The road less travelled...

Title: In Dreams 2/6
Author: katherine_b
Rating: PG
Summary: The Doctor has come in response to the summons he received. But the reason for him being called is not at all what he was expecting.


“A candy-colored clown they call the sandman tiptoes to my room every night, just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper, “Go to sleep. Everything is all right.”

Part II

The Doctor sets the handbrake, hearing as the materialisation sequence clanks and grinds to a halt around him. From the ticking, he can tell it’s almost time for her bicentennial service, but he’s hesitant to consider it now. He can’t rid himself of the fear that the prophecy about his fate might be right, and although it may be a little immature, he doesn’t see the point of doing all that work when some new man will get all the benefit.

The sound of knuckles rapping on the wooden door takes a second or two to register.

Four knocks.

His fingers curl around the lever so hard that the TARDIS groans at the pressure, but he can’t bring himself to let go.

“Please,” he whispers, the harsh sibilance of his voice echoing in the coral-coloured room, “not now. Not here. Oh, please!”

He waits, hoping desperately and perhaps rather inanely that, if he remains silent, they might go away. He knows that sending the TARDIS into the vortex would only confirm his presence and that the person outside – he can only believe it’s the Master – would wait until he came back.

And if the Master is in Chiswick, he must already be aware of the link between Donna and the Doctor.

Nightmare images surface in the Doctor’s mind of the way the Master may already be manipulating Donna’s family to achieve his ends.

Four more knocks.

He’s waiting, he realises, for the Master’s sneering voice.

Instead he hears something rather less expected.

“Doctor?”

“Wilfred!” he exclaims in astonishment, diving for the doors, but having to stop short as his duster is caught on the edge of the console.

In his agitation, he bumps the switch that turns on the scanner and looks down to see Wilf with one ear pressed against the TARDIS doors, obviously trying to hear if anyone is coming to open the door.

The Doctor’s relief knows no bounds when it’s clear that Donna’s grandfather is alone. He actually doesn’t know which he feared worst – that he would be there with the Master, or with Donna.

“Coming!” he calls, wrenching himself free and running for the door.

His hands are sweaty with fear and it takes a few seconds before he can get a grip on the lock, finally managing to turn it and pull the door open so that he can peer around it to look at the man standing a few feet away.

There’s a grin on Wilf’s face, but the Doctor is alarmed at how strained and feeble it is, and also how tired and – he has to be honest – old! Wilf suddenly looks. Still, he clings to the thought that, as it’s quite dark outside, the light illuminating the man’s features comes from the TARDIS, which can cast strange shadows sometimes.

At least, he hopes that’s all it is.

He steps out onto the grass and reaches back to close the door behind him, looking out across the nearby land to see the Noble residence some distance below them, down a long, windy path. This, he guesses, is the hill Donna told him about, where Wilf watches the stars every night.

And then he realises for the first time that Wilf hasn’t actually said anything since he came out of the TARDIS. He only sees a look of desperation and hopeless longing in those eyes that are so much like Donna’s that it causes his hearts to ache.

“D…” Wilf’s voice is somewhat choked, as if talking is an effort. “D’you want some tea?”

“Oh.” This is a safe subject, a fact of which he’s very much aware. “Yes,” he agrees, “that’d be nice. Thanks.”

They don’t speak while the Doctor follows Wilf over to where a campstool is standing next to a telescope, a tarpaulin on the ground beside it. Wilf rummages in a little hut standing nearby and turns with a cup in his hands, filling it from the thermos beside his chair.

The Doctor, meanwhile, takes all of this in without properly watching it. His eyes are fixed on the house below, seeing the light glowing from the window, wondering which is the room with Donna in it.

Perhaps it’s unsurprising that, when he finally speaks again, Wilf’s topic of conversation is his family.

“They never come up here now.” There’s a wistfulness in his voice that makes the Doctor glance at him. “Sylvia, she used to come sometimes, when Geoff was still alive. Geoff liked being up here,” he adds, turning his gaze from the house to where the Doctor is still standing beside the hut. “Donna did, too, once,” he adds, and there’s a release of tension as her name is spoken.

“Does she anymore?” the Doctor asks as he takes the proffered mug and sits down on the covered ground. He can still see the house from here.

“Not since she came back. Since you brought her back,” Wilf amends his sentence. “At first, after that, she was always out with them girlfriends of hers, the ones she’s always giggling and carrying on with, talking about silly magazines and whatnot.” He sighs deeply. “And lately she don’t even leave the house at all.”

“What?” The Doctor stares at him, his fingers wrapped around the chipped ceramic, the warmth soothing against his cold skin, even as concern builds within him. “What do you mean, she doesn’t leave the house? Why?”

“She doesn’t want to.” Wilf shrugs. “She says she’s happiest in bed, that she likes her dreams better than anything else.”

She dreams of you, Doctor.

“Is she ill?” he demands, putting his untouched tea on the ground and leaning forward to peer intently at Wilf. “Is there something wrong with her? Have you taken her to see a doctor?”

“She’s not ill,” Wilf assures him, his gaze directed at the fire crackling in the tin drum nearby. “And the only doctor who would understand what’s wrong with her is you.”

The Doctor dismisses this. “She’s not drinking or anything, is she?” he pursues. “Alcohol, I mean. Not taking anything bad for her health?”

Wilf shakes his head, finally turning to look at the Doctor. “She just – lies there,” he says at last, helplessness in his voice. “She won’t get up anymore. I’ve spent days in that house with her, but she never goes any further than the bathroom down the hall.”

“Her mother wouldn’t like that too much,” the Doctor suggests.

“Nothing Sylvia can say makes any difference,” Wilf admits. “Nor anything that I do. Donna gave away her last job almost two months back. There are some days,” he says with a despairing sigh, “where she barely eats. Normally she’d be happy with the weight she’s lost, but she just doesn’t care anymore. I tell you, Doctor,” the Time Lord can make out the fear in Wilf’s eyes, “it’s not right. I mean, how much longer can she go on like this?”

If you delay, you may lose the DoctorDonna forever.

“You’ve got to do something,” Wilf begs. “Please!” Tears glisten in the man’s eyes and his voice trembles with passion as his gnarled fingers seize those of the Doctor. “You’ve got to! You’re the only one who can help her! Please, come to the house now! Just say hello!”

He can’t help giving Wilf’s fingers a gentle squeeze before letting go. “I can’t,” he admits softly, swallowing a lump in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he adds as he sees a tear slip out of Wilf’s eyes and begin to slide down his cheek, “but if she remembers me – if she remembers anything – I won’t be able to save her.”

Wilf frees a hand to wipe the tears off his cheeks. “Why’d you come back then?” he demands gruffly, pulling himself free. “When I heard the noise of that box o’yours, I was sure you must have come up with something! Why else would you come back and risk her seeing you?”

“I had to know how she was.” The Doctor rests his elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled as he stares at the fire. “Someone – a friend – told me that she wasn’t doing so well. I needed to check.”

“This friend of yours,” Wilf is clearly grasping at straws, “can he do anything?”

“No, Wilfred,” he’s forced to admit, although he realises at this moment how much he wishes that there was a way to fix it. “No, he can’t.”

The other man’s shoulders sink visibly, and the Doctor can see how much hope he’s been holding that there was a chance Donna could be returned to the person she was when they came here during the Sontaran emergency.

There’s a long, painful period of silence. The Doctor half-wonders if he should get up and go, but he hates the thought of leaving this man here alone in his misery. Still, he can’t begin to come up words that could provide some comfort. He certainly isn’t about to give the man false hope by telling him what Ood Sigma said. Unfortunately that doesn’t leave him much to say, so it’s not surprising that Wilf is the one who ends up breaking the increasingly uncomfortable silence.

“What do you think she dreams about, Doctor?” Wilf asks in the end.

He sighs, thinking that this is something else he can’t admit. “Whatever it is,” he says at last, “I hope it makes her happy.”

* * *
His footsteps echo in the large space, harsh and metallic off the grating of the floor, as he paces the console room.

What he hates most right now is the fact that, although Ood Sigma seemed so certain that Donna needed him, he can’t work out how he can spend time with her when even the sight of him could trigger the return of her memories.

A sound from the doorway of the TARDIS makes him stop short and he hears a noise of scraping on the door.

“What are you up to?” he asks the TARDIS, heading for that part of the room to scare away whatever animal it is. “Perception filter playing up?”

The ship groans around him in obvious denial, and he stops short as the sound becomes more familiar. It’s not unlike a key being slid into the lock.

“Martha?” he calls cautiously, unable to think of anyone else who might be trying to let themselves into the TARDIS. “If you’ve come to pay a visit, I would have preferred some advance warning, like a phone call.”

He frowns as the scratching noise persists. “Jack?” he suggests, taking a step in the direction of the door, although he can’t begin to imagine how the Time Agent could have found a key. “Knocking is still good manners in the fifty-first century.”

The sound persists as he reaches the door, and finally, almost reluctantly, he reaches out a hand to turn the Yale lock. The door swings open with a draught of cool air – and the Doctor staggers back a step, having to grab the handrail to regain his lost balance.

“Donna…?” he offers breathlessly, staring with wide eyes at the familiar redhead on the threshold of the TARDIS.

She steps into the room, a faint frown on her face, her eyes wide and unblinking. There’s something about her movement, as well as her lack of expression, that makes him suspicious, and her next words confirm it.

“I need a sandwich,” she announces.

A relieved smile appears on the Doctor’s face as Donna moves past him into the TARDIS. He slides the key out of the lock and, with a pang, pockets it, before shutting and securing the door.

Turning back, he finds that his unexpected guest is already standing in front of the console, her hand outstretched for the ignition switch, and he actually has to run across the space between them to grasp her fingers and guide them away before she sends them on an uncontrolled flight into the sky that would almost certainly wake her up.

Instead he gently takes her arm and draws her away until he can seat her on the jumpseat.

“Donna,” he prompts softly, bending down to peer into her almost emotionless face, “are you awake?”

“A sandwich,” she repeats, and he can’t help sighing with relief as she goes on, “with jam and banana in it.”

“In the morning,” he agrees. “It’s night-time now, and you should be in bed.”

She doesn’t respond, and he straightens up, reaching down to take her hand. She gets willing to her feet, and he almost wants to cry as he feels her fingers curl around his. The familiarity of it is agony, but he forces himself not to think about it and instead concentrates on leading her into the infirmary, which the TARDIS has placed behind the first door in the hallway.

“Here we are, Donna,” he tells her quietly as he turns back the sheet on the bed. He has no fear of the urban myth of waking a sleepwalker, but he certainly doesn’t want Donna to wake up and see him!

Gently seating her on the mattress, he helps her to lie down, not altogether surprised when she willingly does so, snuggling into the pillow as her eyes close. As she relaxes, he sees the tiny frown line on her forehead smooth away. For a moment, he simply watches her, revelling in the sight of her, before lightly touching her temples and deepening her sleep so that there’s no danger of her waking up until he works out what he's going to do with her.

He sets the TARDIS to scan her with every piece of technology that he can use without having to attach something to her that might disturb her. Stepping back when everything’s connected, he looks down and studies her features. It’s clear that she’s lost a dramatic amount of weight in such a short time, and that Wilf’s concerns have some foundation in fact. Her desire for food, even in her sleep, suggests that she isn’t eating much, which worries him. If she prefers sleep over food, her dreams must have an almost addictive quality.

The dark shadows under her eyes, though, suggest that what sleep she is getting isn’t resting her as much as it should. Sleepwalking is another key indicator of exhaustion, and wouldn’t help her to rest when she did finally get to sleep either.

He can’t help wondering just how long she’s been doing it and moves to the end of the bed, uncovering her feet. They’re bare, he sees at once, and covered with cuts and tiny scars, very different from what he had seen when he used to give her occasional foot rub after a particularly strenuous bout of running.

“It’s only been a few weeks since I brought you back,” he mutters as he covers her again and checks some of the early medical readings. Glancing over his shoulder at the woman, he wonders just how often she’s sleepwalking – frequently, he guesses, if the injuries she’s received are any judge.

She sighs a little in her sleep, her eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids, and he can’t help noticing a tiny smile that has formed on her face. Clearly whatever she’s seeing in her mind is making her happy.

She dreams of you, Doctor.

For a moment, he considers letting her stay that way forever. She would be happy, caught up in moments she can never remember in real life, free from the everyday strains and pressure that she is clearly desperate to escape.

He dismisses the idea almost at once though. It would be no better than the half-life she experienced in the Library, thanks to CAL. And then there’s the thought of what it would do to Wilf and Sylvia, to leave her in that state.

No, he’s aware as he turns back to the machines, that there has to be another answer. To begin with, though, he needs to know what she’s dreaming about so that he’s aware of how much of her blocked memories are bleeding through.

Ood Sigma’s assurances that he and his people will keep Donna from remembering the details aren’t entirely comforting. He knows that the Ood should not have the power to manage what Ood Sigma claims they’re doing, and he’s afraid that, if this strange ability should somehow falter, Donna’s memories will return and it will kill her.

The power of the DoctorDonna is returning.

Those had been Ood Sigma’s words, and he can feel the way in which the certain, calm manner in which they were said has ignited the spark of desperate longing inside him. He knows that his deepest desire is to find a way to give it all back to her, to bring to DoctorDonna back, but he’s convinced himself it’s impossible.

Still, the machines he’s set up aren’t giving him any answers so he knows he’ll have to try a different tack as he crosses to the wall and inputs some data into the central computer bank.

He looks up at the ceiling as a silvery object descends, before pulling an empty cot into position beside the one on which Donna’s sleeping form is already lying. He hauls down the Chameleon Arch and reaches into his pocket, pulling out various bits of metal and other assortments, securing them together with the sonic screwdriver before checking that his makeshift attachment to the Arch fits over his own head.

Removing it again, he gently eases the original Arch over Donna’s head and fixes it into place as best he can without moving her. Then he gets up onto the other cot, fastens the second Arch into position on his head, and looks up at the ceiling.

“All right, old girl,” he tells the TARDIS. “You’re in charge until we get a result out of this, one way or another.”

The ship gives a faint hum and he smiles as he feels the urge to sleep creeping over him, thankful to know that, soon enough, he’ll understand exactly what his best friend dreams about.

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