swirl in the Doctor's bare hand, as if of its own, self-contained blizzard.

"That's not normal snow."

"Exactly. And what does that tell you?"

"If you could just pick it up and it's not normal, then all of London could have it. Could be everywhere."

"...and what makes you say that?"

"...because the wind can blow snow anywhere. And what makes here so special anyway?" He smiled again, with something like pride.

"Yes, very good! What else?"

"It's moving on its own. That means it's not normal snow. It may look like it, until you look closely. It moves on its own." The Doctor nodded along, signalling her to keep going. "And..."

"And?"

"...it remembers that it was blown here. That's why it's still blowing." He jumped, and it made Clara jump too.

"CORRECT, yes!" He shook the snow out of his hand, and raised it with the palm facing her, arm cocked back as if to strike. She yelped a little and leaned back. The Doctor muttered a little "huh?", then looked at his hand, and promptly put it down, embarrassed.

"Sorry," he began. "Most people I work with know what that means."

"And? What does it mean? What in God's name does that mean?"

"Erm..." The Doctor rubbed at his mouth, wondering how to explain high-fiving. "It's like... imagine you've just done something great, something really special. And you turn to your friend who you've done it with, and with your last bit of aggression - hype, if you will - you..."

CLAP.

"...do that!" He smiled smally, gave a short chuckle. Clara still didn't understand a lick of it. "Oh, never mind, we have work to do."

They carried on their way, stopping every once in a while to pick up snow. All of it was the same: even if a little bit, all of it had the fake snow, the snow that can remember. The snow that blew in their hands.

Clara, like the Doctor, got so focused on the ground and the stuff falling to it, that she didn't notice the child tugging on her sleeve. She turned.

"'Scuse me, miss, spare a moment of your time?" Clara turned quickly. It was a kid with ragged clothes. If not for that she had no holes in her dress, she'd say she shivered as much as him.

"Oh, erm... of course. Sing away."

"SING?!" The Doctor almost knocked into Clara, the way he turned around. "I love a good song! Sing something, small child!" The boy just gave the Doctor a strange look, then took a breath.

"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the waaaayyyyyy!" Clara looked over and saw the Doctor faux-conducting and mouthing along, child's grin on his chinny chin.

"OH WHAT FUN IT IS TO RIDE IN A ONE-HORSE OPEN SLEEIIIII-AAAAAAYYYY!" Clara felt something in her chest tell her to grab the Doctor and drag him away before he sang the whole thing. So she did.

"Come on!"

"I need to finish the song!"

"Just toss him a half crown. Or haven't you any money?"

"I haven't!" Clara sighed. She hadn't her coat, either, otherwise she'd give the boy money. She let go of the Doctor, walked several paces back to the very confused child. Shivering as she did, she dropped to see him at eye-level.

"Clara, what are you doing?" Without turning back to face him, Clara looked into the boy's eyes.

"We can't give you money. But..." She pointed back the way they'd come.

"Go to the large house with the lantern. Tell the funny looking man that Clara got you out of the snow, they'll feed you and give you warm clothes. Do you understand?"

"I fink so, ma'am." He nodded. Clara wasn't so sure how well he did. But better to give the one thing she could, especially one he could comprehend. She wasn't telling him to run from the snow. She was getting him out of it.

"There's a smart young bloke. Hurry along now, and don't slip on the ice."

He promptly broke into a run, big grin on his messy teeth, and slipped on the ice. But, as children tended to, he got back to his feet and continued on his way. She followed him the whole way.

Suddenly the Doctor was inches from her ear.

"What did you do that for?" She jumped, gasped a little.

"Well, you didn't have any money to give. Best I could do was get one person out of harm's way. He could use the warm food, too."

"Hmm, yes. But why only that one?" She responded with little hesitation.

"Because he was there. So I helped him. You sure weren't doing anything meaningful, getting his hopes up with your empty pockets - you were nice, that's all. But I helped. And helping one's better than helping none."

"So why do you think I do this?"

"You do this because it amuses you. From what I can tell, you only came out to help because you were curious." And that was the truth. From the way he lit up at the mystery and the fun, she could tell that's what tickled his fancy most. He could care less about who lived or died. Not her, though. She was here to stop this thing from hurting people.

At least, that's what she told herself. Worse, she was having trouble being angry at him for that.

"Really." That's all the Doctor could say. "I think we should get back to investigating, then. You're not wrong, you know." He leaned in again, his browless eyebrows widening. "I am curious."

Something about the Doctor had rubbed her wrong so quickly. He was the one the Paternoster Gang called, and their reluctance seemed perfectly in place. He was difficult to work with. And she wasn't guiding him now. She was nannying him. And, unlike her own children - that is, the Latimer children - she neither felt fulfilled nor got paid for handling him.

And worse, she'd have to ask him what their next step was. And where she could find a spare coat.


...


Turns out, their next step was nothing at all.

"You're going to leave this one to me."

"What? No, Doctor, I have to see this through!"

"No, you don't. You needed to give me a start, and you've done that. Now, forget about me. Go back, get your coat, go on your way. You clearly have places to be." No, the Doctor was not wrong about that. But Clara owed it to herself to see this to completion. Still, something told her that he would not budge. He would force her to leave, wipe her memory again if that's what it took. She sighed, and let loose a few chatters of her teeth in the process. Her breath fogged up before her eyes.

"Fine. At least tell me what I can do, to keep my children safe."

"You have children?"

"They're... not mine. But I treat them like mine." In that moment, his face went still. But his eyes were down, almost droopy. His jaw was tight. She could finally see something serious under there. If he cared.

"...keep them inside, off the street. Out of the snow. You'll know when it's safe."

"How?"

"You know what, I tell a lie. You won't know." Another boyish smile. She was sick of it already. Without another word, she left.

(Though she did not see it, the Doctor smiled as she went. He couldn't stay away from this girl forever. But he could follow his own leads.)


Vastra called Clara a Yard carriage (a Yard carriage!) to take her wherever she needed to go. She put in two stops: the tavern, and then the Latimer estate.

She said goodbye to her father and all the staff (warning them to stay out of the cold), collected her wages, and grabbed her spare trunk of governess' clothes. Then she changed in the empty coach, and practiced her regal accent reciting Jane Austen until the Cockney dropped off. By the time she was to the Latimer home, she felt like a completely different person.

And when she stepped out, she saw the snow on the ground. The thick, crystalline, almost pulsating snow. She swore she could feel its thrumming in her belly, that it was making her heart race.

Get inside. Get inside. Get inside now. Don't let them come out.

They ran out to greet her.

No, please, God, summon a wind or something to get them back inside.

She walked a little faster, hoping to minimize the distance between her and the house when they came to greet her.

"MISS MONTAGUE!"

No, no, no.

They very nearly knocked her down leaping into their ferocious hugs. And when she addressed them, it was through a slip of so-called 'secret voice':

"Cor blimey, Francesca, Digby! My, you've got right big in my stead!" No, Clara, that just sounds silly. Think. You can do this. Just breathe. Think. "And strong, too! Now, let's go inside before we all freeze!"

"Yes, ma'am!" Digby shouted. Francesca just clung to her. Tightly. Clara felt herself breathing stiff, restricted.

"Now, Francesca, dear, wouldn't you like to go inside where it's warm? I know how you so love your cushions, too!" The girl just looked up, her eyes big. She was frowning.

"...What is it, Franny?"

No words.

"Another nightmare?" The girl just nodded. "Alright, then. I'll make you your favorite hot chocolate!" What that, her frown turned to a sad smile. She was trying to be happy. But she was afraid. Of course, she couldn't be afraid for the same reason Clara was, or else she wouldn't be out here.

Would she?

She walked brisker than the biting wind, one child's hand in each of hers, into what she hoped was safety. The Latimer home.

Time to just worry about them as a governess. And, hopefully, to get Captain Latimer to stop flirting with me. Hate to say it, but the blokes at Rose and Crown were more fun about it.


An hour later, she found herself settling back into the routine. She did love these children almost as her own, and as her fears of the snow shrank from her she wondered if they would not die out completely. That it was a hallucination caused by bad food or something of the sort. Perhaps there was more of gravy than of grave about her situation - her meeting with strange almost-humans, and the man who wore a human face.

Franny accepted her hot chocolate with gladness. Clara threw in some extra sugar, naughty as that was, and the girl was grateful. Still quiet. And that night, after a cursory review of lessons, she sat with the children in their bedroom.

"Can you do your secret voice again, Miss Montague?"

"Hmmmmm... mayhap, young master Digby. But maybe miss Francesca would rather not tonight, eh, Franny?"

No reply. The girl stared out the window.

"Franny, you've been awfully quiet since I got here. Was the hot chocolate not to your liking? I can make another, but I'll have to make it quickly, before it gets too late and you lose sleep."

She was staring at something. She'd gone still.

"Miss Montague, what - "

"Shush!" Clara held a finger to her lips, silencing Digby. She propped her hands onto Franny's bed and tried following the girl's eyes. Her eyes passed the fog forming around her mouth and the glass before her face. She couldn't see anything special.

She could hear the girl shuddering. Her breaths weren't puffs, they were spurts - bursts of several little breaths, each shallower than the last. Clara could almost feel Fran's heart slamming against her chest, pounding to break out. She was shaking.

"Franny, can you look at me?" She needed to take a deeper breath; Clara could tell she was about to say something. But better something than nothing!

"...no." Francesca was not usually this quiet. She used more syllables. She had her head half in the clouds, but she found joy in things. Clara needed to know.

"Then what are you looking at?"

She pointed her little finger against the window so hard that her fingertip bowed back at the knuckle. It, too, gathered frost where her heat met glass.

"Snow." Clara swallowed. Her next five words were barely audible to her own ears.

"And what about the snow?"

Francesca was glued to the pane. Like she had frozen solid to it. Clara prayed one more time. Please, God, if You are as real as anyone says, you've shown me amazing things. Amaze me again. Let her not say what I think this lovely girl is to say.

"It's waking up." Her finger traced a line, pointing away from the sky and into the courtyard.

And there, near the pool where the last governess was said to have drowned, were so snowmen. Big balls of snow rolled up and stacked on top of each other. It was too foggy to see them clearly, so Clara reached her hand to wipe away some of the frost. Little Franny beat her to it, her little palms pawing away until only small wet streaks remained on their side.

They had no distinct features. No stick arms, no faces, no hats or scarves. Just blank snow. Two of them, standing before the frozen-over pool. Standing guard.

"It's waking up," Franny repeated, her voice trembling. Without thinking Clara, reached around her arms to hug the child.

"NO!" Francesca lashed her arms out, burst into sobbing. Clara scooted herself away. But Franny just kept sobbing. She hugged her legs and arms against herself, buried her head. Clara knew that pose from when they still grieved their mother every day. It meant all she could do was keep her distance.

"What's wrong with Franny, Miss?"

"I don't know, Digby. But you better believe I'll find out." Nearly did find out. Come on, Doctor, don't fail us.


...


Come on, Doctor, think!

Funny. He thought to himself as 'Doctor'. And he hadn't even realised it. No. Shake that off. You need to focus right now.

The Doctor now had two mysteries: the clever snow, and the cleverer girl. The girl who was, he was absolutely sure, not the girl he'd met in the Asylum. The girl who'd suffered a terrible fate saving him. She hadn't recognised him. And now she did.

And no way she was all those people he'd met before either. Though, maybe, she was. Maybe her fate was to be tossed around time forever. Rather like him...

It only fascinated him more. He needed to know the why. The how. But he needed to push that aside, too. Clever snow covering much of London. His scoop tests and weather patterns confirmed his theory: the snow was everywhere. And to his attentive eyes, he swore people could see it, without knowing.

Clever snow - that is: snow, intelligence. Latter Victorian era...

It had better not be. But it was possible. He needed some way to test this new theory. Maybe he could build a device! A device that goes ding! Oh, he still loved devices that go ding.

Ding ding, Doctor, you'd better be back in business!


TO BE CONTINUED...

A/N:

I'm back! For a little bit. Hopefully I can get back into this as a rhythm. At my peak (mid high school) I was writing nearly two-thousand words most days. Sadly most of that isn't online anymore, but I'm happy to report that I'll probably be keeping this story.

I really want to finish this story. But for now, I can focus it on finishing this rewrite of "The Snowmen" (hashtagVictorianClara).

Catch ya later, duudez :)

- Toa