Author's Notes: Another chapter for you all! Honestly, I'm starting to wonder how many of you are interested. I haven't gotten a review in quite a while. Could you do that for me? Please tell me what I could improve, what I do well, what you;d like to see in the future? I can't improve if you don't help and this chapter certainly shows i need improving. Enjoy anyways! See you Wednesday!

"The Doctor and I have gone great places but there are some pretty terrible things too." Amy's hair bounced as she stepped up to the console in the control room of the TARDIS. Dean had trouble taking his eyes off her bright red locks in the midst of a rather dark room. It wasn't until he remembered how her hair had looked limp with her own blood that he looked away with a sick pit in his stomach.

"Bet you guys have met some crazy monsters." It puzzled Dean that no one else could remember what he clearly could recall. None of them could recall meeting each other. Why couldn't they remember? And how were they alive? Dean was assuming it had something to do with the dream root, that it had to be some sort of shared hallucination.

There were flaws in that plan, however. Amy had been in 1940 at the time and who knew at what point in space and time the Doctor had been. How could they share a hallucination if they were separated by nearly 90 years? And it had been so vivid. Every detail had been accurate to him, his memories of Amy then and Amy now matching up exactly.

"I wouldn't call them monsters. They're different. Besides, do you have any idea of what we look like to them?" Amy commented, running her hand over the buttons, not hard enough to press them, but just enough to let the feeling work itself into her hands, as if greeting the TARDIS. It didn't respond in anyway that Dean could see but Amy had a small smile on her face besides.

"Well, I've run into some nasty things in my time. Monsters. Demons." He cast a sidelong glance at her, his own hands resting on the edge of the console. Did he tell her? Did he remind her of how he killed her? He swallowed thickly, indecisive. "See, sometimes demons possess people. They use their bodies as puppets and those people inside of them are helpless to free themselves."

"Demons. Great." Amy's eyes were distant, but not as though they were recalling something, as though she was worried. Dean couldn't find it in himself to say anymore. He swallowed again, unable to take his eyes off of her face. He had cut that face up. He had destroyed it with an angel blade, watched it bleed. He hadn't shown mercy. He had put her through Hell. And for what? Information? It seemed like a ridiculous excuse now.

"I'll keep you safe, Princess." He promised, a false grin on his face. It was easier than trying to explain why his heart hurt every time he looked at her. He had been smiling on the outside long enough that the act came naturally.

"Promise?" She was teasing now, moving around the edge of the console, a mischievous look in her eye as she batter her eyelashes. Dean could feel his smirk slowly becoming real. The thoughts he had been constantly suppressing were coming to the surface. Feelings like him wanting to grab her waist, hold him against her, explore her mouth with his.

No. He couldn't do that. The closer she got, the more guilt twisted in his stomach. He had killed her, what reason did he now have to be worth any affection from her? He had no right to her affections, if they even existed. She should slap him, punch him, anything. He should be punished somehow, he should not get away with killing her. Despite this, he still smiled at her, nodding and keeping his eyes only on her face.

"Promise."

"He looks much more peaceful now." Clara and Sherlock were each leaning on a wall, Clara with her eyes half shut. Under those eyes she watched John who had fallen asleep against his wall. She noticed how some of the hardness disappeared from his face, the severeness of military training vanished from his posture. He seemed younger. It looked good on him.

"Mmmm." Sherlock had been telling her odd stories about this woman, Irene. There was something familiar about the way he described her, as though she had met this woman before. However, no matter how Clara stretched her memory, she couldn't summon any memories of the woman.

"So you two solve crimes all by yourselves? Sounds exciting, but don't the police get in the way?" She had often found that normal people who none of the excitement of the underground found any way they could to get in the way. People that knew nothing of aliens or the true workings of their country, city or town always could find the worst ways to inhibit the success of those fighting for their best.

"Lestrade may be thick but he does a good job of cleaning up when I don't want to. Take away the handcuffs though and he's not much use."

"Lestrade?" The name was familiar, it tickled something in the back of her mind. It was a similar feeling to having a word on the tip of your tongue and being unable to quite recall it. "The name is familiar." Had Clara been paying just the slightest bit more attention, she would have noticed the tightening in Sherlock's posture, just the barest trace of anxiety visible as he tensed.

"He's a detective inspector at Scotland Yard. I find the killers, he makes the arrests." Sherlock's head turned slowly to look at her and she found it slightly creepy. She was distracted from the odd movement by a sharp pain in her head. Her hand went to her temple and her breath quietly hissed through her teeth. It felt as though someone was pressing a hot metal rod to her brain.

The quiet murmur of Sherlock's deep voice in the background did nothing to end her pain. It only seemed to stimulate the fire in her mind as a picture began to form. There was a quiet thrum in her mind which slowly melted into a quiet beating. It was an easily identifiable sound. It was the gentle tapping of rain against the ground.

With a loud cry, her hands went to her head as she thought her brain had exploded. Sherlock was beside her a moment later, still whispering things in her ear and feeding the fire in her mind. She wanted to scream at him to shut up but she couldn't get breath into her lungs. Tears streamed from her eyes as a mental picture began building in her mind.

A man, with light gray hair was with her in a cave, bending over her. He introduced himself.

Lestrade.

As if a floodgate had been unlocked, all Clara's memories came pouring back. She could remember everything, Irene and Greg, the meeting at the horn, the wolves, everything. She could remember the bullet crunching into her skull, the searing hot pain of it destroying her life, wrenching her soul from her body. She could see the cold eyes of Irene Adler, concerned only for her own survival as she murdered.

For her it all seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. In actuality, she began crying as her memories began tearing her apart from the inside out. Sherlock's arms went around her shoulders, trying to hold her still as she writhed. Her arms flailed about, nails sharp and ready to claw into whatever was near her. He did his best to restrain her and not lose an eye at the same time. It required quite a bit of dexterity.

And then it just stopped. Clara began curling into herself, her cries now stopped. She shook with the weight of her new memories, her own death fresh in her mind. Dead. She was dead. This all felt real, she could hear her heart beating inside its cage of flesh and blood but she was dead. She remembered the oblivion of dying, the searing, burning pain and then the cold, numbing oblivion. She was dead.

"I died. I died." Her sobs were quieter now but with no less meaning. She was terrified. How was she alive? She didn't remember suddenly waking up alive. She was just alive. She didn't know at what point she had died, at what point in her life had she suddenly died and resurrected. "I'm dead, I'm dead. This can't be Heaven. What's going on?"

"I don't know, I'm still working on it. So far what I've gathered is that we were trapped by a demon named Crowley and my enemy, James Moriarty. They devised some sort of illusion and trapped us in it. The only way to escape was to die. They put us in there to distract us from something. What it is, I don't know yet. And I don't intend to find out. The last time we were caught in this, John was killed. I don't intend to revisit that scenario if I can help it."

Surprisingly, John had barely stirred during this whole affair. He must have been exhausted. Sherlock's words showed no more life than John's sleeping face. He was cold as he spoke, not quite the warm reassurances Clara would have expected from anyone else. But they seemed to calm her nonetheless, cold hard facts that told her that she was not alone in her confusion or her experiences.

"Were we all there?" She asked quietly, beginning to relax slightly in his arms. Sherlock was busy musing over all that was happening, not noticing how she slumped against him with now silent tears still streaming down her face.

"There were other besides us. It wasn't just us. They all died as well. I don't know where they are at the moment. I don't think any of them remember or they would have sought us out and alerted the rest of us by now. Wherever they are, they're living in ignorance of what transpired in those woods." Clara glanced up at the detective whose eyes were far away, probably thinking of his time in the Games.

"So, they wiped our memories to stop us from looking for each other?" Clara asked, leaning her head back against his chest, trying to steady her breathing. There was no reason to cry now. It was in the past. She was alive now. She was alive and she remembered. But the Doctor didn't. He had been there and he didn't remember. That was dangerous. The Doctor was the only sure line of defense they had and he needed to know what was coming.

"How do we get them to remember?" Clara asked him. "If the Doctor remembered, he could figure out what they're doing." Her faith in the Doctor was astounding and well placed. She knew the Doctor could find what they were hiding. She knew he could because they had threatened the people the Doctor loved and if he remembered that, they would be dead before they could blink.

"The same way I got you to remember. We have to remind they of how they died. Except in the case of your Doctor. I believe his memories are in here somewhere. They were fractured in the same way that his regenerations were. There's some version of him in here filled with the memories of the arena and that's the most dangerous part of him. That's the part we need to find and use."