part two: electric boogaloo.
A sequel, of sorts, to the last piece; this one pretty much definitely won't make sense unless you've watched Two-era oldwho, or are very aware of its canon.
Title: the Heart is Dumb and the Heart is Blind.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Ten, Jamie McCrimmon, an original character (who we should probably call "Bobby McPlotdevice" - no worries, folks, he's barely in it).
Summary: Curiosity killed the cat, but one last visit probably won't hurt anybody. Right?
Warnings: I am a big soppy girl. Mention made of Season 6B.
A/N: For ailcia . Please remember how long ago I wrote this, and also that I mean it when I say it's very reliant on some knowledge of canon, new and old. Feedback is love.
It’s like one of those not-quite-dreams where you’re falling, or maybe flying, and the tingling sensation lasts for however long you can forget that you have Never Been Able To Fly. The wash of panic is what jerks you back to consciousness, and you seem to hit whatever it is you’re lying on with a thump, like you’ve plummetted towards it from great height, only you know you haven’t.
So, that’s what it’s like, kind of.
Just as soon as you’re getting somewhere, just when things feel like maybe they’re making some kind of sense, suddenly you’re not asleep anymore, and you can’t even remember what you were dreaming about; you can only recall the way it made you feel and, by midday, not even that. Sometimes you can hear people call your name, your friends calling your name, and you sit up with a start thinking that someone needs you but, of course, nobody does - and then when you think about it, you don’t even recognise the voices.
The worst part, though, is that on the days when the voices are loudest, you always spot him. Never properly, of course, never clear enough or long enough to put a face to the shadow, but you wouldn’t live very long out here if you didn’t have instincts, and you know when you’re being watched. He’s like a non-person, the way minus numbers would look if they had a body, only visible when you glimpse him from out the corner of your eye. You think maybe he’s a ghost. You think maybe he’s the kind of idea your mother used to scare you away from old ruins. You think maybe if you could get close enough, his eyes would be on fire.
Or at least, you tell yourself that you think he’s a ghost, because that’s easier; the truth, you know, is far more terrifying. Because you recognise him. And you’ve never seen him before. And that’s insane.
Occasionally, you catch yourself doing things that don’t make sense, like using your forefinger to trace names that mean nothing to you into the dust, or scratching shapes into wood. Cubes. A friend saw you doing it one day, and you can still remember the vaguely bemused look in his eye as he studied it, not understanding that you didn’t even realise you’d been doing it. He said, “What’s in the box, Jamie?” And you said, “I don’t know.”
***
The wound isn’t his, but turns Jamie’s stomach like it might aswell be and, either way, they’ll have to stay put for the night; the light’s fading fast, and he doesn’t much fancy the poor lad’s chances if he tries carting him around in the dark. Truth be told, he doesn’t much fancy the poor lad’s chances anyway, but then Jamie himself won’t fare much better when the temperature drops - especially with one of his sleeves ripped off to make a haphazard (and essentially useless) tourniquet - so if he’s going to do anything he should probably do it soon.
Basically, the problem is that there’s thin air where Joseph’s hand used to be: they can dress the facts up as much as they like, but at the end of the day that’s what it comes down to. Joseph’s pale and shivering and his teeth are chattering, and he’s lost a lot of blood, and Jamie’s saying, “Please let me go for help, Joe, you’ve got to let me try and find someone for you.”
Bloody redcoats. Bloody stinking bastards. And now they’re stranded and alone, the grip on Jamie’s arm loosening as his friend slips in and out of consciousness, and part of Jamie feels frantic with worry and desperation but the other part can’t help wondering if this is just...it. It. There’s some distant soldier’s reflex whispering in his ear that it’s only the cold making him feel like that, the shock, that he’s lost a fair amount of blood himself from that nasty cut on his side, that he shouldn’t give up - only, he doesn’t know what to do. There’s no one looking for them. There’s no one left to look.
And has the sun finally set, or is he just having trouble keeping his eyes open? It’s difficult to tell. His breathing sounds strained to his own ears, but it’s getting quieter, and there’s a dull thump as his head joins Joe’s on the grass. Protected at last by the calm of darkness, Jamie’s thoughts slip away, into pastel-coloured dreams of metal men.
Or at least, they start to.
The feeling of hands on his shoulders, shaking him awake, is as shocking as having a bucket of ice water emptied over his head - panicked, Jamie grabs one of the wrists that’s attached to one of the hands, and the movement stops as abruptly as it began.
“Who is it?” He demands, blinking furiously. “Who are you?”
Some time must have gone by, because the darkness is absolute, but night falls so quickly up here (even in this part of the year, even when the days are getting slowly longer) that it’s impossible to tell how much.
“Calm down,” answers a voice. “I’m a doctor.”
The voice is Scottish, which is a relief, although there’s the strangest edge of coiled-up nervous tension just below the surface, which Jamie finds it difficult to understand. With a jolt, he thinks of Joseph and worries that he might be dead, but no; there’s still a slightly shivering weight against his side. As his eyes flick back towards the newcomer, he realises that he can sort of see a face now, moonlight reflecting off a pair of too-large eyes; inexplicably, he feels a rush of familiarity and relief and even, as ridiculous as the thought is, something that feels like love.
Stupid. Jamie knows, of course he knows, that this man is just help in a desperate situation, that he’s just grateful. But the feeling won’t quite go away.
“I don’t believe it, that’s amazing. Can you help my friend? I mean, his hand-” Jamie trails off, gesturing vaguely, and can just about see the outline of a nod in the darkness. He hopes desperately that this isn’t just another dream.
***
Of course he couldn’t just sit there: of course he couldn’t be impassive, and sensible, and uninvolved, and all the other things a Time Lord should be. All the way down the side of the moor, the Doctor had an echo of Jamie’s voice - from so very many years ago - ringing in his ears.
It is a fact, Jamie, that I do tend to get involved with things.
Aye, you can say that again!
In the dead days after his Christmas with the redheaded bride - because time is so difficult to pin down that the Doctor’s calendar is comprised of faces - he realised that, along with his grief and aching loneliness, there came certain brand of reckless freedom. Rose became a kind of banner girl for everything and everyone that made his hearts ache, all of the people who’d been taken and the faces that belonged to the history-books; he wanted familiarity, and company, and to forget. There was a kind of sanctuary in his past, in the naivety with which he’d lived in the days before Gallifrey burned (and no, his former incarnations wouldn’t appreciate him thinking like that, but they had no idea of what the future held for them), and so it was that he came to think about the other people who were taken from him, before he’d even met Rose Tyler.
His thoughts had turned, inexorably, to Jamie and Zoe; but especially, it had to be said, to the former. The Doctor knew in his heart that Zoe would be safe, well looked-after, and continue to be brilliant whether she remembered their time together or not - he came to realise that the unfamiliar feeling in his stomach was, for once, hesitance to interfere. It somehow felt like an insult to her intelligence to suggest that she might need him. But he couldn’t help thinking about the brutal period in history that Jamie had been returned to, his own people being massacred left right and centre, and the worry became ever-present - how long until they came for Jamie? How long would he be able to survive, days or weeks or months or years? How many years? Long enough to see everything he wanted to, help everyone who needed him? Of course not. When the Doctor knew him, they’d had all of time, and it would be foolish to think even for a second that anything could anything compare to that.
And so it was that he found himself in Scotland, in the 1700s, peering down the side of a misty hill at the makeshift camp below it. Of the group of three, a dark-haired boy was the only one still awake, sat slightly apart from the others, scratching something into the wood of an old chest - as soon as the Doctor saw him, he knew that it was Jamie, and it hit him right in the stomach. Rose, Jack, Romana, the Master, Ace, Mel, Peri, Turlough, Tegan-- it was like the years just faded away, ceased to be important, because everyone was gone but not really. Look at him, alive. The Doctor shouldn’t be here, couldn’t be here, but it didn’t matter because Jamie was still, in some way, in some part of time, living his life. He watched the rise and fall of Jamie’s back, inhale and exhale, and had to force himself to just stay put, because he knew, Time Lords or no Time Lords, Jamie still wouldn’t have a clue who he was.
For a while he stood and watched him, but even when he went back to the TARDIS he could still feel the thought niggling at the corner of his mind: it isn’t safe out here. Not right now, not for him. And before he could stop himself, he was on the edge of a wood two days later. And on another moor three days after that. A week on, this time, and he was watching smoke rise from the chimney of a little stone cottage. It hurt to see Jamie and not be able to talk to him, hold on to him, but it was better than not seeing him at all.
Until the time, of course, when he stepped outside the TARDIS and couldn’t see him at all.
It was dark, freezing, and the Doctor bounced on his heels slightly as he watched his breath come out in plumes of smoke - but dark for humans and dark for Time Lords mean two entirely different things, so, squinting across grass that looked silver in the light, he spotted two figures partway down a hill. They weren’t moving.
Suddenly the Doctor’s hearts gave a very nasty thump. And then suddenly he was running, terrified, grabbing hold of Jamie’s shoulders before he could stop himself--
And then the next second there were a pair of wild, disorientated eyes blinking at him, and a hand on his wrist, and the Doctor thought, oh dear.
“Who are you?” Jamie demanded.
“Calm down,” he replied, in what he hoped was a placating tone and, now he came to think of it, passable accent. “I’m a Doctor.”
***
They’re crouched either side of Joseph, who somehow seems to become slightly more aware as soon as the doctor addresses him and, quietly, asks him to please focus on his voice. Magic, thinks Jamie, devils. Thank God.
He can’t stop himself from stammering, “Is he going to be okay?” (And feels stupid as soon as the words are out of his mouth, because it’s such a useless sort of question, but there you are.) He wonders if the strange non-stranger can see the guilt written into every line of his face, the sense of responsibility, the knowledge that if he’d been better-quicker-smarter this would never have happened. He hopes, somewhat desperately, that he can’t. Not for the moment. Please.
***
The other lad was in bad shape and yet, even through his concern, the Doctor felt the most ridiculous rush of pride that Jamie was okay, that he could look after himself, which he didn’t want even to try and explain.
“You really a doctor?” stammered the injured boy, teeth chattering, eyes dark with pain and confusion. When the Doctor nodded, he added, somewhat deliriously, “Of what?”
Over the sound of the wind, and the lad’s laboured breathing, it was just about possible to hear Jamie mutter, “Everything.”
The Doctor whipped his head up, eyes wide, but there was a distracted look on Jamie’s face like he didn’t even realise he’d said it, and he probably didn’t. The disappointment was so overpowering that it felt almost like being physically winded. Jamie was still Jamie no matter what, and the Doctor knew that, it was obvious, but it still hurt to see for himself that Jamie just didn’t remember, didn’t remember any of it - the Doctor didn’t want to return to the feral nervousness of the piper he’d met all those years ago. He had to admit, no matter how selfish the thought was, that he wanted his friend back.
***
Joseph dies at around four in the morning and, despite everything, it’s quite peaceful.
When it happens, the doctor just sort of shakes his head and Jamie feels a burn behind his eyes that’s so unfamiliar it takes him a moment to recognise it; but Jamie McCrimmon hasn’t cried since he was eight years old, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to start now, in front of this stranger. So he takes a few deep breaths and tries counting the stars.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor murmurs - he sounds it, too, which is almost unbearable. “Were you very close?”
Jamie shrugs. His voice sounds a little strained, but you’d probably have to know him quite well to notice it, so he reckons he’s safe, and in his head he plans to say something...dismissive. Something about casualties of war and getting used to losing your friends and Soldiering On, but what comes out is, “Aye, close enough.” He knows how pathetic he must seem. For whatever reason, though, the doctor doesn’t tell him to buck up or cheer up or partake in any other kind of up-ing, and it’s so lovely for once just to be allowed to be sad, because there’s never any time to grieve anymore.
The sky begins to go ever so slightly purple, although they both know there’s no point moving around until it’s actually light (Jamie’s trying not to think about how on Earth the doctor found them. It’s probably bad form to question miracles). So they end up sitting side-by-side on the moor, with Jamie trying not to look at Joseph’s body even though, excepting the wound, he pretty much looks like he’s sleeping.
After a while he says, “You know, I don’t even know your name.”
The man’s eyes widen and he seems to consider the question, which is something of an odd response, when you think about it, although Jamie’s trying not to. Eventually he says, “It’s, ah, Smith. John Smith.”
A bizarrely English-sounding name. Just another thing for Jamie to not-think-about. What is it about John Smith that makes Jamie think he can trust him, in spite of all the mystery? Logically, he knows he’s just grateful, because he’s talking to the man who made Joseph’s last few hours bearable if not comfortable, but, still.
“It’s good to meet you, Doctor Smith.” In light of everything this sounds a little hollow; somewhat ineffective, insincere, even though he means it.
“And you, Jamie.”
And Jamie thinks, that’s odd, because he can’t exactly remember giving the man his name.
A strong wind whips across the side of the hill; as he clumsily folds his arms across his chest, to keep warm, Jamie accidentally knocks the half-forgotten slice he won himself a few hours back. When he lets out a hiss of pain, Smith frowns at him in the semi-darkness.
“Are you hurt?” asks the doctor.
And once again, Jamie decides to lie, to say something strong and capable and what you will - to just say he’s fine, and have done with it. But what comes out is, “Not badly.”
He kicks himself mentally.
“Let me have a look-” Smith begins, but Jamie flinches away, eyes downcast, and he stops speaking.
***
Seeing Jamie move away from him like that, as if burned, was more horrible than the Doctor could have imagined; because no matter how many scrapes they got into, no matter how much they bickered or argued, in the old days they had always been a Team. When you arrive in places together, out of the blue, you get used to everyone associating you with each other - it just happens. So the miles of space between them that night, even though it only looked like inches, was as downright bizarre as it was painful. The Doctor was still the mysterious stranger, of course, with an assumed name and no explanations, but to see someone he’d known for so long on the other side of the encounter... It was hard to get used to. And who was this feral, wild-eyed boy, anyway? Not Jamie. Not his Jamie.
It’s good to meet you, Doctor Smith, and You’re the one who gave me this name, Jamie - you made it up, it was you.
Why don’t you remember me.
***
“You can trust me, you know.”
Jamie can hear a kind of innocent, injured tone in Smith’s voice that makes him want to apologise fifteen times over and take it all back. He’s never been very good at this sort of thing. Instead, he settles for muttering, “Aye, I know.”
“Well then,” Smith says again, taking hold of the bottom of Jamie’s shirt, and Jamie instantly grabs his wrist to stop him. The doctor lets out a little surprised hiss of breath. After a moment, he relaxes his grip a mite and thinks, huh, guess I don’t know my own strength.
When he finally looks up to meet Smith’s gaze, their faces are closer together than he’d been expecting, and he blinks stupidly. “I’m sorry,” Jamie says flatly. “But it’s nothing.”
“Well, if you’re injured, it isn’t nothing.”
***
Odd how, after all these years, he’d amost, almost forgotten the temper.
“You don’t understand!” Jamie suddenly snapped, pulling away. “It’s all my fault, you’ve no idea.”
There was a time when he could assuage this boy’s anger with a single look, or a well-placed and well-considered sentence, but that was another time and another self and it didn’t seem possible anymore.
The Doctor wondered if, were circumstances different, Jamie would ever be able to accept This him, complete with everything he’d seen and done. Hundreds of years had passed since the days where sitting together like that was a normal part of the Doctor’s life, and he’d changed; of course he had. But then he thought of Jamie’s eyes, wide and sincere like they were the last time he saw them, and quiet desperation and a too-tight grip, and I’ll never forget you, you know. And then he thought that probably, out of all the people he’d known, all the people he’d travelled with, Jamie probably could.
“Nonsense,” he breathed. “How could any of this be your fault.”
***
Smith has one of those very calming voices, so it’s a shame that Jamie doesn’t want to be calmed down; he’s angry and upset and guilty, and has nowhere to direct any of it accept for at himself, so he stands up sharply and stares at the sky.
“I don’t mean this badly, Doctor Smith, but y’don’t... know me. Alright?”
He hopes absently that he can manage not to trip over anything until he sits down again - surely that’s not too much to ask? He has a feeling it would put a bit of a dampener on his noble gesture (because that’s what this is, he reminds himself, with a glance at Joseph’s prone form; it’s about loyalty, and about not taking things that you don’t deserve to be offered).
Suddenly, he feels a hand on his shoulder, and jumps about a foot because he hadn’t even heard the doctor stand up.
“I know enough,” says a voice in his ear. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
Something about Smith’s quiet certainty makes the hairs on the back of Jamie’s neck stand up, and it’s like he just doesn’t have the will or the energy to refuse him anything anymore. After a moment, he nods, and once the resistance is gone that only leaves the problem of not-knowing where to start. He settles for, “He was just so young. Younger than I am. I was meant to be looking after him, did you know that?” A quiet exhalation of breath, the ghost of it glittering slightly in the half-light. “I said I’d look after him.”
“Jamie-“ the doctor murmurs, and the look on his face is like he’s changed his mind about hearing this after all, but Jamie ploughs on regardless, tone somewhat fatalistic.
“It was me, Joe and Alexander - a couple of brothers who I sort of found, or they found me. I used to be a piper, y’see, before Culloden, but I somehow... Well a lot of people went missing after Culloden, didn’t they. We were moving west when we ran into a load of Cumberland’s men-"
“This being the...Duke of Cumberland?”
“Aye. Who else? He’s not known for his kindness, is he, and nor are his men. Alexander died within the hour,” Jamie glances at the body of his friend, voice rising slightly. “And he left, he left Joseph to me, asked me to take care of him but I mucked it up didn’t I, I couldn’t even keep him alive for a week and I don’t--"
“Hey,” Smith interrupts, tightening the hand that, somehow, never quite left his shoulder.
Jamie lets his mouth detach itself from the rest of him, lets the words rise up his throat and out of his mouth without reaching his brain, penance - and somewhere, deep down, he’s aware that Smith’s grip and the breath on his cheek are just a series of thoughts and moments that, when they’re gone, he won’t miss. And when Smith goes, it won’t matter. But it doesn’t feel true.
“Joseph was the baby of the family; always had Alexander to look after him, didn’t need to learn to fight, didn’t need to learn to look after himself because there’d be someone else to do it for him. He couldn’t help it, that’s just how he was. Alex’s job was looking after him, then when he died it became my job, and he managed it so why couldn’t I? Tell me that, Doctor Smith,” his voice is strange and shaky and he’s just so angry, so angry at himself, and he thinks maybe one of Smith’s hands is on his face but he can’t even really tell anymore. “I want to know. If I’d been quicker, if I’d been better, he’d still be alive and it’s, it’s my fault--”
Smith’s murmuring, “Jamie, Jamie,” over and over like a litany, and he’s got one hand on Jamie’s cheek and the other on his shoulder, keeping him almost still, and Jamie’s shaking with the effort of trying to stop his voice from getting any louder but it’s too much, too hard and it’s like it’s all building up on him, the fact that even when he’s with people who should be his friends he feels nothing but the most biting, crushing loneliness deep in his chest, a sense of loss that’s merely been honed into a sharp, painful point by Joe’s death. And it doesn’t make any sense. The fact that for the first few seconds after Smith woke him up, he recognised him, he didn’t know his face but he still recognised him, somehow, and he gets the same feeling when Smith studies him that he got whenever he was plumbing the very depths of lack-of-food and lack-of-sleep and hallucinated a man on the moors who just watched him, and maybe there isn’t any sense to any of this but still. He’s gripping one of Smith’s wrists a little too tightly, and even as he’s hoping that he isn’t leaving marks, he realises there’s a part of him wants to, and he doesn’t know why, and Smith’s just saying, “it wasn’t your fault Jamie, it wasn’t your fault,” and then his face is pressed against cotton of the Doctor’s shirt (and he doesn’t know when he started capitalising that name in his head, but he did, and it probably doesn’t matter anymore), and he’s breathing like he’s run ten miles without stopping to rest.
“I’m sorry,” the Doctor whispers, for whatever reason, while Jamie’s fists his hands in the back of his shirt. “I’m so sorry.”
Jamie wants to ask what he’s apologising for, but, without really meaning to, he thinks he might be saying, “I forgive you.”
***
It wasn’t too bad a cut, really. A little on the deep side but surprisingly neat, although the Doctor found himself trying not to think about how much blood Jamie had lost. Indeed, just as he’d finished inspecting the thing, the first fingers of sickly late-spring sunshine swept over the top of the hill opposite and he could appreciate for the first time how pale and ill Jamie looked. The grief, the shock, the cold... and the temporal confusion.
It had been so reckless of the Doctor to risk visiting someone whose memory had been erased, that in the cold light of day he felt a little nauseous. Of course, he’d just panicked - unusual for him, even if he did say so himself - and hadn’t ever really intended to wind up sitting with Jamie, talking to him, but that still didn’t excuse his behaviour. The tickling sensation at the corner of the mind, that such a tampering process always left people with, would be worsened tenfold by the object of the mind-wipe’s presence: in the early days, of more unstable processes, people had gone insane. Every now and then, people still did.
When they were saying their polite, somewhat awkward goodbyes, the Doctor had winced to hear Jamie mutter, “Sorry about... earlier.” Because the entire episode must have been like having his brain try to escape through his face, and yet here he was, apologising, and if the Doctor didn’t want to hurt him any more then the best thing he could do was keep his bloody mouth Shut.
But it was so hard. Because here he was, lovely, sweet, brave Jamie McCrimmon, who - even in the days where he had drifted so much and attached so little value to everything - the Doctor had always been so fond of, liked so much. And he couldn’t take him with him. It was Time Lord science and there were no Time Lords, not anymore, not for him.
Saying goodbye again was like a physical aching pain in his chest, like watching Rose soar backwards into oblivion and Adric’s ship crash into the earth and Gallifrey burn, the pain of loss written into his very skin now, and when Jamie murmured, “It’s mad, but I feel like I know you,” it was almost too much to bear. He was giddy with it.
So he thought, Bollocks to everything, and hugged him as tightly as he possibly could before they went their separate ways; it didn’t seem to matter to Jamie that, in the eighteenth century, that kind of thing wasn’t done, but then it never used to either. Something in the Doctor’s head said “properly this time”, and when he shut the door of the TARDIS behind him, its steady thrum seemed to match the rhythm of a human heart.
***
You told him you’d keep going west, you had friends surviving in some woods out that way, but the truth is you’ve no real idea what you’re doing, now. The brothers were the last people you knew who hadn’t gotten themselves to France or gotten themselves killed, but you’ve just wrapped Joseph’s body and left it in a secluded portion of forest, so that’s it. You feel like maybe you should be more worried than you are, and yet, along with the gried and the aching loneliness there comes a certain brand of reckless freedom. So you smile just a little as your headache recedes, and set off in no particular direction. Even if you had something to aim for, what would be the chances of making it there alive? You haven’t slept, you haven’t eaten and you’ve spent some large amount of your time, lately, bleeding; after last night, just-not-caring-anymore comes as a sudden and beautiful shock to the system. Everything is going to be Perfectly Okay.
However: you stop dead, perhaps an hour later, when you see the man. He’s stood a little way ahead, with a kind of vague, hopeless confusion written all over everything from his clothes to his posture, and there’s half a second where you imagine, insane as the thought is, that it’s Smith. At a second glance they look nothing alike, and you wonder why on earth you should have thought of such a thing, but haven’t time to consider this because suddenly the little man spots you and comes hurrying over.
He’s wearing a grin that splits his face, and cries, “Jamie!”
You blink. What’s happening to you?
“Aye,” you say, somewhat warily. “That’s me. And who’re you, exactly?”
“I’m the Doctor,” says the Doctor, still smiling. “That doesn’t mean anything to you at the moment, does it? Oh well, nevermind, it will in a little while. It’s important that you come with me. Is that alright?”
His voice is so familiar that it seems to come to you as if from a dream, and you don’t realise you’re nodding until you’ve stopped, but he scuttles round to your side, puts a hand on your back and starts steering you off somewhere. You don’t know what’s happening, but it doesn’t matter. Because it feels...right. It feels okay.
Everything is going to be okay.
.
Title: the Heart is Dumb and the Heart is Blind.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Ten, Jamie McCrimmon, an original character (who we should probably call "Bobby McPlotdevice" - no worries, folks, he's barely in it).
Summary: Curiosity killed the cat, but one last visit probably won't hurt anybody. Right?
Warnings: I am a big soppy girl. Mention made of Season 6B.
A/N: For ailcia . Please remember how long ago I wrote this, and also that I mean it when I say it's very reliant on some knowledge of canon, new and old. Feedback is love.
It’s like one of those not-quite-dreams where you’re falling, or maybe flying, and the tingling sensation lasts for however long you can forget that you have Never Been Able To Fly. The wash of panic is what jerks you back to consciousness, and you seem to hit whatever it is you’re lying on with a thump, like you’ve plummetted towards it from great height, only you know you haven’t.
So, that’s what it’s like, kind of.
Just as soon as you’re getting somewhere, just when things feel like maybe they’re making some kind of sense, suddenly you’re not asleep anymore, and you can’t even remember what you were dreaming about; you can only recall the way it made you feel and, by midday, not even that. Sometimes you can hear people call your name, your friends calling your name, and you sit up with a start thinking that someone needs you but, of course, nobody does - and then when you think about it, you don’t even recognise the voices.
The worst part, though, is that on the days when the voices are loudest, you always spot him. Never properly, of course, never clear enough or long enough to put a face to the shadow, but you wouldn’t live very long out here if you didn’t have instincts, and you know when you’re being watched. He’s like a non-person, the way minus numbers would look if they had a body, only visible when you glimpse him from out the corner of your eye. You think maybe he’s a ghost. You think maybe he’s the kind of idea your mother used to scare you away from old ruins. You think maybe if you could get close enough, his eyes would be on fire.
Or at least, you tell yourself that you think he’s a ghost, because that’s easier; the truth, you know, is far more terrifying. Because you recognise him. And you’ve never seen him before. And that’s insane.
Occasionally, you catch yourself doing things that don’t make sense, like using your forefinger to trace names that mean nothing to you into the dust, or scratching shapes into wood. Cubes. A friend saw you doing it one day, and you can still remember the vaguely bemused look in his eye as he studied it, not understanding that you didn’t even realise you’d been doing it. He said, “What’s in the box, Jamie?” And you said, “I don’t know.”
***
The wound isn’t his, but turns Jamie’s stomach like it might aswell be and, either way, they’ll have to stay put for the night; the light’s fading fast, and he doesn’t much fancy the poor lad’s chances if he tries carting him around in the dark. Truth be told, he doesn’t much fancy the poor lad’s chances anyway, but then Jamie himself won’t fare much better when the temperature drops - especially with one of his sleeves ripped off to make a haphazard (and essentially useless) tourniquet - so if he’s going to do anything he should probably do it soon.
Basically, the problem is that there’s thin air where Joseph’s hand used to be: they can dress the facts up as much as they like, but at the end of the day that’s what it comes down to. Joseph’s pale and shivering and his teeth are chattering, and he’s lost a lot of blood, and Jamie’s saying, “Please let me go for help, Joe, you’ve got to let me try and find someone for you.”
Bloody redcoats. Bloody stinking bastards. And now they’re stranded and alone, the grip on Jamie’s arm loosening as his friend slips in and out of consciousness, and part of Jamie feels frantic with worry and desperation but the other part can’t help wondering if this is just...it. It. There’s some distant soldier’s reflex whispering in his ear that it’s only the cold making him feel like that, the shock, that he’s lost a fair amount of blood himself from that nasty cut on his side, that he shouldn’t give up - only, he doesn’t know what to do. There’s no one looking for them. There’s no one left to look.
And has the sun finally set, or is he just having trouble keeping his eyes open? It’s difficult to tell. His breathing sounds strained to his own ears, but it’s getting quieter, and there’s a dull thump as his head joins Joe’s on the grass. Protected at last by the calm of darkness, Jamie’s thoughts slip away, into pastel-coloured dreams of metal men.
Or at least, they start to.
The feeling of hands on his shoulders, shaking him awake, is as shocking as having a bucket of ice water emptied over his head - panicked, Jamie grabs one of the wrists that’s attached to one of the hands, and the movement stops as abruptly as it began.
“Who is it?” He demands, blinking furiously. “Who are you?”
Some time must have gone by, because the darkness is absolute, but night falls so quickly up here (even in this part of the year, even when the days are getting slowly longer) that it’s impossible to tell how much.
“Calm down,” answers a voice. “I’m a doctor.”
The voice is Scottish, which is a relief, although there’s the strangest edge of coiled-up nervous tension just below the surface, which Jamie finds it difficult to understand. With a jolt, he thinks of Joseph and worries that he might be dead, but no; there’s still a slightly shivering weight against his side. As his eyes flick back towards the newcomer, he realises that he can sort of see a face now, moonlight reflecting off a pair of too-large eyes; inexplicably, he feels a rush of familiarity and relief and even, as ridiculous as the thought is, something that feels like love.
Stupid. Jamie knows, of course he knows, that this man is just help in a desperate situation, that he’s just grateful. But the feeling won’t quite go away.
“I don’t believe it, that’s amazing. Can you help my friend? I mean, his hand-” Jamie trails off, gesturing vaguely, and can just about see the outline of a nod in the darkness. He hopes desperately that this isn’t just another dream.
***
Of course he couldn’t just sit there: of course he couldn’t be impassive, and sensible, and uninvolved, and all the other things a Time Lord should be. All the way down the side of the moor, the Doctor had an echo of Jamie’s voice - from so very many years ago - ringing in his ears.
It is a fact, Jamie, that I do tend to get involved with things.
Aye, you can say that again!
In the dead days after his Christmas with the redheaded bride - because time is so difficult to pin down that the Doctor’s calendar is comprised of faces - he realised that, along with his grief and aching loneliness, there came certain brand of reckless freedom. Rose became a kind of banner girl for everything and everyone that made his hearts ache, all of the people who’d been taken and the faces that belonged to the history-books; he wanted familiarity, and company, and to forget. There was a kind of sanctuary in his past, in the naivety with which he’d lived in the days before Gallifrey burned (and no, his former incarnations wouldn’t appreciate him thinking like that, but they had no idea of what the future held for them), and so it was that he came to think about the other people who were taken from him, before he’d even met Rose Tyler.
His thoughts had turned, inexorably, to Jamie and Zoe; but especially, it had to be said, to the former. The Doctor knew in his heart that Zoe would be safe, well looked-after, and continue to be brilliant whether she remembered their time together or not - he came to realise that the unfamiliar feeling in his stomach was, for once, hesitance to interfere. It somehow felt like an insult to her intelligence to suggest that she might need him. But he couldn’t help thinking about the brutal period in history that Jamie had been returned to, his own people being massacred left right and centre, and the worry became ever-present - how long until they came for Jamie? How long would he be able to survive, days or weeks or months or years? How many years? Long enough to see everything he wanted to, help everyone who needed him? Of course not. When the Doctor knew him, they’d had all of time, and it would be foolish to think even for a second that anything could anything compare to that.
And so it was that he found himself in Scotland, in the 1700s, peering down the side of a misty hill at the makeshift camp below it. Of the group of three, a dark-haired boy was the only one still awake, sat slightly apart from the others, scratching something into the wood of an old chest - as soon as the Doctor saw him, he knew that it was Jamie, and it hit him right in the stomach. Rose, Jack, Romana, the Master, Ace, Mel, Peri, Turlough, Tegan-- it was like the years just faded away, ceased to be important, because everyone was gone but not really. Look at him, alive. The Doctor shouldn’t be here, couldn’t be here, but it didn’t matter because Jamie was still, in some way, in some part of time, living his life. He watched the rise and fall of Jamie’s back, inhale and exhale, and had to force himself to just stay put, because he knew, Time Lords or no Time Lords, Jamie still wouldn’t have a clue who he was.
For a while he stood and watched him, but even when he went back to the TARDIS he could still feel the thought niggling at the corner of his mind: it isn’t safe out here. Not right now, not for him. And before he could stop himself, he was on the edge of a wood two days later. And on another moor three days after that. A week on, this time, and he was watching smoke rise from the chimney of a little stone cottage. It hurt to see Jamie and not be able to talk to him, hold on to him, but it was better than not seeing him at all.
Until the time, of course, when he stepped outside the TARDIS and couldn’t see him at all.
It was dark, freezing, and the Doctor bounced on his heels slightly as he watched his breath come out in plumes of smoke - but dark for humans and dark for Time Lords mean two entirely different things, so, squinting across grass that looked silver in the light, he spotted two figures partway down a hill. They weren’t moving.
Suddenly the Doctor’s hearts gave a very nasty thump. And then suddenly he was running, terrified, grabbing hold of Jamie’s shoulders before he could stop himself--
And then the next second there were a pair of wild, disorientated eyes blinking at him, and a hand on his wrist, and the Doctor thought, oh dear.
“Who are you?” Jamie demanded.
“Calm down,” he replied, in what he hoped was a placating tone and, now he came to think of it, passable accent. “I’m a Doctor.”
***
They’re crouched either side of Joseph, who somehow seems to become slightly more aware as soon as the doctor addresses him and, quietly, asks him to please focus on his voice. Magic, thinks Jamie, devils. Thank God.
He can’t stop himself from stammering, “Is he going to be okay?” (And feels stupid as soon as the words are out of his mouth, because it’s such a useless sort of question, but there you are.) He wonders if the strange non-stranger can see the guilt written into every line of his face, the sense of responsibility, the knowledge that if he’d been better-quicker-smarter this would never have happened. He hopes, somewhat desperately, that he can’t. Not for the moment. Please.
***
The other lad was in bad shape and yet, even through his concern, the Doctor felt the most ridiculous rush of pride that Jamie was okay, that he could look after himself, which he didn’t want even to try and explain.
“You really a doctor?” stammered the injured boy, teeth chattering, eyes dark with pain and confusion. When the Doctor nodded, he added, somewhat deliriously, “Of what?”
Over the sound of the wind, and the lad’s laboured breathing, it was just about possible to hear Jamie mutter, “Everything.”
The Doctor whipped his head up, eyes wide, but there was a distracted look on Jamie’s face like he didn’t even realise he’d said it, and he probably didn’t. The disappointment was so overpowering that it felt almost like being physically winded. Jamie was still Jamie no matter what, and the Doctor knew that, it was obvious, but it still hurt to see for himself that Jamie just didn’t remember, didn’t remember any of it - the Doctor didn’t want to return to the feral nervousness of the piper he’d met all those years ago. He had to admit, no matter how selfish the thought was, that he wanted his friend back.
***
Joseph dies at around four in the morning and, despite everything, it’s quite peaceful.
When it happens, the doctor just sort of shakes his head and Jamie feels a burn behind his eyes that’s so unfamiliar it takes him a moment to recognise it; but Jamie McCrimmon hasn’t cried since he was eight years old, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to start now, in front of this stranger. So he takes a few deep breaths and tries counting the stars.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor murmurs - he sounds it, too, which is almost unbearable. “Were you very close?”
Jamie shrugs. His voice sounds a little strained, but you’d probably have to know him quite well to notice it, so he reckons he’s safe, and in his head he plans to say something...dismissive. Something about casualties of war and getting used to losing your friends and Soldiering On, but what comes out is, “Aye, close enough.” He knows how pathetic he must seem. For whatever reason, though, the doctor doesn’t tell him to buck up or cheer up or partake in any other kind of up-ing, and it’s so lovely for once just to be allowed to be sad, because there’s never any time to grieve anymore.
The sky begins to go ever so slightly purple, although they both know there’s no point moving around until it’s actually light (Jamie’s trying not to think about how on Earth the doctor found them. It’s probably bad form to question miracles). So they end up sitting side-by-side on the moor, with Jamie trying not to look at Joseph’s body even though, excepting the wound, he pretty much looks like he’s sleeping.
After a while he says, “You know, I don’t even know your name.”
The man’s eyes widen and he seems to consider the question, which is something of an odd response, when you think about it, although Jamie’s trying not to. Eventually he says, “It’s, ah, Smith. John Smith.”
A bizarrely English-sounding name. Just another thing for Jamie to not-think-about. What is it about John Smith that makes Jamie think he can trust him, in spite of all the mystery? Logically, he knows he’s just grateful, because he’s talking to the man who made Joseph’s last few hours bearable if not comfortable, but, still.
“It’s good to meet you, Doctor Smith.” In light of everything this sounds a little hollow; somewhat ineffective, insincere, even though he means it.
“And you, Jamie.”
And Jamie thinks, that’s odd, because he can’t exactly remember giving the man his name.
A strong wind whips across the side of the hill; as he clumsily folds his arms across his chest, to keep warm, Jamie accidentally knocks the half-forgotten slice he won himself a few hours back. When he lets out a hiss of pain, Smith frowns at him in the semi-darkness.
“Are you hurt?” asks the doctor.
And once again, Jamie decides to lie, to say something strong and capable and what you will - to just say he’s fine, and have done with it. But what comes out is, “Not badly.”
He kicks himself mentally.
“Let me have a look-” Smith begins, but Jamie flinches away, eyes downcast, and he stops speaking.
***
Seeing Jamie move away from him like that, as if burned, was more horrible than the Doctor could have imagined; because no matter how many scrapes they got into, no matter how much they bickered or argued, in the old days they had always been a Team. When you arrive in places together, out of the blue, you get used to everyone associating you with each other - it just happens. So the miles of space between them that night, even though it only looked like inches, was as downright bizarre as it was painful. The Doctor was still the mysterious stranger, of course, with an assumed name and no explanations, but to see someone he’d known for so long on the other side of the encounter... It was hard to get used to. And who was this feral, wild-eyed boy, anyway? Not Jamie. Not his Jamie.
It’s good to meet you, Doctor Smith, and You’re the one who gave me this name, Jamie - you made it up, it was you.
Why don’t you remember me.
***
“You can trust me, you know.”
Jamie can hear a kind of innocent, injured tone in Smith’s voice that makes him want to apologise fifteen times over and take it all back. He’s never been very good at this sort of thing. Instead, he settles for muttering, “Aye, I know.”
“Well then,” Smith says again, taking hold of the bottom of Jamie’s shirt, and Jamie instantly grabs his wrist to stop him. The doctor lets out a little surprised hiss of breath. After a moment, he relaxes his grip a mite and thinks, huh, guess I don’t know my own strength.
When he finally looks up to meet Smith’s gaze, their faces are closer together than he’d been expecting, and he blinks stupidly. “I’m sorry,” Jamie says flatly. “But it’s nothing.”
“Well, if you’re injured, it isn’t nothing.”
***
Odd how, after all these years, he’d amost, almost forgotten the temper.
“You don’t understand!” Jamie suddenly snapped, pulling away. “It’s all my fault, you’ve no idea.”
There was a time when he could assuage this boy’s anger with a single look, or a well-placed and well-considered sentence, but that was another time and another self and it didn’t seem possible anymore.
The Doctor wondered if, were circumstances different, Jamie would ever be able to accept This him, complete with everything he’d seen and done. Hundreds of years had passed since the days where sitting together like that was a normal part of the Doctor’s life, and he’d changed; of course he had. But then he thought of Jamie’s eyes, wide and sincere like they were the last time he saw them, and quiet desperation and a too-tight grip, and I’ll never forget you, you know. And then he thought that probably, out of all the people he’d known, all the people he’d travelled with, Jamie probably could.
“Nonsense,” he breathed. “How could any of this be your fault.”
***
Smith has one of those very calming voices, so it’s a shame that Jamie doesn’t want to be calmed down; he’s angry and upset and guilty, and has nowhere to direct any of it accept for at himself, so he stands up sharply and stares at the sky.
“I don’t mean this badly, Doctor Smith, but y’don’t... know me. Alright?”
He hopes absently that he can manage not to trip over anything until he sits down again - surely that’s not too much to ask? He has a feeling it would put a bit of a dampener on his noble gesture (because that’s what this is, he reminds himself, with a glance at Joseph’s prone form; it’s about loyalty, and about not taking things that you don’t deserve to be offered).
Suddenly, he feels a hand on his shoulder, and jumps about a foot because he hadn’t even heard the doctor stand up.
“I know enough,” says a voice in his ear. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
Something about Smith’s quiet certainty makes the hairs on the back of Jamie’s neck stand up, and it’s like he just doesn’t have the will or the energy to refuse him anything anymore. After a moment, he nods, and once the resistance is gone that only leaves the problem of not-knowing where to start. He settles for, “He was just so young. Younger than I am. I was meant to be looking after him, did you know that?” A quiet exhalation of breath, the ghost of it glittering slightly in the half-light. “I said I’d look after him.”
“Jamie-“ the doctor murmurs, and the look on his face is like he’s changed his mind about hearing this after all, but Jamie ploughs on regardless, tone somewhat fatalistic.
“It was me, Joe and Alexander - a couple of brothers who I sort of found, or they found me. I used to be a piper, y’see, before Culloden, but I somehow... Well a lot of people went missing after Culloden, didn’t they. We were moving west when we ran into a load of Cumberland’s men-"
“This being the...Duke of Cumberland?”
“Aye. Who else? He’s not known for his kindness, is he, and nor are his men. Alexander died within the hour,” Jamie glances at the body of his friend, voice rising slightly. “And he left, he left Joseph to me, asked me to take care of him but I mucked it up didn’t I, I couldn’t even keep him alive for a week and I don’t--"
“Hey,” Smith interrupts, tightening the hand that, somehow, never quite left his shoulder.
Jamie lets his mouth detach itself from the rest of him, lets the words rise up his throat and out of his mouth without reaching his brain, penance - and somewhere, deep down, he’s aware that Smith’s grip and the breath on his cheek are just a series of thoughts and moments that, when they’re gone, he won’t miss. And when Smith goes, it won’t matter. But it doesn’t feel true.
“Joseph was the baby of the family; always had Alexander to look after him, didn’t need to learn to fight, didn’t need to learn to look after himself because there’d be someone else to do it for him. He couldn’t help it, that’s just how he was. Alex’s job was looking after him, then when he died it became my job, and he managed it so why couldn’t I? Tell me that, Doctor Smith,” his voice is strange and shaky and he’s just so angry, so angry at himself, and he thinks maybe one of Smith’s hands is on his face but he can’t even really tell anymore. “I want to know. If I’d been quicker, if I’d been better, he’d still be alive and it’s, it’s my fault--”
Smith’s murmuring, “Jamie, Jamie,” over and over like a litany, and he’s got one hand on Jamie’s cheek and the other on his shoulder, keeping him almost still, and Jamie’s shaking with the effort of trying to stop his voice from getting any louder but it’s too much, too hard and it’s like it’s all building up on him, the fact that even when he’s with people who should be his friends he feels nothing but the most biting, crushing loneliness deep in his chest, a sense of loss that’s merely been honed into a sharp, painful point by Joe’s death. And it doesn’t make any sense. The fact that for the first few seconds after Smith woke him up, he recognised him, he didn’t know his face but he still recognised him, somehow, and he gets the same feeling when Smith studies him that he got whenever he was plumbing the very depths of lack-of-food and lack-of-sleep and hallucinated a man on the moors who just watched him, and maybe there isn’t any sense to any of this but still. He’s gripping one of Smith’s wrists a little too tightly, and even as he’s hoping that he isn’t leaving marks, he realises there’s a part of him wants to, and he doesn’t know why, and Smith’s just saying, “it wasn’t your fault Jamie, it wasn’t your fault,” and then his face is pressed against cotton of the Doctor’s shirt (and he doesn’t know when he started capitalising that name in his head, but he did, and it probably doesn’t matter anymore), and he’s breathing like he’s run ten miles without stopping to rest.
“I’m sorry,” the Doctor whispers, for whatever reason, while Jamie’s fists his hands in the back of his shirt. “I’m so sorry.”
Jamie wants to ask what he’s apologising for, but, without really meaning to, he thinks he might be saying, “I forgive you.”
***
It wasn’t too bad a cut, really. A little on the deep side but surprisingly neat, although the Doctor found himself trying not to think about how much blood Jamie had lost. Indeed, just as he’d finished inspecting the thing, the first fingers of sickly late-spring sunshine swept over the top of the hill opposite and he could appreciate for the first time how pale and ill Jamie looked. The grief, the shock, the cold... and the temporal confusion.
It had been so reckless of the Doctor to risk visiting someone whose memory had been erased, that in the cold light of day he felt a little nauseous. Of course, he’d just panicked - unusual for him, even if he did say so himself - and hadn’t ever really intended to wind up sitting with Jamie, talking to him, but that still didn’t excuse his behaviour. The tickling sensation at the corner of the mind, that such a tampering process always left people with, would be worsened tenfold by the object of the mind-wipe’s presence: in the early days, of more unstable processes, people had gone insane. Every now and then, people still did.
When they were saying their polite, somewhat awkward goodbyes, the Doctor had winced to hear Jamie mutter, “Sorry about... earlier.” Because the entire episode must have been like having his brain try to escape through his face, and yet here he was, apologising, and if the Doctor didn’t want to hurt him any more then the best thing he could do was keep his bloody mouth Shut.
But it was so hard. Because here he was, lovely, sweet, brave Jamie McCrimmon, who - even in the days where he had drifted so much and attached so little value to everything - the Doctor had always been so fond of, liked so much. And he couldn’t take him with him. It was Time Lord science and there were no Time Lords, not anymore, not for him.
Saying goodbye again was like a physical aching pain in his chest, like watching Rose soar backwards into oblivion and Adric’s ship crash into the earth and Gallifrey burn, the pain of loss written into his very skin now, and when Jamie murmured, “It’s mad, but I feel like I know you,” it was almost too much to bear. He was giddy with it.
So he thought, Bollocks to everything, and hugged him as tightly as he possibly could before they went their separate ways; it didn’t seem to matter to Jamie that, in the eighteenth century, that kind of thing wasn’t done, but then it never used to either. Something in the Doctor’s head said “properly this time”, and when he shut the door of the TARDIS behind him, its steady thrum seemed to match the rhythm of a human heart.
***
You told him you’d keep going west, you had friends surviving in some woods out that way, but the truth is you’ve no real idea what you’re doing, now. The brothers were the last people you knew who hadn’t gotten themselves to France or gotten themselves killed, but you’ve just wrapped Joseph’s body and left it in a secluded portion of forest, so that’s it. You feel like maybe you should be more worried than you are, and yet, along with the gried and the aching loneliness there comes a certain brand of reckless freedom. So you smile just a little as your headache recedes, and set off in no particular direction. Even if you had something to aim for, what would be the chances of making it there alive? You haven’t slept, you haven’t eaten and you’ve spent some large amount of your time, lately, bleeding; after last night, just-not-caring-anymore comes as a sudden and beautiful shock to the system. Everything is going to be Perfectly Okay.
However: you stop dead, perhaps an hour later, when you see the man. He’s stood a little way ahead, with a kind of vague, hopeless confusion written all over everything from his clothes to his posture, and there’s half a second where you imagine, insane as the thought is, that it’s Smith. At a second glance they look nothing alike, and you wonder why on earth you should have thought of such a thing, but haven’t time to consider this because suddenly the little man spots you and comes hurrying over.
He’s wearing a grin that splits his face, and cries, “Jamie!”
You blink. What’s happening to you?
“Aye,” you say, somewhat warily. “That’s me. And who’re you, exactly?”
“I’m the Doctor,” says the Doctor, still smiling. “That doesn’t mean anything to you at the moment, does it? Oh well, nevermind, it will in a little while. It’s important that you come with me. Is that alright?”
His voice is so familiar that it seems to come to you as if from a dream, and you don’t realise you’re nodding until you’ve stopped, but he scuttles round to your side, puts a hand on your back and starts steering you off somewhere. You don’t know what’s happening, but it doesn’t matter. Because it feels...right. It feels okay.
Everything is going to be okay.
.