watch_is_me

'Verse: Personal canon.
Words: 741.
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 eight of a long story I've got drafted and am writing up this week, on how that life might have gone.

LOOK I FINISHED IT. IF YOU HAVE FEEDBACK OR READ ALL OF THIS OR ANYTHING, HELLO, I LOVE YOU FOREVER AND GIVE YOU KITTENS AND COOKIES. KITTEN COOKIES. *hyper!~~~~~~~*

Part one is here, part two here, part three here, part four here, part five here,, part six here, and part seven here.


Joan smiled at her husband as he sat poring over his manuscript, Alistair on his knee, grabbing after the pages. It was almost finished, he’d told her. Now, he should be modest, really he should, but it was quite an accomplishment, a fantastic storyline, it out-Wellsed Wells—amazing, to finally wrestle all of the snippets and impressions he’d collected into some semblance of order, a real, coherent tale, a hero’s journey. Wonderful, he told her at night, before they went to bed, it was wonderful, realizing that his dreams weren’t sacrosanct and that he could shape them, order them around, if he wanted to. Amend them and rework them and use them to write a novel, an actual novel, not some mad universal travelogue.

( He’d always wanted to write a novel. )

'Verse: Personal canon.
Words: 481.
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 two 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.



More and more often, he woke, in the middle of the night, threw on his dressing gown, and retreated to his office. Some nights, she got up herself, went to the kitchen and made something warm to drink, brought it back to him where he sat scribbling at his desk, and sat nearby, sipping from her own mug, watching him write and sketch. Write and sketch, feverishly. Sometimes he'd tell her what he was trying to get down, what he'd seen in his most recent dreams, what he was working so hard to capture, to articulate, to get right. He'd pass sheets of loose paper over to her, appendices and alterations, let her read the vignettes he scrawled in the margins and the long pages of the narrative he couldn’t quite piece together from the fragments. He’d show her his drawings—monsters, landscapes, artifacts, people and places out of fairytales; complicated schematics for impossible devices; tangles of circles like medieval astronomical diagrams. He’d try to explain to her, tell her about his Doctor and the journeys he’d gone on that night—he, the Doctor, living while her John slept. He, the Doctor, bold and arrogant and vivid where her John paced and worried and stood at windows as though waiting for someone— her John, who never talked of his past, of home and family and childhood. Her John, whose eyes held such deep worry for the future.

One night, she asked him,

( What about the Doctor’s family? Does he ever want children? )


Part three is here.