What If?
Space Dementia
The Doctor
He bounded up the steps to 221 Baker Street in the dark, full of joy as he'd fixed it. He always fixed it. He was brilliant. He was The Doctor. He decided not to bore her with the details. Not of how the capsule had crashed at a history museum. Or that run in with those autons. No, she wouldn't find it interesting. He was almost knocked off his feet, how ever, when a particularly stormy looking Sherlock Holmes answered the door and then shut it behind him, both of them outside stood precariously on the top step. The Doctor glanced at Sherlock's pyjamas and dressing gown for a moment, and then remembered that it was indeed two in the morning.
"Leave, now." he muttered, his threatening growl even intimidating The Doctor slightly, and he'd just had a go at some autons and gas mask people. It troubled the time lord for a moment, before he tried to out intimidate his opponent with a few words of slightly louder volume.
"All right, all right. Stop getting your deduction theories in a twist, sunshine!" he whispered, backing off slightly. He was shorter, more slight, and probably less able to win in a fight than Sherlock. He didn't fancy his chances if things became tense. He frowned questioningly as he asked "Where's Pond? I know it's been a few weeks, but it couldn't be helped."
"A few weeks? It's been eighteen months!" the detective hissed, anger in his eyes as fear and regret appeared in The Doctor's. "You left her stranded here!"
A sickening sense of dread filled him, from the tips of his fingers, to the soles of his feet, running through his bones like a dead weight that threatened to make him run. Run away and never return. He'd done it again. He'd left her. He'd left Amelia Pond waiting again and it was all his fault. It now added up to nearly fourteen years. He was amazed at his ability to speak.
"How is she? Is she happy?" he breathed, his voice hollow now as he desperately thought of her smiling face as if it would make a difference.
"No. She's not. I've not seen her smile properly, look like she's functioning more than she needs to since the day you were with her at that house. She's seems blank, hollow, like something's missing and she tries to replace it with anything and everything. Friends, decorating a flat, watching films, getting a cat, working in a dead end little job that just made her miserable. She looks sad but only when she thinks no one's looking. When she thinks I'm not looking."
Sherlock fired all of this at him, each little thing hitting him like machine gun shells to what must have been left of his two hearts. It hurt. It was designed and crafted and said to hurt. It was what Amy felt, but from a mouth that spoke nothing but the irreplaceable and sickening truth with an enthusiasm that was fuelled by hate. Amy Pond didn't hate. She hated on the inside where no one could see and no one could get hurt. She hated in secret so that no one got upset.
Amazing, fabulous Amelia Pond. He'd failed her again and this time it had broken her. Broken her into little pieces that lay scattered where ever she went. He was no good for her, for any one. He thought of all of them, the ones that he'd failed. The ones that he'd loved and he'd let go, the ones that he'd made love him and then torn them to pieces. He needed to leave and he needed to do it now.
"Has she grown up?" he asked, one final question that needed answering. He knew that the Consulting Detective would know what he referred to.
"She doesn't even talk about you any more. The Raggedy Doctor isn't alive any more in her head. You're just... Gone." he said quietly, and with that, The Doctor left 221 Baker Street, promising himself to give Amy Pond the happiest life here whether Sherlock Holmes liked it or not.
He bounded up the steps to 221 Baker Street in the dark, full of joy as he'd fixed it. He always fixed it. He was brilliant. He was The Doctor. He decided not to bore her with the details. Not of how the capsule had crashed at a history museum. Or that run in with those autons. No, she wouldn't find it interesting. He was almost knocked off his feet, how ever, when a particularly stormy looking Sherlock Holmes answered the door and then shut it behind him, both of them outside stood precariously on the top step. The Doctor glanced at Sherlock's pyjamas and dressing gown for a moment, and then remembered that it was indeed two in the morning.
"Leave, now." he muttered, his threatening growl even intimidating The Doctor slightly, and he'd just had a go at some autons and gas mask people. It troubled the time lord for a moment, before he tried to out intimidate his opponent with a few words of slightly louder volume.
"All right, all right. Stop getting your deduction theories in a twist, sunshine!" he whispered, backing off slightly. He was shorter, more slight, and probably less able to win in a fight than Sherlock. He didn't fancy his chances if things became tense. He frowned questioningly as he asked "Where's Pond? I know it's been a few weeks, but it couldn't be helped."
"A few weeks? It's been eighteen months!" the detective hissed, anger in his eyes as fear and regret appeared in The Doctor's. "You left her stranded here!"
A sickening sense of dread filled him, from the tips of his fingers, to the soles of his feet, running through his bones like a dead weight that threatened to make him run. Run away and never return. He'd done it again. He'd left her. He'd left Amelia Pond waiting again and it was all his fault. It now added up to nearly fourteen years. He was amazed at his ability to speak.
"How is she? Is she happy?" he breathed, his voice hollow now as he desperately thought of her smiling face as if it would make a difference.
"No. She's not. I've not seen her smile properly, look like she's functioning more than she needs to since the day you were with her at that house. She's seems blank, hollow, like something's missing and she tries to replace it with anything and everything. Friends, decorating a flat, watching films, getting a cat, working in a dead end little job that just made her miserable. She looks sad but only when she thinks no one's looking. When she thinks I'm not looking."
Sherlock fired all of this at him, each little thing hitting him like machine gun shells to what must have been left of his two hearts. It hurt. It was designed and crafted and said to hurt. It was what Amy felt, but from a mouth that spoke nothing but the irreplaceable and sickening truth with an enthusiasm that was fuelled by hate. Amy Pond didn't hate. She hated on the inside where no one could see and no one could get hurt. She hated in secret so that no one got upset.
Amazing, fabulous Amelia Pond. He'd failed her again and this time it had broken her. Broken her into little pieces that lay scattered where ever she went. He was no good for her, for any one. He thought of all of them, the ones that he'd failed. The ones that he'd loved and he'd let go, the ones that he'd made love him and then torn them to pieces. He needed to leave and he needed to do it now.
"Has she grown up?" he asked, one final question that needed answering. He knew that the Consulting Detective would know what he referred to.
"She doesn't even talk about you any more. The Raggedy Doctor isn't alive any more in her head. You're just... Gone." he said quietly, and with that, The Doctor left 221 Baker Street, promising himself to give Amy Pond the happiest life here whether Sherlock Holmes liked it or not.