Young Writers Society

“Doctor?”

Clara stepped down into the control room. She wore a dark brown shirt and a pair of light blue sweatpants. Her frigid toes tapped on the grey surface. She rounded the machine, fingers wandering across the levers and green buttons. Her brown eyes flashed back up as she saw him approach her.

“Clara,” he said, his head cocking to the right with concern.

The Doctor smiled, the pale lips slowly spreading across the time lord’s weary, but smooth face. He leaned on the console, his left arm supporting his weight. Clara gave a quick smile before frowning, her eyebrows slowly knitting together. Her chilled fingers quickly retreated to her back, clasping each other. She bit her bottom lip, her bright eyes looking away and the sharp dimples forming on her cheek. She began a sort of childish pace, switching between her toes and heels so she bobbed up and down.

“Clara,” the Doctor repeated, his voice warning her with the sudden change in tone.

“Do you ever sleep?” she blurted out, her raw feet pausing on the ground as she looked up at him, her face pouting.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he replied, reaching out to grasp her shoulders and lead her back up the stairs to the hallway.

“Doctor, what’s wrong? Don’t bother lying. I know there’s something wrong,” Clara spun around, her fierce eyes darting at his troubled face.

“Clara…”

“Don’t. Just tell me,” she sharply replied, looking into the time lord’s soft, light brown eyes.

The Doctor slowly backed away to seat himself on the second step of the stairway. Clara followed him, her demanding attitude whirling around her. She sat next to him, her eyes full of wonder but also of a consuming worry. Her hand placed itself on his shoulder, feeling the wooly surface of his dark brown coat. He turned to smile sadly before hanging his head, his dark brown bangs falling over the right side of his forehead.

“She spoke to me today,” he murmured quietly, tears already beginning to fight to the surface.

“River Song?” Clara’s hand drew back to her lap, leaning forward to wonder at the strange man.

“Not… River… No… Amy. Amelia Pond. Pond. Amelia Pond,” his voice started to break, the original softness crumbling into a croak.

“Amelia Pond?” Clara turned to face the Doctor, her head cocked and her brown hair falling over her shoulder.

“She… used to be an old… old friend,” he murmured, his fingers began to fidget.

“What did she say? Did she come here?” Clara persisted, scooting up on the step.

He sighed a long, trembling sigh. He pulled himself up and began to trail around the console, his fingers blindly feeling the familiar controls that he had come to know so well. A smile crept on his lips, and his heart lightened. The Doctor looked softly upon his ancient friend, the TARDIS. His eyes quickly traced back to his companion, Clara sitting on the steps, her pale, pouting face resting on her fist. He turned back to the TARDIS console, his heart hopeful again. At last, he began to run around it, whirling and turning as he pulled levers and pressed buttons. A laugh began to creep upon his lips as he spun around to face Clara. He rushed towards her, clutching her cold fingers to lead her towards his beloved console.

“Clara, ah, Clara, Clara Oswald,” he repeated, reaching to pull a monitor into view.

“What?” she replied, her brows furrowing with annoyance.

“Haha!” he exclaimed quietly, reading the circles that spun on the screen, “There is still hope!”

The Doctor spun around, his heels and toes exchanging the balance of his weight. He had made his way up the stairs, and gradually ended. He leaned on the metal bars, his fingers tapping on them. A grin crossed his face.

“Hope! The most important emotion! What makes you,” he bent over the bar to smile at her, and delicately whispered, “human.”

“Doctor, I don’t understand,” Clara sang out, her eyes rolling as he climbed down.

He grabbed her shoulders, shaking them, his eyes shining with excitement. Clara stared back at the peculiar man she had trusted so quickly.

“Clara,” he murmured, his eyes looking away, “Amelia… was my friend, like you, but… she’s gone now,”

“Gone… how?” she asked, her voice involuntarily sounding annoyed.

The Doctor’s hands retreated, folding themselves across his chest. He licked his lips and cleared his throat.

“Dead,” his voice trembled.

“Is that what’s going to happen to me?” Clara whispered, her big eyes searching his.

“No,” he brought up his head defiantly, his eyes stern, “Not to you, not Clara Oswald,”

She glanced back up at him, worry beginning to spread across her face. The Doctor smiled as he heard the familiar vworp as the TARDIS landed.

“But Doctor, if she’s dead, how did she talk to you?” Clara persisted.

“Timey-wimey,” he replied, spinning around to step his way towards the light blue doors.

A piercing knock rattled upon the navy blue doors. He opened one of the doors, his head popping out to say a few words. Clara’s head cocked to the left, trying to catch a glimpse of the person he was talking to. Her right foot automatically began its impatient tap. The Doctor closed the door, his fingers pushing it behind him. He turned around to face Clara, a mischievous smile forming as the right corner of his mouth curved upward. He stepped forward, his arms reaching out to his companion.

“Now, Clara, I would like to introduce you to some people… three…” he grasped her hands, patting them as his light eyebrows went up, revealing his hopeful, brown eyes.

He led her towards the stairs leading up to the impounding doors. He turned to her, his eyes bright with excitement. Clara’s stomach twisted as she turned to him.

“You can come in, now,” he called.

Immediately, the doors burst open, swinging and hitting the walls. Three men stood formidably in the doorway. Each of their faces was creased with worry. They all stepped in, one of them closing the doors behind them hurriedly.

“Thanks, Doc,” one of them nodded towards him as he shoved a gun inside his jacket.

At last, the three men turned to face Clara and the Doctor. One of them stepped forward to embrace the Doctor, his beige trench coat flying behind him.

“It’s good to see you again, Doctor,” his voice was deep, with an added crackle to it as he closed his eyes.

“You too, Castiel,” the Doctor replied, patting the man’s back.

They pulled away, admiring each other for a moment. Castiel’s eyes had flipped open, revealing its intense blue. He wore a worried expression on his face, his eyebrows dipping and his coral lips spreading across his face in a frown. He had a queer sort of hair; a deep brown and a messy backcomb that bounced back to create a bedhead. Along with his long trench coat, Castiel wore a white, collared, button-up shirt, a loose, navy tie, black slacks, and black men’s shoes. He stepped back, his eyes turning toward Clara.

“You’ve got another one?” the one who held a gun asked, his deep voice much smoother than Castiel’s.

He took a step forward to glare at the Doctor for a moment, and then at Clara, his green eyes less intense than the others, but nevertheless piercing. He wore a black shirt with a green, unbuttoned shirt over it. Along with that, he wore a heavy, dirty dark brown leather jacket. He was handsome, barely a flaw on his face except a scared pain in his deep brown eyes. His eyebrows knitted together in frustration.

“Dean Winchester, Clara Oswald,” the Doctor ignored his question, patting Dean on the back.

Dean’s expression barely changed as he turned to Clara’s hand. He grasped her thin hand, shaking it. She smiled, the pink lips spreading across her small face. Dean gave a short smile and nodded as they let go. They turned to the last of the three men, who towered over the rest of them.

“Sam,” he gave a slow smile, nodding towards the Doctor and Clara.

He had a lighter brown hair than the rest, which had been grown to res t on his shoulders. His face was much longer, and younger. He wore a blue and white plaid shirt with a sickly green, thin jacket. His dark brown eyes were calm, but quick as he observed the TARDIS.

“So,” Dean spoke up, his eyes wide as he looked at the group.

“Ah, yes, about how I’ve gathered you here,” the Doctor nodded, his hands flying as he turned to run up to the TARDIS console, “It’s… about a problem I have that can’t be solved without you,”

“What’s the problem?” Dean asked, striding towards the console and leaning upon a part of it.

“Amy,” Clara spoke up, the name echoing throughout the TARDIS.

“Amy?” Sam’s eyebrows raised as he followed Dean towards the console.

“Come to think of it, where is she? Where is Amy. You’ve got a new one here, but what happened to Amy?” Dean’s tone was menacing as he made eye contact with the Doctor, his hands leaning on the edge of the console.

“Ah,” the Doctor’s cordovan eyes trailed down, avoiding the question.

Realizing what he meant, Dean slammed his hand on the console. He wore a heated expression, his lips tightening and his nose scrunching up to create creased lines. Sam folded his arms and leaned on one of the metal bars. His eyebrows dipped down, a concerned look spreading across his face.

Clara followed Castiel around the console. The penetrating blue eyes glared at her again before turning to watch Dean lean on one of the bars that protected the Doctor from falling off the console platform when it rumbled to a stop. Dean’s right hand covered his face, closing his eyes and realizing what was going on. His eyebrows knitted together again as his fingers moved to pinch the top of his nose. His other arm wrapped itself around his waist, supporting his right arm as he sighed.

The Doctor, however, went on, flipping various switches and typing on random keyboards. He looked up at the tube that appeared to be the centre of the whole room. It was a transparent tube, which allowed them to look into a glowing turquoise light. It was the TARDIS. The living, conscious being was the real operator, and without it, the ship would just be a case, an empty shell waiting to be dusted off. The glowing turquoise light began to move up and down. The room shook and the group stumbled. The Doctor rounded the console, his fingers fidgeting at his friends. His eyes were afraid, worried. He looked away, biting his bottom lip.

“I-I’m…” the Doctor’s voice crumbled.

“You’re sorry? Yeah, she died, but you couldn’t bother telling us? You couldn’t have at least stopped what you were doing, before you found a new friend, and turned around and at least remembered us?” Dean shook his head, tears beginning to well up in his eyes.

“Dean,”

“You know what? I don’t care about you anymore. You always make friends. You always find someone new, but don’t you ever remember to look back at those you’ve left behind?”

“I can’t, all right?” the Doctor turned back to him, his own eyes filling up with the salty water. “I can’t afford to remember all those people who meant so much to me. And that I’ve failed to save them. I’ve failed to make them happy. A choice I made a long time ago. And the only thing I can do now is to forget.”

“Doctor,” Clara’s hand rested on his shoulder, her eyes wondering about the man’s past that he talked so little of.

“Every moment of every time of every place in every universe there is always someone who must forget who he used to be,” the Doctor turned to his companion, a heartbreaking smile erupting on his face.

“Doctor, we’re sorry,” Castiel spoke up, his own eyes big and sad.

“Yeah, all right,” Dean mumbled, closing his eyes as the tears retreated.

“We’re still here, aren’t we?” Sam gave a smile, lightening the mood.

“Thank you,” Clara smiled, turning towards the men.

The Doctor gave a slow smile, nodding at his friends. Suddenly, his arms flailed around him gently as he ran down to underneath the platform. He kneeled down at the one, large, maroon chest and rummaged through it. He ran back up and smiled at them, holding up gray spray-paint cans.