The road less travelled...

Title: Finding A Way Home – Family Connections
Author: katherine_b
Rating: G
Summary: The half-human Doctor has a visitor.
Word Count: approx 3,400 words
Characters: 10.5 and Sylvia
A/N: Written for the fiftieth weekly drabble challenge with the prompt ‘secret’. Also written for sonicgirl2005, who asked to be told “how exactly ARE Marvin and Donna related?” Also for juliet316, who said “We know Donna got the Doctor's memories as a result of the metacrisis, but did Marvin get any of Donna's memories?”

The Doctor in the blue suit is whistling cheerfully as he works on the TARDIS console, sunshine streaming in through the open doors and casting strange and interesting new shadows on the walls.

The Time Lord and Donna have gone to see her family, leaving him alone to do some repairs that they’ve been putting off (at least, that was the excuse he gave for not coming with them). He’s not expecting them back until after sunset, as Wilf had been asking the Doctor to come up the hill with him for some time.

That’s the reason why, when a hand taps him sharply on the leg, which is the only part of him protruding from beneath the console, he jumps so wildly that he almost cracks his head on the underside of the ship’s internals.

“Ow!” he exclaims reflexively, although it didn’t actually hurt, and then pulls himself out to find Sylvia Noble standing above him. “Oh,” is the first, and not particularly intelligent, word that comes out of his mouth. “Um,” he goes on, staring up at her in surprise and confusion, “hello,” he says at last. “Can I help you?”

Sylvia’s mouth twists for a moment and her eyes look him up and down before travelling around the console room and then returning to his face. It’s clear she’s still not completely comfortable, being in this situation.

“I wanted to talk to you,” she says at last. “Alone. Away from my daughter and her…”

“…husband,” the Doctor fills in as he scrambles to his feet, hearing the slight hesitation in Sylvia’s voice. “Her husband,” he repeats when she says nothing, although he can understand the reluctance to say the word.

“Mmm.” Sylvia glances at the open doors. “Can we have, you know, some privacy?”

The Doctor arches an eyebrow, but when she shoots him a glance similar to ones he’s seen on Donna’s face, he realises she means it and crosses the console room to close the doors. Then he returns to the console and activates the controls.

“Quick trip into the vortex,” he suggests as he releases the handbrake and they shudder a little as the TARDIS dematerialises. “No chance of anyone disturbing us now.”

“But,” Sylvia’s voice is uncertain, “won’t the Doctor be angry?”

The half-human man grins. “I am the Doctor,” he reminds her, and then, as a look of panic crosses her face, “even if I’ve only got one heart.”

The tension that had filled Sylvia’s frame at his first words dissipates as he finishes the sentence. “Can you not do that?” she demands. “Try to confuse me, I mean. It’s mixed up enough as it is with two of you!”

“Sorry.” The Doctor waves at the doorway that leads down to the lower rooms of the TARDIS. “Let’s have a cup of tea and you can tell me what’s worrying you.”

Sylvia nods and leads the way down into the ship, and the Doctor is relieved to find, as he follows, that the kitchen is in the same place and looks the same as it did during the engagement party. He directs a grateful thought at the TARDIS for understanding that it wouldn’t be a good idea to upset Sylvia at this moment.

His unexpected guest sits at the table while he bustles around making tea, but her eyebrows dart up as he places a dish of cupcakes he had made the previous day in front of her.

“It’s a miracle you’re as skinny as you are,” she tells him in distinctly disapproving tones. “Both of you!”

“Efficient metabolism,” he tells her. “But these are very low in calories.”

“Alien sugar or something I suppose,” she retorts, nudging the plate away.

“Well, yes,” he’s forced to concede. “But it tastes just like what you’re used to,” he assures her as he fills the teapot and carries it over to the table before fishing out cups and getting milk and sugar. “Trust me,” he adds, seeing her visible reluctance.

She finally takes one and somewhat cautiously nibbles on it before sitting back in her chair. “It’s lovely,” she admits, and he smiles in satisfaction, although that fades fast as Sylvia nails him with another look. “Although the way you produce food on every occasion,” she adds, every word heavy with meaning, “it’s no wonder that my daughter seems to be putting on a bit of weight.”

“Oh, you noticed?” he asks lightly, wondering if she appreciates the underlying reason for it.

“I’m her mother, Doctor,” Sylvia snaps back. “It’s my job to notice.”

“Yes,” he agrees, wary of saying too much, “it is.”

“And do you know why?” she demands.

“Do you?” he retorts.

Sylvia drums her fingernails on the table. “She is, isn’t she?” she declares almost triumphantly. “If you hadn’t realised what was going on, or if it was something else that was endangering her health, you’d be worried now – at least if you care about her as much as you say you do,” she finishes in accusing tones.

The Doctor seizes his courage, knowing that he’s between a rock and a particularly hard place, and hoping that the truth might assuage her. “Yes,” he admits. “Donna’s pregnant.”

“How do you know when she apparently doesn’t?” Sylvia demands. “At least, she’s said nothing to me!”

“Nor me,” he confesses somewhat reluctantly, because he can already see where this conversation is going. “Mrs Noble,” he says in the end, “what I’m about to say to you is going to sound ridiculous, impossible even, but I can assure you it’s not.” He arches an eyebrow. “I need you to trust me.”

“Go on,” she says warily.

He busies himself for a moment with pouring the tea, keeping his hands busy while his mind tries to decide how best to introduce the topic.

“You asked me,” he begins, pushing the tea across to her, but unsurprised when she doesn’t touch it, “when we were talking during the Doctor and Donna’s engagement party, why they never mentioned me,” he reminds her. “Do you remember?”

She gives a curt nod in response. “Meaning what?” she demands.

“Meaning that – and this going to sound really strange, but I did ask you to trust me – I, um,” he realises he’s stirring his tea without having added anything to it, and puts down the teaspoon as he looks up, “I didn’t actually exist until the Earth was stolen by the Daleks.”

Having dropped this bombshell, he sits back in his chair and waits for her to say something.

Instead, she remains completely silent, and he can tell that she’s already lost.

“I wasn’t born,” he admits. “Not like Donna was. Or the Doctor, and we could argue about the proper name of that process for hours. I came into being as a result of a process called a meta-crisis.”

“Meaning what exactly?” Sylvia demands.

“It’s complicated,” he replies with a sigh.

“This is the Doctor we’re talking about,” the woman replies, rolling her eyes. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

He studies her, seeing a similar light of interest in her eyes that he’s seen on Donna’s face many times and realises that she actually wants to know what he has to say. That reassures him and he begins.

“After the wedding, the Doctor told you about regeneration,” he reminds her. “You saw something of what it’s like in the binding ceremony. Well,” he goes on, more confident as Sylvia nods and doesn’t slap him at the reminder of what he did on that day, “one thing he’s never told you is that, when he and Donna arrived back on Earth after the Daleks took it, he was shot by one of them.”

Sylvia visibly blanches. “But,” she suggests, “he didn’t – what was the word? – regenerate? I mean, he looks the same as when he was here during that time with ATMOS and all the cars going crazy.”

“He is still the same,” he assures her. “But – oh, this is about to get even weirder! Listen, d’you recall that big ship hovering over London on Christmas day a couple of years ago? The day a whole lot of people headed for the roof of the nearest building and everyone thought they would jump?”

Sylvia sips her tea and gives a curt nod. “I should have guessed he’d be involved in that somehow,” she remarks, although he’s thankful that her voice doesn’t contain the unpleasant tone it used to when reference was made to one of the occasions when the Doctor saved the planet.

“On that day,” he says slowly, “the Doctor regenerated into his current form. I won’t go into the reason now, but the upshot was that, when he lost his hand in a swordfight, he was able to grow another one because he was still within the first few hours of his regenerative cycle.”

He can’t expect Sylvia to take this news calmly, so he isn’t surprised when she chokes on her tea.

“What?!” she exclaims between coughs.

Leaping up, he fetches her a glass of water, making sure she doesn’t need anything else before he resumes his seat.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Sylvia says caustically when she can finally speak again. “He’s not exactly normal, is he?”

“A long way from it,” he agrees with a grin.

“So,” her voice is full of suspicion again, “what does that have to do with you?”

“That hand he had cut off?” He raises his right hand and waggles his fingers. “Hello.”

“Hand transplant?” She instinctively grasps for an idea she can cope with. “I’ve heard about them – and of course, you being an ali…”

He shakes his head, and the action cuts off the words, but then he undoes the cuff of his shirt – his jacket is still back in the console room – and pulls up the sleeve to show his unscarred arm.

“That hand,” he says slowly, “wasn’t transplanted onto me. It became me. I grew out of it.”

Sylvia stares at him, obviously speechless. The Doctor sighs and pulls down his sleeve, doing up the button on his shirt again.

“It’s a process called a meta-crisis,” he explains patiently. “The Doctor averted the process of regeneration by directing the excess energy into the hand he kept in a jar in the console room.”

The woman’s face contorts. Clearly this is an idea she can accept, even if she doesn’t like it, so she seizes on it and ignores the rest.

“He kept it? Why?”

“He’s a pack-rat,” he replies readily. “Keeps everything. He’s just lucky it happened to be somewhere he could make use of it when the occasion arose. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to avoid a full regeneration.”

She continues to stare at his hand. “That doesn’t explain,” she points out, “how it became you.”

He nods. “A meta-crisis occurs when two forces of equal strength are pulled together, when massive jolts of energy, feeding off emotion, meet in a point of critical mass.”

“Well,” Sylvia admits, “I can see how that would have come from the Doctor. Wait, but you said two…?” Suddenly her lips draw together into a thin line. “Is this,” she says slowly, “going to explain why you sometimes sound exactly like my daughter?”

“Ye – well, possibly,” he admits uncomfortably. “A bit. Sort of.”

Her eyes narrow and she looks at him dangerously. “What sort of emotion was she giving out that provided that second force?”

The Doctor sits back in the chair, almost disappointed and slightly afraid that she got it this quickly. He’s keen to avoid another slap, or to have Sylvia hate one or both Doctors, but she does deserve to know.

“She was frightened,” he admits reluctantly. “Terrified. Afraid she might die. The Daleks tried to destroy the TARDIS when Donna was still inside it.”

To his surprise, Sylvia simply nods and the fury fades from her eyes. “So somehow you came into being,” she finishes for him, “and then you saved her life, and your own, and the TARDIS.”

“Yes,” he agrees readily.

There is an awfully, painfully, agonisingly long pause, which ends just as the Doctor thinks he’ll have to scream if something doesn’t happen soon.

“I see,” Sylvia says at last.

She sits motionless for a moment and then she suddenly picks up her cup and drinks the last of the tea in before pouring herself another. As she gulps that down, the Doctor can see that she’s keeping herself from yelling at him or slapping him by getting out that rush on adrenalin on action, so he remains silent until she’s done.

“So,” she says at last, and he lets out a silent sigh of relief at the lack of aggression in her voice, “what does that make you to Donna? Before the wedding, I mean. In fact, what are you to the Doctor?”

“Nominally, brother,” he replies, since that’s the relationship they agreed upon to reduce confusion.

“You’re not though,” Sylvia argues, in a manner that reminds him distinctly of Donna. “You came from something that was partly the Doctor – the original one – and partly Donna. So you’re like their child.”

He shrugs a little. “I suppose so,” he agrees. “We don’t think of it like that most of the time, but yes.”

“How much of each are you then?” she asks, curiosity in her tones.

He grins. “I got all of both of them,” he replies. “Every memory, every thought, every dream, past and present – the whole lot.”

“Prove it,” she retorts, and his eyebrows shoot upwards.

“Pardon?”

“Well, everything you’ve said,” she gestures at him, “it’s crazy! Completely mad! You could have learned to talk like Donna because you’ve been around her so much. The same for the Doctor, particularly considering you’re identical to him. I’m more inclined to believe that something like this could be possible because of what the Doctor told us when he brought Donna back after that time with the Daleks – but all the stuff you said about growing out of a hand and Donna being part of that, even you admit it sounds crazy. So,” she looks at him through slightly narrowed eyes, “if you’ve got all her memories, tell me something that only she and I would know.”

He nods, understanding, and knowing that proving it to Sylvia will also help her relationship with all three of them. With what’s coming, that’s vital.

“All right,” he agrees, thinking hard before finding something that he thinks will work. “Donna barely remembers this now, but I bet you haven’t forgotten. The first Christmas present she can ever remember you giving her was a blue teddy bear. She named it Wilf after your father. That day, you went out for a walk and you weren’t happy because she insisted on taking it with her. You kept expecting her to lose it, but she brought it back home safely. It got lost when you moved house a few months after that though, and Donna was never happy with the replacement you bought her. She’s never given another one her toys a name since.” He arches an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Yes,” she admits almost soundlessly, clearly astonished.

He smiles and pours himself a new cup of tea, letting her speak when she’s ready.

“Donna,” Sylvia begins as he drinks his tea, “hasn’t talked about that in years.”

“Oh, she’s pretty much forgotten it,” he admits. “That’s why I used it as an example. It wouldn’t be much use me telling you about a conversation you had with her last week, would it? That wouldn’t convince you of anything. You’d just assume she must have told me about it.”

“I suppose,” he agrees.

She drums her fingers on the table, clearly deep in thought, and he waits to see what she’s going to ask next. He has to admit that he’s impressed at the way she’s taken the shocks she’s received from him over the past twenty-seven minutes.

“So,” she says at last, “you know all those things about her – her memories and whatnot.” She fixes him with a firm look. “That doesn’t explain how you know she’s pregnant when she doesn’t seem to.”

He grins. “Ah, well,” he admits, “that’s something that’s a bit more of the Doctor than it is of Donna. He forms a sort of bond with people who have travelled with him, and since, as you said, I came from both of them, my bond with her and with the Doctor is much stronger than either of them has with me in return, or with each other. I know if they’re sick or in pain. If they’re happy or sad. That’s how I knew she was pregnant the very first moment.”

“Mmm.” Sylvia finishes her tea and sits back. The Doctor notices for the first time that they’ve finished the little cakes and is about to get up and fetch some more when she speaks again. “You’ve got a light in your eyes,” she tells him, “like the one my daughter has when she’s trying to keep a secret.”

He chuckles uneasily. “Okay,” he admits, “if you’re going to use your knowledge of Donna to work out what I might be thinking or feeling then I should probably start being a little freaked out now.”

Sylvia smiles. “As I said earlier, Doctor,” she replies smugly, “I’m her mother and it’s my job to notice, and if you’re connected to her like you say you are, well…”

“What say I show you?” he suggests as she trails off. “You’re right, I’m keeping this a secret from the other two, at least until they learn about Donna’s condition.”

He leaps to his feet and sees as she follows him. His room is opposite the kitchen and he opens the door.

“Excuse the mess,” he’s beginning when he sees that the TARDIS ahead of him and has already tidied the room so thoroughly that he doubts he’ll find anything for a week. Still, at least Sylvia won’t have anything derogatory to say, so he sends a thought of gratitude to the ship as he enters the room. “Here we are,” he adds as he crosses to the door leading to the room he’s in the process of decorating.

“What is it?” Sylvia asks curiously.

“Well,” he admits, “we have to have somewhere suitable for a child to sleep, don’t we?”

Opening the door, he steps aside so that she can move into the room ahead of him and seeing as her eyes widen at the sight.

The walls are decorated, with the figures stencilled at the usual height of a picture rail, and he discovered that this body is quite good at painting, as he was able to add form and definition to the general images so that they stand out clearly on the sunshiny yellow walls.

He’s put together some of the furniture. Mobiles hang over the two cribs, although he hasn’t made up the two beds yet. The change table is already standing between the cribs. One of the small chests of drawers is complete. The other is only half constructed. Several boxes are yet to be unpacked and are standing in the far corner of the room, and he’s waiting for the paint to dry on some lampshades before he puts them up.

“Two?” Sylvia asks as she looks around before turning her gaze on him. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He smiles. “Boy and girl. My bond with Donna means that I also have a similar link with them. I can feel them.” He taps his temple. “In here.”

A longing look crosses Sylvia’s face. “What are they like?” she asks eagerly. “Or what will they be like?”

The smile on his face widens as he thinks of the little faces he already know so well. “The girl will come first,” he confides. “She’s more impatient that her brother. Not one to sit down for long. She’s going to have hair like the Doctor, and that pout of his, but her eyes will come from her mother.”

“And the boy?”

“Oh, he’s going to be a lot quieter,” he tells her. “More thoughtful. Waiting back to see what’s happening before he jumps in. The Doctor’s going to be happy because he will have Donna’s hair and her smile, but his father’s brown eyes.”

Sylvia is beaming now, and he kindly ignores the tears that he’s positive are glistening in her eyes. Crossing the room, he picks up the painted lampshades and whips out his sonic to attach them before turning back in time to see her slip a tissue back into her pocket.

“So,” he says with a gesture of demonstration around the room as he arches an eyebrow, “this is our little secret?”

Wonder of wonders, Sylvia smiles back. “Yes,” she agrees.

Two Places At Once