Grace Holloway - Blog Posts

couldnt sleep so i drew the crew

Some are better, some worse (sorry Suchong i messed you up so much i will repay you)

i should've drawn Sofia Lamb too but i failed misearably and gave up (edit from the future: fuck Lamb im crying)

im not ready to draw Delta yet but im closer and closer every day, big daddies are so complicated aaaahhh

i love this game soooo much

The doctor's fatal flaw is that they can't stop falling in love.

Happy Out of Touch Thursday, Whovians. Have a better Eighth Doctor one.

More here

[video description: a series of shots from the tv movie compiled with the song "out of touch" playing over them. /end video description]

cw: flashing lights

Does anyone know if 8th doctor x grace has a proper ship name? Want to tag for all the new years gif sets /gen

“Happy New Year.“

Doctor Who: The Television Movie - 1996

Happy Out of Touch Thursday, Whovians. Have a better Eighth Doctor one.

More here

[video description: a series of shots from the tv movie compiled with the song "out of touch" playing over them. /end video description]

cw: flashing lights

And so it ends. I love an open ending - you're free to imagine what have they talked about afterwards, and how it went, and whether the Doctor found what he needed when he came looking for Grace, and whether it was with a heavy heart that Grace let him go again - or whether she made peace with her past and with herself of that past.

And both are written with such heartfelt precision. The Doctor is so on edge, so unsure of - well, pretty much everything, so wound up and deeply distressed, yet somehow determined. And Grace is seemingly - outwardly - fine, but still affected by what has happened, never not to be affected, and she knows it. She knows that no matter how much time passed, she would still be wondering and questioning her choice.

Part 3 of this untitled Doctor Who fic post Waters of Mars where 10 meets up with Grace Holloway again. (Well, I say untitled, and then I realized that when I posted the first bit to tumblr, I used the working title Saving Grace when linking it in this post, so let's go with that for now, shall we? It's better than my document title.) Posted for @gentildonna.

(Previous)

The Doctor made sure he was disconnected from all the machines before he set to work starting up his second heart. It wasn’t easy, not by himself. He would’ve liked to have someone else to help him. But he doubted the hospital staff would give him a good walloping on the back without what they deemed to be good reason, even if he specifically requested it. Not that he would, of course, because that would require explaining himself.

And when explaining himself didn’t work, he tended to run.

That would be slightly harder to do, given the conditions his clothes were in.

He’d started mending them, just a bit, so that he could get by. He could do a bit with the sonic screwdriver, mending fibres here and resonating dried blood off there. He was a bit surprised that, considering he had all manner of things in his pockets, he didn’t have a needle and thread. He made a mental note to put some in there in case anything like this ever happened again.

Though, if and when it did, he probably wouldn’t be wearing this suit anymore. Or this jacket.

Still. He’d worked quickly. Enough so that he’d finished before his scheduled appointment with the good Dr. Holloway. He doubted she’d be particularly disappointed, what with how she felt about him now.

He wished she hadn’t thought he was teasing her, poking fun at her stories. That hadn’t been his intention at all. He should have just come out and said it, but he hadn’t. He had such a gob on him in this regeneration, but did he open his mouth when he should? Of course not.

And now he’d missed his opportunity.

It was just as well. He shouldn’t have come. He managed to ruin them all, somehow, one way or another. This was simply proof that he was making more mistakes, not trying to compensate for his last one. How could he, when he ruined everything—everyone—he’d touched?

No shoes, but at least he was dressed in his suit again. Not that it fit quite as well as it ought to. Bit lumpy. He wasn’t the greatest at stitching. Never had liked all that domestic stuff. But it would do.

It wasn’t as conspicuous as a certain coat he’d worn in the past, one that would put the biblical Joseph’s to shame.

He’d get by.

Though he would like to find his trainers first.

Shouldn’t be too hard.

And then he could slip away to the TARDIS, no worse for the wear, and leave before he ruined Grace’s life any more than he already had.

-|-

The TARDIS refused to let him in.

Even when he claimed it would just be to get a change of clothes.

But she knew better, and he hadn’t been able to win an argument with her yet.

So he went back.

Not back to his hospital bed, no. No, he could do without that. He’d be fine. He’d only lost a bit of blood. Nothing serious. No broken bones, nothing lodged in his body, both hearts fully functioning, memory intact—not much more he could ask for.

He waited outside instead. It was, he thought, perhaps 2004, 2005. Grace may still be in San Francisco, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t moved. And, really, last time he’d been at her place, she hadn’t even had a couch, so she’d either have needed to buy quite a lot of furniture or move to a smaller place. And her place had been a bit of a hike from the hospital, if he remembered correctly. Not normally something that would bother him, but he was, perhaps just a little bit, under the weather.

The Doctor winced as he tried straightening up. Not quite healed up yet. Shouldn’t’ve tried running, really. That probably hadn’t helped. But he was sore enough that he figured pacing probably wasn’t the best way to pass the time, so he found a bench and sat down, waiting.

He was very quickly reminded why he rarely sat down with only his thoughts for company.

Ignoring the pain and his fatigue, he started walking, slowly, around and around and around the hospital grounds.

When he noticed someone watching him, he stopped that and sat down again.

But the itch to be moving remained, gnawing at him.

He wondered why he was doing this.

It wasn’t like he had a lot of time left, as far as he could tell.

His song was ending.

And here he was, waiting, doing nothing except thinking, rehashing everything he’d thought before, when there were worlds to see and places to explore and people to meet and—

Lives to ruin.

That kept him in place, that single thought.

The Doctor waited, deciding what to say the next time he saw Grace.

Because as far as he could tell, he’d only have one shot to get it right. And if he didn’t—if he started off on the wrong foot again—well, then, he wouldn’t get what he needed out of it. Not that he was entirely sure what he would get, or did need, precisely. Not closure. Not peace of mind. More…understanding. So that he would know for the future. So that, perhaps, once he regenerated—if the circumstances were such that he could regenerate—he might be able to see it, in the future. And if he could see it, he could avoid it.

And then he’d never, ever—ever—make that mistake again.

The fact that he’d done it once still scared him.

Almost as much as what would have happened, had someone else not taken it upon herself to correct it, even knowing what that correction would cost.

-|-

Dr. Grace Holloway was not happy to learn that their patient, the self-proclaimed Dr. John Smith, had somehow managed to escape the hospital and that not a single security camera had seen him leave. She hadn’t been particularly pleased with him, pulling the stunt that he had, but he wasn’t in good health, and if he really was a doctor—something she was strongly doubting—then he ought to at least acknowledge the foolishness of his actions. It was something too few people did, thinking they’d just pull through something on their own when they needed some sort of medical care.

Then again, if she were in another country without a passport or so much as a cent to her name, she might have run off, too.

Still, that didn’t explain why he’d singled her out, nor why he’d tried pulling that cruel joke. There was no reason for it. She’d learned, very quickly, to make the entire thing out as a story. And she’d told it, time and again, when she visited the children’s ward. She told other stories, too, but somehow, she always went back to that particular one.

Perhaps because that particular one wasn’t just any story—or just a story at all.

But the amount of detail she’d put into her retellings of it had some people questioning her. Perhaps because the details never changed, as the details of invented stories tended to do. She’d been shocked by the first remark she’d gotten, and even by all the ones that followed, despite knowing better by then. Not that anyone ever meant anything by it, really, as far as she could tell. They were only joking about it—with her, in their eyes. But the comments still stung.

To have snippets of the story repeated back to her, in a manner that hid the joke a little bit too well…. It felt cruel. Uncalled for. And it wasn’t even April Fool’s Day.

Perhaps it wouldn’t bother her so much if she hadn’t spent so much time thinking about it. Wondering, for the most part, what she had missed out on. Whether she’d made the right choice. Whether she’d change her mind, given the chance to. Whether it really had all been just a story or a dream.

The hospital records of that particular John Doe had been destroyed. Explaining away a dead man walking was a bit more difficult than simply burning a couple of x-rays and covering up the death in the first place, but it could be done. Rationalized. It had been late. The orderly had been confused, half-asleep, mixing up reality with that blasted movie he’d been watching. The door hadn’t been closed properly and had been loose on its hinges. It had been battered during normal use but had functioned well enough to not be reported, but its evident failure of function had ultimately required its immediate replacement, holiday or no holiday.

And things had simply fallen into place, logically, rationally, and everything that hadn’t fit had been shoved under the rug and had become unmentionable.

She’d even tried to find Chang Lee, once, when it was all said and done. She hadn’t been successful. She suspected it was because of the two bulging bags he’d held the last time she’d seen him. She still didn’t know what had been in them, but she knew they were from the Doctor. And that…that meant that they could have held anything within them from trinkets to cash to something as outrageous as gold dust.

Grace laughed, a bit bitterly. Oh, look at her now. Pining away after a forgotten possibility. All because some skinny idiot who had no idea what he was doing, how much he was hurting her, was dredging up her memories and shoving them in her face. Someone would have had to put him up to it, she was sure. They’d gone to a lot of trouble, telling someone all her stories. Perhaps he was a friend or relative of someone, thinking he’d have a go at her and have a laugh at her expense.

Although the wounds had been all too real. And the heart trouble wouldn’t have been faked, either. She wondered if they still had those x-rays. She’d be able to tell if his heart was overworked, as he’d kept insisting, by its size.

Grace put her coffee cup down. It was cold anyhow, though the brew had barely been lukewarm to begin with when she’d gone on her break.

Still. John Smith. Doctor. She should have seen through it immediately. The lack of ID, the odd things in the pockets, no money. And then the jelly babies. Oh, it had been planned, all right. Carefully. Not the stabbing, though she expected he’d have come up with one reason or another to see her. It was quite understandable that they didn’t replicate circumstances too much—and it wasn’t easy to fake a gunshot wound, not unless the entire hospital staff was in on it except her. The heart trouble may have been unexpected, or it may have been the reason he’d been the one to try it. She couldn’t be sure. X-rays inconclusive her foot. Perhaps they hadn’t even been taken.

Pursuing that thought, she went to check. But when she got there, she was informed that they had already been disposed of. She demanded to know why, without her even seeing them, particularly before they’d had a chance to take more, and had simply been told that it was out of their hands.

She cornered the newest addition to the staff. She didn’t know the man very well, and she wasn’t good at intimidating people, so she didn’t even try it. She merely pulled him aside and asked for the truth. What they had looked like.

Double exposure.

Double exposure. Yeah, right. As if she’d buy that after all this. Apologetic tone or not, even if he had been the one to take the blasted things— That didn’t matter. They were all in on it. What was this for? There was no rhyme, no reason. Who was trying to make her life hell?

She needed a break. And not just a measly five minutes. She wasn’t the only cardiologist in the hospital. They could cover for her. Oh, not easily, but they’d make do. She might lose her job, but, given the circumstances, she wasn’t so sure that wouldn’t be a bad thing. She’d thought about leaving after that first time, back in 1999. She hadn’t. She’d hung on, clinging to normality after her life had spun out of control. She’d used it as an anchor.

But some things you couldn’t bury so easily.

Given time, it would resurface.

Time.

She’d seen it backtrack, loop around, and play again. Just the once. But that experience had changed everything.

They always say that if it doesn’t matter in five, ten years, it doesn’t matter now, not really. Well, it had been five years. And it was still affecting her. And she was fairly sure another five wouldn’t change that.

She didn’t head to the parking lot, to her car. She knew she’d come back. But now…she needed to walk, now. Just to work off some of her frustration, expend her energy. She needed some time to think, where other things weren’t crowding her thoughts.

She nearly didn’t see him, sprawled on the bench as he was, fast asleep.

“Dr. John Smith,” she said, looking him over. She frowned as she studied him further. She’d seen the condition his clothes had been in, bloodied and torn. And while they were a bit raggedy, there were no gaping holes, no dark red stains stretching across large portions of the shirt. But she knew it had to be the same, because there were smaller spots of blood still there. Only, when she moved closer to get a better look at the material, she couldn’t tell that it had ever been ripped. The holes had closed up as if they had never been there.

How the hell had he managed that?

She shook him, intending to wake him up. He didn’t stir.

She felt for a pulse and yanked her hand back. He was cold. How long had he been out here? She pried open his eyelids, wishing she had a flashlight to better test pupil reactions, and then tried checking for a pulse again. She couldn’t find it, but his pupils had contracted slightly in the light when she stopped shading them with her hand. He wasn’t dead.

He really was in trouble after all.

It was all a bit more serious than she’d been led to believe, then.

“I’ve got to get you back inside,” she said. She looked dubiously at the lanky body splayed over the bench. He’d be heavy enough if she had to carry him. She’d be better off going inside and getting a wheelchair or someone to help her than struggle with him alone.

“And here I only wanted some time to think,” she muttered as she arranged the unconscious man into the recovery position.

She’d just finished making sure his head was tilted at the right angle when his eyes snapped open.

It was a bit hard not to shriek at that.

A grin spread across his face. “Hello, Grace,” he said as he pulled himself into a sitting position. “Just the person I wanted to talk to.”

“You need medical help,” she hissed, too angry with herself for losing her self-control earlier and for letting her emotions interfere with how she’d treated a patient than to wonder about how quickly he’d woken up, let alone how he’d woken up at all.

“Nah, better now. Had a bit of a rest. Didn’t expect to. Well, didn’t mean to. I did expect it would sneak up on me. Haven’t had much the last few days, and then, what with getting stabbed and all, well, I do need to replenish my energy now and then. Even I can’t run full-out forever.”

She grabbed his arm and only just stopped herself from pulling him roughly to his feet. “Come with me,” she said, her tone not allowing for argument.

“I don’t need to check back into the hospital if that’s what you’re thinking. If I need anything, I ought to see if I’ve got another zero room hiding out in the TARDIS somewhere. Listen, please. I just…. I think I need to talk to someone.”

Oh, and he was still at it. TARDIS indeed. Not that she knew where he got that bit about a zero room from, but that was beside the point. “I’ll make sure someone will be there to listen to you.”

He frowned, carefully extracting his arm from her grip. “I don’t need a visit from psychiatric,” he groused. But then his expression fell again. “Or perhaps I do, by your terms. But it wouldn’t help. Well, not me. I don’t need to end up in a padded room, thank you very much. Plenty to do without having to deal with that.” He sucked in a breath. “Please. You have to listen to me. I….” He trailed off. “It’s different now,” he said, starting again. “I’m alone now. Gallifrey’s gone.”

“Why do you insist on doing this?” Grace demanded, but she was uncertain now. There was something in his eyes….

“I can regenerate twelve times. But don’t worry; you’re the only one to kill me by punching a hole through my second heart. I’m not about to make that mistake again. Not that it was working earlier. Sign that I wasn’t doing so well, that. But she’s pumping now.” He caught her hands and placed one on either side of his chest before she could think to fight him—maybe because she didn’t want to. Maybe because she wanted it to be true.

A near-impossible duality of rhythm beat beneath her palms.

“There, see?” he asked, giving her a lopsided grin. “I’m easy to find. I’m the guy with two hearts.”

This fic is an utter beauty.

I stumbled across it by chance while browsing the Tenth Doctor tag - and was immediately captivated, because it is masterfully written, steadfastly in character (oh, all those little mannerisms and the Doctor's incessant mental tossin' about!) and achingly bittersweet. With the emphasis on bitter, mind you, but there's absolutely nothing wrong with that, considering the moment in the Doctor's life when it's happening (aaand the fact that - for some of us at least - hurt is the crucial element of hurt/comfort).

I feel for him. I feel for Grace, too. It's heartbreaking. And it's beautifully, beautifully written. I've re-read it right now and I cried. Again. Twice.

Part 2 of this untitled Doctor Who fic where 10 meets up with Grace Holloway again. Posted for @scaehime, who was interested in more.

-|-

The Doctor jolted awake. He tried to claw the oxygen mask off his face, but a pair of gloved hands held it more firmly in place. “Don’t worry, Mr. Smith,” someone said. “It’s simply a precaution. We—”

But the Doctor wasn’t willing to simply listen. “I’m not signing anything,” he said, albeit with difficulty, and his voice was muffled anyway. “I’m not going to let you do anything. No x-rays, no—”

“Mr. Smith, please remain calm.”

“Calm?” the Doctor repeated, anything but. “Calm? You’re trying to...you…you….” He trailed off. An oxygen mask, he’d thought. But then he’d breathed it, and analyzed it. And it wasn’t just oxygen. At least, not anymore. He had to wonder if he’d even said what he’d meant to say, whether or not it had been heard.

This time he did manage to get the mask off his face. “How long,” he gasped out, “have I been in here?”

“You were brought into emergency three hours ago,” came the steady reply. “You’re stable now. You were in shock. Do you remember what happened?”

“Partially,” the Doctor replied, looking distracted. “Did a Vera Taylor tell you who I was?”

“That’s right. Dr. Taylor has insisted that we treat you as we treated her.” A small laugh. “Like everyone else, in other words. We try to give the best treatment possible. You’re in good hands, Mr. Smith.”

The Doctor thought for a moment, cursing whatever they’d given him. He hated being slow on the uptake. “Did you say,” he finally asked, “that I’ve been here for three hours?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “And, oh, three hours is a long time, isn’t it? Lots of lovely tests you could run.” He sat up abruptly, wincing as his movement partially dislodged an IV from his arm. He pulled it out carefully and turned to assess the nurse who was taking care of him. He scrutinized her for a moment, seeing if he could place her face among his blurred recollections of the time he’d woken up on the operating table, but couldn’t. That was a bit of a relief.

“Mr. Smith, I have to ask you to—”

“Sorry,” he interrupted. He squinted at her nametag. “But, Rachel, I’m fine now. I don’t need oxygen, I don’t need an IV, and I don’t need whatever else you were going to give me.” He glanced down. “Though, I wouldn’t mind my clothes, bloodied or not.” He frowned. “That’ll take a bit of mending. Shame. I hate mending. I can take it to Neo-Sydney, I suppose. They’ve expert tailors there. Then again, the prices, and they don’t fancy taking….” He trailed off and cleared his throat. “Still. Better than making do with a costume again.”

“Mr. Smith—”

“Yes, I know, it’s against regulations and all that, but, without them, I can’t show you my ID to—” He stopped, frustrated. “Oh, what’s it matter. I can’t stay. I have more important things to be doing. I shouldn’t even have come in the first place.”

“Mr. Smith, your condition has stabilized for the moment, but I would advise not disregarding the doctor’s recommendations by—”

“Oh, but I wouldn’t be disregarding the Doctor’s recommendations,” the Doctor cut in. “Because I think I know my body a bit better than you, thanks.” He reached for the chart at the foot of the bed.

Rachel smirked at him. “So it’s true. Doctors are the worst patients.”

The Doctor, however, wasn’t paying attention. He flipped from one page to the next and back again, then skipped ahead and frowned. “You’ve scheduled me for an appointment with a cardiac specialist?” he asked slowly.

“Your heartbeat was erratic,” Rachel pointed out. “Even accounting for the shock, the range was worrisome.”

“Speeding up and slowing down,” the Doctor murmured, deciding he’d better not ramble too much in case she decided to have psychiatric check up on him. Twenty-eight beats a minute, then racing to well over a hundred and twenty-eight in an effort to compensate for the fact that his right heart still wasn’t beating. He was lucky he hadn’t slipped into a healing coma. He was liable to find himself locked up in the morgue again if he did.

At the very least, he was lucky they hadn’t cut him open with the intention of putting in a pacemaker or some such nonsense.

“Dr. Taylor was able to pull a few strings,” Rachel informed him, gently pulling the chart away from his hands. “Dr. Holloway will see to you herself.”

“Oh. Right.” The Doctor frowned. He’d managed to walk right into this, hadn’t he? Sure, he’d been debating having a quick conversation with her, and he had landed and set off, but if he was set to meet up with Grace again, this wasn’t what he’d pictured. Him tracking her down, yes, but if he went into the hospital, he wouldn’t have gone in as a patient. At least, not with injuries of this sort. Still, perhaps just bumping into her on the street would’ve been best. But not this. Well, could be worse, he supposed. He wasn’t on the operating table again.

Nearly had been, but wasn’t.

“Clothes?” he prompted, looking up at Rachel again.

“You’ll want someone to bring you a fresh set,” she admitted.

Oh, brilliant. They’d gone and cut them off him, then. He might just be reduced to making off with someone else’s. Again. What would it be now, the third time? There was his third regeneration, and his eighth, and—

“But my coat?” he asked. He didn’t want to lose his coat. He had important things in that coat. Come to that, he had important things in his suit pockets, too. “And, er, you haven’t disposed of my suit yet, have you?”

“Your things are safe, Mr. Smith.” Rachel stood up. “I’ll ask you to wait here while I call Dr. Miller in to speak with you personally.”

“If I going to talk to a doctor,” the Doctor replied, “I would prefer it to be Grace, if that’s possible. Is she free?”

“She didn’t—”

“Brilliant,” the Doctor interrupted. “Thank you. Off you go now, Rachel; time’s a-wasting.” He settled back into bed, waiting for her to leave. She looked startled, but she did as she was told.

The minute she was out the door, the Doctor allowed himself a small moan. Ooh, how humans could stand it with just one heart, he didn’t know. Though, he was lucky they hadn’t tried to give him anything. Probably had something to do with the good Dr. Taylor, that. She’d held up remarkably well, all things considered. She reminded him a bit of Grace. And even a little of Sarah Jane, come to think of it.

But he didn’t have time to think of it. He had to get out of here. They’d taken x-rays. And he wasn’t sure they’d just chalk it up to a double exposure again. He wasn’t even quite sure when he was—something he hated admitting; he had a reputation to uphold, after all—and he didn’t fancy going through anything like 2012 Utah again, to name one of the more recent unpleasant experiences he’d had on Earth. 

Now was not the time to draw attention to himself by trying to start up his right heart.

He slowly made his way down the hallway and a couple flights of stairs, alternately trying doors and dodging into rooms, occupied or otherwise, to avoid anyone who looked overtly official. He wasn’t sure how far he’d get, dressed as he was, but he was willing to give it a shot. And he could always pretend he was lost. It was fair enough, he figured, even if it was, likely as not, going to get him a ticket to psychiatric. Ah, well; he deserved a bit of fun. He hadn’t had as much as he liked lately. The last time he’d gone looking for it, things hadn’t exactly gone according to plan.

If hadn’t been for one wise, stubborn human, he would have knowingly destroyed an entire timeline.

Sure, it had reasserted himself, skirting around a few anomalies, but he’d been willing to…. He’d tried to sacrifice.... He’d….

“These are his things?”

“Yes. That’s all we found his pockets. No ID, no money—nothing to support his claims to Dr. Taylor.”

Grace. And someone he didn’t recognize. He’d better get out of here. Quickly. He could nip back and gather his things, then be on his way no worse for the wear. Grace might wonder, but he didn’t recall carrying anything on him now that she would recognize. He’d even had the locks changed; the TARDIS key was different. Though that was more because he couldn’t stand the constant reminder of Gallifrey than anything else. Still. New key, new sonic screwdriver….

New body.

Twice over.

And he had no right to ask. To ask would be to burden her with his problems, because she was the sort of person who would take the burden without being asked and wouldn’t lay it down, no matter what he told her. No matter how much he pleaded with her. And he had no right to do that. She’d built a wonderful life for herself. Moved on, just like she should have. Because she’d recognized—

The Doctor dashed into the nearest room. “Oh, hello,” he greeted cheerfully as a rather frail lady looked up at him. “I seem to have gotten the wrong room. I was looking for a Ms. Jones?” He phrased it as a question, but spent some time looking about the room, wandering deeper into it—and away from the doorway—and making it clear that he didn’t expect an answer. “Terribly sorry,” he added. “I’m the, ah, man from just down the hall. John Smith.” He stuck out his hand, grinning widely.

“Dorothy Mae,” the woman replied finally, taking his hand. “You shouldn’t be up and about, young man. I may not be a doctor, but I’m a mother and a grandmother, and you should be in bed. You’re too pale. Never mind that this is a hospital. I’m here after my hip replacement. You,” she added pointedly, looking him up and down again, “look like you got on the wrong side of a fight.” She didn’t sound particularly approving.

The Doctor tugged on an ear. “Yeah, well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders a bit. “Wasn’t intentional. Just trying to help, me. Nothing serious. They’ll be letting me out as soon as they can process the paperwork, I daresay. Need the beds, I think. But my friend—”

“If they’re going to release you when you look like that,” Dorothy Mae interrupted, “then I will be speaking with my doctor about the sort of care they’re giving here.”

The Doctor began to think that perhaps engaging the woman in conversation had not been his best idea. He pasted a smile on his face. “Oh, well, no, it’s not the care. I’m checking out. Against their recommendations, admittedly. But, really, it’s just a form or two to sign, and—”

“You,” declared the outspoken, if well-intentioned, Dorothy Mae, “ought to be ashamed of yourself. You’re liable to get yourself killed if you don’t smarten up.”

She looked like she could have berated him for longer, but the Doctor hastily began extracting himself from the conversation. “Yes, true enough; I will reconsider, I suppose, but I ought to go and tell them that, so I’ll just leave you be, won’t I?” He grinned at her and made his escape.

He bumped into someone and tried to continue on his way, but whoever it was caught his arm. “Mr. Smith,” drawled a man’s voice, “I believe you were assigned to room 403?”

“Dr. Miller, I presume?” the Doctor asked, trying not to look guilty. If he’d waited just one more minute.... “Yes. And may I ask why you are a full two floors from your assigned room?” Over Dr. Miller’s shoulder, the Doctor had watched Grace’s face fall. Perhaps she had thought to connect the dots. He didn’t recall telling her that regeneration worked more than once. Granted, he hadn’t exactly had time to explain anything. Common theme in his life, that.

“Oh, well,” he said slowly. “Fancied a bit of a jaunt, that’s all. Looking to see if I could get a cup of tea, to be honest.” Well, partially honest. He wouldn’t mind a cup of tea now. He needed something to clear his head. “And, I was wondering about my things. Could I have them back? Even the suit? I know an excellent tailor.”

“We can discuss this at a later time, once we have you back in your room.” Dr. Miller steered him towards the lift.

“I’ll join you when he’s settled,” Grace said shakily. The Doctor glanced over his shoulder to get a better look at her. She hadn’t changed, really. So perhaps it wasn’t that long after all. Blimey, it better not be before the millennium. He’d be in a spot then. But surely….

The Doctor accepted his scolding meekly, knowing that if he had any chance of getting out of here, it would be better to throw them off guard. And, sometimes, if you played your cards right, and you acted like you really needed something, they’d give it to you. Like shoes. Shoes would be an excellent thing right now. You can only make it so far without shoes. All right, last time he’d made it over to Grace’s house without shoes, but he’d needed the toe tag on as proof, hadn’t he?

The Doctor did his best to ensure that his conversation with Dr. Miller was short. Grace entered shortly after Dr. Miller had finished his scolding—well, chiding, more like, as if he were a child. But when she came in, holding his coat—and it would take a bit to get those stains out—and a small paper bag, presumably his other things, he almost didn’t want Dr. Miller to leave. He regretted being so apologetic and compliant. He might’ve bought more time if he hadn’t been.

Because, really…. He didn’t want to face her.

He shouldn’t have come.

“John Smith?” she asked softly, depositing his things at the foot of the bed and settling down on the chair by its head. He saw the sleeve of his suit jacket poking out from the bundle that was his coat. Excellent; she’d gotten that, too.

Still, he had to answer her question. He hesitated, and nodded once, sharply and definitively.

“Where are you from?” she asked, keeping her voice light.

“Nottingham,” he answered. “Brilliant place. You ought to visit it sometime.”

“And may I ask why you wanted to speak with me, and why you told Dr. Vera Taylor that I knew you?”

“Oh, well, I just….” The Doctor trailed off. Grace was smart, and lying wasn’t his forte in this regeneration. “It’s been a long while, that’s all. I knew you wouldn’t recognize me.”

She was thinking it. He could tell by the expression on her face. Blinking abruptly, she reached for his chart, scanning it. He watched her shoulders fall. “They want to keep you for monitoring,” she noted. “You’ve a bad heart.”

“It’s just overworked,” the Doctor said bluntly. “Temporary. A victim of circumstances, if you will.”

“X-rays inconclusive?” Grace repeated, looking up from the chart. “You’re due for another round, to make sure you didn’t crack a rib. First round was faulty.”

The Doctor was silent for a moment. “Grace,” he said, slowly, deliberately, “may I have my things?” He held out his hand. “Just the bag for now, if you will.”

“I’d prefer Dr. Holloway at the moment, Mr. Smith.”

“Doctor,” the Doctor corrected.

Grace smiled slightly. “Oh, yes,” she amended. “I do recall Vera mentioning that. Dr. Smith, then.”

“Doctor,” the Doctor repeated, watching her hand falter as she reached for the bag.

She turned back to look at him. “I’m afraid, Dr. Smith, that I do not take to calling anyone simply by their profession. Particularly those from Nottingham.” She passed the paper bag to him.

The Doctor took it and smiled. “Well, it’s a bit more than a profession.” He overturned the bag to see what he could find. They hadn’t found much. Sonic screwdriver, TARDIS key, wallet of currently blank psychic paper—pity, that; might be a bit harder to fool them, if they recognized the covering—and his spectacles. Just some surface things, nothing from too deep in his pockets.

And nothing Grace would recognize.

Though, he had to decide, now, whether or not he was going to go through with it. He’d meant to. But then, he thought maybe it would be best if he didn’t. Because the only reasons he’d meant to have any conversation at all with her were selfish reasons. He wanted to know what she’d seen, and how she’d recognized it—how she’d seen what he, and so many others, couldn’t.

A friend had once told him that if you could choose who lives and who dies, you would be a monster. And he’d agreed whole-heartedly at the time. It wasn’t even that long ago. How could he have forgotten that conversation? How could he have turned his back on that so utterly? How could he have disregarded everything and gone and done it anyhow?

He’d needed to be taken down a few pegs.

It hadn’t taken much.

But it was too much all the same.

One life had had to be ended to keep history on track.

And he hadn’t been the one to realize that.

He’d been the one to ignore it.

And then he’d been shown how important it all was, and how foolish and arrogant he’d been, and how wrong he’d been, to stray from that, even once. He’d seen what he’d become.

A monster.

“Dr. Smith? Are you all right?”

The Doctor blinked. Grace repeated her question, moving closer to check on him.

No. He couldn’t just leave. He’d come here, and the TARDIS had made sure he’d come this far, sneaky as she was. He wanted to run from this, like he’d run from everything else. But he couldn’t keep everything inside him forever, keeping silent. He had to tell some things to someone.

Someone who would listen.

Someone who might help him to understand.

Someone he’d touched but not destroyed.

“I’m always all right,” the Doctor croaked, pulling away from Grace. He reached instead for his coat, digging in the pockets. He had some in here, he was sure of it. He’d gotten them the same time he’d picked up that chocolate egg at Easter, since he hadn’t had any for years and he had had a bit of a liking for them. They wouldn’t be too old; a couple of months, that’s all.

“Dr. Smith, you should just relax. Your heart—”

Right. Dr. Miller had insisted on hooking him up to that again. Bother it all. “Is compensating,” the Doctor cut in. “That’s all. Temporary, like I said.”

“You’re not well.”

No, he wasn’t. But he was on the mend, now—if he could just stop running, just for a moment, long enough to have a conversation.

“Grace—”

“Dr. Holloway.”

“Grace,” the Doctor repeated, very deliberately, as his hand closed upon a small paper bag of candy. He pulled it out of his coat pocket and offered it to her. “Jelly baby?”

She looked at him uncertainly. “I was informed that they’d gone through your pockets.”

The Doctor shrugged. “They didn’t know what they were looking for. Would you like a jelly baby?”

Grace’s expression hardened. “Stop it,” she hissed.

The Doctor was taken aback. “What?” he asked, blinking at her. He hadn’t meant to actually offend her. Yet that was how she was acting.

“Who put you up to this?” she continued angrily. “I’m not having it, you hear? I’ve had enough with people laughing at me. I’m not telling that story anymore.”

Oh.

He hadn’t expected that.

Of course, he wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected.

He hadn’t thought about it all too much.

“What year is it?” he asked slowly.

Wrong question, it seemed, with what she thought of him now. “I’ll thank you not to persist in telling tales in an attempt to speak to me again,” she said sharply, rising to her feet. “Good day, Mr. Smith.”

“Doctor,” he corrected again.

She glared at him. “Dr. Smith, then. Good day.”

“I’d missed you, Grace,” he said truthfully. “But I’d still thought that I was doing the right thing by not coming back. After you’d made your choice, I mean.”

It wasn’t enough to catch her attention, and she started out the room, ignoring him.

And, well, now that he’d made the decision to talk to her, he wanted to talk to her.

So he made sure that he did catch her attention. “The Master survived, you know. Getting sucked into the Eye. But she’s closed now. Room’s locked, good and tight. Even I can’t get into it. Don’t think I will, unless circumstances change.”

She turned back at the doorway to look at him. “How long?” she asked, her voice still cold.

“Pardon?”

“How long have you spent listening to my stories, gathering every bit of information from every story I’ve ever told the children in the recovery ward? And why do you insist on patronizing me?”

She was defensive. Hurt.

Because of him.

Because she’d believed in him and had told her story.

He’d still managed to….

“I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely contrite. “I am so, so sorry, Grace. I didn’t know.”

“Dr. Holloway,” she corrected, but her voice had softened slightly.

And then she was gone.