Fic: "War to End Wars," Part Shi
Oct. 22nd, 2008 11:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
watch_is_me'Verse: Personal canon.
Words: 490.
Prompt: Just me.
In my personal alternate universe canon thingie, the Doctor never reclaimed his human half in the equivalent of the "Human Nature" eps. So John Smith got to live his own, entirely mortal life. This is part four of a long story I've got drafted and am writing up this week, on how that life might have gone.
Part one is here, part two here, and part three here.
The Doctor, the letter had said. Peter Mackie had met a man who called himself the Doctor, in the war, out in no man’s land, between the trenches, during that Christmas truce that had been in all the papers. A distant man, with dark eyes, dressed all in black, traveling with a woman. Sally Sparrow. The name didn’t mean anything to him, to John Smith. There had never been a Sally in his dreams—other women, young and brave and beautiful, and Joan had teased him about that, made him blush and hurry to explain to her that there were men who traveled with the Doctor, here, look at this picture, this remembered dialogue—but never a Sally. It had struck him, felt almost like a betrayal, to hear a new name associated with his Doctor, a name that didn’t come from the stories his mind wove for him at night.
He should, perhaps, have been more startled by his Doctor appearing in the real world, jumping from private fiction to perceivable fact. He should have doubted. He should have argued with himself, rationalized—his Doctor was only a story, a little ongoing tale he told himself, a hobby, a harmless adventure yarn, a romp; and this Doctor, this real Doctor, must simply be a doctor. A coincidence, nothing more.
But he never doubted. Not for a moment.
And he’d known, as he sat at dinner that night with Joan, and, later, watched her lay Sarah down for the night, and, later still, held her close to him in their bed and listened to Sarah gurgle and turn in her cradle nearby, that he couldn’t stand apart from his world any longer.
His boys had gone to war. Mackie had gone to war; young Tim had gone to war.
And the Doctor had gone. Gone to the war. Was going to war, had gone to war, would go to war, was in war, at war, of war, always.
His Doctor had fought on the frontlines. Somewhere, somewhen, the story wasn’t whole, it never was, his Doctor had fought. Not for his world, but for his universe.
That night, John Smith knew. Knew that he had to do as much, for his universe, small though it was. So small, too small, but real, real and here and present and precious. England, his boys, his school, his Sarah and his Joan and even the dreams, clearer than his memories, that he carried in his heart.
Maybe it wasn’t the right fight. Maybe it was very wrong. Maybe it would usher in nothing better, no peace for Tim to write his poems in (and, somehow, he knew this, knew that this war was nothing, knew that there would be no peace in his lifetime, knew he was living, would live, in an age of war, and that worse would come, maybe in the decades of this still-young century, maybe far in the future, but worse soon and worse later)—but it was the only fight he had. It was his war, his now, his time, and he would, finally, be of it.
Part five is here.
Words: 490.
Prompt: Just me.
In my personal alternate universe canon thingie, the Doctor never reclaimed his human half in the equivalent of the "Human Nature" eps. So John Smith got to live his own, entirely mortal life. This is part four of a long story I've got drafted and am writing up this week, on how that life might have gone.
The Doctor, the letter had said. Peter Mackie had met a man who called himself the Doctor, in the war, out in no man’s land, between the trenches, during that Christmas truce that had been in all the papers. A distant man, with dark eyes, dressed all in black, traveling with a woman. Sally Sparrow. The name didn’t mean anything to him, to John Smith. There had never been a Sally in his dreams—other women, young and brave and beautiful, and Joan had teased him about that, made him blush and hurry to explain to her that there were men who traveled with the Doctor, here, look at this picture, this remembered dialogue—but never a Sally. It had struck him, felt almost like a betrayal, to hear a new name associated with his Doctor, a name that didn’t come from the stories his mind wove for him at night.
He should, perhaps, have been more startled by his Doctor appearing in the real world, jumping from private fiction to perceivable fact. He should have doubted. He should have argued with himself, rationalized—his Doctor was only a story, a little ongoing tale he told himself, a hobby, a harmless adventure yarn, a romp; and this Doctor, this real Doctor, must simply be a doctor. A coincidence, nothing more.
But he never doubted. Not for a moment.
And he’d known, as he sat at dinner that night with Joan, and, later, watched her lay Sarah down for the night, and, later still, held her close to him in their bed and listened to Sarah gurgle and turn in her cradle nearby, that he couldn’t stand apart from his world any longer.
His boys had gone to war. Mackie had gone to war; young Tim had gone to war.
And the Doctor had gone. Gone to the war. Was going to war, had gone to war, would go to war, was in war, at war, of war, always.
His Doctor had fought on the frontlines. Somewhere, somewhen, the story wasn’t whole, it never was, his Doctor had fought. Not for his world, but for his universe.
That night, John Smith knew. Knew that he had to do as much, for his universe, small though it was. So small, too small, but real, real and here and present and precious. England, his boys, his school, his Sarah and his Joan and even the dreams, clearer than his memories, that he carried in his heart.
Maybe it wasn’t the right fight. Maybe it was very wrong. Maybe it would usher in nothing better, no peace for Tim to write his poems in (and, somehow, he knew this, knew that this war was nothing, knew that there would be no peace in his lifetime, knew he was living, would live, in an age of war, and that worse would come, maybe in the decades of this still-young century, maybe far in the future, but worse soon and worse later)—but it was the only fight he had. It was his war, his now, his time, and he would, finally, be of it.
