"Well Jesus Christ, I'm alone again, so what did you do those three days you were dead?"

Of course it was the day that Series Six ended that Fandom threw her party. And the day after Castiel died for reals, Chuck forbid. Not a good day for a party. (Well, it depends who you're talking to. If you asked Brony, he'd say that it's always a good day for a party).

Whovian and Natty sat at the table, studying their napkins with sorrowful gazes. Natty traced tiny circles in her oversized trenchcoat (/overcoat/raincoat/let's be honest, poncho/because if Cas was going to die, he was going to do it looking like a folk band).

"Wake up kiddies, I've got music!" Fandom said playfully as she pulled up a chair beside her friends. "Moves Like A Jagger" resounded in the background.

"Nothing," said Whovian. "Will ever be the same again. I'll have to wait forever for Doctor Who to come back! At least he pops in at Christmas, but it's... not enough."

Fandom gave her an affectionate shake on the shoulder. "I know how you feel," she said with a laugh. "Hedgehogs will never be the same again. Or skulls, or riding crops, or flowers, or kittens."

Whovian responded with a glare. "I'm sorry Sherlockian, but I'm just not in the mood for a party."

Fandom instead turned to Natty.

"The bastards did it," whispered Natty. "They finally did it."

Fandom cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing. Maybe she should have just invited Brony instead. (When having him over, she had to remember not to serve cupcakes).

Then an idea lit across her face. She jumped out of her seat and crossed into the kitchen, throwing open the cabinet and getting to work. When she came back and set her masterpiece on the table, her friends stared back at her.

"Jam?" said Whovian, tapping the glass a bit. "Really?"

"Here, try a bit." Fandom offered her the spoon with a grin. "It's good for you."

Whovian sighed, adjusted her tie a bit, and took a bit. Within seconds the melancholy look had been banned from her face, replaced with dilated, kitten like eyes and a smile. "You know," she said. "I bet when no one is waiting, The Silence reanact Mean Girls scenes. HEY STEVE, WHAT IS THAT SUIT MADE OF? YOUR MOM'S CHEST HAIR."

Natty glared at Fandom. "You put crack in it? Seriously?"

Fandom shrugged. "Worked for me during the hiatus, why shouldn't it work for her?"

"MATT SMITH'S EYEBROWS ARE CATERPILLARS THAT TURNED INTO BUTTERFLIES AND FLEW AWAY." said Whovian.

Natty rolled her eyes, but nonetheless did not leave.

Meanwhile...

Doctor Who held the spoilers in his hands as he walked into the room. The pool reflected off the ceiling, casting an eerie shine over the walls.

"So," he said, holding them up. "All of those plot twists, Rory's deaths, all to distract me from this..."

Suddenly there was a shuffle behind him. He turned around to see a familiar face standing there in a fluffy coat.

"Well this is a turn up, isn't it, Doctor Who?"

"Confidential?" said Doctor Who, turning around.

"Bet you never saw this coming."

"Confidential, what the hell?"

Confidential spread his coat to reveal a bomb underneath. "What, would you like me... to make him say... next?"

Doctor Who began to advance towards him.

"Gottle o gear, gottle o gear..."

"Shut up." said Doctor Who.

"Nice touch, the pool, where little Rory Williams died... I stopped him, I can stop Confidential too. Stop his heart."

"Who are you?"

All of a sudden the clanging of a door filled the pool. Out stepped BBC3, the more sinister of BBC's children, in a charming suit and tie. He crossed the room like a spider across it's web, inching closer and closer to his prey, which hung in the balance. At any moment he could cut the string and send them tumbling below, but not now... soon, though, perhaps. Light and shadow danced a sad duet on across his face as the pool rippled in sudden call.

"I gave you my channel," he said. "Thought you might watch." Smiling a devil's smile, he said, "Is that a coffin for Rory in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

"Both." said Doctor Who, drawing the gun from his pocket.

"3? 3 from BBC?" said BBC3. "Oh, did I really make such a fleeting impression? Although I suppose, that was rather the point..."

Doctor Who said nothing, his hands gripped against the gun.

No more must be said here. All I can say is the spider cut the web, but only one bug went tumbling down below. And as Doctor Who stood in the clutches of the explosion, holding the crimson soaked body of Confidential in his arms, he was not the only one crying.

"I'm sorry," whispered BBC3. "Daddy's orders."

"Cause this problem's gonna last, more than the weekend..."