First "Doctor Who" FanFic. I've been a fan for a long time now, but I've only just come up with a plot I think is worthy to pay tribute to such an incredible show. I know this is a very popular fandom, so I'm both excited and scared. Please review!
Clara wakes to the sound of rain on the roof, chilled by the draft in the room. Stirring, she pulls her feet back under the covers and curls her toes. The silence in the room is a wave that pushes and pulls her consciousness. Closed eyes open, close and open again.
She usually loves the way she feels when she's a witness to night. It makes her feel like a blank slate, like she could be anywhere in any time, drifting through the black fabric of the sky.
This time, it's different. Something is wrong.
She sits up and switches on the light beside her bed, her heart caught in her chest, and studies the analog clock on the wall as her eyes adjust. 12:17. Just past midnight. She's safe in her bed, but suddenly she can hardly breathe. "Oh, hush now, Clara! No reason to be upset," she tells herself. Wrong. Her world is breaking apart.
She leans back against her headboard and hugs her knees to her chest, searching her memory desperately for a reason. Breath comes jagged to parted lips. "Must have been a bad dream."
That's it. It comes flooding back to her: a bad dream, in every detail she can possibly wish to forget. Everything moves in a slow and heavy state, like a lead weight being dragged to the ocean floor.
My name is Clara, she thought. Sometimes it's more than that, but today it's the way I feel. Clara. It means clear. Bright. And that's who I am- his bright and clever girl.
She stands up and goes to the window, pulling back the blinds, half-expecting to see a blue box parked across the street. It isn't there.
I dream of him sometimes. I dream of the times I've saved him. Most are lovely dreams, visions of life and music, his raised eyebrows, his cheerful voice. As the Doctor says, though, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. This means they can't all be sweet dreams.
Clara sits on her bed again. Her feet dangle over the edge of the bed. A string of thoughts plague her mind. Bits and pieces of a twisted fairy story. A blood-stained tunic, a three-sided dagger, an herbal remedy in a bottle, a painted ballroom, velvet dresses and tearful kisses.
Sometimes I have nightmares. Not night terrors, the kind that wake you from a deep sleep; not the kind that set you tossing and turning in your sheets. My nightmares are made of an aching sorrow that tugs at my chest, and when I awake, I can never think of what it was that caused it all.
She stands over her desk, digging through a drawer. The memories are fast and fleeting. She needs a notebook. She pulls an old journal from the desk, spiral-bound with a cardboard cover. Only the first three pages are filled. She pulls them out and throws them into the rubbish bin. Now her fingers close around a black felt-tip pen. At the desk, she begins to scribble furiously.
Tonight, I remembered. I know what the great nightmare was.
She stops. This is not what she wants. If she writes it down… it will never go away. It will be set in stone. She can't forget anymore. She will never be a blank slate again.
This aside, if she doesn't write it, it can never be prevented. Pen is pressed to paper, ink spreads across the page. Long and sprawling letters begin to fill the page.
It was the day I couldn't save him—the day the Doctor died.