A Teaspoon And An Open Mind: A Doctor Who Fan Fiction Archive
Eleventh Doctor
'Til death do us part by marina_lewycka [Reviews - 2] Printer


He screams and falls to his knees, bombs hitting the ground just metres away, drowning out his pained howls. Raising his head to the skies, he cries mercilessly, floods of tears rolling down his face. The dust flies around him, kicked up by soldiers and grenades, but all he can see is his wife’s broken body lying before him, still and lifeless. Everything else is drowned out by the pain gripping his chest, and it feels as though a bullet has ripped right through to his heart.

And then the Doctor’s there, tugging urgently at his arm, trying to pull him away, but he can’t move, completely and utterly overwhelmed by cruel emotion. The Doctor’s shouting now, yelling something desperately in his ear, but the words go from one ear straight through to the other. He can’t think, he can’t breathe.

Choking out a final goodbye, he holds her still-warm hand in his trembling, dirt-covered ones and kisses it, hoping, wishing that she’ll open her eyes.

But she doesn’t.

Amidst all the noise and chaos, a silence falls in his life, and a line is brutally cut. Suddenly he’s yanked to his feet by several soldiers, and he screams for them to let go, to let him die there with his wife, where he belongs. To be her centurion forever. But the rough, unforgiving hands hold tight to his shaking arms, dragging him away to safety, the one place he doesn’t want to be.

Amy’s outstretched arm lays still against the war-torn ground, forever reaching out for his touch, for his protection. The protection he’ll never be able to give her.

His eyes never leave her until the steel bolted doors grind shut behind him, sealing them off from the rest of the world. The soldiers drop him, and he falls straight to the ground, landing hard on his knees. He’s bleeding, he’s aching, his whole body is heaving with pain. Sobs rack his body, frantic, terrified heaves running from his head to his toes, and he isn’t in control anymore. Something else has taken over, and it will never be the same again.

Suddenly he’s retching, overcome by the spasmodic shivering, but nothing comes up from his stomach. It’s just dry, the air grating against the back of his throat, and it just makes the need to vomit greater.

A soothing voice whispers in his ear and a soft hand rubs gently up and down his spine as he wheezes pitifully, and finally he manages to coax something up and onto the ground. He tries again, but he’s run out of energy. The voice praises him as he begins to shake again, and loving arms pull him into a reassuring hug, pulling him away from all the pain and suffering.

He sobs endlessly into the comforting, familiar tweed, shivering, and all the while the Doctor murmurs into his ear, even though Rory can tell he’s traumatised, too. After what feels like hours, the shaking ceases, and he falls into a jerky, orderless pattern of sleep, waking up screaming and crying, but every time the Doctor’s there, hushing and soothing, rubbing his back, telling him everything will be okay.

Amy’s gone, but the Doctor’s always there, in the end.
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