Haunted Series One
Episode Three
The Great Detective and the Haunted Man
Written by the Genie
Foreword – by the Genie
The Great Detective and the Haunted Man was the first story I wrote – and one the very few I’ve ever written – that I was actually proud of. It was drafted in early 2013, and written during springtime, encompassing one of the largest drafting periods of a Haunted episode ever. The first few drafts of the episode covered the same story but were weaker.
It was an episode which helped me to understand what it meant to write, for characters and situations: I was assisted by the frankly wonderful Adam Cuthbert who oversaw the episode and helped me to develop it into just not a story, but an actual piece of storytelling. I’ve learnt since from the feedback he gave me and I genuinely believe that any successes I’ve made today have been partly due to his gifted guidance. I was very lucky indeed.
It’s where canon starts to cross over here – as this was written before 7B, it offers up a different interpretation of Clara Oswald and the Trenzalore mystery. It was, however, a popular Haunted story and remains so - in the readers’ poll it scored joint sixth place.
I was at an emotional low during some points in this story and perhaps that’ll show. But personally, I think it added to what I was writing: it was a tale I was truly becoming invested in.
The Great Detective and the Haunted Man
Knock knock.
Vastra leapt out of her armchair and swung the door open with such zeal that she nearly knocked the middle-aged gentleman at the door off of his feet. Thankfully, she didn’t. She and the gentleman were well-acquainted, and Vastra couldn’t have coped with another loss – particularly down to such a petty, unfortunate catalyst as a door.
Vastra gestured that the gentleman step inside and he did so, perching himself on the end of a ragged old couch, politely admiring the ornaments on her mantelpiece: an old, complexly-built clock, a china goblet, and many other various curios. One which stuck out to him in particular was a gold ring which was placed centrally on the sill, in pride of place.
The gentleman was in his fifties (fifty exactly), and looked healthy enough at first glance; a prominent moustache shaped artfully; pulling your attention away from a rather rounded stomach. His eyes were narrowed with suspicion and he spoke fine English, as did Vastra.
“The weather is appalling,” murmured the gentleman, “I do hope there is some importance to your calling?”
“Oh, there rather is,” replied Vastra is her usual calm, reassuring tone, “I’ve finally had the chance to read the Adventure of the Dying Detective. I just wanted to say that it was absolutely superlative – you must consider another series like it, sir. I have some ideas which I’d be willing to share.”
“Another time, I think,” replied to gentleman, “I have somewhere to be.”
“And whereabouts is that?”
“Nowhere that concerns… the likes of you, ma’am.” The man turned to leave but halted on Vastra’s sudden calling.
“Arthur.” He glanced at her shiftily, almost knowing her suspicions. “Whatever is happening – do not involve yourself with any risks. I once thought I could do what I liked; I had a talent, and I had those who were in need of my talent. One man, in particular, made good use of my munificence, and indeed my desire to be admired. It cost me a lot, and I am still repaying the debts. Whatever it is, sir – leave it alone.”
The gentleman considered her statement for a moment, and left swiftly. Vastra stood up and shut the door, walking solemnly to the fireplace afterwards. She picked up the golden ring and placed it in her withered old hands. Clutching it tightly, she closed her eyes, conjuring up and image of Jenny’s face, which caused a tear to form in her lizard-eye.
***
Ring ring.
“Ooh!” cried Olivia, “You have a phone here!”
“It is a police public call box,” re-joined the Doctor, humorously, “now, if you don’t mind…”
Olivia picked up the phone, and listened intently.
“Doctor, it’s for you. It’s… a woman.”
The Doctor snatched the phone and put it to his ear. His expression immediately became deadly serious, and he bowed his head in earnestness.
“Yes. Are you sure- of course. I’ll see you there.” He put the phone down and approached the coat hanger, donning his fedora, and tipping it over his brow.
“What is it? Who was that?” asked Olivia.
“My past,” replied the Doctor, in silent shock.
“What about it?” she smiled; “I thought you said you’d done with your past.”
“I have.” He turned towards the door and approached it with great caution, then turned back, with his hand on the handle, to face Olivia. “But it hasn’t finished with me…”
The TARDIS materialised on a street corner. The environment was a strange fusion of old and new. The architecture was primarily archaic; old grandiose buildings mostly. There was an imposing music hall, from which the cries of youth arose: a song of innocence in the mundane, desolated district. It could be heard from afar. People would turn their minds in its direction, whilst their bodies continued, like clockwork. The sound of a tinkling piano could also be heard amidst the gentle wind. Stately vintage cars were juxtaposed with horses and carriages. It was the division, Olivia realised. The division of the rich and the poor.
“So what are we here for?” she asked the Doctor, who wasn’t being himself. He’d usually be bouncing out of the TARDIS, excitedly presenting the surroundings and providing an energetic brief on the era, persuading Olivia why she’d love it, why it was better than anywhere she’d ever been before. But today he seemed quite solemn. The fedora wasn’t an idiosyncrasy anymore, more like a veil. She knew he was hiding something – but she couldn’t place what. He strolled gravely across the street. He spoke quietly and calmly. Something about him was reserved – or perhaps contrite.
“We’re here to see an old friend. She thinks she may be onto something important.”
“Who?”
“The one and the only.” The Doctor looked down at Olivia, smiling momentarily in pride. “'The Great Detective'.”
The house the Doctor led her to was in a state. It was on a filthy and dark side-street, tucked away in the corner, and with only one floor. She’d have described it, based on its dusty cracked windows and its damp brick walls, as more of a shed than a house. When the Doctor knocked, the footsteps that followed were accompanied by a loud creaking - presumably from the floorboards - from which Olivia deducted that the inside was also probably as ancient and ragged as the outside.
Olivia was taken aback by the woman who answered. Or was she a woman? Her appearance was akin to a lizard. Green scaly skin, and a long serpentine tongue. But her other characteristics were different. She was decisively elderly. She walked with frailty, and her smooth skin was beginning to crease. Her eyes were kind and undeceiving; that distinguished them from a lizard’s eyes. She was wearing a slightly see-through black glittery dress. She bore an expression of hopelessness and lamentation, and regarded the Doctor with both admiration and wonder. She also seemed to know him. He stared at her, unable to take his eyes off her, yet, at the same time, he didn’t seem to want to be seeing her.
“Old friend,” she whispered. “Is that you?”
“Vastra…” He paused, taking a sigh of relief. “You’re well, I trust?”
“That is of no importance. Who is your…” she frowned indecently at Olivia, searching for the appropriate phrase, “friend? Companion?” She glanced hesitantly and directly at Olivia, appearing even more discourteous than before. “Concubine?”
Olivia cleared her throat, indicating that Vastra should stop whilst she was ahead.
“My apologies…?” replied Vastra apologetically, yet uncertainly. She signalled to the Doctor.
“Olivia.”
“Olivia!” Vastra said, pressing her hands together, smiling courteously. “What a beautiful name! Would you like to come in, Doctor? Olivia,” she said, gesturing after her. “I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
The inside was a bit better than the outside. The room was a mess, but it was a welcoming one. A fire was brewing. On the mantelpiece were an assortment of bizarre gadgets and relics, including some odd-looking golden goblets. There was an elegantly-carved table in the centre on which rested a dog-eared copy of The Daily Mail, among other disorderly piles of outdated newspapers and dusty books. Yet there was something quite opulent about the room. It had some ornate, and imaginably valuable, pieces of furniture: a large wooden wall unit, a grand piano. At the same time, it made a forlorn imprint. It seemed to be the dwelling of someone who’d given up on order and direction in their life. A little like the Doctor.
Vastra made her way back in and rested on an armchair. The Doctor sat on a lounger. Olivia remained standing for a minute.
“The Daily Mail. Friday 9th January, 1920. “Britain facing depression”. Remember that one,” the Doctor casually remarked, looking at the newspaper.
“I pick up what I can,” Vastra replied. “So much has changed. I feel like I’ve outlived my era.”
“Olivia,” asked the Doctor, “would you mind making tea? If you get stuck, give me a call.”
“I think I can probably make tea,” she murmured as she walked away.
“Not in 1920,” muttered the Doctor.
The Doctor and Vastra waited until Olivia was out of earshot. There was something unique about their bond. It was like two war veterans at a memorial. There was something sombre about the ambience, yet familiar for both of them.
“What happened, Vastra?” asked the Doctor. “What changed?”
“Since that day…” she looked to the floor, her eyes downcast. She paused, gathering her thoughts. “I was so alone. The last one left. It felt wrong. I felt out of place. I felt I’d lived far beyond my days. Then the world started changing around me. I’m not sure I’m going to make it into this new world. My days were over long ago.”
“Why did you call?”
“There’s something suspicious going on with Arthur Conan Doyle. Something that shouldn’t, I think. You ought to investigate –”
The Doctor interrupted. “Why did you really call?”
“Because…” she looked back up at him, gazing into his eyes with a mixture of love and compassion. Her eyes were begging to be loved again. “Because I’ve missed you. I’ve missed all of them. I wanted to see you again. But you’ve changed so much. You’ve met her,” signalling in the direction Olivia had left. “You seem to have moved on, while I’m stuck clinging onto the past.”
“That doesn’t make me a bad person, Vastra. You and I, we have to make do. What good will come of us if we sit around moping all day? You have to get a grip. I know it sounds hard, and I share your pain – I do, honestly.” He held her hands in his, pressing them close to his hearts. So she could feel their rapid pulse, knew that his hearts were sincere. “But if you don’t move on, you’ll pull others back with you. You’ll be stuck with that last memory – that awful memory. You saw something no one should have to see. If you move on, you’ll be able to look at things from another perspective. You’ll be able to relive the good days again. In your mind. Your thoughts won’t be crowded by that day. Let it go.” He released his gentle grip on her hands.
After a moment of much-needed silence, the Doctor spoke up again, changing the subject. “Where will I find Sir Arthur?”
“Anywhere in the local vicinity. Try side alleyways. The man, for some reason, generates a low field of artron energy. Try a scan. And Doctor - whilst I called you here partly for your company, this may be something of great importance. I am convinced there’s something otherworldly going on. This could be, perhaps, our last case.”
“Don’t say that, Vastra. Don’t say that, please…” The Doctor made his way out, and moments later Olivia entered with the tea.
“Where’s he gone?” she asked.
“Away,” replied Vastra. A small smile, remembering those days long past. “He does that.”
***
After explaining whereabouts the Doctor had gone, Vastra took a sip of her tea. Olivia warily asked the question which had been burning on her mind.
“What is it with you and the Doctor? I mean… what happened? He’s guarding so many secrets. I wondered if you could tell me anything about him.”
“Close your eyes,” replied Vastra. “Think of your Doctor.”
Olivia could hear her footsteps as she got up from the armchair but still she did as she was told and kept her eyelids shut. She conjured up an image of her Doctor: tall, somewhat handsome, late-thirties, dark hair. She pictured every layer of his clothes: white shirt, black trousers, grey or black waistcoat, trench-coat, fedora, and leather boots. The image of a man who is hiding inside his shell. Hiding? She suspected he was retreating.
When instructed, Olivia opened her eyes again and saw before her a creased, sepia-toned photograph. In the picture were five people - if ‘people’ was the right word. The first was Vastra, but younger. She was dressed the same but appeared happier and more innocent. Abnormally close to her was another woman, who seemed to be garbed in some kind of cat-suit. Her hair was tied back and she was grinning at Vastra in admiration. A potato-headed butler was proudly standing at the front holding a bottle of vintage wine. As Olivia noticed him, Vastra pointed at him with her frail finger.
“That was Strax.” She smiled. “He never understood social gatherings. Have you found the Doctor yet?”
“There’s only one more left on the photograph.” Olivia looked up at Vastra in confusion, then back at the snapshot. “It must be him.”
The only man left was in his late twenties. He looked like some kind of hyperactive geography teacher. He was in a jacket with patched elbows and a conspicuous bow tie. He was beaming elatedly and his hair, whilst it was combed and well looked-after, was utterly unusual. Deep down, he was more bizarre than her Doctor. He was himself, no secrets attached. He seemed cheerier. He looked like a different man. How could your appearance change so much in the space of a few years?
“Who’s that next to him?” asked Olivia, pointing it a pretty young woman in a flowery skirt.
“Her? That’s the woman who changed everything. The woman who made the Doctor the way he is today. The woman thrice dead.”
“But who was she?”
“Clara. Clara Oswin Oswald.”
The TARDIS
The Doctor scanned the area for artron energy. It wasn’t a tough endeavour. The first result was a side-street close to Vastra’s house.
Everything felt too easy. In the day, it was never this simple, never this straightforward. There were always impediments, always complications; something waiting to come out of the woodwork.
The TARDIS materialised. You could hear it amid the sound of frolicking youngsters, rustling bins, and car-horns tooting haughtily in the distance – the grinding, scraping echo of the TARDIS. The Doctor always thought it was beautiful.
Conan Doyle was resting quietly on an alley bench. The alley wasn’t very clean, but the overlapping floors of Tudor-esque houses allowed for a bit of privacy. Rats scampered along the filthy uneven ground. Doyle remained frozen to the spot, intensely studying the object in his hand. Thankfully, the Doctor had materialised out of his line-of-sight, or there would have been some unwanted questions.
“That was my son,” said Conan Doyle, sensing the Doctor’s presence. He had an unmistakable face. He was the epitome of a Victorian gentleman: tall, plump, and with a proud countenance. The Doctor imagined him walking with his chest raised high to exhibit his wealth. But the wealth was a veil. The Doctor knew this because he did the same. The fedora, the coat… It was all to cover up the man underneath. Even Conan Doyle’s moustache, the Doctor thought, could have been to distract the observer away from his eyes.
“He died at war. Two years ago.” He held up the object he was studying to show the Doctor. It was a photograph – his son. The edges were worn. It was a picture which was constantly being held, admired. “His name was Arthur. He was the spitting image of me – so they said.” He chuckled, a small, strangled chuckle, one holding back tears at the memory. He paused. His eyes matched the earnest gaze in the photograph; that of a young man with great expectations – but no longer.
“Battle of the Somme. One of many. I never imagined I’d lose my family to war. War always seemed like something majestic, justly jingoistic. It was exciting. You felt proud to serve your nation, as though it were your destiny. You were compelled by the imperial vision and propaganda. A world where men and women alike saluted the British flag.” He said darkly: “Turned out it ruined my life.”
“I know the feeling,” the Doctor replied, sotto voce.
…The fires of Hell… The Cruciform falling…
“If only I could have saved him,” Doyle continued. “If I hadn’t let him go… I knew it could happen. Still… I l let him go. I executed my own son.”
“You couldn’t have known,” the Doctor said. I didn’t know either. “The fact you’ve suddenly opened up about this suggests it’s all you’ve been thinking about.”
“How observant.”
“I was inspired by that brilliant man who wrote ‘Sherlock Holmes’.”
Conan Doyle smiled softly at the Doctor’s accolade.
“Now,” began the Doctor, slightly more harshly. “I’m not going to beat about the bush any longer. You’re emitting artron energy. That’s not human. What have you done?”
Conan Doyle tensed up. He glared at the Doctor suspiciously. He rose to his feet, pocketing the photograph. “Nothing. And whatever I do get up to is none of your business, stranger.” He narrowed his eyes as he studied the Doctor. “Did Vastra send you? Are you her friend? She’s constantly pestering me. I can see her distrustful glances.”
“Whoever’s contacted you…” the Doctor edged closer towards him, “whatever they’ve offered you… I will stop them.”
“It seems I have no choice,” Conan Doyle said. “I really don’t want anyone to intervene in this.” After that ambiguous statement there was a moment of silence.
Conan Doyle raised his arm and placed it on the Doctor’s shoulder…
The Doctor felt a strange paroxysmal sensation fill his body. He couldn’t move. He was rooted the spot. He just stood, frozen, his petrified eyes fixated on the man...
He was falling. He couldn’t see or hear. All he knew was that he was falling.
When he landed, it took him a minute to get back to his senses. The first thing he felt was the feeling of damp grass on his cheek. Morning dew. Steadying himself, having checked everything was in order, he ascended to his feet, and examined the spectacular horizon.
Around him were trees. Magnificent trees. There were trees bent out of shape, twisted, cut, or curved. In the distance, beyond a thick layer of mist, was a palace. The tall turrets ended in pink peaks which contrasted oddly with the Gothic architecture of the building. It looked a little surreal. Like something out of a fairy-tale, perhaps. This misunderstanding was clarified completely when the Doctor was knocked off his feet, and looked up to see the talking rabbit.
Vastra’s House
A siren was blaring loudly like some kind of aggressive smoke alarm. A sinister red light filled Vastra’s house. It was a warning.
“What the hell is that?!” screamed Olivia.
“It’s the artroniometer! It’s hit full capacity!”
“The what?!?” asked Olivia, trying to be heard over the piercing sound of the sirens.
“It measures artron energy! Something very nearby – probably Sir Arthur again – is rife with it! But if it’s hit full capacity, that means something big, perhaps something living – has been displaced! Through time… even into another dimension!”
“The Doctor!” cried Olivia, realising in horror.
***
Conan Doyle sat down on the bench reflecting on what he’d just done. He felt guilty. All the prices he was paying… He hoped to God that his plan would work.
“Don’t hope to God, Arthur,” came that ominous booming voice. It resounded through his senses. It was like an overwhelming explosion every time the voice merely whispered. It could see inside him. “Hope to your master. Would you like your son to return?” Yes, Doyle thought. Yes, I would. “Then enter the final stage.”
“Yes, master.” Doyle’s voice was shaking, his hands trembling in fear and anxiety.
“Master?” came Vastra’s voice from behind him. “I’m certainly not your master.”
“Vastra, for goodness sake! What on Earth do you want now?”
“This is my friend, Olivia,” smiled Vastra, gesturing politely to the elegant, albeit petite, young woman standing next to her.
“Well…” Conan Doyle seemed to be rummaging through his head. Maybe he was searching for his patience. “Pleasure to meet you, Olivia.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen my friend? The Doctor?” asked Vastra courteously.
“No, I’m afraid I haven’t.” Conan Doyle couldn’t help it. He let the uncertainty resonate in his voice. He was a bad liar. Vastra knew from experience.
Swiftly raising a revolver to his head, with a menacing voice she hissed: “What have you done with the Doctor?” She contemplated whether or not she could pull the trigger if the time came. Conan Doyle stood in terror. What could he say?
Olivia felt confused, dizzy even. The air felt foreboding. Something – or someone; she couldn’t tell which – was coming.
“He promised me so much, my master,” Doyle replied, solemnly. “He told me,” he said, gathering himself, “that if I agreed to the bargain, I could get my son back. My Arthur. Surely I’m allowed... one small token of happiness?”
“What was his side of the bargain?” inquired Vastra sharply, finger coiled around the trigger.
“He said all I needed to do was form a nexus between his world and mine. Your friend, the Doctor,” he said, addressing Olivia, “he’s in my master’s world right now. Perfectly safe, I assure you. He said that if I can open the bridge, and transport some of his friends through, then I will be able to bring my son back.”
“What is this world?”
“The Fitilianton Cifod. I wrote a poem about it actually. How did it go?” He straightened his collar, ruminating on the lyrics for a moment. Then he began to recite it:
“The Fitilianton Cifod,
Where ideas leave the minds of sages,
Where legends manifest through the ages,
Where your soul is taken, hook, line, and sinker,
Where thoughts think alone without their thinkers.
The Fitilianton Cifod,
Where science knows no limits,
Where hours pass in minutes,
Where all forget, and all forgive,
Where spirits dance, and lost ones live.”
“You’ve been there then?” The more enticing the story got, the more terrified Vastra was.
“I’ve seen it. In dreams, in visions. The master can contact me. I have the ability to move people here and there - that’s what I’ll be able to do permanently when I open the bridge. But I’m not helping you. The plan will go ahead.” He raised his arm gradually. Vastra’s finger twiddled over the trigger.
“Stop!” Olivia cried. “Both of you, stop! I have something I need to get off my back… something I haven’t spoken to anyone about for a long, long time. My dad: Richard Samuel Quinn. He died last year. Don’t go around, Mr Doyle, thinking you’re the only one who lost someone. You’re not. And I had to watch my Dad die slowly… I had to pick up the pieces afterwards. And then - weeks later, I meet the Doctor. And what does he do? He offers me a time machine and tells me that I can go anywhere and everywhere. Do you know how hard that was after everything I’d been through? But I learnt shortly after what I happens when you change the past. And trust me, if you saw he how terrible the universe can become, you’d understand. I am telling you: from what I’ve seen, so far, whatever your master is offering you, decline. Because there’s no way your son will ever come back. I would bring my Dad back if I could, but I can’t. I know that. Trust me – let your son rest in heaven where he’s supposed to be. And help me find my friend.”
“The loss of a father is a natural thing-“
“I’ve lost my brother too,” persisted Olivia. “And so many others, but it doesn’t mean the unnatural have to hit you more. Every loss is a blow. A blow we climb back up from and ascend stronger than ever before.”
“The Doctor’s left the exchange point,” Doyle said reluctantly. “I can only move people between the worlds if they’re at that specific point.”
“What about if you take me there and I find him? Bring him back to the point you leave me at? Would that work?”
“Olivia, you can’t be serious,” Vastra retorted. Olivia’s outburst had unnerved her. She feared for her safety.
“He’d exiled himself to Earth, and I got him to travel again. It’s my fault he’s in this mess. Last time I sat and watched as he fixed the planet. Not this time – this time, it’s my turn to help him.” She turned to Doyle. “Can you take me to the Fitilianton Cifod?”
Doyle paused, considering. Could it work? Well, no time like the present… His answer left Olivia overjoyed.
“Yes.”
***
The Doctor tried to clear his vision, but it was still there. The rabbit, in a purple tweed waistcoat, apparently glaring at him, and pointing at a golden Rolex on its fluffy white arm.
“Hurry, hurry,” it muttered in a quivering, childlike voice, “we’re going to be late!”
“W-w… Where am I?” The Doctor was still dizzy, and he was trying to work out whether he was in some kind of bizarre dream. The palace in the distance, the beautiful horizon and the out-of-shape foliage all seemed so surreal, but there was so much detail – more detail, undoubtedly, than the cataleptic mind could produce.
“Excuse me – err, yes, come along, please,” the rabbit repeated, “We’re going to be ever so late.”
With a juvenile eagerness, it reached up and grabbed the Doctor’s hand, pulling him unwillingly along with him, and recruiting him on his journeys.
The rabbit led him to a patch in the middle of the verdant plain on which sat an antiquated wooden chair. It was only a dining chair; nothing notable, yet it seemed to be the focus of attention.
“Sit on it, then!” pleaded the rabbit, “Don’t tell me you’re scared of heights, too!”
The Doctor cautiously did as the peculiar creature demanded and sat on the chair. A part of him was wary, but another part was amused. If it was a dream, thought the Doctor, why not make the most of it? If not, perhaps he’d learn something.
Abruptly, the chair flew into the air, as the rabbit hopped on the Doctor’s lap, and he held onto the arms of the chair for dear life.
Below him now he could see the world he had appeared in. Where he’d materialized was in some sort of park, wherein there were a number of small bearded men carefully stacking logs up in piles. Further up the Doctor went; now several hundred meters above land. The fall from this would kill either one of them outright.
They passed a river on which a diversity of boats were manoeuvring. Some were steampunk-esque barges whilst others were classic Viking ships. There was still a thick layer of mist in the air. It was early in the morning.
A small robin flew past them, which was then followed by a blue dragon – a great behemoth that apparently meant no harm. Was it… grinning? It seemed to swoop past not just with poise, but with contentment. The chair then began to stop, as it started plummeting down. The Doctor held on tighter and closed his eyes, yelling fearfully the whole way – something he rarely did.
The next thing he knew, he was being hurried into a great banquet hall. It was like the inside of a cathedral but two times bigger. Wooden tables were lined down the centre and ‘people’, if you could call them that, filled benches which stretched the lengths of the tables and beyond. There were all kinds off foods; fat, juicy chunks of meat - rich, alluring cakes of all different kinds: vanilla cakes, coffee cakes, lemons cakes, carrot and orange cakes (topped with layers of marzipan fruits), chocolate cakes which looked a danger to your health – among this assortment were some that even the Doctor didn’t recognise, like a blue layered cake, akin to the type used at weddings, but with the appearance of a glass sculpture. There were vegetables like we know in trays every metre or so, and then in fruit bowls there were some unusual exotic fruits, which went from cerise to emerald, and sometimes were even both at the same time. There was a huge arched stained-glass window, which seemed to be displaying an image of a great lion.
The Doctor sat on the bench nearest the door, and, despite his lateness, was ignored; everyone was submerged in conversations of all kind: friendly gossip, official meetings, formal debates, and even sometimes arguments. About 50% of them appeared human. The other 50% were something else entirely. Some looked like aliens and others looked like grotesque children’s paintings somehow manifested into existence, with their bright mismatched colours and their peculiar-looking faces.
The rabbit, perched next to the Doctor, stood up on his tiptoes and whispered in his ear, “Remember, don’t mention the dust!”
“What do you know of the dust,” replied snobbishly an elegant woman with sleek black hair and a beautiful pale face. Perched on her shoulder was a golden monkey.
“N-nothing, Mrs Coulter,” replied the rabbit, “I was just advising my friend on how to polish his – err, mantelpiece.”
“May I have your attention?” came an ear-splitting (and distinctively female) voice from the distance. The Doctor looked over towards the front of the hall and saw that a stylish woman with long frizzy hair was trying to gather their attention. She looked… perfect, in many respects. In others, though, she looked like she had already left this world. She was a cross between a waxwork and a skeleton – that’s how the Doctor could best describe her. She was mid-50s and spoke with precision, but also condescension. Exactly the kind of person the Doctor strived to change.
“I do wish we’d all be on our finest behaviour tonight,” she said, “the Great Detective is only here for our sakes, so it would be in our best interest to show a little respect. At ten o’clock – that’s five minutes time, the Great Detective will be arriving, hopefully with the answers we’re all looking for.”
‘The Great Detective’… Madame Vastra. Hopefully she’d have the answers the Doctor was looking for, at the least.
For the next five minutes, the Doctor tucked into the feast. He was hungry, and he thought that he may need the strength for later. Of course, if this was the morning, it would mean that this was only breakfast. Yet it was so formal, so lavish, that it was hard to believe.
A knock on the door came abruptly, and echoed throughout the whole hall. Everybody went silent. Not a whisper, not a murmur, not a sniff. They were waiting in eager anticipation. Suddenly, the door swung open, and in came…
The Great Detective – but not Madame Vastra. It was the Great Detective himself. Sherlock Holmes, undoubtedly. He was dressed in the classic chequered jacket and matching deerstalker, smoking a cigar. His countenance was astute and prudent but enigmatic and somewhat deceitful. He strode up the hall past the tables and everyone gazed at him in awe. Before he could reach the front, though, a loud explosion sounded, and the Doctor was thrown the floor before he could deduce what was happening.
In a panicked rush, he got to his feet, and staggered out of the gates, but suddenly he was falling. Where he was falling, he wasn’t sure yet; his vision was again a blur and his senses were clogged up with soot.
He landed. He tried to stand, but his hands were numb, and his leg was in agony.
“Get out of there!” The voice sounded like it was coming from another room – maybe a speaker. It was an American woman, who was ostensibly flustered. “Get out! Run! Just go! They’re here, with you! I can’t save you!”
The Doctor tried again to move but he was frozen to the spot; suspended in torture. 1500 years of time and space… Had he finally given up?
The next thing he knew, he was walking. No, he wasn’t. He was being carried. He was limping for his life, his other leg still in unbearable pain. He forced his somnolent eyes open and looked around. There were explosions coming from every angle; their sound rung in his ears, worsening the pain. Amid the fires were horrible creatures – giant, hulking masses, like trolls; their faces flaccid, saggy, twisted, mean and senseless, and they were advancing. The inferno continued for another two minutes, as the Doctor grew weaker, and his support grew tired. He looked to his side, with his last shred of strength, and realised that Olivia was his support. She had rescued him. He studied her for another minute. He never realised how beautiful she was. Then, everything went black.
The next time the Doctor woke, he felt a little better. His eyes blinked open immediately and his senses weren’t overwhelmed by the fire. He could feel scratches and bruises all over, but stood himself up anyhow. He observed the surroundings. He was in the same alley that he’d met Conan Doyle in before. But the grazes were testament to his experience: he hadn’t been dreaming. He got his balance and looked around. There stood Olivia, Conan Doyle and Vastra, all waiting for him to say something in anxiety.
“Olivia…” murmured the Doctor. “…You saved my life. Thank you.”
But Olivia backed away, scowling at him sceptically.
“What’s wrong?”
“Tell me,” she demanded, “tell me everything. Tell me about Clara. Tell me what happened at Trenzalore.”
“Yes, Doctor.” It was the booming voice which had followed Conan Doyle for years. The one he’d bargained with. The spectre that haunted him – the monster that had deceived him.
“Why don’t we tell her about Trenzalore...?”
The creature revealed itself. It was beautiful. A heavenly light shone from its eyes, and beautiful blonde hair framed its handsome, young face. It wore a long white dress of divine refinement. Despite its booming voice, being in its presence felt like a blessing. But when it saw the Doctor, its eyes sank into an intense gaze of pure hatred and aggression. It began emitting a smell of burning plastic every time it looked at him. It loathed him.
“You were at Trenzalore?” The Doctor couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“Yes. I was one of many to die there.” Its ominous voice had just a nuance of defeatism.
“To die?” Olivia was bewildered, but Vastra understood. She wished she didn’t.
“Trenzalore, Olivia, was the event I spoke to you about,” the Doctor began. “Where the Laws of Time changed. My friends were taken by a religious cult who wanted this change to go ahead. They were tortured. Massacred,” he said darkly, emphasising the final word. By this time, his head was bowed slightly. He looked hurt. He spoke matter-of-factly, but every word resonated with the bitter anguish of the memory. A memory that cascaded now, intractably, before his vision. “The ones I loved, the ones who loved me. Trusted, believed in me. I gave in,” he sighed, feeling once more the resignation to fate. “But it was all part of the trap. They knew I’d give in eventually.” He breathed deeply, then spoke softly, slowly. “Clara Oswin Oswald was an android. Her genetic makeup was a copy of Oswin Oswald’s, a junior entertainment manager on Starship Alaska. She was turned into a Dalek, a terrible, vindictive alien. A mad, cold-blooded creature in a cage,” he gritted his teeth. He’d always despised Daleks – but Oswin had been different. “The biological makeup was easy to imitate as it had already been compressed to undergo Dalek conversion.” He felt an involuntary smile, felt a tear in his eye, as he envisaged her there before him. The Girl Thrice Dead. “She wasn’t just an android, though. No. She was alive! They replicated this copy several times, scattered her throughout human history, so that she would eventually find me. Once Clara and I arrived at Trenzalore, I… I realised it was a mistake. But she’d already fulfilled her purpose.” He felt a seething, pulsating anger within his hearts, his hands clenched into fists that quivered by his side. “The Cult drained her humanity from her like water down a plughole. She wasn’t my protector anymore. She was my guard. She was my friend. I’ve had many friends, but Clara… She had joviality, vigour for life. She had sass,” he said, laughing. “She…” He pressed the tips of his fingers together, bringing his hands close to his face, so that the index fingers rested on the groove above his lips. He said, philosophically: “Sometimes the inhuman are more human. And maybe that’s because we, ourselves, take our lives for granted. We don’t appreciate the greatest wonder that we’re alive at all. To watch, helpless, bound… Her eyes… Bright, intelligent, beautiful eyes… Pleading with me…” He roared, startling Olivia, who’d been enthralled by the Doctor’s passionate oration. He said, rapidly: “In those final moments of her life, I knew then, she loved every second of it.” He calmed himself. “Her only regret was that others didn’t recognise what a gift being alive truly is.” He pressed his hand against his head, rubbing his brow, sighing wearily. Memory is bothersome, he thought.
“The Cult promised me that if I answered the Question, they’d reset her exactly how she was before Trenzalore, and give me her back – god, I was a bloody fool to trust them, even for a second. They’d already killed so many of my friends – Jenny, Strax, and others. Vastra was next.” He glanced across at Vastra. He was angry, fired up. “Do you remember? Of course, you had never loved anyone before her, she’d been your repentance. How it hurt.” Vastra looked away, stifling her tears.
The Doctor turned to Olivia. “That’s what the Cult did. They broke you,” he said, snapping the imaginary toothpick between his thumbs and index fingers. “I had to answer the Question. I couldn’t watch it any longer. So… I told them my name. My real name, because ‘Doctor’ wouldn’t suffice. And that triggered the universal metaphysical mutation. But only within a certain area. Only within the fields of Trenzalore.”
Olivia nodded in understanding, a tear of sympathy rolling down her cheek. But she was still confused. “What happened after that? What went wrong?”
“The transformation was worse than I thought it would be. Most people within the fields of Trenzalore were killed. Life… simply left their bodies, like a light being switched off. Others, somehow, carried on, in spite of what had happened. Picture Dante’s Inferno, the Circles of Hell. Picture the torment of the damned, their different tortures, punishments. That was the fields.
I managed to get Vastra out alive. I managed to get Clara out alive. But everyone else I had to let die. That’s why the Laws of Time were altered. It was the after-effects of the cataclysm. It was my judgement day.”
“What happened to Clara?”
“I reset her. I hacked into her settings. But I didn’t have the control nor the knowledge that the Cult had. I had to make her forget all about me. I took her back to Alaska, let her continue her life as Oswin Oswald. Her first and original life. It was my gift to her. The least I could do. But… I think time for retrospection is over, don’t you agree?” He broke into a wily grin. “So sorry to keep you waiting. Apologies, Arthur,” he walked over, shook Arthur by the hand. Arthur was flustered. “Not at all, Doctor,” he found himself saying. “You should be writing for the theatre, dear chap, you'd turn a profit in no time,” he congratulated the Doctor, heartily exchanging the Doctor’s gesture. The Doctor patted him on the back.
“And Vastra,” the Doctor held her chin in his hand, turning her face towards his. “A tear, Vastra? As I once told a very old and beloved friend, “Where there’s life, there’s hope.” Eh?” He brushed away the tears from her coruscating eyes.
“And you!” He pointed at the incandescent creature hovering before them. He spread his arms out wide, exclaiming jubilantly. “Our guest! Welcome! I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m the Doctor.”
“I am the Avenger,” it announced. It was a pragmatic voice. It evidently didn’t tolerate fools. “I seek punishment for those involved with Trenzalore.”
“What’s Trenzalore to you then, eh?”
The Avenger considered for a moment, and then looked the Doctor in his eye. The light from its eyes burnt, but only mildly. “I died. I died in Trenzalore. Amidst the slaughter, and the carnage, and the change. Amid the purification, and the purgation, and the massacre. I died. A horrific, thousand deaths I died. And now I cannot rest until I kill all others who brought this on me.”
“So what’s the Fitilianton Cifod, then? Don’t tell me,” the Doctor grinned. “It was so obvious! The Wishing Chair that took me away! The White Rabbit in the purple waistcoat – don’t mention the Dust to Mrs Coulter!” The Doctor clapped sarcastically. “Miss Havisham presenting the Great Detective. Chased away by the Morlocks. Let me tell you something, Arthur.” He turned to face Conan Doyle. “You sussed it out.”
“No, I didn’t,” he said, flummoxed. “When?”
“Ooh, a while ago. The Avenger saw inside your mind. He knew you had. He did the only thing he could do. He couldn’t erase it, so he muddled it. It’s an anagram. I’m good at anagrams. In fact,” he said, rather proudly, grabbing his lapels. “I have a degree in anagrammatics. 1st Class Honours.”
Olivia managed a smile. She couldn’t help it. The Doctor had such entrancing charisma.
“The Fitilianton Cifod. In other words – hang on, just moving it around again. Aha! That’s the boy. The Land of Fiction. I went there before, once – no, twice, but I was chubbier that other time.”
He directed Doyle: “That’s why you were the key, Arthur. You are a great novelist. A classic. One of your creations resides there. Ergo, with the correct training, you could form the nexus. The big question, Avenger. What do you want with the Land of Fiction?”
“I want my revenge.”
“Revenge?” the Doctor chuckled. “What’s that supposed to mean? Talk about ambiguous.”
“I am going to relocate the exchange point into the Dark Forest.”
“What’s the Dark Forest? Sounds a bit Harry Potter to me.”
“It is the residence of the darkest phantoms of the Land of Fiction. It is where the villains reside. I am going to bring chaos to this Earth. Because it is the Earth that you care for.”
“Why are you telling me that? What’s the point? Now Arthur knows the truth, he won’t do your bidding.”
“I no longer need Sir Arthur. He has established the nexus. His role is complete. I am in control, now.” The light in its eyes grew brighter, intensified until all there was a light, which the Doctor, Vastra, Conan Doyle and Olivia were drowning in. Then darkness resumed. The Avenger had gone.
“What are we going to do now?” cried Olivia. “What the hell are we going to do?!”
“We’re going to do nothing. Sir Arthur, on the other hand,” he gestured to Conan Doyle who looked up attentively “Now, he’s going to write.”
Vastra’s House
Conan Doyle gripped the pen as his hand shook in angst.
“What am I writing, again?” he asked.
“Anything,” answered the Doctor. “But make sure there’s a really good hero who can fight anything, okay?”
“Yes. I think I can do this.”
“Right, Olivia,” he called her over, “you come with me. Vastra, you keep Sir Arthur company. Make sure he has plenty of inspiration.”
“Where are we going?” whispered Olivia.
“We’re going to end this… for good.”
***
“So what exactly are we going to do?” asked Olivia, trying to catch up with the Doctor’s fast and tenacious stride.
“Arthur has a link to that world – for starters, he’s able to move things from here to there. But he’s also a great novelist – arguably the greatest. If he writes a new book with something that can overcome the Avenger and all the terrible fictional characters that are going to be moved, then that character will literally be created. The laws of physics are different there. With this book, we’ve won.”
“But hang on a minute – if Arthur writes this book, then where is it in history? Aren’t you now meddling with time? That’s exactly what you’ve told me not to do since day one.”
“It’s different.” He stopped a minute, hushing his statement. “At Trenzalore, the laws of time changed, like I explained. And I’m the last Time Lord. I’m allowed to experiment with time – that’s what I do. This reformed universe is new to me; fresh, exciting. And I’m in charge.”
“Hang on a minute – since when we you in charge? I’ll let you dictate the rules to me but to call yourself the most important person in the entire universe – among all those scholars, patrons, martyrs, lovers, saviours – that’s really seeing what you think of yourself. The vanity of the Doctor.”
“Olivia-“the Doctor looked around in frustration “-not now.”
***
The Avenger stood contemplating on what went wrong. He could feel the power; he could sense the nexus of the two worlds overwhelming him. Yet none of them came. Not the Morlocks, not the Death Eaters, not Scylla, not the Wendigo, and not Satan – what had happened to them all? He’d been defeated. He’d lost everything. All that kept him going was his hatred for the Doctor. He knew it was a distraction. If he dared focus his mind, just for a minute, on what had happened to him… it would tear him apart.
Footsteps echoed down the alley and the Doctor and Olivia confronted him valiantly. Both oppositions stepped forward intimidatingly.
“What… have you done?” There was a hint of defeat in his devil-like voice.
“I’ve destroyed them all,” replied the Doctor, “every last one of them. And now I’ve come for you.”
The grotesque creature knelt down in desperation and confusion. It couldn’t even comprehend its existence, and now it was begging for it.
“Please – I want… I want mercy.”
“Who were you? Before Trenzalore?” Trenzalore. That ominous word. The air seemed to turn bitter whenever it was spoken.
“I was Alykei Jaggamor.”
“What was your role in events? What were you doing there?” The Doctor ruthlessly pursued these questions. There was something in the Doctor here that Olivia didn’t recognise. Or perhaps she simply didn’t want to recognise it.
“I was… a member of the Cult.”
“So you were trying to make it happen…”
“I didn’t know – I swear!” Its voice trembled and the pitch was raised, almost to a normal human’s.
“You didn’t know…” the Doctor cackled unsympathetically. “You knew what was happening. You knew that my friends were being taken…” He suddenly raised his voice, and bellicosely faced up to the trembling demon. “TORTURED! You must have watched! What were you thinking then, eh? When they begged for mercy… did you show them any?”
The creature couldn’t say anything. It was bound to the spot. Its eyes pleaded for understanding but were given a cold stare in return.
“I didn’t think so.” After a pause, the Doctor stepped back, not even looking at the creature. “Your existence is failing. You’re in the world of the dead – now you’re just an echo… trying to bleed through. And no one’s listening.”
The Doctor sauntered away mercilessly. Olivia stood rooted to the ground, not knowing who to trust: the man, who’d taken her here, guided her to a new way of life – or the sorry creature, suffering on its own. Before she could make a decision, the Avenger spoke up:
“Go after him. But remember this: there is a sliver of ice in his heart. He is a danger to creation. Stop him while you still can.”
And so Olivia followed the Doctor, this time in suspicion, not trusting anyone.
***
“Are you going, then?” asked Vastra to the Doctor, as he turned up on her doorstep.
“Always moving on. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“I can stay… if you want.”
“No. Because it’s not what you want. You can run, you can forget everything, and lead a new life. If I could do that, of course I would! I won’t snatch the opportunity away from you. I only ask that maybe one day, you return to visit me.”
“Thank you.”
“Goodbye, old friend.”
As the Doctor bid his farewell, Vastra felt a tear form in her eye. She seemed to have no role in events anymore. The world had moved on and so had the Doctor. She was clinging onto the past, and the past was fading. But she would never be able to forget. She envied the Doctor. She also knew what a broken heart could do to a man – to a Time Lord, she couldn’t even imagine.
Vastra died shortly after. The Doctor had returned a few weeks later by sheer coincidence – he’d seen her name stretched across a broadsheet. ‘TO THE WOMAN WHO CHANGED THE WORLD’.
The funeral was beautiful. All sorts turned up; friends, colleges, family, strangers. They all came to pay their respects to the Great Detective. Without her, the city would have been a place of crime. She taught them lessons about equality, and about the meaning of love and the meaning of life. Every one of them felt guilty that they hadn’t been there for her, in the end.
Vastra’s sister made an appearance, and read the eulogy. She spoke of her childhood years with Vastra; how they’d run around and play in the luscious grass; how Vastra always had time for her. Not that any of the humans understood, but it was meaningful nonetheless. Another life that Vastra had left an imprint on.
It was a lovely day, and gathering outside the church which shone in a picturesque sunlight after the service, the Doctor happened to come across Conan Doyle. He looked up at the Doctor in astonishment.
“Doctor… I was beginning to doubt that you’d even ever existed, my friend. Yet here you are again.”
“How’s life been for you?”
“I’m still missing my son a lot. I’ve turned to spiritualism – it’s just a guidance for me. It gives me some hope. I couldn’t bear to think…”
“Me neither. You’re lucky there’s still hope there for you…”
The Doctor’s bottom lip quivered and he walked away sombrely, turning his back on the Great Detective one last time. He wished he’d been there for her, to make her final days better than what they were. He wished he hadn’t ever gotten involved with her and thus led her to Trenzalore. He wished he could just forget everything and erase his regrets. But alas, no. Every waking hour, he could see their faces. It pained him. It pained him to know that the happiness never lasted. That when their time came, it wasn’t in peace, or in heroism, it was… this.
The Doctor ventured back to the TARDIS, but stopped in his tracks. He could see it again. The figure in the corner of his eye. The one from Moscow. It was following him. And he thought, for a minute – no, he must have been mad. He thought it was a woman.
Opening the TARDIS doors solemnly, he was greeted by Olivia. She could feel his sadness, and he embraced her in a hug, crying on her shoulder. She may not trust him – he was aware of this – but she was there for him, and she’d proven herself there. She put others before herself.
“My Dad died.” She uttered, breaking the silence. “Last year. I had to watch him get worse and suffer when he didn’t want to be. That’s why I really took your offer. I was running away.”
The Great Detective and the Haunted Man was the first story I wrote – and one the very few I’ve ever written – that I was actually proud of. It was drafted in early 2013, and written during springtime, encompassing one of the largest drafting periods of a Haunted episode ever. The first few drafts of the episode covered the same story but were weaker.
It was an episode which helped me to understand what it meant to write, for characters and situations: I was assisted by the frankly wonderful Adam Cuthbert who oversaw the episode and helped me to develop it into just not a story, but an actual piece of storytelling. I’ve learnt since from the feedback he gave me and I genuinely believe that any successes I’ve made today have been partly due to his gifted guidance. I was very lucky indeed.
It’s where canon starts to cross over here – as this was written before 7B, it offers up a different interpretation of Clara Oswald and the Trenzalore mystery. It was, however, a popular Haunted story and remains so - in the readers’ poll it scored joint sixth place.
I was at an emotional low during some points in this story and perhaps that’ll show. But personally, I think it added to what I was writing: it was a tale I was truly becoming invested in.
The Great Detective and the Haunted Man
Knock knock.
Vastra leapt out of her armchair and swung the door open with such zeal that she nearly knocked the middle-aged gentleman at the door off of his feet. Thankfully, she didn’t. She and the gentleman were well-acquainted, and Vastra couldn’t have coped with another loss – particularly down to such a petty, unfortunate catalyst as a door.
Vastra gestured that the gentleman step inside and he did so, perching himself on the end of a ragged old couch, politely admiring the ornaments on her mantelpiece: an old, complexly-built clock, a china goblet, and many other various curios. One which stuck out to him in particular was a gold ring which was placed centrally on the sill, in pride of place.
The gentleman was in his fifties (fifty exactly), and looked healthy enough at first glance; a prominent moustache shaped artfully; pulling your attention away from a rather rounded stomach. His eyes were narrowed with suspicion and he spoke fine English, as did Vastra.
“The weather is appalling,” murmured the gentleman, “I do hope there is some importance to your calling?”
“Oh, there rather is,” replied Vastra is her usual calm, reassuring tone, “I’ve finally had the chance to read the Adventure of the Dying Detective. I just wanted to say that it was absolutely superlative – you must consider another series like it, sir. I have some ideas which I’d be willing to share.”
“Another time, I think,” replied to gentleman, “I have somewhere to be.”
“And whereabouts is that?”
“Nowhere that concerns… the likes of you, ma’am.” The man turned to leave but halted on Vastra’s sudden calling.
“Arthur.” He glanced at her shiftily, almost knowing her suspicions. “Whatever is happening – do not involve yourself with any risks. I once thought I could do what I liked; I had a talent, and I had those who were in need of my talent. One man, in particular, made good use of my munificence, and indeed my desire to be admired. It cost me a lot, and I am still repaying the debts. Whatever it is, sir – leave it alone.”
The gentleman considered her statement for a moment, and left swiftly. Vastra stood up and shut the door, walking solemnly to the fireplace afterwards. She picked up the golden ring and placed it in her withered old hands. Clutching it tightly, she closed her eyes, conjuring up and image of Jenny’s face, which caused a tear to form in her lizard-eye.
***
Ring ring.
“Ooh!” cried Olivia, “You have a phone here!”
“It is a police public call box,” re-joined the Doctor, humorously, “now, if you don’t mind…”
Olivia picked up the phone, and listened intently.
“Doctor, it’s for you. It’s… a woman.”
The Doctor snatched the phone and put it to his ear. His expression immediately became deadly serious, and he bowed his head in earnestness.
“Yes. Are you sure- of course. I’ll see you there.” He put the phone down and approached the coat hanger, donning his fedora, and tipping it over his brow.
“What is it? Who was that?” asked Olivia.
“My past,” replied the Doctor, in silent shock.
“What about it?” she smiled; “I thought you said you’d done with your past.”
“I have.” He turned towards the door and approached it with great caution, then turned back, with his hand on the handle, to face Olivia. “But it hasn’t finished with me…”
The TARDIS materialised on a street corner. The environment was a strange fusion of old and new. The architecture was primarily archaic; old grandiose buildings mostly. There was an imposing music hall, from which the cries of youth arose: a song of innocence in the mundane, desolated district. It could be heard from afar. People would turn their minds in its direction, whilst their bodies continued, like clockwork. The sound of a tinkling piano could also be heard amidst the gentle wind. Stately vintage cars were juxtaposed with horses and carriages. It was the division, Olivia realised. The division of the rich and the poor.
“So what are we here for?” she asked the Doctor, who wasn’t being himself. He’d usually be bouncing out of the TARDIS, excitedly presenting the surroundings and providing an energetic brief on the era, persuading Olivia why she’d love it, why it was better than anywhere she’d ever been before. But today he seemed quite solemn. The fedora wasn’t an idiosyncrasy anymore, more like a veil. She knew he was hiding something – but she couldn’t place what. He strolled gravely across the street. He spoke quietly and calmly. Something about him was reserved – or perhaps contrite.
“We’re here to see an old friend. She thinks she may be onto something important.”
“Who?”
“The one and the only.” The Doctor looked down at Olivia, smiling momentarily in pride. “'The Great Detective'.”
The house the Doctor led her to was in a state. It was on a filthy and dark side-street, tucked away in the corner, and with only one floor. She’d have described it, based on its dusty cracked windows and its damp brick walls, as more of a shed than a house. When the Doctor knocked, the footsteps that followed were accompanied by a loud creaking - presumably from the floorboards - from which Olivia deducted that the inside was also probably as ancient and ragged as the outside.
Olivia was taken aback by the woman who answered. Or was she a woman? Her appearance was akin to a lizard. Green scaly skin, and a long serpentine tongue. But her other characteristics were different. She was decisively elderly. She walked with frailty, and her smooth skin was beginning to crease. Her eyes were kind and undeceiving; that distinguished them from a lizard’s eyes. She was wearing a slightly see-through black glittery dress. She bore an expression of hopelessness and lamentation, and regarded the Doctor with both admiration and wonder. She also seemed to know him. He stared at her, unable to take his eyes off her, yet, at the same time, he didn’t seem to want to be seeing her.
“Old friend,” she whispered. “Is that you?”
“Vastra…” He paused, taking a sigh of relief. “You’re well, I trust?”
“That is of no importance. Who is your…” she frowned indecently at Olivia, searching for the appropriate phrase, “friend? Companion?” She glanced hesitantly and directly at Olivia, appearing even more discourteous than before. “Concubine?”
Olivia cleared her throat, indicating that Vastra should stop whilst she was ahead.
“My apologies…?” replied Vastra apologetically, yet uncertainly. She signalled to the Doctor.
“Olivia.”
“Olivia!” Vastra said, pressing her hands together, smiling courteously. “What a beautiful name! Would you like to come in, Doctor? Olivia,” she said, gesturing after her. “I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
The inside was a bit better than the outside. The room was a mess, but it was a welcoming one. A fire was brewing. On the mantelpiece were an assortment of bizarre gadgets and relics, including some odd-looking golden goblets. There was an elegantly-carved table in the centre on which rested a dog-eared copy of The Daily Mail, among other disorderly piles of outdated newspapers and dusty books. Yet there was something quite opulent about the room. It had some ornate, and imaginably valuable, pieces of furniture: a large wooden wall unit, a grand piano. At the same time, it made a forlorn imprint. It seemed to be the dwelling of someone who’d given up on order and direction in their life. A little like the Doctor.
Vastra made her way back in and rested on an armchair. The Doctor sat on a lounger. Olivia remained standing for a minute.
“The Daily Mail. Friday 9th January, 1920. “Britain facing depression”. Remember that one,” the Doctor casually remarked, looking at the newspaper.
“I pick up what I can,” Vastra replied. “So much has changed. I feel like I’ve outlived my era.”
“Olivia,” asked the Doctor, “would you mind making tea? If you get stuck, give me a call.”
“I think I can probably make tea,” she murmured as she walked away.
“Not in 1920,” muttered the Doctor.
The Doctor and Vastra waited until Olivia was out of earshot. There was something unique about their bond. It was like two war veterans at a memorial. There was something sombre about the ambience, yet familiar for both of them.
“What happened, Vastra?” asked the Doctor. “What changed?”
“Since that day…” she looked to the floor, her eyes downcast. She paused, gathering her thoughts. “I was so alone. The last one left. It felt wrong. I felt out of place. I felt I’d lived far beyond my days. Then the world started changing around me. I’m not sure I’m going to make it into this new world. My days were over long ago.”
“Why did you call?”
“There’s something suspicious going on with Arthur Conan Doyle. Something that shouldn’t, I think. You ought to investigate –”
The Doctor interrupted. “Why did you really call?”
“Because…” she looked back up at him, gazing into his eyes with a mixture of love and compassion. Her eyes were begging to be loved again. “Because I’ve missed you. I’ve missed all of them. I wanted to see you again. But you’ve changed so much. You’ve met her,” signalling in the direction Olivia had left. “You seem to have moved on, while I’m stuck clinging onto the past.”
“That doesn’t make me a bad person, Vastra. You and I, we have to make do. What good will come of us if we sit around moping all day? You have to get a grip. I know it sounds hard, and I share your pain – I do, honestly.” He held her hands in his, pressing them close to his hearts. So she could feel their rapid pulse, knew that his hearts were sincere. “But if you don’t move on, you’ll pull others back with you. You’ll be stuck with that last memory – that awful memory. You saw something no one should have to see. If you move on, you’ll be able to look at things from another perspective. You’ll be able to relive the good days again. In your mind. Your thoughts won’t be crowded by that day. Let it go.” He released his gentle grip on her hands.
After a moment of much-needed silence, the Doctor spoke up again, changing the subject. “Where will I find Sir Arthur?”
“Anywhere in the local vicinity. Try side alleyways. The man, for some reason, generates a low field of artron energy. Try a scan. And Doctor - whilst I called you here partly for your company, this may be something of great importance. I am convinced there’s something otherworldly going on. This could be, perhaps, our last case.”
“Don’t say that, Vastra. Don’t say that, please…” The Doctor made his way out, and moments later Olivia entered with the tea.
“Where’s he gone?” she asked.
“Away,” replied Vastra. A small smile, remembering those days long past. “He does that.”
***
After explaining whereabouts the Doctor had gone, Vastra took a sip of her tea. Olivia warily asked the question which had been burning on her mind.
“What is it with you and the Doctor? I mean… what happened? He’s guarding so many secrets. I wondered if you could tell me anything about him.”
“Close your eyes,” replied Vastra. “Think of your Doctor.”
Olivia could hear her footsteps as she got up from the armchair but still she did as she was told and kept her eyelids shut. She conjured up an image of her Doctor: tall, somewhat handsome, late-thirties, dark hair. She pictured every layer of his clothes: white shirt, black trousers, grey or black waistcoat, trench-coat, fedora, and leather boots. The image of a man who is hiding inside his shell. Hiding? She suspected he was retreating.
When instructed, Olivia opened her eyes again and saw before her a creased, sepia-toned photograph. In the picture were five people - if ‘people’ was the right word. The first was Vastra, but younger. She was dressed the same but appeared happier and more innocent. Abnormally close to her was another woman, who seemed to be garbed in some kind of cat-suit. Her hair was tied back and she was grinning at Vastra in admiration. A potato-headed butler was proudly standing at the front holding a bottle of vintage wine. As Olivia noticed him, Vastra pointed at him with her frail finger.
“That was Strax.” She smiled. “He never understood social gatherings. Have you found the Doctor yet?”
“There’s only one more left on the photograph.” Olivia looked up at Vastra in confusion, then back at the snapshot. “It must be him.”
The only man left was in his late twenties. He looked like some kind of hyperactive geography teacher. He was in a jacket with patched elbows and a conspicuous bow tie. He was beaming elatedly and his hair, whilst it was combed and well looked-after, was utterly unusual. Deep down, he was more bizarre than her Doctor. He was himself, no secrets attached. He seemed cheerier. He looked like a different man. How could your appearance change so much in the space of a few years?
“Who’s that next to him?” asked Olivia, pointing it a pretty young woman in a flowery skirt.
“Her? That’s the woman who changed everything. The woman who made the Doctor the way he is today. The woman thrice dead.”
“But who was she?”
“Clara. Clara Oswin Oswald.”
The TARDIS
The Doctor scanned the area for artron energy. It wasn’t a tough endeavour. The first result was a side-street close to Vastra’s house.
Everything felt too easy. In the day, it was never this simple, never this straightforward. There were always impediments, always complications; something waiting to come out of the woodwork.
The TARDIS materialised. You could hear it amid the sound of frolicking youngsters, rustling bins, and car-horns tooting haughtily in the distance – the grinding, scraping echo of the TARDIS. The Doctor always thought it was beautiful.
Conan Doyle was resting quietly on an alley bench. The alley wasn’t very clean, but the overlapping floors of Tudor-esque houses allowed for a bit of privacy. Rats scampered along the filthy uneven ground. Doyle remained frozen to the spot, intensely studying the object in his hand. Thankfully, the Doctor had materialised out of his line-of-sight, or there would have been some unwanted questions.
“That was my son,” said Conan Doyle, sensing the Doctor’s presence. He had an unmistakable face. He was the epitome of a Victorian gentleman: tall, plump, and with a proud countenance. The Doctor imagined him walking with his chest raised high to exhibit his wealth. But the wealth was a veil. The Doctor knew this because he did the same. The fedora, the coat… It was all to cover up the man underneath. Even Conan Doyle’s moustache, the Doctor thought, could have been to distract the observer away from his eyes.
“He died at war. Two years ago.” He held up the object he was studying to show the Doctor. It was a photograph – his son. The edges were worn. It was a picture which was constantly being held, admired. “His name was Arthur. He was the spitting image of me – so they said.” He chuckled, a small, strangled chuckle, one holding back tears at the memory. He paused. His eyes matched the earnest gaze in the photograph; that of a young man with great expectations – but no longer.
“Battle of the Somme. One of many. I never imagined I’d lose my family to war. War always seemed like something majestic, justly jingoistic. It was exciting. You felt proud to serve your nation, as though it were your destiny. You were compelled by the imperial vision and propaganda. A world where men and women alike saluted the British flag.” He said darkly: “Turned out it ruined my life.”
“I know the feeling,” the Doctor replied, sotto voce.
…The fires of Hell… The Cruciform falling…
“If only I could have saved him,” Doyle continued. “If I hadn’t let him go… I knew it could happen. Still… I l let him go. I executed my own son.”
“You couldn’t have known,” the Doctor said. I didn’t know either. “The fact you’ve suddenly opened up about this suggests it’s all you’ve been thinking about.”
“How observant.”
“I was inspired by that brilliant man who wrote ‘Sherlock Holmes’.”
Conan Doyle smiled softly at the Doctor’s accolade.
“Now,” began the Doctor, slightly more harshly. “I’m not going to beat about the bush any longer. You’re emitting artron energy. That’s not human. What have you done?”
Conan Doyle tensed up. He glared at the Doctor suspiciously. He rose to his feet, pocketing the photograph. “Nothing. And whatever I do get up to is none of your business, stranger.” He narrowed his eyes as he studied the Doctor. “Did Vastra send you? Are you her friend? She’s constantly pestering me. I can see her distrustful glances.”
“Whoever’s contacted you…” the Doctor edged closer towards him, “whatever they’ve offered you… I will stop them.”
“It seems I have no choice,” Conan Doyle said. “I really don’t want anyone to intervene in this.” After that ambiguous statement there was a moment of silence.
Conan Doyle raised his arm and placed it on the Doctor’s shoulder…
The Doctor felt a strange paroxysmal sensation fill his body. He couldn’t move. He was rooted the spot. He just stood, frozen, his petrified eyes fixated on the man...
He was falling. He couldn’t see or hear. All he knew was that he was falling.
When he landed, it took him a minute to get back to his senses. The first thing he felt was the feeling of damp grass on his cheek. Morning dew. Steadying himself, having checked everything was in order, he ascended to his feet, and examined the spectacular horizon.
Around him were trees. Magnificent trees. There were trees bent out of shape, twisted, cut, or curved. In the distance, beyond a thick layer of mist, was a palace. The tall turrets ended in pink peaks which contrasted oddly with the Gothic architecture of the building. It looked a little surreal. Like something out of a fairy-tale, perhaps. This misunderstanding was clarified completely when the Doctor was knocked off his feet, and looked up to see the talking rabbit.
Vastra’s House
A siren was blaring loudly like some kind of aggressive smoke alarm. A sinister red light filled Vastra’s house. It was a warning.
“What the hell is that?!” screamed Olivia.
“It’s the artroniometer! It’s hit full capacity!”
“The what?!?” asked Olivia, trying to be heard over the piercing sound of the sirens.
“It measures artron energy! Something very nearby – probably Sir Arthur again – is rife with it! But if it’s hit full capacity, that means something big, perhaps something living – has been displaced! Through time… even into another dimension!”
“The Doctor!” cried Olivia, realising in horror.
***
Conan Doyle sat down on the bench reflecting on what he’d just done. He felt guilty. All the prices he was paying… He hoped to God that his plan would work.
“Don’t hope to God, Arthur,” came that ominous booming voice. It resounded through his senses. It was like an overwhelming explosion every time the voice merely whispered. It could see inside him. “Hope to your master. Would you like your son to return?” Yes, Doyle thought. Yes, I would. “Then enter the final stage.”
“Yes, master.” Doyle’s voice was shaking, his hands trembling in fear and anxiety.
“Master?” came Vastra’s voice from behind him. “I’m certainly not your master.”
“Vastra, for goodness sake! What on Earth do you want now?”
“This is my friend, Olivia,” smiled Vastra, gesturing politely to the elegant, albeit petite, young woman standing next to her.
“Well…” Conan Doyle seemed to be rummaging through his head. Maybe he was searching for his patience. “Pleasure to meet you, Olivia.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen my friend? The Doctor?” asked Vastra courteously.
“No, I’m afraid I haven’t.” Conan Doyle couldn’t help it. He let the uncertainty resonate in his voice. He was a bad liar. Vastra knew from experience.
Swiftly raising a revolver to his head, with a menacing voice she hissed: “What have you done with the Doctor?” She contemplated whether or not she could pull the trigger if the time came. Conan Doyle stood in terror. What could he say?
Olivia felt confused, dizzy even. The air felt foreboding. Something – or someone; she couldn’t tell which – was coming.
“He promised me so much, my master,” Doyle replied, solemnly. “He told me,” he said, gathering himself, “that if I agreed to the bargain, I could get my son back. My Arthur. Surely I’m allowed... one small token of happiness?”
“What was his side of the bargain?” inquired Vastra sharply, finger coiled around the trigger.
“He said all I needed to do was form a nexus between his world and mine. Your friend, the Doctor,” he said, addressing Olivia, “he’s in my master’s world right now. Perfectly safe, I assure you. He said that if I can open the bridge, and transport some of his friends through, then I will be able to bring my son back.”
“What is this world?”
“The Fitilianton Cifod. I wrote a poem about it actually. How did it go?” He straightened his collar, ruminating on the lyrics for a moment. Then he began to recite it:
“The Fitilianton Cifod,
Where ideas leave the minds of sages,
Where legends manifest through the ages,
Where your soul is taken, hook, line, and sinker,
Where thoughts think alone without their thinkers.
The Fitilianton Cifod,
Where science knows no limits,
Where hours pass in minutes,
Where all forget, and all forgive,
Where spirits dance, and lost ones live.”
“You’ve been there then?” The more enticing the story got, the more terrified Vastra was.
“I’ve seen it. In dreams, in visions. The master can contact me. I have the ability to move people here and there - that’s what I’ll be able to do permanently when I open the bridge. But I’m not helping you. The plan will go ahead.” He raised his arm gradually. Vastra’s finger twiddled over the trigger.
“Stop!” Olivia cried. “Both of you, stop! I have something I need to get off my back… something I haven’t spoken to anyone about for a long, long time. My dad: Richard Samuel Quinn. He died last year. Don’t go around, Mr Doyle, thinking you’re the only one who lost someone. You’re not. And I had to watch my Dad die slowly… I had to pick up the pieces afterwards. And then - weeks later, I meet the Doctor. And what does he do? He offers me a time machine and tells me that I can go anywhere and everywhere. Do you know how hard that was after everything I’d been through? But I learnt shortly after what I happens when you change the past. And trust me, if you saw he how terrible the universe can become, you’d understand. I am telling you: from what I’ve seen, so far, whatever your master is offering you, decline. Because there’s no way your son will ever come back. I would bring my Dad back if I could, but I can’t. I know that. Trust me – let your son rest in heaven where he’s supposed to be. And help me find my friend.”
“The loss of a father is a natural thing-“
“I’ve lost my brother too,” persisted Olivia. “And so many others, but it doesn’t mean the unnatural have to hit you more. Every loss is a blow. A blow we climb back up from and ascend stronger than ever before.”
“The Doctor’s left the exchange point,” Doyle said reluctantly. “I can only move people between the worlds if they’re at that specific point.”
“What about if you take me there and I find him? Bring him back to the point you leave me at? Would that work?”
“Olivia, you can’t be serious,” Vastra retorted. Olivia’s outburst had unnerved her. She feared for her safety.
“He’d exiled himself to Earth, and I got him to travel again. It’s my fault he’s in this mess. Last time I sat and watched as he fixed the planet. Not this time – this time, it’s my turn to help him.” She turned to Doyle. “Can you take me to the Fitilianton Cifod?”
Doyle paused, considering. Could it work? Well, no time like the present… His answer left Olivia overjoyed.
“Yes.”
***
The Doctor tried to clear his vision, but it was still there. The rabbit, in a purple tweed waistcoat, apparently glaring at him, and pointing at a golden Rolex on its fluffy white arm.
“Hurry, hurry,” it muttered in a quivering, childlike voice, “we’re going to be late!”
“W-w… Where am I?” The Doctor was still dizzy, and he was trying to work out whether he was in some kind of bizarre dream. The palace in the distance, the beautiful horizon and the out-of-shape foliage all seemed so surreal, but there was so much detail – more detail, undoubtedly, than the cataleptic mind could produce.
“Excuse me – err, yes, come along, please,” the rabbit repeated, “We’re going to be ever so late.”
With a juvenile eagerness, it reached up and grabbed the Doctor’s hand, pulling him unwillingly along with him, and recruiting him on his journeys.
The rabbit led him to a patch in the middle of the verdant plain on which sat an antiquated wooden chair. It was only a dining chair; nothing notable, yet it seemed to be the focus of attention.
“Sit on it, then!” pleaded the rabbit, “Don’t tell me you’re scared of heights, too!”
The Doctor cautiously did as the peculiar creature demanded and sat on the chair. A part of him was wary, but another part was amused. If it was a dream, thought the Doctor, why not make the most of it? If not, perhaps he’d learn something.
Abruptly, the chair flew into the air, as the rabbit hopped on the Doctor’s lap, and he held onto the arms of the chair for dear life.
Below him now he could see the world he had appeared in. Where he’d materialized was in some sort of park, wherein there were a number of small bearded men carefully stacking logs up in piles. Further up the Doctor went; now several hundred meters above land. The fall from this would kill either one of them outright.
They passed a river on which a diversity of boats were manoeuvring. Some were steampunk-esque barges whilst others were classic Viking ships. There was still a thick layer of mist in the air. It was early in the morning.
A small robin flew past them, which was then followed by a blue dragon – a great behemoth that apparently meant no harm. Was it… grinning? It seemed to swoop past not just with poise, but with contentment. The chair then began to stop, as it started plummeting down. The Doctor held on tighter and closed his eyes, yelling fearfully the whole way – something he rarely did.
The next thing he knew, he was being hurried into a great banquet hall. It was like the inside of a cathedral but two times bigger. Wooden tables were lined down the centre and ‘people’, if you could call them that, filled benches which stretched the lengths of the tables and beyond. There were all kinds off foods; fat, juicy chunks of meat - rich, alluring cakes of all different kinds: vanilla cakes, coffee cakes, lemons cakes, carrot and orange cakes (topped with layers of marzipan fruits), chocolate cakes which looked a danger to your health – among this assortment were some that even the Doctor didn’t recognise, like a blue layered cake, akin to the type used at weddings, but with the appearance of a glass sculpture. There were vegetables like we know in trays every metre or so, and then in fruit bowls there were some unusual exotic fruits, which went from cerise to emerald, and sometimes were even both at the same time. There was a huge arched stained-glass window, which seemed to be displaying an image of a great lion.
The Doctor sat on the bench nearest the door, and, despite his lateness, was ignored; everyone was submerged in conversations of all kind: friendly gossip, official meetings, formal debates, and even sometimes arguments. About 50% of them appeared human. The other 50% were something else entirely. Some looked like aliens and others looked like grotesque children’s paintings somehow manifested into existence, with their bright mismatched colours and their peculiar-looking faces.
The rabbit, perched next to the Doctor, stood up on his tiptoes and whispered in his ear, “Remember, don’t mention the dust!”
“What do you know of the dust,” replied snobbishly an elegant woman with sleek black hair and a beautiful pale face. Perched on her shoulder was a golden monkey.
“N-nothing, Mrs Coulter,” replied the rabbit, “I was just advising my friend on how to polish his – err, mantelpiece.”
“May I have your attention?” came an ear-splitting (and distinctively female) voice from the distance. The Doctor looked over towards the front of the hall and saw that a stylish woman with long frizzy hair was trying to gather their attention. She looked… perfect, in many respects. In others, though, she looked like she had already left this world. She was a cross between a waxwork and a skeleton – that’s how the Doctor could best describe her. She was mid-50s and spoke with precision, but also condescension. Exactly the kind of person the Doctor strived to change.
“I do wish we’d all be on our finest behaviour tonight,” she said, “the Great Detective is only here for our sakes, so it would be in our best interest to show a little respect. At ten o’clock – that’s five minutes time, the Great Detective will be arriving, hopefully with the answers we’re all looking for.”
‘The Great Detective’… Madame Vastra. Hopefully she’d have the answers the Doctor was looking for, at the least.
For the next five minutes, the Doctor tucked into the feast. He was hungry, and he thought that he may need the strength for later. Of course, if this was the morning, it would mean that this was only breakfast. Yet it was so formal, so lavish, that it was hard to believe.
A knock on the door came abruptly, and echoed throughout the whole hall. Everybody went silent. Not a whisper, not a murmur, not a sniff. They were waiting in eager anticipation. Suddenly, the door swung open, and in came…
The Great Detective – but not Madame Vastra. It was the Great Detective himself. Sherlock Holmes, undoubtedly. He was dressed in the classic chequered jacket and matching deerstalker, smoking a cigar. His countenance was astute and prudent but enigmatic and somewhat deceitful. He strode up the hall past the tables and everyone gazed at him in awe. Before he could reach the front, though, a loud explosion sounded, and the Doctor was thrown the floor before he could deduce what was happening.
In a panicked rush, he got to his feet, and staggered out of the gates, but suddenly he was falling. Where he was falling, he wasn’t sure yet; his vision was again a blur and his senses were clogged up with soot.
He landed. He tried to stand, but his hands were numb, and his leg was in agony.
“Get out of there!” The voice sounded like it was coming from another room – maybe a speaker. It was an American woman, who was ostensibly flustered. “Get out! Run! Just go! They’re here, with you! I can’t save you!”
The Doctor tried again to move but he was frozen to the spot; suspended in torture. 1500 years of time and space… Had he finally given up?
The next thing he knew, he was walking. No, he wasn’t. He was being carried. He was limping for his life, his other leg still in unbearable pain. He forced his somnolent eyes open and looked around. There were explosions coming from every angle; their sound rung in his ears, worsening the pain. Amid the fires were horrible creatures – giant, hulking masses, like trolls; their faces flaccid, saggy, twisted, mean and senseless, and they were advancing. The inferno continued for another two minutes, as the Doctor grew weaker, and his support grew tired. He looked to his side, with his last shred of strength, and realised that Olivia was his support. She had rescued him. He studied her for another minute. He never realised how beautiful she was. Then, everything went black.
The next time the Doctor woke, he felt a little better. His eyes blinked open immediately and his senses weren’t overwhelmed by the fire. He could feel scratches and bruises all over, but stood himself up anyhow. He observed the surroundings. He was in the same alley that he’d met Conan Doyle in before. But the grazes were testament to his experience: he hadn’t been dreaming. He got his balance and looked around. There stood Olivia, Conan Doyle and Vastra, all waiting for him to say something in anxiety.
“Olivia…” murmured the Doctor. “…You saved my life. Thank you.”
But Olivia backed away, scowling at him sceptically.
“What’s wrong?”
“Tell me,” she demanded, “tell me everything. Tell me about Clara. Tell me what happened at Trenzalore.”
“Yes, Doctor.” It was the booming voice which had followed Conan Doyle for years. The one he’d bargained with. The spectre that haunted him – the monster that had deceived him.
“Why don’t we tell her about Trenzalore...?”
The creature revealed itself. It was beautiful. A heavenly light shone from its eyes, and beautiful blonde hair framed its handsome, young face. It wore a long white dress of divine refinement. Despite its booming voice, being in its presence felt like a blessing. But when it saw the Doctor, its eyes sank into an intense gaze of pure hatred and aggression. It began emitting a smell of burning plastic every time it looked at him. It loathed him.
“You were at Trenzalore?” The Doctor couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“Yes. I was one of many to die there.” Its ominous voice had just a nuance of defeatism.
“To die?” Olivia was bewildered, but Vastra understood. She wished she didn’t.
“Trenzalore, Olivia, was the event I spoke to you about,” the Doctor began. “Where the Laws of Time changed. My friends were taken by a religious cult who wanted this change to go ahead. They were tortured. Massacred,” he said darkly, emphasising the final word. By this time, his head was bowed slightly. He looked hurt. He spoke matter-of-factly, but every word resonated with the bitter anguish of the memory. A memory that cascaded now, intractably, before his vision. “The ones I loved, the ones who loved me. Trusted, believed in me. I gave in,” he sighed, feeling once more the resignation to fate. “But it was all part of the trap. They knew I’d give in eventually.” He breathed deeply, then spoke softly, slowly. “Clara Oswin Oswald was an android. Her genetic makeup was a copy of Oswin Oswald’s, a junior entertainment manager on Starship Alaska. She was turned into a Dalek, a terrible, vindictive alien. A mad, cold-blooded creature in a cage,” he gritted his teeth. He’d always despised Daleks – but Oswin had been different. “The biological makeup was easy to imitate as it had already been compressed to undergo Dalek conversion.” He felt an involuntary smile, felt a tear in his eye, as he envisaged her there before him. The Girl Thrice Dead. “She wasn’t just an android, though. No. She was alive! They replicated this copy several times, scattered her throughout human history, so that she would eventually find me. Once Clara and I arrived at Trenzalore, I… I realised it was a mistake. But she’d already fulfilled her purpose.” He felt a seething, pulsating anger within his hearts, his hands clenched into fists that quivered by his side. “The Cult drained her humanity from her like water down a plughole. She wasn’t my protector anymore. She was my guard. She was my friend. I’ve had many friends, but Clara… She had joviality, vigour for life. She had sass,” he said, laughing. “She…” He pressed the tips of his fingers together, bringing his hands close to his face, so that the index fingers rested on the groove above his lips. He said, philosophically: “Sometimes the inhuman are more human. And maybe that’s because we, ourselves, take our lives for granted. We don’t appreciate the greatest wonder that we’re alive at all. To watch, helpless, bound… Her eyes… Bright, intelligent, beautiful eyes… Pleading with me…” He roared, startling Olivia, who’d been enthralled by the Doctor’s passionate oration. He said, rapidly: “In those final moments of her life, I knew then, she loved every second of it.” He calmed himself. “Her only regret was that others didn’t recognise what a gift being alive truly is.” He pressed his hand against his head, rubbing his brow, sighing wearily. Memory is bothersome, he thought.
“The Cult promised me that if I answered the Question, they’d reset her exactly how she was before Trenzalore, and give me her back – god, I was a bloody fool to trust them, even for a second. They’d already killed so many of my friends – Jenny, Strax, and others. Vastra was next.” He glanced across at Vastra. He was angry, fired up. “Do you remember? Of course, you had never loved anyone before her, she’d been your repentance. How it hurt.” Vastra looked away, stifling her tears.
The Doctor turned to Olivia. “That’s what the Cult did. They broke you,” he said, snapping the imaginary toothpick between his thumbs and index fingers. “I had to answer the Question. I couldn’t watch it any longer. So… I told them my name. My real name, because ‘Doctor’ wouldn’t suffice. And that triggered the universal metaphysical mutation. But only within a certain area. Only within the fields of Trenzalore.”
Olivia nodded in understanding, a tear of sympathy rolling down her cheek. But she was still confused. “What happened after that? What went wrong?”
“The transformation was worse than I thought it would be. Most people within the fields of Trenzalore were killed. Life… simply left their bodies, like a light being switched off. Others, somehow, carried on, in spite of what had happened. Picture Dante’s Inferno, the Circles of Hell. Picture the torment of the damned, their different tortures, punishments. That was the fields.
I managed to get Vastra out alive. I managed to get Clara out alive. But everyone else I had to let die. That’s why the Laws of Time were altered. It was the after-effects of the cataclysm. It was my judgement day.”
“What happened to Clara?”
“I reset her. I hacked into her settings. But I didn’t have the control nor the knowledge that the Cult had. I had to make her forget all about me. I took her back to Alaska, let her continue her life as Oswin Oswald. Her first and original life. It was my gift to her. The least I could do. But… I think time for retrospection is over, don’t you agree?” He broke into a wily grin. “So sorry to keep you waiting. Apologies, Arthur,” he walked over, shook Arthur by the hand. Arthur was flustered. “Not at all, Doctor,” he found himself saying. “You should be writing for the theatre, dear chap, you'd turn a profit in no time,” he congratulated the Doctor, heartily exchanging the Doctor’s gesture. The Doctor patted him on the back.
“And Vastra,” the Doctor held her chin in his hand, turning her face towards his. “A tear, Vastra? As I once told a very old and beloved friend, “Where there’s life, there’s hope.” Eh?” He brushed away the tears from her coruscating eyes.
“And you!” He pointed at the incandescent creature hovering before them. He spread his arms out wide, exclaiming jubilantly. “Our guest! Welcome! I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m the Doctor.”
“I am the Avenger,” it announced. It was a pragmatic voice. It evidently didn’t tolerate fools. “I seek punishment for those involved with Trenzalore.”
“What’s Trenzalore to you then, eh?”
The Avenger considered for a moment, and then looked the Doctor in his eye. The light from its eyes burnt, but only mildly. “I died. I died in Trenzalore. Amidst the slaughter, and the carnage, and the change. Amid the purification, and the purgation, and the massacre. I died. A horrific, thousand deaths I died. And now I cannot rest until I kill all others who brought this on me.”
“So what’s the Fitilianton Cifod, then? Don’t tell me,” the Doctor grinned. “It was so obvious! The Wishing Chair that took me away! The White Rabbit in the purple waistcoat – don’t mention the Dust to Mrs Coulter!” The Doctor clapped sarcastically. “Miss Havisham presenting the Great Detective. Chased away by the Morlocks. Let me tell you something, Arthur.” He turned to face Conan Doyle. “You sussed it out.”
“No, I didn’t,” he said, flummoxed. “When?”
“Ooh, a while ago. The Avenger saw inside your mind. He knew you had. He did the only thing he could do. He couldn’t erase it, so he muddled it. It’s an anagram. I’m good at anagrams. In fact,” he said, rather proudly, grabbing his lapels. “I have a degree in anagrammatics. 1st Class Honours.”
Olivia managed a smile. She couldn’t help it. The Doctor had such entrancing charisma.
“The Fitilianton Cifod. In other words – hang on, just moving it around again. Aha! That’s the boy. The Land of Fiction. I went there before, once – no, twice, but I was chubbier that other time.”
He directed Doyle: “That’s why you were the key, Arthur. You are a great novelist. A classic. One of your creations resides there. Ergo, with the correct training, you could form the nexus. The big question, Avenger. What do you want with the Land of Fiction?”
“I want my revenge.”
“Revenge?” the Doctor chuckled. “What’s that supposed to mean? Talk about ambiguous.”
“I am going to relocate the exchange point into the Dark Forest.”
“What’s the Dark Forest? Sounds a bit Harry Potter to me.”
“It is the residence of the darkest phantoms of the Land of Fiction. It is where the villains reside. I am going to bring chaos to this Earth. Because it is the Earth that you care for.”
“Why are you telling me that? What’s the point? Now Arthur knows the truth, he won’t do your bidding.”
“I no longer need Sir Arthur. He has established the nexus. His role is complete. I am in control, now.” The light in its eyes grew brighter, intensified until all there was a light, which the Doctor, Vastra, Conan Doyle and Olivia were drowning in. Then darkness resumed. The Avenger had gone.
“What are we going to do now?” cried Olivia. “What the hell are we going to do?!”
“We’re going to do nothing. Sir Arthur, on the other hand,” he gestured to Conan Doyle who looked up attentively “Now, he’s going to write.”
Vastra’s House
Conan Doyle gripped the pen as his hand shook in angst.
“What am I writing, again?” he asked.
“Anything,” answered the Doctor. “But make sure there’s a really good hero who can fight anything, okay?”
“Yes. I think I can do this.”
“Right, Olivia,” he called her over, “you come with me. Vastra, you keep Sir Arthur company. Make sure he has plenty of inspiration.”
“Where are we going?” whispered Olivia.
“We’re going to end this… for good.”
***
“So what exactly are we going to do?” asked Olivia, trying to catch up with the Doctor’s fast and tenacious stride.
“Arthur has a link to that world – for starters, he’s able to move things from here to there. But he’s also a great novelist – arguably the greatest. If he writes a new book with something that can overcome the Avenger and all the terrible fictional characters that are going to be moved, then that character will literally be created. The laws of physics are different there. With this book, we’ve won.”
“But hang on a minute – if Arthur writes this book, then where is it in history? Aren’t you now meddling with time? That’s exactly what you’ve told me not to do since day one.”
“It’s different.” He stopped a minute, hushing his statement. “At Trenzalore, the laws of time changed, like I explained. And I’m the last Time Lord. I’m allowed to experiment with time – that’s what I do. This reformed universe is new to me; fresh, exciting. And I’m in charge.”
“Hang on a minute – since when we you in charge? I’ll let you dictate the rules to me but to call yourself the most important person in the entire universe – among all those scholars, patrons, martyrs, lovers, saviours – that’s really seeing what you think of yourself. The vanity of the Doctor.”
“Olivia-“the Doctor looked around in frustration “-not now.”
***
The Avenger stood contemplating on what went wrong. He could feel the power; he could sense the nexus of the two worlds overwhelming him. Yet none of them came. Not the Morlocks, not the Death Eaters, not Scylla, not the Wendigo, and not Satan – what had happened to them all? He’d been defeated. He’d lost everything. All that kept him going was his hatred for the Doctor. He knew it was a distraction. If he dared focus his mind, just for a minute, on what had happened to him… it would tear him apart.
Footsteps echoed down the alley and the Doctor and Olivia confronted him valiantly. Both oppositions stepped forward intimidatingly.
“What… have you done?” There was a hint of defeat in his devil-like voice.
“I’ve destroyed them all,” replied the Doctor, “every last one of them. And now I’ve come for you.”
The grotesque creature knelt down in desperation and confusion. It couldn’t even comprehend its existence, and now it was begging for it.
“Please – I want… I want mercy.”
“Who were you? Before Trenzalore?” Trenzalore. That ominous word. The air seemed to turn bitter whenever it was spoken.
“I was Alykei Jaggamor.”
“What was your role in events? What were you doing there?” The Doctor ruthlessly pursued these questions. There was something in the Doctor here that Olivia didn’t recognise. Or perhaps she simply didn’t want to recognise it.
“I was… a member of the Cult.”
“So you were trying to make it happen…”
“I didn’t know – I swear!” Its voice trembled and the pitch was raised, almost to a normal human’s.
“You didn’t know…” the Doctor cackled unsympathetically. “You knew what was happening. You knew that my friends were being taken…” He suddenly raised his voice, and bellicosely faced up to the trembling demon. “TORTURED! You must have watched! What were you thinking then, eh? When they begged for mercy… did you show them any?”
The creature couldn’t say anything. It was bound to the spot. Its eyes pleaded for understanding but were given a cold stare in return.
“I didn’t think so.” After a pause, the Doctor stepped back, not even looking at the creature. “Your existence is failing. You’re in the world of the dead – now you’re just an echo… trying to bleed through. And no one’s listening.”
The Doctor sauntered away mercilessly. Olivia stood rooted to the ground, not knowing who to trust: the man, who’d taken her here, guided her to a new way of life – or the sorry creature, suffering on its own. Before she could make a decision, the Avenger spoke up:
“Go after him. But remember this: there is a sliver of ice in his heart. He is a danger to creation. Stop him while you still can.”
And so Olivia followed the Doctor, this time in suspicion, not trusting anyone.
***
“Are you going, then?” asked Vastra to the Doctor, as he turned up on her doorstep.
“Always moving on. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“I can stay… if you want.”
“No. Because it’s not what you want. You can run, you can forget everything, and lead a new life. If I could do that, of course I would! I won’t snatch the opportunity away from you. I only ask that maybe one day, you return to visit me.”
“Thank you.”
“Goodbye, old friend.”
As the Doctor bid his farewell, Vastra felt a tear form in her eye. She seemed to have no role in events anymore. The world had moved on and so had the Doctor. She was clinging onto the past, and the past was fading. But she would never be able to forget. She envied the Doctor. She also knew what a broken heart could do to a man – to a Time Lord, she couldn’t even imagine.
Vastra died shortly after. The Doctor had returned a few weeks later by sheer coincidence – he’d seen her name stretched across a broadsheet. ‘TO THE WOMAN WHO CHANGED THE WORLD’.
The funeral was beautiful. All sorts turned up; friends, colleges, family, strangers. They all came to pay their respects to the Great Detective. Without her, the city would have been a place of crime. She taught them lessons about equality, and about the meaning of love and the meaning of life. Every one of them felt guilty that they hadn’t been there for her, in the end.
Vastra’s sister made an appearance, and read the eulogy. She spoke of her childhood years with Vastra; how they’d run around and play in the luscious grass; how Vastra always had time for her. Not that any of the humans understood, but it was meaningful nonetheless. Another life that Vastra had left an imprint on.
It was a lovely day, and gathering outside the church which shone in a picturesque sunlight after the service, the Doctor happened to come across Conan Doyle. He looked up at the Doctor in astonishment.
“Doctor… I was beginning to doubt that you’d even ever existed, my friend. Yet here you are again.”
“How’s life been for you?”
“I’m still missing my son a lot. I’ve turned to spiritualism – it’s just a guidance for me. It gives me some hope. I couldn’t bear to think…”
“Me neither. You’re lucky there’s still hope there for you…”
The Doctor’s bottom lip quivered and he walked away sombrely, turning his back on the Great Detective one last time. He wished he’d been there for her, to make her final days better than what they were. He wished he hadn’t ever gotten involved with her and thus led her to Trenzalore. He wished he could just forget everything and erase his regrets. But alas, no. Every waking hour, he could see their faces. It pained him. It pained him to know that the happiness never lasted. That when their time came, it wasn’t in peace, or in heroism, it was… this.
The Doctor ventured back to the TARDIS, but stopped in his tracks. He could see it again. The figure in the corner of his eye. The one from Moscow. It was following him. And he thought, for a minute – no, he must have been mad. He thought it was a woman.
Opening the TARDIS doors solemnly, he was greeted by Olivia. She could feel his sadness, and he embraced her in a hug, crying on her shoulder. She may not trust him – he was aware of this – but she was there for him, and she’d proven herself there. She put others before herself.
“My Dad died.” She uttered, breaking the silence. “Last year. I had to watch him get worse and suffer when he didn’t want to be. That’s why I really took your offer. I was running away.”