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Chapter Text

The streets were quiet that morning. Sunlight was just starting to trickle over the rooftops of the residential street, and birds could be heard making music from all corners. The small town was barely awake, except for one person. 

Her shallow heels clicked along the cobblestone path, a rhythmic sound that echoed in the still morning. Her short sleeve dress - unthinkingly modern - was pear green, complimenting her long curly red hair, which was pinned to fall specifically down her back, and she held an intricately designed fob watch tightly in her gloved hand. On her neck was a golden locket, with similar intricate patterns detailing the cover. 

Florence Reagan studied the fob watch carefully, her body certain it was important but her mind insisting it couldn’t be. The incongruity between them left her feeling stuck, immovable, even as her feet took her to her place of work on instinct and memory alone. She fiddled with the button that would open the intricate cover to show the broken watch face underneath, just as unsure how she knew it would be broken as she was sure that it would be. She ran her thumb across the circles and lines, feeling the metal warm to her touch as she tried to decipher their meaning. 

Around the corner from her, John Smith, wearing his usual three-piece suit and bow tie, was striding quickly, his maid, Martha Jones, following behind him. They both carried a travelling case each, and in John’s other hand he held a fob watch with intricate designs on the cover. He studied it carefully even as he walked, only half listening to his maid as she fretted over his last minute placement at Farringham School for Boys, and instead more focused on why he felt so insistent to keep the broken watch so close to him. 

As John Smith and Martha Jones turned the corner onto the main street of Farringham, John collided with Florence. John’s case, having been filled to the brim nearly with his personal belongings, exploded, and two fob watches scattered along the ground as John fell on top of Florence. 

“Oh my god,” Martha exclaimed, dropped her case to help John stand, dusting him off before he was able to offer Florence some help. “Come on sir, back on your feet.” 

“I’m so sorry, miss, I am terribly clumsy,” John started saying, ignoring Martha’s fussing. His face flushed in embarrassment as he caught a glimpse of Florence’s face. 

“No, it’s quite alright,” Florence replied, pushing herself to a seated position. John offered his hand, thankful when she accepted his help back onto her two feet. He didn’t immediately let go, however, and Florence allowed herself a moment to study his brown eyes. They were so big, seemingly filled with wonder and adventure. 

“I wasn’t looking where I was going,” they said together, and both their faces flushed bright red as they looked away. 

“Sir, your clothes!” Martha said, seeing the mess around them. His clothes had seemingly leapt out of the case, and now were a mess across the cobblestones. 

“Oh, let me help!” Florence said, bending to help fold some of the clothes and put them back in the case. As she picked up a shirt, she noticed a watch on the floor, and she realised she must have dropped it when she’d fallen. She quickly stored it in her dress pocket, not noticing how the designs were slightly different. 

John frowned, “you don’t have to, miss, it’s my own fault, after all!” He bent next to her, bunching up as many clothes as he could into a fist to try and quickly end his embarrassment in the situation. 

“No, please. It’s the least I can do,” she smiled at him, and John found himself momentarily captivated by her striking blue eyes. He felt he could spend an eternity swimming into their depths, such was the vivid colour of them. 

“My name’s John. John Smith,” he finally said, breaking eye contact with a blush and clear of his throat. Florence smiled, heart stuttering. 

“I’m Florence Reagan, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Smith.” She handed the clothes she’d folded to Martha, who packed them into the suitcase while keeping an eye on the two. Florence then reached out to the clothes balled in John’s hand and gently took them, folding them neatly. “You should make sure to fold your shirts carefully, else you’ll be dealing with wrinkles for months to come.” 

John’s mouth gaped momentarily, and Florence chuckled. 

“Thank you, Miss Reagan,” he murmured, heart stuttering. 

As the three of them finished packing up John’s belongings, Martha noticed a fob watch on the floor underneath a pair of trousers, and she quickly pocketed it to hand back to John after they had left Florence. 

Florence finally stood, having cleared the street of John’s belongings, and she smiled at the man as he firmly closed and locked the case. 

“I am sincerely sorry for the disruption to your morning, Miss Reagan,” he said, turning to her with a slight blush and a sheepish smile. 

Florence smiled, ignoring her slight breathlessness, and said, “it really is quite alright. I was distracted myself, you are not solely at fault.” 

“I apologise for interrupting, but Mr Smith, you are required at the school in half an hour,” Martha mentioned, sending Florence a mildly suspicious glance. “We need to get going.” 

“Oh, yes!” John remembered, and he looked back at Florence, a hopeful look in his eyes. “Will I perchance see you around, Miss Reagan?” 

Florence blushed slightly, but she replied, “I do hope so, Mr Smith.” 

She gave a small curtesy to him, and turned to walk away from them. Her heart beat hard in her throat, and she fiddled nervously with her fingers. 

She really did hope to see him again. 

It wasn’t until John and Martha were nearly at the entrance to the school that Martha returned the watch to John, and a cold spike of fear shot through her when he said, “oh, I must say this is not my watch. I wonder if Miss Reagan and I had similar watches.” He shrugged, ignorant to the absolute panic that filled Martha. “Well, if I see her again, hopefully she will have my watch and I hers.” 

Martha fervently hoped that it had been just a small mix up. 

Florence, red hair intricately braided to be out of her face, wore her favourite blue dress, with short sleeves and white lace gloves. She carried with her a worn leather book bag, the strap over her shoulder, filled with several types of books. In front of her was the large, intimidating school: Farringham School for Boys. 

Out of habit, her hand found its way into her pocket to clutch at the broken fob watch there, only to remember that it wasn’t hers. She wasn’t too sure when she’d lost her fob watch and picked up someone else’s, but she was still hoping to stumble across Mr Smith, thinking they might have somehow mixed up their watches in the chaos of their first meeting. Still, her fingers carefully traced the unfamiliar designs, and the habit brought a similar comfort that her own watch would have. 

As she entered the school, she was greeted by the Headmaster, who smiled at her and accepted her outstretched hand to shake. 

“Miss Reagan, it is a pleasure to see you once again!” He exclaimed, shaking her hand with enthusiasm. Florence smiled at him, the older gentleman a familiar face and friend. 

“Headmaster Rocastle, how are you?” She asked, falling into step with him as he led her into the grand school. 

“I’m just grand, thank you. How are you? Are you adjusting well to the countryside?” He asked. 

Florence nodded. “It is certainly a change from London, but the air is doing me well, I believe.” The headmaster nodded, and lead her into the school’s library. 

Florence observed the young boys around her as they rushed between lessons or studied their textbooks or spoke quietly to each other. She received some curious looks, but she was quickly disregarded and ignored. With a sigh, she thought to herself, ‘young boys and their ego’, and paused as it occurred to her that she had never had that kind of thought before. Thinking of boys…

“How is my brother, Headmaster? Not giving you any trouble, I hope?” She asked, and the Headmaster led her into a meeting room at the end of the library. 

“He is doing well in his classes, to my knowledge, although I have heard that the new history teacher is quite surprised at his knowledge,” the Headmaster told her, and Florence couldn’t hide the pride in her expression or voice as she responded.

“That might be my fault, I have a particular passion for history. I fear it might have rubbed off on him in our youth.” 

The Headmaster hummed, pulling out a seat for Florence and offering her a cup of tea. It was as the Headmaster was pouring her cup of tea that her brother finally arrived. 

A mess of blond hair, Timothy Latimer was very much his father’s son, but even so, once he spotted Florence, he rushed over and pulled her into a hug. 

Florence stood the moment the door had opened, and she willingly allowed Timothy to pull her in, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and kissing the top of his head. 

“Florie,” he whispered into her stomach, “it’s so good to see you.” 

“I’ll leave you to it, don’t forget your maths class is in 20 minutes, Latimer!” The headmaster instructed, before he left to continue his duties. Florence wished him well as he left, before returning her attention to her brother. 

“Timmy, I’ve missed you so much! I came as soon as I heard,” Florence stroked his hair out of his face, cradling his head as his brown eyes shone up at her. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. 

“They say it happened quickly,” he spoke factually, and Florence recognised the tone as a way to protect himself. “He passed easily in his sleep.” 

“It doesn’t make it easier, does it?” She whispered, and Timothy shook his head, eyes turning down. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to hide from me, especially not your tears.” 

He wrapped his arms around her waist again, pushing his face into her shoulder. Florence embraced him warmly, as she remembered doing for years before his move to this school, and let him cry. 

Once he’d had his fill of tears, Florence poured him a cup of tea and the pair spoke easily, catching up on the two years they’d been apart. 

“Gosh, you’ve grown so much, Tim. You look like a young man,” Florence murmured, taking in his face. 

“It’s been years, Florence. Of course I’ve grown.” Timothy said. Florence chuckled. 

“Let me reminisce about your youth, would you?” She teased, pinching his cheek gently. He waved her hand away with the annoyance of a teenaged boy. 

“Did Peter come with you? Or is he waiting for you in London?” He asked, and Florence sighed. 

“Peter and I broke it off." Timothy’s eyes widened slightly. 

“What happened? I thought you were quite taken with him,” he asked, and Florence smiled sadly. 

“Would it surprise you to know that I called the engagement off?” When Timmy’s eyes widened, Florence chuckled. “I found out that I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did. We split ways four months ago.” 

“Oh,” Timmy murmured, “I’m sorry to hear that.” 

Florence reached across the gap between them to grasp his hand, smiling at him warmly. “I’ve never been happier without him, truthfully,” she told him, a glimmer of humour in her blue eyes. 

“I never liked him,” Timothy said, grinning at her. 

“Now that I don’t believe,” she smirked, “I remember you being very happy to show him the train set I bought you a few years ago.”

“I was 7!” 

“And Peter was quite happy to indulge you,” Florence recalled fondly. “But you don’t have to pretend you didn’t like him just because we aren’t together anymore. I simply wasn’t ready to marry.” 

Timothy frowned at her. “But you’re getting old, and people might begin to talk.”

Florence laughed, shocked at the audacity of her surrogate brother. “How dare you? Cheeky mongrel!” She released his hand to scuff his hair up, laughing as he protested loudly. 

“I need to get to class,” he said after a moment, voice quiet. “Will you visit again soon?” 

Florence nodded, “of course I will. I came here for you, Timmy. I’ll be around for as long as you need me.” 

Florence stood with Timothy, and with a gentle hand on his back, they left the meeting room. 

Other students had filled the hallway while they’d been talking, and a pair of older boys ran into Florence, knocking her slightly. She called out, “excuse me boys, please mind where you’re walking. Manners are vital, even in a school.”

The two boys turned back to her, both tall and larger than she was. She could tell they played rugby by their stances, and how they thought their size could intimidate her. She kept a hand on Timothy as she stood to her full height, not letting two children intimidate her. 

“Oh yeah, miss?” One said, a smirk on his face as he glanced her up and down, “how about you walk into my room and you could give me a lesson on manners while on your-“ he didn’t get to finish his suggestion, as a few things happened at once. 

Seeing a disturbance in the main corridor, John Smith had approached from the end of the hallway and called out to the boy talking, “Hutchinson, that’s no way to speak to a woman.”

Timothy had backed away, trying not to be associated with the disturbance else he get bullied more. 

Florence’s hand had struck out, backhanding the boy in front of her. His head whipped to the side, and his friend saw her blue eyes ice over until they were shards of glass, piercing through him until he felt frozen inside and out. The first boy clasped his struck cheek, eyes burning in fury until he saw his teacher behind her. 

The students in the corridor froze, watching the occurrence with hungry eyes. There was no doubt in Florence’s mind that this event would be the talk of the school before dinner.

“You will not talk in such a manner to any person. Am I understood?” She demanded, eyes burrowing into the boy. He didn’t respond, and she lifted her chin slightly, challenging him. “Am I understood, child?” 

His gaze flickered to her, and he nodded minutely. 

“On your way,” she dismissed, the militant tone of her voice clear, and he ran off with the second boy. 

“Mr Hutchinson, Mr Baines, my office, 3pm!” John Smith snapped, watching the boys scarper down the corridor. “Do you not all have places to be?” He called to the hallway, and the students rushed to do as he had bid. He finally looked to the woman, and his eyes widened when he realised it was Florence. “Miss Reagan, what a surprise,” he murmured, lips turning up in a small smile. 

Florence’s heart seemed to stammer as she turned to see John Smith, and she smiled shyly at him. “Mr Smith, I didn’t know you worked here,” she replied. 

Timothy moved back to her side, and he mentioned, “Mr Smith is the new history teacher.” 

John glanced between his student and the woman, and his eyes lit up in realisation, “is this- are you Timothy’s sister? Marvellous! I hadn’t realised, with the surname-“ 

“Oh, yes. I became his father’s ward late in my youth. Timothy and I are as much siblings as any,” she smiled at him, and squeezed his shoulder. “Off you go to class now, Tim.” 

He whispered a goodbye, glancing between her and his teacher in confusion, before he ran off. 

“I do apologise for the behaviour of Mr Hutchinson and Mr Baines. They’re due to finish school this summer, but that’s no excuse. I will make sure they are appropriately punished,” he promised, but Florence frowned.

“I think being scolded in the school’s hallway is humiliating enough. After all, boys will be boys,” the words tasted like dirt even as Florence said them, despite the rhetoric being familiar. 

John frowned at the words, “unfortunately so.” 

Florence recalled the weight in her pocket, and she smiled at him, “I do have a question for you, actually. Maybe we could…” 

“Let’s go to my office, yes?” He offered, his cheeks slightly flushed, and Florence nodded, stomach fluttering with slight nerves. 

He walked her towards his office, unsure what to say to the woman he’d met once last week. 

“So I see you’ve adjusted to the school well?” Florence said carefully, glancing at him from the side of her eye. He cleared his throat, and looked down to her. 

“I have indeed. There’s nothing like teaching the next generation the foundations of our society, and hopefully how to avoid the conflicts that occurred in the past.” He seemed to realise something, as he asked next, “as Timothy’s sister, do I have you to thank for his seeming unending thirst for historical knowledge? And seemingly unending knowledge of history?” His lips curled upwards as Florence’s face flushed, freckles exacerbated by the blush. 

“That may be my fault, Mr Smith. Do you require an apology?” She smirked, looking at him with a hint more flirtation that she might have wanted to use, and was rewarded with his own cheeks turning red. 

“N-no, Miss, not at all,” he stammered, “I-it’s refreshing to see a young boy so invested in our nation’s story, is all.” 

She chuckled, and John led her into his office. The desk was the primary focus of the office, with a number of books scattered across it, several with bookmarks inside. Against the side wall was a bookcase half full above a tidy bed, and the case he’d been carrying was leaning against it, propped open with a few more books inside it. Near the door was a fireplace, decorated with stray papers already. A few frames holding images of butterflies were propped against the far wall. In the centre of the desk lay an open notebook, with a few graphite pencils, an ink pot and pen scattered next to it, and an unfinished drawing in the centre of the page. Florence curiously walked towards it, tilting her head. 

“What’s this?” She asked as John closed the door, and he grimaced, moving to the other side of his desk to clear the items away.

“Just…umm…just drawing some weird dreams I’ve had recently,” he explained, and Florence glanced at him as she reached out to ask his permission to look at it. When he nodded, she turned the book around to face her, studying the two drawings there.

He had drawn a portrait of himself, but not as he was now. Instead, he stood wearing a long trench coat and a suit and tie underneath. His hair was somehow more dishevelled than it was now, and Florence smiled softly as she traced a finger over the drawn figure. 

The next drawing on the page was of a tall box, with a lantern on top and the words ‘Police Box’ written across the top. It was drawn in such careful detail that Florence felt an intense amount of warmth towards it, despite having no idea what it was. 

“These are beautiful,” she murmured, eyes still transfixed by the box. 

“Just some…crazy dreams about a travelling lunatic with a blue box,” John replied, nervously fidgeting with his hands. “I’m going to take some lavender tea tonight, to hopefully have a dreamless night. I think the travelling must have caused my imagination to become overactive.” He rambled a bit, and Florence finally looked up to catch sight of his blush. She smiled kindly, and reached out to grab his hands, bringing his fidgeting to a halt. 

“It’s an impressive imagination,” she reassured. He paused, eying her with some hesitation, before he recalled why she was now stood in his office. 

Florence pulled her hands back as he spoke, “so, um…what was your question, Miss Reagan?” 

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the fob watch, fingers tracing over the top unconsciously even as she held it out to him. “Do you recognise this? I fear I have misplaced mine and picked up someone else’s on accident, but the only time mine wasn’t on my person this week was when we…fell into each other, and I’m not accusing you of taking it on purpose, but I have looked through all of my own belongings and this one is so similar to mine, but the carvings are different-“ 

“Yes,” John murmured, before he realised he’d spoken too softly. “Yes, that’s mine. Thank you so much for bringing it to me. That must mean this is yours,” he reached into a drawer in his desk and pulled out a very familiar fob watch, showing her the patterns on the cover. Something lifted off Florence’s chest as she reached out to take the watch, fingers gently brushing John’s palm, and she thought she could breathe easier with her fob watch back in her possession. 

“Yes, that’s mine,” she murmured, passing John’s watch back with the same tenderness she held her own. “It’s crazy how much it means to me, given-“

They spoke together, “it doesn’t even work.” 

Florence laughed, looking up from her watch to see John looking at his watch with the same care that she felt towards her own. He also looked up to her, and a blush coated his cheeks as he realised he’d been caught. 

“That’s quite a coincidence, two fob watches that don’t work,” she laughed, and John joined in. 

He found himself marvelling in her laughter, thrilling in how her blue eyes looked like oceans and how she laughed openly instead of hiding it like many young women seemed to do in their time period. 

“I really must thank you, Mr Smith, for taking such care of this. It is really just a sentimental trinket more than anything else, but it is important to me.” She finally said, and John nodded, his brown eyes warm and inviting and his smile felt bright and friendly. 

“It was the least I could do, for apparently swapping our watches and knocking you over in the first hour of morning,” John grinned, and a pang of longing for something she couldn’t identify hit her. 

The door opened before she could analyse it, and Mr Smith immediately stood straighter, pocketing his watch and nodding courteously at the entrant. “Ah, Miss Jones, I believe you met Miss Reagan with me last week.” Florence recognised the woman who’d entered as the maid who had been with John last week. “Miss Reagan, I apologise for not introducing you both properly when we first met. This is Martha Jones, my maid.” Florence bowed her head to the woman, glad to finally know her name.

“A pleasure, Miss,” Martha said, doing a short curtsey. “Did you manage to find your watch once more, sir?” She asked the man, and John grinned.

“Yes, it was as I predicted! Miss Reagan and I merely traded watches for the week. I daresay we should do it more often, as it appears you have even polished mine!” 

Florence smiled and replied, “well, I could hardly return it looking worse for wear.” 

“Of course,” he smiled at her again, and Martha had to watch as both their cheeks started flushing the longer they looked at each other.

Feeling the urge to prevent something, Martha said suddenly, “Sir, don’t you have class in 5 minutes?” 

John checked his wristwatch, and his eyes widened. “Oh dear, you are right. Miss Reagan, I am afraid I’ll have to leave you here. Will you be alright finding your way out of the building?” 

Florence smiled and nodded. “Yes, I think my navigational skills haven’t completely deteriorated, despite my stay in the city,” she teased, and she saw the interest pique in his expression, even as he rushed around grabbing books and his mortarboard. 

“M-m-maybe, next time, we could plan a meet up? ” He asked, “I-I’d love to hear more about how you enjoyed the city.” 

Florence’s cheeks shone bright red, but she confidently said, “that would be really nice, I’d like that.” 

John stood still for a moment, his face bright and earnest with a brilliant smile, just taking her in. After a moment, Martha cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows at him, and he jumped, making Florence and Martha chuckle together. “G-good! Right. I’ll see you. Soon.” He pulled his books closer to his chest and breathed deeply. “I have to run. Goodbye, Miss Reagan!” 

Florence watched him scarper from the room, and she chuckled as he left, a fond smile on her face even as the door closed behind him. 

Martha’s stomach coiled, and she knew she was jealous and had no right to be. But at the same time, she also knew that in 3 months time, John Smith wouldn’t exist anymore, and the Doctor would feel guilty for having led this poor woman on. 

The poor woman who also owned a fob watch. 

Chapter Text

The next week had some of the worst September weather that Florence had seen since before she had moved to London. The rain lashed against her windows, and the ground was muddy and churned up by people walking and the occasional car and horse and cart that passed by. The wind whipped through the woods surrounding the small town, making Florence’s usual walks through the woods and fields almost impossible. 

But the storm passed, and on Saturday morning, Florence awoke to sunlight streaming through her window, birds tweeting pleasantly for the first time in a week. She dressed quickly, took a piece of toast prepared by her maid for the road, and, with her yellow Wellington boots on, she rushed outside. 

The ground was still saturated with water, but the sky was crystal blue, with no sign of the storm that had overtaken the English countryside for 5 days. Florence hiked up her skirts and made the walk to Farringham school. 

Timothy was waiting for her on the bridge into the school, hands in the pockets of his school uniform, talking to John Smith, who was standing with his hands also in his pockets, wearing his usual grey woollen suit. Florence paused for a moment to study the two men, noting how Timothy seemed to be engaging in whatever conversation they were having. She hadn’t seen him so willingly engaged since she’d arrived. 

Moving forward, Timothy spotted her first, and he brought John’s attention to her at the same moment. Florence smiled as John looked back to her, his face lighting up with joy. 

“Timothy, are you ready?” She asked, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He shook his head, and Florence rolled her eyes. 

“Not quite! I got distracted talking about this German pianist and composer with Mr Smith. I’ll just run and grab my wellies!” 

John Smith smiled in bemusement as he and Florence watched Timothy run back to the school, before he turned back to Florence. The hemline of her skirt was already speckled with mud from walking along the roads, and her bright yellow boots were proudly visible at the bottom, covered in mud as they were. 

“Which German musician were you discussing?” Florence asked, suddenly self-conscious of her muddy appearance. John smiled at her, rocking slightly onto his heels. 

“Clara Schumann. She died nearly…20 years ago now? She was a wild one,” John suddenly frowned, his words having been instinctual, but he knew he’d never met her. How could he have? He was English, and had still been a child when she’d died. “At least, so I’ve heard.” 

Florence watched him curiously, but didn’t prod at the bizarre statement. “I’ve only heard of her husband’s compositions. I didn’t realise she was also a composer?” Florence watched as John’s face lit with enthusiasm, as it seemed to always do when given the opportunity to share knowledge. 

“She actually was a very prolific composer, but there’s a few historians who are arguing that Robert Schumann actually published some of her compositions under his own name,” John grinned, “even saying that had she not married Robert, she would have written more music than any female composer has, in history. Of course, it’s all assumptions based off of her rate of composition before her marriage, but I’d like to believe I’m an optimist.” 

“That is quite impressive then,” Florence smiled. “I used to play piano myself. A dear friend of mine, Emmeline, actually taught me a few things as well.” 

“Emmeline…?” John asked. 

“Pankhurst.” 

His eyes widened, recognising the name as a leading name of the women’s rights movements happening in London. “No way,” he exclaimed, and Florence laughed. 

“I mean, I’m not an extremist myself, but I do believe women are quite capable, indeed more capable than most men would like to think.” She eyed John carefully, wondering where he lay on the spectrum. “Indeed, sir, I’m surprised you’ve heard of her.” 

“She’s been around for a number of years now. I’ve read a few articles on her actions and protests.” He tilted his head at Florence, eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. “Were you…” 

Timothy came running back then, black Wellington boots on his feet instead of his prior impractical black brogues. “Ready!” He called, coming to a stop next to the two adults. 

“Yes you are!” She grinned at him, scuffing his hair slightly to annoy him. It worked, and he glared at her as he smoothed his hair down. “Shall we be off?” 

“Where are you heading to this morning? I’m not even sure if breakfast has been served in the canteen yet,” John glanced between Timothy and the school. 

“We have a tradition, Mr Smith. After a good storm like the very one we just experienced, Timothy and I like to wander to the creek to see how muddy it’s gotten.” She glanced to Timothy, seeming to communicate something silently to him. He shrugged, and she grinned. “Would you like to join us?” 

John flushed, flustering, “I’m not sure it’s-“ 

“It’s not far, sir,” Timothy promised, “and no one will notice we’re gone until after lunch, and we’ll be back before then.” 

“It is ever so lovely by the river, Mr Smith, and you’d be more than welcome to accompany us.” Florence smiled up to him, and John very easily gave in. 

“Oh, very well, but I must be back by lunch,” he expressed, and Timothy grinned. 

“Would you like a chance to change your shoes?” Florence asked, a knowing glint in her eyes, but John shook his head. 

“I’m sure these will survive,” John decided, looking at his leather shoes, and Timothy hid a grin. 

The trio made the short walk to the river bank, and John very quickly understood why they had worn Wellington boots. The path they took to the river was across green fields, which had absorbed an inordinate amount of water in 6 days, and by the time they’d crossed their first field, John’s trouser hems were soaked. Still, he refused to complain, and he was able to witness the brother and sister bond as he was certain no one else had. 

Timothy was walking ahead of them, his hands in his pockets and his black wellies suctioning into the ground with each step he took. He was answering Florence about his years spent without her, and his fathers’ placements with the army overseas. 

“-and he wrote to me while in Johannesburg. Only once or twice, but enough,” Timothy explained. Florence frowned, focusing on the ground to not fall face first into the mud. John kept an eye on her; in the event that she did stumble, he would do his best to keep her upright. 

“He was the other side of the world, Tim. Johannesburg is a very long way away, especially given-“

“The curvature of the planet, I know.” He sighed, glancing back at them. “But Anne did come by occasionally, and during summer months she took me to York, or to Scarborough.” 

“I haven’t been to Scarborough since I was a young girl,” Florence smiled fondly before she glanced to John. “Have you ever been, Mr Smith?” 

John started at being involved, but diligently responded, “I studied at Scarborough castle for a brief time, as part of an essay. It’s a beautiful city, is it not?” 

“We used to go to the markets there when we were young, do you remember Tim? We’d go to the sea, I helped teach you to swim there, and then have fish and chips on the beach for dinner.” Florence smiled, eyes nostalgic for her youth. 

“I remember you telling Father off for cheating when he beat you at chess,” Timothy grinned over his shoulder, “when he used the actual movement of the knight piece.” 

Florence blushed as she saw John glance at her in amusement. “I was taught that the knight pieces move three squares forward, two squares to the side. It’s not my fault that one of the squares in both those movements was supposed to be the same square,” and John laughed. 

The trio approached the woodland, and started walking downhill. Florence skipped up to Timothy, grasping his hand in excitement, and for balance, and pulled him along into a faster walk. John followed easily behind them, wondering how Timothy was so open around his sister and no one else. He supposed it was probably difficult for a newly orphaned boy in an all boys school, he remembered his own experience wasn’t easy, even if the details weren’t clear. 

John heard the river before he saw it, the rushing water echoing through the woods, louder than he’d thought it would be. The ground only seemed to dampen beneath them, until every step had them sinking into the ground with muddy water coming up to greet them. John was strongly regretting his choice to wear his regular shoes, he was certain the leather would never recover,  but he was very much enjoying the breadth of conversation from the pair ahead. 

The creek up ahead had burst its banks, the muddy paths on both sides of it flooded and waterlogged. The water rushed past quickly, almost causing white waves as it sped over rocks that ordinarily were stepping stones over the creek. While not as loud as some rivers John had seen, it certainly was loud enough, with enough water rushing past that he wouldn’t recommend any of them attempting to dip their feet. 

And yet, he watched as Florence removed her wellies and her socks, put them to the side, tied the already muddied skirts of her dress, and walked into the waterlogged path. 

“Are you joining us, John?” She asked, her voice going up in pitch as she reached the cold water. “The water’s fresh!” 

Timothy laughed, rolling his pants legs up and taking off his own wellies. “It’s England, silly! The water’s always cold,” he told her, but he tried to maintain his composure as his feet met the cold water. 

John watched them, almost laughing at their easy conversation even in such bizarre circumstances. He toed his shoes off and rolled his trouser legs up to his knee, wondering if he’d get any of the mud out of his shoes, socks or trousers. Despite those thoughts, he left his shoes by Florence’s wellies and pushed through the mud, shivering at the feeling of the cold slime seeping between his toes, before he hit the water. It rushed past him, and the shock and speed of it nearly made him topple, but Florence grasped his arm to steady herself as she climbed over a rock, and he kept himself steady for her. Timothy was ahead of them, crossing the river with ease. John decided to assist Florence, but he almost needn’t have bothered. 

“Did you two do this often?” He asked, and Florence grinned, looking up to him. Her red hair was loose around her face, and her blue eyes were as clear as the skies above them. 

“Every time there was a storm,” she reminded. “The river’s always most fun to cross then!” 

“Fun?” He exclaimed, a hand out to steady her as she wobbled. She might have been unbalanced for a moment, but the experience seemed to brighten her, as she laughed loudly, spiralling her arms to rediscover her centre of balance. 

“Fun, Mr Smith! The concept can’t be too foreign to you, can it?” She grinned at him, and he found himself grinning back, helpless in the tidal wave of Florence Reagan’s joy.

“Not too foreign, no! Merely a step into Europe,” he joked. 

“Come along, Mr Smith!” Timothy called from across the lake. “You’ll want to see this bit,” and then he was darting into the woods, a youthful energy filling him despite his bare feet. 

Florence and John successfully crossed with no falls, and she grinned secretively at him before leading him into the woods. 

“I know it’s not very ladylike to be doing this, especially at my age, but if it makes Timmy and I happy, I don’t see the harm. I just hope you don’t mind seeing me so…” she shrugged, unable to find the word. 

“So alive?” He offered, and Florence laughed. 

“Alive! That’s much better than I was thinking.” She glanced ahead, where the trees were thinning once more. 

Ahead of them, the trees opened up to reveal a lake, shining in the sunlight, stretching about a mile away from them. Timothy had sat himself on a fallen tree against the tree line, stretching his legs out in front of him and basking in the sun, and Florence moved to sit next to him. 

The damp log was cold, but John ignored it as he sat next to them. 

“This is beautiful,” Florence sighed, and Timothy just smiled. 

John wiggled his toes in the mud for a moment, and the group stayed there for an hour, soaking up the sun. 

On their walk back, John timidly asked, “Miss Reagan, would you have any plans tonight?”

“Not currently,” she replied, “did you have something in mind?” 

He nodded. “A few colleagues and I are going to the pub just outside of town for a few drinks. Would you like to join us? I’d be more than happy to escort you home, of course. It wouldn’t be courteous to invite you and and expect you to walk home alone.” 

Timothy hid his smile as Florence said, “I’d love to, yes.” 

A month passed, and Florence grew reaccustomed to living in the countryside. She made sure each week to visit her brother, which usually happened to coincide with lunches with John Smith. She’d also made friend with Joan Redfern, the school’s nurse, and they regularly spent time together when Joan didn’t have duties within the school. Between seeing her two friends and her brother, Florence had been hired as a seamstress in a local dress shop. In doing so, she found ways to occupy her day while waiting for Joan or John to finish. 

Florence sat in her kitchen, nursing a cup of tea as she leant back against her chair. She had yet to change out of her satin dressing gown, despite it being past 8am and her being expected at church every Sunday. The ticking of the clock only served to further reminder her that if she didn’t leave soon, she would miss mass, but something kept her stuck to her seat. 

And she knew why. 

She’d dreamt last night. 

Florence hadn’t dreamt in years, not in the way she had just done. As a teenager, she had been plagued with dreams; recollections of impossible forgotten memories and pieces of bizarrely unfamiliar familiarities. They had disappeared for a few years once she’d reached adulthood and gone to the city, but occasionally they came through, with no pattern that she could ascertain. Unconsciously, she took her fob watch from where it had sat on the kitchen table, set there carefully by her last night, and she carefully stroked the patterns on the cover, looking out the window in thought. 

The dream had been so vivid, yet she was certain she was almost starting to forget it already, and fabricate details. She had lost her vivid imagination when she had grown up, hadn’t she? 

It had been outlandish, starting off in a place with two suns and a burnt orange sky. The ground appeared burnt too, dry and cracked, with mountains and ridges. In the centre of a plane of cracked ground lay a bubble, encapsulating a silver city. At the edges of the bubble were countless ships, smoking and destroyed, atop burning silver buildings. The city inside was burning too. Florence had seen a woman walking through the wreckage that she knew to be herself, except it looked nothing like her. This woman had platinum blond hair that had been dirtied, dark green eyes and very pale skin. She wore leather trousers, a dirtied and torn white button up shirt and a leather jacket that had burn marks across the arms and shoulders. 

Florence had walked through the wreckage as if she were this woman, catching golden glimpses of things that had happened and had yet to happen. She had known, without having to see it, that her green eyes had flashed this ethereal gold with each passing vision. She saw large metal boxes shoot at children; mothers cradling their newborn child; a parade marching through the street; a madman stepping out of a blue police box; and so much more. Each step she took brought the onslaught of more visions, and Florence had known that each vision had existed or would exist. 

The dream had ended with her meeting an older, raggedy man wearing frayed clothing, who had taken her into his blue police box - tattered and burnt and paint stripped - and the door shut. 

She’d awoken crying. 

Florence hadn’t drawn in years. But suddenly, her hand yearned to do as she had done in her youth, and as John Smith had done with his dreams, and she yearned to draw the city. 

A sudden burst of energy shot through her, and, without releasing the fob watch, Florence ran upstairs to the drawer she never opened anymore, and pulled out an old drawing book and set of graphite pencils. She sat crosslegged on her bed, no longer caring if she missed the church service, and drew. 

The fire that had overtaken her soul calmed with the last pencil stroke, and Florence finally massaged her cramped hand as she looked over her art piece. Her fob watch lay next to the book, and she realised with a fierce amount of shock that she was crying. She reached to her cheek and felt the wetness that now resided there, and she blinked in shock. It seemed the realisation that she was crying opened the floodgates, as she started sobbing, her gut clenching with this profound sense of loss and helplessness over a place she couldn’t remember the name of. Her heart begged for a city she could never reach, and her body yearned for the heat of two suns that couldn’t exist. 

Florence didn’t leave her bed that day. 

The next morning, after a thankfully dreamless night, Florence packed her drawing book into a small bag on a whim, wondering if John might appreciate her drawings. She had seen more of his own, and had appreciated him for the brilliant imaginations of such a wonderful man, but hadn’t realised something vital until the previous day. John Smith had dreamt about a wonderful blue police box that was bigger on the inside. 

Florence had as well. Long before her dream two nights ago. 

The school was thriving as it always was, school boys running amok in the grass and gravel of the front of the building. The day was beautiful and sunny, despite the chill late October normally brought, and the children were making the most of the lingering warmth during their morning break. 

Florence smiled at the younger children who had begun to recognise her as she entered the school, spotting Timothy waiting for her in the corridor. Next to him was John Smith, and Florence smiled at them both as she approached. 

“Mr Smith, how are you today?” Florence asked after she’d embraced her brother, and John smiled at her. 

“Yes, well, very well, thank you. I just thought, since I knew you were coming in today, that I might take a moment to talk to you about Timothy’s performance in his history exam last week,” John explained, and Florence nodded, raising an eyebrow at Timothy. He frowned, looking down at the floor away from her. 

“Of course, please. Do we need to go somewhere private or…?” Florence asked, and John shook his head, running a hand through his hair. 

“N-no, not at all. It’s just that he answered questions incorrectly that I know very well he knows the answers to,” John smiled down at Timothy, who scowled back at him, frustration clear on his young face. “I would love to give him the grade I know he deserves, but it seems he might be purposefully underperforming.” 

“Oh, Timmy,” Florence sighed, looking at him. 

“Can we talk about this somewhere else, please?” He asked, not looking at either of the adults now. 

“Sure,” Florence acquiesced, and she smiled at John. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mr Smith. I’ll see what I can find out from the little rebel now,” she reassured, and John laughed. 

“Very good, Miss Reagan. I’ll see you soon?” John departed after that, and Florence followed Timothy as he took her back to the meeting room they had used when Florence had first returned to the town. 

Before the door had even properly shut, Timothy was talking a mile a minute, and Florence barely had time to sit down to listen properly.

“Mr Smith is probably the only one who’s noticed, and I promise I’m still performing well enough to be near the top of my class in every subject, and I won’t underperform in my final exams. I have been observing the boys in my year and if Harrison doesn’t achieve the best grade in each class, he and his friends pick on him, and I am just being strategic and picking my battles, yes? I’m just staying alive because I have to-!”

“Timmy, darling, it’s okay. I’m not mad,” Florence interrupted, smiling gently at the flustered boy. “I promise, I’m not mad.” Timothy nodded, watching her fearfully. “And I’m not really disappointed either. I can understand why you’re choosing to do this, even if I wish it wasn’t a necessity.” 

“Really?” He whispered, and Florence nodded. 

“I wouldn’t be the best surrogate sister in the world if I couldn’t understand this, now, could I?” She teased, and he rushed towards where she was sat to hug her tightly. She returned his embrace, only saying, “that isn’t to say I condone it, but I won’t ask you to put yourself in a risky situation where you might get hurt just on the off chance that you might impress someone.” 

Timothy squeezed his arms tighter around her, and Florence sighed. 

During their hug, Timothy tensed slightly, and asked her, “did you just say something?” 

Florence hummed but shook her head. “No, darling.” 

She didn’t realise it at the time, but as they said goodbye, Timothy found where he’d been hearing her voice from - a palm sized fob watch in her pocket. He pinched it discretely, and rushed off to his next class before she could tell anything had happened. 

Once Florence had seen Timmy off to his next class, she headed to the familiar office of John Smith, her bag in hand. She was nervous to show him her drawings, despite having already seen his own. She almost wasn’t sure he’d believe her. She couldn’t quite believe it herself. 

John was sat at his desk when Florence knocked at the door, with Martha Jones cleaning the now filled bookshelf, organising papers and filing books away. 

“Miss Reagan, please come in!” John called enthusiastically, and Florence sat opposite the desk. “How did your talk with Timothy go? Did he mention a reason for his underperformance?” 

Florence smiled, and explained, “he did, but I feel it best to be kept among family, if it’s quite alright with you Mr Smith. He was quite adamant of keeping it quiet. There is no danger, however, and I am content that he is intelligent enough to know when he needs to put effort in.” 

John nodded, although the worry in his expression didn’t disappear. “Good, good. Well, anyway, are we to head to lunch today? I believe you were to tell me your adventures with Emmeline Pankhurst while you were in London?” John closed the book in front of him and made to stand, but Florence held a hand on the desk, and he sat down again. 

“I was hoping that we might actually speak in private,” Florence asked quietly, with a subtle glance to Martha. The maid in question raised an eyebrow to John, who gestured that yes, she should leave, and Martha frowned, concerned with what Florence might wish to say without her presence. But she was unable to refuse the direct order from her so-called ‘master’. 

Once the door had shut behind Martha, Florence pulled her drawing book from her little bag, and laid it on the table in front of John. 

“What’s this, Miss Reagan?” He asked, pulling the book closer to him slightly. 

“I recall last week you described a recent dream of yours to me.” Florence asked, and John nodded. “Well, I should let you know, I too have dreams. Had dreams. And still do, I suppose. Dreams of impossible creatures and raggedy men and burning cities. They were most frequent in my adolescence, but had stopped mostly, until Saturday night.” 

Florence opened the drawing book to the most recent drawing, of the raggedy man from her dream in front of the police box set on a background of the burning city encased in the bubble. The image was labelled ‘Home - The Doctor - TARDIS’, with each label pointing to an aspect of the drawing as if it were a diagram of a real landscape. Florence couldn’t bear to look at the drawing once more, and instead watched as heartbreak bloomed over John’s face. 

“Why- are you mocking me?” He asked, and Florence frowned in confusion. 

“Sir?” 

“I showed you my drawings in confidence, and you come here claiming to have dreamt of the same things. Do you find this funny?” He exclaimed, pointing angrily at her drawing. 

“Excuse me?” She demanded, and he only glared at her, his jaw working angrily against his face. “How dare you? I have shown you this to show you the similarities between our dreams. This is not the first time I have had these bizarre dreams, but I had forgotten their content until this most recent one. I have in that book drawings of this city dated for when I was 14 years old, with its blasphemous twin suns and floating city and silver leaves. I did not copy you, sir, and I am hurt that you should think so.” Florence flicked through the book in front of him, moving past pages so fast that John worried she would tear one out accidentally. 

Lo and behold, she did tear one page completely in half, and she gasped, stopping her rampage against her drawings, and saw the page she’d stopped on was one of the blond woman from her dream two nights ago, and a new face she didn’t recall, but John obviously did. 

“That’s the Doctor,” he murmured, fingers reaching to touch the drawing of the Doctor left in the book. The tear had occurred right between the ‘Doctor’ and the blond woman, where they had been dancing on the page to unheard music. 

“I never learnt her name,” Florence said, holding the drawing of the blond woman closer to her, as if to study her. Florence remembered drawing this: she’d just turned 17, and she’d spent the prior night dancing with a soldier, but had been upset at his behaviour and left. The dream she’d had had shown the blond woman and the Doctor dancing in some spectacular location, but the two of them had been more beautiful than the scenery, as Florence had had no recollection of their surroundings when she’d woken up. 

“I’m sorry for accusing you of plagiarising my drawings, my dreams,” John blushed, and Florence lowered the drawing she still held clutched to her chest. “I didn’t mean to do so, but these dreams, the drawings they-“ he paused, and Florence tried to continue his sentence. 

“They’re almost personal, the dreams. Which makes the drawings all the more important.” They nodded together, as though agreeing. 

John studied the drawing of the blond woman for a moment longer before he asked, “would you take me through this book? I’d love to hear of your dreams. I fear you’ve heard plenty about mine.” 

Florence smiled kindly, and nodded, flicking to the front of the book and opening on an image of a creature with two mouths and four sets of teeth inside each. It appeared like a puppy dog to humans, but could swallow a lion if tempted. 

The two spent their lunch hour in his office, comparing their drawings and discussing the things of dreams. 

And when John had to leave to go to his classes, Florence took the time to walk the long way home, through fields and through the little woods. It was refreshing to get some air after having spent her day prior inside, and Florence recalled exploring these woods as a teenager, drawing in the shade of trees on hot summer days and creating fires and huts to sit and read in during spring and autumn.

She can’t have been walking very long when she came across an abandoned house, and curiosity spiked within her. She walked up to the wooden door and knocked, surprised when the door creaked open with no effort. She glanced at the surroundings and saw nothing out of place nor untoward, so she entered. 

Inside the house sat a blue police box. The paint was old, but still persevering, and the frosted windows were dim. The labels at the top of the box called it a ‘Police Public Call Box’, and the white sign on the front doors read, ‘Police telephone, Free for use of Public, Advice & Assistance obtainable immediately, Officer and cars respond to all calls. Pull to open’.

She recognised it from her dreams and John Smith’s drawings. 

She wanted to accuse John of tricking her, but it wasn’t in his character to do so, especially so after his accusation that day of her doing the same thing. 

Florence circled the box, impressed by how it seemed to be such an accurate replica to the box from her dreams, before she tried the door. She didn’t know why she felt like crying when the doors didn’t open. 

The door behind her creaked, and she spun around, black skirt twirling around her legs. 

Martha stood opposite her, a cautious expression on her dark skin. She wore a casual day dress, obviously on her day off from working, and in her hand was a key on a chain. 

“Hello, Miss Jones,” Florence said first, eyes narrowed at the maid. 

“Miss Reagan, Florence, right? Can I call you Florence?” Martha approached carefully, as one might a stray cat, and Florence wanted her hackles to raise in response. 

“For now,” Florence extended, and Martha smiled despite the nerves she felt. “Did you follow me?” 

“I did.” 

“Why?” 

Martha gave her a cheeky, yet still uncertain grin. “I was worried you might be a threat to the Doctor.” 

Frustration flickered through Florence. “The Doctor isn’t real, Miss Jones. He’s a dream, a fairytale, a made up collection of electrons in the brain.” Florence waved her hands in front of her, and Martha just smiled. 

“You even sound Time Lord,” she said whimsically, and Florence scowled. 

“Time Lord? I don’t even -“ 

“But you are, aren’t you?” Martha interrupted, all manners out the window now. She stepped forward, all eagerness in her face. “You are a Time Lord, or Lady, I guess. You have a fob watch, just like him- like John, I mean, Mr Smith.” 

“The watch is an heirloom, passed on from my mother,” Florence snapped, eyes flashing hard, ice cold. “Whatever nonsense you are trying to spew will stop, Miss Jones.” 

Martha groaned in frustration, moving forward to grab the taller woman’s arm. “The Doctor used this machine, a chameleon…thing, and it stored his being into his fob watch. It’s why he’s having these dreams, because he’s not actually human, and his real life is coming through.” Martha stared imploringly into her eyes, and Florence tried to pull her arm from Martha’s grip, but to no avail. “If you’re dreaming of the TARDIS, of Gallifrey, then you must have been through the chameleon machine too!” Martha kept talking, but all Florence could do was try and temper her simmering rage and the abject fear that filled her at Martha’s words. Her heart beat fast, and her skin was itching, and she couldn’t stop her breaths from coming hard and fast. She felt like she’d run a mile, but a wall had suddenly appeared and she couldn’t batter her way through it. 

“Martha,” Florence interrupted, her blue eyes shards of glass. “You will cease these hysterical ravings, and if I see you in my vicinity again, Miss Jones, we will be having problems.” 

Florence pulled her arm out of Martha’s grip, ignoring the hurt look on her usually sweet face, and walked away, smoothing down the sleeve Martha had gripped so tightly and pretending she didn’t feel the hollowness filling her as she walked away from the bizarre box. 

“Florence, please!” Martha called after her, voice breaking with emotion Florence thought was hurt. “He’s being hunted, and I don’t know if I can do this alone.” 

Florence paused and glanced back at the woman. She looked desperate, stepping towards her with her expression twisted in frustration and some fear. “I don’t know what your end game is here, but I’ve had enough. Come near me again and I will report you to the police.” 

Martha almost couldn’t believe the cold tone that had entered Florence’s voice. It sounded nothing like the Florence she’d seen the past month, and Martha had to wonder if it was the Time Lady within her, reaching to come out. The cold blue eyes held only anger and no trace of the care she’d seemingly accumulated for Martha in their time spent together around John, around the Doctor. 

“But he’s real! The Doctor! And I’m worried what we’ve done isn’t enough!” 

Florence walked away, the door shutting on Martha’s desperation. 

Timothy, hidden under blankets and by the lack of moonlight in his dorm room, fiddled with the fob watch he’d stolen off his surrogate sister, twisting the dial at the top until it opened, as it had many times in his youth when he’d done this before. The familiar golden light spilled through, the presence he recognised brushing against his thoughts. 

“Cece,” Timothy murmured, his face brightened by the glow of the watch. 

Timmy. The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, from inside his head and from the cracks in the walls. How long has it been? The voice was warm, filled with affection. 

“4 years,” he confirmed. The voice hummed, the sound resonating with every muscle in his body, seemingly capable of unwinding the tension he’d held since… since his father had passed. “Florence returned home a month ago.” 

Yes, I noticed. There was humour in the voice, and Timothy smiled slightly. How are you? 

“I’m fine,” Timothy said, but there was a sung note of disbelief from the voice, and he remembered how good she had always been at seeing through tricks and lies. “My father died. That’s why she came home. To take over as guardian.” 

She cares for you.

Timothy rolled his eyes, before remembering she couldn’t see him. He did his best to project an image of exasperation instead, and was rewarded with a feeling of impressed surprise. 

Your abilities have grown stronger. 

“I’ve been practising, like you told me. Meditating and stuff, too,” he explained. 

You continue to impress, little human. 

Timothy took the praise with a smile, thrilled he’d been able to please his sister’s watch. The bizarreness of that thrill was familiar, and while he wasn’t entirely sure why his sister had a talking watch, he knew that she couldn’t speak to it. 

“There’s a new teacher here, too. His name is John Smith. He’s been giving me extra assignments in history because he knows how clever I am. Florence also seems to like him because she normally sees him when she comes to visit me each week.” 

Do you remember the stories I used to tell you? 

“Of course I do. But I can’t exactly tell Mr Smith about the history of Ancient Egypt accurately without making him somewhat suspicious.” Timothy explained, and the laughter that came was like a song. 

So what has he been teaching you? 

Timothy went in to explaining his most recent lessons, including the self-guided project he’d been given, about the politics surrounding the dissolution of the monarchy’s power, and why Britain maintaining its monarch whilst modernising with a parliament was superior. At the end of his explanation, the voice was quiet for a moment. 

Does this man own a watch? 

Timothy wasn’t sure why she wanted to know, but he told her, “I think so. I’ve seen it on his desk when I’ve gone into his office.” 

I see. There was a long silence before she finally responded. Be careful around that man, Timothy. I fear he may not be who he claims to be. 

She wouldn’t say anything more on the subject. 

Timothy returned the fob watch the next day, when Florence returned to the school to give him a book she’d promised. 

Chapter Text

Florence avoided interacting with Martha Jones again, even as the month faded into November. She went to great effort to ignore the hurt looks Martha gave her, even to the point of leaving the local pub if Martha entered it. John hadn’t noticed it yet, and Florence was determined to keep it that way. Despite her mistrust of Martha, she didn’t want to throw her out of a job. Joan had seen it, but Florence managed to suggest it being merely her monthly bleeds affecting her. 

But she couldn’t get the image of the blue box from her mind. She’d drawn it, to compare to her own drawings from her dreams, and it was exact, down to the letter font on the signs.Ignoring the coil of familiarity and fear in her gut, Florence tried to pass it off as Martha playing a cruel joke on her. 

Ever since she’d seen it, her dreams had increased in frequency until she was having dreams every night, until she was waking up in the early hours of the morning crying out desperately, usually in longing but occasionally in pain, as she dreamt of wonderful and terrible things: things she had dreamt of as a teenager but had forgotten, and new things too. 

Such as how the Council - and she couldn’t be sure what council they were in waking hours - had stolen the woman she inhabited from her family and forced her into work through some particularly cruel methods. 

Florence clutched at her sheets, looking down at the scars littering her arms. She’d always assumed that her birth father hadn’t been fond of her, that she had simply repressed memories of torment and pain during her childhood as she knew some people were capable of doing, but this latest dream…

One of her scars was in the exact form of a cut the woman from her dream had received. 

Florence traced the crisscross of scars, a shimmery white against her freckled skin, trying to recall the moment she had actually received them. They had no pattern, seemingly a random assortment of poorly healed injuries, and reached from her fingertips to her upper arm on both arms. In theory, they could have come from anything. Florence recalled jumping out of a tree once in her early teenage years, but she didn’t remember getting injured in the fall, except for a sprained ankle and an elevated sense of immortality. 

“Miss Reagan?” The Latimer maid she had inherited knocked on the door, “I have prepared a fresh pot of tea in the breakfast room for you.”

She startled and looked to the window, seeing the start of sunlight stream through the curtains. 

“Thank you, Anne, I will be along shortly!” She replied, and the tension left her body when the maid walked away. 

She dressed on autopilot, pulling her gloves on as she left her bedroom. However, no matter how she tried, she couldn’t shake the remembrance of pain from her dream, and as she sat down to drink her tea, her hands shook slightly. Florence frowned, putting her cup down instead of continuing with the hassle. 

“Miss Reagan,” the maid knocked on the door, “you have a visitor today, a Mr John Smith.” 

Florence looked to the older woman, who was watching her knowingly, and nodded. “Please send him in,” she confirmed, and Anne nodded. 

Florence squeezed her hands, trying to calm the shaking, as John Smith bustled into the room, his suit newly pressed and a familiar book in his hand. Florence stood to greet him.
“Mr Smith,” she smiled, hoping the powder she’d just applied was sufficient to hide her tiredness, “a pleasure to see you, albeit an unexpected one.” 

John smiled at her, but he was clearly distracted, even as he replied, “Miss Reagan, I do apologise for the interruption to your morning.” 

“Not at all, please, take a seat. Can I offer you a spot of tea?” She offered, and when he accepted she waved away Anne’s offer to help. As she poured him a cup, she asked, “to what do I owe the pleasure?” 

He didn’t notice her shaking hands even as she slid the tea across the table towards him, too distracted by whatever had brought him here. Glancing around, he only leant forward once Anne had left the room. “I had another dream last night.” His eyes were bright, filled with the unending curiosity Florence had grown to be familiar with. 

“Oh?” She replied, wrapping her hands around her own cup of tea but not lifting it. She needed something to ground her, as phantom pain still resided in her arms. 

“It was two dreams, I believe. Quite far apart in time. The first one involved my maid, Miss Martha Jones.” John stopped to take a sip of his tea, and Florence smiled when he appeared pleased with it. 

“Well, I have heard that, in dreams, we cannot create faces, and therefore use faces we have seen or know of,” she smiled. “What was the dream about?” 

“I, as the Doctor, and Martha were being chased by something, across time,” his eyes were alight with wonder, even as the words forced Florence to recall the conversation she’d had with Martha weeks ago. “And indeed, the dream showed my fob watch as well. Martha was my…companion,” he said it carefully, and Florence’s nose wrinkled automatically.

“Companion?” She didn’t appreciate the coil of jealousy that twisted through her chest. 

“As in friend, I believe. There was nothing…romantic,” he blushed and cleared his throat. Florence blushed at the realisation she had wanted that clarification. “Anyway, we were being chased across time and space within the TARDIS, and I told Martha that I had to use the fob watch to escape them.” 

“What an exciting concept. How did you do it?” Florence leant forward, curious where his imagination had taken him. 

John stumbled over his words, “ah, well, that, I’m not too sure of. The dream changed before I could see it.” 

Florence indulged him. “Then what did you dream next?” 

He couldn’t seem the get the words out for a moment, but he finally said, “you - or rather, the blond woman that you dream about.” Florence felt her heart stop, but she attempted to maintain an expression of interest. 

“Oh.” 

“She and the Doctor were in a magnificent library, larger than the school building itself, researching something I couldn’t quite understand. And when the people around weren’t looking, I-I-he kissed her.”

“Oh,” Florence murmured, and she looked at John, who was already watching her. His face was filled with a wild concoction of hope and fear, and Florence felt her heart restart, beating hard in her chest. For a reason she could very quickly identify, the notion of kissing John was all-too appealing. “Did-do, um.. Did the dream finish there?” Florence asked, suddenly floundering for a way to keep him talking. 

He seemed grateful for the lifeline, as he said, “oh no, but the rest of the dream was quite…ordinary, after that.” And he seemed to realise what he had said, and the both of them were blushing once again. Eager to get to his reason for coming, John soldiered on, saying, “and I saw Matron Redfern today, who reminded me of the upcoming dance, and after a fall down the stairs, I thought I might ask you.” The words tumbled out of his mouth, and Florence blinked at him. 

“Did you say you fell down the stairs, Mr Smith? Are you feeling well?” She asked, missing the last part of his story, and John quickly touched the back of his head, realising he had indeed said that, even if he hadn’t intended on it. 

“Quite well! Matron did look it over and confirmed all is as it should be,” he assured, his lips turned upwards in a way that made Florence’s heart want to jump out of her chest. “But, um…all that is to say, well…” he struggled to find his words again, and Florence waited for him to continue, holding her breath. “Will you accompany me? T-to the dance, I mean.” 

Florence’s eyes widened fractionally, and her heart beat hard in her chest, but she nodded. “I’d love to,” she murmured, and the joy that broke over his face was strong enough to cause Florence to break out a wide smile. “And if we’re going to the dance together, I suppose you can call me Florence.” She blushed as a similar grin broke out on his face, brown eyes alight with happiness. 

“Then you can call me John, Florence,” he replied, and Florence delighted in how he said her name. 

“Very good, John,” she smiled, shyly glancing away when their stares got too intense. 

He suddenly stood, having glanced at the time. “Right, I must be off. Classes to attend and such. Just a quick stop for me,” he walked around the table to stop in front of where Florence was now stood, and he could have sworn his heart warmed at the sight of her. “Thank you very much for the tea, Florence. Shall I see you in the pub afore dinner as well this evening?”

“As usual, John. Thank you for coming by, I do so enjoy to hear about your dreams,” she walked with him to the door, handed him his usual jacket, and stood to watch him walk away. 

Anne stopped as she walked past her mistress leaning against the door, staring out into the autumnal day at the diminishing back of John Smith. “Miss Reagan, are you alright? You’ll bring the cold in if you stand there much longer,” she cautioned, and Florence snapped out of it, moving from the doorway to allow Anne to close it. 

“Quite, Anne. Thank you. I think I’m going to the annual dance with John,” she revealed, and Anne grinned in excitement. 

“Oh, I should hope so, miss!” The maid exclaimed. “I’ll make sure to select some of your loveliest gowns to pick from tonight.” 

Florence nodded, distractedly returning to the breakfast room. “That should do lovely.” 

She realised that the pain had disappeared with the distraction of John, and she finally drank her tea in peace. 

The night was bitter cold, and Florence was grateful for the excuse to wear her thickest gloves and woollen jacket. The walk to the pub wasn’t terribly far, but it took enough time for her to get lost in thought, looking up to the night sky. The stars were shining beautifully, and she recalled a dream she’d had of exploring those stars, making trips to see each one. It was a silly dream, an impossible one, involving another TARDIS, but a different shape to the one that John dreamt of. 

A shock of cold shot through her as she witnessed a green light shoot through the sky, visible for only one second before it disappeared again. 

Brought out of her daydreams, Florence put her head down and strode quickly to the pub, passing Martha and her fellow maid Jenny on her way. 

“Hello Miss Reagan,” Martha said, eying her carefully as she passed. 

“Martha,” Florence nodded, not to be rude, before she entered the pub.

It was noisy inside, but she was used to it now, and she made her way to her usual spot next to John, seated along the far wall with a few other teachers and assistants from the school. He’d saved her a seat and half a pint of a beer, and Florence gratefully sank into it, removing her wooly hat. 

“Oh, it’s mighty cold tonight, isn’t it?” She remarked, taking a sip from the saved glass. 

John smiled at her, leaning back into his chair. “I’d say unusually so, but it appears each year that comes around, it is always unusually cold in November!” One of John’s colleagues joked - Mr Farnborough, Florence believed - and she laughed along with them.

They spent maybe half an hour in the pub before John offered to escort Florence home. The pub had gotten more crowded, and it was no place for a lady to be any longer. Once they’d both put their cold weather gear on, John offered his elbow to Florence, who took it with a blush. He was warmer than she was, even with the added heat in her cheeks caused by the beer. 

As they stepped outside, they saw Martha and Jenny stood, their drinks left on the table, and Matron Joan Redfern looking rather worried, her cheeks flushed as if she’d just run from something. 

“Anything wrong, ladies?” John asked, “rather too cold to be standing around in the dark.” As he spoke, the green light Florence had seen earlier appeared in the sky once more, this time lasting longer and leaving quite a trail of light. She frowned, worrying her lower lip. 

“There, there! Look, in the sky.” Joan pointed to it, her voice worried. 

Jenny murmured, “oh, that’s beautiful,” even as unease gathered in Florence’s stomach. 

The light faded, and John said, his eyes bright, “all gone! Commonly known as a meteorite. It’s just rocks falling to the ground, that’s all.” His tone was reassuring, and he looked between Joan and Florence with a smile. 

Joan still appeared uneasy, as she said, “came down in the woods.” 

“No, no, no. They always look close, but they’re actually miles off.” John reassured, “nothing left but a cinder.” 

They spent a moment longer looking at the remnants of the meteorite, before Florence gently squeezed John’s arm. He glanced at her, and she glanced meaningfully at Joan. Realisation lit his eyes, and he said to Joan, “I should escort you back to the school.” Turning to Martha and Jenny, he offered, “ladies?” 

Jenny replied, “we’re fine, thanks.” 

John nodded, “then I shall bid you goodnight.” 

Before they left, Martha made eye contact with Florence, trying to portray something significant with just her gaze. But Florence couldn’t identify what it was, and she turned her back on Martha, leaving with John and Joan. 

Florence’s house was on the way back to the school, and she tried to ignore the sharp twist of jealousy as she realised that John would be taking Joan back to the school alone. 

“Miss Reagan, I don’t wish to intrude,” Joan said, and Florence worried for a moment that she had somehow heard her thoughts, “but as a friend, and as I know Mr Smith is also a friend, I need to mention something.” She pulled the three of them to a pause, and despite the chill in the air, they all came to a stop. John’s face was morphed into one of worry, and Florence wondered what this could be about. “You’ve been looking awfully pale, and not quite acting yourself for a number of days now. Is everything alright?” Joan asked, and Florence wished she hadn’t said anything. John hummed in agreement, and Florence felt her cheeks blush as suddenly she was studied in depth as he hadn’t in a while. 

“I think I’m inclined to agree with Matron Redfern. You’ve not quite been yourself as of late, Miss Reagan,” John agreed.

Florence sighed, almost unable to hide her tiredness all of a sudden. “I must admit I…I haven’t been sleeping well as of late.” 

Joan made a sympathetic noise, and John frowned, concern etched into every inch of his expression. Florence wished Joan hadn’t brought this up, as she had never wanted to be the cause of anything but joy on his handsome face. 

“That just won’t do,” Joan said, “I’ll be by in the morning with a solution for you, dear friend. Why did you not mention this sooner?” 

Florence pursed her lips, and said, “I don’t like to cause worry.” 

“Nonsense, you’d cause more worry if you collapsed due to hysteria or exhaustion!” John exclaimed, before he offered his arm again. “Now, let’s get you home. Hopefully, Anne has put a fire on for you to ward off the chill.”

Joan took Florence’s other side, taking gleeful note of the way John worried over her friend. 

“Will you be alright tonight?” Joan asked once they’d reached Florence’s front door. 

“I should be, thank you both for your concern,” she reassured. “Stay warm on your walk back!” 

John smiled kindly at her, before he looked at Joan. “A brisk walk should be good to ward off the chill. How about it, Matron?” 

Joan nodded, sending Florence a smile that both reassured her fears and caused more to spring up. Somehow, Joan had correctly seen her exhaustion and guessed her feelings for John. 

“Indeed, Mr Smith!” Joan exclaimed, her breath a fog in the cold air. “Until tomorrow, Miss Reagan!” 

“See you tomorrow,” Florence bid them goodbye and walked into her house. 

As Joan Redfern had promised, she was knocking on Florence’s door nearly first thing, just as Florence finished her breakfast. Anne answered the door and brought her through, and Florence grinned upon seeing her, pulling her into an embrace. 

“Joan, please, make yourself at home!” She exclaimed, “tea? Coffee? Anything to eat? To be here so early you must have missed breakfast!” 

Joan smiled and accepted a tea, which Anne poured immediately for her. 

“That’ll be all until noon, thank you Anne,” Florence said as the maid cleared the last few breakfast plates away. 

“Of course, miss.” 

Joan pulled a few small vials from her bag and placed them on the table. “I made these up this morning for you, but you must let me know if they’re unsuitable or don’t work as expected. I can’t help you if you don’t let me know what does or doesn’t work,” Joan said sternly, and Florence smiled. 

“Thank you for this Joan. It’s these dreams, keeping me awake.”
“Dreams ordinarily happen while sleeping, Florence,” Joan teased, and Florence laughed. 

“Okay, then the dreams wake me up and I can’t sleep after. I was awake this morning hours before sunrise, laying in the dark.” Florence admitted, and Joan’s eyes softened.

“Oh, you poor thing. You should have told me sooner,” she scolded lightly. “How else am I to make you suitable to go to the dance?” Florence’s cheeks flushed bright red, and Joan laughed. 

“How did you hear?” She exclaimed. 

“Mr Smith may have asked advice while I dealt with his stair-induced injury,” Joan revealed, making Florence laugh. 

“Ah yes, he did mention his fall, but not that he’d sustained injury.” 

Joan smiled, and her eyes glinted with unhidden amusement. “I’m glad you’ll be attending with him. He seems to be a good sort.” 

Florence smiled. “Yes, he does.” 

Something shifted in Joan’s expression, although Florence was distracted by thoughts of the man she shared dreams with. “Speaking of Mr Smith,” she interrupted, “he shared with me one of his dreams.” 

That surprised Florence, and she focused back on her friend in curiosity. “Did he really?” 

“Indeed. He showed me his journal, too. It’s quite impressive, the imagination he has,” Joan pulled the familiar brown leather book from her bag, and Florence smiled at the sight of it. 

“He showed me the first few drawings he’d created when we first met. They’re quite spectacular.” Florence smiled, opening the offered book to see he’d added a front page with the words ‘A Journal of Impossible Things’. She flicked through, noticing he’d added stories surrounding each picture. She traced the words with a careful finger, remembering some stories that he’d already told her, and discovering others. “We’ve compared dreams quite regularly. It’s remarkable that we’ve even dreamt of strangely similar items.” 

Joan hummed, observing her friend carefully. “Strange. Mr Smith said you’d dreamt of identical objects.” 

Florence frowned, looking up to Joan. Joan’s expression had shifted to concern. 

“What is it, Joan? Please, speak your mind, and not in riddles.” 

Joan frowned, before she said, “I am glad you are enjoying Mr Smith’s company, but do you not find he sometimes acts like he’s forgotten something vitally important?” She asked, and Florence frowned, heart stammering. “Like he’s left the kettle on the stove at home and can’t remember?” 

Florence shook her head, brows furrowing down. He occasionally seemed forward, and to her open, but she didn’t believe him to be particularly forgetful, at least not more so than she was. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” she told Joan, “he’s perfectly…fine, I believe. Has he done something or forgotten something important to you?”  

Joan shook her head, a curious expression on her face. “No, no. Although I suppose having a head in the clouds isn’t unfamiliar to you, is it Florence?” Joan laughed, but Florence just looked at her in confusion. 

“How do you mean?” She asked, and Joan just looked at her strangely.

“Florence, dear, sometimes I talk to you and you listen but your mind is in some far off place, further than London. Sometimes you seem to be drifting away into the clouds, mind both here and away with the stars.” Joan seemed baffled. “Has no one mentioned this to you before?” 

Florence felt her cheeks blush, but she shook her head. “Never, Joan.” 

Joan sat back in her chair, seemingly confused. “Well, I would hate to pry, but would you share some of your dreams with me? I’d love to see just how yours and Mr Smith’s dreams correlate, purely scientific curiosity, of course.” 

Florence smiled and nodded, and she collected her own drawing book that had still been in her bag from the previous day when she’d taken it to John. She fingered the cover nervously before returning to hand it to Joan. She had nothing to worry about: the dreams were just that, dreams, and John must have exaggerated how much their dreams matched up. Joan would find nothing of concern between the leather cover of her book. 

She sat next to Joan and passed the book over, heart beating fast as Joan quite happily opened the book and started peaking through. 

“Wow, John was quite right. There are some striking similarities here,” Joan marvelled, looking over a drawing of the Doctor that Florence had done. And where John had an eye for writing, Florence had an eye for drawing, and the Doctor was drawn there in perfect detail, down to the bowtie he wore. 

“Just dreams, of course,” Florence assured, and Joan hummed. 

“And are you also masquerading as the Doctor in these dreams?” Joan asked, and Florence gestured for her to turn the page. 

She landed on the most detailed drawing Florence had ever done of the blond woman. Her white blond hair was hung long in loose waves, her dark green eyes, shining with golden dust, looking out of the page from the side of her vision. Her cheekbones were defined, and no smile graced her small mouth. 

“I don’t know her name, but I am usually her. She goes through a lot of hardship,” Florence admitted, and Joan’s fingers traced her face. “When it’s bad, I awaken from the dream in tears.” 

Joan turned to Florence and grasped her hand, interlocking their fingers. “She is just a dream, Florence.” 

“I know,” but her eyes were misting, and she wanted to burst into tears in front of her closest friend. Instead, she stood and walked to the side table where a bunch of tissues lay, taking one to dab at her eyes without facing Joan again. “But yes, please, continue looking.” 

Joan refused, and instead invited Florence out to walk after her morning responsibilities had concluded at the school. But before she left, she asked, “would you mind if I took this, and kept looking? You are an incredible artist, Florence.” 

“Please, feel free,” Florence agreed. “I’ll see you later, Joan.” 

Chapter Text

Florence was glad the sun was out. The clear blue skies were beautiful this time of year, and although they usually still brought cold with them, it allowed Florence a chance to leave her hair loose without fear of the curls getting tangled when it rained. The town was busy, given it was a weekend and the sun was out. Young boys played cricket in the centre, and families strolled along the grass at the side of town.

In hindsight, Florence recognised that this was likely a moment that her head was in the clouds, as Joan had called it, but at the time, Florence had been stuck trying to recall where she’d learnt a particular stitch that she had done the day prior that her manager Mr Clark had not recognised. She hadn’t been able to identify it when it had been completed, but she had known instinctively how to do it in the moment, and how to repeat it. It was as if her hands had the memory that her brain lacked.

She nearly missed it when it happened. She had been walking, and all of a sudden, she heard a rope breaking, the fall of some metal poles, and an empty milk carton fell onto the ground in front of her. Florence jumped back in surprise, and then was grateful she had as a piano fell where she had been standing. Heart beating hard in her throat, she looked around in shock.

Townspeople came up to her, asking if she was okay. She just nodded, once more looking at the piano destroyed on the ground, and she jumped again when she felt a hand gently touch her shoulder.

“Florence,” the familiar voice spoke, “are you okay?”

She looked up and caught sight of John Smith, his cheeks slightly flushed, but worry etched into every corner of his face. She nodded.

“Yes, I think so. What happened?” She breathed, and Joan appeared just behind John, her own cheeks flushed but her grin wide.

“Mr Smith has quite the throw on him!” She exclaimed, “he plucked a cricket ball and threw it with such precision that it caused a chain reaction of events to occur in order to prevent you from walking in the path of the piano!”

Florence took in the sudden sheepishness of John, and she gathered up a moment’s of courage to lean up and kiss his cheek. “Well, I must thank you sincerely, sir. If not for your actions, I might very well have been killed.”

John blushed. “Just…you know, lucky!” He decided, pushing his hat further onto his head, and Joan and Florence laughed.

“Lucky, he says!” Florence exclaimed.

“What luck,” Joan remarked.

“Would you like to accompany us on our walk, Miss Reagan?” John asked, and Florence glanced at Joan, who nodded.

“If you’d allow me the pleasure,” she agreed.

The trio walked out of town, forgetting lunch for the moment, all high on the excitement of the near-death experience with the piano. It was all Joan could talk about. 
“Oh, it’s all becoming clear now!” Joan exclaimed, as they reached the peak of the hill. “The Doctor is the man you’d like to be, doing impossible things with cricket balls.”

Florence laughed, breathing in the fresh air as she rushed forward a few steps to take in the view. “And saving young ladies, you see, Joan?” John blushed with the words, taking in the view of Florence against the green woods and fields beyond them. Her red hair seemed to fly in the wind, curls blowing in different directions but still being cohesive enough to not be considered a mess. Her hairstyle today was quite unlike any the other women of the town found fashionable.

“Well, I’ve discovered a talent, that’s certainly true,” he reluctantly admitted, not quite looking away from Florence.

“But the Doctor has an eye for the ladies,” Joan smirked at John, watching as his eyes had to tear themselves away from Florence. His cheeks only grew rosier at being caught.

“The devil!” He joked, looking back to Florence.

“A girl in every fireplace,” Florence reminded, turning back to them as the duo caught up to her. Her blue eyes shone with humour.

“Ah, now there I have to protest, Florence. That is hardly me,” John grinned at her.

“Says the man walking with two handsome young women,” Florence grinned back.

“And the man dancing with one of them tonight,” Joan reminded, and they laughed.

John looked across the two women towards the field, and caught notice of a scarecrow stood on its cross. There wasn’t anything hugely unusual about it, but he couldn’t help but find himself drawn to it. Florence caught his gaze’s direction and followed it, catching sight of the object as well. She felt a strong sense of wrongness about it, but couldn’t identify what it was.

“That scarecrow’s all askew,” John said, moving towards it. John made to go towards it, but Florence grasped his arm, pulling the three of them to a stop.


“I don’t think we should go towards it,” she warned, something in her body screaming at her to move away.

“It’s just a scarecrow, Florence, there’s nothing to be scared of,” he reassured her before continuing on his path, Joan not far behind. Florence had little choice but to follow, despite her body’s instinctive response being to run. 

John stepped up to the scarecrow as Joan said, “ever the artist!”

“Where did you learn to draw?” Florence asked, curious about the man in front of her even as her unease of the scarecrow only grew.

“Gallifrey,” John stated automatically, and Florence’s body seemed to come alive in remembrance, as he started to adjust the scarecrow to sit properly on the crossed sticks.

“Is that in Ireland?” Asked Joan.

John paused to contemplate it for a moment. “Yes. It must be.”

“You’re not Irish?”

“Not at all, no. My father, Sidney, was a watchmaker from Nottingham. And my mother, Verity, was a nurse, actually.” He looked up to Joan and smiled.

“And you, Florence? Where did you learn to draw” Joan asked, and Florence frowned.

She knew she’d learnt in London, but her instinct wanted her to say something else, as if her knowledge was incorrect.

“I learnt in…London.” She had no idea why she felt so unsure of that answer. “I learnt under Emmeline Pankhurst, actually,” she laughed, but the answer felt false, and she couldn’t help but glance at the scarecrow a number of times from fear.

“I’d love for you to tell me about her,” Joan requested, “I have only heard what the newspapers have been saying, and frankly, none of them are terribly kind.”

John finished adjusting the scarecrow, stepping back to say, “well, my work is done. What do you think?”

Joan immediately responded. “A masterpiece.”

“I’ve all sorts of skills today,” John laughed, offering his arm to Florence once more. Without taking her eyes off the scarecrow, she took it, gloved hand tucking habitually into his elbow, and she kept her eyes on it until they started walking away, continuing on their walk.

“And Florence, I know you were ward to Mr Latimer and his family, but who were your parents before? Did you know them well?” John asked, glancing at her a few times to ensure she was okay. She’d started to look a little pale the longer they’d stood next to the scarecrow - that is, paler than she normally was. He wanted to take her mind off the rather ugly object.

“Oh, my father was called Gus, he was from Scotland. I believe my hair comes from his mother. And my mother was Julia, from London,” Florence said automatically.

“I could spot the Celtic in you from a mile away,” John teased, and Florence blushed, glancing up to him. He was looking down at her with some kind of look in his eye.

Joan smiled, but inside she wondered how she could escape easily without it seeming suspicious. She wanted to give John and Florence time to spend together before the dance. She glanced at her watch, and pretended as if she had just realised the time. “Oh, I beg your pardon, but I must be off! I’m late!” Joan exclaimed, and she rushed down the hill before either of them could realise what was happening.

John sat opposite Florence, pencil firmly in hand as he tried to capture the image of his drawing as best he could. Florence sat opposite, doing her best to remain still. He’d asked to draw her image, and Florence wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to say no to his warm chocolate eyes. She glanced at him, his scruffy-at-best brown hair falling handsomely into his eyes, and his eyes focused on either the page or a particular feature of her face. She wondered if he would bother to draw her freckles as well, or if he would find them too numerous and cumbersome to draw properly. She supposed it would likely be the latter, as her skin was littered with the little brown dots. She caught him leaning slightly closer, his brown eyes narrowing and finding as much detail as possible. Trying to keep her blush down, she didn’t think about how much she enjoyed those brown eyes staring at her, finding their way seemingly into the depths of her soul.

He glanced up, hand coming to a still as he surveyed his handiwork for a final time. One last glance between her and the image and he smiled.

“Can I see?” She asked timidly, and he stood and came to sit next to her.

The brown leather sofa was comfortable, but the way the cushions sat meant his thigh pressed against her own when he sat down, and Florence wondered if he was analysing their touch as much as she was. His arm fell around her back to rest on the armrest beside her, and his other arm on his knee. He handed over the drawing book, and Florence took in the image.

Her hair cascaded over her shoulders in a waterfall of graphite. She marvelled at how he’d somehow caught the movement of it even in still image. Her eyes were cast to the side, despite the fact that she’d started looking at him partway through his drawing, but there was a hidden depth to them that he’d managed to capture that matched the slight upturn of her lips. The woman in the drawing looked as if she held an eternity’s worth of secrets, and wouldn’t tell a soul. She marvelled at his dedication to showing as many of her freckles as possible, as well.

“Do I really look like that?” She murmured, half a laugh already on her lips. She glanced up to him to see his face closer than she’d anticipated, and she wet her lips in shock before looking back down. She looked back to the book to try and hide her nerves, pointing to a drawing of one of his creations he’d made on the opposite page. “Are you sure that’s not me?” It wasn’t a very flattering image. 

His chuckle was low, but he confirmed, “definitely this page.”

Florence nodded slowly, considering the portrait once again. “She’s…otherworldly. Ethereal,” Florence whispered.

“Well, that’s how I see you.”

She swallowed. His hand came up to push back a curl from her face, and she glanced up at him again, to see his eyes studying her.

“Spinsters aren’t supposed to be beautiful. Sometimes I think the world would rather we stopped.” She looked at the drawing again, seeing how distant the drawn woman seemed to be. “Is that fair? That we stop.”

“No,” he murmured, and Florence looked into his eyes, seeing once again the age and wisdom he held, despite his youthful face. For a moment, she almost thought she’d stepped into one of her dreams. “That’s not fair at all.”

With those words, he carefully, as though afraid of overstepping, placed his lips to hers. Florence returned the gesture in kind, heart beating fast as they held there for a moment, suspended in time. She felt, truly, that they fit together like two puzzle pieces; as if they could have been born galaxies apart; as if time could try to separate them, and still they would have come together again, as it was meant to be. When she pulled back a moment later, he let out a short breath.

“I’ve never-“ they said together, and Florence laughed quietly before returning her lips to his, finding so much joy in their union. They fit together seemlessly, his lips chapped but soft against hers. He moved first, and Florence eagerly followed, her hand coming up to cup his cheek and-

Martha burst into the door and they leapt apart. John exclaimed, “Martha! What have I told you about entering unannounced?”

Florence jumped back and smoothed her skirt down, while Martha then rushed out the door, shutting it behind her. Her cheeks were bright red, and John’s likely were too, but she wasn’t sure she could find the courage to look at him.

John took a deep breath in beside her, before his hand came to rest on her cheek, turning her vision to his face once more.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“It’s okay, John. She’s just…enthusiastic, I suppose,” Florence laughed, and John nodded. She bit her lip, an action that John noticed all too eagerly. “I suppose I should go get ready for the dance. Shall I meet you back here?”

“A marvellous plan, Miss Reagan,” he said, offering his hand to help her off the sofa. He didn’t let go once they were stood, nor even once they’d reached his doorway. They paused for a second, standing by the now shut door, and Florence glanced to John’s lips for a second, noticing him do the same.

They shared one more kiss before Florence departed, both their hearts beating fast in memory of their shared act of intimacy  

“You look wonderful,” John said as Florence showed off her dress. It was a sage green, with lace gloves to match the white lacing on the bodice. Anne had helped her pick it, and she’d returned to the school as quickly as she’d dared, not wanting to ruin the dress before he’d seen it. Something in her had told her to pick up her fob watch, and she was grateful to have the familiar, comforting weight in her small purse as her heart fluttered with nerves.

“Now, John, I have to know,” Florence asked, smiling at him, “can you actually dance?” She stayed smiling at him as he contemplated the question.

“Um,” he paused, eyes filled with mirth, “I’m not certain.”

Florence laughed, “and I’m not surprised. Are you certain about anything?”

She hadn’t meant the words to be anything more than a joke, but she stopped laughing when his expression grew serious, his dark eyes trained on her. He stepped into her, saying, “yes. Yes.” He grasped her hands, stroking his thumbs across her glove covered knuckles.

Once more, Martha burst into the room, calling, “they’ve found us!” Her voice was filled with fear, and dread pooled in Florence’s stomach, despite the initial flash of irritation her and John felt together. 

“Martha, I’ve warned you,” John said sternly, stepping back. Florence crossed her arms, inexplicable fear flooding her with each word Martha said.

“Sir, they’ve found us and I’ve seen them, they look like people, like us, like normal!” She turned to the fireplace, “you’ve got to open the watch.” Florence clutched at her own purse, feeling the reassuring weight of her own watch even as Martha panicked that she couldn’t see John’s. “Where’s it gone, where’s the watch?”


“What are you talking about?” John asked.

“You had a watch, a fob watch, right there!” Martha looked between the shelf and John, her face imploring. Florence bit her lip, wondering how John had forgotten about the watch that was very similar to her own. Regardless of whether he had forgotten it, Florence said, “I’m not sure that the location of his watch is any concern of yours, Miss Jones.”

The next words Martha said shocked Florence. “Doctor, we’re hiding from aliens, and they’ve got Jenny! They’ve possessed her, or copied her, or something, and you’ve got to tell me, where’s the watch?”

A look of understanding dawned on John’s face and he said, “oh! I see! Cultural differences,” he murmured to Florence, and then he picked up his journal and spoke clearly to the distraught maid, “Martha, this is what we call a story.” Florence knew somewhere in her body that the words were wrong, but logically she knew they were true, and the juxtaposition kept her frozen as John kept speaking.

“Oh you complete,” Martha muttered, before exclaiming, “this is not you. This is 1913!”

“Good, this is 1913.” He coached, and Martha turned to Florence.

“You remember, you saw it! You saw the TARDIS!” She spoke, and Florence’s eyes widened. She glanced to John in helplessness. “The hunters I spoke of, they’ve come! They’ve found him!” Fear crept into Martha’s expression as she realised something. “Oh my god, you’ve got a fob watch too. Is it on you? You have to open it, surely you’ll be able to help!”

“Martha, enough is enough!” John snapped, and Florence was grateful that it took Martha’s attention back onto him from her.

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to snap you out of this.” She fully reared back, and slapped him across the face.

John twisted to the side, cupping his struck cheek in shock as Florence exclaimed, “Martha! Enough!”

“Wake up!” Martha yelled, “you’re coming back to the TARDIS with me.” She grabbed John’s arm in an attempt to pull him to her intended destination, and Florence could only watch, frozen in horror.

“How dare you? I’m not going anywhere with an insane servant!” John exclaimed, twisting out of her grip and grabbing her arms instead. He pulled her towards the door, saying, “Martha, you are dismissed. You will leave these premises immediately!” He shut the door on the poor servant, and stalked back to Florence, muttering, “the nerve of it, the absolute cheek! You think I’m a fantasist, what about her? Thinking dreams are real life.”

Florence clutched at her fob watch as she spoke, “the funny thing is, you did have a fob watch. Don’t you remember? We accidentally traded them when we first stumbled into each other,” Florence smiled, but it only drew a blank expression from John. Confusion flickered through her even as he shook his head, but she pushed it down, determined to maintain their peace. “Nevermind then,” Florence said, shaking away her fear. Martha had obviously believed John’s drawings to be real, and she knew them to be clearly false. “Shall we head along to the dance?”

John shook himself from his stupor of staring at the fireplace and smiled at her, glad to have the subject changed. “Of course, Florence.” He offered her his arm, and she gladly accepted it.

The village hall was suitably decked out, with a sign out front to say ‘Village Dance Tonight’ and a few party banners strung in the windows. Florence stayed close to John, fear and worry from Martha’s abrupt entrance earlier still lingering.

“You’ve enamoured her. You’re a dangerous man,” she teased, and he smiled down at her.

“You’re trembling still,” he commented, feeling her hand shaking where it lay in the crook of his elbow.

“I’m still frightened, admittedly,” she shrugged.

He placed a hand over her own, gently squeezing her fingertips. “She was obviously unwell, thinking those dreams could be reality. There is nothing more to fear.” 

Florence couldn’t be sure about that, but she nodded, allowing John to pull her towards the hall entrance. 

They walked up to the gentleman holding a donation bucket at the door, and Florence smiled at one of the councilmen she’d met through working as secretary here.

“Evening, Miss Reagan,” he nodded to Florence. “Spare a penny for the veterans of the Crimea, sir?” He asked, and John put some spare change into the pot.

“Yes, of course. There you are.”

They moved into the hall, decked out with banners of red, white and blue, and the Great British flag against the back curtains. Several tables were dotted about the room, and a drinks station near the door. Florence and John had just picked up a drink when the organiser of the event called, “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your partners for a waltz.”

Florence grinned at him. “Time to test your dancing skills,” she teased.

“Time indeed,” he replied as the music started.

They danced effortlessly with the crowd, eyes remaining locked on each other in curious hope and enjoyment, and Florence felt a grin threatening to overtake her. She felt his thumb brush against her back, and shivers ran up her spine as a blush rose to her cheeks. In the hope that he didn’t notice her reaction to the thoughtless movement of his fingers, she joked, “so you can dance!”

He laughed in response, “quite surprised myself!”

As the dance went on, Florence and John didn’t stop, and with each dance, they moved closer and closer together until their breath mingled and their chests touched and they breathed together. And still they danced, far too wrapped up in each other to notice much happening around them, in such synchronicity that it wasn’t until they stopped dancing that Florence realised they’d been dancing for nearly an hour, and she’d worked up quite a thirst. John quickly offered to procure them some more drinks, and while Florence waited at the table, catching her breath, she spotted a troublesome maid approaching. 
“Oh Martha, please. Not here,” she asked, and Martha just sat down opposite her.

“He’s different from any other man you’ve ever met, right?” She asked, “and you know him. You’ve known him for longer than you can even remember, and yet you’ve only known him 2 months.”

Florence said nothing, eying the woman wearily.

“And sometimes he says these strange things, people and places that no one has ever heard of, except maybe you.” She continued, and Florence sighed. “But it’s deeper than that. Sometimes, when you look in his eyes, you know, somewhere deep in you, you know that there’s something else there. You know it because you see it in yourself when you look in the mirror. Something hidden. Right behind the eyes, something hidden away. In the dark. Locked away inside those watches of yours.”

Florence leant away, trying to prevent further conversation without causing a scene. “Martha, please stop.”

“You see it, I know you do. And I don’t mean to be rude, but the awful thing is, it doesn’t even matter what you think, because I think deep down, you know. You know on an instinctual level.” Florence saw John coming back, and she almost missed what Martha said next. “But you’re kind, and you’re lucky. So I just want to say sorry for what I’m about to do.”

“Oh, now, really, Martha. This is getting out of hand. I must insist you leave.” John said as he placed two drinks on the table before he placed a gentle hand on Florence’s shoulder. She reached up to touch it, grateful to have the touch to ground her.

Martha stood and showed him a metal stick, the length of a pen but the thickness of a piece of celery, with a blue bulb at the end. Florence frowned at it. “Do you know what this is?” Martha asked, “name it. Go on, name it.”

John took the item from Martha’s hands, and Florence frowned, watching the befuddlement cross over his features.

“Martha, this is too far,” she murmured, watching John carefully. She missed the worried glanced Martha gave her.

“You’re not John Smith,” Martha continued, “you’re called the Doctor. The man in your journal, he’s real. He’s you,” her voice broke with hope and joy, and Florence could only watch as he ran his fingers over the object. Her fingers automatically reached for the comfort of her fob watch, hidden away as it was within her clutch.

She jumped out of her seat as Mr Clark, her boss, strode into the room, the school student Baines and school maid Jenny behind him, and knocked over a coat rack. He yelled, “you will be silent! All of you!”, and behind them followed the same scarecrow that John had adjusted from the field earlier that day, except there were multiples of the same one.

The organiser for the event yelled out in response, “Mr Clark? What’s going on?”

Mr Clark turned and pointed a green pistol at the man, and shot him. The man vaporised in an instant. Screams and yells started around the room, and Florence started looking at all the people in the room, trying to figure out how to help everyone escape with as few lives lost as possible. In her glances around the room, she saw her brother standing in the corner of the room. Her eyes widened in fear. He couldn’t be here, he shouldn’t be here.

Martha took the screwdriver back and pocketed it as she commanded, “Mr Smith, everything I just told you about the Doctor? Just forget it, don’t say anything.”

Florence caught Timmy’s eye, seeing his shock at seeing her, and she tried to communicate to him that he needed to leave, but he shook his head, determination clear in his eyes.

Mr Baines spoke. “We asked for SILENCE!” The room fell silent, all watching what the intruders would do. Baines smiled cruelly, eyes intently watching John. “Now then, we have a few questions for Mr Smith.”

A young girl holding a red balloon, Florence knew her to be Lucy Cartwright, stepped forward, joining with Mr Clark, Baines, Jenny and the magnitude of scarecrows. “No, better than that. The teacher, he’s the Doctor!” She proclaimed, “I heard them talking.”

A gleeful look overcame Baines’ expression. “You took human form?” He asked, humour laced in his voice.

John burst out, “Of course I’m human, I was born human, as were you Baines! And J-Jenny, and you, Mr Clark! What is going on? This is madness!”

Baines laughed, “oh, and a human brain, too. Simple, thick and dull!”

Jenny scowled, “but he’s no good like this.”

Mr Clark stated, “we need a Time Lord.”

Baines seemed to take to the challenge, and his next words struck fear into some instinctual part of Florence. “Easily done.” He stepped forward, head tilted, and pointed a green pistol at John. “Change back.”

Florence grasped at John’s hand, refusing to step further away from him than a few feet. If it had just been him she was trying to protect, she might have pulled him behind her, but with Timmy there too, she had to keep him in mind in case he ended up in the firing line. She had to keep them alive, and help them escape.

Florence didn’t analyse why these necessary actions fell to her. She was running on adrenaline, and relying on muscle memory. Despite the fact the only scary encounter she could recall was running from police with the suffragettes, she knew what to do and how to keep herself composed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” John muttered, clutching at Florence’s hand as he stepped back.

“Change back!” Baines yelled.


“I literally do not know…” John pulled away from Florence to run his hands through his hair, and all of a sudden, Jenny grabbed Martha, wrapping one arm around her waist and the other holding a pistol to her head.

“Get off me!” Martha yelled, fear suddenly apparent in her voice.

“She’s your friend,” Jenny coaxed, “doesn’t this scare you enough to change back?”

“I don’t know what you mean!” John reaffirmed.

“Wait a minute, the maid told me about Smith and the lady,” Jenny said, a smug smirk on her face. “That woman, there.” Jenny stared at Florence.

Suddenly, Mr Clark was behind her, yanking her away from John despite the firm grip they had on each other’s hands. He held his pistol to her head, and Florence lifted her chin, eyes glancing between John and Timmy, subtly shaking her head at each of them, pleading them not to do anything drastic. Despite her position, Florence tried not to panic, the instinctive reaction distinctly unhelpful in the situation.

Baines looked awfully smug. “Have you enjoyed it, Doctor? Being human? Has it taught you wonderful things? Are you better, richer, wiser?” Baines chuckled. “Then let’s see you answer this. Which one of them do you want us to kill? Maid or lady? Your friend or your lover? Your choice!” John glanced between Martha and Florence, with no idea what to do. The grip on Florence’s neck was bruising, but she did her best to refuse to allow it to show. 

Jenny taunted, “make your decision Mr Smith!”

Baines was curious enough, “perhaps if that human heart breaks, the Time Lord will emerge.”

Florence saw Timmy look down at something in his hand, conflict on his face, before something changed in her captors. They all sniffed, seemingly smelling something no one else could, and Martha managed to gain control over the gun held against her head, as she pulled herself out of Jenny’s grip and twisted the gun to point at Baines.

Florence stared imploringly at Timmy, begging him with every fibre of her being, ‘please, just run, stay safe’. He stared at her, watching every moment carefully, before shaking his head subtly. He wouldn’t leave yet. Florence wanted to cry.

“Alright!” Martha yelled, “one more move, and I shoot.”

“Oh, the maid is full of fire,” Baines barked.

“And you can shut up!” Martha exclaimed, shooting at the ceiling.

Mr Clark tightened his grip on Florence’s neck, warning Baines, “be careful, son of mine. This is all for you, so that you can live forever.”

“Shall I shoot you down?” Baines offered, and Martha smirked.

“Try it. We’ll die together.”

“Would you really pull the trigger?” He asked, “you look too scared.”

“Scared and holding a gun’s a good combination! Want to risk it?”

There was a long moment when Baines kept his gun up, watching Martha with wild eyes. Florence eyed where his feet were, and how he balanced his weight. She tried shifting closer, but the arm around her neck tightened.

’Don’t, Florie’, she heard a voice come from somewhere, everywhere and nowhere, and her eyes met with Timmy’s scared yet calculating brown ones. How had he sent her that message?

After a long moment, Baines and Mr Clark lowered their pistols, and Florence rushed away from Mr Clark, hand coming up to rub at her neck. She returned to John’s side, grasping his hand for a moment before she continued on to Timmy’s side, grabbing his shoulder to pull him into a hug.

“You never listen when it’s important,” she muttered as Martha urged John, or ‘the Doctor’ as she started calling him, to get everyone outside via the side door.

Florence took over when John appeared too overwhelmed to action anything. She released Timmy, but pulled him over to the side door and ensured he was out first. “Do what she says,” she called, holding the door open for the rush of dancers to exit. “Everyone out! Now! Go! Mr. Jackson, don’t argue. This isn’t theatre, it’s time to leave. Yes, that means you too, Susan, Miss Cooper. Outside, now, go home! Quickly!”

Finally, the crowd started moving, and people were running through the streets. Florence made sure the crowd kept moving through the doorway, heart pounding finally in her chest. She saw Timmy lingering, waiting by the fence, and heard Martha call out to John, “and you, go on, just shift!”

John asked, “what about you?”

“Mr Smith, I think you should escort your lady friend to safety, don’t you?” Martha prompted, her voice hard and cold. When John hesitated, Florence grabbed his hand and pulled him outside to safety. He was immediately back into action, talking to Mr Hitch, “get everyone out the village.”

Florence immediately was in front of Timmy, his shoulders in her hands as she exclaimed, “what are you still doing here, Tim? Go, get to safety!”

John was next to her in a heartbeat, and he told Timmy, “Latimer, get back to the school, tell the headmaster-“

Timmy, eyes wide with fear and angst, pulled away from both of them, eyes flickering between them. “Don’t touch me! You’re as bad as them!”

And Timmy ran, ignoring Florence’s calls after him, and John’s hand on Florence’s shoulder prevented her from running after him. She had to watch as he ran with the scared townsfolk away from her.

Chapter Text

Suddenly, Martha was running out the side door, yelling, “don’t just stand there! Move! God, you’re rubbish as a human, come on!” 

Florence grabbed John’s hand and pulled him with her, towards the school, Martha following shortly after. Gunshots came behind them, but they ran steadfastly to the school, shutting the gate behind them. 

The moment they were in school grounds, John picked up a bell, ringing it steadfastly as he strode through the ground floor. 

“What are you doing?” Martha exclaimed, and John barely spared her a glance.

“Maybe one man can’t fight them, but this school teaches us to stand together!” As students and staff started to fill the halls, he yelled, “take arms!” 

“You can’t do that!” Martha protested. 

“You wanted me to fight, didn’t you? Take arms!” He called again. 

Hutchinson came down the stairs to stop in front of Florence, and he asked her, “I say, miss, whatever’s the matter?”

“Enemies on your doorstep, sir,” she said matter-of-factly, but her body was brimming with distaste. Something about this felt wrong, so very wrong, and her body knew it but her mind was certain this was the proper order of things. 

Florence followed one of the boys to the weaponry galley, and instinctively grabbed herself a pistol. Hands moved as she had never learnt, cocking the weapon to check for loaded bullets before she checked the magazine and then ensured safety was on. Her body aimed down the sights of the small pistol, even as her mind proclaimed this wasn’t for her to do. She slid the pistol into an inside pocket of her dress, one she hadn’t consciously realised was there. She returned to John’s side as he spoke to the Headmaster, saying, “they’ve already murdered people in the village, I saw it happen.” 

The Headmaster glanced at Florence, asking, “Miss Reagan, is that so?” 

“Yes, sir.” Florence replied, her response militant and exact. 

“Murder? On our own soil?” The headmaster frowned, his round glasses slipping slightly on his nose. 

“I saw it. Yes.” 

“Perhaps you did well then, Mr Smith. What makes you think the danger is coming here?” 

“Well…they said, uh-“ John stumbled, but Florence stepped forward quickly. 

“Baines threatened Mr Smith, sir. Said he’d follow him. We don’t know why.” The headmaster studied her for a moment, and then studied John, but eventually acquiesced. 

“Very well. You boys, remain on guard. Mr Snell, telephone for the police, Mr Phillips, with me. We shall investigate.” The Headmaster strode forward, but Martha moved to stop him. 

“But it’s not safe out there,” Martha protested, and the Headmaster merely glanced at John. 

“Mr Smith, it seems your favourite servant is giving me advice. You will control her, sir.” He stepped past Martha, and she was powerless to stop it. 

Florence rushed out the room, clutching her fob watch in her hand desperately, fear coursing through her. The metal was warm to the touch. Martha had said her watch too. Martha had told her to open her watch, earlier that night. She’d asked her if she was a Time Lady. Maybe, just maybe, if she gave Baines her watch, maybe they’d leave everyone alone. 

The watch turned cold in her hand the moment she’d had the thought, and suddenly she stumbled across Timmy, hiding in a doorway. She nearly sobbed in relief at the sight of him, small and terrified though he was. 

“Tim, oh my god I’m so glad you’re okay,” she exclaimed, falling to the ground next to him. She reached out to touch him, but he flinched away, eyes falling to her fob watch clutched in her hands. 

“Florie, what are you doing here? It’s not safe,” he told her, and she laughed.

“It’s not safe anywhere, darling. What are you doing hiding here?”

“I’m doing what he told me to do,” Timmy said, glancing at his own hands, and she frowned, following his gaze. 

Her heart nearly stopped when she saw John Smith’s fob watch in the hands of her little brother. 

“Can you hear him too? You managed to send me a message tonight, so I wondered if maybe you’re like me.” Timmy asked, reaching out to grab her arm, but Florence shook her head, confused. 

“What do you mean, Tim? Like you? You’re my brother, we’re human, of course I’m like you,” she said, but Timmy shook his head. 

“No, you don’t get it yet!” He exclaimed. “The Doctor told me it’s not time, that it’s too soon to be released.” 

Florence was too clever to not connect the dots. “Are you…speaking…to the Doctor?” She asked, and he nodded. 

“He says, ‘hello Cece’. He said that was his nickname for you, his original nickname for you.” 

Florence’s head spun, but she kept her cool. “I’ve never heard the name Cece in my life,” she told him, and Timmy grinned. 

“He said you’d say that.” 

“Look, Timothy, we don’t have time. There’s an army at the door, and they need a fob watch to take away.” Florence watched as Timothy’s eyes drifted to the fob watch she currently held, and back to her eyes. She watched as he winced, as if something had yelled at him.

“The Doctor says you can’t do that!” Timothy yelled, and Florence sighed, heart breaking for her brother. 

“The Doctor isn’t here, Timmy. Either I give my watch up, or we watch as school boys, as you, have to go to war. I won’t let that happen.” Florence went to stand up when Timmy pushed her. In her surprise, she dropped the fob watch, and Timmy picked it up and ran with it. Florence yelled after him, “Timmy, no, wait!” But he was already gone, running through the maze of a school that he knew so well. Florence called again, but he still didn’t respond. 

“Fuck,” for the first time in quite a while, she swore and hit the ground. Real fear, and dread for what they were about to put school boys through, filled her, and she rushed downstairs, where they were building defences just outside the doors. She stood to the side, watching carefully, and eventually Matron Redfern joined her, both nervously observing, organising and preparing supplies as might be required should events turn south. 

“Joan, Florence, it’s not safe,” John said, approaching quickly. 

“I’m doing my duty, just as much as you,” Joan said, her back stiff. Florence stayed quiet, packing medical bags and filling magazines with bullets. Despite the imploring look on John’s face, Florence remained impassive. 

“This evening didn’t turn out how I’d hoped,” John admitted to Florence, and she finally glanced at him, and reached out to grasp his hand. Her gloves were dirty, but he still held her hand like it was the most precious thing on Earth. 

Joan spoke up, “tell me about Nottingham.” 

John frowned, and said, “what?”

“That’s where you were brought up. Tell me about it,” she commanded, returning to her packing while John looked bewildered. 

“Well…it lies on the River Leen, with its southern boundary following the course of the River Trent, which flows from Stoke to the Humber,” he said, and Joan sighed, turning to Florence. 

“What was your father like?” She asked, “how did he die?” 

Florence frowned, unconsciously squeezing John’s hand. “He…um, he was Scottish, you know? He liked a whiskey, had red hair, he was Celtic. He was like any father,” she insisted. “And he died years ago.”

“But how?” Joan pushed, and Florence’s brain seemed to skip over that bit of information each time she tried to access it. “How did it make you feel?” 

“I-“ Florence couldn’t respond, and she glanced at John to see him just as confused as she was. 

“More than facts, please. When you were a child, where did you play? All those secret little places, the dens and hideaways that only a child knows.” She turned to Florence. “Did he throw you in the air and catch you until you were just too big, or take you out for an ice lolly despite your mum saying you had had enough sweets for one day, or take away your favourite toy because you’d spent too long playing inside for the day? Why can’t either of you tell me?”

John swallowed and turned to Florence. “I’m real, aren’t I?” 

Florence reached up and placed her hand delicately along his cheek. “As real as I am,” she murmured, but the words weren’t assuring when Joan was questioning both of them. 

“This Doctor sounds like some, some lost prince. Would you rather that?” He turned back to Joan, and she sighed. 

“That’s not what I-“

“Am I not enough?” He asked Florence, and she squeezed his hand.

“Never,” she promised. 

“I’ve got to go,” John said finally, pulling away from Florence, only to pause as Florence followed him. 

“I’m going where you go, John. I’ll stay with you until the end,” she promised, and she swallowed when she saw the tears in his eyes. 

Joan stopped them both. “Martha was right about one thing, though. Those boys, they’re children. John Smith wouldn’t want them to fight, nevermind the Doctor, the John Smith I was getting to know, the Florence Reagan I know. They know it’s wrong. Don’t they?” 

Florence pulled John away as someone called for him, saying to Joan as they left, “what choice do we have?” The words made Florence want to sob. 

They left Joan packing the medical bags and spare magazines. 

Around the corner, John pulled Florence to a stop in the doorway, holding both of her hands in his. “This is real, right here, right now. You are real to me,” he promised. 

Florence smiled at him, her thumbs gently stroking his knuckles. “You are the only real I want, John Smith.” She released one hand to cup the back of his neck, pulling his lips down to meet hers. 

The world could’ve exploded in that moment, and Florence wouldn’t have cared an ounce. John’s lips were on hers, moving, and every cell in her body felt alive and how could this not be real? How could she even think for a moment that she might not be the real Florence? When she could experience this, feel this, care for this, she knew this was the truth. Florence would not let go of this easily. She would fight for her humanity. 

Outside, with piles of sandbags the only things blocking the students from the one gate, Florence reached inside her pocket and pulled out the pistol she’d prepared earlier. Primed, loaded and ready, she held it hidden as best as possible in her skirts until the fighting started. She held John’s hand until he primed his own rifle, at the command of “At post!” 

The gates rumbled. Florence’s hand was sweating. 

“Steady. Find the biting point…” Headmaster Rocastle warned, and Florence observed as the children in front of her held their nerve, even with tears streaming down their face. The gates rattled, and finally broke, and the Headmaster called out, “fire!” 

Florence’s body reacted on instinct, holding the pistol with two hands in front of her, eyes aiming down the sights as she fired. She ignored the shocked look from John, focusing on what her body knew to do: shoot. The children around her did the same, and scarecrow soldiers started falling. She didn’t notice when John started lowering his weapon, not until the headmaster called out a cease fire. 

John stared at her, shocked, as she lowered her pistol, and she just smiled bitterly at him. Her mind remembered the last time this exact situation had happened, and she said the same words to him now that she’d said to him then: “It’s war, isn’t it?” The words were obviously familiar to some part of him, because his expression dropped in the way Florence had known it would. 

In the silence, the Headmaster walked forwards to examine the bodies, and realised quickly, “just straw, like he said.” 

“Then no-one’s dead, sir,” Hutchinson said, shocked. “We killed no-one.” 

A figure walked through the gates: the little girl, Lucy, from the dance. 

Headmaster Rocastle gestured to her to come into the school, saying, “you child, come out of the way. Come into the school, we don’t know who’s out there.” 

She stoped walking, looking at the man curiously. Florence’s instinct to lift her weapon grew, but she fought it, not wanting to leave John alone on the front lines. 

“It’s the Cartwright girl, isn’t it? Come here, come to me.” Rocastle encouraged, only to be interrupted by Martha rushing outside, Joan not far behind.

“Mr Rocastle, sir, please! Don’t go near her,” Martha warned, but Rocastle scowled at her.

“You were told to be quiet,” he snapped.

“Just listen to me, she’s part of it. Miss Reagan, tell him!” 

Florence quickly hid her pistol, nodding at Rocastle. “Yes, she was at the dance, sir. I’m fairly sure she’s part of it,” she informed.

“Miss Reagan, I have seen many strange sights, but there is no cause on God’s Earth that would allow me to see this child in the field of battle, sir.” Rocastle snapped, and Florence felt the fear flicker up again. “Come with me,” he said again to the little girl. 

“You’re funny,” Lucy Cartwright said, her voice cold and empty. Florence pushed away her urge to shoot first and ask questions later.

“That’s right. Now take my hand.” 

“So funny,” and then Lucy shot the Headmaster. He vaporised into dust. “Now who’s going to shoot me? Any of you? Really?” 

John spoke next, his voice cold and sharp. “Put down your guns,” he instructed. 

Hutchinson spoke up, “but sir, the Headmaster.”

“I’ll not see this happen,” he insisted, “not anymore.” And he grabbed Florence’s hand to prevent her own firearm from rising. He slowly lowered his weapon to the floor as he listed his instructions. “You will retreat. In an orderly fashion. Back through the school. Hutchinson, lead the way.” 

Hutchinson looked towards the gate, and Florence saw Baines walking in, his own green pistol raised skyward. “But sir,” Hutchinson protested, but John pressed.

“Lead the way.” 

The children ran out, to the smug cry of Baines, “go on then, run! Soldiers! Reanimate!” 

As the children ran, with John distracted, Florence took aim, her sights directed at Baines’ forehead, until Joan grasped her shoulder. 

“Florence, this isn’t you,” she insisted. 

“I won’t let children fight, but I’ll do it for them,” Florence pulled her shoulder back out of Joan’s grip, realigned her shot and fired. 

But Baines had spotted her just in time, and he twisted his body so the bullet would shoot harmlessly into a reanimated straw soldier. She yelled in frustration, but before she could fire again, Joan was pulled her into the school, after Martha and John. Florence pushed Joan ahead of her, as the schoolboys ran in a panic, and yelled, “I’ll meet you outside!” Before she darted upstairs, checking to see if any children were still inside the building. 

Her instincts were yelling at her, and she was learning to trust them. They led her down into the dorms, to the last room, the room she knew belonged, in part, to her brother. 

“Oh god, please, let him be okay,” she begged, running for the door. As the yanked it open, she saw him stood there, holding John’s watch to the sky, opened, with a stream of golden light pulsing from it. Her eyes widened, and Timmy caught sight of her and closed it. 

“Come on, Florie, we have to get out of here!” He exclaimed, pulling her towards the window, and she followed, keep her pistol in hand. 

John had Martha and Joan with him. He would be safe. Timothy needed her. 

They sprinted across fields, and Florence had no idea where they were going, but she would trust her brother and her instincts not to lead her astray. 

“Timmy, please, what is happening? Where are we going?” She begged, pulling him to a stop in the middle of an empty field. She made sure that she angled herself towards the woods, having already checked the fields were empty, so that if any soldiers should be following them, she would see them and be able to act. 

“We need the Doctor,” Timmy insisted, looking up to his sister. “He’s inside this watch, and we need John to put him back.”

“Won’t that kill John? Why can’t we just give those people one of the watches, and fix all of this?” She asked, and Timmy groaned.

“We don’t have time, Florie!” Timmy exclaimed, but Florence entwined their fingers, crouching to have proper eye contact with her brother. 

“Timothy, you have been acting out all day, and I will have it no longer. You will make time to explain, or you will give me my watch and I will finish this war.” Florence had never heard her voice be so commanding, and evidently it worked, as Timothy’s eyes widened and he nodded. “What’s going on?” 

“The Family need a host to kill so that they can extend their live span. With a human, their life is limited, but with a Time Lord, they could spread across nearly all of time, according to the Doctor.”

“And you know that because…”

“The Doctor is in this fob watch.” 

“Right, in John’s fob watch. And that’s bad because they’re murderers?” Florence checked, and Timmy nodded. “So how come you didn’t return the watch sooner than now?” 

“Because the Doctor is terrifying, and amazing and horrible and wonderful; I kept seeing his life, and I was scared.” 

“Scared? Timmy, why didn’t you come to me?” 

“Because you’re also a Time Lord, the Doctor told me.” 

Florence closed her eyes and braced herself against her knees. “Okay, so when you give John his watch back, and the Doctor is returned, what happens to John?” Timmy glanced at the floor, and Florence placed a hand on his cheek. “Please, Timmy.” 

“John’ll die,” he said simply. “But I’ve seen the Doctor in all essence, and we need him. He’s the only one who’ll know how to fix this.”

“Even though he scared you?” Timmy nodded. “You really believe killing John Smith will be worth it, to have a man like the Doctor, who scared you?” 

“It’s the only way!” Timmy exclaimed, “and we are running out of time!” 

Florence looked up, and saw glimpses of scarecrow men starting to come through the trees, and she nodded. “Okay, Tim. I believe you. Let’s go.” 

Timmy, or the Doctor, but Florence still wasn’t sure she was ready to admit that to herself, led them to a house Florence knew belonged to the Cartwrights. She wondered what had led them there, and then realised it had probably been Joan, who had come to the same conclusion Florence had just come to. Her heart ached, and Timmy knocked on the door. 

Martha opened the door slowly, and Timmy held John’s fob watch out, saying, “I brought you this.” 

She ushered them inside and took the watch off Timmy. John stood up, backing away from Martha immediately. Florence moved to him, cautiously, as one might to a frightened lamb, and she carefully grasped his hand. 

“Hold it,” Martha asked, the fob watch in the palm of her hand, outstretched towards him.

“I won’t,” John said. 

“Please, just hold it,” Martha begged.

Timothy, stood just behind her, with everything the Time Lord had said running through his head, and said, “it told me to find you, it wants to be held.” 

“You’ve had this watch all this time, why didn’t you return it?” Joan asked Timmy, and he kept constant eye contact with his teacher as he responded.

“Because it was waiting,” He said. Florence squeezed John’s hand gently, worried about his reaction to the next part, “then, because I was so scared. Of the Doctor.” 

Florence spoke up then, sharing a glance with Joan. “Why?” 

“Because…I’ve seen him.” He moved forward then, as Martha affectionately held the fob watch in her hands. “He’s like fire. And ice. And rage. He’s like the night and the storm and the heart of the sun.” 

Florence, despite knowing some of this, wanted to shield John from it, but he murmured, “stop it,” and she knew she couldn’t.

“He’s ancient and forever. He burns at the centre of time, and he can see the turn of the universe.” 

“Stop it, I said stop it,” John snapped, and Florence raised the hand she held to kiss his knuckles, hoping it might bring him some calm. 

“And he’s wonderful.” 

John’s heart seemed to break in slow motion, on his face as clear as day, anger and devastation reigning supreme. Joan pulled out a familiar book - John’s journal of impossible things. 

“I’ve still got this-“ she offered, but John interrupted. 

“Those are just stories.” 

Florence stroked the back of his hand, drawing his gaze. “You know that’s not true, John. We know that’s not true.” 

A sudden explosion rocked the very ground beneath them, and they all crowded to the window to see rockets being sent to the village, destroying their home, their town. John pulled himself out of Florence’s grip, muttering, “the watch.” 

“John, wait!” Florence exclaimed, but he’d already picked it up. He stared at it intently, held cradled in both hands. 

“Can you hear it?” Timmy asked, and Florence placed a hand on his shoulder, tempted to pull him back should John react poorly. 

“Like he’s asleep,” John replied, “waiting to waken.” 

“Why did he speak to me?”

“Oh, low level telepathic field, you were born with it, just an extra synaptic engram causing…” he sucked in a breath, realising what had happened. “Is that how he talks?” 

Florence was terrified. She was going to lose John. She knew it. She stepped away from the other three, hand against her mouth in horror. 

“That’s him,” Martha explained. “All you have to do is open it, and he’s back.” Her voice was filled with so much hope, even with the horror in John’s face. 

“You knew this all along. And yet you watched, while Miss Reagan and I-“ he looked at Florence, backed into the corner of the room, and his face scrunched up. 

“I didn’t know how to stop you,” Martha insisted, “he gave me a list of things to watch out for, but that wasn’t included!” 

“Falling in love,” John murmured, eyes flickering between Florence and Martha. “That didn’t even occur to him?” 

“No,” she said honestly. 

“Then what sort of man is that?” He demanded, but Martha couldn’t respond. “And now you expect me to die?” 

“It was always gonna end, though.” Martha kept persisting. “The Doctor said the Family have a limited lifespan, that’s why they need to consume a Time Lord. Otherwise, three months, and they die. Like, mayflies, he said.” 

“So your job was to execute me,” he ground out, and Martha just kept going. 

“People are dying out there!” She cried, “they need him, and I need him! Cos you’ve got no idea what he’s like. I’ve only just met him. It wasn’t even that long ago, but…” she paused before saying, “he is everything.” 

“Martha,” Florence snapped, before a loud explosion interrupted them again. 

“It’s getting closer,” Timmy warned, and John grasped the watch with new purpose. 

“I should have thought of it before! I can give them this!” He exclaimed, “just the watch! Then they can leave, and I can stay as I am.”

The hope that bloomed in Florence was too great, and it inflated as quickly as it deflated, remembering her dreams, reading the adventures in his journal; how many lives had the Doctor saved? Florence knew he’d saved her dream-self more than once. 

“You can’t do that!” Martha exclaimed, but John just kept going.

“If they want the Doctor, they can have him.” 

“He’ll never let you do it.” 

“If they get what they want, then…then…” 

“Then our world ends, and every world that you’ve seen in your dreams ends, and every world that you’ve never seen ends,” Florence stepped forward, eyes locked onto the Doctor’s. “Every world, at war; every child, at war.” Her eyes filled with tears, but John was already crying, and she moved forward to grab both of his hands. “Can you please leave us alone, just for a minute?” She asked of the rest of the group, and they quietly filtered out. She held his hands, with the fob watch in them, and once they’d left, she pulled him into her arms.

“I don’t want to die,” he murmured into her neck, his free hand clutching at the dress on her back. The cold of the watch was stark on her skin, even through her clothes. “I thought - I’d hoped-“ 

“I did too,” Florence revealed, grasping at the grey woollen blazer he wore. ”I…I wanted to…well, I suppose it doesn’t matter what I wanted.” 

She pulled back to look him in the eye, and carefully pulled her gloves off, throwing them behind her. John watched her, eyeing her every movement. Gloves off, she carefully placed her palms against his cheeks, thumbs stroking his cheekbones as her skin felt his for the first time. Florence hated the look of her scarred skin against his beautiful, smooth face, but John reached up to cover her hand with his free hand, and his eyes closed like her actions were causing him bliss. She blinked away a few more tears. 

“What if I did it?” She murmured, glancing away, but John shook his head, the stubble on his cheeks scratching her palms. “I have a watch, maybe if I open her, you won’t have to die-“ he stopped her. 

“You will not die in my place,” he insisted, the fire in his eyes seeming to burn eternally. “I won’t let you, I won’t. I won’t let you-“ 

Florence shushed him, heart dropping into her stomach as it settled that he really was going to die, and how dare any of them ask him to do that? How could anyone ask him to sacrifice himself? But that was John Smith, brave and selfless, even until the end, apparently. 

“He won’t love you,” John murmured, and Florence nodded, having already known it. “He can’t. He’s like this…God, and I don’t want-“ 

“I don’t want him to love me,” Florence whispered, “all I need to know is that you do.” 

Carefully, she leant upwards to press her forehead against his, eyes locked on his own, and she tried to convey the depth of emotion she felt for him, the strength of her affection and love, and she thought of her favourite memory of him; they’d gone for a walk and he’d tumbled into a creek, his hair dishevelled and his face alight with joy and laughter, his suit a muddy, wet mess. She’d laughed at him until he’d got in front of her and wrapped her in his cold, muddy arms, muddying her dress and chilling her with cold water, even as the action filled her with warmth. 

His eyes shot open and he stared at her. “How-?” 

“I suppose I might have some latent telepathic capabilities,” she smiled, and he surged forward and kissed her. 

Tasting the salt of each others tears, Florence gasped as he sent her snapshots of possibilities, images of a life they could have had together, of a life they would never have together. And before she could react, they were gone, and he ran out the door, past a yelling Martha Jones, leaving Florence behind, stood alone in the Cartwright’s kitchen. 

Florence left, ignoring Martha and Joan’s calls after her, her eyes blurring with tears as she heard the explosion in the woods, knowing what it would mean. And when the Doctor returned to the Cartwright’s house, he found Joan waiting for him, moving to the window with his entrance, unable to look at him properly. He leant against the entrance wall, and Joan marvelled at how differently the man she’d befriended stood, how his new clothes changed him so completely and yet his face…

“Is it done?” She asked.

“It’s done,” he said. 

Joan told him of the police arriving at the school, and that the school children were to go home to their families. That she was needed there, but she had no idea how to explain the day’s events to people who hadn’t been there. And still she lingered, Florence’s tear stricken face stuck in her mind. 

And when she really looked at him, looked at his expression and way of standing, she couldn’t see John Smith. 

“You look the same,” she muttered, on autopilot. “Goodness! You must forgive my rudeness. I find it difficult to look at you. Doctor, I must…call you Doctor.” She breathed in, steadying her nerves. She had to know, she had to ask, for Florence, for her friend, so she could tell her the truth of the matter once this…Doctor had left. “Where is he? John Smith?” 

The Doctor shrugged, “he’s in here, somewhere.”

“Like a story.” Joan inclined her head. 

“Where is she?” The Doctor asked, and Joan looked away from him, out the window. 

“She went home. I don’t think she could bear the thought of looking upon you and seeing a dead man.” Joan glanced at him again, but looked away. “I find myself struggling with that, too.” She bolstered her nerves before she could bear to look at him. “Could you change back?”

“Yes.” 

“Will you?”

“No.” 

“Not even for her?” 

“No.” 

“I see.” Joan pursed her lips. “He was braver than you, in the end. That ordinary man… You chose to change. He chose to die.” 

“Come with me,” he offered, and Joan’s heart tugged.

“As what? Your companion? I think there’s someone else out there for that,” she stated, “and what must I look like to you, Doctor? We all must seem so very small.” 

“We could start again. Florence will come, I’d like that a lot. We could try, at least.” He smiled, but Joan shook her head slowly. 

How could this man not see? 

“John Smith still exists, inside me. Everything he was, I could be, too.” 

Joan lifted her chin, hurt filled her, and she said, “I can’t.”

“What?” 

“John Smith is dead. And you look like him, but everything that made him John Smith has gone.” 

“Answer me this. Just one question, that’s all,” Joan swallowed as the Doctor took a few steps towards her. “If the Doctor had never visited us, if…he’d never chosen this place on a whim,” she looked him in the eyes as she asked, “would anyone here have died?” 

Timothy walked up the field, watching as the Doctor and Martha embraced in front of the blue police box he’d seen enough times in the Doctor’s memories and his sister’s drawings to recognise immediately. 

“Doctor, Martha!” He called, hands in his pockets. 

“Tim, Timothy, Tim!” The Doctor called, the voice familiar yet foreign to Timothy after hearing it from a fob watch for the day. 

“You’re forgetting something,” he reminded, removing his sister’s fob watch from his pocket, rain drizzling onto the engravings on the cover. He held it out on an open palm. “Cece wanted me to give this to you.” 

The Doctor’s face dropped, falling into memories of the woman inside the watch. “Never forgotten,” he murmured. 

“But if that’s another fob watch, then I was right? Florence is a Time Lord, like you?” Martha asked as the Doctor gingerly took the fob watch from Timothy. 

“She won’t go with you,” Timothy said, “and I don’t want you to ask her.” 

Not for the first time, the Doctor felt flickers of anger towards the young human. “You’ve seen my memories of her. You know we’re the last of them. I won’t leave her behind,” the Doctor stated, and Timothy nodded. 

“I’m not saying that,” he agreed, “but she will refuse, I can see that, and I can see that you will protect her regardless. That’s what I’m asking. And come back when she’s ready.” 

“We’re the last ones, Tim. I have to take care of her.” 

“By asking her to die?” For the first time, Timothy showed his anger, and his fear. “She saw the fear in John Smith’s eyes before he left her, and you would ask her to die in the same way as the man she loved.” Timothy raised his chin slightly, studying the tall alien with narrowed eyes, before he allowed his gaze to fall. “Please don’t ask me to sacrifice my sister.” 

He couldn’t control whether the Doctor would agree to his request, but he had done what he could. 

“And I wanted to say goodbye, and thank you. I’ve seen the future, and I now know what must be done. It’s coming, isn’t it? The biggest war ever.” 

Martha smiled at him sympathetically, “you don’t have to fight.” 

“I think we do.” He affirmed. 

“But you could get hurt.”

“Well, so could you,” he nodded towards the Doctor, “travelling around with him. But it’s not going to stop you!” 

The Doctor pulled his fob watch from his pocket, studying it for a moment. “Tim, I’d be honoured if you take this.” He gave it to the boy, who ran his fingers over the familiar carvings. 

“I can’t hear anything.”

“No, it’s just a watch, now. But keep it with you and Florence, for good luck.” The Doctor smiled at the realisation that crossed over Timothy’s face. “Clever boy.” 

“Thank you, Doctor.” 

The Doctor nodded, his hearts breaking, but he opened the TARDIS, grinning at Timothy as he said, “you’ll like this bit.” 

Timothy stood smiling, watching as the Doctor and his TARDIS faded out of existence. 

Chapter Text

Sunlight streamed through the small slit in the curtains, a sliver of crystal blue sky clearly visible. Florence stretched in her bed, uncoiling her limbs from where she’d been curled into a ball all night, tension in every limb. Her eyes were sore, and she recalled crying herself to sleep once again. She rubbed at her eyes as she rolled over, heart immediately aching as she slowly returned to complete awareness.

Florence found a letter on her bedside table, elegant script on the front written into her name, a small, thumb-sized wrapped paperweight holding it down on top of a familiar leather book. She hadn’t heard anyone walk in, and her maid would have knocked if she’d entered, even during the night. Confused, she picked it up, sitting up against her headboard in bed. The letter was sealed with wax at the back, a familiar seal of circles and lines that tugged at her heart strings. Carefully, she pried the wax seal off the paper, careful not to break or tear either of them. Heart in her throat, she read.

Dear Florence,

         For you, it’s been one week since the battle at Farringham School. For me, it’s been 7 hours. The TARDIS is a Time Machine. I know that you remember them, from your dreams.

         Martha sends her love. She explained that you had a difficult friendship due to her actions fairly early on. John was fairly oblivious, so I apologise for not noticing it at the time. She wishes the best for you.

         I think I should also apologise for not returning to see you, but Timothy is quite the protective brother, and he was quite insistent that I leave you be. But I need you to know that, while I can let you live as a human for a while, I can’t let you die as one. You are a Time Lady, whether you are willing to admit it or not, and we are the last of our kind. I will respect your wishes for now, but I will be watching. You will never want for anything, and I will keep you safe.

         Don’t worry about protecting the fob watch: Timothy gave it to me for safe keeping. If you change your mind, my doors are always open.

         Joan has probably told you of our last conversation. I know that she believes John Smith to be dead, and I realise you probably also think that. But I wanted you to know that he exists, inside of me. He was a small part of of who I am now, and everything he did, felt, knew; it’s all inside of me. And I’m not the most patient of people, but I will wait for you to be ready, Florence. I know that Cece didn’t have the happiest life; I witnessed some of it. But she was brilliant, a truly incredible woman. And I think you would enjoy being her once more. But I won’t ask you to die for me until you’re ready.

         Until we meet again, Miss Reagan,

                   The Doctor, John Smith

Underneath the last line, he’d drawn intricate circles and lines, which Florence recognised it as the written language she’d seen in her dreams, but she couldn’t translate it. Then, a phone number, labelled as TARDIS. Tears streamed down her face, grieving for a man she’d never see again, and drops fell onto the ink before she could stop them, smudging letters and wrinkling the page. She gasped, dabbing at the wet spots with her fingers to prevent the words disappearing. Pulling tissues from her bedside table, she wiped away the water damage, hands shaking with her desperate attempts to preserve the words.

Once she’d saved the letter, she picked up the paper weight and unwrapped it from its brown paper packaging. Her heart stammered as she opened it to see a miniature blue police box, hand carved from wood and hand painted. She brushed her finger across the doors before she squeezed it into the palm of her hand.

Finally, she picked up the familiar brown book. She opened the cover, to see the title, ‘A Journal of Impossible Things: for Florence’. There was a note at the bottom that said, ‘here are all the stories and drawings, some you already know, and some that John Smith didn’t have the courage to show you’.

She turned the page, seeing the familiar stories she’d read before, but the page after had a drawing she’d never seen before, of her. The familiar handwriting told the story of their lunch, how she’d laughed at his jokes and told him of her education with Mrs Latimer, and the drawing depicted her laughter, head thrown back and smile wide. She flicked onwards, finding a drawing of her bent over her own journal, one of the days they’d both had intense dreams and had decided to write them down together. More and more drawings of her, moments that Florence hadn’t realised had stuck in John’s mind where he’d taken moments of their time together and drawn her, usually smiling at him but occasionally laughing, until most of the remaining pages were filled with stories of their short time together.

The last page of the journal - for he’d filled the journal with these additional stories of her - was written by the Doctor. It was a drawing of the day at the creek, where John had fallen in. He’d drawn their embrace, with John’s arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders and Florence’s arms stretched out away from him, her head fallen back in laughter. John’s head was tucked into her neck, but Florence could see the corner of his eyes creased in joy.

Thank you for bringing comfort to him, to us, before the end.

Florence threw the book to the other side of the room, and curled back into a ball, crying silently into her pillow. Timothy, who had been waiting for this moment, entered quietly and joined her in the bed, wrapping his arms around his surrogate sister, giving what comfort he could.

As time passed, Florence found she didn’t seem to age. While Timmy’s face matured into a young war-hardened man, and then into a man, into two-time war veteran, Florence realised her face was largely unchanged, her hair grew but she never saw it grey, her skin remained soft and freckled. She was human, but there was enough of her that seemed to be Time Lord for her to realise she couldn’t stay this way forever: everyone around her was human, and dying.

Her dreams had mostly stopped, with the fob watch being in the Doctor’s hands. She was grateful for that much, at least.

The Doctor stayed true to his word: she never saw the face of her dead love, but she received gifts, impossible gifts that gave her the ability to live without working; to move across the world at a moment’s notice; to take Timmy with her; to stay safe. Most of these gifts, she ignored; she didn’t want his help to live. But the small gifts, like the paid tuition to learn medicine six months before a call out for nurses and doctors in France, or the renewed identification when her passport claimed she was 40 even though she looked 25, those she accepted.

Timothy met a beautiful woman in 1924, and was married in 1926. Florence paid for the wedding - one of the only times she had accepted money from the Doctor. The ceremony had taken place down south, in a small town in the county Dorset. Florence had trained down with Joan, and had shared Best Man status with Hutchinson. Florence still remembered the letter she received from Hutchinson in 1914, where he’d recounted to her how Timothy had saved his life. He retold this story at the wedding, making the wedding guests chuckle and smile. While the reminder of the war was not a pleasant one, the capacity to smile despite pain was important, and one that the survivors had learnt well. When Florence had stood to speak, she had teared up.

“There’s something so heartwarming and heartbreaking about this day,” she’d started. “To see my little brother all dolled up, to stand with him and see him promise to love and care for Marie,” she took a deep breath. “I could stand here and tell you all how my brother is a little shit, but if you’re here, then you already know that. Instead, I want to read you a letter he wrote to me at the start of his teenaged years, and compare that to the letter he wrote last year, just before their engagement.”

Florence pulled out an old piece of paper, kept save in her drawer at home for this exact moment. She sensed Timmy’s frustration, and she glanced at him, smirking when she saw his brown eyes glimmering in humour.

“He wrote: ‘Flo’ - he was so intelligent, he couldn’t finish writing my full name, you see-“ the audience chuckled, and Marie laughed, “so, ‘Flo, I’ve been thinking long and hard about your inevitable marriage to Peter’ - see, I was engaged at the time - ‘and I think I’ve come up with a suitable list of requirements for him in the long term. If I ever fall in love, it’s up to you to make sure I also follow these rules. I’m counting on you, sister. 1, he must love without ceasing. It shouldn’t matter the time of day, his love must burn strong. 2, he must praise you, in every way he knows how. Whether in your work, your studies or your hobbies, he must praise you. 3, he must care, even on days he struggles to do so. 4, he must provide, even if he cannot provide it all. 5, he must be selfish, in that you are his to love for the rest of his life, and thusly he must act as such.’” She laughed and wiped her eyes, seeing a few in the audience doing the same.

“If you think that is a beautiful letter, wait for this. Last year, he wrote to me from across the country after he’d had a few drinks, just before their engagement, and we all know how men get far too honest when they’re a bit over the drunken line.” Florence pulled the second piece of paper out, carefully folding the first. She cleared her throat. “Dear Florence, Notice how my introduction for you has changed from Dearest to Dear? I have decided to do so because, love you as I may, you are no longer the dearest person to my heart. Florence, my dear sister, I am hopelessly in love. Nay, I am hopefully in love, as in I am so filled with love that it lifts my spirits for the future. I write to you after being parted from my dearest Marie for three nights, and each night is ceaseless torture. I adore her, from the tips of her toes to the ends of her hair, and I could not imagine a world in which I did not discover her’ - he goes on a bit here, and for the safe of brevity, I will skip ahead - ‘i wish only for her happiness, and I would gift her every star in the sky if it meant she would grace me with a smile. I wish for her to tell me the name of every plant she works with, so that I may forget them and hear it again the next day, to hear her voice speak with such care and dedication. If I could, I would take away the worst parts of myself, but she pulls me together again and with how she looks at me, I would never part from a single section of myself, all for her. She completes me in ways no person has ever managed. So, dear Florence, understand that your demotion is with good reason. And I write to you this late in the evening for the sole purpose to ask your grace to marry this woman.’” Florence looked at the guests, her eyes watering once more, and Timothy was watching her with eyes watering. “Timmy, my dear brother, you have never needed my grace for anything you have done in your life, but marrying Marie, know that you will always have my grace for this union, and I wish you both the happiest married life. Please, I ask the guests to join me in raising a toast: to the most loving young man, Timothy, and his new bride, Marie!”

The wedding had been beautiful, and Timothy’s speech to Marie had been short but heartwarming, filled to the brim with secret messages shared only between them.

In 1946, she was back in Farringham, in a bar with Joan, who was aging gracefully at a peaceful 61, when an American soldier walked in, leather jacket over an American uniform and roguish smirk plastered on his handsome face. Something in Florence decided there was something distinctively wrong about the man, but it was only small, and it was easy to push aside.

Joan winked at Florence, pointing him out, and she rolled her eyes.

“You could get back in the field, a bit,” Joan hinted, like a mother trying to encourage their daughter to get married. “Just have some fun?”

“Not with an American, Joan,” Florence laughed, glancing at the man again from the corner of her eye. He was leaning against the bar, eyeing up a married couple seated down the bar from him, before he started flirting with the bar staff. “Oh, I feel bad for poor Laker,” Florence joked of the bartender, who was getting the brunt of the American’s attention. “I wonder if the American knows what wedding rings are.”

Joan smiled, studying Florence’s expression. So much time had passed, but the woman seemed to refuse to move past her history. When it became clear to her and Timothy that Florence wasn’t aging, she’d wondered if that was part of it: her lack of aging meaning her body and mind could never get over her past. “Americans do get married, silly,” she teased the other woman, and Florence laughed.

“Well, I should know, I’ve been there,” Florence smirked, but the reminder of years of time passing seemed to flicker in her eyes, and Joan could see the moment when she had to forcibly reengage with the world outside her head. “Anyway, handsome lad like him, he’s probably got three wives already,” Florence smirked, glancing back to him.

He’d purchased three drinks, but instead of taking them to the married couple he’d made eyes at on the bar, he turned to look directly at Florence, his blue eyes cheeky and his grin broad, and then he winked at Joan.

Joan nudged Florence, a wicked grin on her little old face, and she looked up to the tall man now standing at their table.

“Well hello there sir!” She exclaimed, ignoring Florence’s groan of exasperation beside her. “What can we do for you?”

“Hi, there. The name’s Jack Harkness, Captain. Thought I’d buy you lovely ladies a drink, see if you’re down for a chat?” He placed the three beers on the table, and Florence hid her snorted laughter even as he sat down.

“Go right ahead, Captain,” Joan invited, despite his already being seated. “I’m Joan Redfern, and this is Florence. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She held her hand out to be shaken, and Jack grabbed it and kissed her knuckles. Joan laughed in delight.

“A pleasure, Miss Redfern,” his blue eyes sparkling in the low light of the pub, “and it’s a delight to meet you, Miss Redfern,” those sparkling blue eyes turned to Florence, and she chuckled.

“Oh no, it’s Miss Reagan, thank you. Joan is my friend.” She didn’t elaborate further, but Jack only smirked.

“Handsome friends you make, then,” he said, and he made her laugh.

“So, what brings you to Farringham?” Joan asked as he kicked his feet up onto a chair. She gave them a distasteful look, but he didn’t seem to see it. If he did, he didn’t acknowledge it.

“Seeing the sights, waiting on some old friends, meeting the locals, a bit of everything,” he grinned. “Bit of an adventure chaser, and heard you’d had a bit of trouble around here a couple decades ago. Wanted to check it out, have a look around.” He glanced at Joan, sending her a wink. “Broad like you might be able to help me, hey?”

Joan pursed her lips, “when were you looking at?”

Florence and Joan knew exactly what event he was asking about.

“I think it was 1912, or 1913? Old guy called Hutchinson reckoned he fought alongside a man called the Doctor.” Jack watched as both women’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Heard of him?”

“Oh boy,” Joan muttered, which Florence steadily ignored.

“Oh yes. We’ve heard of him,” Florence said stiffly, piquing the Captain’s interest.

“You know of what happened here?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“We were there,” Joan said, and she hushed Florence when she protested. “Both of us were there.”

Jack looked over Florence, disbelief clear on his face. “You sure about that? Unless you’re implying you and Doc…-“ Jack glanced at Joan, eyes wide and twinkling in shock and humour.

Joan’s eyes widened, “oh no! No, God, no!”

It clicked for Florence. “Oh my god, no. No, captain, you got it so wrong,” she laughed, head thrown back in laughter and she grasped his arm to prevent herself falling off her stool. “No, we were there, actually properly there.”

“Well, you’re looking good for it,” he commented, eyes raking over Florence’s face and figure. She rolled her eyes. “So you met him? You met the Doctor?”

Joan glanced at Florence again, tilting her head towards her. Florence sighed but gave in, as she usually did to her best friend.

“We met him as John Smith,” the name still sent a pang of longing into Florence’s heart, but she persevered. “He’d made himself human, to hide from aliens. He lived here for 2 months before they found him, and they nearly half destroyed the town in trying to get him.”

She remembered the days after the attack, the nights slept weeping and the days spent moving rubble, finding survivors, patching up those who needed the help. She’d learnt a lot from Joan in that week.

“But he left in a flash the same night, and we’ve not seen him since.” Joan told him, and Jack groaned in frustration, putting his head into his hands.

“Do you…know him?” Florence asked, and Jack looked up at her, his face dark.

“I met him during World War 2, in London. Danced with his friend on top of a blimp,” he grinned, and Joan’s eyes widened. His own grin faded, however, and he said, “he abandoned me a couple’a centuries in the future. This watch here,” he flashed a leather strap on his wrist that had an electronic monitor on its top next to some buttons, “is a Time Machine itself, but it broke when I tried to get to the 21st century, and I landed in 1869 instead. I thought if I find events that he’s been part of, if I find him, he’d take me back to my own time, or help me fix this hunk of junk.”

Florence blinked at him in shock. “How do you still look…?” She didn’t finish her sentence, but he winked at her.


“Good enough to eat?” He smirked, but it didn’t last. He took a deep drag from his beer before he could draw the courage to respond. “I don’t know what happened exactly, but I…can’t seem to die. I’m not even ageing. I don’t know what happened to me, but I know I should have died in 200100 and I didn’t, and now I can’t.”

Florence glanced at Joan, eyes widening slightly. Joan shook her head slightly, lips pursed. 
“But what if, Joan?” Florence murmured, grasping her hands urgently.

“What if, what?” Jack asked, noticing their silent communication. “What if…? Do you know something?” His voice took on an urgent tone, and Florence turned back to him.

“Look, I’m only human, so I don’t really understand the lot of it, but…there’s a chance…well, do you have a fob watch?”

“Florence, he wouldn’t have abandoned him if he did,” Joan insisted, but Florence just wanted to know.

“Well, Jack? Do you have a fob watch?”

Confusion crossed Jack’s face, but he shook his head. “What would a watch have to do with it?”

Florence sank back, the news somehow absolutely devastating her despite the slim possibility. Logically, she knew that if the Doctor ever found another one of his-their-kind, he wouldn’t leave them behind, same as he hadn’t left her behind, but, for a brief moment, she’d had this hope of not being alone. She hadn’t realised it, but she felt lonely.

Joan took the time to explain how John Smith had used the fob watch to hide his true self, the Doctor, and how Florence similarly wasn’t aging.

“Ah, no. I remember my parents very clearly, I’m definitely human. No fob watch on me to speak of,” he grinned at them, but Florence could see through the bravado in his eyes. But in the same way that she could observe him, he saw through her. “It’s lonely, isn’t it?”

Florence smiled, not giving anything away.

Joan Redfern died in 1963. A perfectly natural death, she’d passed in her sleep at a good age of 78. Florence attended the funeral with Timothy and Marie, pretending to be their granddaughter. Timothy was 65 now, and although he didn’t look old, some part of Florence could sense how long he’d been on the Earth, how much he’d seen in his life. 

Marie held Florence’s hand during the funeral wake as they approached her oldest friend. Joan looked as beautiful in death as she had in life. Someone had applied her favourite lipstick, and matched it to her red cardigan over a black and white dress she’d favoured years ago. Florence glanced around to ensure no one was watching her in particular before she kissed her gloved fingertips and placed them to Joan’s cheek. Her skin was soft but cold. There was no sign of the life that had filled her only last week.

“Come along, Florence. We shouldn’t linger,” Marie murmured, gently tugging her away when Florence hesitated. Florence finally allowed herself to be pulled away, tearing her eyes away at the last moment. Timothy, eyes hard as he watched from the back of the chapel, took Florence into his arms, squeezing gently as she cried. 

“You’ll be okay,” he whispered, but she shook her head. 

Her heart stung as she replied, “One day, I’ll be standing over your coffin too.” 

“Don’t talk like that, Florie. I’ve got years before you have to worry about me,” he smiled in that way he did when he knew what was going to happen, and Florence sighed, thankful for his extra synaptic engram. Over the top of Florence’s head, Timothy spotted a familiar face through the chapel’s open door, wearing a tan coat with his hair stuck up like he’d run his hands through his hair too often. Timothy’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head subtly and looked over to Marie. When he looked back out, the man was gone. 

Chapter Text

Somehow, Marie and Timothy convinced Florence to move to London. She bought a house in Soho next to one of their actual children, called Arnold, after his neighbour moved away having spontaneously won the lottery. She built a jazz cafe on the ground floor of the building, and lived above it, working and performing there day and night. She managed to build a life, for the first time since Joan died, making friends with her employees and customers and beginning to enjoy life again. Jack Harkness visited occasionally, but it seemed that they both served as reminders to the other of their impending immortality, so he never stayed long, and they spoke even less frequently.

One Friday night in April, 1969, Florence was working her bar. She’d hired a jazz band to play all night long, which had drawn quite a formidable crowd. Her red hair was tied up in a messy bun, with two twisted strands falling to frame her face. She was wearing checkered flared pants, a red waistcoat and white shirt.  

Florence shook a cocktail shaker over her shoulder in one hand as she placed out two martini glasses on the bar in front of her. She was interrupted when a white man in front of her, blond with brown eyes, asked, “what’s a dame like you doing in a place like this?” 

Florence rolled her eyes, half a smirk on her lips. “Working,” she replied, ignoring the way his eyes trailed across her figure.

“Would you wanna come work on me for a bit?” He winked, and one of Florence’s employees, Alex, scoffed as he walked behind Florence. She started pouring out the martini’s as he replied to the customer.

“Don’t hit on the boss, dumbass,” Alex scolded, and the man laughed. 

“She’s just a woman,” he scoffed. 

Florence hummed as she took money for the two cocktails she’d made before she glanced to the bouncer on the door, a tall, black man she’d hired a week ago. 

“Benny, time for you to prove your worth!” She called, no longer looking at the man. Benny, however, had his eyes on the blond man, and he came over and yanked the man by the back of his buttoned shirt. 

“Time for you to leave, bucko,” Benny grinned, pulling him to the entrance. Florence kept working, jumping out back to grab some extra wine glasses. 

As Benny kicked out the rude customers - to the cheers from onlookers -, in walked two new customers. The first wore a long brown coat with a blue pinstripe suit underneath, his hair dark brown. The second wore tight denim jeans, a blue blouse and a denim jacket and had black hair, tied into a ponytail. They glanced around the cafe first and then back to the papers in the man’s hands. 

“Why do you think it told us to come here?” Martha Jones asked as they fought their way through the crowds into the seated section. 

“I’m not sure,” the Doctor murmured, his head on a swivel, searching for anyone he might recognise. “Just…keep an eye open. I’m sure I’ll know them when I see them!” He sat down in an unoccupied seat that faced away from the stage, towards the majority of the crowd, and grinned at Martha. “A bit of exploring into the unknown!” 

Martha shook her head, glaring at him. “I’ll grab us drinks,” she called instead of yelling at him. 

The bar was packed with people. There was a designated seating area, where the Doctor currently sat, but most of the floor plan was reserved for dancing, which many people did in front of a live band, playing some music Martha didn’t wholly recognise but could identify as jazz. The whole cafe was themed after the name of the place, ‘The Record Book’s Cafe’, with bookshelves lining the walls, filled to the brim with the most eclectic collection of books Martha had seen, and she’d been inside the TARDIS library. Any surface that wasn’t decorated with books held a record vinyl or cover art, with a variety of albums and artists that she hadn’t seen. 

She pushed through the dancing crowd toward the bar, where people were yelling drink orders to bartenders that were running around. Martha had just made it to the front of the bustling crowd when she saw the door to the backrooms open, and out stepped Florence Reagan, carrying three boxes filled with bottles. 

Mouth agape, Martha watched as an unchanged Florence casually walked along the backside of the bar, threw the boxes to the floor right in front of her and asked, “hey, can I getcha anything?” She flicked her hair out of her face and her mouth dropped and shut again with a clack. “Martha?” 

“Florence, oh my god!” Martha looked her up and down, shock coating her features. “What-how?” 

“What are you doing here?” Florence’s face immediately shut down. Her blue eyes narrowed, and she started glancing around the bar, looking for him. “Why are you here?”

“We didn’t follow you here, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Martha defended, wondering why Florence was being so aggressive. 

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Why can’t you both just leave me alone?” She glanced over to Benny, nodding to Martha meaningfully. 

The bouncer came over slowly, and Martha glanced over her shoulder to see the approaching tank of a man, and exclaimed, “we need your help! We’re stuck in 1969 with no TARDIS, and we need a place to stay.” 

Florence cursed, and her bar staff gave her a weird look. Alex put his hand on her back, glancing at Martha with a curious expression. 

“You really kicking out this one?” Alex asked as Benny approached. “She’s a cutie, but I didn’t take her for a dyke.” Alex smacked his gum and Florence laughed. 

“She’s an old acquaintance,” Florence finally admitted, sliding out from Alex’s grasp. “And you keep your hands to yourself, mister, or I’ll be telling your mister.” 

Alex lifted his hands, shrugging in faux innocence. “I’m just keeping my boss safe.” 

Florence nudged him to keep working, and she looked back at Benny. “Sorry, Ben. False alarm,” she said, before she finally looked at Martha. “Alex, keep the bar running,” she yelled before she walked out of the bar. Martha rushed to follow. “Is he here?” She asked Martha, who nodded. “Bring him upstairs, tell Johnny that you’re private guests.” Florence showed Martha the hidden stairway guarded by a man leaning against the beaded section of wall holding a beer. As Martha fought her way through the crowd once more, Florence made her way over to him, smiling at him as she passed. 

The brush of the beads was familiar, and the heady feeling of going from an overwhelming noisy environment to the relative quiet of her flat above. The doorway separating her flat from the cafe below came at the top of the stairs, and she unlocked the door and opened into her space. Three walls were white, with several bookshelves along them, and the kitchen tucked neatly into the far corner. She had enough windows to get daylight in when the sun was up, and green curtains covering them. The fourth wall was painted green in an art deco style, with gold embossment. Decorating the flat was lots of plant life, despite the fact that Florence struggled to keep most plants alive. There was a door in the far corner that led to her bedroom. The living room furniture was bold colours, in a style that was a mix between art deco and art nouveau, all of which she’d gotten second hand. The music below still echoed into the open space, but she’d laid several rugs onto the hardwood floor across the open space to aid in sound absorption. 

Florence quickly picked up her empty dishes and cups from dinner and lunch that day and threw them into her sink. She threw items of clothes that had been strewn in the living room behind a large black armchair. She barely had enough time to put her kettle onto the stove top before there was a knock on the door, and a tentative, “Florence?” from a voice she recognised all too well. 

“Fuck,” she muttered. She thought she’d be ready for when she saw him again. She really thought she might have been ready to see him again. But this was out of her control, and she had no idea why they were there nor when they would leave, and she’d wanted to contact him on her own terms. “Come in!” She called out, as if she had all the time in the world. She leant casually against her white counters, watching as John Smith-the Doctor-and Martha walked into her apartment. 

God, but he hadn’t changed a bit. Except everything about him was different. She remembered what Joan, who also hurt to think about, had told her, how he had stood and walked differently, and every part of John Smith had been consumed by the Doctor, but she hadn’t been able to imagine it until she was confronted with him standing in her kitchen, hands in his pockets wearing a long brown coat and blue pinstripe suit, hair sticking up like he’d run his fingers through it with gel. She could barely even register how little Martha had changed. 

“Florence, you’ve not changed one bit,” Joh-the Doctor murmured, his eyes so big and sad and old, and Florence turned away to pull down three mugs. 

“Tea?” She offered instead of looking into those beautiful brown eyes. How had it been years and she couldn’t even look the man in the eye? 

“Yeah, thanks!” Martha replied, instinctively, as she looked around the apartment.

“So, uh, how’ve you been?” The Doctor asked, and when Florence looked back over her shoulder, his damn puppy-dog eyes were still hyper-focused on her and she couldn’t handle seeing it. She kept making three cups of tea, grabbing milk from her yellow fridge in the corner. 

“Yeah, keeping busy.” Florence shrugged. “It’s been quite a long time.” 

“Speaking of, how many years has it been since-“ Martha started to ask, but Florence interrupted her before she could finish it. 

“56.” 

“And you don’t look a day older,” Martha finished, now scrutinising the woman. 

The Doctor waved it off, “Time Lord biology - she might be completely human right now, but her body is still Time Lord enough to stay alive for longer than any human could.” He still didn’t look away from her. 

Florence placed the three mugs of tea on the table in the centre of the kitchen and took a seat. 

“Alright for some,” Martha laughed, sitting at the head of the table. The Doctor sat opposite Florence. 

Florence huffed a laugh. “Yeah, alright to see all my friends die.” Martha stared in shock. 

“Joan?” He asked tentatively, and Florence shook her head. 

“Joan died in ’63, I think. She got married, had two kids, and they’ve now had kids. Her husband never knew who I was, so I had to leave about 10 years after they married. We met up in secret every now and then, but it wasn’t the same.” Florence’s heart twisted as she remembered the funeral, where she must have looked crazy to be sobbing over a woman she couldn’t have known. 

“And Timmy?” The Doctor asked, almost nervous. Florence laughed, smiling at him for the first time. 

“He’s so alive, still kicking,” she laughed for joy. “He must be 71 now, god. And no signs of slowing down, either. He wants you to know he’ll be in Farringham on Remembrance Day 2000, says he’ll see you then.” 

The Doctor laughed, his brown eyes alight with happiness at the realisation that he’d see the precognitive boy one more time. 

“Oh brilliant!” He exclaimed, while Martha grinned. 

Florence fidgeted with her tea bag string, pursing her lips for a moment. “So…what do you guys want? Why are you here?” She asked, glancing at the Doctor’s eyes but losing her nerve at the intensity held within them. She looked to Martha instead. “Because you said you need help, but that’s not my thing.” 

The Doctor frowned, “no, no, it’s just that we need a place to stay, and this place was stuck on the front of this folder of information for when we got stuck in 1969.” 

“Where’s the box?” 

“2007,” Martha exclaimed, “because someone got us both touched by an angel statue, and now we’re here with no way back to my time except following these instructions from someone in the future-“ 

“Hang on, angel statue?” Florence asked, the words dreading up some kind of fear from deep within her. 

“It’s called a Weeping Angel,” the doctor elaborated. 

“I recognise the name, do they eat time or something?” Florence tried to remember from the dreams she’d not had for years. 

“They eat the potential time someone could’ve had in their original time, had they not been shot back in time.” The Doctor smiled, not seeming too upset about being shot back in time. 

“And you have instructions? And these led to me?” Florence couldn’t help the disbelief, and she watched as the Doctor pulled a purple folder from his coat - she wasn’t going to think about how he kept paper sized folder in his inside jacket pocket - and placed it on the table. True to their word, there was a post-it note on the top saying, ‘Go to the Record Book’s Cafe’. Florence didn’t recognise the handwriting. 

Martha and the Doctor watched her nervously as she opened the folder. If she didn’t let them stay, they would have to actually look for a real place to stay, which would likely delay the process of them getting the TARDIS back. Neither wanted that. But it was all resting on the shoulders of a woman whose dead love sat opposite her, as a different man. 

She flicked through the files, taking note of the interview, the notes inside the house, and the people involved. 

“There’s three months before Billy arrives,” she said, frowning deeply. “The TARDIS isn’t schedule to arrive until August. You’re asking to live here for 5 months.” Florence sighed, pushing the folder back towards the Doctor. “I really don’t know…” 

“But you’re looking for new flatmates, right?” Martha interjected, pulling a slip of newspaper out from the folder. Florence frowned, but it was indeed the ad she’d released advertising the spare bedroom in the flat. 

“Well, yes, but I wanted to get to know anyone first-“

“Brilliant! You know us, so there’s no problem!” Martha grinned, but Florence shook her head, glancing at the Doctor unsure. 

“No, look, it’s not that it’s a…problem.” But it was a problem, and Florence needed to talk about it. “Actually, no, it is a problem. You both basically lied to me for months, nearly destroyed my town, and brought aliens to my doorstep. You completely destroyed my worldview and sense of self, and left without even saying goodbye. You then followed me for 56 years under some misguided belief that I needed your help, and now you think you can come here and demand my help once again?”

“Florence, please,” the Doctor murmured, but he looked like a kicked puppy and Florence had to stand and walk away from them.

“You have to know that it wasn’t our fault,” Martha insisted, but Florence just put her head in her hands, taking a deep breath. Her mind kept going back to the last moment she’d had with John - a memory she thought she’d successfully repressed - and the fear she’d seen in his eyes. 

“But if you’d never come-“ 

“You’re right,” the Doctor said, leaning back in his seat. Gone was the kicked puppy, and in its place, a stubborn Time Lord who wouldn’t take no for an answer. “You’re right. And you can hate me for it. But there are people in 2007 who need our help, who need your help. And whoever wrote that note sent us here for a reason.” The Doctor studied her as she straightened. She still refused to turn around, but she was still listening. “If we’re here for a week and you can’t stand it, we’ll look for something else. But don’t turn us away. We need your help; they need your help.” 

Florence wanted to cry, but instead she nodded. She finally turned back to face them, her face shut to them as much as she could. “You will find jobs, pay bills and you will not interfere with my life. If anything threatens my home, or my business, this is done. And the moment your blue box has returned, you leave.” 

Martha grinned, putting her elbows on the table. “Well, I’ve got a couple of years experience working in a bar. Are you hiring?” 

Florence hadn’t dreamt like this in 56 years. She supposed the return of the Doctor meant the return of these dreams, even as her dream self opened their eyes to twin suns outside the window. This wasn’t the blond woman, though.

‘She was young, barely an adult, with straight black hair and distant, unseeing grey eyes. Her arms were bandaged from just above the elbow to the palms of her hands. Florence could feel new stinging cuts beneath the white bandages. She had awoken on the floor, marble tiles beneath her and a large window in front of her, showing a steep drop to the ground below. Behind her, a barred door blocked the only exit. 

“Death isn’t an escape, Circe,” the familiar voice called from the beyond door. “You only prolong your suffering.” 

“Fuck you, Engin,” the woman groaned, and she was in so much pain, she couldn’t turn to look at the man behind her. Her grey eyes shone gold, but it sputtered out after a moment. The action seemed to cause her more pain, and she writhed on the floor, her back spasming even as she kept her mouth firmly closed. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of crying out. 

“Such barbaric language for one of your position. I suppose a certain…Doctor,” he spat the name, like it was venom in his mouth, “taught you that, hmm? Did you enjoy your visit off-world?” 

The woman panted as the pain finally relented. She tried to reach for the gold dust, but it shied away from her, and she realised it, too, was feeling her pain. Her hearts beat hard in her chest, fear finally filling her as she watched the gold retreat from her. The apologies washed over her, and she understood that it was scared of hurting her further, but it didn’t know that it was keeping her alive as well. 

“Don’t try anything funny, Circe. You don’t really have the time,” he laughed as if he’d said something hilarious, but the woman didn’t even acknowledge his words. 

In front of her eyes, her death sentence was signed. The golden dust and light vanished, and the clock started ticking.’

Florence awoke sobbing, more than sure that her body would convulse in pain if she moved, but she couldn’t stay where she was. She pushed off of the bed, moving out to the lounge, trying to keep her sobs quiet. She’d only slept for an hour, she noticed sunlight appearing through her windows. 

The lounge was occupied, and the Doctor and Florence had a momentary stand off, his eyes wide and shocked at her appearance in the hallway, and her eyes still tearing up with remembered pain. Her hearts - heart, she was human - thundered in her chest, and without thinking, she rushed forwards, wrapping her arms around his torso and burying her head into his shoulder. The Doctor didn’t take long to react, and he quickly had his arms wrapped around her shoulders, a careful pressure as if he knew that too much pressure would bring an onslaught of pain.

“It’s just a dream, Florence,” he murmured against the crown of her head, and she hated how much comfort she wanted to take from him. 

“I’m going to die,” she whispered, still in the throes of her dream. “It abandoned me, it left me. I can’t-“ she sobbed again, and the Doctor shushed her gently.

“You’re not going to die. I’m not going anywhere,” he replied.

He led her towards the obnoxious yellow sofa in the centre of the lounge area, and they settled on the cushions next to each other. He pulled a white blanket over her, but when he went to leave, she grabbed his hand. 

“Stay, please,” she urged, and he was helpless. He allowed her head to lay on his thigh, and he kicked his converse shoes off to prop them onto the wooden coffee table, and he picked up the book he’d been reading before Florence had woken up, free hand subconsciously stroking her ginger hair, telepathically soothing her as well.

She fell into a dreamless sleep. 

When she awoke, she was alone on the sofa, with Martha sat in the kitchen drinking a coffee. She had a pillow placed under her head, and a blanket tucked around her. Florence stretched, her body almost completely free from pain, with the exception of her arms, which itched ferociously, as if there were a dozen fresh cuts that were healing. Unconsciously, Florence scratched at her scars as she made her way to the coffee pot and poured a coffee. 

“Sleep okay?” Martha asked tentatively, worriedly watching as Florence’s scratching kept up even as she sat opposite her. 

“Yeah, I think so. I don’t remember going to the sofa, but I slept really well there.” She shrugged and took a deep drink from her coffee. “Did you sleep well? Bed okay?” 

“Yeah, it was fine, the cafe was partying until late, though,” Martha said, making Florence grin. 

“It’s really grown popular in the last few months,” Florence enthused. “Tonight is piano night, I’ve found an incredible pianist who started out with me last year, and he’s phenomenal. He’s releasing a song this July, promised to credit me if he gets off his feet.”

“What’s his name?” Martha asked, and her mouth opened as she recognised Florence’s next words. 

“David Jones- wait, he wants me to call him David Bowie, I think,” Florence registered Martha’s shocked expression and raised an eyebrow. “Do you know him?” 

Martha stuttered, “are you kidding? Yes, he’s…incredible! He’s a musical genius.” 

Florence laughed, blue eyes shining bright. “I knew it! He’s far too brilliant, he couldn’t go unnoticed for long.” 

“Wait, does that mean you’re friends with him?” Martha asked.

“Course I am!” 

“Can I meet him?” 

“Well, you’re going to meet him tonight when you’re working,” Florence glanced up at Martha, “if you promise to keep this moving as much as possible.”

Martha’s eyes widened, and she nodded. “So you’re okay with us staying?” 

She sighed, “well not really, but you’re here, and obviously someone meant for you to be here. As long as you don’t cause trouble, you can stay.” 

At that moment, the Doctor walked in with a long plastic tube wrapped around his neck, and hands filled with bits of metal and plastic rubbish. He looked at the pair sat at the table and his eyes widened. As Martha laughed, Florence sighed, rubbing a hand across her forehead as the other scratched at her forearm. 

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” 

Chapter Text

Florence pushed the Doctor into the hallway leading into the bedrooms, a slight scowl on her face. In his hands, he held some of the plastic tubing he’d brought in that morning, as well as some wiring and electrical components that Florence recognised vaguely but couldn’t identify. 

“You can’t build out here,” she insisted, “David is going to be here to get ready in ten minutes, and I won’t have you distracting him with your…contraption,” she gestured vaguely to the items in his hand, and he made an offended sound. “You can use your bedroom, or, hell, if there’s not enough room, use mine too! Just stay off the bed!” 

And she shut the hallway door in his face, waiting until she heard his footsteps moving before she moved away. 

The lounge was a mess, the Doctor having moved furniture around to spread his contraption and himself on the floor while building. Florence got to work, pushing her sofa back across the floor, stubbornly grunting with the effort. 

Martha had started working in the bar earlier that day, so Florence had dealt with the Doctor all afternoon, until she’d been called to assist downstairs. She’d warned him that she’d be an hour, at most, and not to do anything while she was gone, and she’d come back upstairs to find absolute chaos in her apartment. 

Her doorbell buzzed, and Florence groaned. Her flat was nowhere near clean enough, but it would have to do. 

“Come on up,” Florence pushed the button, and opened her front door, watching as the blond haired, white man with mismatched blue eyes raced up the stairs. 

“Florence, darling!” David Bowie exclaimed, embracing her tightly. Florence hugged him back, then quickly pulled him into the apartment. “How are you?” 

“I’ve been better, honestly,” Florence laughed. “Are you well?” 

“Very!“ He sat at her kitchen table, and pulled out his extraordinary make up kit and compact mirror. “Ready to be fabulous!” 

“I’ll catch you downstairs in 20?” She checked, and he nodded. 

Florence turned to run downstairs, except at that moment, the hallway door opened, and the Doctor poked his head out. 

“Hang on, is that David Bowie?” He exclaimed, making Florence groan. 

“Not now, Doctor, please!” 

“No, wait, you never said David Bowie was coming!” 

“Yes, I did, Doctor!” She insisted, but the Doctor shook his head insistently. 

“No, you just said David, not David Bowie!” His words made it seem like David was some kind of celebrity, making David stand a bit straighter, even as Florence restrained her urge to plant her face in her palm. 

“Who’s this?” David asked at once, looking over at the Doctor stood in the doorway. The Doctor’s mouth was open, and Florence walked over to him. 

“I told you not to disturb him!” she exclaimed, crossing her arms in front of him. 

“Actually you said not to distract him,” he looked over her shoulder at the man. “It really is an honour to meet you, you are incredible!” The Doctor enthused, and Florence wanted to collapse onto the sofa. 

“Doctor, please!” Florence pleaded, but the Doctor stepped around her, reaching forward to shake his hand. 

David smiled, standing to meet him. 

“Pleasure to meet you as well, Doctor…?” David said, shaking his hand while obviously glancing him up and down, a flirtatious glint in his eyes. 

“Oh, it’s just the Doctor,” he enthused, still shaking the musician’s hand. “Can I just say, your music is such an inspiration. You’re the one who inspired me to learn to play the organ.” 

David glanced to Florence, who was frowning at the Doctor. “But I don’t play the organ,” he mentioned, and the Doctor grinned. 

“Not yet,” he winked. David let out a light laugh, his eyes glinting conspiratorially. 

“Right, Doc, that’s enough. Please, I am trying to run a business,” Florence implored, and the Doctor finally released David’s hand, holding his own aloft in the air. 

“Alright, alright, I’m going! It’s not everyday I get to meet an artist like Bowie, though!” He nudged Florence with his elbow, and she raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Oh really?” She muttered, only glancing back to the hallway leading to their bedrooms. 

“Okay, message received!” He glanced back at David, brown eyes sparkling with joy. “Until next time, Mr Bowie!” 

“Of course, Doctor!” David looked amused to Florence, and, once the door had shut behind the Doctor, he teased, “what happened to no romantic relationships?” 

Florence groaned, moving to push her friend back to his makeup station. “It’s not like that,” she insisted, her cheeks flaming when David just laughed. “It’s not! He’s someone I met…a long time ago.” 

“From your elusive past? Am I finally going to learn about where you’re from?” David smiled, but he did start applying his eye paint, making Florence relax slightly. 

“What elusive past?” Florence laughed, but even she heard the slight nervousness in her voice. David just looked at her in his small mirror, and she shook her head, small smile present. 

Neither said anything for a moment, just watching each other through David’s mirror. Florence wondered what he saw, what he had observed in their three years of friendship. Florence knew she wasn’t open with her friends, she couldn’t be, having been alive for over 60 years while still looking under 30, but she wasn’t sure what they managed to pick up. 

David’s eyes, with one pupil slightly bigger than the other, were unnerving to be under for such a period of time, but Florence just smiled at him in that way she did, and he smiled back at her and the moment dissipated. 

She rushed downstairs to make sure the cafe was running smoothly, leaving David to complete his look. 

At 3am, Florence finally kicked out her last few patrons, laughing at their drunken antics as they stumbled down the street. Despite the late hour, the street was still busy, with drunks stumbling their way home. She sighed, locking the door before she lay her forehead against the glass, finally closing her eyes. David stumbled up behind her and pulled her away from the door. 

“Come on baby, dance with me,” he enticed, and Florence laughed, smelling the alcohol on his breath.

“Some of us have to clean, darling,” she smiled, pulling his arms away from her shoulders. David shrugged and moved on to Alex, wrapping his arms around the bartender’s shoulders instead. Alex turned his head to kiss David, both men enjoying each other’s presence merely as a casual comfort. 

Martha was behind the bar, finishing up cleaning while she observed the regular staff ending their nights. Florence approached her, curiously watching the young woman she’d spent a while disliking. 

“I still can’t believe you’re friends with David Bowie,” Martha exclaimed, and Florence chuckled. 

“I suppose he’s quite famous then, in the future?” She asked. 

Martha’s enthusiastic nod was answer enough, but she elaborated. “His music was kind of weird, but once the BBC used his first song to show the moon landing, he kind of blew up.” When she noticed Florence looking at her weird, she shrugged. “My mum was a big fan, which is kind of surprising considering she hates the Doctor now.” 

Florence pursed her lips. She didn’t want to bond with Martha, not really. The years since Martha had tried to upheave her universe had dulled her anger, but in the same way that her body wasn’t ageing, her mind wasn’t forgetting and her emotions weren’t dissipating. She still felt the familiar rush of anger when she looked at the woman, but she tried to brush it aside. She wanted Martha and the Doctor to leave, sure, but she didn’t want to drive them out if they hadn’t done anything to deserve that. 

“Maybe your mum and I would get along,” she mused, but Martha snorted a laugh. 

“No way,” Martha laughed, and Florence found she was almost offended. Martha noticed, and tried to backtrack. “No, I mean, my mum really hates this,” Martha gestured around them, causing Florence to frown. 

“She hates jazz cafes?” 

“No, she hates anything to do with the Doctor, and that means time travelling, and space, and running, and…” Martha paused, not sure how to say the next word. 

“And alien?” Florence guessed, and Martha’s face twisted into something guilty. “That’s fine. I hate it too.” She murmured, glancing to her hands. Her gloves were stained, as they usually were at this time of night, but she wouldn’t take them off until she was safely within her room. 

“Florie, can Alex and I crash tonight?” David asked, the two men appearing either side of Florence. She laughed, even as they wrapped their arms around her shoulders to sway her body to the music.

“Go on, drunkards,” she laughed as Alex lay a sloppy kiss on her cheeky. “Take my bed, but no funny business! Keep that to the shower!” 

Martha just watched in semi-detached amazement as David Bowie took Alex upstairs by the hand, their skin never losing contact. “I knew he was gay,” Martha muttered, and Florence laughed. 

“Oh no, he’s just David.” She smiled at the beaded doorway, strands still swaying with remembered movement. “You’re okay with them staying?” Florence checked, and Martha nodded. 

“It’s your home. You don’t need to check with me.” 

Once Florence and Martha had kicked out the other bartenders, they sat in the armchairs facing the stage, both drinking a generous glass of wine. Martha was thinking hard, and Florence was pretty sure she knew what she was thinking about.

"Just say it,” she said, and Martha jumped slightly, looking over to her. “I know you’re thinking about Farringham. Go on.” 

Martha frowned, wondering if she was that easy to read. “Well, I was just wondering, and you can totally tell me to shut up if this is rude,” she began, and Florence interrupted already.

“I already know it’ll be rude, but I’d rather you just say it, or ask it, or whatever.” 

Martha nodded, feeling her cheeks warm, and she was grateful her dark skin could hide it. “Why didn’t you believe me?” She finally asked, looking at the red headed woman. The disbelief she’d received in 1913 had hurt her, given the woman had been in the same situation as the Doctor had been, as John Smith had been, and even John Smith had believed in the sight of such proof. “Maybe, together, we could’ve stopped the Family, brought the Doctor back sooner.” The unsaid words were heavy in the air. ‘Maybe those people didn’t have to die.’

Florence’s hand tightened on her wine glass as she took a sip to hide the shaking. “Firstly, we were hardly friends. You were employed by the man I was falling in love with. As far as I knew, you could have been risking unemployment if he married, or maybe even you could have been jealous of him having another woman in his life.” Florence noticed how Martha’s eyes narrowed with her words, but made no comment on it. “Secondly, your approach was hardly believable. I didn’t know you, and you expected me to believe your words instantaneously.”

“But you saw it. You saw the TARDIS-“

“I saw a box that could have been built by yourself or John as a way to trick people into believing the dreams were real.” 

“But if you’d’ve listened-“

“Martha, I didn’t. And I didn’t want it to be real. I still don’t.” Florence sighed, looking properly at the woman. “The Time Lord who came before me, whoever she was, I don’t want to be her.” 

Martha frowned, confusion evident in the woman’s expression. “But you could be more than just…human. Why don’t you want that?” 

“Humanity is not lesser than Time Lord, Martha,” Florence explained. “I dreamt some horrific things as a child, and I’ve seen horrific things in my life. There is no 'better' species between the two.” 

Martha felt like she’d been scolded, but she wasn’t sure if she was offended. It was more like Florence had given her indirect advice, much like a teacher would assist a student without giving a direct answer. 

“But you’re not even human,” Martha murmured, “you actually are Time Lord, you’re just playing at being human for now.” Martha hadn’t realised how much resentment she felt towards her host until she said those words, but now that they were out in the open, she realised how well they reflected her feelings. 

Florence frowned, the words striking something within her, some long forgotten memory. 

“Part of being human is dying,” Martha seemed to be remembering something. “We came across a man called Lazarus in my time, who wanted to basically become young again with this machine, but it went wrong, and he mutated into this ancient possible evolution from humanity’s DNA. He wanted to become immortal, and, in doing so, literally stopped being human. 

“You may be human in technicality, Florence, but you aren’t. You haven’t aged a day in nearly 60 years. Even if you never open your watch, you won’t ever be human.” 

The two women sat in silence for a long moment. Martha seemed surprised at her outburst, but not remorseful. Florence’s eyes stared at her, lips pressed firmly together in anger that stewed uncomfortably in her chest. The words had been true, regardless of how hurtful they had been. 

“Clean this up before you come upstairs,” Florence snapped once the moment had passed, her stomach twisting uncomfortably and her eyes stinging. “I may not be human, but I am still your boss.” She left, not listening to Martha’s calls, and walked upstairs. She left the door unlocked to allow Martha up. She may have been hurt by the woman’s words, but they had been true, and she wouldn’t lock her out over hurt feelings. 

The Doctor was on the sofa, using his screwdriver to do…something…to a coil of metal and wires in his lap. He glanced at her when she came in and sat at the kitchen table, but didn’t say anything until Martha came up, and wordlessly went to her room. 

Florence’s shoulders didn’t relax until Martha was in her room. 

“Something I miss?” The Doctor asked, finally looking up to Florence. She sighed, putting her face in her hands, and she realised she wanted to cry. The Doctor stood immediately and came next to her, sitting beside her and carefully placing a hand on her shoulder. “What happened?” He finally asked after a long moment of silence. 

Florence released a long breath and sniffed. “Martha just told me a truth I hadn’t wanted to hear,” was all she said, moving away from the Doctor’s hand to turn the kettle on. She kept her eyes, which were far too wet, away from his observant gaze and busied herself making a cup of tea. She already knew that she wouldn’t sleep tonight, and she’d given up her room to David and Alex anyway. 

He stood there watching her, hands in the pocket of his form fitting suit, brown eyes studying her tense form. When she turned around, cup of tea in hand, she stilled when she saw his gaze had remained on her. 

“What?” She snapped, frustration coiling inside her. 

“What did she say?” He asked. He sounded far too kind, far too understanding, and Florence wanted to hate him. She wanted to hate that face she’d fallen in love with, but she couldn’t. 

Florence sighed, wrapping her hands around the hot mug despite how it burned through her gloves. “She basically reminded me that I am not human, and can never actually be human.” Florence sniffed, the steam causing her eyes to water slightly. “Which, I mean, I know, but…this has been hard enough without remembering that my life has been a lie, curated by this God-like alien for some unknown purpose, probably to escape the Time Council but I don’t even know that for sure. And I know that this has to come to an end and I’ll die eventually and open the watch at some point, but…” Florence didn’t notice the tears slipping down her face, “I don’t want to become her. I don’t want to be…her! Everything I’ve seen of her, she’s hurtful and cruel and angry. She’s seen things that are probably worse than I could ever imagine, and that is not the kind of person I want to be!” 

The Doctor appeared directly in front of her, and he cupped her cheeks gently, wiping away her tears. “Hey, hey, it’s alright,” he murmured, “you don’t have to become her, you never have to do anything.” 

Florence just stared at him, his brown eyes so honest and open, but all she could remember was John Smith, staring at her, so scared of what he was losing. It made her want to cry harder.
“But I do.” Florence’s eyebrows burrowed down, and the Doctor watched her in confusion. “I have already lived longer than my friends, I will outlive my brother, I will outlive his children. I am not human, Martha was right, but I’m still not ready to become her. And despite that, I know that one day, I have to become her. This reality, my life, was only ever supposed to be temporary.” 

“You have all the time in the world to figure it out,” he reassured, “and there is never any pressure to do anything, certainly not from me.” 

Florence sighed, pulling her face away from his hands. She moved to the sofa, heart hurting at the lack of contact with him. “That’s a lie,” she scoffed, “there’s so much pressure from you that it’s overwhelming. I look at you and all I can see is your hope that I’m ready to die, ready to become that terrifying woman, and I don’t know that I’ll ever be. If I told you right now that I was ready, that I wanted to open my watch right now, you’d jump for joy and hand it over and whisk me away in that box as soon as it lands, with no thought spared for the life of Florence.” 

She wrapped herself in a blanket, and glanced back at the Doctor. He was frowning, a swirl of emotions in his darkened eyes. Florence didn’t bother to decipher them. 

“But I am selfish, and I will not give up what little I still have to die for you.” 

He came to sit next to her, and even though she now refused to look him in the eye, he gazed at her with dark eyes full of intense feeling. “I won’t lie; having another Time Lord around would be a relief and I would be thrilled, but I won’t let you lie to yourself about me. I will always remember you, Florence, and I will never forget the sacrifice you will make when you open your watch. I understand not wanting to die. John Smith’s memories live in me, and I remember his absolute fear at becoming me, and I won’t say it was unfounded either.” 

Florence frowned. “You remember being him?” She hated how vulnerable she sounded. She caught his nod in the corner of her eye. “Did he feel any pain, before…you?” 

The Doctor nodded again, and Florence’s stomach coiled into knots. “He only felt a small amount of pain, but the process is meant to hurt. It’s meant to be a last defence against trackers; it rewrites the biology of our cells.” 

“Right,” Florence murmured. “And, well…do you…did he? Do you?” Florence still couldn’t face him, but he seemed to understand what she was asking.

He let out a small laugh, but it sounded unintentionally rueful to Florence, “he did, but what he was is only a small part of what I am now, and while he did wholly, that doesn’t quite…translate, in the same way.” 

Florence laughed, the sound dry and harsh. “After so many years, the memories get blurred. I spent a few years last decade thinking the events had been a fever dream before Tim reminded me it’d actually happened.” She sipped her tea, the taste of mint refreshing after several glasses of wine and shots of tequila. She smiled, fondly remembering her brief time with John Smith. 

“Do you miss him?” The Doctor asked, voice soft and curious. 

“You probably don’t believe in this, but humans like to believe there is ‘The One’ out there for them, like we all have a soul and there is one other in the universe that is made to match it. It’s awful, but I used to think, and kind of still do, that he was mine.” Florence sniffed, surprised at how emotional she was feeling. “I miss him entirely, despite all the time that’s passed.” 

The Doctor shuffled, and Florence felt a wave of comfort as he placed a hand carefully on her shoulder, as if he were afraid how she might react. He seemed to consider his words, as he took a long moment to respond to her. 

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry for the impact that he,” he paused, and amended his words, “that I had on your life. I’m sorry that I didn’t see it coming.” 

Florence laughed, but it was hard and cold. “You didn’t see yourself falling in love.” She couldn’t convey just how bizarre his words had been. “Do you hear yourself?” 

To fall in love was such a basic human concept; love was a massive part of humanity in every form. It shaped art, changed perspectives, ignited inspiration. How far removed from humanity were Time Lords to presume it impossible, even in the most unlikely of circumstances? 

The Doctor frowned, his hand falling from her shoulder. “It was an improbability, and, honestly, the last thing I expected to happen given I was running for my life.” Florence looked at him, noting his dark eyes, his clenched fist. He had turned away slightly, his shoulders hunched inwards as if to shield himself from further harsh treatment. 

Florence fell back against the sofa, groaning in spite of the persistent loss that she cling to. “It doesn’t matter anymore, I guess,” she shrugged to herself. “He’s long gone, while I’m clinging to whatever humanity I have.” 

The Doctor seemed to shake himself out of whatever he’d fallen into, and he turned to her, his brown eyes sparkling with fire. “You may not be able to die, but you get to experience every other aspect of humanity. The creation, the pain, the hope, the reach; that’s all still part of your existence!” He enthused. “Look at where you are! You’ve built a live music cafe in the middle of Soho where David Bowie performs regularly enough for you two to consider each other friends, and you get to be at the centre of such a monumental period of growth for the human race. You may not die, but in 4 months, humanity will step onto the moon for the first time, and that will ignite a spark of fire in your hearts, and you’ll never stop exploring, never stop reaching, never stop growing. You may not be entirely human, even now, but you are human enough to experience this.” 

Florence’s mouth was slightly agape, but who could blame her? The passion in the Doctor’s words was evident, from the way he spoke to the fire blazing behind his hazel eyes. He ran a hand through his hair as he spoke, and he’d stood at some point to pace in front of her, the energy building in him to a point that he had to move, and Florence had only been able to watch. 

He paused in front of her, and Florence felt herself pulled into an upright position, magnetised by whatever energy had inspired him. 

“Humanity is a privilege that I was grateful to experience for 2 months. To be human is a wonderful adventure, don’t you think?” 

His love for humans was obvious, and Florence wondered what had stoked it. She vaguely recalled a dream from her youth; a dark haired woman sat listening to a young man raving about the wonder of humanity. 

“Being human would be a wonderful adventure,” she murmured, remembering what the young man had said in the dream. 

The Doctor’s eyes lit up with remembrance, and he grinned at her until his cheeks hurt. “What a shame I was planet-bound,” he replied, quoting the words her dream-persona had spoken to the man. 

She blinked at him, only slightly shocked. “That was you?” 

He nodded, pulling away from her to rock back on his heels. “I’m surprised you remember that,” he admitted. 

She laughed, “very vaguely. It was a dream I had as a child, I only really remembered because your words were just so similar.” 

He grinned, brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “You were supervising my research, although I hadn’t realised who you were at that point, and demanded to know what was so special about humans to do a whole study on them.” 

“And you did what you do best: ranted for an hour about their tenacity and capability,” she smiled, the dream more vivid with assistance of the Doctor’s words. “She-I was impressed you had so much to say.” 

“Humans never cease to amaze me,” he murmured, and the way his eyes gazed at her made Florence feel as though she was still part of that; as though she could still be human. 

Maybe she hadn’t been born human, and she’d had this whole other life before that she remembered moments of through dreams, but Florence could still be human. She could still live as one, could still experience everything humanity had to offer. 

And maybe, one day in the future, once she’d seen what humanity had offered, and her family had outgrown her, she’d be ready to open that fob watch, and be ready to die.

Chapter Text

Living with roommates became easy for Florence, as she worked hard to keep her business running smoothly while the Doctor built bizarre contraptions and Martha worked to earn money for their rent.

After the first week, in which Florence dreamt of both terrible and wonderful things, the Doctor revealed he kept her fob watch in his jacket pocket, which meant it very rarely left his person, and meant that Florence was once more subjected to dreams of her life before humanity. He’d apologised for keeping it from her, and Florence had surprised herself when she asked for it back. He had obliged. 

Now, in the heat of June, Florence stood leaning against her bar top, her thumb absently brushing against the comfortingly familiar carvings of the watch as she gazed out of the window. It was a slow day, with only a few regulars at the cafe, so she had tried to finish the weeks’ payslip paperwork before any more customers came in after the usual dinner service ended, but she hadn’t been able to focus on the papers in front of her. Martha was the only one on the bar, polishing glasses quietly while listening to David playing piano on the stage. Initially, Martha had been ecstatic to hear David perform every night, but after a few weeks of working there, she’d gotten used to it. It had made Florence smirk at the reminder of how successful and well-loved he was going to be, one day. 

The door creaked open, and Florence glanced up to see Alex standing there, his expression oddly blank. She frowned at him, but glanced back to her paper, not bothered about his presence. It wasn’t until Martha spoke that she realised something weird was going on. 

“Alex, you okay there, bud?” She asked carefully, watching the blond man carefully. 

Without his body moving, Alex’s head turned to face them, his dark eyes emotionless, but he still kept silent. Martha glanced to Florence, who was keeping a watchful eye on the bartender. 

“Alex?” Florence called, bringing his attention to her. She stood, pocketing her watch as she moved towards him. “Do you need a drink?” 

A few of her patrons glanced at the man standing in the doorway, recognising him as an employee but not hugely interested in the bizarre behaviour regardless. Alex mechanically moved his head to follow Florence as she walked towards him slowly. He tilted his head, face still and unseeing despite his eyes staring into hers. 

“Alex, come on. You’re going to freak out my customers,” Florence sent him a grin, wondering if he might react to the tease. He tilted his head slightly, the words obviously processing in his mind. 

“Freak out,” he echoed, and Florence nodded. 

“Yeah,” she murmured, and she went to grasp one of his hands. “Now come on, inside properly.” 

Alex’s hands jerked back, out of her reach, and Florence jumped slightly, moving away from the potentially volatile man. 

“Okay, no touching. That’s fine. Come inside,” she encouraged, and Alex mechanically lifted one foot, and dropped it a step forward, swaying from side to side as he moved forward by three steps. Once the door had swung closed behind him, he stopped, with one foot still partially suspended in the air. 

“Man, you’re freaking me out now,” Florence muttered, watching him cautiously. “What’s going on with you?” She asked, but he just stared at her. 

The piano behind her came to a final chord, and David peaked from behind the piano lid, a curious expression on his face. His eyes lit up in joy when he saw Alex, and he said to his small audience, “I’ll be taking a 10 minute break, don’t go anywhere.” 

At David’s voice, Alex perked up, immediately turning to face the musician as he came over to the pair stood next to the door. David grinned at his friends, and Florence pursed her lips, not sure what was going on with Alex. 

“Hey guys, what’s going on?” He asked. When he went to hold Alex’s hand, the other man jerked back, seemingly in fear, and David pulled away, a flicker of hurt and confusion on his unpainted face.

“You are David Bowie.” Alex spoke, but his voice was…wrong somehow. It certainly wasn’t Alex’s normal voice. 

“Uhh, yeah, Alex. Is it the no make up? I didn’t have time to apply it today,” David started to say, despite how weird the situation felt to him as well. 

“You will come,” Alex said, and his voice broke at the end of it, cracking like a radio that wasn’t tuned to the correct station. Florence frowned, reaching beside her to grab David’s hand. Her body felt taught, like a bunched up spring ready to unfurl, and she tensed herself to pull David out from Alex’s reach. 

“I still have to finish my set, man,” David shrugged, studying his friend in concern. “Are you feeling okay?” 

The Doctor suddenly ran down the stairs, a device made from rubbish in his hands beeping loudly. “Stop, don’t let him touch you!” He yelled, running forward even as Alex reached for David. 

In the blink of an eye, Florence, David, the Doctor, and Alex disappeared. 

Martha jumped, dropped the glass she’d been holding, and cursed. 

The area around them dissolved into green dust, and then reformed into new surroundings. Florence felt stuck until the last of the dust had solidified, and she gasped a breath in as the teleport finalised. The Doctor had grabbed her shoulder, and Alex had touched David’s chest with the flat of his palm. Once they’d solidified, Alex stepped back and returned to his impassive staring. 

The room they’d appeared in was made of metal, and Florence, eyes wide, looked around in shock. The metal was dark and unfamiliar, and there were monitors with numbers and words displayed across the screens that Florence couldn’t decipher. There only appeared to be one door, with a small keypad next to it. 

“Oh my god,” David gasped, looking around the room in shock. “Where are we?” 

The Doctor frowned, pulling his sonic screwdriver from his coat and pushing a button. It made a whirring noise as he spun in a circle, only stopping when he flicked it up to inspect. He hummed, saying, “we’ve gone vertical, exactly 400 kilometers above where we were standing before.” 

David gaped at the Doctor, “how?” 

The Doctor shrugged, putting his screwdriver away. “Standard teleport with a warm up time of 45 seconds. I noticed the shift in spatial resonance and managed to pinpoint it onto this guy,” he moved to stand in front of Alex, who didn’t react. “I suspect that this isn’t the Alex you know and love.” 

Florence crossed her arms, feeling very out of her comfort zone and just wanting to get home. “Who is it then?” 

David, quickly pushing past his shock, studied the form of his friend. “It’s not a who, is it? The question is, what is it?” 

The Doctor flashed David a grin, who smiled back with a conspiratorial wink, and he started to feel along the underside of Alex’s chin. 

“Based on the very primitive technological capacity of this ship, and the warm up time of their teleport, I think I recognise this species of android,” he explained. “This model was created as a cheaper alternative to hitmen: they are able to manipulate the light waves they reflect to better assimilate into their surroundings based on a semi-psychic connection to their intended targets.” 

Florence shuddered, something the Doctor noticed immediately, but she broke it down for David, “basically, they can change how they’re seen, which means this isn’t actually Alex.” Florence wasn’t sure how she’d understood what the Doctor had said, but she subconsciously reached into her pocket to touch the fob watch residing there, wondering if it was affecting her in the same way it had affected John Smith when he’d touched the watch before he left for the family, when he’d told Timothy about his extra synaptic engram. 

As she’d spoken, Alex’s face opened from a seam that formed down the middle, and split in two to reveal a series of futuristic appearing wires. With the face now open, the disguise flickered away, revealing a hard metal body, with a square torso and cylindrical arms with no hands at the end. Florence found herself glad the disguise had disappeared, as she wasn’t sure she wanted to see her friends’ face split in two, regardless of the circumstances. 

“But…how?” David asked, eyes wide. 

“The actual body of the android is just metal. If you’d touched it before it had teleported you, you would’ve felt the metal body underneath and the psychic connection would’ve broken as your mind overpowered the mild suggestive state the connection induces,” the Doctor was fiddling with some wires inside the face of the android as he spoke, words distracted and blunt. 

“So is Alex okay?” David asked. 

“Oh, yes.” 

“Thank god,” Florence muttered, stepping away from the android. 

“Most likely,” the Doctor amended, with a small shrug. 

David swore, making Florence flinch slightly. “Most likely?” David exclaimed, but the Doctor just glared into the wires he was holding. 

“This android doesn’t require a biological component from their borrowed disguises, but that doesn’t mean that it wouldn’t stop anyone it perceived to be in its way. If Alex came across it before we saw it tonight, it may well have done something.”

Florence pushed her head into her gloved hands, groaning quietly into them, before she pushed her hair out of her face, squaring her shoulders and trying to be brave. “Right, well, we can’t worry about him while we’re still here in danger,” she asserted. “How can we get back down to…to Earth?” Those were words she’d never thought that she would say. 

The Doctor’s lips pursed, as if he’d anticipated the question. “Well…,” he muttered, trying to pretend he hadn’t heard her. 

“Doctor!” She exclaimed, and he glanced at her. 

“It’s a simple teleport, but I’ve already scanned it. It’s locked to one biological tissue type, and they’re outside those doors.” He nodded to the firmly shut doors behind them. “And in any case, we don’t want to go back just yet. There’s more to the story here.” 

“And what are you currently trying to do?” She asked, cocking a hip. 

“Trying to access its records, find out who sent it and for what purpose,” the Doctor murmured, twisting another two wires together. With a great sound of achievement, he leapt back, a great grin on his face. Florence and David leapt back with him, eyes wide and watching him and the robot carefully. 

“Well?” David asked after a moment of silence. The Doctor winked. 

“Have a bit of patience,” he teased. 

Florence rolled her eyes, but finally the android creaked to life, standing at attention in a way it hadn’t before, and a stream of light cast from its chin onto its metal chest. There, a short woman with blue skin was stood, orange hair like thick ribbons twisted into a bow on top of her head. She stood still for a moment before her face twisted into concern. 

“Is this thing recording?” She suddenly leant forward, and a large robotic voice was heard affirming that, yes, it was on. “Oh good! Now, I hire you, droid,” she glanced at a piece of paper in her hand and read, “number 73849, for the purpose of capturing rock musician and icon David Bowie from Earth, in 1969. Here is a camera for your use,” the woman handed a thin metal piece towards the camera. “I need you to record his voice, and capture as much of his body as you can.” 

Someone off screen whispered loudly, “specific!” 

The blue woman seemed to blush green, and she exclaimed, “on camera!” 

The recording ended, and the Doctor laughed, relief palpable in his expression. “Oh, that’s good news, then!” He exclaimed, grinning at Florence. 

“Good news, how?” She prompted, and he rolled his eyes in humour. 

“Well, they don’t want to kill us! And that’s always good news, don’t you think?” 

“So we’re not going to be murdered?” Florence checked. 

“Well, the orders given asked the android to capture the body of David Bowie. Admittedly, the wording was pretty awful, and the android probably misinterpreted the instructions, but that means our captors aren’t hostile towards us! Probably.” He shrugged, smirking at Florence. “There’s nothing to worry about!” 

David, whose mismatching blue eyes were wide in shock, laughed, a pitch of fear coming through clearly. “We’ve only been kidnapped by blue aliens and robots, what’s there to worry about?” He exclaimed, and Florence bit her lip in concern. “Not like we’re in a metal room with one door, 400 kilometers in the air, according to you, Doctor!” His voice had gradually taken on a sharper edge, until the word ‘Doctor’ was almost cutting. 

“Well, it’s hardly my fault, now-“ the Doctor started to say, but David didn’t let him continue. 

“This may not be directly you, but ever since you’ve come around, there’s been this tension in the air, like everyone around you is waiting for something to happen,” David accused. When Florence tried to interject, he turned his gaze to her. “And I don’t know what he is to you, but you’re changing too; something is different about you and sometimes I don’t recognise you, and it all started when he moved in.” 

Florence scoffed, crossing her arms as she stepped away from her friend. “That’s ridiculous, Dave, come on-“ she tried to argue, but he just glared at her, his blue eyes piercing and sharp. 

He insisted, “I’m not stupid, or blind.” 

The Doctor seemed to deflate with the accusations aimed at him, but when David started aiming them towards Florence, his eyes darkened. 

The Doctor lifted his chin and said, “whatever is going on here has nothing to do with me or Florence, and there is far more going on than your tiny mind could ever understand. Now, if you want to get out of here, you’ll shut up and listen to what I have to say.” David stared at the Doctor, preparing to respond, but both men were interrupted when the only door in the room slid open. 

The three of them turned to look at the person stood there, finding a blue alien stood there, mouth wide open at the three intruders on the ship. There was a stand off for a long moment, as the alien recovered from their shock, and the two humans and Time Lord registered that their kidnapper had come to check on their haul. 

“Eek-“ the alien squeaked before the door slammed shut, a lock clicking into place. They heard the alien talking rapidly in a language Florence couldn’t understand, but the Doctor was on the door, hitting it with the palm of his hand, before Florence could try to decipher the language. 

“Hey, hey! Let us out! You can’t keep us in here!” The Doctor yelled, and there were a series of foreign words again from the other side of the door. Florence expected the Doctor to give up due to communication difficulties, but her eyes widened when he responded in, what she thought was, the same language. 

“Dammit,” the Doctor punctuated his words with a slap against the metal door, which remained firmly closed.

“Did you just speak alien?” David exclaimed, taking a step away from the Doctor. “Florence, you heard him! He just spoke alien!”

“Technically, I speak alien all the time; it just happens to be your native language,” the Doctor said offhandedly, half ignoring David’s words. “They said that this was an accident, that they never intended to steal the real David Bowie.” 

“But that’s what the recording basically said,” Florence said, trying to ignore how her body thrummed in excitement. She did not want to be enjoying the adventure: she wanted her only adventure to be being human, on Earth. “Didn’t we already know that?” 

“It’s nice to confirm they don’t intend to kill,” the Doctor shrugged, pulling out his screwdriver to scan the door. 

“What do they intend?” David asked, and Florence smiled sympathetically at him when the Doctor snapped.

“You heard the recording: they wanted to get information about you, about your life!” 

David shook his head, looking back at the robot that now stood there, inhumanly still. When the projection had stopped, the android had stopped moving; whether it was awaiting new instructions, or gathering information, he couldn’t tell. 

“Why me?” David finally asked, and Florence glanced at the Doctor, wondering what he would say. Martha had explained to her that David became very famous in his lifetime, but she was sure that telling the man himself would go against some kind of law. Surely he, as a Time Lord, would have some kind of Time Law or Code of Time that he would need to follow, but Florence didn’t recall ever knowing any such thing in her dreams. 

The Doctor turned to smile at him, a breadth of warmth and knowledge swimming within his old eyes. “Oh, well…” he said, voice whisper quiet, “that would be telling.” 

But with those words, David seemed to understand what he wasn’t saying, and his eyes brightened, softened, sparked to life. “But I’m just a struggling artist. What…when?” He spoke distractedly, his lips turning up into a smile. 

“I can’t give exact dates, but…let’s just say it’s sooner than you think!” The Doctor winked at him conspiratorially, and David’s face lit up. 

“You mean Space Oddity? It’s successful?” 

Florence laughed, clapping twice in thrill. “I knew it!” She exclaimed, grabbing David’s hands and pulling him into a hug. “I knew you were too brilliant to go unnoticed!” 

David laughed with her, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her into the air. The actual event hadn’t happened yet, but the thought of it… His ecstasy at the prospect was enough that he could almost ignore their current circumstances. 

But when the reality of their surroundings came crashing down, Florence and David pulled away from each other, and she smiled at him and said, “we will get out of this.” 

David just pursed his lips and nodded. 

“Right then,” the Doctor exclaimed, reading something off his sonic screwdriver. “We can get out these doors, and-“

“And demand to be teleported back down to Earth,” David nodded, his expression hardening. 

The Doctor floundered for a moment, slightly taken aback. “Well, I was going to say ask, but I guess demand works too,” he muttered, and Florence hid her laugh. 

“Okay, but how do we get out?” Florence asked finally. The Doctor grinned at her, twirling his screwdriver between two fingers with an impish glint to his brown eyes. Florence just raised an eyebrow, and watched as he pointed the screwdriver at the door once more, and it slid open easily. 

By that point, the blue alien had gone, leaving the metal corridor in front of them empty. And it was a metal corridor, with circular windows along the left hand wall, and more metal doors lining the right hand side. From the windows, they could see the curvature of the Earth, spinning slowly below them. 

David and Florence immediately walked up to it while the Doctor watched. 

“Oh my god,” Florence murmured, staring down at the land below her.

They were far above the clouds, above even the atmosphere. Florence was pretty sure that the distant blue haze they could see might even be the atmosphere, with specs of clouds below that. They couldn’t see specifics of the city they’d been in, London now just a distant spec within the landmass below them, but they could see the channel, and the edges of France, and the vast oceans that lay beyond the coasts of Wales, Ireland and Scotland. 

“Holy shit,” David muttered, gripping the window seal like it was a lifeline. 

The Doctor watched them, leaning against the wall behind, with his eyes bright and filled with wonder. 

“All those people down there, living and breathing and existing, with no idea-“ Florence said, voice soft and excited. “It’s so beautiful.” 

“To think there’s a race to step on the moon,” David whispered, “and look at where we are.” He glanced back to the Doctor, noting his lack of surprise. “How do you know so much, Doctor?” He asked, finally, and the Doctor smiled. 

“I’m a traveller. Exploring like this is kind of what I do,” he said, shrugging. 

“Like this? In space?” David pushed, but the Doctor didn’t reply immediately. “And you knew that robot from the future! How? How could you have known that? Have you got a spaceship?” 

“We do have a Mutare to find,” the Doctor reminded, and Florence snapped out of her stupor to look back at the Doctor.

“Mutare?” She echoed. The Doctor pushed off the wall, coat billowing behind him as he pushed further down the corridor. Florence kept pace with him, while David rushed to catch up moments later. “That sounds like some Sci-Fi name,” she commented, making the Doctor laugh.

“The name is derived from the human word, ‘mutant’,” he explained, “basically a comment on how they appear so human-like, while also appearing like that comic-book character from the X-men comics that haven't quite been released, who could shape-shift!” 

“Can these mutare shape-shift?” Florence asked, and the Doctor laughed. 

“No, not at all!” He replied, “they just look like the character.” 

“A character that doesn’t exist?” Florence teased, and the Doctor grinned at her.

“Yet!” He laughed.

David stuttered behind them, confused at how easily Florence seemed to be accepting their situation. “W-what? How?” 

Florence glanced at her friend, grabbing his hand to pull him in line with them. “The Doctor travels in time. We met a…while…ago, and while it’s been a few years for me, it’s only been a few months for him.” Florence glanced at him, checking she’d gotten that right. She felt an odd twinge of pride as he grinned at her, confirming it was all correct. 

“But, we’ve barely achieved space travel,” David protested, and the Doctor scoffed. 

“Humans have barely achieved space travel,” he corrected, making David gape at him. 

They moved through the spaceship easily, not encountering any more aliens, until they approached what the Doctor called the ‘Command Hub’. The door was locked, and Florence wondered if they had cameras through the ship, watching them approach. 

Before the Doctor could whip out his sonic screwdriver, an accented voice came through the doors. If Florence had to pin the voice to an Earthen accent, she would’ve said New Zealand or South African, but that still wasn’t quite right. 

“Please don’t hurt us! We didn’t mean to take you!” The voice called through the doors, and the Doctor grinned, putting his screwdriver away. 

“Well, we just want to get back home, but we need your bio signature to make it work!” The Doctor explained, but the voice sighed. 

“I’m sorry, it doesn’t quite work that way,” they said, “we can explain if you swear not to hurt us!” 

“We?” Florence asked, and the voice squeaked in fear. 

“I, please don’t hurt I, me!” They said instead, but Florence and the Doctor didn’t believe them now. 

“Who else is aboard this ship?” The Doctor demanded. 

“And why did you specifically want me?” David piped up, and Florence nodded in agreement. 

The alien behind the door squeaked again, but this time it seemed to be in excitement as they ran away from the door and back to it. 

“Oh my goodness, he spoke to me,” they swooned, at least Florence could well imagine them swooning. “I can’t believe the David Bowie spoke to me!” They exclaimed, making Florence laugh. David just looked slightly uncomfortable. 

“Look, I just want to get home,” he tried again, to more squeaks on the other side. He glanced at Florence and the Doctor, although neither of them were much help. Florence was laughing as quietly as she could, while the Doctor seemed content to let the future rockstar talk his way out of their situation. “I don’t know why you needed to take me, but-“ 

“Why?” The alien exclaimed, and the door finally opened. The alien was bipedal, and shaped mostly like a human, with the exception of their textured blue skin and ribbon-like hair. “You’re only one of the most iconic rock musicians, you changed the musical landscape and inspired musicians for generations to come with your music and style. On my planet, we still watch Labyrinth every year as a celebration of childhood,” the alien seemed to realise their confusion, and their cheeks gradually turned sea green, like a blush on a human. “The movie shows all the dark parts of being a child, that most human media refuses to show! It has lies and traps and bullying, and threat of death and pain, and the kids in the movie are told nothing, leading to worry and misinformation!” The two humans blankly stared at the alien, and their face gradually shifted in horror. “Oh, no, have I just spoilt the movie for you? Did I come too far back in time?” They jumped into the air, running into the command hub. 

The Doctor glanced at Florence, laughter clear in his expression, and she smirked, pulling David in. 

There were a few more blue aliens - Mutare - at different consoles, who all gaped at David as he entered the room.  David was looking around in shock, mouth wide and eyes absorbing everything. The room wasn’t like those Star Trek television shows that started airing a few years ago, with lots of modern technology and wiring and screens visible. Instead, most of the room was metal, with one or two keyboards obvious, but one main screen at the front of the room, where the alien they’d encountered now spoke to another alien. 

“Oh dear,” this alien sounded like the one that had spoken to the android that had kidnapped them. “I think we’re early!” She exclaimed, and she whirled to face David, bowing deeply in front of him. “Mr Bowie, I am so deeply sorry for this!” She exclaimed, her long ribbon hair brushing the ground, so deep was her bow. When she stood, her cheeks were dark green in blush. “I can’t believe we got the date wrong!” 

“In fairness, the Galactic Time and Space code is complex and difficult to get correct without proper training,” the Doctor was stood by the front screen, square glasses on. Florence hadn’t noticed when he’d put them on, but she appreciated how they framed his face well. “You’re lucky you’re only a decade or so out!” He grinned at the aliens, full of smug intelligence. 

“And who are you to know the Galactic Code, human?” The captain snapped, not appreciating his tone. 

“Well, not human, for starters!” He exclaimed, and then he was in front of them, hands in his suit pockets, casually explaining himself as if he wasn’t shaking David’s entire worldview. “And certainly not from Earth myself. But I can show you where you made a mistake, and send you to the right time period,” he offered, and the captain jumped in. 

“Yes that would be perfect!” She exclaimed, but the Doctor hadn’t finished. 

“But you have to drop us back to Earth before you jump through time,” he told them, folding his glasses and putting them back into his jacket pocket. Florence smiled, finding herself missing the aura they had given him. 

The captain frowned, looking around to her crew. “Well, our teleport is currently reviving itself, but we can do it in an hour. Is that…okay?” She asked, and the Doctor grinned, rocking back onto his heels. 

“Oh, definitely!” He crowed, and David frowned. 

“An hour? What kind of teleport requires waiting?” He exclaimed, and the captain glanced at him in confusion, although the thrill at seeing David Bowie in person still remained alive behind her eyes. 

“Our teleport is state of the art in the 31st century, thank you!” She defended, and Florence just shook her head. 

“Let’s not offend our hosts,” she insisted, and the captain smiled at her kindly. “But I do have to ask, yes, David will become the most iconic rockstar in the universe, apparently, but why did you need to ‘capture his body’, as you said to that android?” 

The Doctor nodded at her, glad she had asked the question, while the captain just blushed. 

“Well, my broodmother loves him, you see, and I wanted to build her a statue that sang his songs for her,” she explained. “The architect needed real footage of the man himself to best show his mannerisms, and that’s why I hired that android.” 

One of the crew members piped in, their cheeks dark green against their blue skin. “It’s to be built in our town square, where all the children can boogie!” They grinned at David, as if the words should have meaning to the musician. David’s lips turned upwards, his eyes bright in new inspiration. 

“Have you got a viewing station, or seating area we can wait for the teleport to charge up?” The Doctor finally asked, and the captain nodded enthusiastically. 

“Of course!” She exclaimed, jumping into action. “But…well, I hate to be rude but I have to ask, Mr Bowie sir,” she looked shyly at David, “could we get some recordings of you moving? I don’t want to go back to the future empty handed!” 

That was how Florence ended up stood to the side of a cafeteria, arms crossed over her chest, as a number of their new blue friends applied David’s makeup for him, and another prepped a corner of the room for videoing him. The Doctor was leaning against the wall beside her, his warm eyes sparkling in amusement. 

“He really does it,” she murmured, “my best friend becomes an international, no, intergalactic success!” Her eyes slid to the Doctor, who stayed watching David Bowie interacting with the blue aliens around him in both fascination and curiosity. 

“I mean, his music spreads as far as humans do, so…he keeps living through his legacy.” The Doctor smiled, “of all musicians for you to find and befriend, though, I think you picked one of the best.” 

Florence smiled brightly, her blue eyes glittering in pure joy. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t pick a bad one,” she nudged his side with her elbow, and when he glanced at her, she beamed. “I don’t pick bad friends.” 

The Doctor frowned in confusion for a moment, before his eyes lit up in understanding and happiness. “No, I suppose you never have,” he grinned. 

David was humming a tune that Florence had heard him singing before, a new tune for a song he was trying to write. He glanced at Florence and the Doctor, seeing them talking in low tones against the back wall of the impromptu film set, and smiled. Whether Florence could see it or not, she was magnetised to the Doctor, and he to her. In the time since the Doctor had started living above the cafe, David had watched him, worried about his friend. While he was eccentric, and seemingly didn’t work, he, at least, held an obvious tenderness for Florence that had to surpass the short time they’d been living together. Florence, from what David could see, couldn’t see the care he held for her. And yet, despite that, she obviously cared for him, in how she looked for him in every room and sought his opinions in a variety of topics. David didn’t know their history, but he was sure they’d known each other longer than he’d previously assumed. 

David frowned, thinking of what the Doctor had said earlier. If he wasn’t human, then he had to be an alien, and if these mutare aliens were from the future, and the Doctor knew them, then it didn’t take a genius to work out that the Doctor must be from the future as well. 

Words came to his mind, and he tested them to the tune he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind. 

“There’s a spaceman waiting in the stars,” he sang, very quietly, but the words didn’t quite fit. Amending the words, he tried instead, “there’s a spaceman waiting in the sky.” 

The alien that was currently applying his makeup grinned, seemingly unable to contain their excitement. And when David told Florence the lyrics he’d created later that day, once they were back on Earth, she offered an amendment, much to the Doctor’s joy. 

And back on Earth, late that night, David Bowie sat at the piano in Florence’s cafe and bashed out some chords, and sang, for the first time, a draft of a new song. 

“There’s a star man waiting in the sky, he’d like to come and meet us but he thinks he’ll blow our minds.” 

The TARDIS landed in August, appearing on the street opposite Florence’s cafe overnight. When Florence woke up at 8am for her morning coffee, she peered out of her apartment window and saw the blue box parked sweetly on the pavement. Pedestrians walked around it, as if it hadn’t appeared suddenly and wasn’t an inconvenience sat in the centre of the street as it was. 

A bittersweet feeling filled Florence as she realised that the Doctor and Martha would be leaving. Their stay had ended, and she was surprised to find that she was sad to be saying goodbye to them. Somehow, she had come to enjoy their presence in her flat and cafe, and she would miss them. 

When Martha woke up, only half an hour later, she was drawn to the kitchen by a concoction of smells, breakfast and coffee and berries. Florence stood at the stove, a freshly brewed pot of coffee sat in the centre of the table, with different breakfast items scattering the baking tray next to the empty coffee mugs, and a saucepan with a delicious smelling berry sauce inside it. 

Martha rubbed her eyes for a moment, thinking she must still be dreaming. “Is this…what’s this for?” She asked, helping herself to coffee. 

Florence smiled, but Martha could sense something under it. “Your box has landed. I thought I’d give you one last home-cooked meal before you set off on your adventures again.” The words were said fondly, but Florence didn’t hide the sorrow she felt either. “Where’s the Doctor?” 

“Speak of the devil,” Martha said as the apartment door opened, and the Doctor walked in, running his hands through his hair. 

“Oh, good morning!” He exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was grinning, eyes alight with excitement. “Have you seen?” He asked, and Florence and Martha nodded. He finally noticed the spread of food in front of Martha on the table, and a spark of confusion flickered through him. 

“I thought I’d give you one last home-cooked meal before you jet-set off for worlds unknown!” She said, forcing the perkiness back into her voice. She poured her berry compote into a jug and set it on the table next to a stack of pancakes. “Please, help yourself!” 

Martha didn’t hesitate, her bones buzzing in excitement to get back into the TARDIS and away from the 1960s. 

“Gosh, I’ll be glad to be back in modern times,” Martha enthused as she tucked into some pancakes and bacon. “It was nice to step back and take it slow, but, god, Florie, you’re going to love the internet when it gets here!” 

Florence laughed, sitting down to eat as well. In a rare action, the Doctor also took a seat, piling bacon and fruit onto his plate. 

“I’ll take the slow path, I think,” she commented, “it’s been nice having you, but I’m ready for my life to go back to normal.” She grinned, and the Doctor laughed. 

“Best friends with future intergalactic rockstar, and she thinks her life is normal!” Martha laughed, and Florence rolled her eyes in good humour. 

“I don’t think you’ll ever be normal,” the Doctor murmured, his brown eyes sparkling with joy, “but who ever wanted normal!” 

Their breakfast was short. Now that the TARDIS had arrived, the Doctor was filled with an unending energy that bounced off the walls of the apartment and multiplied upon itself. Florence wasn’t sure how he had contained it for months, but she was sure he couldn’t wait to get back to his TARDIS. 

“Come with us,” he offered as they all walked out of the cafe. “Experience the universe.” 

Florence frowned, wrapping her arms around her stomach to contain the two warring emotions inside her. There was a part of her, a massive part of her, that longed to go. She was desperate to be part of their team, to see every single sight the universe had to offer, and explore every nook and cranny she could find. She wanted to know everything the Doctor knew, and learn of universes beyond her own. She yearned to discover how the universe began and how it would end. 

But the Doctor knew her answer; he knew before she even shook her head. 

“I can’t,” she told him simply, and that was that. 

The TARDIS looked just as she remembered it from when she’d stumbled across it back in 1913, when she’d ignored Martha’s cries for help, when her life had been much simpler than it was now. The Doctor stayed outside to watch her, even as Martha walked right inside, talking about the relief of having the machine back in their possession. 

Florence reached out to touch the faded wood, marvelling at how much it felt like painted wood. She knew this box as well as she knew her apartment: on some intrinsic level, this box was important to her. 

“Hey old girl,” she murmured, and when she felt a brush of unwavering care, she broke out into a grin, glancing up to the Doctor. “Was- did, oh my god,” she couldn’t form a sentence, and the Doctor laughed at her. He still stared at her with those hopeful brown eyes, and while Florence knew he didn’t mean to, she felt the pressure to do what he wanted her to do. Subconsciously, her hand drifted into her pocket, where the fob watch sat, as it always did, an action he noticed with barely restrained eagerness. 

“She always did like you,” he told her, and Florence smiled, placing her palm flat against the spaceship, and her heart twisted in bittersweet frustration and longing. 

“I think the feeling is mutual,” she told him, and he grinned at her. “But this has to be goodbye, for now.” Florence stepped back, forcing her hands into her pockets to stop herself wrenching open the doors and investigating the inside; just how infinite was the TARDIS? Was she truly infinite, or was there a limit? Had anyone tried to find it? How telepathic was she? Could Florence attempt to communicate with her in some way? How did she fly? Did she have a cockpit like the aeroplanes did, or some other method of viewing the outside world? 

“I understand,” he replied, despite how he longed to remain confused, to demand she come with him. It didn’t matter how much time passed; he wanted to take the last of his kind and keep her safe, in his box, where he could fix any problem and keep her away from danger. But Florence would never want that, and the Time Lady that came before would never have allowed that either. 

“Be safe,” she took a deep breath, gathering her courage, and stepped back. She faced him one last time, trying to pretend her eyes weren’t watering. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon.” 

“You’ve still got the TARDIS number?” He asked, and she nodded. “If you need anything, just call. I’ll always answer.” Florence had memorised the number decades ago, but never called. Still, she nodded, as if she might call him one day. The Doctor hesitated, looking at her curiously. “Did you want to keep her?” He finally asked, and Florence frowned. 

“I think I do,” she realised, “yes. I’d like to keep her with me.” He nodded in acceptance, although Florence was sure she saw a flicker of uncertainty echo through him. 

She stepped away again, giving the Doctor one last smile. He nodded to her, and slid into the TARDIS doors, shutting them with a soft click behind him. There was a long moment where nothing happened, and Florence nearly gave in, but then came the sound that filled her dreams, and the TARDIS phased out of existence. 

Florence stood on the street for a moment, smiling at the empty air, when someone laid a hand on her shoulder, shocking her out of her daze. 

“Auntie Florie, are you okay?” Arnold asked as she turned to face him. 

“Yes, I’m fine,” she nodded, straightening her back.

“That’s him gone, now, yeah?” 

She nodded again. 

He smiled in understanding at her, and led her inside the cafe. 

Chapter Text

Timothy and Marie came by a week later, her carrying a small bag and him pulling a large suitcase behind. Florence was working behind the bar when Danny came up to inform her, a warm twinkle in his dark eyes, and she dropped everything, yelling at Alex, “keep an eye on things for me!” 

Timothy was now at a good age of 71, and although time had affected his handsome face, his brown eyes still held at spark of an intelligent man who had been far too affected by two world wars. He dressed smartly in a suit, with a tie that was a familiar shade of blue, and when he saw Florence, he dropped the suitcases and held his arms open for her. 

Marie just smiled tenderly as she watched her beloved embrace his sister. Marie was 68, and she had aged gracefully. She kept her hair tied up and back, and her green eyes sparkled with love and warmth. 

Florence wrapped her arms around Timothy, and felt his mind reach out to brush against her own. She shut her eyes tightly, forcing back tears when Timmy wrapped his arms around her and squeezed gently. 

“Good to see you, old man,” she teased when she found the strength to let go. He grinned at her, the years having taken away some of the formality he’d held onto during his youth. 

“I’ve miss you, Flo,” he murmured. 

“Gosh, you’d think I’m invisible! Where’s my hello?” Marie exclaimed from beside them, and Florence turned to her sister in law, smiling widely at her. 

“Marie, it’s always a pleasure to see you,” she greeted, wrapping the woman in a hug. Marie gracefully reciprocated, wrapping her long limbs around Florence like a mother might. 

“Oh Florence, you look as beautiful as the day I first met you,” Marie murmured, and Florence knew she hadn’t aged a day either. And in the way mothers did, Marie pulled back and laid her hands on Florence’s shoulders, her green eyes turning stern. “Now, why are you wasting that beauty on being sad?” 

Florence laughed, brushing the comment off. “Don’t be silly, Marie. Head on upstairs, I’ll bring your wardrobe up.” She instructed, and Marie smiled, accepting the woman’s avoidance for now. 

Timothy didn’t fight Florence when she insisted on carrying both suitcases upstairs, and Florence knew that meant his arthritis was getting worse. She followed him slowly through the cafe, watching his gait and half-listening to his story about the incapability of taxi drivers nowadays, laughing at the right moments, but focusing on his movement and his method of speaking. She clung to the hope that his premonition from years ago was correct; that he would still be around to attend a Remembrance Day in 2000. She longed to have at least another 30 years with him. 

Marie had the kettle on by the time they’d made it upstairs, and she had four mugs out and prepped with tea bags and milk. Florence smiled to see it, comforted by how easy it was to be among her family. Arnold, their son and Florence’s neighbour, was just coming out from the bedroom hallway. He smiled at Florence when he saw her.

“I thought I’d make the bed for them,” he told her, “I hope that’s okay.” 

Florence smiled, “of course it is. You’re welcome anytime, especially if you’re going to do my chores for me!” 

He laughed, even as he helped Timothy into a kitchen chair. The family moved seamlessly around each other, as Arnold pulled some biscuits out of a cupboard and dodged Marie, who was carrying Timothy’s mug to him, and Florence slid out of the way for her even as she gathered up a few plates and bits of fruit from her fridge. Once they were all settled at the table, Marie held her hands out either side expectantly, and they each dutifully took each others hands. 

“Lord, we thank you for the food in front of us, and for protecting our family. Please continue to safeguard us as we move through our paths that you have laid in front of us,” Marie prayed. 

Florence felt the familiar brush of Timothy against her mind, his voice coming a moment later, “she spent an hour meticulously planning the wording of that prayer.”

“Not for me, I hope,” Florence replied, even as they all said, “amen.” Timothy squeezed Florence’s hand, which she took to be confirmation of her thought. She rolled her eyes discreetly even as Marie released their hands and pulled the cup of tea towards her. 

“Now, not that I’m not glad to see you both, but what’s brought you down? I didn’t have you in my calendar until October,” Florence asked, leaning back in her chair. Arnold glanced from her to his parents, an eyebrow raised. 

“Arnie called,” Timmy explained, “said he’d come back.” 

Florence glanced at Arnold, who was innocently looking out the window beside him. Much like a sibling would, she kicked his foot, making him curse and glare at her. “Snitch,” she muttered at him, causing Marie to scowl while Arnold laughed. 

“Honestly, Florence, anyone would think you actually were his sister,” she scolded, making Florence laugh. “Seriously, it’s like you’re still in your 20s!” 

“Well, that’s what we’ve told everyone,” she shrugged, “just goes to show we’re good at faking it.” She winked at Arnold, who laughed at her. Marie frowned, but she didn’t pursue the issue. 

Timothy frowned at her, his brown eyes studying her every movement. Florence raised an eyebrow while she waited for him to say something. 

“Are you okay?” He finally asked, obviously having been studying her mind and her body language. 

Florence scoffed lightly. “Am I okay? Seriously? He was here for 5 months. I’m fine.” 

Timothy rolled his eyes. “Come on, Flo. Arnie said you cried for an hour. Why was he here? Why did he stop for so long? I’ve seen into his mind, remember. He doesn’t do home visits, and especially not to people whom he believes hate him.” 

“He was just here because he’d lost access to his transport, and needed to wait for it to turn up. He and his friend, Martha, needed a place to stay for that time, so I gave them the spare room.” Florence picked up her mug and took a drink. 

“He was still with Martha?” 

“I think they were only a month or so after they’d left us in Farringham, honestly,” Florence said, making Arnold’s eyes widen for a moment. 

“God, did they look much different?” He asked, and Florence laughed. 

“Not at all.” 

Timothy laughed, and the conversation moved forwards as Florence asked how their life was in Dorset. They were happy there, as they had been all their life, with Marie still teaching at the local school and Timothy enjoying the simple life they had on the manor. He’d adopted a sheepdog to help keep him active, taking him on long walks around the manor grounds, and their maid was taking care of the dog while they were visiting in London. 

Time flew past as the family caught up, and when dinner came around, Marie and Florence cooked something quick so they could stay talking together. Florence told them reluctantly about her visit to a spaceship, and how David had even done a photoshoot for the aliens, which led to an explanation on who David was and why she wasn’t in a relationship with the man. 

Once 9pm hit, Marie was ready to go to bed, and Arnold had to go home to sleep for work the next morning, leaving Florence and Timothy sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, glasses of wine in front of them, a few candles burning. 

“Come on, Flo. How was it? To see him,” Timothy asked, his voice low. He reached across the table to pick up her hands, which had been fidgeting in front of her. Her hands stilled in his, and she smiled at him. 

“He was so…different, and yet there were parts of him I knew,” Florence murmured, “his face was so much John, but…even the way he smiled was different. And his voice I knew, but his words were strange. But he was incredible,” Florence pursed her lips, reluctant to admit it despite its truth. “I think, despite what happened, we could be friends one day.” 

Timmy smiled, his old face warm and relieved. “And here I was, worrying you might have thrown them out on the street,” he laughed and Florence rolled her eyes. 

“I nearly did,” she admitted to his shock. “Martha literally turned up in my bar, basically demanding that they stay! What else was I going to do?” Florence insisted. 

“You’re an idiot,” Timothy teased, and Florence laughed. “But seriously, Florence, are you okay? Arnie said you were devastated. I came as quickly as I could drag Marie away from work.” 

A familiar bittersweet twist pulled at Florence’s heart as she stared her brother in the face, and he squeezed her hands upon seeing the conflict in her expression. 

“I wanted to hate him,” she murmured carefully, weighing her words, “but he was so John and so not John, and I couldn’t blame him for wanting to come back to life. Plus, it’s been 56 years, or something,” Florence laughed as if she hadn’t been counting the days since she’d first met John. “It’s way past time I moved on, surely.” 

Timmy squeezed her hands again, making Florence want to cry. “What’s holding you back?” He asked. 

Florence wasn’t going to tell him that the primary reason she was still persisting in her humanity was him. 

“She’s terrifying,” Florence told him, “you’ve not met her; she experienced some of the worst of their war, was torn apart to become a weapon, tortured until she did as they commanded, and from the moment she joined school, she knew it was coming. She was a master at manipulating and twisting until the results mirrored her premonitions. I don’t know how she was able to know the future, but she seemed to know everything.” Florence shuddered, and the candlelight flickered, seemingly in sympathy. “She is terrifying. I don’t want to become her.” 

Timothy smiled, his lips twisting ruefully. She caught it as she saw the sheen of guilt in his eyes. 

“What have you seen?” She whispered, “do you…have you seen her in a premonition? Did you see her? Oh God,” she murmured, pulling her hands from her surrogate brothers. “I’m sorry, Timmy, I won’t do it, I’ll keep her locked up, safe.” 

“No, Florence.” His words were quiet, but they sent a shiver down her spine. “The Doctor returned the watch to you, didn’t he?” 

Florence automatically reached for her pocket, and pulled out the watch. It looked in as good condition as it had the last she’d seen it. The Doctor had polished the watch while he’d kept it, but it had now spent a few months in Florence’s pocket, and she absently made a mental note to polish it again. 

Timothy reached for it and, with all the care of a mother with a newborn infant, took it from her hands, old fingers caressing the watch cover. Florence watched with nervous energy, unsure why she was so worried. 

“I spoke to her a lot, as a child,” he revealed softly, but the words chilled Florence to the bone. “She introduced herself as Cece, told me about her life, and asked about you.” 

“Wait, when? How-“ the realisation was cold. “Telepathy, oh my God.” Timothy’s fingers moved to open the watch, and Florence scrambled back, jumping away from the table. “What are you doing? Do you want to kill me?” She exclaimed, voice still hushed despite the fear creeping into her voice. 

“Don’t be hysterical, Florence. She’ll only be released if you open her. I just want to show you her,” Timothy tried to reassure, finger paused over the opening button. He stared at her, brown eyes kind and warm, and Florence took a careful seat, body still tense, ready to run. 

When she didn’t jump away again, Timmy opened the watch, and his face lit up with golden light that streamed from the watch. It took Florence’s breath away from the simple alien elegance of the light tendrils, and then she felt the all encompassing presence of a Time Lord’s consciousness. 

Hello Tim, Florence, it spoke. 

“No, I can’t, I won’t, no.” Florence stood and stepped away, ignoring the disappointment coating her brother’s face. 

“Florence, please. I just want to show you what she’s really like-“ Timothy tried, but Florence shook her head, frustrated fear filling her. 

“I am her! I know what she’s like! I dream about her every fucking night, Tim!” Florence exclaimed, and Timothy frowned at her, finally tearing his eyes away from the brilliance of the golden light. “I don’t need you to show me anything.” 

I’m sorry you have to dream of me, Circe murmured, the voice like church bells and whistles of bombs at once. I know it’s not easy. 

“Stop, please,” Florence pleaded, but the Time Lady continued, unperturbed by the fear in the human. 

I need you to understand two things, and then you never need to speak to me again, she insisted, and something in her voice made Florence stop. Firstly, you are absolutely right to fear me. Secondly, there is one other out there who is much, much worse. I’ve kept him out for as long as I can, but I can’t stop him forever. One day, he will come for us, and you are the one who will bear the brunt of his anger, and for that, I am sorry. 

Florence wanted to scream, but the words seemed to mesmerise her, and she kept listening, allowing the words to be spoken. 

“Who is he?” Timothy asked, his voice worried. 

Oh Timmy, the voice murmured like a mother might, he is my husband. 

Marie died in 1978, and the entire family was there. They gathered in the front of the small church in Dorset, Timothy in a wheelchair at the end of the front pew, Arnold and Lucy (their youngest daughter) sat next along, holding hands and sitting close, taking comfort in each other after the death of their mother. Arnold and Lucy’s partners and children sat in the pew behind, the two men taking care of the five children with practised ease. Marie’s family sat on the other side of the church, and their friends sat in the remaining rows behind the families. 

Florence stood at the back of the church, face mostly covered by a large, black fascinator, hidden from view of most of the onlookers. But when Timothy looked behind him during the service, he saw her, and a fresh wave of tears started to fall. Arnold noticed and pulled him back into his side, hoping to comfort his father as his aunt might have. 

When Timothy was called up to give a speech, Arnold rolled him up the dais, to stop next to the coffin, in front of a large picture of Marie. He sat there silently for a very long moment, hard brown eyes studying the gathered family and friends, his hands shaking slightly in his lap. He wore his best black suit, with Marie’s favourite flower, a white peace lily, in the breast pocket. 

“When I first met Marie, we were so young. I was a veteran, only 5 years out of the first war, and she was a nurse, charged with caring for young veterans. She was so beautiful, that I knew I had to see her again. I pretended an old injury was flaring up, just to see her. I still think she saw right through me, but she booked me in for another appointment and I saw her four more times before she told me to either ask her out or stop wasting her time.” He smiled at her, despite how the cold image of her made him well up. “We were engaged before the end of the year, and married within two. I had only seen real love once before I met her, but I knew it the moment I saw her. And I should hope that our children, Arnold and Lucy, can confidently say they have seen that real kind of love through us. God, but she would be so proud of you two, despite how you tried her patience, and the Lord knows you tried her patience!” The families laughed, and Timothy told a few more stories of how she had shown love and kindness to all, and how she had always loved him, even after his return from the second war. He spoke of her eternal patience with him, and how she was a comfort in long, dark nights spent both in the trenches and in bed after the wars. 

“There was one more person I wanted to mention, who couldn’t be here today. My sister, Florence, as many of you might know, passed away years ago. I don’t know how many of you will remember her wedding speech, but I certainly do,” a few of his older friends laughed, and it made Timothy smile. He looked to the back of the church, to look directly at Florence. “She was the one who gave me hope in love. Without her, I wouldn’t have seen great love, and I would never have had the courage to fall in love. We may not have grown old together, Florie, but you give me strength, and Marie and I will always love you for that.” 

Florence, uncaring of who saw her, walked stiffly up the aisle, her arms crossed uncomfortably across her torso until she reached the dais. She stopped in front of the coffin and let a gloved hand graze Marie’s cool face before she knelt in front of Timothy and embraced him. They ignored the confused whispers from friends and family behind them, and wept in each others arms. When Florence stood again, she waved Arnold back to his seat and took Timothy back. She didn’t leave his side for the rest of the funeral. 

Chapter Text

Florence and Timothy returned to Farringham in 1985, with Florence posing as his carer. She left the Record Book Cafe to Alex, retaining only a portion of ownership over the cafe; she’d been in London for too long, and people had been questioning her youthful appearance for too many years. She lost contact with David purposefully as she left, desolate at the loss of their friendship but knowing she couldn’t see him again with how famous he’d become. 

Timothy and Florence inhabited the old Latimer manor, with a new host of household help, and took up residence in their old rooms. Florence hadn’t been back to live in the Farringham Estate since Joan had died, and she found several items she’d forgotten about, including the Journal of Impossible Things and a carved TARDIS paperweight. They were kept in her bedside table, close by at all times. 

Each year, Florence and Timothy attended the Remembrance Day service, their poppies pinned to their chest proudly. Having spent so many years apart, they refused to remain so. Their telepathic prowess seemed to thrive in each others’ presence, and they often had weeks where they spoke no verbal words, only communicating via their interconnected minds. It was peaceful living, and they were content for a long time. 

They celebrated the new millennium together, seated in front of the newly installed flat screen television. Timothy had wanted to visit London for the weekend, but his doctors were concerned about him travelling. Florence had insisted, as his primary carer, that they were to follow the doctors instructions, so they shared a bottle of champagne and watched the celebratory fireworks over the London Eye. Florence strongly hoped that her friends were celebrating in the cafe, with no thought to where she might've been now. 

Life went on as normal for the Latimer duo, until 31st October 2000. 

There was a knock on the door, insistent and loud, echoing through the old house like ripples of water on a still lake. Florence was in the kitchen, humming to a song by the Beatles that she couldn’t remember learning. Timothy was reading his newspaper in the lounge, the quiet drone of the television company rather than informative, his sheepdog laying across the front of his feet, far too content to bother with the knocking. Timothy instinctively reached out to Florence’s mind, the brush of his consciousness enough to inform Florence what he was communicating. She turned the gas stove to low, leaving the pot of pasta to simmer, and moved towards the entrance hall. 

When she opened the door, her jaw dropped, and she grinned widely. 

“Jack! I didn’t know you were coming over, I’d have put the kettle on,” she exclaimed, widening the door to allow him entry. 

The American time traveller looked happy to see her, even if his expression was a bit too grim to be over for a friendly visit. But he still smiled at her as he said, “Hey, Florence, it’s good to see you.” He shrugged off his long overcoat and hung it up on the coat hangers by the door.

Florence led him through to the kitchen, talking as she went. “How’ve you been? Thank you for the postcards, by the way! You’ll have to explain why you’ve been jumping all over the world to me, because I thought you were just a researcher, not a field agent.” She flicked the button on her new kettle to bring the water to boil, and prepared two mugs of tea for them. She sent a question to Timothy, and received confirmation in response. She pulled out a third mug for him. “And did they give you a partner to work with? All those secret agents seem to have a partner they work with on the telly, so surely there must be some truth to it.” 

“Florence, just-“ he tried to interrupt, but she didn’t seem to hear.

“Well, all’s been fine here. Timothy seems to be taking to his new medication well, so it seems his premonition from too many years ago will come true. And I bought a new car last week, did you see it? I left it in the driveway yesterday, but our butler likes to move it to the garage overnight. That’s probably for the best, seeing as there’s been an uptake in car theft on the news recently,” she mused. There was a nervous anxiety filling her, and she couldn’t seem to look at Jack for too long before she had to move and do something new. She pulled some smoked salmon from the fridge and some small sharing plates, placing it in front of Jack as she spoke. 

“Florence, stop!” Jack tried, his handsome ageless face frustrated and desperate. 

“Oh, and did you get my invite to Christmas dinner? I know you haven’t come for a few years, but I still want you to-,"

“Enough,” he exclaimed, and Florence came to a standstill, the kettle in her hands held aloft over the three mugs. “Please, Florence, I need your help.” 

She took a deep breath and poured three mugs of tea. Frustration crossed her features, but Jack waited patiently as she placed two mugs on the table and took the third through to Timothy. When she came back into the kitchen, she closed the door behind her. “I can’t leave him,” she stated, her expression oddly blank. “I won’t.” 

Jack’s eyebrows burrowed, and he frowned at her. “It’s not me asking,” he informed her, making her roll her eyes.

“Jack, he’s barely stable on a good day. He’s only as good as he is now because I’m here every day, reminding him what his medication is and what to take and when. He’s nearly 102 years old, for God’s sake!” Florence exclaimed, and Jack nodded, trying his best to understand her worry. 

“I’ll be here to take care of him,” Jack promised, and Florence frowned at him in confusion. “I have all his medical records already, and I’ve done this before. He’ll barely notice you’re gone except for having a more handsome caretaker,” Jack teased, and Florence groaned. 

“Why aren’t you coming? Who needs me?” She demanded, and Jack shook his head. He pulled from his pocket a black strap watch that Florence recognised as being similar to what he’d worn at their first meeting. “Why have you got that? Where are you sending me?” She demanded, but Jack frowned.

“I don’t know, but I know the person at the other end. She’ll keep you safe,” he encouraged, and Florence crossed her arms.

“No, Jack. I could end up in the middle of space! Unlike you, I actually can die,” she reminded, making Jack laugh. 

“And don’t I know it!” 

Florence frowned, studying her long-time friend. He was serious about this; whoever was at the other end of the space manipulator, or whatever it was called, really did need her help. She couldn’t imagine why someone would want her and not the Doctor, but she supposed she’d have to find out. 

“And it’ll bring me home again, too?” She asked tentatively, and Jack grinned at her. 

“If it doesn’t, I’ll come find you.” His eyes sparkled with hope, and Florence wanted to hit his pretty face. 

Florence felt Timothy brush against her mind, filled with love and acceptance and understanding. She frowned in confusion, momentarily distracted from their conversation, before Jack’s raised eyebrow caught her attention again. “When did I sign up to become a field agent for Torchwood?” She sighed in exasperation, and Jack laughed. He clasped her shoulder, grinning widely enough that his eyes creased. 

“When you see her, pass on my love, would you?” Jack asked, and Florence rolled her eyes. 

“Well, can I not stop and have a cup of tea with you before I go?” She asked hopefully. 

“No time,” Jack said ruefully, and then he was strapping the wristwatch to her wrist, and hitting a red button. 

The world keeled around Florence, and she swore she could see time flashing before her eyes as she was transported away from Earth. When the world suddenly righted itself, the colours seemed to jump out at Florence, and she bent over, trying not to gag. Her body was strongly protesting the sudden movement and just as sudden stop, and she shut her eyes to try and stop her vision blurring. 

“Circe!” A voice she didn’t recognise called, sounding as if she were quite a way off from them. Florence groaned in response, her mind trying to make some sense of the word she’d heard. Her disorientation gave time for the voice to approach, and Florence was pulled upright and into the arms of a woman she didn’t recognise, tightly coiled light brown hair filling her vision and replacing the bright colours surrounding her. The arms were tight, and Florence wondered at how muscular they felt against her back. 

“Don’t react. Don’t freak out. Everyone here knows you as Circe, but I know you’re too early for that. It’ll be okay, just go along with me for now, okay?” The voice murmured into Florence’s ear, and Florence nodded mutely before the woman pulled back. She was taller than Florence, with kind brown eyes and an open expression. Florence took a moment to glance around at their surroundings, shocked at how different the world around her felt. 

She could somehow feel the ground beneath her feet was softer than Earth’s, as if made from a different substance than the Earth’s crust. The sky was a soothing shade of lilac, with the star in the sky shining a brilliant shade of green, throwing the world around her into hues of green. She’d landed on grass, but the grass was yellow, the same consistency as Earth grass but the colour of straw. The area around them was a field of this short yellow grass, with a circle of trees holding leaves the same shade of yellow. The trunks of the trees were wavy, as if it couldn’t grow in a straight line. She could somehow feel that she'd moved forward in time, but not by much. 

“Who are you?” Florence murmured, coming back to the woman in front of her. Florence might have been disoriented, but even she could see the blatant hurt and confusion that crossed her features. 

She didn’t try to cover it, initially, and she asked, “love, have you not met me yet?” Her hand came to cup the side of Florence’s head, meaning Florence only had to shake her head minutely to get the message across. Her face dropped, what little hope she’d had obviously being squashed, before she seemed to visibly pull herself up, and her face shuttered into one of determination and-

Florence frowned. Did she just wink at her?

“Well, as first impressions go, I’m always willing to make a strong one.” She was smug, and Florence was confused, until the hand at the back of her head was pulling her in, and suddenly the mysterious woman’s lips were on hers, and Florence stood frozen as she was kissed, her eyes frozen half closed. Her lips were cool against Florence’s, and they moved ever so slightly in encouragement. They stayed there for a few seconds before the woman finally pulled back, licking her lips in smug amusement. “I’m Professor River Song, love. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

Florence reared back, a laugh leaving her slightly hysterically. She reached up to touch her lips, still staring at River Song in shock. “What the-“ Florence tried to say, but a group of people behind River Song started to make themselves known, and she had to compose herself. What had River told her? She had to pretend to be her Time Lady self: a person she actively feared and mistrusted. God, how long had it been since Florence had dreamt of Circe? 

She stood straighter and tried to school her expression from shock to cool indifference. She crossed her arms, belatedly realising that she wasn’t wearing her gloves and hating how bear her hands felt, revealed as they were to the whole world. River Song watched Florence rearrange herself with an impressed eye, putting forth an aura of invincibility and strength that she knew Florence had never used before. Florence almost looked the part, with her red hair left down and curly, falling evenly over both her shoulders, and wearing a pair of red flared jeans and a tight black vest. She wasn’t wearing shoes, just small white socks that seemed to soak in the white mud of this planet, and River had to wonder why Jack had sent her without shoes.  

The group were humanoid, from what Florence could tell, and eclectically dressed, wearing white lab coats over the most vibrant patterned dresses that Florence had ever seen. 

“Okay, where are we and why are we here?” Florence asked, and she inwardly winced at how militaristic she sounded. River, however, nodded approvingly. 

“We’re on the planet Cerberus, named after the Greek legend, yes, and I’m with a team of archaeologists investigating the disappearance of a colony of humans here, approximately 200 years ago,” River explained, moving to stand beside Florence. 

“And I’m here because…?” She prompted, causing River to wink at her. 

“Because your presence inspires me, love,” she teased, and Florence scoffed.

“Jack made it sound like it was world ending stuff,” she told her, and River sighed. 

“He’s so dramatic sometimes.” She shrugged, “but probably not wrong.” 

Then River was moving forward to speak to her team, and Florence gaped after her, momentarily slipping out of her persona. 

“River!” She hissed, but the woman’s shaking shoulders was her only response. Florence took another deep breath, trying again to find that person she had been a lifetime ago, one she remembered and didn’t. 

Florence stayed where she was, the only sign of her confusion and discomfort her wiggling toes in the grassy mud below her. Her expression remained cool, even as River brought her team over to introduce themselves. 

“Circe, this is the team. Isaac,” a young man with square glasses, “Marina,” a young woman with coiled curly hair held back by a bandana, “and Princeton,” an old man carrying three clipboards in his hands and 4 pens in the front pocket of his lab coat, “meet Circe.” River pointed to each person as she spoke, and although each team member extended their hand to be shaken, Florence stayed where she was, her blue eyes hard and cold. Despite her stern exterior, the exuberance of the archaeologists didn’t dim. 

“Circe, it is an honour to meet you!” Princeton exclaimed, gripping his clipboards hard enough that Florence feared he would snap them in two. “Really, an honour!” 

“Professor Song has told us all about you,” Marina enthused, her eyes wide and young. “I can’t believe you’re really here!” 

Isaac blushed, his cheeks turning rosy red, “I’ve grown up on stories of you, Circe, you are an incredible soldier, truly!” 

Florence didn’t let the comments affect her, although she was incredibly curious about what exactly they’d heard. 

“Right, enough chat!” River called, and the three other scientists seemed to stand to attention. “Let’s start working on finding the tomb’s entrance. You can pester the Magician later, if you must.” 

The three scientists nodded eagerly, and rushed back to their original spots, where Florence now could see they had set up a camp of sorts, with long tables of professional equipment and computers that looked far more advanced than Florence could recognise. River moved to stand next to Florence, a hand against her lower back gently encouraging her to move. Florence did, taking her first step on foreign soil. The thought of it thrilled and terrified her, but she couldn’t let it show. 

“The Magician?” Florence murmured as they slowly walked towards the camp. 

River laughed, “ah, Circe was a magician in Ancient Greek mythology, wasn’t she? You chose Circe to be your name, but your superiors made your title the Magician. It gives you a certain element of mystery, I think,” River smiled at her, and Florence frowned. She hadn’t heard the title in her dreams, but maybe that was because she was protecting herself. 

“It sounds like a joke,” Florence sighed, pursed her lips, and looking around the yellow field. “Any chance you have any spare shoes around by the way? I didn’t have a chance before Jack zapped me into the future,” she waved her wrist at River, who laughed and nodded. 

“I’m sure we can find you something.” 

Florence hated the sand shoes she’d been given, but she supposed it would be better than traipsing around a tomb in only socks. 

“What’s in the tomb?” Florence asked the three scientists ahead of her, who appeared surprised to be addressed. Florence had to wonder just what they had heard of her Time Lord self. 

“I believe it could be the remaining survivors of whatever took out this planet, hiding away for the last few years to wait out a plague, maybe,” Isaac offered, but Marina scoffed. “What, like your theory is any better?” He challenged. 

Marina laughed, the sound hard. “Mine is so much better. Whatever took out the planet, it wasn’t a plague. There are no signs of mass graves or distress signals sent.” Marina stuck her tongue out for a moment at Isaac, who reciprocated the movement. Florence frowned, shocked by the lack of professionalism. 

“Students,” River snapped, and suddenly it made sense, “enough. What was your theory, Marina?” 

Suitably chastised, Marina said, “well, the planet appears healthy now, but what if they had a global weather crisis, like the human’s planet Earth had however long ago? And it forced them all to go underground until the planet fixed itself?” 

“There’s been no signs of a climate crisis, though. I mean, a couple years ago, a group of explorers also came here and mysteriously disappeared, but their logs came back that the planet appeared much the same as it does now. That doesn’t speak to a climate crisis,” Princeton argued. 

Florence turned to the older man, tilting her head slightly. “So what do you think?” 

Princeton blushed at her gaze, but said, “well, that’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it? What’s the point in theorising when we can find out the truth?” 

River laughed, but Florence nodded. “Have we got the equipment to start exploring?” She asked River, who nodded, her eyes alight with excitement. “Then let’s get going.” 

Florence gripped the straps of her backpack tightly, partly in fear and partly in excitement. River had thrown her a pack filled with emergency food, bedding and extra clothes, as well as a first aid kit and two pistols. Florence kept the pistols at the top of the pack. She didn’t know what they might encounter down there, and it was better to be prepared. 

Isaac had finished scanning the area directly below them, showcasing an elaborate maze of tunnels, with the entrance about a mile away from their camp, towards the east. He then proceeded to collapse all the technological equipment into a briefcase, something that impressed Florence immensely, and stored it away in his tent. 

“So no one can steal our findings,” He explained to Florence, who nodded as if she’d already ascertained that. In truth, she was more confused about why anyone would come down to steal their belongings if the planet was supposedly abandoned. 

Once the camp had been locked down, Florence and River took the lead, walking with purpose towards the centre of the field, about a mile out from the camp. Marina, Isaac and Princeton were talking quietly behind them about a subject they’d studied together, with terms that flew over Florence’s head. 

River kept glancing at her from the side of her eyes, and Florence sighed. “Ask,” she told her. 

River smirked a little, a flash of recognition coming into her expression. “Is this really the first time you’ve met me?” She asked, and Florence nodded. “It’s so weird to see you so young,” she mused, making Florence laugh. 

“And yet I’m at least one hundred years old.” She pursed her lips, eyes gazing out to the golden leaves swaying in the mild breeze. It wasn’t cool, but the green sunlight seemed to be cooler than Earth’s, so the walk wasn’t overly warm. “River, how do you know me?” Florence forced herself to ask, and River just smirked, full of sadness and anticipation. 

“Spoilers,” her voice was low, caressing Florence like a lover would, and she shivered at how the word created a sense of foreboding in her heart. 

“Why do I get the feeling I hate that word?” She murmured, but River heard her and laughed. 

“Trust me, you and the Doctor despise it,” River promised, a wealth of knowledge spinning behind her eyes. Florence eyed her suspiciously. 

“Ah ha, you do know the Doctor,” she said, glad she’d been correct in her suspicions. 

“Oh love, I know the Doctor,” she smirked, “we go way back.” 

Florence didn’t like the way she’d said that, but she had no idea why.

“Well, how did you meet the Doctor? And you know…well, the Other me. Who are you? How do you know that I’m not her? How do you know me?” Florence glanced back to make sure the three students weren’t overbearing their conversation, but there was no risk of that as they enthusiastically gestured to different plant life they could see around them. 

River sighed, “oh, Florence, haven’t you figured it out yet?” 

Florence laughed, “hello, I’m basically just a geriatric in a young person’s body. Don’t let my pretty face fool you; it took me 6 months to learn how to use those new Nokia phones we had come out.” Florence grinned, her words making River laugh too. “So, tell me, how did you meet the Doctor? Was he as harebrained as he is now?” 

River smiled, her eyes filled with what Florence could only identify as tragedy, “more than you could imagine.” 

Before Florence could pry much more, unknowingly opening a wound that was soul deep, Isaac jumped beside her, speaking a mile a minute, “I think the tunnels converge just up ahead! This is so wildly exciting, I can’t believe that I get to go on an expedition with Professor Song and the Magician,” he was slightly breathless, even as he ruffled through a series of paper maps in his hand, wrinkling more than a few pages. “We should be coming upon some kind of opening, or stone doorway soon.” 

“Isaac, your navigation must be wrong,” Marina criticised, “there’s no doorway or stairway for miles!” 

Marina spoke truly. The yellow grass seemed to stretch onwards for miles, and they were no closer to the circle of wavy trees than they had been before. In fact, if Florence stared at them, they seemed to have gotten further away from them, despite walking in a straight line. 

River held her hand out expectantly, “let me have a look.” Her tone was frustrated, and it caused a coil of worry to twist Florence’s insides. The green sunlight started to appear less fresh and more disorienting the more Florence worried.

Isaac handed over the papers, and River tutted in disapproval at the state of them. She took a moment to order them correctly, and then spent a long moment staring at the first page. Florence frowned at the circular passages, intermixed with straight lines. They seemed to form…something familiar. Her hand reached for her pocket watch, safely ensconced in her jean pocket. River shuffled through the pages, showing more circular passageways, occasionally intercepted by a straight one in bizarre combinations that Florence couldn’t make sense of. 

On instinct, one that Florence didn’t recognise as her own, she took the papers from River, ignoring the woman’s protests. She held them together and lifted them to the sky, so that the paper would become more translucent and allow the maps to be seen as one. The three students stood watching in fascination, and the scientists gathered behind her to watch as the maps of the underground passageways formed a circle, with lines and dots along the outermost circle. 

River frowned, recognising the language. “That’s…that’s High Gallifreyan,” she muttered in shock, her pretty brown eyes wide as she read the word. 

“What does it say?” Marina whispered, recognising the language name, but not remembering how it was produced. 

“Koschei,” River said, audibly confused. “Circe, do you-“ 

Florence had frozen, her fingers crinkling the papers she held up. The word had sent a violent shiver down her spine, and rocked her to her core. She knew that name, knew to fear it. But what was it? 

River was calling her name, she realised. Not her name, but her name. 

“Circe, what’s wrong? Please, whatever it is, we can still stop it,” River exclaimed, gripping Florence’s shoulder. 

Flashes of a life she hadn’t lived came to her: falling in love with a man who claimed to love her, who had been obsessed with her since the Academy; marrying him out of fear and love; the first strike; the manipulation; the threats; the Council-

“We have to get out of here,” Florence finally managed to get out. “This planet needs to be abandoned, left to rot. We can’t let him out.” She didn’t realise her breaths were coming in pants, but she gripped River’s hand and pulled her back the way they’d come. 

They’d only walked a mile: shouldn’t they still be able to see the campsite? 

“Okay, excavation is abandoned. Students, let’s make our way off planet,” River instructed, and Isaac and Marina started to panic. 

Florence’s heart was beating hard in her chest when they heard the sound of stone scraping across stone behind them. A slow clap echoed through the clearing, and Florence felt his seemingly omnipotent mind overcoming her own easily. 

“Oh, but that was too easy!” His voice called, scolding and mocking and disappointed and thrilled, all at the same time. “We used to play games like this all the time, Circe, don’t you remember?” Florence couldn’t turn to face him, absolute terror filling her. River’s hand was the only thing she could focus on, her fingers delicately pressing in a persistent pattern, spelling something out. Did River know morse code? Did Florence even remember it? 

Cold terror flooded Florence as she realised River was spelling, ‘go’. 

“Hello, darling,” Florence managed to force out, desperately trying to maintain her persona. She had to trick him, trick the man who must’ve known her inside and out. How the hell was she supposed to trick him? She lowered the papers, still refusing to look at him. 

There were footsteps from behind them, and they were encircled by people, carrying weapons aimed at their group. River cursed, muttering to Florence, “you idiot,” before she pulled out her own pistol. There was almost no use aiming it, however, as there were armed threats in every direction they looked. River kept her head on a swivel, but locked her aim onto the biggest threat. 

He laughed, his dark eyes alight with amusement. When he clapped his hands once more, the armed circle of people lowered their weapons, but there was still a clear threat of being shot. 

“We’re not here to harm,” River said, her voice high with worry. “We’re archaeologists!” 

The students nodded quickly, their hands already high in the air, but the leader just laughed again. Florence wanted to rip his voice out from his throat and watch him squirm. 

She took a sharp in breath as she registered the violence in that thought. What had he done to her to warrant that level of rage? 

Her mind cast back to the only time Circe had spoken to her, when she’d been warned of a man who would want to hurt her, and she briefly hoped, despite the improbability, that this wasn’t that man. She hadn’t even said goodbye to Timothy. 

“Archaeologists who brought the strongest weapon in all of Time to protect them, that sounds sensible,” he snapped, and suddenly two of the armed people were on either side of Florence, gripping onto her arms with a bruising strength. Florence didn’t resist, despite absently hearing how River protested vehemently on her behalf. They dragged her, uncaring if her feet were firmly on the ground or if she was pulled by her hair, to face the man she didn’t want to see. The pocket watch burned in her pocket, likely burning her skin if she wasn’t so numb from fear. 

They stopped just in front of him, and she frowned down at his black leather shoes, stubbornly keeping her gaze there until his crushing fingers yanked her chin up, forcing her to finally meet his gaze. 

He looked normal, to Florence’s surprise. She’d been assuming that her memory of him must mean he would appear to be some kind of monster, but he was almost handsome. His hair was white blond, buzzed short, and his blue eyes almost would have been nice to look at, if they hadn’t been so openly insane. Looking into his eyes, she could almost hear something, echoing through her own head. A pattern, a beat, a-

“Circe,” he tutted, “it’s been far too long.” He leant in close, so that she could feel his breath fanning across her skin. “How did you escape? Huh?” 

“Koschei,” she muttered, realisation hitting her far too late. That was his name. 

“But…you’re not Circe,” he murmured, his insane blue eyes lighting up in excitement. “You’re not even Time Lord, not any more!” The words shot across the group like lightning bolts striking the ground. 

River interrupted, “don’t you dare hurt her!” She shouted the words, and the priming of the pistol in her hand echoed across the land. 

“Shut her up,” he yelled, and Florence heard River’s cry of pain followed by a small thud, and the shouts of panic from the three students. “That’s better,” he looked back to Florence, smiling. “You made yourself a stupid, fallible human.” His words were smug, and Florence hated him. 

As many humans had done in the past, to their detriment every time, she spat at him, the ball of spit landing squarely on his cheek. He recoiled as if someone had slapped him, and Florence smirked as if she had. The two guards holding her gripped her tighter, as if that could stop her from doing it again. The rage that flew across his face was worth it, though, as he wiped his cheek with a disgusted noise. 

“So…much…less.” The words were slow, annunciated and pointed and meant to hurt. “How long have you been an ape, then?” He asked, hiding the rage behind casual indifference, but Florence could feel the watch burning into her skin now, and through the contact, Florence somehow was able to respond in a semi-cohesive way. 

“Long enough to have picked up a few tricks,” she ground out, and he laughed. 

Memories flashed before her eyes of the numerous times she’d done this before with him. This song and dance was his bread and butter, and he’d made it Florence’s too. Flashes of his faces in varying states of laughter, amused by her misery. It seemed she’d rarely won these games. Florence refused to let this follow a similar path. 

“Take those two under,” he commanded, “leave the humans with me.” 

Florence was dragged once more, down the ramp he’d risen from, into the darkness of the tomb they’d been searching for. River, unconscious, was hauled onto someone’s shoulder and taken down with her. 

Chapter Text

The tunnels were dark, and each breath she took felt thick, like the air was filled with fear. Florence certainly was, despite the fact she’d been sat there for three hours, River’s head carefully cradled in her lap. She tenderly caressed her hair from her forehead once more, waiting hopefully for the woman to awaken. Resting a hand against the woman’s cheek, she wondered if she was okay. Florence wished, not for the first time, that first aid had been a skill she’d picked up in her many years of life. 

Her watch had cooled down once the door they’d been forced behind had slammed shut, but Florence could feel her thigh throbbing. She would have a perfectly circular burn scar by the end of this, when she made it out. 

If she made it out. 

The room was lit by one electric lamp, hanging far above her head even when standing, and it barely provided enough light to see the walls from the centre of the room, but from what Florence could see, they were painted with tribal-style drawings. She hadn’t been able to make out what they depicted yet, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Her backpack had been taken, along with the two pistols. She didn’t think she’d see them again. 

The stone door slid open by an unseen mechanism, and Marina, Isaac and Princeton stumbled in one after the other, pushed by an unseen hand. All three of them looked dazed and confused until they saw Florence. Foreboding filled Florence as she watched their faces slacken into blank nothingness. 

“He is a God,” Marina said, her worship filled voice contrasting her empty face. 

“He controls everything,” Isaac mirrored her expression and tone, but he pulled a knife from his jacket and held it in front of him threateningly. 

“Even you, Florence.” Princeton’s eyes pierced her, a warning glint in his eyes the only sign of what was to come. He stood differently to the other two students, not quite an entirely blank slate to be written on. 

Florence stood, carefully placing River’s head on the floor and moving to stand in front of her. She held her hands out, palms open. “Okay, I understand that. Just put the knife down, and let’s talk about it, yeah?” Florence negotiated, but Isaac twitched, lashing out at her hand. She hissed as his strike landed, the tip of the knife swiping across the palm of her right hand. She clenched it shut, trying to ignore the sudden burning pain and stemming the sudden flow of blood. Princeton didn’t move, even as Marina and Isaac shifted into a fighting stance. 

“You won’t understand until you hear it,” Isaac insisted, his eyes turning almost cloudy as he recalled it. “The most beautiful sound in the world.”

The words made Florence recall what she’d almost heard above ground, the beat, the drum-

“We do this for him, the bringer of the drums,” Marina finished. 

Instead of leaping forward to attack her, Marina and Isaac turned to each other. Before Florence could react, Isaac had sliced open both of his wrists, deep cuts that instantly welled up with blood, and Marina was doing the same. She held the knife out for Princeton, who didn’t take it, but appeared to be standing absolutely still, as if fighting something within himself. 

Florence took the knife from Marina, throwing it behind her in her panic as she grabbed Isaac’s wrists, trying to stem the bleeding. But Marina was bleeding too, and Isaac was bleeding through her hands. 

“Oh my god, River!” She cried out, breath coming fast and panicked. River remained unconscious behind her, and Princeton kept stood still. “Marina, please! Use your coat, stop the bleeding!” 

“We die for him gladly,” Marina said, unconcerned. “He will be pleased with our deaths.” 

Isaac smiled at Florence, his eyes bloodthirsty. “You can’t stop this, and you can’t stop him. He is inevitable, and you will learn this once more.” 

Marina’s knees suddenly gave out, and Florence released Isaac to help lower Marina safely to the floor, trying to stem her bleeding too. 

“Please, no, I don’t know how to save you!” Florence cried, feeling hot tears falling down her cheeks. They landed on her pale freckled hands as she knelt over Marina, the other woman’s dark skin turning ashen as she died. 

Just as Marina was about to slip into unconsciousness, awareness came back to her, and she gasped in pain and fear, and her gaze turned accusatory to Florence, before the life faded, and Marina died. 

“I was going to take her to the ball next week,” Isaac murmured above Florence, before he too collapsed. Florence caught him as he fell, and lowered him to the ground. “Kill the bastard,” he growled, before he, too, passed on. 

Florence sobbed, fear and panic gripping her as she desperately put her head against Isaac’s chest, trying to listen for a heartbeat against the pounding in her head. It was fading, and fast, and Florence knew that she wouldn’t be able to stem the bleeding before his heart stopped. 

Her hands were slick with blood, and she sobbed as she sat upright again, looking up to find Princeton standing still, hands shaking. She wiped her hands on her red jeans and shakily stood. 

“Princeton, wasn’t it? Are you okay? How can I help?” She murmured, placing a partly clean hand on his shoulder. He flinched back, and Florence froze. 

“I can’t hold it back for long,” he ground out, visibly straining with the effort. “The people here-“ 

“Take it easy, we’re going to get you out, okay?” Florence murmured, but he shook his head. 

“No!” He exclaimed, “no, you won’t. This was a trap for you, to lure you here. He knew you’d come, somehow. So he arrived here one year ago, and set himself up as the world leader. Within 6 months, he had decimated half of the world population through mind control. They became his cult, and he took inspiration from human suicide pacts. Claimed you would love them.” 

Florence shivered. “How can I help you?” 

“You can’t, unless you can overwrite mind control,” he joked, but Florence nodded swiftly. 

“Maybe!” She exclaimed, breathlessly hopeful. “I might be able to, I have some…abilities!” 

Princeton gave a humourless smile, trying not to lift his hope too much. “At this point, I just want to get back to see my kids,” he joked, but there seemed to be a wave of compulsion that had his face going red with the effort to not move. His eyes whirled around in his head, trying to find something. They finally landed on the knife, and he squeezed his eyes closed. “Okay, yes, do it,” he commanded. 

Florence grimaced, seeing the barely contained rage within his eyes, but held a hand up to his temple, gently placing a finger on it. She was being led by instincts here, and possibly also by the burning watch in her pocket, as she closed her eyes and opened her mind to his. 

She tried to, at least. Where a mind was usually bright and bubbling with information and activity, with smooth transitions of neurones firing electrical signals across the brain, she found instead a battleground, filled with the overpowering sound of a drum, hammering out four beats relentlessly. It made Florence want to retreat, but now that she’d heard it, it drew her in, dragging her into the centre of the battlefield. 

It was obvious that Princeton was losing to the drums, as it caused his defences to attack himself instead of the attackers and distracted him from effectively fighting back. Florence barely noticed herself mouthing to the beat, “one, two, three, four,” even as she struggled through the mind of the old man. 

She went untouched by both sides, and instinct told Florence that it wasn’t necessarily a good thing. It felt too easy to find the inputted code that didn’t match Princeton’s natural electric signals, but she realised that she wouldn’t be able to uproot it without giving it somewhere to go. 

Indecision coiled inside her as she realised there were two options. 

Her mind was supposed to be pretty strong, right? Extra synaptic enneagram or something? Maybe she’d have more luck fighting this than Princeton had. 

Or maybe she’d succumb and kill herself in the name of the man she hated. 

She wrenched her hand off of Princeton’s temple, pulling herself from his mind. She stared at him, fear filling her as she caught his hopeful gaze. 

“Did you find it? Can you do it? Can you help me?” He asked, and Florence bit her lip, unsure what to say. 

River groaned behind them, just waking up from her time spent knocked unconscious. 

Either she helped the man in front of her, and potentially killed herself, or she would have to watch him kill himself, knowing that she could have done something to save him. Deep inside her, Florence knew what her past self would have chosen: she would have kept herself safe; turned a blind eye and ignored the guilt because she was safe, because she had to stay safe to best follow her orders. 

Florence didn’t want to be that person. 

“Try to stay still,” Florence murmured, raising her fingers again to his temple. 

“What are you doing?” River asked, her voice filled with fear as she registered their surroundings. “Circe-Florence, stop! You don’t have to do this!” She yelled, and Florence shook her head and did it anyway. 

She pulled away that little electrical signal that was foreign to Princeton, and it leapt into her mind with joy. She felt a jolt go through her as her body thrummed with excitement, feeling the four drum beats echoing through her very being, from the end of time reaching to grip at her being. There was a sense of being victorious, and she realised that it was his.

River pulled Florence back, yanking her hand away from Princeton, but the damage had already been done. Florence yelled, pulling herself away from River, holding her head between her hands and backing into the corner of the room. Her head felt like it was splitting itself in two. She wasn’t sure what the drumming was doing to her, but it was agony, and she was fighting. 

“Florence, I can help,” River tried to approach, but Florence just screamed at her, the sound ripped from her throat in an instinctive, animalistic manner. Her eyes welled up with tears, and Florence frantically tore at her wrist, ignoring her bleeding hand to rip off the watch Jack had given her. 

“Get out of here,” Florence groaned, throwing the watch towards Princeton and River. 

“I won’t leave you-“ River tried to say, and Florence shook her head, stilling her movements to look at River.

As Florence spoke, realisation filled River, and her expression gradually grew more horrified. “He’s in my head. The Master is in my fucking head, River! Get the fuck OUT OF HERE!” Florence screamed.

“I promise you, Florence, you don’t die here! Not here, not now!” River yelled back, but she put the watch on, the straps wet with blood, her hands shaking in fear, and she and Princeton disappeared in a flash just as the stone door slid open. 

River landed in Farringham, on 31st October 2000, outside the Latimer manor. She collapsed, and Princeton fell with her, relieved to have escaped. The ground felt solid beneath her hands and feet, and she tore into the immaculate grass, ripping it up with her nails in anger. 

Jack appeared in the doorway, a smug smile on his face as he said, “see? Back before-“ his face dropped, and fear filled it. “Where is she?” He ran towards them, fear now flickering in his expression. “River, where the fuck is she?” 

River yelled back, “with HIM, but you can’t know who he is yet because everyone is so fucking young!” She tore at her hair with her hands, eyes filled with tears as she tried to think of a solution. ”I can’t talk to you, I need-I need him to come and get me.” 

“River, where is she?” Jack stepped forward threateningly. “I promised no harm would come to her, now where is she?” 

“With her husband,” River spat bitterly, rising to her feet. Princeton looked between them, lost and so grateful to be alive. “With a man who hates her Time Lord self so much that he will torture her as a human to try and draw out the Time Lord. With a man who will never let her go. With a man who will ruin the woman you knew. And we did this to her. This is our fault, Jack Harkness. When you see her in 2007, remember that. Remember exactly who put her there.” River pulled out her phone, dialling a number that Jack couldn’t see. She gave him one final look, poking his chest aggressively. “You won’t see any sign of her until 2006, and she’ll be untouchable. So you better take care of her brother.” 

She turned from him, and Jack reeled backwards from the strength of her jab, fear and worry filling him. “But it was supposed to be an exploration job! Nothing major!” Jack defended, following River. Princeton came along too, following at the heels of the woman who’d aided his escape. “You were supposed to keep her safe!” 

River ignored him, said something in a language he didn’t recognise through the phone, and they immediately recognised the sound of the TARDIS landing. River sighed in relief, but the fear and tears were still very present on her face. “This is a TARDIS from your future, so you can’t follow,” River snapped, knowing how Jack had been waiting for the Doctor to come pick him up from where he’d been dumped. The words hurt, knowing his freedom was so close, but Jack took a deep breath and stepped away, nodding stiffly. 

“P-professor Song?” Princeton spoke up, and River’s spine stiffened. Jack recognised it as rage and backed away. 

“If you hadn’t been so useless, Florence wouldn’t have had to make that decision. You have just damned the God you so adore to years of suffering, do you know that?” River snapped, her eyes honing in on the old man. He flinched, wincing in understanding. “She will be tortured for years, all because you put her in that situation!” 

“She saved my life, she will be praised as a martyr on my home world: she will be beyond Godhood. I just-" he paused in his passionate religious tirade, his zealous expression dropping, "how can I get home?” 

The TARDIS landed in front of them, and the door opened partially. A pretty, brunette woman stood there with a kind smile on her face. Jack didn’t recognise her, but River obviously did. 

“Come along, Princeton, we’ll get you home.” Her words were softly spoken, as if he were a spooked animal. “River doesn’t mean to blame anyone, do you?” She looked at River, eyes darkening slightly in warning. River shook her head ever so slightly, and the woman frowned. “You’ll like this, Princeton, come inside.” She held the door open, and the old man walked inside. Jack, with his heart in his throat, heard his exclamations of wonder, along with a voice that rambled too much to be anything other than the Doctor, except he sounded Scottish. Which meant it wasn't the Doctor that Jack was waiting for. 

The brunette woman turned to Jack then. “I’m sorry that we can’t bring you, Jack. It’s not because I don’t want you, but because we have to preserve the timelines.” 

“Are-are you,” Jack tried to ask, but she shook her head, smile soft and understanding. 

“Timelines,” she whispered, and Jack smiled despite his frustration. Without answering him, she’d answered his question. 

River stood to the side, her arms crossed and her face a combination of fury and guilt. The woman grabbed her hand, tugging her arms apart as she pulled her into the TARDIS. 

The Doctor, his black suit and coattails flying about as he ran around the central metal console, was talking rapidly to Princeton, who was still in shock over the size of the central room, sat on the designated passenger seat. The TARDIS started shaking, and the brunette woman went over to the console to lean on the metal railing next to Princeton, placing a comforting hand on his arm. River stood, reluctant, next to the door. She watched silently as the Doctor landed, laughing to some joke Princeton had made as he came out of his shock. They landed with a bump, River instinctively moving with it so as not to fall, and Princeton was outside and back with his family before River was able to snap herself out of her funk. 

“She didn’t even comment on your driving. I’d call that restraint,” the woman commented, closing the TARDIS door softly and leaning against it. The Doctor rolled his eyes, flicking a lever down with uncaring disinterest. 

“I’d call it shock,” he said as he set the TARDIS to float through the vortex, to avoid being contacted by anyone. “River, it-“ 

“It’s all my fault,” she murmured, and the Doctor just raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to continue. She looked between them, her gaze filled with guilt. Neither said anything, waiting for her to continue. “I’m the one who told Jack to bring her, I should have scanned the planet properly, I should have stopped her-“

“River, stop,” the woman grabbed her hands and forced her to face her. “Look at me.” She reached out to touch River’s cheek, the woman leaning into the hand unconsciously. “She’s okay, now, I promise.” 

The Doctor grunted in agreement, watching them. “You can’t blame yourself for this. He’s the one who hurt her, not you. He planned it all out,” he comforted. River just shook her head, looking away. She couldn’t stand to look into those green eyes, so different and yet so filled with care. 

“I could’ve done more to protect her,” River insisted.

“Maybe,” the woman replied, and then she grasped the Doctor’s hand tenderly in her own, bringing it to her lips as she glanced at his older face, seeing the newly familiar grumpiness fading into affection, “but then we wouldn’t have what we have now.” 

River glanced at them, frowning. “How are you not furious with me?” 

Circe shrugged. “It’s been centuries, and I was a different woman then. Not that you need it, but I forgive you, River Song.” Circe smirked in mischief before she grabbed River’s hand and span her unexpectedly in a twirl, landing her in her arms. “Now, I believe you’re due for a trip away? How does the opera sound, dear? Mozart's first performance in space?” Circe asked, even as the Doctor moved away from the two women, already setting the TARDIS into motion. 

“And this time, don’t leave the brakes on!” River scolded, making Circe laugh and the Doctor scowl, even as he did as she said. 

Her body was stiff and aching, back of her head throbbing as she cracked open her eyes. They were sore, like she’d cried a lot before she’d fallen asleep. 

Had she? 

Her surroundings were lush, a royal blue bedsheet beneath her, with plush white carpet and wallpaper on all sides. There was a lavish dresser opposite her, with an opulent mirror showing her own sleepy face back at her. She blinked in mild surprise at the image. Her red hair fell neatly over her shoulder, but it was shorter than she remembered. 

A sound behind her caused her to still, and she froze in panic. Barely daring to breathe, she rolled over and had to muffle a yell at the sight of a man in the bed with her. He had blond hair and a round face. She didn’t recognise him. 

As silently as she could, she crept out of the bed, watching the stranger carefully. Someone had dressed her in silk pyjamas, and she tried to ignore the shiver of disgust that ran down her spine at the thought. She backed into a door, and turned to twist the handle. 

It was locked. 

A sharp spike of fear rose as swiftly as it dissipated, and the man on the bed spoke. 

“Going somewhere, doll face?” He asked, and Florence wondered why she’d been so afraid. 

“Oh, no, I was just being silly,” she said the forced words casually, but inside, she couldn’t collate what she was experiencing with what she thought was true. Turning back to the bed, her husband was now sat up, lips turned up into that playful smirk she remembered falling in love with. 

“Come back to bed, then, silly girl,” he insisted. 

“Of course, Harold.” 

Florence’s movement were languid, but inside she was peacefully panicked. A layer of relaxation was smothering every other emotion she could have. She couldn’t even try to make herself feel anything but at ease. 

“What brought you out of bed?” His eyes glimmered with a knowing shimmer that Florence both saw and ignored. 

“It was just that…for a moment, I was sure I didn’t know you!” She laughed, and she felt a tear slip out of her eye. She frowned, but before she could wipe it away, Harold, her husband, touched her cheek, feeling the wetness. 

“You always did have powerful telepathic abilities,” he murmured, looking at the salty liquid at the end of his fingertip. 

Whatever held her snapped, and Florence leapt out of bed once more, heart hammering in her chest, hands fruitlessly running along her pockets to her usual body bag that kept her fob watch. In a sudden wave of memory, the events of her adventure off planet returned to her, and she watched as the man in front of her laughed, his smirk turning cruel while her mind absorbed the new information. 

She’d saved a man’s life, and as a reward, the Master-Koschei, Harold Saxon-had access to her mind, able to rewrite her perception of reality at his will. Her breath came quicker as panic filled her, and she tried desperately not to cry. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he was in front of her, his hands cupping her cheeks tenderly. “It’s all going to be okay now. I’ve got you, now. You don’t have to be alone while I’m here,” and he pulled her into his arms as she sobbed, skin shivering in fear even as he soothed her. “You’ll never want for anything again, and I’ll keep you safe from that nasty Doctor, alright?” 

She felt his words manipulating her mind, how the drumming called to her to believe everything he said. His words worked into her psyche until they were her truth, and whatever she had known before was forgotten. 

“See? Now, remember, in public, you’ll call me Harold Saxon, but when it’s just us, you call me the Master. Understood?” His smile turned into a grin when she nodded, and he squeezed her shoulders almost to the point of bruising, as a reminder of what he could inflict if the effect of his words slipped away. 

Chapter Text

The most confusing months of Florence’s life passed by, as she was moved to different locations across the United Kingdom, carted along like some trophy or medal to show off to the general public. By day, Florence was the perfect wife, smiling and answering questions politely as her husband charmed the nation, and by night, she was locked in her bedroom, either forced into a sleep where all her dreams were memories of her life as a Time Lord or kept awake forcibly by the Master as he tormented her about her inability to do anything. She hadn’t seen her fob watch since he’d captured her, and any attempt to find it was futile, leading only to further punishments, but she knew he kept it close. Her dreams followed her across the country, and she knew that her dreams only occurred when the watch was near. She treasured each dream when it came. It was the only aspect of her reality that she knew was real, unaffected by the Master’s manipulation of her psyche. 

Along the way, the Master picked up Lucy Cole, a young woman whom was insistent on wooing him. Florence had to pretend not to notice during the day, but, in the hours between the public eye and night falling, she had to watch as Lucy inserted herself into the Master’s life, knowingly hurting Florence. Despite Harold Saxon’s obvious mistress, the general public’s opinion of him was sky high, and Florence could only watch as his words worked their way into the hearts of every person in the UK; even the Scottish seemed likely to vote for him in the next General Election. 

After their last public event in Edinburgh, Florence, Lucy, and Harold were ushered into the blacked out car awaiting them, and taken back to their hotel. Florence carefully tugged on her gloves, keeping the fabric up as she steadfastly ignored the two sat opposite her, giggling and laughing and making noises she strictly wouldn’t think about. She stared out of the window, mind disappearing into her latest dream. 

It was the youngest she’d ever seen her Time Lord self, by human estimation she would’ve assumed herself to be 10 years old. She was tanned, with straight black hair and brown eyes, and she held herself tall despite her short stature, as if she wanted to grow to be equal to those around her. The school was dark around her, and she was creeping through hallways, frowning around each other. 

The sudden cry of an unknown animal surprised her, and she jumped, looking around the hallways in fear. What if she’d been caught? There was no way her professors would tolerate a student creeping around corridors at night, regardless of her reasons, of who she was. She pushed her back into a darkened corner, waiting to hear the cry again. Maybe she could identify it and discover if it was a tracking animal meant to find students out of bed. She’d heard rumours that the professors occasionally released a portheus in the corridors if they suspected a student to be out of bed, trained in tracking down errant children and dragging them into the staff room to await punishment. 

The cry came again, and she frowned, hearing someone shush it. It didn’t sound like a portheus…

She peered her head out of her shadow, and saw another student, certainly not older than her, carrying a fluffy grey creature. She frowned at it. 

“Well that’s not a portheus,” she muttered, confused. And why would a teacher send a portheus around with a student, anyhow? Confident she hadn’t yet been discovered by a teacher, she observed the other student. 

The creature cried out again, and the boy shushed it desperately. “No, please! I’ll get you out of here, but we can’t be found!” 

She couldn’t help herself. The boy was obviously younger than she, so she had to make sure he abided by the rules. She stepped out from the shadows, a stern frown on her face. 

“And what are you doing out of your room?” She tried to sound stern, like her mother used to, but she worried that she just sounded young. 

The boy jumped, and in his fright, he dropped the creature, who squawked in protest and ran down the corridor. “Oh, no, Flux, come back!” He whispered, but he glanced to her. “We can’t let her get into a teacher’s room!” 

She frowned, putting her hands on her hips. She’d seen her sister do that to intimidate others, but the boy just groaned at her and ran the other way, after the creature. 

“Oi!” She whispered after him, her sound carrying in the near silent school. “You can’t let pets run around school like this!” She ran after him, keep him in her sights at all time. 

“I’m not letting anything!” The boy protested. 

He scurried after the pet, who was surprisingly fast with 6 legs to assist it, and she hurried after him, wondering how he’d gotten a pet into the school in the first place.

“I don’t even think we’re allowed pets here!” She whispered angrily, gradually catching up to him. She knew these corridors well enough by now, and she could see the way the pet was going that they’d be able to corner it. “Take the right corridor, then go left! We can corner it by the constellation classrooms!” She commanded, and she didn’t wait for him to listen. She rushed off, speeding up to chase the pet into the correct corner. 

He did listen, veering off at the corridor she’d told him, and she pushed her bare feet harder, skin slapping against the floor. She panted for breath, but kept going. She wouldn’t get in trouble for this kid’s pet. 

The creature did as she predicted it would, following the straight path until it cut to the right, where the boy was waiting for it with open arms. As if it had been running for him, it leapt into his arms, whimpering and shivering and nuzzling into the boy’s arms. 

“It’s okay, Flux. I’m here,” he murmured, stroking the 6 legged creature.

She finally caught a look of the creature’s face as it glanced back to her, and she gasped. “You brought a flubble to school?” She exclaimed, and he winced. “But it’s their mating season now, they need to be in an enclosure with their own kind!” 

He rolled his eyes at her, turning away. “Thank you, I’m aware of that now,” he sassed, walking back down the corridor he came from. “I was just taking her outside, I thought I’d let her out for the night.” 

She shook her head, sighing in exasperation. “Do you know nothing? Flubbles can’t be let out in the Citadel!” She exclaimed, and she rushed forward when he refused to look at her. “It’ll be killed!” She yelled, and that made him stop. She stopped next to him, breathing heavily. He finally looked at her.

“Where can I take her to stop her crying then?” He asked, and she smiled, slightly smug. 

“There’s breeding containers here in the academy,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’ve been learning about them all week.” 

It didn’t take much convincing after that, and she was able to take it to the native animal section of the biology wing of the academy. Along the way, they started talking more freely, and she learnt that he had only been at the academy for a few months, and he was lonely. That was why he’d brought the flubble in from an excursion, so he could have someone to talk to. She’d pursed her lips at that, and claimed, “that’s not an excuse. We’re not allowed pets on school grounds.” 

To which he’d replied, “well I know that, thank you miss rule spouter!” 

She’d stuck her tongue out at him, and he’d blown a raspberry at her, and the flubble had made another mating call between them. 

“My name’s Theta, by the way,” he said as she held open the door to the native animal laboratory. The room was divided into three, with different observatories situated within the three sections. 

She showed him to the flubble observatory as she replied, “my name’s Magna.” 

Theta smiled at her before Magna lifted the lid off the observatory seeing three other flubble’s immediately underneath the hatch. She nodded at him, and he carefully whispered something to the pet before lowering her into the cage. Magna closed the lid the moment he was clear of it, and she grinned at him and their success. 

“Will you come back to pick her up once mating season is finished?” She asked as they walked away from the classroom. 

“I don’t know, I don’t feel as lonely right now,” he glanced at her, and she grinned. 

Nudging his side, she teased, “maybe I’ll be your only friend.” But the words brightened his face, and he nodded quickly. 

Their grins fell away when they heard footsteps approaching them, and they looked at each other for a moment when they heard the words, “I definitely heard voices from this wing,” from their teacher, Borusa. 

Theta grabbed her hand and pulled her backwards, and whispered to her, “run!” 

Magna and Theta fell into a run together easily, heading back to the dorms. Magna led the way back to the first year boys’ dorms, and they stopped at the top of the corridor, both bending over to pant from the exertion. 

“I’m not allowed any further,” she gasped, “you’ll have to go yourself now.” 

“Thank you,” he panted, “for-“ his eyes widened when they heard more footsteps coming from the direction they’d just run from. “GO!” He whispered, running back down his hallway. 

Magna ran, feet slapping the carpeted floor and hearts beating hard in her chest. She only stopped when she was in her bed, forcing her breathing to calm back down as her door creaked open and a teacher poked their head through. She ignored how hard her hearts were beating and feigned sleep, hoping against all the odds that she wouldn’t get in trouble. She didn’t relax until the door closed again and the footsteps moved away from her door. 

When she finally thought she was safe, she rolled onto her back, and her brown eyes lit up with golden dust, her fingers playing with the dust in the air. The night had gone exactly as she’d seen it, and it made her hearts happy. She was on the right path.’

She had never been given a name for the woman she became at night. Circe had always been the title, chosen by her, but she hadn’t realised that she must have had a name before she’d chosen one. She didn’t fully understand or remember why she had to have a title rather than a name, but she remembered treasuring the name of the boy. Her mind flashed to another time she’d seen him. She’d kept her promise and stayed friends with Theta for many years, despite his continual insistence that rules didn’t apply to him the way they did to everyone else. 

‘The library was silent and empty. The edges of the circular room were filled to the brim with books, reaching up to the domed glass ceiling. The beams surrounding the glass dome were decorated with circular writing. On the ground, there was no direct path through the circular room, as bookshelves lined every area, dividing the room into sections that contained tables. The elaborate carved doors that blocked the library off from the rest of the academy were thrown open, and in rushed a tall brunette man with exciting brown eyes, speaking far too quickly for most people to hope to keep up with. He bumped into the table in the centre of the room, knocking off a few books that had been placed on the opposite side, but he ignored them, moving to a bookshelf close by. 

She followed behind him, at a much slower pace. She brought the doors shut again, keys jingling in her hand as she locked them once more. Her black hair was pulled back into two braids that fell down her back gracefully, and her brown eyes were hidden behind round wire glasses. She slowly approached the man, who was now picking up an armful of books, and stopped to lean her hip against the edge of one of the long line of shelves. He didn’t even stop to look at her, merely dropping the pile of books into her arms, causing a shocked noise to leave her, and moved onto the next bookshelf, still talking. 

“This is unnecessary,” Magna scolded, putting the books he’d forced onto her on the table. She scowled at him when he walked past, even as he put another pile of books into her arms. “Honestly, Theta, we’re going to miss the meteor shower if we don’t leave now.” 

He sighed in frustration, finally stopping his spiel somewhere around the history of human Greek philosophers. With two books in his hand, he sat at the central table opposite her, and looked at her expectantly. “Well, how can you expect to learn about Greek mythology without studying?” He asked honestly, and Magna rolled her eyes, but she did sit opposite him, tucking herself into the table neatly. 

“When did I say I wanted to learn?” She inquired, folding her hands on the table in front of her. Theta smiled at her, his eyes twinkling at her brilliantly. 

“You can’t ask me about why Zeus was so beloved by humans and not expect me to tell you everything about Greek mythology,” he insisted, and she rolled her eyes again. “Stop rolling your eyes at me, anyway! This knowledge is vital to my research, so by letting me tell you about it, you’re still fulfilling your duty.” He sent her a wink, and Magna couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Alright, then, get on with it,” Magna submitted, settling herself into the uncomfortable library chair. She leant her head back slightly, glad she could at least listen to Theta and watch the meteor shower pass overhead. 

Theta read stories of human Greek myths, from Perseus to Hercules to Artemis, but Magna’s imagination fired when he spoke of a minor Goddess from the mythos; a sorceress called Circe. She had been a witch, who used magic and herbs to turn men into animals, but when asked for help, she willingly gave it, safely guiding the Greek hero Odysseus back to his home and wife. Magna pondered over the name, rolling it over in her mind before she interrupted him, asking, “do I suit Circe?”
Theta looked up from his book, surprised at the question, but he frowned, studying her carefully. Magna felt as if he was studying her soul with how open she was being, but he didn’t judge her for it. He’d never judged her. The thought sent her hearts aflutter. 

“Why do you think it might?” He asked. 

She pursed her lips, thinking to the golden dust futures she’d seen and conjured, and the pathways she’d seen and how to make them come true. She thought about her studies, and how she’d assisted students without being seen to do so, and even aided the troublemakers as needed without being caught. 

“Just a thought,” she mused, giving nothing away. 

He continued to study her. Magna quite enjoyed how she felt under his scrutiny, and despite herself began to feel a blush rise in her cheeks. After a long moment, he nodded.
“I think it could,” he finally said. 

Magna nodded, as if affirming something. “Well, my Naming Ceremony is soon. Maybe I’ll add it to my list.” 

Theta’s eyes lit up; he’d been part of her choosing a name, a great honour among friends. He hoped that she would want to help him in a few years time do the same.’

The Master stormed into her room, the door banging against the wall and leaving a hole in the drywall. Florence shot up, awoken from the middle of a new dream she’d been having about Circe. She blearily blinked at him, not quite awake enough to be aware that she needed to get away from him before he could grab her. 

It was too late. His hand seized her wrist, holding it in a vice-like grip, and he yanked her out of bed, Florence yelling as the pain in her shoulder and wrist brought awareness to her mind. 

“Get up!” He yelled at her, and she scrambled to her feet. Still, he didn’t release her wrist, and Florence wondered if Time Lords had more base strength than humans, as his grip only seemed to tighten. He pulled her from her bedroom, through the hallways of their home, and towards the kitchen. The house was empty at that late hour; even Lucy had gone home. 

“Where are we going?” Florence whimpered, but she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. She didn’t get a response, only the tightening of his hand around her wrist, and she felt the snap of bone under his fingers. She felt, rather than saw, his smirk, and pain radiated up her arm. She whimpered at the pain, but kept her mouth shut. 

They finally reached the kitchen, and he pulled her onto the stool in front of the island in the centre of the room. He released her. He didn’t need to tell her to stay: the command would have been superfluous. Florence watched him pull a meat tenderiser from the utensil drawer and lay it on the counter next to her uninjured hand. From his pocket, he pulled a watch: one that Florence knew all too well. She’d spent years studying the circular engravings on the front, and analysing how the screws held the cover on. Breathing hard from fear, Florence could only watch as he placed the fob watch directly in front of her. 

“The Doctor has pissed me off, so I’m taking it out on you. Okay?” He grinned at her, all teeth, and she couldn’t look away from the watch. “You don’t get to know why; just know I’m giving you a choice.” 

“How generous,” the words were out of Florence’s mouth before she could stop herself. Even after living under his thumb for 8 months, even with a virus infecting her mind, she couldn’t stop the small jabs from erupting. Fury darkened his expression, and Florence tensed, awaiting the strike. When none came, she finally glanced up at him. Humour instead danced in his eyes, and he smirked. 

“I don’t need to punish you yet. Either you’ll punish yourself, or I’ll be able to do much worse.” 

Florence glanced back to the watch, and understanding dawned on her. 

He grasped her uninjured hand and wrapped it around the meat tenderiser. 

“Here’s your choice: either you, Florence, die, and allow Circe, the conniving bitch, to return to life and I get to play with someone much more capable of taking my blows, or you destroy any chance that she has of ever coming back. You use that hammer to beat that watch into a metal pretzel, and I get to frame it as the masterpiece of metalwork it will be and continue to play with you instead! Either way, I get to continue having a plaything.” He shrugged. 

Florence’s eyes teared up, and she dropped the hammer to the countertop once he released her hand, unable to hold the grip. “I-I can’t,” she muttered, “I can’t do that.” 

“Which one?” He asked, faking sympathy. 

“I can’t kill her,” she felt the tears start to fall, but her mind started to slip into the disassociation she’d come to be familiar with when around the Master with all her mental faculties. “I can’t.” Her voice broke, and the Master groaned. His palm hit the table in front of her, and she jumped, her eyes snapping up to lock onto his brown eyes. Unfettered resentment swam in his eyes, and Florence cringed. 

“There was no third option, Florence,” he growled. “Kill, or die! Just choose already!” 

If she opened the fob watch, she would be able to escape: she would never have to experience the Master’s wrath again. She could die; maybe not in peace, but she could still die, something the Master seemed insistent she wasn’t to do while under his watch. 

But if she destroyed it, she could save Circe more pain. She, having witnessed the pain-filled life that Circe had already experienced, could prevent the Time Lady more pain. She could protect her from ever experiencing the Master’s wrath. 

The decision paralysed her, and she took too long. The Master shouted in frustration, and Florence felt his fingers against her temple moments before he launched a telepathic attack against her. 

He couldn’t do much physical damage against her without someone human filing a domestic violence charge against him, with how present she was in the public eye, but he could destroy her will, ruin her confidence and tear through her mind in the most agonising of ways. Florence knew he’d learnt this technique in the Time War, although she’d forgotten how she knew that. 

When he was finished, Florence was slumped against the countertop, and he left her there to sob, the blood running down her nose the only sign of the damage done. 

It took five nights. Florence tried to fight him, lock him out of her room, to stay awake all night so she would be alert when he came for her, but each attempt failed, and it always ended with her slumped over the counter next to the fob watch, hands twitching next to the hammer, nose bleeding. When he came for her the sixth night, Florence timidly followed, sat on the stool, and when he put the hammer in her hand, she lifted it. 

The first strike sent a shock through her, and the Master’s shocked laugh nearly snapped her out of whatever state she’d fallen into, but her hand fell again, and the cover dented. Florence sobbed as her hand fell again, and the watch slowly flattened. Each strike seemed to hit her, heart crumbling like it was under the hammer instead of the watch. Maybe it was.
When the Master was satisfied, the watch still held itself together, but the cover was melded to the watch face, as the glass underneath had shattered into glass shards, which had been smashed to dust. Florence hugged herself as the Master picked up the watch in fascinated glee, attempting to pry it open and failing. 

He stayed true to his word. When Florence awoke the next morning, the watch was framed in her room, opposite the bed, with the frame engraved to read, ‘here lies Circe, your only hope,’.

She’d lived for a century; she’d lived and felt humanity at its best and worst, and yet, as she had come to the realisation that she might be ready to die, the possibility of that ever happening was ripped from her hands.

‘Footsteps echoed down the corridor as the approaching person grew closer. The speed was too familiar to be anyone but him: no one in the Citadel insisted on running everywhere like he did. 

Circe took a deep breath, ignoring how her hearts seemed to stutter out of rhythm with each other, and put down her book. The library had been empty except for her, as she’d known it would be, and the old scars on her hands stung with the memory of how she had gained that knowledge. 

He stopped behind her, breathing heavily from his sprint through the academy, but terrified to approach. She kept her back to him, her brown eyes focusing on the circular Gallifreyan on the cover of the book she’d closed. Neither of them encroached on the silence, even as it thickened and stifled the air around them. 

“Doctor,” she broke first, “how are you?”

“Magna, please,” his voice was soft, desperate, but Circe couldn’t bear it.

“My name is Circe, and I’d thank you to use it.” She didn’t mean to snap, but the words came across harshly, and if she hadn’t been so well trained, she might have winced. 

His sharp exhalation was loud in the silent room. “Are you,” he interrupted himself with a sharp laugh, “no, you’re not joking. I’m sorry, I forgot what you’re like for a moment there.” 

Circe clicked her tongue, still refusing to turn to face him. “How long were you away?” She asked, as if she hadn’t been counting the seconds since she’d last seen him. 

“Too long, apparently.” His words were humourless now, and they seemed to cut more than his laugh had. 

The silence fell again, and Circe wanted to itch her hands, to take away the ache that was building under her skin, but she wasn’t allowed to. She heard his weight shift before his hand landed on her shoulder. “Circe, please, just look at me.” He was beside her, his presence comforting and strange. 

It had been six years since she’d last seen him; since she’d told him of her relationship to their mutual friend; since he’d shouted at her and stormed out. Any familiarity they’d shared had long since evaporated.

At least, it should have. 

“I didn’t intend to be gone for so long.” He didn’t force her to look at him, but his hand stayed firmly on her shoulder, his thumb brushing tantalisingly close to the collar of her shirt. She was forced to remember nights spent curled next to him watching astronomical events across the galaxies, touches with bated breath as they’d worried for the others reaction. His breath fanning her cheeks. The soft fingertips brushing across her neck, as if he’d been painting an intricate portrait on her skin. 

She stood suddenly, her head erupting in pain, and she moved away from her seat, and him, as she rubbed her forehead. 

“Magna, what is it? What’s wrong?” He asked, and Circe threw a hand out to him, still not looking at him. 

“I’m fine,” she insisted. She took a deep breath, forcefully throwing aside the pain, and finally looked at him. “It has been six years,” she pushed the words out, despite how she longed to say something else. His hair was slicked back, and his brown eyes were so immensely worried and familiar. He was watching her closely, far too intelligent to be subdued by her words. “Why did you come back?” She asked instead of letting him dwell on her. “Why are you here?” 

Something flickered across his face, and he ran a hand through his hair, messing up the style he’d put it into. Indecision appeared, before he seemed to gather the courage to speak. Moments passed while he did so, in which Circe refused to lessen the still air between them. 

“I heard about you and…him.” His eyes narrowed slightly with the words. “I suppose I should be offering you congratulations, then?” The word was spat from his mouth, and his tone made Circe’s spine stiffen in offence.

“I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself,” she sniped, rolling her eyes at his immediate reaction. He had never hidden his dramatics well, despite how much she had told him it revealed. “Honestly, what did you think was going to happen, Doctor? After years of silence, what could I do?” 

“But even before I left, you’d made your choice.” His face had shut from her; his voice gone cold. 

Circe wanted to scream at him, to show him exactly how her choices had been taken away from her. She wanted to prove him wrong, and make him realise what his absence had cost her. But she knew that she’d also driven him away, with her words and actions and choices; decisions that she had planned for reasons she couldn’t express. 

“I am making the best choice I can, given the cards I have been dealt,” she said simply, attempting to ignore his interjections, but the Doctor had never been one to be ignored. 

“The cards you’ve been dealt? Please, you have never been willing to sit back and let events occur. You’ve always gotten the outcome you wanted, even when we were children!” His eyes seemed to look beyond her, into their shared memories of far too many incidents and adventures of childhood. “You are not one to sit and let life happen to you.” 

Circe glared at him, her dark eyes full of fire. “Well, you wouldn’t know. You weren’t here.” She tried to leave: it wouldn’t look good for her if she was found alone with another man. 

But even as she tried to move away, he followed, like two magnets in equilibrium: when one moved the other followed, drawn together by forces beyond their control. “You could have come with me.” His words were breathless, filled with the longing that had punctuated that night. “Don’t you remember? We could have run away together, just you and I.” His hand snatched hers from thin air. 

How was the feeling of his hand still ingrained in her memory? So familiar and comforting, despite the years that had passed. Circe let herself feel him, and let herself imagine the scenario where she had gone with him. She felt her body go cold, and remembered why it had been impossible. 

Her eyes flashed gold as she pulled her hand out of his grasp. “You asked too late.” She could never tell him what she’d seen, why she had refused, nor why she insisted on remaining on her stubborn path. He had always been willing to break every rule in the book, regardless of its reason for existing. She was forced to follow them, as both damage control and through systems taking her control away. 

“Better late than never, though, right?” His whispered words stabbed her hearts. “The offer’s still there, Cece. It’ll always be there for you.” 

“Ask me again in 500 years, Theta.” Her eyes flashed gold again, something the Doctor saw and it made him hesitate. He knew the Time Vortex when he saw it. “Maybe you’ll get a different answer.” The sound of her heels on the tile floor, steady and consistent, was the last sound the Doctor heard from Circe for 500 years. 

The Master greeted her at the door, a shit-eating grin on his handsome face. Circe wanted to smack it off, to pull herself from this forced subservience she’d allowed them to coerce her into, but she knew the outcome if she moved against him too soon. She knew the outcome of every possible action for the next 509 years. Compelled to smile at him, Circe smiled, linking her arm through his. He pulled her into a fast walk. 

“I am so looking forward to our wedding, my dear Magna,” his use of her real name sent shivers down her spine, but she was forced to rest her head against his shoulder. Not for the first time, she hated the diminutive height her first regeneration had given her. “Do you think Theta would be my best man?” 

His laugh, with just a hint of madness soaked into it, made Circe’s hearts freeze.'

Her dreams flickered, shifted, and she saw time passing before it re-solidified into a setting that Florence had seen before, nearly a century ago. 

'Circe stood before him, her white shirt in tatters, her platinum blonde hair flying in all directions due to the wind, her green eyes staring into his. Her hands were clenched into firsts at her sides, hiding the desperate pattern of four that beat away in her mind, driving her to obey, to serve, to destroy. The relentless noise seemed eternal, despite the visions that Circe had seen of a future where she was free of them. 

He looked as well as she did, with a ragtag ensemble of an outfit, and dirt caked into his stubble of a beard. The destroyed city around them still screamed, with the cries of their enemy echoing through empty streets.

“You look like shit,” he grumbled, and Circe nodded once. 

“As do you.” She responded. 

The silence between them was thick, and Circe longed to cut it, to go back to their youth and the ease that had come with it. 

“Do you remember why I’m here?” He asked. 

A spiral of hope appeared in her heart, squashed quickly by the programming, but still present for a moment. Circe, with every ounce of her authentic being, fought as she hadn’t for 800 years. Her hearts beat faster with the effort, and the hope bloomed, sending adrenaline and elation to every cell in her body. With visceral effort, Circe fought against the drumming, to say one word.

“Yes.” 

They didn’t need any further words, as the Doctor opened the door to the TARDIS behind him and Circe rushed inside, straining to fight the influence she’d been living with for centuries. Circe ignored the surroundings, heading to the console to set the TARDIS into flight. Once she’d placed them into the vortex, her skin seeming to sing at the familiar feeling encompassing her, she finally turned to face the Doctor again. 

“Do you know what I’ve been through?” She whispered. She wanted to look away, but she had to see the truth in his face. 

His eyes darkened, and anger and understanding came as quickly as they left. He gave a brief nod, regardless of it being unnecessary, and Circe nodded. She pursed her thin lips. 

“He’s still in here. I have spent my entire life trying to find the best timeline, the best solution, the best resolution: the one that brings me back to you quickest. And I’m sorry, Theta, but you’ll have to wait again.” She stepped towards him, her scarred hand trembling with tension as she placed it against his cheek. He leant in for the briefest of moments, the hint of vulnerability only reminding Circe of why this was the most important moment in the timeline. 

“What do you need?” His voice was gruff, but his words were his consent. 

Using her fingers that were already placed against his temple, Circe entered his mind and erased his short term memory. The tampering of his mind caused him to fall unconscious, and Circe caught him easily, lowering him to lay on the floor. 

Piloting the TARDIS to his favourite planet, one he’d even written research on, she set the TARDIS to bring him to the same spot in the future, to ensure that the timeline she’d envisioned remained true, and she pulled the machine onto her head and became human.’ 

Florence awoke with a gasping breath, her hearts - heart? - pounding hard in her chest. She lifted a hand - covered in familiar scars - to rub at her chest, feeling the beating organ in her left side, but feeling a foreign emptiness in her right. 

Her eyes looked to the display frame across the room from her, where her fob watch sat, destroyed and encased in glass. If she was still dreaming of Circe, then Circe must have still been alive. But the cover was so badly bent, there was no way that Florence would be able to open it without several metalworking tools, and even still, she wasn’t sure that she could risk hurting Circe. Which meant…

“I didn’t know,” Florence murmured, standing from her bed to touch the glass between her and the watch. “I thought you would just die. But instead you’re as trapped as I am.” The realisation burrowed into Florence, and she pulled away before she could touch the way, heart hammering in her chest. “There really is no way out. The Doctor can’t save us, not from the Master.” 

She heard a thump on the door, and her programming kicked in, setting her spine straight and placing a loving smile on her face. Her mind twisted, and as the door opened, Florence was, once again, in love with the man who was ruining her life. 

Chapter Text

The crowd was packed. Florence stood at the top of the steps, in a verdant green dress that fitted her curves nicely, facing a sea of nameless reporters. Cameras flashed, and people tried to speak over one another. A permanent, polite smile was etched onto Florence’s face as she looked out.

“The details are top secret,” the man before her was saying. Florence vaguely recalled that his name was Professor Lazarus, but the detail of why he was important was fuzzy, like a lost dream. “But I can tell you that, tonight, I will demonstrate a device that will redefine our world.”

The woman stood next to her, Letitia Jones, had organised the entire event, with minimal help.

“With the push of a single button,” the man said, “I will change what it means to be human!”

The camera flashes jumped up in frequency, with reporters crying out, “Professor Lazarus!” in varying tones of excitement.

Florence stilled, eyes fixed on the back of the old man’s head.

“And this has all been achieved with the sponsorship of Mrs Saxon!” Professor Lazarus gestured to her, to Florence, and remembrance flew through her. She inclined her head politely to Lazarus, knowing he was watching, before her attention was pulled to Letitia, who gestured discretely to Florence’s team of guards.

Florence quietly left the old scientist to his PR event, leaving with the guards into a tinted black car.

The foyer of Lazarus Laboratories had been transformed for the private event, with the carefully constructed centrepiece a feat of engineering that Florence wasn’t sure was technically possible in the current human era, a line of computers behind it and wiring connecting the two. Scattered around the room were tall tables covered in white cloths, and people milled around the room in black tie, women in sparkling dresses and men in their best tuxedos. Florence was fairly sure she stuck out like a sore thumb, but then that was what he’d wanted, and he always got what he wanted. Florence tugged nervously at her hair, the red curls clean and bouncy for the first time in weeks. She felt ridiculously uncomfortable, and she couldn’t do a thing. He’d forced her into a skin tight, black dress, lace across her torso trailing down her arms and a silken skirt that flowed effortlessly. She hated it, despite how beautiful it was. She hated him, even as his control over her mind meant that she was forced to love him.

A waiter walked past her, carrying a tray of Prosecco, and Florence grabbed one of the flutes, shocking the waiter for a moment. She drank the alcohol quickly, heart hurting as she recalled nights doing the same in her cafe, and gave the flute back to the dumbstruck man.

“Thanks,” she said, voice hard. The man took the flute off her and walked away quickly, keeping his eyes off of her sharp blues.

She spotted them; her in a beautiful purple tulle dress and him in a black tuxedo. Florence felt a twinge of remembrance from a part of her she’d never get back, and wanted to scream. But she pulled herself together and moved forward.

“Close enough to hear, not to be seen.”

His words cut through her, a remembered pain from his briefing earlier. He couldn’t come anywhere near the event, for fear the Doctor would sense him, so he had sent her in his stead.

She desperately wanted to call out to him, to her, to get their attention and beg for their help, but that part of him that held her mind in its grasp, the reason she hadn’t been able to even contemplate escape, was locked, and she couldn’t even open her mouth with the intention of speaking to them. The drums beat away incessantly at her mind.

They were talking about the food, so Florence tuned it out, looking around at the faces.

“Mrs Saxon,” someone called, and she turned to the voice, smiling in relief when she saw Letitia Jones holding a clipboard and wearing a black strap dress, with a feather scrunchie holding her head back. “How are you enjoying this evening?”

“Very well, Miss Jones, how are you? Everything running smoothly?” She asked, and Letitia nodded.

“Absolutely, just a minor issue with the caterer, but I think it’s sorted now!” The young woman sighed in relief, and Florence discreetly grasped her hand, squeezing it gently.

“Your work is, as ever, perfect, Miss Jones. You should be very proud of what you’ve done tonight,” Florence encouraged, making Letitia’s eyes sparkle in relief.

“Thank you, Mrs Saxon. I hope you enjoy the show!” She smiled professionally, causing Florence to wink in response, “oh, stop that! I’ve just spotted my sister, I have to go say hello!” She sent Florence a long suffering smile, making her laugh, before she walked past Florence to say hello to her younger sister.

Florence tried not to listen too much. Their interactions with Letitia weren’t hugely important to his plans tonight, given the Doctor was now here, but her curiosity prickled beneath her skin, and she found her ears perking up each time she heard the voice that filled her dreams.

“So, this, Lazarus,” the Doctor said with a forced casual air, “he’s your boss?”

Letitia, already unimpressed, replied, “Professor Lazarus, yes. I’m part of his executive staff.” She said it with such pride that it caused Florence’s heart to hurt.

“She’s in the PR department,” Martha smirked at the Doctor, her voice filled with amusement.

“I’m head of the PR department, actually,” Letitia corrected, causing Martha to look at her shocked.

“You’re joking.”

“I put this whole thing together,” Letitia didn’t even need to brag, the feat was impressive regardless.

The Doctor interrupted the exchange, and Florence moved to the side of one of the computers, leaning against it as she listened. “So, do you know what the Professor’s going to be doing tonight? That looks like it might be a sonic micro-field manipulator.”

The unfamiliar technical terms made Florence roll her eyes. Of course he would be able to identify components of the machine.

“He’s a science geek,” Letitia sighed, “I should’ve known. Got to get back to work, now, I’ll catch up with you later!” She walked off, sending Florence a friendly smile as she noticed her. Florence smiled back politely.

“Mrs Saxon!” Someone called from behind her, and Florence immediately stood upright, putting on the perfect politician’s poker face of a small smile and interested eyes. She turned and saw Professor Lazarus himself, his eyes scouring over her figure. A flicker of disgust wracked her body, but she didn’t let it show.

“Professor Lazarus,” she said instead, accepting his move for her hand. She smiled as he kissed the back of it. “What a fabulous event your team has put together, here,” she remarked, and he smiled.

“Yes, it’s all because of the new hire your husband recommended last month, Miss Jones. She’s certainly been a wonderful addition to my team.”

Florence nodded, a foreign satisfaction filling her that she knew didn’t actually belong to her. “I’m glad we were able to provide more than just financial aid, then,” Florence commented.

“Take a turn about the room with me, Mrs Saxon?” He asked, offering his arm, and she accepted it. He started on a short path, leading them both towards the centre of the room, next to the device. “Will, uhh…will Mr Saxon be joining us tonight?”

Florence smiled as she looked out over the crowd. “Ah, no, unfortunately my dear husband is hosting his own event tonight, colleagues only.” Florence thought to the ‘work’ Harold Saxon was doing that evening, and had to fight to suppress a shudder. “I, however, am very glad to be able to join you.”

The Professor smiled, full of lecherous intent. “It is a pleasure to have you, my dear,” he pulled them both to a stop beside the device, and took grasp of her hand once more, his lips brushing her knuckles one more time.

“It’s my pleasure to be here, Professor,” she smiled.

“It would please me greatly, actually, if you might indulge this old man in a request.” At her nod, he continued. “Should my experiment prove successful, will you join me in my office briefly?”

Florence’s stomach turned, but she kept her smile. “Professor, as a representative of the Saxon brand, I feel I must remain in the public eye as much as possible. I wouldn’t want to misrepresent the brand.” She watched him carefully, hopeful that she both had and hadn’t offended him. “I’m sure you can understand that.”

He smiled, but it was sharper than before. “Of course, Mrs Saxon.”

He stepped away, and nodded to one of the woman wearing a lab coat. The lights dimmed around them, and Professor Lazarus stepped onto the platform in front of the machine.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” He began. Florence stepped back from the platform, into the crowd. “I’m Professor Richard Lazarus, and tonight I’m going to perform a miracle!” He called. Cameras flashed, and Florence glanced to Martha and the Doctor, watching their reactions to his words. “It is, I believe, the most important advance since Rutherford split the atom. The biggest leap since Armstrong stood on the moon.” Florence gave a bittersweet smile at the inadvertent reminder of her old friend, but the feeling was gone a moment later, and Florence had to wonder what she had been smiling about. “Tonight, you will watch and wonder. But tomorrow, you will wake to a world which will be changed forever.” With no more preamble, Lazarus walked into the machine, a door sliding shut behind him, as the amassed scientists started working on the machine. As the noise increased in the room, the machine gave off a neon blue light that caused all the attendees to wince from the brightness of it. Florence covered her eyes as the four pillars around the machine started moving, rotating and emitting electricity aimed at the machine. As the machine kept spinning, a loud beeping started, warning of some kind of error.

“Somethings wrong,” the Doctor exclaimed, “it’s overloading!”

The computers running the machine sparked, and the scientists leapt away to not catch fire. Florence watched, her emotions muted somehow, as the Doctor ran towards the machines, trying to prevent the impending explosion. The crowd backed away in fear, even as the Doctor jumped into the fray. His screwdriver whirred with noise as he tried to fix whatever had gone wrong.

“Somebody stop him! Get him away from those controls!” An old woman yelled.

Florence sighed in frustration.

“If this thing goes up, it’ll take the whole building with it!” The Doctor snapped, “is that what you want?”

Florence could feel, from the part of her that was remotely controlled, that he wouldn’t be mad about that, but Florence tried to focus on how devastating the loss of life would be if the building did explode.

As the Doctor pulled a large wire from the back of the computer, the machine finally started to slow down, the blue light still emanating from it. The Doctor called, “get it open,” and Martha was running up to the door, pulling it open.

Smoke came from the door, and Florence was filled with horrified awe. The old man that had stepped into the machine had been rejuvenated, his youthful face filled with wonder and joy. He stumbled out of the machine, addressing the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am Richard Lazarus, I am 76 years old, and I am reborn!”

The crowd cheered, applause filling the room.

Instructions filtered into Florence’s head, and she found herself leaving. She fought her limbs, fighting desperately to stay. She couldn’t leave now: who knew what Lazarus had done to himself? What if she could help the Doctor? She was outside before she knew it, but she still fought. She couldn’t leave Martha and the Doctor to themselves; some deep part of her knew there was something deeply wrong. And Letitia Jones, the poor girl who had been hired purely because her sister was travelling with the Doctor, was still there, with no idea of the kind of danger she could be in.

With a mental snap, Florence felt the compulsion to leave dissipate, and she froze, her real emotions snapping into place. Horror filled her at what she’d just seen, as well as disgust at the professor’s request for her to meet him. She shuddered, the cold night air no match for the fear inside her.

Determination filled her. She knew she could never escape her husband, but she would do her best to ensure as few people as possible were harmed because of his schemes.

Florence was fairly sure Martha and the Doctor hadn’t met her yet, given that they must have seen her a few times at the start of the event and they hadn’t come over to her, but she was confident that she could stay without interfering with the timeline. And now that her mind was mostly free from his influence for the first time that night, Florence could remember that Martha had mentioned this event when they’d been stuck in 1969, and how he had stopped being human after his rejuvenation. Knowing what she did of the Doctor  and Martha, she could safely assume there would be some kind of danger involved with Lazarus’ rejuvenation.

The foyer was bustling with energy, but Florence couldn’t see any of the people she was looking for, so instead, she pulled Letitia to the side of the room.

“Miss Jones, a word, please,” she urged, her political face on, and Letitia followed, albeit confused about the request.

“Is everything okay, Mrs Saxon?” She asked, and Florence shook her head.

“No, I fear the experiment has gone awry,” she cautioned, and Letitia just smiled.

“I promise, the Professor knows what he’s doing,” Letitia reassured, but Florence shook her head again. “It is quite remarkable, though. I’m certainly impressed.”

Florence, slipping from her politician persona, grabbed the woman’s wrist, pleading, “Letitia, you can’t trust men like him. Trust me, please.”

Letitia frowned in concern. “Has something happened, Mrs Saxon?”

Florence pulled herself back, placing her poker face back on with the same practiced ease as she did when being controlled. “Don’t find yourself alone with him,” was all she said.

She left her then, leaving the younger woman to figure out the meaning behind her words. And when Lazarus came out of the elevator alone, wearing a new suit, and beelining to Letitia Jones, Florence knew she’d done everything she could, even if the woman didn’t take her advice. Heart sinking in her chest, Florence watched as he took the young woman upstairs in the elevator.

As irony would have it, the Doctor and Martha ran out of the elevator only a moment later, frantically looking for Professor Lazarus. Florence watched them in concern from the table she stood by, a glass of water in hand. They spoke briefly to Martha’s family, before the Doctor pushed past the woman they were talking to, knocking over her glass of sparkling wine, with Martha following swiftly after. Florence deeply hoped they would make it in time.

Martha’s mother, Francine, walked to the table Florence stood by, and Florence wondered if there were rules of time, and whether she was about to break them.

“You’re Ms Jones, yes?” Florence asked, interrupting the woman’s angry stare.

She looked over to Florence, and surprise coated her features. “Mrs Saxon, oh wow, umm, yes! How-how did you-?” She stumbled over her words, and Florence smiled.

“I recommended Letitia Jones to the panel,” she explained. “I had heard of her through a mutual friend.”

Ms Jones took a deep breath in, disbelief colouring her expression even as she smiled. “Well, I must express my gratitude on my daughter’s behalf, then.” Her smile flickered with the thought of her daughter, and she glanced to the elevator in anger and confusion.

“If I may, Ms Jones, is everything alright?” Florence probed, and the woman sighed heavily through her nose.

“Honestly, Mrs Saxon, no,” she stated, but her tone gave no room to ask further questions.

A man Florence had seen around her home working for her husband came up alongside them, handing a glass of sparkling wine to the angry woman. “I think you need one of these,” he said, offering it to her.

Ms Jones took it, “thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

Florence watched the man carefully, wondering what his end goal was.

“Do you know that man?” He asked, glancing to the elevator that Martha and the Doctor had disappeared into.

“No, he’s, uh…a friend of my daughter’s.” Ms Jones’ tone was ice cold, and Florence pursed her lips.

“Perhaps she should choose her friends more carefully,” he warned, and then he looked to Florence. “Mrs Saxon, Mr Saxon has expressed his desire for you to return home.” The threat turned Florence’s blood to ice.

“Please inform Mr Saxon that I intend to enjoy my evening here, among people who might appreciate my presence,” Florence informed, making the man stiffen, nod his head, and leave. Florence let out a sigh of relief, and then noticed the scrutiny of Ms Jones. She pulled herself back together, pretending her heart wasn’t beating hard in her chest.

“Mrs Saxon, I don’t…I don’t mean to pry, but…” Ms Jones paused, and Florence felt the woman force back the motherly instincts she was feeling. She seemed to decide against what she was going to say, and Florence almost couldn’t hide her relief. “Well, men truly aren’t all that, are they?”

Florence laughed, the sound short and sharp. “No, they’re not!” They had a brief chuckle together, and Florence smiled in understanding at Ms Jones. “Call me Florence, please.”

“Then you must call me Francine.”

Florence nodded. “Francine, I will not intrude, but I must tell you that, while the Doctor is rude and impossible and terrifying,” Florence tried to say, but Francine interrupted.

“Do you know him?” When Florence nodded, Francine continued. “There’s something about him that I can’t explain. He isn’t good for my Martha, I can tell you that right now!”

“No, Francine, just hear me out,” Florence asked, and the mother nodded after a short second. “Listen, the Doctor is all of what I said, but he is also so clever, and wise, and he somehow always inspires goodness in others. With him around, people do more than they knew they could. I can’t explain it well, but when the Doctor is in the room, he inspires them to be their best.“

Francine frowned deeply, mistrust clear in her expression. “How do you know him, Florence?”

She smiled bittersweetly, “he was my best friend, once upon a time.”

“So a while ago, then.” Francine hummed as if that proved a point. “Are there others here who know him?” She asked, and Florence sighed, nodding. “Then I shall get to the bottom of this. Good evening, Mrs Saxon.”

Florence smiled, watching the mother move through the upper class crowd with ease.

It wasn’t long after that the man himself came running into the room, yelling, “Tish, is there another way out of here?”

Florence nearly sagged in relief at the sight of the young woman. Letitia Jones was alive and well, and she said, “there’s an exit in the corner, but it’ll be locked now.”

Why were the exits locked? Florence looked for the reason why, even as Martha and Tish ran to the exit she’d mentioned with the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver.

The Doctor stood onto the platform that Professor Lazarus had stood on earlier, calling to the confused crowd, “listen to me! You people are in serious danger. You need to get out of here right now!”

The crowd murmured in confusion before a woman dressed in a golden gown burst out, “don’t be ridiculous, the biggest danger here is…” she glanced at the canapés being offered, and said, “choking on an olive!”

Florence wanted to laugh at the timing, except she was fairly sure she screamed as a creature broke through some glass windows in the upstairs of the foyer. It was huge, larger than an elephant, with an exposed ribcage, six legs and a long tail, ending in a stinger of some sort. The crowd started screaming as it jumped onto the ground floor, pushing tables over and scrambling for the humans running away.

Florence couldn’t stop the panic from filling her, but ever since she’d been unable to stop Marina and Isaac from dying, she’d been filled with this unhelpful, desperate need to try and save lives. It wasn’t hugely like her, given she had spent a century refusing to give up her human life for that of a semi-immortal god trapped in a fob watch, but she made an impulse decision when she saw the woman who’d interrupted the Doctor earlier being threatened by the beast.

The Doctor yelled, “no, get away from her!” But he was too far away to do anything.

Ignoring the risk to her own life, Florence ran into the woman, pulling her along behind her. The woman screamed, getting her bearings, and running ahead of Florence.

The beast was still targeting the woman, so Florence yelled out, “oi, Lazarus! Still want some of this?” She threw a glass of Prosecco at the beast, and drew its attention to her. Her heart beat fast as she realised he had drawn its attention. “Oh, shit.” She backed up a step, but far too late she realised she was backed into a corner.

The Doctor saw her, and yelled, “Lazarus! Leave her alone!” The beast turned from Florence, and started stalking towards the Doctor, its face a grotesque twist of human and monster. “What’s the point? You can’t control it, the mutation’s too strong. Killing those people won’t help you.” The beast roared in anger, and the Doctor really drove it home, “you’re a fool. A vain old man who thought he could defy nature. Only nature got her own back, didn’t she? You’re a joke, Lazarus! A footnote in the history of failure!”

The beast reared up, and the Doctor ran, just barely missing being hit by one of its legs.

As he left, Florence caught the barest glimpse of his thoughts, and she ran up the stairs, knowing where he would be heading to next.

She beat him there, running through the halls despite the heels her husband had forced her to wear, and slamming open the laboratory door. Steeling her nerves, she climbed onto a desk, pulling off the casing for a lightbulb and praying that she could remember how to do this. She vaguely recalled a dream from her childhood of the young boy called Theta demonstrating with a stolen human lightbulb. He’d set fire to his bedding on accident, and Circe had been suitably amazed and upset.

The doors slammed open, and the Doctor stood there, frozen and panting as he registered seeing the future Prime Minister’s wife stood on top of a laboratory desk, messing with a bulb’s wiring. “What?” He exclaimed, and Florence sighed.

“Never mind that, open up the gas valves!” She told him.

“Mrs Saxon?”

Florence finished her diy explosive and carefully jumped off the desk, trying not to break her ankles in the heels, and sighed at him. “Do I have to do everything myself?” She muttered, moving to open the gas valves. “Let’s start an explosion!”

“No, Mrs Saxon, you need to leave! It’s too dangerous for you-“ he tried to argue, but Florence stuck him with her glare, icy blue eyes fighting his brown ones.

“Doctor, shut up and do as you’re told for once, for God’s sake!”

She wondered if River would’ve told her off for ruining the timeline like this, letting him see her before he had met her as John Smith before a banging at the door he’d just come through interrupted her thoughts.

He only stared at her with wide eyes for another moment before he did as she told him, running around all the taps she hadn’t opened and opening them. They met in the middle, and with one more bang, the door opened.

Florence and the Doctor dropped to the floor, peering over the lip of the counter.

“More hide and seek, Doctor?” The beast asked, “how disappointing.”

Florence cringed as another snarl ripped through the air. The Doctor pushed her gently forward, encouraging her to keep moving. There was a crash of glass as the beast knocked over a whole desk of equipment.

“Why don’t you come out and face me?”

“Have you looked in the mirror lately?” He asked, standing up. Florence grabbed his wrist, but instead of her pulling him down, he pulled her up. “Why would anyone want to face that, hmm?”

Florence laughed, the sound maybe more panicked than she’d have liked it to be, before the beast was moving towards them, and she and the Doctor ran out from the tables to the back door.

As they ran past the door, Florence sent a prayer up to a God she scarcely believed in and flicked the light switches. The explosion behind them threw them both forward, shattering glass windows.

“Let’s go, come on, Mrs Saxon!” The Doctor cried, pulling her up. He started running, but Florence grinned at him, shaking her head.

“It’s Florence to you, Doctor! Always Florence!” She backed away, much to his confusion, but the beast was already moving again, and she ran the opposite way to the Doctor, leaving the Doctor with no choice but to leave her behind.

She couldn’t risk meeting Martha, so she ran through the back hallways of the Lazarus Laboratories to the foyer.

When she got back to the ground floor, the beast that was Lazarus was pacing around the machine, and it was just starting to activate. With eyes wide, Florence crept around the outskirts of the machine to the exit, and then ran outside.

She hadn’t been noticed.

Well, not by the beast. When she made it out the doors, three guards approached her, all from her husband’s protection team, and Florence wanted to cry as two stood on either side of her, and one at her back. She stood at the top of the stairs, not allowed to look back, and unwilling to move forwards.

Francine approached slowly, her son and Tish at the other side of the stairs. She looked worried.

“Mrs Saxon, are you okay?” She asked.

Florence nodded, not sure she’d be able to speak without crying. She didn’t want to go back, she couldn’t go back. Not only would he put her back under his control, but he’d punish her for what had happened. His plan, in ruins. That thought made Florence smile slightly.

“Is…my daughter, Martha, she went back inside. Is she okay?”

The guard at Florence’s right stepped forward slightly, just breaking Francine’s line of sight. The move was obviously intended to prevent further discussion.

“She’s okay,” Florence said, hoping the other woman would ignore how her voice cracked. “She’s with the Doctor. He’ll always keep her safe.”

“Who’s keeping you safe?” Francine murmured, but Florence heard it. Her eyes watered, even as she stared out into the dark street.

“Ma’am, it’s time,” her guard stated, and she nodded stiffly.

There was no tinted car to take her home. Instead, the guards, once they were out of sight of the general public, grabbed hold of her arms, their grip bruising, and marched her onwards. They walked through the streets, and Florence began to shiver in anticipation. Where were they taking her?

There was a church ahead, tall and imposing against the black sky. The guards led her inside, and into the darkened back corner of the cathedral. Florence couldn’t understand why until she heard the whimpers of Lazarus. He crept in, wrapped only in a blanket, and fell onto the platform behind the altar. When Florence struggled against the grip of her guards, they only tightened.

“Not one word,” the guard behind her threatened, and Florence felt the promise of injury press into her back, the cold metal of a sharpened knife. She stiffened in their grip, and gave a cold nod. The grip slackened, but didn’t loose.

The whirring of the sonic screwdriver gradually appeared, and Florence saw the Doctor with Martha and Tish in tow. She frowned, shuddering in fear.

“I came here before,” Lazarus explained, “a lifetime ago. I thought I was going to die then. In fact, I was sure of it.” The Doctor stood before Lazarus, and Florence, not for the first time, could only compare him to some kind of God, stood at the head of a church before a man trying to imitate him, and seeing only less. “I sat here,” Lazarus continued, “just a child. The sound of planes and bombs outside.”

“The Blitz,” the Doctor confirmed.

“You’ve read about it.”

“I was there.”

Lazarus smiled wryly. “You’re too young.”

“So are you.”

Lazarus only laughed, the sound chilling, until his bones cracked again and he groaned in pain. The Doctor walked around the man-beast, surveying the church’s surroundings. When he spoke again, Lazarus’ voice was rougher, and he spoke quicker. “In the morning, the fires had died, but I was still alive. I swore I’d never face death like that again…so defenceless.” Florence wondered if Lazarus believed he was convincing the Doctor to let him live, or if this was just his way of trying to reconcile before his death. “I would arm myself, fight back. Defeat it.”

“That’s what you were trying to do today?” The Doctor asked, and Florence suddenly had to wonder if it was working.

“That’s what I did today,” Lazarus insisted.

“What about the other people who died?” The Doctor’s voice was piercing in the silence.

“They were nothing. I changed the course of history.”

“Any of them might’ve done too. You think history is only made with equations?” He came to stop before Lazarus, and his voice softened. Florence wished she could’ve been closer, could’ve seen his face one last time. “Facing death is part of being human. You can’t change that.”

But she could see the snarl on Lazarus’ face. “No, Doctor. Avoiding death, that’s being human. It’s our strongest impulse, to cling to life with every fibre of being. I’m only doing what everyone before me has tried to do.” He smirked. “I’ve simply been more…successful.”

His body convulsed again, the crackle of bones shifting echoing across the church. Florence winced, but the clutches of her guards only let her move so much.

“Look at yourself, you’re mutating. You’ve no control over it! You call that a success?” The Doctor scolded.

Lazarus threw his head back in pain, “I call in progress.”

The three onlookers could only watch as Lazarus finally slumped forward. “I’m more now than I was. More than just an ordinary human.”

“There’s no such thing as an ordinary human.”

As Lazarus convulsed with a new bout of pain, Martha murmured, “he’s going to change again any minute.”

“I know,” the Doctor glanced up to the top of the church again, “if I could get him up into the bell tower somehow, I’ve an idea that might work.”

Florence couldn’t help but follow his gaze. An idea struck her, and she allowed herself to glance at the two guards either side of her. She had only one shot at this.

“You’re so sentimental, Doctor,” Lazarus scowled. “Maybe you are older than you look.”

“I’m old enough to know that a longer life isn’t always a better one.” His voice was dark, and bitter. “In the end, you just get tired. Tired of the struggle. Tired of losing everyone that matters to you. Tired of watching everything…turn to dust.” Florence’s heart hurt as the Doctor crouched down next to Lazarus. The blond man’s face was just confused, even as the Doctor kept talking. “If you live long enough, Lazarus, the only certainty left is that you’ll end up alone.”

“That’s a price worth paying.”

“Is it?”

There was another convulsion, and Lazarus fell forward again in pain.

“I will feed soon.” The threat was obvious.

“I’m not going to let that happen.”

Florence saw Martha moving, and somehow knew that she needed to move, now.

She threw her head backwards, and the knife disappeared from digging into her back. She heard it clatter onto the floor, and she dropped her weight, the two guard’s grip loosing. She wondered if that had been too easy, but she ran into the stairwell, her voice calling out, “leave him, Lazarus! You want meat? Don’t you know good hunters actually have to hunt?” She taunted, and she heard Tish’s exclamation of, “is that Mrs Saxon?” The guards that had been holding her said nothing, and somehow Florence had a feeling this was actually part of his plan.

The taunt worked, though, as Lazarus was following her voice, and she heard his bare feet on the stone behind her. She was breathing heavily, so focused on getting up to the bell tower as quickly as possible that she didn’t hear the footsteps of the two other women following behind Lazarus.

“Keep running, Mrs Saxon! He’s changing again!” Tish’s voice echoed up the stairway, and Florence pushed herself harder. She couldn’t let Martha see her, and she couldn’t let them get caught by the beast. She reached the top of the stairs and shook her hands out, wondering how to figure this out. The footsteps were closing in, and pressed for time, Florence let her hair down, hoping the curtain of hair might distract from Martha remembering her facial features.

She raced ahead, trying to find the way to the top of the bell tower, as Martha and Tish reached the top of the stairway. She found a stairway just as Martha spoke to the Doctor.

“Doctor!”

“Take him to the very top of the bell tower! Do you hear me?” He yelled back.

“Up to the top,” Martha confirmed.

“Martha, Tish, this way!” Florence called to them, and Tish pulled Martha away from the edge of the walkway.

Florence led the way, ignoring the clatter of incestoid legs against stone and focusing on making sure Martha and Tish stayed safe. The chase wasn’t long, but by the time the three had reached the top of the stairs, Florence was panting hard, her legs were burning, and the three of them banged into the wooden barrier preventing people from falling in the centre of the tower. There was nowhere else to run.

“There’s nowhere else to go, we’re trapped!” Tish exclaimed as the two sisters rushed to the opposite side of the walkway.

“This is where he said to bring him!” Martha exclaimed.

Florence ran her hands through her loose hair, looking around in a panic. The scuttling sounds were getting closer, and she wanted to scream in frustration.

“So we’re not trapped, we’re bait!” Tish summarised, and Florence laughed.

“He knows what he’s doing,” Martha insisted.

“Trust him, Tish. We won’t let you get hurt,” Florence promised, but her heart beat fast as the beast appeared at the top of the stairs, emerging from the doorway. “Stay behind me,” she instructed, moving in front of the two women.

“What are you doing?” Tish exclaimed.

“Keeping my friends safe.”

There was no time for further explanation, as the beast entered their level. “Ladies,” he growled, forcing his way onto the platform. Florence kept them back, even as Martha gave Tish a back up plan should they both be taken out. The tail whipped out at them, and Tish screamed. Florence winced away from it, but tried to keep the two sisters together. The next lash of the tail came between Florence and the sisters, and all three of them screamed as the wooden fence broke.

All of a sudden, the organ started to play, and Florence realised what the Doctor was trying to do. In the mayhem, Martha fell, barely grabbing on to the flooring in time to stop her drop, and Tish leapt to grab onto her sister. She remembered her brother, someone she hadn’t been allowed to think of in a year, at least, and she smiled. The organ music seemed to increase in intensity, and the beast got disoriented, swaying either side in pain and confusion.

She had a choice, now. She didn’t have the strength just to push him down, she knew that, but she could knock him down, and the only downside would be she’d go down with him.

But was that really a downside? She’d lived 100 years, and her brother, her last reason for living, had died years ago, and she hadn’t even been there. She realised in that short hesitation that, finally, she was ready to die. She just wasn’t dying in the way she’d thought she might.

“Time to die, fucker,” Florence ground out, and she tackled him from the back, knocking him over the edge, and taking her with him.

The fall took longer than she’d thought it would, and for a very long moment, all she could feel was the rush of wind as it whipped past her face. She thought she heard screaming from above her, but it all faded into oblivion when she hit the ground, hard.

She was warm when she woke up, swaddled as she was in her bed. Her body was aching, but in the way it usually was when she’d overworked her muscles the previous day.

What had happened yesterday?

Florence stilled, her breathing coming to a stop as she realised why her body was so sore.

She’d literally thrown herself from a roof to save Martha and Tish, to kill a man who had transformed himself into something not-human. She’d torn her mind from his control so that she could see the Doctor again. She’d spoken to him, and it had been like what she’d dreamt of, only this time it was real.

It felt like it must’ve been a dream.

But that fall was a death sentence, wasn’t it? She should’ve died. Hadn’t she died? Why hadn’t she died? She was supposed to save herself from his ineffable grasp.

“Interesting, what happened last night, hm?” His voice seemed to come from everywhere, and Florence wanted to shrink inside herself. He wasn’t just mad. He was furious, and hiding it under sickly sweet notes of concern. “I was so worried when the police came around to tell me you’d been killed in the accident at Lazarus’ Laboratories. Even though you were supposed to leave after an hour. When you were only allowed to stay until the Doctor was involved before leaving.” The sudden silence echoed in the room, and Florence shuddered at how cold she felt. “And now you’ve messed everything up. You’ve been a very, very bad girl, Florence.”

Dread filled her. She wasn’t dead. She hadn’t escaped him.

“How am I alive?” Her voice was hoarse, but he still heard her.

“Oooh, very good question, let’s see…” he paused, as if he was actually pondering the words instead of reciting a speech he’d already planned seven different ways. “Well, after my property threw herself off a bell tower, I had to get those goons to collect you. Scooped you up, broken bones and all, and brought you back here. And I hadn’t told you to kill yourself, so I didn’t let you die.” She winced as his finger landed not-so-gently on her nose. “Bit of regeneration energy, and Bob’s your uncle! Well, not actually. I do hate human sayings, they never fit quite the right way.”

“‘M not a time lord,” Florence murmured. He laughed at her.

“Clever bit on my part, you see, the real you, you as a Time Lady, was a bit special. She had access to the Time Vortex,” his voice changed, envy or fury twisting him, “which gave her special treatment. And that means your body contains just a teensy, tiny amount of the same specialness.”

Florence wanted to cry, to curl up as her body seemed to rebel against his words.

“It doesn’t make you as special as an actual Time Lord, mind you, but it does mean that your body retained a fraction of what she was, which means you are Time Lord enough to accept regeneration energy in micro doses, although from how you screamed an hour ago, it wasn’t very comfortable.”

The aching in her body was growing, burning until it raged through her. As she squirmed, trying to move to minimise the pain, she realised that the blanket swaddling her wasn’t for warmth, but to restrain her. The pain grew monumentally, until she was screaming. That explained why her throat was raw.

“Ah, I see the process isn’t done yet. Consider this some of your punishment for what you did last night.”

With the promise of more pain delivered, the Master left Florence writhing on the bed, wrapped in three straight jackets and two blankets, screaming her head off.

Chapter Text

It had been three long days of suffering, but she finally awoke feeling human again. Her surroundings had changed over the last few days, while she’d been delirious with pain, which meant that her surroundings were now unrecognisable. The room was much simpler than her room in their house, with a plain white double bed backed against a wall, and the only decoration in the room was the framed fob watch with that familiar taunting inscription opposite her.

Expecting more pain, Florence sat up and was surprised to find her body entirely ache-free. Someone had dressed her in a black jumpsuit, and her hands reached up to her hair to find it pinned back neatly into a long braid. She reached her arms overhead, expecting to feel her muscles protesting the stretch, but she moved as easily as if she’d been doing yoga for six years.

Florence’s head whipped towards the only door to the room as she heard a scream and a clamour of voices. A flood of adrenaline left her hands shaking slightly, remembering the pain she’d felt upon hitting the floor of the church, the screams she’d heard from Martha and Tish Jones. A television descended from the ceiling of the room, rotating to face her regardless of where she moved in the room.

It showed a meeting room with an upper floor, and she easily made out the Master stood on the stairs, in a pile of dust. There were officials around the table and edges of the room, and Florence’s heart nearly stoped when she saw the Doctor with two guards on either side of him, kneeling on the floor in front of the stairs, and Martha Jones and Jack Harkness stood close by, terror evident on their faces.

“We meet at last, Doctor,” the Master enthused, cackling, “oho, I love saying that!”

“Stop this, stop it now!” The Doctor thrashed in the guards arms, and Florence put a hand to her mouth, absolute fear filling her.

“As if a perception filter’s gonna work on me!” The Master bragged, “and look, it’s the girlie and the freak, although I’m not sure which one’s which.” Florence could only watch as Jack dashed forward, a plan evident in his mind, but the Master was too quick. His laser screwdriver was out and activated, pointed at Jack. The impossible man screamed and fell to the floor, and Florence could only fall with him, kneeling on carpeted floor in front of the television.

She knew he’d wake up again, but she could only hope he would wake up a free man, and not imprisoned, to be played with by the Master for as long as time, like she was, because apparently, he was able to resurrect Florence now using his own energy. Her new reality sunk in like a stone; that he could resurrect her; that he could kill her, again and again, and again. There would be no escape for her, now. She couldn’t even bring Circe back, having made that choice a long time ago.

“Laser screwdriver, who’d have sonic?” The Master taunted as Martha ran to Jack’s limp body. “And the good thing is, he’s not dead for long; I get to kill him again!”

“Master, just calm down, just look at what you’re doing, just stop…” The Doctor begged, “if you could see yourself-”

The Master looked towards a few humans huddled in the corner, and Florence realised they were a TV camera crew. His plan flickered through her mind, no doubt released on purpose from his tight grip on her, and horror filled her in remembrance. He was filming this whole spectacle to put fear into every human on planet Earth before he basically doomed them all.

Florence could only watch.

“Do excuse me,” he addressed the cameras, “little bit of personal business, back in a minute.” He turned back to the Doctor, saying, “let him go.”

The humans threw him onto the floor, the Doctor falling in a heap. The Master took the few steps down to his level, mild boredom on his face.

“It’s that sound, the sound in your head, what if I can help?” The Doctor bargained, but Florence knew it wouldn’t work.

“Oh, how to shut him up?” The Master mocked, “I know! Memory lane!” He took a seat on the stairs then. “Professor Lazarus, remember him, and his Genetic Manipulation Device? Did you think little “Tish” got that job by coincidence? Or that Florence was there by happenstance?”

Florence watched as horrible realisation crossed both Martha and the Doctor’s faces, and she smiled despite herself. She was glad her decision to stay hadn’t ripped a hole in time and space.

“I’ve been laying traps for you all this time, and if I can concentrate, all that Lazarus technology into one little screwdriver…” he waved his screwdriver threateningly, but backed off for a moment, like a cat toying with its prey, “but, oh, if only I had the Doctor’s biological code…Oh! Wait a minute, I do!”

To the side of the room, he revealed the Doctor’s hand that had been inside his TARDIS, a hand that Florence had seen in the Master’s office but had never thought to question while she’d been with him. “I’ve got his hand! And if Lazarus made himself younger, what if I reverse it? Another 100 years?”

Florence cried out as she saw the Doctor flailing, moving so quickly she wasn’t sure she could see him clearly, until he landed back on the floor breathless, his face and body so, so much older. Gone was his brown hair and smooth skin, and in their place a wrinkling, sagging face with a badly balding head.

She saw Lucy, standing on the stairs where the Master had been with her pretty little face twisted into a smug smirk, and she surged to her feet.

“You bitch!” Florence yelled, and she finally ran to the door, surprised to find it unlocked. The door was unguarded too, and Florence thanked her lucky stars before she ran down the corridor. Her bare feet were soft against the wooden floors of the place, but Florence took no chances, allowing her instincts to guide her into ducking behind walls before turning corners, staying silent the entire time to listen for any oncoming Saxon soldiers. She avoided detection all the way to the main room, because, although Florence didn’t remember learning the layout of this place, something in her body knew where she was instinctively, following some kind of lead.

She ducked around a corner as she saw three guards dragging in three people, two of whom Florence recognised as Francine and Letitia Jones.

“Mum,” Florence heard Martha’s quiet word, and Francine’s whispered response of, “I’m sorry.”

Florence’s heart broke, but the moment of distraction allowed a guard to hit her over the head with the end of a baton. She collapsed to the floor, dazed, as the guard grasped her arm and heaved her into the room. The sudden onset of whispered shock and frenzy only served to confuse Florence more as she struggled to keep her feet under her.

“Sir, I found her outside!” The guard informed, throwing Florence to the Master’s feet.

His gleeful chuckle was only offset by the Doctor’s whisper of fear.

“Florence?” He asked, but she couldn’t look at him. He looked older in person than he had over the television in her room.

“Ah, my dear, dear Florence, come to join us at last!” The Master knelt in front of her, sheer distaste and anger on his expression. “I expected better from you,” his hand whipped out to strike her cheek, and she flinched away from it, only causing him more amusement.

“But she died,” Martha murmured in amazement, “we were there, we saw you die!”

Florence looked to Martha, relieved to see eyes that knew her looking back at her. The Doctor’s eyes held far too much sadness for Florence to bear to look into. “I did die,” she acknowledged with a slow nod of her head, “but then he brought me back.”

She could only watch as horrified realisation crossed the Doctor’s face, and joy filled the Master’s. “Go on, my love, tell him how I did it. Surely you remember that, at least.”

Florence swallowed hard. “He used regeneration energy to heal me,” she revealed, and she looked to Jack behind her to avoid looking at the Doctor. “It seems that I’m Time Lord enough for that.”

“No, but that-“ the Doctor’s voice was slow, and the Master was impatient.

“That would be agony, especially for a human, and, oh, I’m well aware. After all, I did have to hear her screaming for the last few days.” He laughed, although Florence could see the joy he found in her pain plainly across his expression. “But Florence can better attest to that.”

“And the Toclafane?” The Doctor asked after a long, horrified moment of silence. “What are they? Who are they?”

The Master crouched next to the Doctor as if he couldn’t hear him before he responded. “Doctor, if I told you the truth, your hearts would break more than they have already.” He touched the Doctor’s chest, and they stared at each other for a moment before the Toclafane interrupted.

“Is it time? Is it ready?” One alien spoke, its voice humanly robotic.

“Is the machine singing?” Another asked.

“Two minutes past!” The Master grinned, running up the stairs.

Florence moved slowly, to sit beside the Doctor and Martha, Jack coming beside her.

“So, earthlings,” the Master addressed the cameras once more, his face a twisted amalgamation of joy and sick humour, “basically, um…end of the world! Here come the drums!”
A song that Florence vaguely recalled from decades ago started playing on the overhead speakers, and she shared a look with Jack. His face was filled with guilt only a moment later, but they didn’t have time to discuss why that might’ve been the case.

The Doctor was whispering something to Martha, his lips moving nearly silently and more quickly than Florence had known he could. When Martha stood, Florence moved in to take her place, supporting the Doctor’s upper body as best she could. Calls came in over the intercom, from places all over the world, begging for help.

Florence had to be held back when the Master came to drag the Doctor to a window, to brag about his victory. Despite her body having been in agony for days, she felt stronger than ever, but a stern look from Jack told her to save her strength. She wondered if they had a plan, or if this was now to be their immortal life; held captive above planet Earth for eternity.

They were only an hour into this new life when Florence felt the Master’s control over her mind take hold again. She had been handcuffed to a chair while his guards either shot or imprisoned the rest of the people on the deck. Jack was next to her, shot occasionally if the Master got bored enough with the slaughter on the Earth. Her back stiffened, feeling who she knew herself to be slip away, and falling into line the person that the Master had curated for her.

“And there she is,” Harold Saxon murmured, moving to stand in front of her. “Hello, my love, welcome back!”

“Darling, what’s happened?” Florence tried to stand, but found herself handcuffed to the seat. She looked around in shock, and pulled her wrist against the cuff. “Why am I handcuffed? What’s going on?”

Harold smiled indulgently at her as he beckoned someone over to uncuff her. Once she had been released, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in for a kiss, his tongue aggressively prying open her mouth until they were making out in front of the entire room. Florence, in shock, only managed to kiss back, her arms still at her sides trying to balance against his onslaught.

“I thought I should introduce you to someone, my dear! See if you recognise him, I think you met him in another life,” his voice turned dark, humoured, and Florence just gave a small laugh, pretending she understood why his words had been funny.

He turned her away from the table, from the man who sat cuffed in the seat next to hers, and turned her to an elderly man sat at the head of the long table. He wore a brown suit, and Florence sent him her political smile, racking her brain to try and recall where she might have seen him. His eyes were dark as they studied her.

“Hi, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Florence Saxon, Harold’s wife,” Florence extended her hand to the man, but he didn’t respond similarly. She awkwardly put her hand down at her side, glancing to her husband in confusion.

“What have you done to her?” The old man rasped, his voice dry and cracking.

Harold laughed, leaving Florence’s side to dance around her in excitement. “Would you believe that she did this to herself?”

The man she’d been sat next to said, “no, she wouldn’t.” He sounded so certain, but Florence wasn’t even sure what she’d done, but something in her mind told her not to speak, and she obeyed.

“But she did! That’s the best part!” He clapped his hands before grabbing Florence’s. She was pulled around to face him, and she smiled despite her confusion. “Go on, darling. Do you remember that day? I’ll allow it for now.”

His words seemed to unlock something inside her, but it had no emotion assigned to it. So Florence did as he had bid, and told them her memory. Her voice was cold and emotionless. “We met on a foreign planet. He’d created a telepathic virus to infect the local population. When one of them tried to commit suicide in front of me, I took the virus into myself to save his life. In doing so, I’ve given the Master nearly absolute control over every thought I have.” She glanced to Harold, and only continued when she saw the approval and joy in his expression. “He is able to manipulate what I remember and how I act as required.”

“But what happened with Lazarus?” The man rasped, and Florence glanced to make sure she had permission to answer. When she saw no disapproval, she answered.

“Unfortunately, I broke free from his control. That meant I was able to interact with you as the real Florence, and she wanted to help.” Florence looked back at the old man, frowning. “She…did she get hurt? Was she okay?” She looked back to Harold, worry coating her voice. “What happened to her?”

“She died, my love. And I got to stitch her back together, piece by piece.” Harold’s smirk turned cruel, but Florence couldn’t see that. “Every broken little bone, every torn scrap of skin, even the bruised heart beating in your chest right now, I fixed it all.”

“How did you find her?”

Florence glanced at the old man in confusion, but Harold seemed to know what he meant.

“Two very stupid people tried to do something clever, and brought her right to me! See, when I stole your TARDIS,” the words seemed to bring Harold a great amount of joy, “you managed to lock it to two points, but there was drift. I landed on a planet one system over, which I’d heard of from stories of the infamous Circe.” The name caused Florence’s back to stiffen, and she wondered why. Harold seemed to see her fear, and he cooed at her, “it’s okay, my Florence, you don’t have to fear her anymore. She can’t hurt you.”

“It was me, Doc.” The man handcuffed  in the chair spoke up, his voice laden with guilt. “I just wanted to show her some of the universe, that’s all! We didn’t know-“

Florence’s head hurt and her heart was twisting. “Why am I afraid?” She murmured, not seeing the grim satisfaction crossing Harold’s face.

Her husband took her into his arms, enveloping her in a hug that ordinarily would have made Florence feel safe, but now just made her feel afraid. His arms were tight around her shoulders, and his lips brushed her ear as he said, “this old man is the Doctor.”

The words sent ice down Florence’s spine. Her skin quivered, and she tried not to burst into tears. She didn’t remember why she feared the Doctor, but the title caused pure fear to coil in every molecule of her body. She couldn’t stop a sob from escaping, and her husband caressed her hair softly, cooing like one might to a frightened animal.

“It’s okay, my love, he can’t hurt you now. I’m here. I’ll protect you from the big bad doctor,” his words didn’t soothe her, although Florence couldn’t figure out why.

“What have you done to her?” The cuffed man yelled, and Florence heard some commotion. When she peaked out from her husband’s chest, the man was knocked out, a guard stood behind him with the butt of his gun aimed meaningfully at the man’s head.

Harold just laughed, and Florence wanted to run and hide, both in his arms and away from him.

Florence drooped, her arms chained above her head so she hung from her wrists. She barely had the strength to lift her head to look at the impossible man opposite her, let alone support her own weight. Eventually, once the regeneration energy had had its time to heal her, she would be able to stand and wouldn’t even feel the strain from hanging like this, but she also likely wouldn’t remember why she’d been down here and who put her there.

“Florence, we have a plan. I promise, we’ll get you out!”

His voice was harsh against her ears. She remembered enjoying his accent in her youth, but that was decades ago, when Joan had still be alive, when she’d been able to see Timmy, when she’d still been human enough. Florence grit her teeth against another shiver of pain that raced through her bones.

She hadn’t even died this time. She’d had to live through the re-breaking of bones and the uncomfortable creeping of skin sliding across her exposed muscles. She didn’t remember what she’d done, or thought, but she supposed that was the point.

“You’ve still got so much to go, so much life to live. And I don’t know if you remember him, but I promised River-“

The name River sent a shock through Florence and her head shot upright. Her blue eyes, bloodshot though they were, were burning into his.

“It was you,” she murmured, and his eyebrows burrowed down in confusion.

“What was me?” He asked, an unsure sly smile on his face. “I haven’t done anything to you that you haven’t asked me to.” He winked, but Florence didn’t react.

“You’re the reason he found me.” The words tasted like dirt in her mouth. “You and River. You told me I’d be safe.”

His face dropped in remembrance, and the only thing he could think of was the memory of River standing in front of a TARDIS he couldn’t enter, yelling at him that this was their fault.

“Oh fuck,” his whispered response only sent rage further through Florence, and she thrashed against her restraints. Senseless anger coursed through her, and she wasn’t sure she could identify its true source.

Jack, meanwhile, could only watch with mounting dread as his friend’s movements slowed, the rage only dimming as her pain increased. Gradually, she started panting instead of yelling, until her panting turned to screams. Jack had to look down, cringing away from the blood curdling cries for help. His own blood boiled in shame, and he hated the relief that filled him when the pain finally overcame Florence, and she fell unconscious.

The Master came to take her back hours later when she next came to consciousness. His face was smug with truth as he told her, “it was him who has caused you all this pain. It’s all his fault.”

She could only nod limply, head falling against his shoulder as she was led out.

The next time she saw Jack, she sneered at him, hate and anger coursing through her body for reasons she couldn’t entirely identify.

During one of those rare moments when her mind was her own, Florence found herself in the control room, gazing out of the window to the devastated Earth. She wondered where Martha was, walking as she was across the planet. She hoped the woman was okay.

Florence couldn’t remember how long it had been since she’d stepped on grass, had she been on this ship for weeks, months? Had it been a year yet? The mental manipulation of her mind from the Master meant she was losing days of time, and she would awaken as herself in places she didn’t recall moving to.

Staring down at the Earth was making her want to cry, and she moved away, to the table in the centre of the room.

The Doctor was there, his old face staring blankly across the room. Florence deliberately sat opposite him, not taking her eyes off his face. Her chest ached for their last encounter, even as her body’s first reaction was to flinch when he finally looked at her. The Master’s mind control was too strong, and the fear he’d built into her of the Doctor was almost instinctual now.

His words were quiet, and Florence had to strain to hear them. “Are you okay?”

She pursed her lips, huffing in baffled amusement. “Am I okay? Are you kidding?” She glanced at the armed guards standing by the doors, always listening in. “I’m fine.”

“You have a black eye,” as if his words had caused it, Florence became aware that her face did hurt. In fact, there were a few spots that were tender across her body. She looked away, carefully pressing two fingers to her left under-eye. It was sore, like it was fresh.

“Fuck.” What else could she say?

“I could heal-“ he tried to offer, but the words only sparked the fear that lived inside her, and she leapt out of her seat thoughtlessly, backing away from him before she could regain her senses.

“No, no, I-I can’t-I don’t-“ she stumbled, before she took a deep breath and bent over, hands on her knees as she tried to quell the instinctual fear. “I’m sorry,” she said once her composure returned.

“It’s not your fault.” His words carried across the space, and Florence wanted to weep.

“I did this,” she whispered. “I couldn’t see a man take his life, so I saved him.” The memory of that day drifted forward, and she smiled, despite how tears welled in her eyes. She stood upright, looking at the Doctor. “I refused to be like Circe. I would not be a warrior, or a soldier, or a fighter. I would save the one man I could. But I’ve given myself an eternity of pain, and in doing so, I’ve destroyed any chance Circe had of being free.” As she blinked, a few tears fell, and she wiped them away quickly. “He made me destroy her.” Her voice broke, and she saw the Doctor’s eyes darken.

She wondered if he would care for her now that he knew she could never return as a Time Lord; now that she would live on forever as a human, unable to move on and unable to die and unable to live. Would he leave her if they ever escaped from the Master?

“I was ready, you know?” She murmured, revealing what she had never told a soul. “I was ready to go. I’d lived a century, and Timmy was nearly gone. Once I’d buried him, I was going to open the watch.” Her throat tightened, and she couldn’t say another word. Silently, she left the room, ignoring the sudden appearance of the man she hated; ignoring the joy that shone clearly on his face at her obvious upset; ignoring that the Doctor had obviously wanted to say something to her.

Florence walked past Lucy, and time seemed to slow as they each noticed the bruises both were sporting. Florence hung her head and rushed out of the room. 

She just wanted it to end.

Chapter Text

The virus, the incessant drumming, was all Florence could focus on. She was vaguely aware of the room around her, and the presence of the poor woman she hated opposite her, but all her attention was on the vicious drumming pattern attacking her thought patterns. It seemed to grow angry when her thoughts strayed from it, and she quickly filtered out the rest of the room to prevent more damage.

Which is why she scarcely noticed the Master dancing into the room to the tune of a song she used to love, or Lucy standing to greet him. She hardly felt the brush of his lips on the top of her head before he sat himself at the head of the tale, spinning enthusiastically. The woman serving him, Florence couldn’t attempt to recall her name as of that moment, was glared at as he spat out the tea she’d prepared, and as the Master rang the bell on the control deck, the Doctor emerged from his living quarters: a small cloth tent set up on the floor, with a dog bowl beside it. Despite the obvious displeasure Florence could feel emanating from the drumming in her head, the Master was jovial.

Throwing the Doctor into a wheelchair, he took the old man for a literal spin about the room, before stopping beside a window, crouching to look over it with him.

“It’s ready to rise, Doctor!” He exclaimed, watching as Toclafane flew past the window to the skies around them. “The new Time Lord Empire. It’s good, isn’t it? Anything? No? Anything?” He had never been a very patient man, and the Doctor’s lack of response was infuriating to the mad man. “Oh, but they broke your heart, didn’t they? Those Toclafane, ever since you worked out what they really are. They say…Martha Jones has come back home.”

Florence discretely tilted her head towards the conversation unfolding, an act that didn’t go unnoticed by Lucy. The human woman watched her carefully, and both were unable to decipher the other.

“Now why would she do that?” The Master muttered.

“Leave her alone,” the Doctor warned.

The Master only continued, “but you said something to her, didn’t you? On the day I took control. What did you tell her?”

“I have one thing to say to you. You know what it is.”

Florence’s blood turned cold.

“Oh, no you don’t!” The Master called out, pushing the Doctor away from the window once more. Florence didn’t even react when the Doctor hit the wall.

“Valiant now entering Zone One airspace. Citizens rejoice. ” The PA system spoke overhead.

“Come on, people, what are we doing?” The Master clapped, the sudden movement causing Florence to flinch. “Launch day in 24 hours!” His hands settled on her shoulders, and the drumming receded, pulling back to its original aggression. His fingers clenched uncomfortably, but Florence wasn’t able to move. “Aren’t you excited, dear wife-of-mine? I’m changing the universe, just like we always dreamed of.”

Florence wasn’t sure why her mind felt like her own, but she snapped, “Like you always dreamed, you mean.” The fingers bruised her, and she still wasn’t allowed to move.

“Ahh, that’s how it is. I see.” And suddenly, his presence was everywhere, her mind compressed into nearly nothing, and her memories twisted until the only thing she knew was the Master, and what the Master had taught her. “What were you saying, my wife?”

Florence smiled tightly, her teeth bared despite her mind telling her to be wifely to her husband, and she said, “as we’d always dreamed, Master.” Despite the tight grip he had on her mind, memories of a woman dreaming of his death came to mind; her smile softened.

The Master smirked in triumph, and tilted her head back to place a domineering kiss to her mouth. Even as he moved away, Florence’s lips remained in a wistful upturn as memories that were not her own flickered in her mind. She remained so lost in her thoughts that, when a maid moved next to her to request her assistance with lunch, she absently stood and followed. Florence didn’t focus on her surroundings, disassociated as she was, nor the young woman who kept glancing around the corridors, as if in fear of being followed. The further from the command room they got, the clearer Florence’s thoughts seemed to become, and she narrowed her eyes at the woman she was following. She didn’t recognise the woman, and she wasn’t sure that she’d ever seen her on the ship before.

“Where did you come from?” Florence asked suddenly, worry snapping her from her dreams of the numerous ways she could kill her husband. “I don’t believe I recognise you.”

The woman laughed and looked back at her, her brown eyes shining with emotions. “Oh, Florence ,” the way the woman caressed her name made shivers run down Florence’s spine, “it’s good to see you.”

Her skin prickling, Florence asked, “who are you?” She narrowed her eyes slightly, and the woman’s smile brightened, as if she’d been expecting her response.

“Oswin’s my name,” her voice was warm and impossibly familiar. “I’m here to rescue you!”

The absurdity of the statement made Florence laugh. She couldn’t stop laughing, despite the pain in her side from her husband’s anger last night, and, stopping their movement, she bent over in an attempt to regain her breath despite the stabbing pain in her ribs. Her hands braced against the bruise, she righted herself, throwing her head back to keep her curly red hair out of her face. “Rescue me,” she clarified, seeing the confusion on Oswin’s face, “from what?”

Realisation dawned on Oswin’s face, and Florence got confused when she also saw worry and hurt. “I think I remember this,” she murmured, her eyes suddenly far away in a vagueness that felt familiar to Florence. “I think… he told me…warned me, about this.”

“My husband?” Florence asked, her breaths coming shorter. “Why would he warn you about anything?”

Oswin smiled, but it wasn’t as pure as her laughter had been. It was twisted, cutting in a way that even the pain in her side could’t replicate. “Yes, I suppose it was your husband,” but her voice was unsure, even despite the confidence she’d spoken with. “And I’m also saving you from…your husband,” Oswin turned away for a moment, her face obviously conflicted, before she turned back to Florence, her previous flamboyance returned. “So let me save you!” Oswin grabbed Florence’s hand and pulled her down another corridor, and Florence realised that they were heading to the residential quarters, to her bedroom.

She tried to pull her hand out of the woman’s, but her grip only tightened. “My husband won’t like it if I’m alone in my bedroom with another woman,” Florence said, and Oswin interrupted her.

“Oh, it’s okay, I’m not even flirting with you yet!”

“I meant, without him watching,” she murmured, and her eyes were lowered when Oswin stumbled. The young woman turned back to her, dark eyes so wide and concerned that Florence couldn’t bring herself to look at her.

Oswin’s hand came to Florence’s cheek, and she cupped it carefully, bringing their eyes to meet. Despite everything in Florence’s mind telling her that what she’d experienced with the Master was deserved and normal, her body was in agony, contradicting what she logically thought she knew to be true. “What has happened here, what he’s done to you, is too horrible for me to comprehend. But you have never deserved this treatment, from anyone, regardless of their power over you,” Florence tried to speak, but Oswin spoke over her, “ even if they believe it’s for the good of everyone. No one is allowed to treat you like this.”

Florence stared into her eyes, uncomfortable shame twisting her insides. She couldn’t believe the woman’s words, and a painful truth lingered just beyond her reach, hidden in memories tucked away by the virus. A sharp stab went through her as she remembered that she was currently brainwashed, and she shook her head, hoping the pain might dissipate.

Oswin sighed, her hopeful expression dimming, but she started moving again. Florence only looked away from Oswin once she’d been led into her room.

It hadn’t changed since she’d left this morning. The bed was still unmade, but her floor was clear of clutter and clothing: remnants of her upbringing in the early 1900s, she was sure. Oswin finally released her and moved to her chest of drawers, rifling around with impunity.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Florence exclaimed, following her to the drawers. She could only watch as Oswin pulled her clothing from the drawers, underwear falling to the floor alongside t-shirts and trousers and pyjamas.

“I’m looking for her ,” Oswin admitted, and Florence frowned, taking a step back. She couldn’t deny to herself that those words hurt, somehow. She wasn’t sure why, though. “I have a plan to save you!”

“I don’t need saving!” Florence wanted to shout, but the words were still harshly said. “I don’t even know who you are!”

Oswin’s hand stilled, and she looked at Florence with a warm smile. “But you will.”

Oswin’s eyes drifted to just behind Florence, and she rushed to the wall that held the destroyed fob watch. As she prised it off the wall, Florence heard an alarm start ringing in the distance.

“Keep her safe, Flo,” Oswin asked, taking the destroyed watch from the glass. “You’ll need her soon!”

“Mrs Saxon?” Someone knocked on the door hard, and Florence flinched. “Is everything alright in there?”

“I want nothing to do with her,” Florence hissed, but her hands were already reaching for the fob watch. Despite what her mind told her to do, she tenderly held the closed fob watch, aware that the last time she’d touched it, she’d wrought this destruction.

“Today is the end of this, but you’ll need her help before you get out,” Oswin whispered, and she placed her hands over Florence’s owns, forcing the woman’s fingers to wrap around the watch. “Now, when I tell you; run. Run, you clever girl. And remember me.” Those words worked through Florence, causing her head to swim, her heart to pound, and her eyes to tear up.

The door burst open, and three guards came into the room, weapons already raised. Florence cried out in shock, stumbling back. For some reason, despite her fear of the weapons’ muzzle being pointed at her, it felt like a familiar place to be. Oswin pulled a short, futuristic looking pistol from under her skirt and fired three times at the guards. Florence held the watch close to her, fear and confusion filling her, and a foreign compulsion to stay put began to grow. She watched the three guards fall to the ground, but no blood appeared, and she absently wondered whether or not the weapon in Oswin’s hands was lethal.

“They’re not dead, just stunned!” Oswin said, “now go hide! Run!” She pulled Florence to the door and sent her running in the direction they’d walked in earlier, towards the centre of the ship. As Florence ran, her heart beating hard in her chest, Oswin turned to face another group of guards, her pistol raised but essentially harmless when compared to the three semi-automatic rifles she was up against.

Florence wanted to cry as she heard the spray of bullets, and the thud of a body, but she pushed onwards.

Where could she hide? Where would he be unable to find her?

Florence ended up somewhere near the heart of the ship, and as she slammed shut the door behind her, sliding a physical lock into place, there was a sudden sense of wrongness that overcame every cell in her body. In her mind, competing with the brainwashing that still compelled her to go back to the Master, she heard violent crying. She leant against the door, watch held tightly in her right hand, and turned to see what was in the room.

The TARDIS stood there, in all its glory, with tubes and wiring running into the doors. The inside of the machine was lit with red lights, tainting the room she stood in with the mood. Outside of her mind, Florence heard a cloister bell tolling.

The bastard has hurt her.

Florence’s eyes widened, and she looked at the watch in her hand. The voice had been weak, but still there.

I am going to kill him for this.

“Circe?” Florence whispered, and there was a feeling of affirmation that flooded her mind. The extra information seemed to cause her mind to oversaturate, and she gripped her head in pain. “Who’s crying? They’re in so much pain.”

An image of the TARDIS appeared, and Florence suddenly understood Circe’s rage. The Master had bastardised the TARDIS and created a Paradox Machine. Horror flooded through her, even as she wondered whether she could save the TARDIS.

You can’t.

“But you could.” Florence knew her words were hard, and she hadn’t wanted them to be, but she almost couldn’t help it. Circe was a Time Lord, and everyone wanted her to come back. Even the Master had seemed to want his Time Lady wife back. Why had Florence been so stubborn in refusing to give up her humanity? Because now that Florence was ready to open the watch, she couldn’t, and she couldn’t access any of the knowledge that Circe held, and she couldn’t even protect a young woman who had risked everything to save her, and she would never again see Timmy-

How long had it been since she’d been allowed to think of Timothy? Clever Timmy, with his smart-arse smug smile, and his precognition spoiling every surprise present she’d ever tried to give him. Brave Timothy, who’d gone to war a boy, and come back a man, and then went once more when his country needed him. Kind Tim, and his ever-lasting love she’d always felt. Memories of his overtook everything she understood, and she wasn’t sure how or when, but, as Circe revealed her own memories with the human - vast and alien as her memories were -, Florence realised the brainwashing she’d lived with for over two years had dislodged. It didn’t seem to be gone, but the compulsion she’d been fighting since she’d spoken to Oswin had dissipated enough that it was more of an itch she couldn’t scratch than a requirement to fulfil in order to continue breathing.

I hate it when the Doctor’s right , Circe grumbled, more memories slipping through to reveal moments in time when the two Time Lords had had a disagreement, and their resolutions. Florence laughed, the freedom of the action filling her chest with joy.

“Oh my God,” Florence whispered, her green eyes sparkling down to the watch. “I-…. I’m not completely free, but I have my mind back. I,” she breathed heavily, going through all the new memories of her life that she hadn’t been allowed access to. So many of them included Timmy, and her eyes teared up as she freely felt the love she had for him. “I can’t believe we’ll never see him again.”

Confident disagreement came from Circe, and she revealed to Florence information about the future that she had seen centuries ago. It was an image made from gold dust of a woman kneeling by an old man’s bedside. Florence didn’t recognise the woman, but realisation hit her like a train.

“Is that-“ she asked, and Circe confirmed it.

It is a possible future.

“So we survive?”

Even my sight is not absolute. This is a possibility, not a guarantee.

“Have you seen whether we…if we live?” Florence whispered, not sure whether she wanted to hear the answer.

I can’t see in this form. My sight was limited to the body, not the consciousness.

“So you don’t know.”

Circe was quiet for a long moment. Florence almost didn’t think she would respond.

I didn’t say that, I just…I can’t say that you survive him.

Florence sharply inhaled, and her back slid down the door she’d been leaning against. She sat on the floor and her head hit the door with a muted thud. “Oh.”

Circe let her process that information. It wasn’t like they were short on time. They had as long as it took for the Master to decide to look for her properly. Florence was fairly sure he had other things to worry about today.

“After all the shit I’ve been through, he gets the satisfaction of killing me.” Her voice was dull, and Circe sent reassurance through their shared telepathy. “Why the fuck did I-“ her voice broke, and Florence pulled her knees up to her chest, resting the watch between her heart and her knees as she put her forehead to her kneecaps. “I just wanted to see Timmy one last time. God, I miss my brother.” She sniffed, and Circe didn’t say anything. The sorrow swelled within her, and quickly Florence found herself sobbing into her knees. The cloister bell in the background only added atmosphere to her despair.

It took a while for her to find her voice again, but she did speak after some time had passed. “Will you…will you be released when I…die?”
Circe sounded worried in her response.

There is no certain path, today. I may be released, or I may exist permanently in this broken casket, forever to remain an observer to the universe, unchanging and undying. If the Doctor realises that I am still alive, then he may bring me with him, but I almost fear that will be a fate worse than the Master.

“You felt more for him than you wanted to admit,” Florence whispered, trying to focus on anything except their mutual impending mortality. “In my dreams, I’ve seen you falling-”

Those memories occurred nearly a millennium ago. We are both very different people.

“But you still,” Florence tried to say, but Circe’s sudden flare of rage silenced her. “Sorry, I guess part of humanity is finding the light, even when staring down the barrel of the gun.”

Circe sent acknowledgement of her words, but didn’t respond.

Hours later, Florence awoke suddenly to the sound of guards moving past her hiding spot.

“Let me go, you asshole!” Someone was yelling, and Florence heard a skirmish just outside her doors. Her eyes widened as she realised that she recognised the voice. They were moving Martha’s family. If they were moving Martha’s family, had Martha finally been caught?
“Tish, don’t get hurt!” Francine cried out, even as Florence could hear more struggling.

She cursed the fact that her dress didn’t have any pockets, and put the fob watch into the side of her bra, also cursing the fact that her dress had minimal coverage.

Telepathically, Florence said, Circe, thank you for being with me. For not blaming me.

She hadn’t been expecting a reply, but Circe’s voice came through clearly. Whatever happens now, know that we are one. And thank you for caring for me so diligently.

Florence threw open the doors, surprising the guards on the other side. With both her hands free, Florence relied on knowledge from before she had come into existence, and the palm of her right hand was striking the nose of the closest guard.

Four guards were holding Martha’s parents and sister, and the guard she had struck was now bent over, holding his nose.

“Shit, that’s Mrs Saxon,” one of them muttered, before Florence twisted to the right to place a well formed fist into his cheek. He kept a tight grip on Letitia, despite her struggles against him. The one who’d bent over pulled out a pistol from his belt, stopping Florence from fighting any further. Her hands lifted to either side of her head, and she glared at the man. Despite his hardy appearance, he seemed to shy away from her icy glare. His other hand lifted a radio to his mouth, and he said, “we have found Mrs Saxon, repeat: we have found Mrs Saxon. Over.” It didn’t take long for back up guards to arrive, and soon, Florence was cuffed and escorted after the Jones family, to observe the death of Martha Jones.

The command room had changed its layout slightly, with the tables in the centre having been moved to the side, to allow for the level of drama that the Master desired. Martha’s family were lined up against one wall. Jack, covered in grime and sweat, was cuffed at the other side of the room. Despite her mind now being her own, she couldn’t help the rush of anger that filled her as she observed the immortal man. He had done this to her, he had caused all of this; she couldn’t trust him, wouldn’t trust him, she-

A weapon pressed into Florence’s side harder, and she entered the room with three guards behind her.

“Oh, my dear wife. What a disappointment you’ve been,” the Master murmured as she stopped in front of him. “You could’ve had everything.” His hand brushed her cheek, and Florence pulled her head away from him. His gaze turned from disappointed to wrathful. The next time his hand touched her, it was a slap, and her head whipped around to the side, where she was greeted wth the vision of an elevated cage, and some kind of creature sat there. It was tiny and hairless, its skin wrinkled. Its big eyes stared at her mournfully, and the longer Florence looked, the more she realised that she recognised those eyes. Her own eyes widened, and she looked to the Master in shock.

“-how?” She whispered, and the Master just laughed.

“He finally looks his age, doesn’t he?” His voice was poisonous. “Maybe, if he always looked like this, Circe would care less for him.”

“Jealous?” Florence snapped, and she loved the rush it gave her, regardless of how the rage on his face brought her an ocean of fear. “It’s okay; you’ve never been enough for Circe, anyway.”

Florence saw the next slap coming, but she let him strike her. As her head whipped to the other side of the room, the guards restraining her moved her to stand to the side.

“And finally, the last guest to join our party,” the Master moved to the top of the stairs, his hands on the railing as he stared at the door, “Martha Jones.”

The PA system announced, “Citizens of Earth, rejoice and observe,” as the doors opened.

Martha looked well, Florence was glad to see. She seemed like she’d eaten enough, and her clothes were at least not torn to shreds. She didn’t seem to have picked up any new injuries, and despite the situation, her eyes weren’t frozen in abject fear.

“Your teleport device, in case you thought I’d forgotten,” the Master murmured, and Martha pulled the vortex manipulator from her pocket, her fingers brushing the worn leather with familiarity and certainty, and threw it to him. He caught it easily. “And now, kneel.” The glean in his eyes only served to strike more fear into Florence, and she had to focus on Martha to stop prevent herself from shaking. The steadfast confidence in Martha’s body, the obvious lack of fear she had, reassured Florence.

“Down below, the fleet is ready to launch. 200,000 ships, set to burn across the universe.” The Master only grinned at his audience of captives, before he moved to the communications unit behind him. “Are we ready?”

“The fleet awaits your signal: rejoice!” The pilot on the Earth replied.

“Three minutes to align the Black Hole Convertors! Counting down!” The Master hit a button on his watch, and a timer started above their heads, ticking down from 180. “I never could resist a ticking clock!”

“Or an audience,” Florence muttered, almost unable to help herself. Her eyes widened and she prayed the Master hadn’t heard her.

“My children! Are you ready?”

“We will fly and blaze and slice!” The Toclafane repeated the words like a mantra, their child-like voices filled with fiery anger, filling the silence with violence.

“At zero, to mark this day: the child, Martha Jones, will die.” The Master finally looked back to the kneeling prisoner, and laughed. “My first blood. Any last words?”

Martha stared at him.

“No?”

Still, the silence lingered.

“Such a disappointment, this one. Days of old, Doctor, you had companions who could absorb the Time Vortex! This one’s useless.” He casually lifted his laser screwdriver to point at Martha, and still, the woman remained impassive. “Bow your head.”

Martha did as instructed.

“And so it falls to me, as Master of all, to establish, from this day, a new order of Time Lords. From this day forward…”

Martha was laughing.

Florence stared at her, eyes wide and confused. She glanced around the room, looking at the confident hope in everyone’s eyes, and wondered what she’d missed. Did they have a plan? Had Florence been left out of their plan? Did Martha save the weapon that would defeat the Master?

“What…what’s so funny?” The Master asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Martha lifted her head to look at him, false innocence across it.

“A gun?”

“What about it?”

“A gun, in four parts?” She looked bewildered.

“Yes, and I destroyed it.”

“A gun, in four parts, scattered across the world, I mean…! Come on, did you really believe that?”

Florence’s heart was beating hard in her chest.

“What do you mean?” The Master demanded softly.

The Doctor spoke then, and hearing his familiar voice made Florence’s heart hurt, and the fob watch burn against her chest. “As if I would ask her to kill.”

“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter! I’ve got her exactly where I want her!” The Master shrugged, an easy smile on his face disguising his concern.

“But I knew what Professor Docherty would do! The Resistance knew about her son. I told her about the gun so she’d get me here at the right time.” Martha’s lips turned upwards into a slight smile.

“But you’re still going to die,” the Master exclaimed.

“Don’t you want to know what I was doing? Travelling the world?”

He was obviously reluctant, but eventually he relented. “Tell me.” The Master sat on the stairs with a sigh, staring at the young woman he was trying to kill.

“I told a story, that’s all. No weapons, just words. I did just what the Doctor said. I went across the continents, all on my own. And everywhere I went, I found the people. And I told them my story. I told them about the Doctor. And I told them to pass it on, to spread the word, so that everyone would know about the Doctor.”

The exasperation was clear on the Master’s face as he said, “faith and hope? Is that all?”

“No, because I gave them an instruction,” Martha rose to her feet, drawn to stand against the man who’d terrorised the human race for a year, “just as the Doctor said. I told them, if everyone thinks of one word at one specific time-“

“Nothing will happen! Is that your weapon? Prayer” The Master exclaimed.

“Right across the world: one word, just one thought, at one moment…but with 15 satellites.”

“What?”

“The Archangel Network,” Jack murmured knowingly.

“A telepathic field binding the whole human race together, with all of them, every single person on Earth, thinking the same thing at the same time. And that word…is ‘Doctor’.”

Circe understood before Martha had finished speaking, and already Florence could feel her memories of the Doctor filling her mind, and Florence thought back to her short encounters with the Doctor, however brief they had been. She remembered John Smith, and his bravery in saving the Doctor’s life. How she’d spent decades hating the alien for killing a man who still existed, and how she’d noticed parts of John Smith within the Doctor, and even when the Doctor hadn’t been around, she had made choices based around the Doctor and his impact on her life. Circe’s memories mixed with her own; she remembered hours spent in the Academy Library, hidden among books, studying and ‘studying’, researching, talking, exploring; she recalled the night he’d asked her to run away with him, and then the night he’d asked her why she hadn’t; the night he’d told her of his wife, and the night she’d told him of her husband; their first meeting as children, and how every thread of time that Circe had manipulated had been linked to him in some way. All of Florence and Circe’s life had centred around one man, and that had been the Doctor.

The Doctor in the cage lit up, a white glow encasing him as he was finally restored to his original form, to the cries of the Master, “stop it! No, no, no, no, no, no you don’t!”

Everyone in the room joined the call, murmuring, “Doctor” to strengthen the power.

“Stop it!” The Master yelled, fury and fear entwining into one terrifying emotion. “Stop it right now!”

Florence looked at the woman she’d hated during her time there, and saw Lucy shutting her eyes and whispering, “Doctor.”

“I’ve had a whole year to tune into the psychic network and integrate with its matrices,” the Doctor said, standing once more on his own feet.

“I order you to stop !” The Master cried, as the fear overpowered him.

“One thing you can’t do: stop them thinking.”

He was back: the Doctor was back to normal. Florence laughed for joy, even as she saw the Master staring in horror.

“Tell me the human race is degenerate now, when they can do this!” He spoke.

The guards obviously didn’t know what to do, but Martha didn’t care about harm as she ran to her family.  A year on the run, with no idea whether her family were alive, and finally she was back in their arms.

Florence shivered, joy and sorrow filling her. She was confused, too. Circe had made it sound like they wouldn’t win, like there would be a great loss. What was still to come?

“No!” The Master cried, firing his laser screwdriver at the Doctor, but whatever process he was going through prevented harm.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” the Doctor said.

The Master messed with the settings on the screwdriver, and cried, “then I’ll kill them!”

Using the psychic network, the Doctor forced the screwdriver onto the floor, and it skidded out of the Master’s reach.

“You can’t do this. It’s not fair!”

“And you know what happens now,” the Doctor warned.

“No!”

The Doctor, encased in psychic energy, moved forwards, approaching the Master even as he stumbled backwards, down the stairs towards Florence.

“You wouldn’t listen,” the Doctor said, lowering to the ground as the Master cowered against the wall.

“No,” he whimpered.

Florence backed away from them, fear filling her as she registered the Doctor’s words. Fear and anger spiralled from her own mind and Circe’s presence in the watch. After all they’d been through…would he really?

“Because you know what I’m going to say.” The Doctor crouched next to the Master and wrapped him in his arms, tucking him into a warm embrace as he murmured, “I forgive you.”

Those words sent ice through Florence. He wasn’t looking at her, but the guards were no longer focused on her, and Florence wanted revenge.

“My children,” the Master murmured, and the Doctor shot up, looking to Jack Harkness.

“Captain, the Paradox Machine!” He yelled, and Jack nodded sharply.

“You men, with me!” The guards that had been holding everyone captive started moving, following Jack to the machine that had allowed all these events to occur.

Florence, unseen by anyone, crept forward, and as the Master pulled out the Vortex Manipulator, anger filled her, and she grabbed the back of his hair, tugging his head backwards. At the same time, the Doctor grabbed hold of the manipulator, and the three of them teleported onto Earth.

Florence wasn’t sure where they’d landed, but the force of their impact threw her off the Master. She lay sprawled on the floor, staring at the sky for a moment as the world span around her. They were still on Earth, from what she could tell, but she couldn’t figure out where they were. A little way from her, the Doctor groaned as he stood up.

“Now it ends, Doctor, Circe,” the Master crowed. The Doctor moved to Florence, reaching a hand out to help her stand. Florence, fury still torrenting through her body, ignored it and stood alone. She ignored the hurt and confusion that crossed the Doctor’s expression, and ignored his help when she stumbled. “ Now it ends!”

Florence looked over the cliff they’d landed on, and saw miles of rockets, preparing to take off. The sirens were constant, warning everyone to steer clear of the site as the engines revved up. She shivered, knowing that if those rockets exploded, they’d take everything she’d ever known or loved with them.

“We’ve got control of the Valiant, you can’t launch!”

“Oh, but I’ve got this!” The Master pulled out square detonation device. Florence took an agressive step towards him, but the Doctor held his arm out, holding her back. He gave her a sharp look of warning when she moved to go around him. Despite her roiling emotions, Florence obeyed. “Black hole converter inside every ship. If I can’t have this world, then neither of you can.” His eyes bored into Florence, and she spat at him, causing him to bark out a laugh. “We shall stand upon this Earth together, as it burns!”

“The Earth couldn’t burn fast enough before I tear your hearts from your chest, Koschei!” Florence yelled, and the Doctor looked at her in shock. His arm moved from passively staying in front of her to gripping her arm, physically preventing her from moving forward.

“Weapon, after weapon, after weapon,” the Doctor muttered, “all you do is talk, and talk, and talk, but over all these years, and all these disasters,” the Doctor stepped forward, and Florence moved with him, “I’ve always had the greatest secret of them all. I know you. Explode those ships, you kill yourself. That’s the one thing you could never do.” The Doctor stopped just in front of the Master, and Florence felt herself wanting to bubble over, longing to place a few well delivered fists to his face, but she restrained herself. “Give it to me.”

There was a long moment of silence as the Doctor and the Master looked at each other, until, eventually, the Master started to move.

Until the ground was taken out from their feet, and started shaking. The three of them tumbled to the ground, and Florence grabbed hold of the Doctor just before the Master once again activated the Vortex Manipulator. They disappeared in a flash once more, reappearing in the command room of the Valiant. The Master and Florence fell to the floor beside each other, but the Doctor was on his feet, finding Martha.

“Everyone, get down! Time is reversing!” A window had broken at some point, and the wind from their altitude was rushing through the room, sending papers flying everywhere.

Florence reached her breaking point. The Master was going to get away with what he’d done, she could feel it. The Doctor had already forgiven him; he’d forgiven him on day one of their time here, and he’d done so on behalf of her, and all of humanity. As chaos erupted around them, Florence rolled on top of her husband, the Master looking lost and confused with her legs on either side of his hips.

“One last round, dear husband?” Florence smirked, and he must have seen something in her eyes, because he smirked, despite his fear.

As everyone scattered and chaos ensued, the Master responded, “anything for you, dear.”

He didn’t fight back immediately, believing her to have the same limits of one of the Doctor’s companions. The palms of her hands hit his chest, tearing away the button-up shirt he wore, until she was shown the skin of his chest. Despite his hands coming up to wrap around her wrists, to try and prise her off of him, she persisted, and her fingers curved until her nails, only short and fairly blunt, met resistance, and still she persisted. Rage enabled her to overcome his strength, and she revelled in the real pain she saw when his skin began to give way and her nails dug into his flesh.

The wind only sped up, blowing Florence’s hair everywhere, until all she could see was him and red, and the dying amusement in his eyes as he realised she wouldn’t stop until she held his beating hearts in her hands.

“Wait, Florence, no-“ he muttered, really trying to prise her hands off.

Florence lifted one hand, keeping a continuous pressure on the other even as he started to squirm underneath her. Fingertips bloody, with something underneath her nails she refused to identify, she caressed his cheek, seeing the fear blooming like flowers in his eyes.

“I begged, didn’t I?” She murmured amid everyone else’s screams. “I begged you to stop, once upon a time.” She reared her hand back and slapped him. His head whipped to the side, and Florence watched the red handprint bloom on his cheek. His eyes burned with tears, and Florence pushed her hand harder into his chest.

The fob watch against the right side of her chest burned, spurring her on. The rage Circe felt only exacerbated Florence’s own, and even though they both knew that the Doctor would dislike what they wanted, they kept on.

“We begged you to have mercy , Master.”

“Please, Circe, please, the Doctor wouldn’t like it-“

“But the Doctor is distracted.” Another slap, this time backhanded so that his head flew to the other side. The smile on Florence’s face would’ve disturbed anyone who could stop for long enough to view this through the chaos. “And you trained me in the art of pain.”

Her fingers dug deeper, until she felt the bones of his rib cage scraping along her nails. Florence braced herself to go further, to break his ribs until she could force her way into his chest cavity, but the world slowed down around them, and suddenly they were back at 8:02, on the morning of the end of the world.

“The paradox is broken!” The Doctor yelled, leaping to his feet. “We’ve reverted back, one year and one day, two minutes past eight in the morning!” He started fiddling with some controls on the panel, and a transmission came from UNIT. “Just after the President was killed, but before the spheres: everything back to normal. Planet Earth restored.”

Florence relented on her pressure, leaning back slightly to brush her hair out of her face. A smear of the Master’s blood from her hand transferred to her forehead, but she kept one hand on his chest, applying pressure to the wound she’d created.

“It never happened, the rockets, the terror: it never was.”

“What about the spheres?”

“Trapped at the end of the universe.”

“But I can remember it,” Francine murmured, and for a moment, Florence’s heart went out to the woman. She’d just wanted to protect her family, her daughter, and in doing so had inadvertently helped them get captured.

“We’re at the eye of the storm: the only ones who’ll ever know.” The Doctor’s words seemed to permeate the space for a moment, until he caught sight of Martha’s dad, and rushed up to meet him. “Oh, hello! You must be Mister Jones, we haven’t actually met.”

The Master, in a moment of self-preservation, shoved with all his might at Florence’s grasp on him. She skidded off his chest and across the floor, smacking her head against the wall on the other side of the room. She groaned as he got up and started running towards the door. The world span around her, but she still tried to stand, to stop the Master from leaving. Her blood went cold when the doors opened and Jack Harkness walked through the doors. He caught the Master and placed his hands behind his back easily.

“Whoa, big fella! You don’t want to miss the party!” Gesturing to a guard nearby, he said, “cuffs,” and quickly, the Master was restrained.

“Florence, are you okay?” Martha asked, rushing to her side, and Florence nodded, gingerly rubbing the back of her head.

“I think so,” she murmured, and her hand came away from her head bloody. The blood was the Masters, but Martha mistook it for her own.

“Oh my god, are you bleeding? Sit down, let me take a look!”

As Martha looked over Florence’s head injury, she couldn’t see any evidence that there had been a cut to cause the amount of blood on her hand. She looked at the woman in suspicion, only seeing how she sat in the chair quietly, both hands bloody, staring mutinously at the Master.

Jack pulled the Master forward. “So, what do we do with this one?” He asked.

Everyone had a suggestion.

“We kill him,” Martha’s father suggested.

“We execute him,” Tish supported.

“No, that’s not the solution!” The Doctor vetoed immediately, but Francine had other ideas.

Florence said nothing as Francine raised the pistol at her husband.

“Oh, I think so. Because all those things…they still happened. Because of him. I saw them.” The Doctor approached her cautiously, not wanting to trigger her into firing the weapon.

The Master grinned, “go on, do it!”

The Doctor stood beside her, slowly, like approaching an injured wild animal, and took the weapon from her. “Francine, you’re better than him.” Once the weapon was out of her grasp, the Doctor took her into his arms and held her as she sobbed.

Florence watched the scene impassively. She observed as they discussed what they’d do with the Master, as the Doctor decreed that he would keep the Master beside him, in the TARDIS, as a prisoner. That he had been travelling for too long, and even as Jack advised against trusting him, the Doctor had decided. Florence observed as Lucy discreetly picked up the discarded weapon, and looked at her.

There was an unspoken question: ‘can I?’

Florence nodded sharply once, the movement causing her head to pound. She winced, but kept watching, a deep frown finding its way onto her face.

“It’s time to change. Maybe I’ve been wandering for too long.” The Doctor murmured. “Now, I’ve got someone to care for.”

The kindness in the Doctor’s eyes as he looked at the Master made Florence want to rage and weep, but she observed as Lucy raised the weapon and fired. She smiled.

It hit the Master in the chest, between the two semicircles of fingernail imprints Florence had left behind. The Doctor ran forward, catching the Master before he could hit the ground. Ignoring her head injury, Florence followed, kneeling next to the two Time Lords in impassive shock.

The Doctor called back to Lucy, “put it down!” Florence wasn’t sure who subdued the woman, but that wasn’t important. “There you go, I’ve got you, I’ve got you…” The Doctor murmured as he lowered them to the floor.

“Always, the women!” The Master quipped, and Florence huffed in laughter.

“I didn’t see her,” the Doctor said, worry evident in his voice.

“Dying in your arms. Happy now?” The Master muttered, but his eyes flickered to Florence. “And it wasn’t even you, Sorcerer. Bet you didn’t see that coming.” Florence felt Circe tell her otherwise, but she didn’t say anything.

“You’re not dying, don’t be stupid. It’s only a bullet. Just regenerate,” the Doctor commanded.

“No.”

“One little bullet, come on.”

Florence murmured, “he won’t be a prisoner.”

“I guess you don’t know me so well. I refuse .” His voice was a whisper, filled with pain but still so smug.

“Regenerate, just regenerate, please, just regenerate, come on!” The Doctor begged.

“And spend the rest of my life, imprisoned with you?” The Master spat back.

She watched as the Doctor begged, and as the Master refused; as the Doctor tried to rekindle whatever friendship they’d had with shared memories, and then shared trauma.

“We’re the only three left, and with Circe…lost to us, we’re the last Time Lords. And no one else.” As the Master’s silence continued, the Doctor yelled, “ regenerate !”

But due to her impassive state, she noticed the glowing hands, and the malicious intent in his eyes, and she didn’t even need the hint from Circe to know she would move.

As the Master reached his glowing hands up to the Doctor’s face, Florence pushed him out of the way, pulling the Master into her arms, and his glowing hands touched her face. Familiar, searing pain raced through her body, and Florence jerked back, dropping the Master.

“No, no, Master, what did you do ?” The Doctor yelled, trying to help them both. Florence slumped into the Doctor’s arms as the Master chuckled painfully.

“How about that? I win.” The Master grinned.

“That was too much, you’re killing her!” The Doctor exclaimed, but he couldn’t release the Master to properly examine Florence.

She whimpered, turning her face into his chest despite her burning anger at him. Every cell in her body was in agony. She felt like she was burning to dust, to molecules, to atoms. She was sure that her body must be alight with the hottest flame in the universe, but her vision told her that she was fine. Wait, no…her skin was glowing, much like it had in Circe’s memories when she would regenerate.

“Am I going to regenerate?” Florence whispered, and the Master laughed.

“You would if you had a Time Lord consciousness and biology back. But with Circe trapped in her watch…” the Doctor trailed off, unshed tears hanging onto the ends of his eyelashes. Florence lifted a hand to cup his cheek, and he held back a sob.

The Master’s breath sped up, and he asked urgently, “will it stop, Doctor?” The Doctor looked back to his childhood friend, “the drumming. Will it stop?”

With one last sharp inhale, the Master died.

For a long moment, the Doctor helplessly stared at his friend, his enemy, the man who’d caused so much pain. His hearts hurt from the loss, but he couldn’t linger. Beside him, Florence flinched as a new onslaught of pain came about, even as her mind finally was released from the brainwashing the Time Lord had held on her for nearly three years.

“This isn’t normal,” she murmured, and the Doctor gently laid the Master to the ground before focusing on Florence. He tried not to let his grief distract him, but the loss of one friend was only causing the potential loss of another to send him spiralling. “It doesn’t feel like the last times he’s hit me.”

The Doctor placed a hand on her forehead, scanning her body carefully. “No, it’s not normal. He’s weaponised the energy: taken all the healing out of it and designed it to destroy.” His voice got harder with each word, remembering the days of the Time War when they’d been taught how to do that. Every weapon against the Daleks had been vital.

“Oh, good.” She smiled up at him, despite the anger that had burnt through her for the past few hours. “It was so good to see you again, Doc.”

“Don’t talk like that, Flo,” he begged, but Florence shook her head.

“I’ve spent a century running away from you, and now look at me: I took the equivalent of a nuclear bomb to save your life. How many people can say that?” She laughed, but the action obviously caused her pain. The Doctor smiled bitterly at her: he didn’t want her to have taken the blast, he wanted her to be alive. If the blast had hit him, he might’ve been able to regenerate. As it was, she was still human.

The fob watch, still hidden within her bra, started to burn uncomfortably against her skin. Florence strained to pull it out to show the Doctor. His dark eyes, already wet with tears, only became shadowed at the sight of the destroyed fob watch.

“He made you do this?” The Doctor murmured.

Florence only watched as the Doctor took the watch from her hands and shut his eyes in pain.

“She’s still alive, in there,” Florence revealed. “Turns out she’s not dead, just trapped, forever.” Her head fell back into the crook of his elbow, her breathing quickening. Her eyes locked with his, studying the pain in his expression. “She’s not lost, Doc. One last chance.”

The Doctor watched as she closed her eyes, sensing her life dissipating quickly. Her heart was thudding hard against where she lay on his chest. The Doctor didn’t know what to do.

“Doctor, what can we do?” Martha asked, by his side, ready to help.

“I-I-I don’t know.” He’d already lost the Master: panic was preventing him from thinking properly, from finding a way to save Florence, to save Circe. “I don’t know how to save her, save them; anytime regeneration energy was used like this in the war, it was always fatal.”

Martha crouched next to him and placed two fingers to Florence’s pulse. “Still alive,” she exclaimed, feeling the rapid beating of her heart. “Tish, help me move her!”

The Doctor looked up as his friends moved around him, pulling Florence from his arms and moving her out to- he didn’t register where they were taking her. In his hands, the fob watch lay heavy, as if grieving the loss. The Doctor brushed his thumb across the dented designs decorating the front, the indents and sharp edges only serving to remind him of Circe’s imprisonment. He traced the edges of the watch, too overcome with his own grief to notice Jack moving forward, grasping his shoulder.

“Doc, come on. We have to move him.” His words were hushed, but the Doctor knew he was right.

Without speaking, Jack and the Doctor lifted the limp body of the Master and followed Martha and Tish towards the TARDIS.

Chapter Text

The medical bay was always quiet. The somber atmosphere meant no one felt much like talking, but there was the occasional scratch of paper and pen or the brush of clothing shifting against the sofa chairs beside the bed. Always quiet, but never silent. A slow, continuous beeping was the only sign of life from one of the beds. From the other, there were no signs of life.

Martha glanced at the futuristic heart monitor, relieved and infuriated that it hadn’t changed since she’d looked at it five minutes ago. The woman in the bed was too still, and it had been days . She was hooked up to the heart monitor, which doubled as a pretty serious life support apparently. Still, she didn’t want to leave the medical bay just in case something changed and she wasn’t there to help.

They were all on the TARDIS still, waiting to see whether Florence might awaken. Martha’s family had stayed holed up in their allocated rooms, all far too traumatised by their torment at the hands of one Time Lord to try to get to know another one. Martha didn’t blame them. From the few times she’d convinced them to speak of their time on board the Valiant, they’d been put through hell and back. And it was all Martha’s fault. Her mum would never agree with it, but Martha knew the truth. If she hadn’t been travelling with the Doctor, falling in love with the wrong man, they would never have been targeted.

Captain Jack Harkness was busy running about the ship, too anxious to remain still for long. He was desperate to speak to Florence, to explain himself to her. Martha had heard that he might’ve been the reason Florence ended up in the Master’s clutches, but he wouldn’t talk to her about it. The Doctor only darkened whenever she mentioned it in his presence, so she endeavoured to avoid any conversation where Florence, Jack and the Master were mentioned in the same sentence.

And the Doctor, well, Martha hadn’t seen him much. The TARDIS was his ship, and he was obviously using the maze-like qualities of the interior to hide from everyone. She only ever saw him when he came in each evening to check Florence’s vitals and adjust the machine she was hooked up to. He didn’t speak to Martha, or even look at her, and that just made her insides ache . She’d walked the Earth for 366 days, for him. She’d risked everything for him, and he couldn’t even look at her. She had done everything he’d asked for, and more, and saved the universe, and all he had for her was, ‘thanks’, like she was his pet, when she wanted…so much more. When she deserved so much more.

The door slid opened and the Doctor wandered in, grease on his cheek and his blue pinstripe suit on. Martha didn’t speak as he sanitised his hands before moving to the equipment. He used his sonic screwdriver on the monitor, and it brought up results in a language Martha didn’t recognise. She couldn’t see his face, but Martha had been travelling with him long enough to know that the drop in his shoulders wasn’t a good sign.

“She’s going to die, isn’t she?” Martha whispered unintentionally.

The long line of the Doctor’s body hardened, the words only adding to his own fears. His jaw tensed, and Martha could see him restraining himself.

“She went through so much, both her and Circe, and this is how she dies.” The tears surprised Martha. She’d been sat with the woman for days, sad but mostly unaffected. But verbalising her thoughts now only meant she had to pour out the grief she’d been feeling all along. “The Master was right. He won.”

“I-we don’t know that,” the Doctor snapped, and then seemed annoyed at himself.

“Look at her!” Martha exclaimed, rising from the chair she’d taken to every day. “She is wasting away right in front of our eyes. She did this for you,” Martha pulled on the Doctor’s arms, forcing him to look at her, and then she poked his chest, hard. “She is dying after saving you, and you can’t even do her the decency of being around for her!”

“Don’t accuse me, Martha Jones.” His voice was low, filled with warning, but Martha was too angry to see it.

“She went through hell, dying and being tortured back to life, and even after all of that, she still made the choice to save you!”

“She is dying, fine, yes! And I am terrified to say goodbye to yet another person in my life, to someone else that I care for! How many people have you lost, Martha? Because I can guarantee, it doesn’t get any easier.” The Doctor’s eyes blazed with centuries of grief, and Martha could only back away a step, momentarily silenced by the fury she saw there. The Doctor only further unravelled as Martha’s silence stretched onwards. Stripped bare before her in a way he’d never allowed himself to do in front of her, the Doctor looked lost. He looked lonely . “I have lost Circe five times in our lives, and I thought I could keep her safe this time. I have never been good at keeping her safe, but I was selfish and egotistical enough to think that this time would be different.” He ran a hand through his hair, then dragged it down his face. “I was supposed to keep her safe.”

Martha had never seen the Doctor so vulnerable.

“She’s still here,” Martha murmured. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but he looked so terrified in that moment that she wasn’t sure how it would be received. “Why can’t we open the watch and let Circe back in to regenerate?”

“There’s too much damage. If I tried to prise open the watch, I’d risk killing Circe. I can’t take that risk.” The Doctor revealed, and Martha frowned. “And even if it didn’t kill Circe, there’s no telling if Florence’s body is even capable of surviving another bout of regeneration energy.”

“Have you asked Circe?” Martha crossed her arms. The Doctor pursed his lips, making Martha laugh. “It’s her life! If it was me, life in a watch isn’t really worth it. I’d want you to take the risk.” And Martha looked at the bed again, to the unconscious form of Florence Reagan. “And it’s her life, too. She’s in so much pain, and this might be her only chance to…to live, or to say goodbye.” She shrugged, unsure whether her words were even affecting the Doctor. “There must be something we can do. She’s not lost, I know it. Surely there’s a chance somewhere.”

The words reminded the Doctor of the last time Florence had spoken. She’d mentioned something about a chance, too.

One last chance.

To what, though?

The realisation solidified in the Doctor’s face. Martha smiled as he seemed to jump back to life, running into action.

“Where are you going?” Martha yelled after him, and he grinned back to her.

“I have a plan!” He exclaimed. He disappeared around the corner, but his head appeared back around the corner, softer as he looked at her. Martha’s heart involuntarily fluttered, and she cursed herself for her feelings. “You know what, you’ll make a good doctor.” The softly spoken words stole her heart.

And then he was running down the corridor, his screwdriver in hand as he found the door to his workshop closer than it had been when he’d left it earlier. He patted the doorway in thanks as he entered. The room was cluttered, as it always was, with the walls in front of the desk covered in information screens: monitors that showed the vital signs of every living being on the ship; videos showing real time footage of the medical bay; information written in Gallifreyan focused on their whereabouts in time and space. He stopped as he watched Martha move towards Florence’s prone body, grabbing her hand in camaraderie. His resolve was setting in: he was going to give Florence and Circe their life back.

The fob watch was sat in the middle of the workstation, with a circle of uncluttered space around it, placed so as to prevent other distractions from diverting attention. The Doctor smiled: the TARDIS was always helping him. He grabbed the tools he needed from behind him and set to work.

It had been close, with a few near misses from the blowtorch almost melting the intricate watch mechanisms inside (and potentially taking Circe with it), but the Doctor was almost confident that his work hadn’t damaged the Time Lord consciousness any further. Circe had been silent while he’d worked, not wanting to distract him, but now that he’d finished, and he could open the watch, he could feel her excited impatience to return to a body.

“One hundred years you’ve waited, Cece,” the Doctor murmured. With the watch face open, Circe’s consciousness streamed out, golden dust spiralling into the air.

You took your time, Theta .

The Doctor laughed, but his hearts hurt. “It’s only because of your human,” he teased.

She didn’t want to be like me, and in doing so, she did the only thing we knew how to do. Circe’s voice was filled with fondness. She’s grown so much.

“I think you’ve waited long enough.”

If Martha hadn’t been watching her so closely, she might’ve missed the twitch of scarred fingers atop white bedsheets. As it was, however, Martha leapt to her feet for joy as she saw the movement, prepared to scream the TARDIS down to bring the Doctor from wherever he’d hidden. She turned to do just that, but the Doctor was already there, standing in the doorway, holding a golden watch.

“You did it,” she breathed, eyes alight with hope.

“It was close,” he admitted reluctantly. “If I hadn’t stolen some tools from Circe when we were kids-“ he interrupted himself, glancing at the watch nervously. “I mean…it was lucky that the TARDIS was fitted out with very specific Gallifreyan tools.” He chuckled, but the golden light spilling from the watch didn’t seem to care about what he was saying, at least from what Martha could understand. It was difficult to assign emotions to golden light.

“How do we do this, then?” Martha asked, fidgeting with her hands apprehensively, but the question was needless.

The Doctor’s next step obviously brought the fob watch close enough to Florence, as her breathing audibly deepened, and she started moving on bed. Her movements only increased the closer that the fob watch got.

“Will she wake up?” Martha whispered, but the Doctor didn’t seem to know.

He rested the watch, open and dented, on her stomach, just above her hands, and Florence’s hands twitched upwards to brush the cold metal exterior of the watch. Her eyes flew open at the contact.

“You opened it,” Florence murmured, her voice reverential.

Martha watched as Florence’s eyes started to glow gold, the same colour as the watch, which was bizarre enough, but it wasn’t long before her entire body was buzzing with the same glow from underneath her skin. Her scars, obvious weak points in the skin, let through more light than anywhere else, and Martha gaped as she watched the light coalesce into a picture: it was of a woman in bed, holding a watch. In fact, if Martha really studied the image, it was the same image as she was seeing now; Florence in bed, holding her watch.

“How-“ Martha tried to ask, but the Doctor shushed her.

“I wasn’t sure if this was what you wanted, Flo. But I remembered you said, ‘one last chance.’” The Doctor murmured, watching her carefully.

Florence’s blue eyes shone with unshed tears. “I have lived for too long, Doc. It’s time that Circe had her body back: time that I stop being selfish, and I stop running. Time for you to fulfil your promise.”

Circe hummed, and Martha realised she could hear the Time Lady in her mind. I will always remember you, Florence.

The woman smiled, and she struggled to sit up. The Doctor was immediately beside her, placing a careful hand on her back and helping to shift her legs over the edge of the bed.

“Let me warn you, Doctor: I am furious with you. Circe is too. We will not forget what you did,” Florence’s eyes hardened as she looked at him, but the Doctor only looked confused.

“What-, what I did?” He asked, but Florence had already focused back onto her watch. Her fingers brushed the watch face with more love than she’d outwardly expressed since she’d seen Timmy. Knowledge passed from Circe to Florence, and she glanced up at the human woman opposite her, who had been so kind to her.

“Leave, Martha,” Florence warned.

Martha’s eyebrows burrowed. “Why? I’ve been here since you were admitted, I can-“

“You will get hurt in this process.” Her voice frail, Florence pursed her lips, already looking exhausted.

Martha looked confused, and she couldn’t hide the hurt that burned through her, but she nodded and moved to the door. Before she left, she looked back and said, “it was an honour to know you, Florence.”

The woman smiled up at the junior doctor, but her focus moved back to the watch in her hands, and Martha left.

“It might not work,” the Doctor murmured, his hands joining hers to cup Circe in the watch. “Circe‘s energy could exacerbate the regeneration energy already circulating through you; it could cause more damage; it could kill you both.”

“I’ve been human long enough,” Florence replied, even though she wasn’t sure she even looked human at that moment. Her hands were glowing through her scars, and she understood through a small part of her that had never quite been human that it was the vortex reacting to the Time Lord presence it had joined with centuries ago. “It’s time for Florence to pass on. Circe deserves her chance at freedom.”

A shockwave of pain ricocheted through Florence, and her arm jerked out to throw the watch from her hand. She cried out, and the Doctor caught the watch in mid-air, preventing more damage.

“Fucking bastard,” she moaned, curling in on herself, “it’s like he’s still trying to kill me, even from beyond the grave.”

“I’ll hold it with you. Just…breathe. I’m here.” The Doctor’s words did reassure her. She wasn’t alone. She straightened her back, biting her lip to keep back further cries of pain, but she cradled the watch where it sat in the Doctor’s hands, and her fingers tingled where they met his rough palms.

“I didn’t know if you’d care about me, if Circe was gone forever,” Florence murmured, feeling her last moment approaching.

“We can talk about this after,” the Doctor tried to reassure, but Florence shook her head. She dragged her blue eyes away from the watch and looked up to him. He was confused but so warm, so desperate to help.

“I won’t be here after,” Florence told him, “and this has to come from me. I’m sorry that I was so selfish, that I didn’t want to drop everything to run away with you.” She smiled at him, but the happiness that laid within it was bittersweet. “I don’t regret it, but I can see now that there might have been other ways; things we could have done that wouldn’t have meant I ignored you for a century; things I could have given you that would have meant you could talk to the only other meaningful person still alive after the Time War.”

“I was never going to ask you to give your life for her, for me,” the Doctor whispered, and Florence smiled in a way that felt so familiar to him, he almost thought Circe had already left the watch. “I have always respected your decisions, Flo. I can understand why the life I lead isn’t for everyone.”

She laughed, feeling Circe’s protest at her next words. “Well, don’t tell him this, but Circe and I would follow a certain Time Lord to the end of the universe and back,” her blue eyes glinted conspiratorially, “he has a big enough ego as it is.”

The Doctor laughed, his hearts hurting. “I’ll keep that between us,” he promised.

Florence laughed, but the sound devolved into coughing that shook her entire body to the core. The Doctor held true to his words and kept the fob watch safe, but he still stared at her in concern.

“Time is running out,” Florence murmured once she’d recovered. “How do I do this?” Her words were so softly spoken that the Doctor almost wasn’t sure she’d spoken.

He smiled, bittersweet memories of his time as John Smith coming to mind. “Invite her back in.”

Florence scoffed, “that sounds ridiculous,” but her mind was still reaching out to touch Circe’s.

Come back home, Cece , she called.

There was no sudden uptake in breathe signifying a change of psyche; no shift in weight as the Time Lady adjusted to being back in corporeal form; no shouted words of confusion of anger. The Doctor stood, studying her face so carefully that he didn’t notice the watch stop glowing. He only realised it had happened when she looked up at him once more, and her blue eyes had stopped glowing. Hope filled him. Things would be different, this time. He would keep her safe. 

“Doctor,” the way she spoke had changed, each consonant carefully articulated despite the pain obvious in her expression, “if you don’t release me, I will strike you.”

It took a moment for the words to register. After such a heartfelt moment with Florence, the tonal shift took him by surprise. For the woman whose hands he still held, it was obviously too long.

The Doctor had been hit, slapped and whacked enough times since the Time War that he knew how to shift his body to best absorb shock, but it had been too long since the Time War itself, and while hand-to-hand combat hadn’t been Time Lords preferred method of fighting, he hadn’t exactly been practising countering the fighting style taught to him by the Time Council. That meant that, when she struck his shoulder and used her legs to take out his knees in the same motion, all he could do was fall forward. She had moved before he could stop her, and was running from the medical bay far too quickly for someone who should’ve been on the verge of regenerating. His head struck the metal bed frame, and he collapsed to the floor.

Her kidneys were failing (why was it always kidneys that went first?), and she couldn’t look back to make sure she hadn’t injured John-the Doctor-John Smith too badly. Memories she couldn’t remember swam in her vision, and she fell into the coral orange wall beside her. The warmth of the TARDIS around her rushed to the surface of the wall, but she couldn’t be here, she couldn’t stay here. She was dying and she couldn’t die on a TARDIS. This was going to be too big.

She pushed off the wall aggressively, stumbling forward once more. Stairs appeared around the corner, and she knew the TARDIS was helping her as best she could. She staggered onwards, ears ringing as she felt the moment coming closer. Her hearts (one that hadn’t been used in so long, but how did she know that? Why had one of her hearts stopped working?) were beating fast, desperately trying to keep her alive.

The console room was massive, but there was someone in there. A man messing with the controls, whom the image of sent a shockwave through her body. She didn’t know what he’d done to her, but he had caused her a lot of suffering: she didn’t remember a lot, but she remembered that.

“Oh my God, Florence, what are you doing up and about?” The man came over, reaching out to support her, but she struck before he could, smacking his arm away from her. She couldn’t trust him not to hurt her.

“Don’t touch me,” she snapped. A memory flew to the front of her mind, of a man she knew and loved and hated, telling her that the man in front of her had caused all of her suffering. Somewhere inside her, she had enough sense to tell him, “something is very wrong with me. I hate you, but I don’t know why, and I’m sorry. If you value your life, help me land this TARDIS.”

She fell into the command unit, hands knocking some levers haphazardly and typing in coordinates she didn’t remember. The man didn’t wait long, moving next to her.

“I don’t know how to fly her,” he said, almost standing to attention like a soldier. She could work with a soldier; that was what she knew how to do.

“Yank the black cord sixteen times under the desk in time with David Bowie’s famous song, ‘Starman’ , then come back up and hold the square and circle buttons opposite me.” She instructed, until suddenly a shockwave of pain erupted from her. She gasped in pain, bending in half to try and alleviate the pain. The man was next to her, reluctant to touch her but obviously worried.

“Jesus, Florie, what can I do? Where’s the Doc?” He asked, fear evident in his voice. She didn’t need to look at him to know where she could strike him to take him down.

“The Doctor is preoccupied,” was all she said. “Do I have to make you preoccupied too?” The threat was obvious, and she nodded when he moved under the console to do as she’d instructed.

The pain was almost debilitating, but she knew that if she stopped to let herself feel the pain, it would explode, and the TARDIS may not survive a blast that big. Her regeneration energy was fighting with…with…something she couldn’t quite identify, but it was doing its best to destroy her.

The dematerialisation sounds started, and she gripped the TARDIS console tightly, telepathically moving her to the right spot. Buttons and levers were pushed and flipped across the console with seemingly no instigator, and she grit her teeth in pain at being stretched so thinly while under such agonising circumstances. The man with her moved up to push the two buttons opposite her, and his face showed his awe at her flying methods.

“How are you doing this?” He exclaimed, “I had no idea you could fly the TARDIS like this!”

She grunted. “With a lot of effort. Shut up, Captain.” She wasn’t sure how she knew he was a captain, but the title felt right for him.

“As you say, General.” The Captain was obviously trying to make a joke, but she pursed her lips, momentarily distracted by the title. It felt wrong, but at the same time right. Had she been a General before?

“I said shut up.”

He sealed his lips, something in her face reminding him of her threat against his life.

The TARDIS landed with a soft thud, and she ran for the doors. Throwing them open, she ran into the city outside. The Captain followed her, the TARDIS doors shutting softly behind him.

People were walking around calmly, going about their usual business. She looked up into the sky, and saw what she’d been looking for. Others saw her looking upwards, and fear became apparent.

“Captain, it’s time for you to go back into the ship,” she warned calmly, even as she stepped further out into Japan.

“What date is this?” He asked suddenly, understanding dawning on his face.

“August 9th. This is Nagasaki, and this is the safest place for me to regenerate.” She turned to face him, and as people around them started running for shelter, her skin started glowing gold. “You will die if you stay.”

The Captain shook his head. “I know why you hate me, and if this can in any way make up for it, I’ll do it. I won’t let you die alone.” He stepped up next to her, looking up to the plane. He sent her a smirk. “Anyway, I’m hardier than you think. I might even survive this with all my limbs in tact!”

She stared at him in confusion, but shrugged. “It makes no difference to me.”

Survivors of the bomb would later report a second explosion, only moments after the impact of the first. It was almost on par with the size of the atomic bomb labelled, ‘Fat Man ’, but records only indicated the American’s dropping one bomb on Nagasaki that day. One report even went so far as to insist that two people stood in open air as the world turned white, next to a blue police box, only for them and the box to have disappeared once the dust had settled. That report dismissed the claim, citing the explosive power of the bomb to have incinerated them and the wooden box on impact.

She lowered her arms, a new person once more. The world around her was very much changed, with screams filling the air and toxic dust falling from the sky. Hearts hardened, she looked down to the man who had died alongside her, and sighed. Something told her not to leave him, so she bent down to pick him up. She glimpsed sight of new arms and hands, but there was no time to focus on her appearance. She would need rest to sort through everything circulating her mind, and there was still too much damage for her to attempt it now.

She took the Captain into a room she summoned from the TARDIS, leaving him on top of the blanket, before she walked out and into the hallway. Something in her hearts recognised this TARDIS’ telepathic presence. Tentatively, checking that there was no one around who could see her, she laid a hand against the wall. A familiar rush of warmth brushed her fingers, and she gave a small smile.

“Theta,” the call left her lips unwillingly, and she collapsed.