Five short little drabbles on the above subject. Feedback welcome and, indeed, begged for. Also, a better idea for a title would be nice.
Title: Five Ways the Family of Blood Could have Ended.
Rating: PG (to be safe)
Disclaimer: Not mine, just having fun
Summery: See above.
Warnings: Kind of dark and of course contains spoilers for Human Nature and Family of Blood.
In one world Smith returns.
The Doctor sacrifices his life for another, so that John knows the pains and joys that brief human life brings. He and Joan gather memories as the Doctor gathers dust, from Time Lord to Time Piece; hidden away in some dark little draw.
Until, eventually, a family of different blood, or no blood at all, uncover the antiquated watch and with it burn the world. It blazes gloriously; on last sparkle of light in a universe where, without the Doctor, the wonder of stars and the terror of the darkness between fades and is forgotten.
In one world the Doctor stays.
He wears the cap and gown and accent and culture. He tries to fit in but conformity doesn't come easy to him. He tries to live John Smith’s little life, and for this Joan hates him. Hates the thing wearing John’s face, hates that he’s so kind, hates that he’s so good. Hates that he’s everything John was and more because it’s the ‘more’ that makes him not John at all.
He isn’t human, but he knows humanity and so, at last, he departs, letting her go.
For this, at least, she is grateful.
In one world Joan leaves.
The word ‘wanderlust’ encapsulates the Doctor. He shows her things far outside the petty British Empire. Worlds where hills roll like oceans and the suns never set. Gold and pleasant lands where adventure and death are puppies following playfully in the Doctor’s wake. He shows her sights that break her mind and warp her heart; wonders which leave her longing for a book of Impossible Things.
Longing for little John Smith.
‘Why did he love you?’ the Doctor asks one day.
‘Because we were human,’ she replies.
And that is when, and why, she goes.
In one world John Smith remains.
He hands over the watch, (for he is a coward, every time,) and the fifth tick is accompanied by the snapping of his frail, human neck.
Joan dies soon after, as does Martha and, in time, the rest of Earth.
The Family grows and prospers even as the universe withers about their selfish joy. There’s war for every child and an empire for the survivors.
But they know no regret, nor lost love, nor soft, poisonous hatred. So it can be said that, in this world, at least, someone did live Happily Ever After.
In this world The Doctor continues.
He’s almost used to the deaths that buy his eternal life time after time; John Smith is less than memory, more than reflection and he wonders if he could have learned to love that life. He wonders, too, if Joan could have learned to love him. If he will ever learn to love Martha.
But love isn’t learned and he is no teacher.
When he dreams it is of weddings, children, pensions and death.
And when he awakes he writes his own diary of Impossible Things, but has no one to share it with.