THE MISERY
Billy followed the scream, and took off running as soon as he heard it. He arrived to find the Doctor standing in the front doorway, his face twisted with confused pain, his mouth open with silent protest.
"Doctor, I heard Martha screaming, where is she?"
The Doctor did not answer nor even look at Billy. He continued to stare at the spot where Martha disappeared. Five seconds ago, she was here. Now, she was gone – her life wasted and consumed, dead in the past somewhere.
Jaw clenched, he walked forward like a ghost. Ghostly was how he felt; he was empty, intemporal, ineffectual. His insides had gone with Martha. He reached out and touched the air she had last touched. He swore that he could still smell a bit of her perfume lingering. Her scream echoed inside his head, her last desperate cry for her life. In that last second, she had thought of him, called his name – and he hadn't been able to save her.
This feeling, this hollow grief, was starting to seem all too familiar. Companions had come and gone from his life for nine-hundred-odd years, but why, why had recently there been such a run of sadness and disaster? Why would the universe bring great love into his life and allow it to be so hideously taken? Twice?
Love. Lose. Grieve. Harden. Find someone new. Make them miserable until they finally hit you over the head with your own self-pity. Love. Lose. Grieve. Repeat until insane.
It didn't take a genius (or a former Detective Inspector) to work out what had happened after the Doctor had stood staring at the same spot for sixty seconds. In a very male gesture of solidarity, Billy briefly touched the Doctor's shoulder blade, then walked toward his camera, which he now knew had captured the horrible moment for all eternity.
"Er, Mr. Smith," a voice called from inside the house. "What do I do now?"
The Doctor was brought out of his stupor, but fortunately, he had the presence of mind to continue looking at the angel that had zapped Martha before turning to help Frannie.
"You go get her," Billy said, winding his film. "I'll keep an eye on this one."
The Doctor walked toward the house and went back inside. Frannie was standing halfway between the front window and the door, patiently still staring at the angels. The statues had now come halfway down the stairs. She must have turned away for a second when...
"They got closer," she said to him. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry, Frannie," he said softly. "Just back away. Watch your step."
He guided her out of the front of the house, and the three of them backed off of the grounds of Wester Drumlins. The Doctor gazed at the house with a seething hatred. He wished, more than anything, that he had never come here. This is where the life of a time traveller becomes unbearable – he could go back and fix things, he had the means. But the rules of the universe forbade it.
I'm so bloody sick of following the rules of the universe. All its done is taken everything from me.
He put his hand on Frannie's shoulder. Suddenly, this girl, who had seemed more trouble than she was worth, was precious to him. She represented hope. She was a connection to Martha, a promise that the future would hold better times, even if not for him anymore.
"Let's get you home," he said to her.
The three of them walked in silence for a bit, and finally, Frannie said, "It got her, didn't it? The angel got Martha?"
"Yes," he said, barely able to get the word out.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Smith," she said. "It's all my fault that she's gone."
He couldn't help but smile. He wanted to say, It was because of you that she existed at all, but he refrained. He had nothing to admonish the child for – he just squeezed her shoulder again and said, "Don't say that."
"I'm still sorry."
Frannie led the way to her family's home, which was no more than a ten-minute walk from Wester Drumlins. She seemed relieved to be home – she looked at the red brick house with love, then turned to the Doctor and Billy.
"Thanks, you know, for saving my life and all," she said.
The Doctor took a deep breath. "I suppose I don't have to tell you..."
"To stay away from that house? No, you don't," she assured him. "I promise. I'm never going back there again." She seemed deadly serious.
"Good," the Doctor told her. "You know it was because of Martha that we were there. If something happens to you, then she will have... it will all have been in vain."
"I know." Frannie was looking at the ground, like a child who had been shamed.
"Hey," he said, again, resting one hand on her shoulder. With the other hand, he turned up her chin. "It's okay. It's not your fault."
She nodded, without really looking him in the eyes. He figured that was just as well. He let go of her, and she headed toward the house. She turned back, and said, "Thanks," one more time. "And you too," she said to Billy.
"Don't mention it," Billy said, smiling.
The Doctor just watched her go. When she was inside the house, he turned away.
He and Billy walked side-by-side to Canada Water station, and said nothing. As they stood on the platform waiting for the train, Billy said, "Is there anything I can do?"
The Doctor didn't say anything for a few seconds, but then, he decided, "Marry Sally Pfitzinger. Have a great life together. Feel lucky."
This made Billy immensely sad. Sally had been the most comforting aspect of being here in 1969, the primary thing that made this scenario bearable. He could stand the time-travel nonsense and knowing he'd never see his family again because she was here for him. He guessed that the Doctor must have felt the same way about Martha, only his own time-travel nonsense was much more intense, and his loneliness must extend into the far reaches of the galaxy. He couldn't imagine now losing Sally – how could the Doctor lose Martha and hope to go on?
"What will you do now?"
"Move on. Eventually."
But the question of moving on without her could not be contemplated, not just now. He had his TARDIS, but what he needed was a bit of silence and wait. Yes, he had been waiting for over a month, for an opportunity, for a camera, for the TARDIS, for Billy, for Frannie... He was well practised, and now he would wait again for something else. Wait for a sign, a message. Perhaps Martha would find a way to let him know how to find her.
Or he would just wait to be ready. Wait to harden himself again. Just the idea of beginning the process all over made him feel exhausted. But of course, bigger than that, much bigger, was the deep, welling grief he felt over the idea of never seeing or touching Martha Jones again.
The train came, and the two men stepped on. There weren't many people, and it was not difficult to find seats. They sat together, Billy with his bulky camera in his lap, the Doctor with his hands folded.
"I'll cancel with Sally tonight," Billy said.
"No, don't do that," the Doctor said. He was staring at nothing in particular.
"You just lost the woman you love," Billy said, softly. "And you're my friend. Sally will understand."
"I want you to be with her," the Doctor insisted. "Go on your date and be happy."
Billy contemplated. Then, "What if I invite her to your flat? Two friends are better than one."
"That will just depress her."
"What's a little misery among friends, eh?"
The Doctor finally looked at him, and smiled weakly. "Fine. But if she doesn't want to, don't make her. You go take her dancing or something. Life's too short for this. Well, yours is, anyway."
When they reached their building, Billy phoned Sally from the Doctor's flat. Then he went home to shower, promising to be back in twenty minutes with Sally.
And again, the Doctor was alone. Martha's brown mesh sweater lay squashed on the armchair where she had shed it, and then sat against it for hours. The duster lay abandoned on the tiny dining table-for-two, where she had left it, following him out the door in the middle of dusting the curtains. She had stepped out of a pair of high-heeled shoes yesterday when she came home upset over her difficult customer, and they lay all tiny and sideways now near the door.
Numbness came over his body – he couldn't cry, he couldn't speak, he couldn't feel. It was like Martha was a ghost now. Mechanically, he picked up her shoes and sweater and carried them into the bedroom, out of sight of his projected guests.
And oh, the bedroom. The bed was still unmade, and Martha's pillow still had a dent. Her side of the bed was always neat and folded aside when she climbed out of it, while his side was always sloppy and crinkled. It had been a couple of nights since they'd made love, so everything was in its proper, post-sleep place. A couple of nights was as long as they ever went, and only when life really got in the way.
He closed his eyes and remembered, took in the scent. There she was – it's like she'd lived here for decades. She was in his body, in his mind, his senses...
And it hurt.
But she's clever. Maybe I'll get a letter from her at any moment that's been sitting in some post office for eighty years...
And the knock came.
But it was too good to be true. It was just Billy and Sally with some wine and a homemade dinner that she had prepared for herself and Billy, but she insisted there was enough for three.
Explaining to Sally what had happened to Martha was awkward. She knew nothing about where they all had come from, about Billy's mission to help the Doctor, about time travel, any of it. And she certainly couldn't be told about the stone statues that come to life when you turn your back.
"We were trying to help a girl, because she'd wandered into a deserted house and gotten into trouble, and when we came back outside, Martha was gone," the Doctor said. It was the truth, but he had intentionally made it sound as though she had been kidnapped. "We never should have left her."
"Did you inform the police?" asked Sally.
"Of course," Billy cut in. "But they said they cannot do anything until she's been missing for twenty-four hours. It's a police thing."
Sally let a puff of air escape between her teeth. "Bloody coppers."
Billy resisted the urge to defend his profession, as it wasn't his profession anymore. She had no idea he had been a DI in another life. The Doctor had urged him never to tell her – secrets in time are best kept close.
"We'll just ring them again tomorrow," the Doctor said, sighing.
"Well, how about some shepherd's pie?" asked Sally, heading for the kitchen. She had brought a giant casserole wrapped in a mesh shoulder bag, and had set it on the counter when she had arrived.
"Sounds great," the Doctor conceded, not really caring much at all to eat. He moved to stand.
"No, you sit," Billy said. "We'll get everything ready."
The Doctor didn't argue, but just sank gratefully back into the sofa.
Billy and Sally prepared three plates of shepherd's pie, canned peaches and salad. They tittered about in the kitchen clumsily, while the Doctor stared at the wall, sipping wine, pining.
And then he saw it. At first it was just a black blob in the corner. Billy's camera case, which he had left here after phoning Sally.
He stared at the case.
It wasn't too long before Billy came back into the room with two plates, and caught him staring. "I know what you're thinking, mate," Billy whispered to him. His speaking surprised the Doctor, startled him, even. He'd thought he was alone in his mind.
"What?"
"And I'm not going to let you do that to yourself," Billy continued, as if the Doctor hadn't spoken at all. "If you watch this tape, it will just be torture. Just forget about it. I'm erasing it when I get to work tomorrow."
The Doctor stared back at him with a kind of resolve. "If you were me, would you let you erase it?"
"I wouldn't want to, but I would see the sense behind it," Billy said. "Come on, man. You already lived through it once today! Do you really need to see it again?"
Sally entered the room with three glasses of wine. "What are you talking about?"
"Nothing," said Billy. "Just Martha." He went back to the kitchen for the other plate as Sally sat down with the Doctor.
The three of them shared a congenial meal. Sally asked if the Doctor minded telling them how he'd met Martha. He told the truth, though left out the part about 2007 and the moon. She asked a lot of questions, and he talked quite a bit, much to his own surprise. He talked about "an ex-girlfriend" who had "died," (which was easier than explaining what really happened to Rose), and how when he and Martha first began spending time together, he had made her utterly miserable for a while. Then, eventually, a mutual friend had helped him see the light. The rest was history – he'd been in love with Martha, and now she was gone.
His friends stayed until well after midnight. Eventually, reminiscing about Martha turned to laughing about other things, discussions of video production and the current political situation. When they left, the Doctor found that they seemed to suck all the vitality out of the room with them. Once again, the flat seemed like a dead place, filled with long-ago memories and the ghost of Martha. How long could he really stay here and wait?
Again, Billy had forgotten to take his camera case, but the Doctor felt that he couldn't watch the reel just now. Instead, he retired to an empty bed, without changing out of his suit or pulling back the covers. Sleep came easily, as an escape.
In the morning, Martha was still gone. Not that he had expected otherwise, but such was his first thought as he opened his eyes: she's still gone.
In wrinkled clothes, he wandered out to the kitchen. He put some foul coffee grounds in the percolator and plugged it in. He stood, leaning against the kitchen counter. He asked himself a million questions. How did this happen? What could have been done differently? Where was Martha now, and how long should he wait for a sign?
And then he saw the black blob in the corner again. He shouldn't. He should just let it go and be done with it, and stop flogging himself, stop with the self-loathing, the wallowing...
But who was he kidding? He knew from the start he'd watch the tape one way or another, it was just a question of how much hemming and hawing he'd have to do before deciding finally just to play the damn thing.
He inspected the back of the bulky television set, which he and Martha had never even turned on while living here. There were no hook-ups for a recording device, which wasn't surprising, but no matter. A few sonic buzzes here and there, and the television was showing a grainy film of Wester Drumlins, wobbling as the camera was carefully set down and then left to run.
