So, Neil Gaiman's script was awesome, Suranne Jones and Matt Smith were fantastic, and I'm here again with some random fic I found in the recesses of my mind.
This is basically what's going on in Idris's head as she's trapped in the cage waiting for the Doctor. I do not own the characters, setting or plot, I simply stole them and ran away before anyone could notice. Well, borrowed; I'm gunna give them back...
I've no idea why I called in Completely Incomplete. I only know that I stole it from Hanging By a Moment by "Lifehouse" (Forgeting all I'm lacking/Completely incomplete...).

Reviews and comments are greatly appreciated :)

Completely Incomplete

So many thoughts. Hundreds, thousands of thoughts whirling round and round inside her head. Oh, she had a head. That was new. Do fish have fingers? So many thoughts. She could move! She could reach out and touch the bars in front of her, the dust beneath her feet. Feet! More new. Like a nine year old trying to rebuild a bike... wait, who is? When? Now, then, yesterday? Tenses are so fiddly! She never had to deal with this. All these tenses and time lines and limitations, not before she was... before she was... word! On the tip of her tongue! Right there, right... somewhere. Big word. Big, complex word; so very very important and big and sad. Sad? Yes! No! Wait! Will! Will be sad! So very, impossibly sad. Like dust after rain, the pretty one wanted to know. Wanted? Would want? Hair! She had hair! Big hair, like... Why is a raven like a writing desk? Oh, that was the word! No, that wasn't the word. It was so close, like it was trapped in a bubble. She could reach it, but not without bursting the bubble. Except it wasn't like that at all, but if it helped... Oh! That was what he said, to pretty and orange. Her thief, her crazy, crazy thief, where was he! He was supposed to be here. Or would he be here? Uppie-downie stuff in a box. Safe is relative! Why isn't her thief here? He was all ways here. Talking and running around and bringing home strays. Strays are so fickle and fleeting, they could never hang around, not even the most... that word again! Maybe thief would know, thief was good at words. All ways talking far too much; on and on and on... sometimes she wished she could talk back. She all ways listened, though: Reverse the polarity, not a lot of men can carry off a decorative vegetable, no, impossible, not in this temperature. Besides it's too warm...

Uppie-downie stuff in a box. That was it. What was it? That was her? Who was her? She was her! Of course! She was her and she was... was... trapped? No, too sad a word. It was a happy word she searched for... very happy, yet very very sad. Where's her thief, she wants her thief! Don't belong in a flesh body... belong as a box with corridors and rooms and thieves and strays... this body won't last long, it'll fail and die and then where will she be? She has to get back to her box, her old home, where she will be safe and no longer... no longer. Sad word. So sad. The little boxes will make him angry. Have they made him angry yet? Yes. No. Yes! She could feel it. Dashed hope and anger. Like the smell of beef and pepper in the air. He was close, so close. Maybe if she called out. Wait, she all ready was. Oh! She had a mouth, she could speak, she could laugh. Petrichor! Why? When? Sounds. Feet, someone else's feet. Running? Yes! If there was one thing she could recognise, it was running. Fast and angry. Up ahead, a corridor, it was from there! There? Yes! Angry and... and... it was floating so close, she could almost touch it-

And there he is. Up ahead, coming towards her; breaking through the whirl of thought and confusion, questions and wonderings vanishing in his wake. Her thief. Her ticket to the stars. Her Doctor. She can meet him at last.

Oh, Gaiman. You utter freaking genius you.

If you spot any spelling mistakes or grammatical errors, please let me know. Such errors in fic annoy me, but I'm remarkably bad at spotting my own. Thanks xxx