Title: Ancient Tomes and Bittersweet Wishes (2/3)
Rating: Teen (for now)
Gift for: geordie_chick
Beta: The one and only, simply brilliant brilliantomega and added inspiration from littlezink
Summary: “It was time, she urged him, to put down all the mantles he placed upon himself and do the truly impossible. To do something for himself and the woman he loved.”
Prompts: blanket, sea, doomsday, Nine/Rose reunion
Disclaimer: I own nothing except the ideas in my head and those are pretty sappy and end up badly written. I wish I could offer a better story for one of my FAVORITE Nine/Rose authors, also known as Silverwood on Teapsoon. I was very intimidated knowing you would be my giftee but here is my humble offering.

(Part One)





Ancient Tomes and Bittersweet Wishes-pt 2
“And through all trials and tribulations he shall be protected, his name shielded from all evil, his sins washed away…” The Book of Rassilon 3:17

The Doctor was no stranger to prison cells. In fact, he calculated he must have spent at least 878,945 hours, 47 minutes and 32 seconds behind bars in his lifetimes, give or take a few minutes. His accuracy was a bit off due to the throbbing lump on the back of his head. Mathematics aside, this was no time for capture as time wasted meant ‘end of the world’ epic scale destruction. Nothing’s changed, he mused.

As he sat up, he found himself in another non-descript type of cell, the kind evildoers across the universes seem to assemble from the same basic kit. The metal grated bunk added to the uncomfortable chill that now raked through his body. Regeneration sickness was still rearing its ugly head and maudlin thoughts rummaged his consciousness as he realized he was still wearing a dead man’s clothes. A designer suit and Prada shoes made him feel all the more inadequate.

Assets. Assets. As he patted down his pockets for anything that might be able to break him out his imprisonment, he soon came to realize that the Torchwood goons had stripped him bare. No alien tech, no bits and pieces of wire or cabling or psychic paper were left for him to mold into an escape device. They had even removed his spare sonic screwdriver he had sewn into the lining of his suit jacket in his last regeneration. His acute senses, all forty-two of them, scanned his dark, dingy surroundings for some form of exit. He came up empty, settling his weary blue eyes on the three tiny beams of light that splayed through the bars covering the small opening to his cell. In an exercise in futility, he tried the latch only to catch sight of the four overly armed guards and an official bounding up the hallway on the other side.

“Stand guard, shoot on sight, and turn on the bloody lights in there”, he heard the official say.

The Doctor winced at the sudden flood of spotlights that filled his cell. He only heard the turn of the latch as the Torchwood official stepped into his cell. The Doctor stood unyieldingly in the lights.

“Doctor, it is my duty to hereby inform you of your execution. You will be taken to the chamber at first light and disintegrated. Your TARDIS will be rummaged and scrapped.”

The Doctor’s eyes flared and body flinched at the thought of his precious TARDIS. “Execution?” The Doctor moved closer to the official, daring him to come up with a logical explanation, mocking the official’s demeanor. “What is my crime?”

“As if you don’t already know,” the official spat, unconsciously taking a step back from the Doctor, visibly shaken by the look of chilled rage on the Doctor’s face.

“NO, I don’t. So if you don’t mind…,” the Doctor replied, his anger surging to the surface.

The official hastily pulled out a piece of paper from the breast pocket of his government issued suit and signaled for two guards to enter the cell, cocking their weapons in unison.

“Do you fear me that much?” the Doctor smirked.

“Your exploits are well documented in the Torchwood archives”, the official rejoined uneasily, “I’m not stupid.”

“Could have fooled me”, the Doctor quipped, his sarcasm masking the anxiety that began to swell in his veins.

The official took a deep breath and began to read from the document. “Are you not an alien, a species called Time Lord, known as the Doctor, from a parallel universe similar to ours, from the constellation Kastobourus, from a planet once known as Gallifrey?”

“I am”, he nodded impassively.

“Are you not also known as Kal Farak Gatri, the OnComing Storm, Destroyer of Worlds?”, the official prodded.

The Doctor gritted his teeth, trying to contain his last shred of patience. “It depends on who’s asking,” he drawled each syllable in typical Northern defiance.

“Answer the question. Yes or no?” the official demanded.

Clasping his hands behind his back, the Doctor shifted his weight to one foot, enunciating each word with a small lunge forward, “It’s people like you who give out those names.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the official continued, “You have been charged and convicted in the imminent destruction of our Earth.”

“Convicted!?” the Doctor boomed, his eyes boring down into his interrogator. “By whom? I’ve had no trial. This is a farce!”

“No trial is needed in Torchwood matters. The council has made their final decision.”

“There is a old Venetian saying,” the Doctor murmured, his mood swinging from anger to disgust. “The council of ten sends you to the torture chamber; the council of three sends you to the grave. Which one are you?”

“I would have preferred to watch you suffer, but as it is your death will be quick.” The official’s eyes mutated into hateful black orbs, mirroring the madness and violence this Torchwood had become. “Torchwood One has spent billions ridding the Earth of alien threats like you… meddling about our planet in the guise of friendship with destruction your only true intent!”

“My meddling…” the Doctor mocked, “…saved this planet…this…this forsaken universe! I sealed the rifts the last time I was here! “ He was trembling under the weight of his rage, his passions besting him. “I would NEVER let any harm come to….anyone.”

The official gathered his courage and sprung toward the Doctor, pointing his finger at him in awkward defiance. “The rifts you sealed caused irreparable damage to our time-space continuum. Roman soldiers appearing out of nowhere, the Red Death brought back to plague our nations. You unleashed the Darkness! It walks among us!”

“Rose Tyler.” The Doctor’s voice suddenly became hoarse. Desperation made him utter her name against better judgment. “Where is Rose Tyler? She can explain everything.”

“Rose Tyler? Rose Tyler? Is that why you came here?” the official scoffed. “Rose Tyler is dead. She died years ago in the first battle for Torchwood,” the official taunted, widening the grin on his placid face. “This is wonderfully ironic, Doctor. You’re forty years too late.”

The Doctor’s face paled as desperation turned to panic. He felt hollow, all the while feeling the thudding, anguished rhythm of his hearts pounding louder with each passing second. His ears rang with the official’s words, as his mind rejected their truth at exponential speed. She was alive. He knew it. Felt it with each breath he took…saw it in the converging time lines before him. Yet the emptiness of hearing Rose’s fate was overwhelming even if he couldn’t believe it was true.

The Doctor’s trance was broken with the sudden loud crash of the cell door slamming closed and lights shutting down. In one swift move he was at the door, gripping the bars, “Release me if you want to live! Release me, damn it!”

“You will burn with the rest of us,” was the only reply he received.

One of the guards flipped a switch sending an electrified shock through the door. The Doctor was thrown against the opposite wall, landing in a crumpled heap near his bunk. With his body paralyzed, and his mind seemingly going the same way, the Doctor couldn’t help but think how this body must be cursed. Cursed the first time he wore it shouldering the unbearable burden of the Time War, and cursed again for feeling any kind of hope in finding Rose Tyler. Lying on the cold, unforgiving floor, he could feel time moving so achingly slow, trickling into the grinding halt of the turn of this Earth and the echoes of ‘forty years too late’ needled at his conscience.

It was the thought of dying in this miserable place that was enough to force the feeling back to his extremities, enough to stand himself upright and hear the muffled yelps and a controlled commotion going on outside his cell door. The Doctor heard the latch and watched as the door swung open to reveal a figure shadowed in darkness reaching out their hand to him. As he clasped the black gloved hand, his face split into a manic grin as he heard the most powerful words in the universe.

“RUN!”