Seeking the Sunrise ☽ Eleven x Reader

V - Together

No one had spoken since the Messrs Bennett had left the building. The only sound that had echoed from your corner of the building was the strained rattling of the rusty curtain rail as the rings attached to the cloth scratched across it. There was an unspoken tension- one you spotted all too well in the Doctor- that signifies the presence of an issue that no one knew how to fix. That was the one thing the Doctor found most frustrating; wanting and needing to help, but not knowing how to yet.

The four of you had stepped out from behind the curtain and began pacing around the room. To a bystander, this gesture may have seemed like the beginning of a modern play, commencing with calculated paces before you froze and broke out into a song about something depressing. Then the idle chatter began.

'Who's she writing for now?' Cyril asked, craning his head towards the typewriter, where you were standing.

'Henry James.' you replied. 'This is from The Portrait of a Lady I think.'

'How do you know so many of these books?'

'I studied English Literature for a long time. Read a lot of boring books. Memorised a lot of boring quotes.'

'Oh really?' Cyril replied. 'Did you enjoy it?'

'What, studying English? Oh yeah, it was great. We-'

'Will you two stop that?' the Doctor said through clenched teeth. His quick outburst shocked everyone, and you all stopped pacing to turn and look at him.

'I'm sorry,' he said after a short pause. 'It just makes me so annoyed that I can't fix this. I normally have a plan by now. Or at least enough of a plan to pretend I have one. I have nothing. Absolutely nothing.'

This seemed like genuine despair. You could see quite clearly that behind the façade of the circumstance, this was about more than the sleeping suffragette. This was more personal than the profiteering aristocrats who sold her ideas to the highest bidder. This was more than anyone in the room- aside from you- could understand.

The Doctor lost a piece of himself the day he lost the Ponds. This wasn't new knowledge to you- the way his face had crumbled in the instance; immediately collapsing without the support of his best friends. He had stared blankly at whatever surface was opposite him for weeks, muttering about 'needing a plan' and 'getting her away from here'. You were inclined to believe the 'her' in question was you, but you didn't want to seem so self-centred. No plan ever came. No planets needed saving, no civilisations needed rescuing and the Doctor was numb. He had left his purpose in New York City, 1938.

You had reason to believe the last half of the Doctor's sudden outburst was his guilt getting the better of him. His regret. He began to wonder if the section of him that he left in New York was his ability to formulate plans. Without that, he really was just a Madman with a Box.

The light in his eyes had faded. The charisma that clouded them before reduced to a realistic, objective view and you hated that. The Doctor and his enthusiasm was the one constant in this chaos, and the idea of it abandoning you, even for a second, was heartbreaking.

The Doctor had retreated to the TARDIS. Cyril had his head hung low in the corner as he thought of how to retrieve Dorothy from her circumstance and Jack had tried to follow the Doctor. You held up your hand to him gently, letting him know that you could fix this. Or so you hoped.

When the Doctor got in this state- the storming-off-to-the-TARDIS-in-solitude state- he was inconsolable. This was the one aspect of dealing with the Doctor you didn't have any sort of guidance passed down to you on. This hadn't happened before you lost the Ponds. You remembered the days after New York.  Little could be done to raise the Doctor's spirits once again, especially on what would have been Rory's 22nd birthday. May 3rd, 2011. You missed him. You missed them both. And wherever they ended up, you knew they missed you too. That's what you told him.

'Hey,' you say, opening the TARDIS doors to find him slouched down on the stairs, arms folded.

'I didn't mean to shout.' he says, looking up from his hands. 'It's just that today's-'

'October 28th. Amy's birthday, I know.'

He pauses. 'Of course you know. Of course you do. I should've been more sensitive, I'm sorry.'

'It's hurting all of us, darling. I'm sure wherever they are, they miss us too.'

'It'll be the end of 1938 for them. They have just over 300 days before war breaks out. [Y/N], I can't stop worrying about them when I know exactly what they're going to have to live through, and I know that they know too.'

'I know. I know.' you soothe, rubbing his shoulder lightly. 'But it does them no good to have you worry for them. You just have to take each day-'

'As it comes. Rory used to say that.'

'The point still stands.'

He was silent for a moment. The Doctor was rarely quiet, but when he was, especially with his face contorted the way it was at the moment, you knew he was thinking about something important.

'How did you do it?' he asked when he finally spoke.

'Do what?'

'What you did. You spent your days caring for me after New York. You did almost nothing but look after me, and make sure I didn't just... sit, and waste away into nothing. Yet you were hurting. So much, more than me. Day after day you stood with me even though they were gone. How did you manage to carry on every day without even showing me how much you were enduring?'

You sighed. 'I'm a big girl, Doctor. I had to do right by you, because I knew that's what Amy and Rory would've wanted. They wouldn't have wanted you to fall into a pit of depression, and I knew you would if I wasn't there to stop it. I took time away from you to grieve. It was the only way to stop us both from succumbing to it.'  The Doctor combed his thumb across your cheek, wiping away a falling tear. He rested his hand there as you continued to speak. 'You're all I have left now. Amy told me that on our last day together. I couldn't leave you there, because I needed you just as much as you needed me.'

He says nothing then. For the first time, you had stunned the Doctor to silence. He reached his other hand up to the other side of your face. It was being scrutinised by his adoring gaze, more and more so as he slowly began to pull you closer to him. Tilting your head up slightly with the base of his palm, he lifted his lips to yours and pressed them together intimately.

It was a strange yet familiar feeling. Whether it was a form of muscle memory stemming from the Dream Lord's scenarios or whether this was a form of fate, it felt natural. After a while you separated,  though not completely. He rested his head on your shoulder, his arms now wrapped around you.

'Thank you. For caring, when no one else would.'