The Blue Rose 1/3
Title: The Blue Rose
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Tenth Doctor (10/Rose implied)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Doomsday, Evolution of the Daleks, and a teeny-tiny (blink and you'll miss it) spoiler from S2 Torchwood.
Summary: After risking everything to find Rose, the Doctor must face the terrifying possibility that everything he believes is an illusion.
This is a non-profit work of fan-fiction based upon the television series Doctor Who. All related characters, places, and events, belong to the BBC, and Russell T. Davies, used without permission. This story, with all original content, belongs to the author, © 2009.
The Blue Rose
by Orianna2000
"Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one." - Albert Einstein
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Part One
The Doctor opened his eyes without warning. The nurse adjusting his intravenous solution jerked in surprise. He watched as she quickly finished twisting the new bag of liquid nutrition in place and then turned to him with a kind and concerned expression.
First, he asked, “Where am I?”
“You're still in hospital,” the nurse answered softly. “Central Infirmary, twenty-ninth floor.”
Second, he asked, “Where's Rose?”
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
“I don't . . . I don't remember. What happened? We were in . . . New York? New New York! There were Daleks. And-and this dancer . . . no, wait. Cybermen? That can't be right.” He reached up to his forehead and touched his temple gingerly. “My memory is mixed up. Scrambled, like someone took a sonic screwdriver to it. Speaking of, where are my things?”
“Everything you had on you would've been put into our secure storage facility,” the nurse replied. She flipped back through the patient's chart. “Yes, here it is. Entered into storage: one coat, tan cashmere; one suit, brown with blue pinstripes; one Oxford shirt, dark blue; one long-sleeved Henley shirt, charcoal grey; two cotton t-shirts, navy and brown,” and here she paused, giving him an odd glance. “The middle of summer and you wearing all that! No wonder you were admitted to hospital.”
He rolled his eyes and gestured for her to get on with it. With a shrug, she found her place on the list again. “One silk tie, blue with red swirls; one pair of brown wool socks, decorated with blue squares; one pair of vintage-style plimsolls, white. Contents of coat pockets as follows: assorted antique coins; three rubber bands; a photograph of an unidentified young woman; a small bag of candy; a gold embossed pocket-watch, and one ivory chopstick. Contents of suit pockets: a woman's short-sleeved top, lavender,” and she paused again, raising a curious eyebrow. When the Doctor merely cleared his throat, she continued. “A counterfeit first-edition novel by Charles Dickens-”
“Oi! That book's genuine. Autographed by Charlie himself in 1869.”
“A stethoscope; a biscuit tin, half full; a plain gold wedding band; a snow globe from Barcelona; an electronic tool of indeterminate origin, possibly a pocket torch-”
“Yes, that's the one! That's my sonic screwdriver,” the Doctor declared.
“-And a small metal key inscribed with the letters Y-A-L-E, also of indeterminate origin.”
“Quite. Sounds like it's all there, then.”
The nurse turned the pages of the chart to reveal a blank page. She scribbled in the time and date, then reached over and pulled open the curtains to reveal an overcast sky. “Now then, Mister Smith-aside from the scrambled memory-how are you feeling?”
The Doctor made a face and began stretching his arms and legs. “A bit weak, to be honest. How long've I been cooped up in here? Hold on . . . something's not right. Something's . . . missing? What was I doing before I ended up here? No, don't tell me! There was a . . . a supernova, yes? Yes! And-a black hole! And. . . .”
He covered his face with his hands as the memories swirled around his brain. “I was travelling, wasn't I? Going somewhere important. But I wasn't alone-there was someone with me. There's always someone with me.”
“Can you remember who?” the nurse asked curiously.
“No, I-hold on. I'm seeing faces, but so many of them!” He couldn't possibly have been travelling with so many different people. All of their faces flashed through his mind and he rubbed at his eyes to slow down the images. A pretty little brunette who'd aged well, a Scotsman with a flaming red kilt, a young black man with a thick London accent and the wrong name, a thirty-something redhead with curves and a fierce temper, an almost-doctor with gentle hands, a man with flirtatious blue eyes and an American accent, a London girl with blonde hair-and he stopped. That particular memory focused in his mind: a young woman who wore bright colours. Blonde hair with darker roots. Brown eyes surrounded by thick black lashes. A smile that lit up the room. A hand that curled into his own as though it belonged there.
He stared down at his empty hand. “Where's Rose?”
The nurse hesitated, her smile soft and sympathetic. “I don't know anyone by that name.”
In an instant his expression changed. His eyes burned and his voice hardened to a sharp edge. “I'm only going to ask this once more, and then there will be consequences you cannot even begin to imagine. Now, tell me: where is Rose Tyler?”
Her lips parted but she shook her head without saying a word. Without warning, the Doctor reached out and grabbed her by the wrist. She let out a startled yelp and dropped the chart, which landed with a loud clatter on the tile floor.
“Where is she?” Still holding the nurse's arm, he stood. Storm clouds gathered outside, darkening the room. “Where's Rose? Just tell me, and everything will be fine.”
A doctor appeared in the doorway and stood there with authority. “That will be all, Nurse. I'd like a word with Mr Smith, here. If that's all right?”
He nodded sharply. As the nurse hurried out of the room, he pushed away from the bed. His hair stood on end, facing all directions at once in a chaotic fury. Pronouncing each word distinctly, he said, “Where-is-Rose-Tyler?”
The doctor let out a controlled sigh. “I was hoping it wouldn't come to this. I thought with the treatment-but apparently it didn't work as well as we'd expected.”
The Doctor clenched his fists and took a step forward, just a bolt of lightning struck in the yard outside. The flash of light cast flickering shadows across the room; he didn't even flinch at the sharp crack of thunder. “Where's Rose? If you've harmed her, I swear by Rassilon that your entire planet will burn just like mine.”
“There's no need for threats, Mr Smith,” the doctor said evenly.
“No? Then tell me-where is she?”
“Rose Tyler is inside your head.”
Not exactly what he'd expected; his expression showed his displeasure. “What-d'you mean some kind of telepathic connection? Or outright transference? If you've used a psychograph. . . .”
“Not at all,” the doctor answered. “I mean, quite simply, that Rose Tyler does not exist. Not on Earth, not on the colonies, not anywhere within the Empire. She is nothing but a figment of your imagination. A delusion, if you will.”
“I will not,” the Doctor retorted. “What is this, the Second Great and Bountiful Human Empire?”
“What do you mean, second? This is the Great and Bountiful Human Empire.”
“Close enough! Naturally you're not going to find any evidence of Rose in your systems. She wasn't born in this century!”
Stupid humans! He'd told them this before. . . . How many times had he told them about Rose? How many times had he woken, confused and disoriented, forgetting? He shook his head and tried to focus. Rose. “She's a time traveller-I picked her up in the early twenty-first century.”
The doctor shook his head. “I'm afraid that isn't so, Mr Smith. You see, we have records going back that far. We checked the database and found no trace of Rose Marion Tyler, born 1986, from the Powell Estates, London, England, Earth. She never existed.”
“That-that's impossible,” he replied flatly.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
He shouted; he screamed; he fought; he cursed, until they sedated him with something that did not agree with his physiology. It knocked him out for three days, and when he woke, he tried to reason with the doctors.
“Look, I'm not from this world, or this Empire. Surely you can tell that?”
“You're saying that you feel alienated from other people, then?” The psychiatrist, Dr Cole, tilted her head and looked interested. “How long have you felt this way, Mr Smith?”
He gritted his teeth and tried not to look as hostile as he felt. “My name is not John Smith. It's the Doctor. Just the Doctor. And I don't feel alienated, I am alien!”
“All right then, if you're from another planet-would you mind showing me which one?” She produced a star chart and slid it across the table.
“You won't find my world on any map,” the Doctor said with a grimace. Of course they'd ask to see where he'd come from. Had already asked, how many times now? Thick, this lot. Refused to believe anything they couldn't prove absolutely. He gestured at a blank section of the star chart. “It's gone. Destroyed, long ago.”
“I see. So you've lost your family? Some kind of colonial disaster, was it?”
“A war,” he said, unwillingly. “My people fought to save the universe and they lost, so now I'm left to protect the whole of time and space on my own. But that has nothing to do with any of this.”
“Oh, I believe it does,” said Dr Cole. Her pen scratched against the paper as she made a note in the margins of the chart. “You lost your family and you feel guilty that you've gone on without them. You feel separated from the rest of humanity, yet you have the strong desire to help people. These are classic symptoms, Mr Smith. We could help you, if you'll let us.”
The Doctor leaned forward, no longer caring if his face showed irritation. “Look! I am not speaking metaphorically! Listen to my chest-I have two hearts! Check my blood. Do a bio-scan. You'll find more than enough proof that I am not human.”
“You do have an unusual vascular system,” she admitted. “Our cardiologist says it's a rare genetic modification, most likely a colonial adaptation. It isn't all that unusual on terraformed fringe worlds, though it is, of course, highly illegal. Does it bother you, now that you're on a planet with standard gravity and atmosphere? We can give you medication to ease any discomfort, but only if you cooperate.”
The Doctor ran his hands through his hair. The strands felt greasy and stiff without the benefit of having been recently washed and styled. He wiggled his fingers in disgust. “Cooperate! You don't want me to cooperate-you want me to roll over and pretend that I'm one of you. Another stupid ape!”
He blinked at those familiar words, and then tilted his head back with annoyance. “Oh, here we go-I sound like my old self, again. You've done something to me, haven't you? Something to my brain?”
“It would benefit your mental state if you let go of the delusions that keep you separated from the rest of humanity.” Ignoring the loud snort, Dr Cole continued, “I believe that something terrible happened to you, Mr Smith. Something so catastrophic that your mind created another persona-a Time Lord-in order to protect itself from a truth it couldn't handle.”
“And what sort of truth would that be?” the Doctor asked sardonically. Spare him from primitive psychology! Next they'd be applying electric shock therapy . . . although, hold on. Is that what they'd done? It might explain the gaps in his memory, the way events and people continued to churn in a random pattern around his brain. It would also explain the vestiges of his ninth self that seemed to be creeping out now and then. Idiots! Messing with things they had no concept of!
Sensing his attitude, Dr Cole tried a different tactic. “Who is Rose?”
The Doctor clenched his jaw.
“She seems to be someone you cared about deeply. How did you lose her?”
“Rose Tyler is alive and well,” he said harshly. “She's with her family.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes! That's so,” he responded, with a glare that would intimidate most lower species.
“Then why is it that we can find no record of her birth? Rose Tyler doesn't exist, except for you. Your mind created the persona of Rose in order to help you. Someone to dream about, someone to hold your hand, someone to help you heal. Only you grew too attached to her, didn't you? And when it was time for you to let go, you couldn't. You couldn't let go, could you?”
And in his mind, the Doctor saw Rose being pulled away from him, a swirling vortex clawing at her, claiming her with the indisputable power of the Void. Her eyes met his, silently begging for him to help her-but he couldn't. He could do nothing but watch as the Void tore Rose away from him.
“I couldn't hold on,” he corrected the psychiatrist quietly. “I couldn't hold onto her. But I'll get her back. I'll find her again. She's alive out there-I know she's alive-and I will find her! You can't hold me in here forever. I will get out of here, and I will find Rose. And if you try to stop me, you will regret it-that I promise.”
“I don't think so, Mr Smith.”
They locked him in a small room with padded walls.
And the Doctor screamed.
To Be Continued. . . .
Special thanks to dameruth for beta reading.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Tenth Doctor (10/Rose implied)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Doomsday, Evolution of the Daleks, and a teeny-tiny (blink and you'll miss it) spoiler from S2 Torchwood.
Summary: After risking everything to find Rose, the Doctor must face the terrifying possibility that everything he believes is an illusion.
This is a non-profit work of fan-fiction based upon the television series Doctor Who. All related characters, places, and events, belong to the BBC, and Russell T. Davies, used without permission. This story, with all original content, belongs to the author, © 2009.
The Blue Rose
by Orianna2000
"Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one." - Albert Einstein
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Part One
The Doctor opened his eyes without warning. The nurse adjusting his intravenous solution jerked in surprise. He watched as she quickly finished twisting the new bag of liquid nutrition in place and then turned to him with a kind and concerned expression.
First, he asked, “Where am I?”
“You're still in hospital,” the nurse answered softly. “Central Infirmary, twenty-ninth floor.”
Second, he asked, “Where's Rose?”
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
“I don't . . . I don't remember. What happened? We were in . . . New York? New New York! There were Daleks. And-and this dancer . . . no, wait. Cybermen? That can't be right.” He reached up to his forehead and touched his temple gingerly. “My memory is mixed up. Scrambled, like someone took a sonic screwdriver to it. Speaking of, where are my things?”
“Everything you had on you would've been put into our secure storage facility,” the nurse replied. She flipped back through the patient's chart. “Yes, here it is. Entered into storage: one coat, tan cashmere; one suit, brown with blue pinstripes; one Oxford shirt, dark blue; one long-sleeved Henley shirt, charcoal grey; two cotton t-shirts, navy and brown,” and here she paused, giving him an odd glance. “The middle of summer and you wearing all that! No wonder you were admitted to hospital.”
He rolled his eyes and gestured for her to get on with it. With a shrug, she found her place on the list again. “One silk tie, blue with red swirls; one pair of brown wool socks, decorated with blue squares; one pair of vintage-style plimsolls, white. Contents of coat pockets as follows: assorted antique coins; three rubber bands; a photograph of an unidentified young woman; a small bag of candy; a gold embossed pocket-watch, and one ivory chopstick. Contents of suit pockets: a woman's short-sleeved top, lavender,” and she paused again, raising a curious eyebrow. When the Doctor merely cleared his throat, she continued. “A counterfeit first-edition novel by Charles Dickens-”
“Oi! That book's genuine. Autographed by Charlie himself in 1869.”
“A stethoscope; a biscuit tin, half full; a plain gold wedding band; a snow globe from Barcelona; an electronic tool of indeterminate origin, possibly a pocket torch-”
“Yes, that's the one! That's my sonic screwdriver,” the Doctor declared.
“-And a small metal key inscribed with the letters Y-A-L-E, also of indeterminate origin.”
“Quite. Sounds like it's all there, then.”
The nurse turned the pages of the chart to reveal a blank page. She scribbled in the time and date, then reached over and pulled open the curtains to reveal an overcast sky. “Now then, Mister Smith-aside from the scrambled memory-how are you feeling?”
The Doctor made a face and began stretching his arms and legs. “A bit weak, to be honest. How long've I been cooped up in here? Hold on . . . something's not right. Something's . . . missing? What was I doing before I ended up here? No, don't tell me! There was a . . . a supernova, yes? Yes! And-a black hole! And. . . .”
He covered his face with his hands as the memories swirled around his brain. “I was travelling, wasn't I? Going somewhere important. But I wasn't alone-there was someone with me. There's always someone with me.”
“Can you remember who?” the nurse asked curiously.
“No, I-hold on. I'm seeing faces, but so many of them!” He couldn't possibly have been travelling with so many different people. All of their faces flashed through his mind and he rubbed at his eyes to slow down the images. A pretty little brunette who'd aged well, a Scotsman with a flaming red kilt, a young black man with a thick London accent and the wrong name, a thirty-something redhead with curves and a fierce temper, an almost-doctor with gentle hands, a man with flirtatious blue eyes and an American accent, a London girl with blonde hair-and he stopped. That particular memory focused in his mind: a young woman who wore bright colours. Blonde hair with darker roots. Brown eyes surrounded by thick black lashes. A smile that lit up the room. A hand that curled into his own as though it belonged there.
He stared down at his empty hand. “Where's Rose?”
The nurse hesitated, her smile soft and sympathetic. “I don't know anyone by that name.”
In an instant his expression changed. His eyes burned and his voice hardened to a sharp edge. “I'm only going to ask this once more, and then there will be consequences you cannot even begin to imagine. Now, tell me: where is Rose Tyler?”
Her lips parted but she shook her head without saying a word. Without warning, the Doctor reached out and grabbed her by the wrist. She let out a startled yelp and dropped the chart, which landed with a loud clatter on the tile floor.
“Where is she?” Still holding the nurse's arm, he stood. Storm clouds gathered outside, darkening the room. “Where's Rose? Just tell me, and everything will be fine.”
A doctor appeared in the doorway and stood there with authority. “That will be all, Nurse. I'd like a word with Mr Smith, here. If that's all right?”
He nodded sharply. As the nurse hurried out of the room, he pushed away from the bed. His hair stood on end, facing all directions at once in a chaotic fury. Pronouncing each word distinctly, he said, “Where-is-Rose-Tyler?”
The doctor let out a controlled sigh. “I was hoping it wouldn't come to this. I thought with the treatment-but apparently it didn't work as well as we'd expected.”
The Doctor clenched his fists and took a step forward, just a bolt of lightning struck in the yard outside. The flash of light cast flickering shadows across the room; he didn't even flinch at the sharp crack of thunder. “Where's Rose? If you've harmed her, I swear by Rassilon that your entire planet will burn just like mine.”
“There's no need for threats, Mr Smith,” the doctor said evenly.
“No? Then tell me-where is she?”
“Rose Tyler is inside your head.”
Not exactly what he'd expected; his expression showed his displeasure. “What-d'you mean some kind of telepathic connection? Or outright transference? If you've used a psychograph. . . .”
“Not at all,” the doctor answered. “I mean, quite simply, that Rose Tyler does not exist. Not on Earth, not on the colonies, not anywhere within the Empire. She is nothing but a figment of your imagination. A delusion, if you will.”
“I will not,” the Doctor retorted. “What is this, the Second Great and Bountiful Human Empire?”
“What do you mean, second? This is the Great and Bountiful Human Empire.”
“Close enough! Naturally you're not going to find any evidence of Rose in your systems. She wasn't born in this century!”
Stupid humans! He'd told them this before. . . . How many times had he told them about Rose? How many times had he woken, confused and disoriented, forgetting? He shook his head and tried to focus. Rose. “She's a time traveller-I picked her up in the early twenty-first century.”
The doctor shook his head. “I'm afraid that isn't so, Mr Smith. You see, we have records going back that far. We checked the database and found no trace of Rose Marion Tyler, born 1986, from the Powell Estates, London, England, Earth. She never existed.”
“That-that's impossible,” he replied flatly.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
He shouted; he screamed; he fought; he cursed, until they sedated him with something that did not agree with his physiology. It knocked him out for three days, and when he woke, he tried to reason with the doctors.
“Look, I'm not from this world, or this Empire. Surely you can tell that?”
“You're saying that you feel alienated from other people, then?” The psychiatrist, Dr Cole, tilted her head and looked interested. “How long have you felt this way, Mr Smith?”
He gritted his teeth and tried not to look as hostile as he felt. “My name is not John Smith. It's the Doctor. Just the Doctor. And I don't feel alienated, I am alien!”
“All right then, if you're from another planet-would you mind showing me which one?” She produced a star chart and slid it across the table.
“You won't find my world on any map,” the Doctor said with a grimace. Of course they'd ask to see where he'd come from. Had already asked, how many times now? Thick, this lot. Refused to believe anything they couldn't prove absolutely. He gestured at a blank section of the star chart. “It's gone. Destroyed, long ago.”
“I see. So you've lost your family? Some kind of colonial disaster, was it?”
“A war,” he said, unwillingly. “My people fought to save the universe and they lost, so now I'm left to protect the whole of time and space on my own. But that has nothing to do with any of this.”
“Oh, I believe it does,” said Dr Cole. Her pen scratched against the paper as she made a note in the margins of the chart. “You lost your family and you feel guilty that you've gone on without them. You feel separated from the rest of humanity, yet you have the strong desire to help people. These are classic symptoms, Mr Smith. We could help you, if you'll let us.”
The Doctor leaned forward, no longer caring if his face showed irritation. “Look! I am not speaking metaphorically! Listen to my chest-I have two hearts! Check my blood. Do a bio-scan. You'll find more than enough proof that I am not human.”
“You do have an unusual vascular system,” she admitted. “Our cardiologist says it's a rare genetic modification, most likely a colonial adaptation. It isn't all that unusual on terraformed fringe worlds, though it is, of course, highly illegal. Does it bother you, now that you're on a planet with standard gravity and atmosphere? We can give you medication to ease any discomfort, but only if you cooperate.”
The Doctor ran his hands through his hair. The strands felt greasy and stiff without the benefit of having been recently washed and styled. He wiggled his fingers in disgust. “Cooperate! You don't want me to cooperate-you want me to roll over and pretend that I'm one of you. Another stupid ape!”
He blinked at those familiar words, and then tilted his head back with annoyance. “Oh, here we go-I sound like my old self, again. You've done something to me, haven't you? Something to my brain?”
“It would benefit your mental state if you let go of the delusions that keep you separated from the rest of humanity.” Ignoring the loud snort, Dr Cole continued, “I believe that something terrible happened to you, Mr Smith. Something so catastrophic that your mind created another persona-a Time Lord-in order to protect itself from a truth it couldn't handle.”
“And what sort of truth would that be?” the Doctor asked sardonically. Spare him from primitive psychology! Next they'd be applying electric shock therapy . . . although, hold on. Is that what they'd done? It might explain the gaps in his memory, the way events and people continued to churn in a random pattern around his brain. It would also explain the vestiges of his ninth self that seemed to be creeping out now and then. Idiots! Messing with things they had no concept of!
Sensing his attitude, Dr Cole tried a different tactic. “Who is Rose?”
The Doctor clenched his jaw.
“She seems to be someone you cared about deeply. How did you lose her?”
“Rose Tyler is alive and well,” he said harshly. “She's with her family.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes! That's so,” he responded, with a glare that would intimidate most lower species.
“Then why is it that we can find no record of her birth? Rose Tyler doesn't exist, except for you. Your mind created the persona of Rose in order to help you. Someone to dream about, someone to hold your hand, someone to help you heal. Only you grew too attached to her, didn't you? And when it was time for you to let go, you couldn't. You couldn't let go, could you?”
And in his mind, the Doctor saw Rose being pulled away from him, a swirling vortex clawing at her, claiming her with the indisputable power of the Void. Her eyes met his, silently begging for him to help her-but he couldn't. He could do nothing but watch as the Void tore Rose away from him.
“I couldn't hold on,” he corrected the psychiatrist quietly. “I couldn't hold onto her. But I'll get her back. I'll find her again. She's alive out there-I know she's alive-and I will find her! You can't hold me in here forever. I will get out of here, and I will find Rose. And if you try to stop me, you will regret it-that I promise.”
“I don't think so, Mr Smith.”
They locked him in a small room with padded walls.
And the Doctor screamed.
To Be Continued. . . .
Special thanks to dameruth for beta reading.