Disclaimer: If I owned Doctor Who, I would have no reason to write fanfiction.
This is my little tribute to Wilfred Mott, one of the greatest companions that the Doctor ever had. I hope that you enjoy!
Bullets whizzed in every which way around his head. His lungs cried out for relief as the impenetrable black smoke choked him. The smell of death and decay was thick in the air; if he looked, he could see the faces of the dead staring accusingly at him. "Coward," they seemed to say. "Look at us. We have died for our country in the heat of battle. And look at you. Not even able to fire a gun. You coward,"
He tried to close his eyes, to block out their faces. "No," he moaned. The weapon in his hands shook violently as the earth seemed to quake beneath his worn out boots. An explosion sounded, kilometers from his trembling body. "No,"
"Gramps,"
He felt intense pain in his leg as the shell hit. He gave a cry as he fell, blood spurting from the fresh wound. The crimson liquid dripped down his leg, splashing onto the dirt. And the pain…the pain was unbearable. It was a burning pain that ate away at his flesh, seeming to suck the very life from the flesh.
"Gramps!"
Donna's voice pulled him back to the present and he awoke with a start to find himself covered in sweat and breathing hard. Her face swam into focus and he forced the nightmare away. "Sorry Donna, my love."
The nightmares were getting steadily worse. The doctors blamed the fever that was eating away at his frail body. This illness that slowly sapped his strength and steadily brought him closer to death.
"You had another bad dream," It was a statement, not a question. Donna's beautiful face was exhausted and taught with worry as she held her grandfather's hand.
It pained him more than his illness ever could to see her like this. To know that he was the cause of her grief. He could see tears glittering in her eyes for a moment before she wiped them away. He wanted so much to console her, to hold her in his arms like he had when she was a child. But he was so weak…
"Oh, Donna," he whispered.
"Is there anything you want?" the words sounded awkward coming from her mouth as she swallowed hard.
"I…" he began but trailed off, knowing that he could never finish that sentence. Not to Donna. 'Doctor…'
He stood beside his wife as he often had in life: her tiny hand clasped in his own. The relatives filed slowly beside the casket, offering him their sincerest condolences as he went. But he was too numb to respond. Too numb. Grief threatened to tear him in two and he could feel tears beginning to form. Beside him, little Donna cried softly in her mother's arms, reaching out to her grandfather. But he couldn't hear her over the rushing in his ears.
When he awoke again, he was alone in the hospital room. Donna had presumably been told that she needed rest to be of any good. He could still hear her complaining to the nurse as she was led down the hall. And he chuckled in spite of himself. Her customary tones of voice soothed him, though he knew that she would never believe that.
Settling back into the pillows, he closed his eyes. Oh, if only this wretched illness would allow him a few minutes peace. But the burning in his chest refused. Exhaustion crept into his bones but he fought. He fought against sleep because he knew what sleep would bring. And he couldn't face the nightmares. Not again. But the illness was too much for his aching body and he could feel reality slipping away.
The imprisoned man groaned and cried out against the pain. His face was agonized as he fought the torture. As he watched, the man now seemed unable to bear his own weight, slowly collapsing to the ground, his teeth gritted in agony. He curled up in a ball on the floor of his prison, one hand clutching at his head.
And he was powerless to stop it. To stop the suffering of this great man. And it was his fault. Entirely his fault. He was to blame. "Oh, Doctor," he whispered. All he wanted was to wrench the door open with his bare hands. To drag the tortured man out and to stop the hurting.
"Wilfred," The voice was unfamiliar but he could hear a familiar tone to it. He opened his eyes.
The man standing before him was as unfamiliar as his voice had been. His dark hair was messy and long. He wore a red bowtie around his neck. And his eyes…his eyes. And then Wilf knew. "Doctor," He struggled into a sitting position, desperate for a better look at the man in front of him. He had changed his face but he was still the Doctor. Tears of joy and relief slid down his wizened cheeks as he felt all the worry of the past few years deluge his body. He was all right. The Doctor was all right.
"Hello Wilfred."
The Doctor stood in the doorway of the hospital room. He swallowed hard as he looked at the emaciated man in the bed. So different than the Wilfred Mott that he remembered. Wilfred Mott, defender of the Earth. They both knew that he didn't have long to live. For a long time they just stared at each other, drinking in new appearances.
"I just wanted to say," he paused, searching for the right words. "Thank you. Thank you for all that you've done."
Wilf gave a weak smile and a nod, exhaustion evident on his all too pale features. "Thank you for coming back, Doctor. One…last…time," But despite his exhaustion, the smile remained as he stared into the face of the Time Lord.
"But you're not dying yet," the Doctor continued, kneeling down next to the bed and taking Wilf's hand in his own. "Do you hear? I have one last surprise for you."
"What d'you mean, Doctor?" Wilf asked.
But the Doctor just smiled. "Wait right here. I mean it. You're not dying on me yet,"
And then he was gone. Wilf could hear his shoes slapping the hospital floor as he ran down the hall. He was fighting now. Fighting like he had that day in that spaceship. Fighting to fulfill this wish of the Doctor. It was perhaps the most difficult thing that he had ever done to simply stay awake.
He felt consciousness beginning to slip away. 'No,' he moaned inwardly. 'No, I have to stay awake.'
The familiar wheezing sound jerked him out of his half sleep and he sat up straighter on his pillows. And the tears began afresh at the sight of the proverbial blue box. The door creaked open, just like he remembered. And the Doctor was at his side again. "Would you like to go in?" he asked, gently. "For old time's sake?"
Wilf took the hand of the Doctor and squeezed as hard as he could. Which wasn't very hard. "I'm an old man, Doctor. It's my time."
"I'm older than you are," the Doctor insisted.
Wilf shook his head softly. "No, Doctor. I've lived my life. And this time, you've got to let me die. You can't do it for me."
This didn't sound like the Wilf that he remembered. The Doctor choked on the lump in his throat as he stared into the calm eyes of the old man in the bed.
"Thank you, Doctor." Wilf said faintly. "Thanks for everything." And he gave the Doctor's hand one final squeeze.
His eyes closed and he fell back against the pillows. The monitors screeched their warnings but the Doctor knew. He held the human's hand in his own and, finally, let the tears come.