Author's note: This story is dark. Especially considering that Sarah Jane Adventures tends to be lighthearted. Don't say I didn't warn you. The title comes from Milton's Sonnet VII.

Tick tock goes the clock
And what now shall we play?
Tick tock goes the clock
Now summer's gone away.

Tick tock goes the clock
And all the years they fly
Tick tock and all too soon
You and I must die

- nursery rhyme, circa 2200

Despite an extremely busy day, consisting of not one, but two alien invasions and a kitchen disaster, Luke Smith cannot fall asleep. He is much too old to believe in ghosts and goblins and things that go bump in the night, he tells himself, rolling over and staring at the clock. 1:02 am.

Maybe he'll feel better after a quick drink of water. He shuffles down the hall to the bathroom, fills a chipped cup, and drinks it, blinking at his reflection. Two dark eyes in a twisted face stare back at him.

Luke yelps, leaps for the light switch. The sudden brightness temporarily blinds him. What was he so afraid of, anyway?

He flicks the switch off and shuffles back to his room. Nearly tripping over nothing, he plops back down on the bed.

Something is watching him.

Something unfriendly.

Luke adjusts his pillow. It's just his imagination, after all. Nothing to worry about. He rolls over and closes his eyes.

He opens them, stares at the clock. 1:32 am. Something is definitely watching him. He flicks on the lamp, squeezes his eyes shut to help them adjust.

"Luke Smith," The voice seems to come from underwater. "You will bring the Silence."

He slowly opens one eye. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"We have tried our weapon; she failed. Now we shall try another way."

"And what is that?" He opens the other eye and finds himself staring into a face like a putty-covered skull.

"We have read the timelines. He must never reach Trenzalore. You will prevent him."

There is more than one of them—he sees two behind the speaker, and feels more eyes on his back. "Why should I help you?"

"We are the Silents; we do not need your help." The alien pointed a rubbery finger, sparkling with blue electricity. "Now come along."

He took a step forward, than another. "Well, if I really don't have much of a choice," he took a deep breath. "Mum! MUM! Mr. Smith, K9, help!"

The blue energy connected with the lamp, short-circuiting the bulb. The room went dark.

What was he so afraid of?

Sarah Jane blinked at the headline, trying to focus her eyes. She adjusted her reading glasses, looked again, took them off and rubbed her face. Local Boy Kidnapped! it screamed, right above Luke's school picture. He looked so young—so excited, so innocent, so …

She closed her eyes. Rani and Clyde were putting up posters—not that it would do any good. The Brig was flying back from Peru—she'd have to pick him up from Heathrow in an hour. She was still debating over whether or not to call in Torchwood, while Mr. Smith and K9-

"Sarah?"

She only lets one person call her that. "Doctor?"

"You rang?" It was the newest model, the one whose funeral she attended.

"Doctor, Luke—" she nodded towards the article (rubbish bit of reporting, she thought, I could do better) "They took him."

"What is it with aliens kidnapping my friends? Really, it's rather rude of them, not at all nice." He frowned. "You said 'they.' What they?"

"I…I don't remember." She gulped. "Luke screamed—I ran to his room. There was something on the stairs, but the house was empty. K9 found energy traces in Luke's room. Mr. Smith couldn't identify it."

"Can I see Luke's room?"

"We went over it, I told you—"

"I know. Just let me try, okay?"

"So, if the energy traces shorted the circuits, and Sarah can't remember—" The Doctor pulls out his screwdriver. "This reminds me of something. Except I can't remember it. It forgets me of something, then—does that works?" He scans the room. "Everything seems normal."

"Sarah Jane, I am receiving an incoming message for you and the Doctor," Mr. Smith announces from the attic.

The Doctor runs into the hall, nearly colliding with Sarah Jane. They race up the stairs, taking them two at a time, bursting into the attic. "Put it through," she orders.

The swirling colors pixelate into an elongated face. "We are the Silence."

The Doctor slips his hand around Sarah Jane's. "Oh, it's you. Why don't you cut the gloating and just tell us what you're up to."

"We have taken the one you call Luke and hidden him far away, where you will never find him."

"Don't you dare harm my son," Sarah Jane snaps.

"He will be ours. The more you look, the less you'll remember, until even his name is forgotten." The screen turns black.

"Well, what was the message?" Sarah Jane demands.

"I have played the message."

"No, you haven't."

"Yes, he did." The Doctor says. "I've fought these aliens before. They're like a computer virus, eating up your data and passwords and files before you even notice, then leaving no trace. Except they're aliens and rather cryptic and generally bad news…oh, forget the computer virus. When you aren't looking at them, you can't remember."

"Then why can you?"

He wiggles his hand, revealing a flashing red light in his palm. "Cause I'm brilliant."

Red dust covers everything: his mattress, his clothes, his skin. It blows through the gaps between boards and the metal-barred windows. He keeps blinking, trying to rub the dust out of his eyes so he can look around. "Where are we?" he asks, not expecting an answer from his guard. Mars, he thinks, some geodome on Mars. Maybe an Earth desert. At least he can breathe.

"What are you doing with me?"

"We will keep you safe."

"Safe from what?" He stares at the alien, trying not to blink.

"We will keep you for the Silence."

"My mum will find you," he crosses his arms. "Mum and the Doctor, they'll find you. And you'll be sorry."

They moved him again. This time, he's crammed in the back of a canvas-topped wagon, bumping over every rut in the road. He can hear other wagons nearby, calling to each other in a strange language, something like German.

No one's looking. He creeps up to the back of the wagon, slowly pulling the canvas open. One jump, and he'll be free. He can hide in another wagon—they all look alike, no distinguishing marks.

He bends his knees, swinging his arms back. Jump!

A force field transfers his energy, sending him sprawling on the floor. A trunk slides over, bruising his ribs.

If only there were some way to leave a message, a mark of some sort for the Doctor to follow. Luke inventories his supplies: one set of pajamas, rather dusty and torn. One set of knickers that really needed a wash. A concentrated meal product and water, delivered twice a day. Not so much as a pocket-knife.

He rolled over, staring up at the evergreen branches. No one else was there—no one he could remember. Yet running was futile. At least it's quiet here, he thought. No screaming or shouting.

Something cold bobbed against his throat. He reached a hand inside his pjs and pulled out K9's dog whistle, still strung on twine from Marks & Spencers. He blew three short blasts, but it was wishful thinking. The range was too small—couldn't even get from Oxford to Ealing, never mind where he was now.

Despite advances in technology, including projection lenses, some of the oldest materials in the university library are still hard copies of print books. River peers over the top of her stake, trying to pick her way through the crowd. "Pardon me—sorry, coming through—hey!" The top five books topple, landing spread-eagle on the floor.

"Sorry, sorry. Bit of a rush, that's all." The speaker scrambles to pick up the books. "I was just looking for you," he straightens, handing her Legends of Pre-Space Earth, volume twenty-three.

"Doctor?" River stares at him. In his tweed and tie, he could pass for a student here. "What are you doing here?"

"Can we talk somewhere else, privately?"

"Just talk?" she raises an eyebrow. "Where exactly are we?"

"Not now, I don't have time."

River sets her stack on the table. "There's private cubicles in the Armstrong Wing. Follow me." She cuts through the crowds, mind moving almost as fast as her legs. Where are we, Doctor?

Once they're in the cubicle, with the doors locked, curtains drawn, and bugs disabled, the Doctor cuts to the chase. "I need your help, River."

She holds back a teasing reply.

"One of my friends is missing. I think it's…them…." He yanks off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves, revealing rows of tally marks. "They took him. I've searched and searched, but they're hiding him in space, not just time."

"What can I do?"

"He's a clever boy—he'd try to leave a trail. Do you know of any anachronisms, early inventions, changes in the timelines recently?"

"Sweetie, can you be more specific?"

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a crumpled sheet of paper. "This is a rough sketch of an artificial intelligence invented by Professor Marius in the 51st century. Known as K9, it has the structure of a metal dog. Only three models are known to exist outside their proper timestream. My fault," he shrugs. "Two of the models no longer exist in this universe. The other belongs to an old and dear friend of mine in the 21st century."

He does like to ramble, doesn't he? River exhaled. "And the point?"

"Carvings similar to this model have been found in the Beauchamp Tower in London, dating to the Tudor era. They have also been found in a castle along Lake Geneva, the Bastille, and the foundation stones of Luna University itself. I could trace them all down myself, but it would be much faster if I could just look them up."

River squints at the paper. The image looks strangely familiar—maybe she'd seen it in a book. "I'll see what I can do. Thankfully we're on summer hols at present-"

"Good. Very good. I have to be going now," he pushes back the curtains and begins to open the doors.

"Wait—" River calls. "At least give me a name or two."

"Sarah Jane Smith. And her son is named Luke." The door bangs shut behind the Doctor.

Sarah Jane Smith? Luke? The names smack River in the gut. She thinks of her books, still sitting on a table in the main lobby. The titles, only briefly glanced, sear her mind.

UNIT: Fighting for Humankind.

Unsung Heroes of the 21st Century.

The Bannerman Oracles.

Unsolved Cases.

The Lost Boy.

Silence in the Night.

Oh, Doctor.

"Time can be rewritten," River whispers, claiming it as a prayer. "It can."

Luke stares out the window as the rain floods the Thames. Shallower than in his time, it is also wider and filthier. Stale loaves of bread wash up on shore, where ragged children don't even brush off the flies and mold before stuffing it into their mouths. A man stands below his window, pissing into the grass.

He turns away, curling his toes in. "Well," he says, exhaling a puff of white vapor. "Might as well get on with it."

He slips K9's whistle out from under his tattered shirt, blowing SOS three times before settling down to work. Using the smooth edge, now dented and dusty, he traces two parallel lines, then another two to form a trapezoid.

Carvings in the Beauchamp Tower date back to the 1500s, he remembers from an old field trip. He slowly carves out a message below: Luke Smith. Sarah Jane Dr. TARDIS help.

He'll come. He always comes.

He hates the time-jumps. They never let him stay in one place very long, just in case the Doctor picks up their trail. They go from 18th century France to 12th-century China, with a few alien planets along the way.

A moment of fire, a moment of ice: both last an eternity. The stars race overhead and underfoot like fireflies on a dark night. He is only a mite of dust, meaningless throughout the universe.

Then the smells—rotting fruit, human waste, belching plumes of gas—and the noise of another crowd that brushes past, unaware of the prisoner in their midst.

No one looks at him. Maybe he's a ghost. But he doesn't think that ghosts get hungry or thirsty, and he definitely does. He kneels on the edge of the river, scooping water into his hands and lapping it up.

When he's finished, he begins to draw in the sand. Two straight lines, one above the other, connected with two others. It means something, but he's not sure what. At least he remembers the words. Luke Smith. Help. Dr. TARDIS.

"Doctor, I never thought I'd see you again. And new face, too. I couldn't take you anywhere now—they'd call me cradle-robber." Jack relishes seeing the Doctor shudder.

"Stop. Just, stop."

"What is it?"

"Look, I have a deal for you. I'll fix that manipulator of yours if you'll do something for me."

"Really? You mean it—wait, what's the catch. Your last self kept breaking it." Jack narrows his eyes. "What, you want me to host a stag night on Sontar? Fight off a hundred vampires?"

"Find my friend." He hands Jack a device the size of a pack of cards. "This has all the information I know about Luke Smith and the Silents."

"The Silents? What are they?"

"First, you'll need this." The Doctor slaps a black patch on Jack's eye. "Yo ho ho ho, you look rather like a pirate. Not so bad, really. Now listen up."

He's started to grow a beard. It itches dreadfully, but he'd rather use the knife he stole four jumps ago for more important things, like leaving messages.

Like trying to escape.

He's in an abandoned parking ramp, some four or five floors high. There's a few cars left in it, mostly Toyotas or Chryslers. American, but he thinks he can drive one. He fiddles with the key, testing the ignition. Yes. Now-

Something's coming. He jumps out of the car, leaving the door open. He stands stiffly, hands behind his back as the alien comes up the ramp and lays the tray on the concrete floor. "You must eat. Remain healthy, for our plan."

"I'm not hungry."

The Silent takes a step closer. "Do you feel ill?"

"I'm not hungry." Luke hangs his head, waiting for it to step closer.

"You must eat." The Silent extends a rubbery finger.

Luke whips out his knife, striking the soft flesh. Blue light sparks around the wound.

"Stop!"

"Not a chance," he retorts, running the car. He twists the key, cranking the ignition. He floors the pedal, nearly crashing into the wall before he turns down the ramp.

you will not escape.

He speeds down the ramp, squealing around the corner.

we control you. you will not escape.

Almost out…

He understands Ruby better now.

No, no….don't send me back into the darkness.

Two paces from one wall to the other; three from left to right. He can't even reach his arms above his head, or count his own fingers in the darkness.

Please, you understand!

When he was first thrust in this prison, he screamed until his throat was raw.
I can't be alone!

He read once that effects of solitary confinement vary—some people go insane in months, but others endure for years, even decades.

you know what that's like!

He hopes he's the latter.

round and round,

and where he stops…

When will that be?
Say the bells of Stepney.

build it up with iron and steel,

take the key and lock her up.

someone will come.

Don't look away.

They're here.

It's nothing.

NO!

don't look away

not-dark, not-world… not-what-is. Not anything he remembers a word for.

"Haryëal cuilë?"

sound. someone else's voice.

"Pólalyelve hlar?"

gibberish. Meaningless.

"Úhanyeaselve. Quetas yara lambë."

A slight pressure on his forehead, and the syllables slowly re-form themselves into words.

"Pólalyelve hlar-hear? Can you hear us now? Blink once for yes and twice for now."

"Why 'blink twice for no?' If he can't hear you, he isn't going to blink, is he?"

"Well, we might want to talk to him about things, that's all."

He manages to blink twice.

"He blinked. He blinked, did you see that?"

Why were the words so slow? And what odd accents these people had. He could hardly understand them.

"Do you know where you are?"

He blinked once.

"A sub-temporal pocket, insidea cryonic storage chamber."

The words sounded in his mind, not his ears, he decided. But who were these people? His world was so bright, so loud and noisy now.

"We're with the Time Agency. Jazo here was tracing a disturbance in the atron energy when we found you. Do you have any idea how long you've been here?"

He blinks again.

"Well, good luck on that one. Cyronic storage makes everything wonky, especially aging. Bet you're starving, though."

"Stop talking and get him out of here," someone else interrupts. "You know how dangerous hyper stimulation is for cryonic patients."

Long words, getting longer. Darkness again.

"Are you okay? You look quámëa. Humes. Pólalyelve hlar…"

strange words. Just a dream. while it lasts, enjoy.

The words have come back, with syntax and grammar and meaning. He is even starting to understand their strange accent—or, more accurately, the electronic tone of the dynamic translator. It attempts to convey the general sense of words so the brain can supply the meaning from its own vocabulary.

"Now that you're well enough to move out of the care units, we have an offer for you."

He can't look the speaker in the face—something about her cybernetic eyes unnerves him.

"Your personal timeline is one of the most peculiar we've seen in years. We would like to recruit you to work with us as a Time Agent."

The words echo faintly. Time Agent. That word meant something, once. "What about paperwork and that? I can't even remember my name."

"Don't worry about it. We can give you an alias. It's actually easier to create a false identity—in any point of history—when you don't have to worry about confusing it with your true one."

"I'm not sure." The psychologists still haven't managed to pin his origins down within five centuries. His brain structure puzzles the trauma team, and the geneticists are taking bets on his age.

"Let me put it to you this way: You have nothing to lose. No friends, no family, no history, no name. And the Time Agency pays a good wage."

All he remembers is alone, alone, so alone. "And I'll have a partner?" Anything to not be alone.

"We'll have to run more tests, but if that's your only condition, welcome to the team."

He shakes her hand, still unwilling to meet her eyes.

The head recruiter's office has a virtual wall able to reproduce images from any room in the training facilities. At her visitor's request, she calls up images from the gymnasium, where the newest arrival is stumbling through the obstacle course. "He doesn't know his real name. One of our professors gave him the nickname Poole, after some old book. Jumps when anyone speaks. And keeps staring at nothing."

"Where did you say you'd found him?" The speaker leans forward, tapping his fingers on his knees.

"A sub-temporal pocket on the far side of Pluto thirteen years after it was declassified as a planet—it's a wonder anyone found him at all. Our team had been searching for temporal anomalies and traced one to him. His personal time line is so peculiar there's no way of tracing it to find his origins. And some idiot fitted him with a translator chip before we could record his original language."

"Can I talk to him?'

"You can try. It won't do any good, though."

"Poole, Poole?" a Scottish accent sang out the name. "I'm the Doctor, here to see you."

"The medic's looked me over twice in the past four days." He stares at the floor. "Apart from peculiar temporal origins, uncertain aging, psychotic depression, malnutrition, and dissociative fugue state, I'm perfectly healthy."

"If that's healthy, what's sick?"

"Whoever you are, whatever you're doing, can you just get on with it?" He doesn't look up. "It won't help anyway."

"Oh, poor, poor, Luke." The man placed his hands on both sides of the boy's head. "I'm sorry I'm so late."

"Late? What do you mean, la-" But his question is cut off in a tempest of images. Carvings, hundreds of them, in stone and wood and brick, portraying a box-like figure marked "K9." Elongated faces forgotten when he looked away. Voices screaming in languages he doesn't know. He would scream, but there's nobody to hear him.

I'm sorry.

Running, he was born running, when he met the girl. Sitting on a porch swing, looking up at the stars. "I like Luke." A blue box materializing at a wedding. Driving off to college in a yellow car. Faces looming over him in the night—

Nothing.

Luke. Luke Smith. That's his name. He sits on the cot, pulling his knees up against his chin. There's only one man in the universe who could have done what just happened. "Doctor?"

"Yes, that's me. I know, you're probably thinking of the trenchcoat and converse, but I've regenerated since then. Finally ginger." The Doctor runs his fingers through white wisps of hair. "I wish you could have seen it. It was wonderful."

Luke looks the Doctor in the eye. Yes, he's changed since the not-wedding. Thin tufts of white run in a m-shape across his forehead. His jawline and cheeks, soft as an old helium balloon, stretch into a smile. "You must have had this body for a while," he says, trying to shape the words into a question.

"Luke, do you want to stay here?"

"No." Luke replies quickly. "I've had enough time travel for years. I just want to go home."

"Time can be complicated, it's not at all what people think it is—"

"Doctor, stop. Just take me home."

"But—"

"I want to see Mum."

"Come along, then." The Doctor stands up, rubbing his knees as he does. "I really should get replacements one of these days."

Luke doesn't say a word. Not when he steps into the TARDIS and sees the tiki-hut walls, nor when the TARDIS rematerializes outside Bannerman Road. The Doctor opens the door and steps aside, letting Luke through and then shutting the door behind them both.

Cars! Why are there so many cars? Bannerman Road is generally empty; he doesn't even recognize any of the models. And where have the houses gone? Number thirteen stands alone on the block.

He runs across the street, ignoring someone's car horn, tearing up to the front door. It's unlocked, so he runs up the stairs, taking them three at a time. "Mum! Mum, it's me! I'm home! I'm home!"

The attic, fuller than he's ever seen it, has velvet cordons along the edges and glass cases over the artifacts. "Mr. Smith, I need you!" Luke screams, waiting for the familiar, annoying tune.

But nothing happens.

"Luke."

He whirls around. The Doctor stands behind him, panting at the top of the stairs. "Luke, come with me."

"But where is everyone? What's happened to them? Is it like one of those parallel universes or something?" His voice gets higher.

"Luke," The Doctor repeats. "Come with me."

He wants to scream; this simply can't be right. But the Doctor is here—somehow it will work out, it has to. Luke swallows the butterflies in his stomach and follows him down the stairs.

A bronze statue stands in the garden. One small woman, with a lipstick in her left hand and a pen in her right, stands surrounded by two boys and two girls, with a robotic dog at her feet. Luke circles it, staring at the familiar four faces and the odd one out- empty, unfinished.

There are labels too: Rani, the Oracle of Bannerman. Maria, the seeker. Clyde, who gave everything. Sarah Jane Smith, protector of Earth. Luke Smith…

He rubs his eyes; everything's gone blurry. Luke Smith he reads. Always remembered. Always loved. All those blurry days, all those lonely nights, someone remembered. Someone waited for him. Someone searched for him.

Yet there's something else, something gnawing his mind. All these changes to Bannerman Road, they must have taken time. A lot of time. His gaze sweeps across the empty lawn, stopping on a marble slab nearly covered in freshly-cut flowers.

A grave.

He knows without being told whose it is. "Mum." He whispers, softly at first, but repeats himself, again and again, growing slightly louder each time, until he's screaming at the sky. "MUM!" His legs and arms flail like a wind-up toy, beating, kicking, pounding, until the Doctor presses their heads together and the merciful blue curtain falls over his mind.

"They're all dead." He should be crying, but the statement doesn't mean anything yet. It's like saying the sun's gone out or the stars have vanished. "How did they die?"

"Luke—"

"How did they die, Doctor? You couldn't get me back on time, at least tell me the truth."

The Doctor lowers his eyes. "Clyde joined UNIT just after taking his O-levels. There was an invasion—he was brave. Very brave."

Luke doesn't ask for details.

"Maria traveled with me for a while, trying to find you. She suffered radiation poisoning while helping me pilot a damaged spaceship—I offered to take her somewhere for treatment, but she refused. I tried to make her comfortable, but…she didn't want to give up. Never did." The Doctor takes a deep breath. "Rani lived to be old, at least."

The way it's said, Luke knows that was a mixed blessing. "I gave her a lift to the Time Academy, so she could study the patterns, try to track you down. I didn't know they'd found a crack in the universe and forced students to stare into it. The one crack I didn't close.

"When I found out, it was too late. Her mind never went in straight lines after that. She could see glimpses of the future—but describing it was impossible. Sarah had to use all her contacts to keep Rani out of an institution."

Luke shudders.

"Sarah…ah, my Sarah Jane. Nothing could have stopped her from finding you. Nothing except time itself. The white hairs, wrinkles and pains are nothing, she said when I was younger. I know what she means now," the Doctor adds. "She had the biggest heart I've ever known. Big enough for two. But one day it just…gave out."

"No."

"Luke, I'm sorry."

"No." Luke repeats quietly.

For the first month, Luke refuses to come out of his bedroom. He sleeps, wakes up screaming, huddles in the corner, falls asleep exhausted. The Doctor comes in with a glass of cold water and two pills every time he hears the scream, replacing the stale liquid and crushed pills from the previous time. Neither of them speak; Luke has nearly forgotten how, and the Doctor respects him too much to force conversation.

How long can someone live after losing everything?

Luke sits in the library, calling up holographic images from the TARDIS databanks, reading 32nd-century texts on the Savior Smith, scribbling in a first edition of Oracles of Bannerman. He shouldn't be able to access any of it, but the Doctor refuses to mention that fact to the TARDIS. At least it saves me telling him, he reasons, but the pang of guilt won't go away.

"What are you doing?"

"Stand back, Doctor." Luke holds the squareness gun in one hand, pressing the dematerialization brakes with the other.

"What are you doing—where'd you even get the gun?"

"I'm going home. Back before this even happened. I'll warn her, let her know—"

"Luke, that can't happen, it's a fixed point—" He'd been in this situation before: a fixed point, a threat, a gun, rewriting time-River's gun, he realizes; the thought makes him bite back tears. "You can't change it."

"You don't know what it's like, do you? Trapped in time, unable to break free—and when you finally do, everyone you know and love is gone, just legends told over and over again." Luke flips the safety off. "Time Lord! Well, you have plenty of it! I don't." His voice cracks.

"Luke Smith." He once cowered whole armies and frightened Daleks with this voice, this expression. "Luke Smith, you can't."

Luke began to squeeze the trigger.

So River would be the death of him after all, or at least her gun. He doesn't move, staring at Luke Smith. With the boy's eyes squeezed to narrow slits, he looks so young. Frightened, even.

"Don't make me shoot you."

Sarah Jane's son, still. Didn't want to kill. "Luke Smith," he says, no longer the Oncoming Storm nor a delivery boy with a black-rimmed telegraph, but one man to another. "I know."

"You can't."

"Can't I?"

The gun shakes in Luke's hands.

"Long ago, there was a war. The Time Lords fought the Daleks, and Arcadia burned, and Time was the foe of us all. There were Time Lords once, you know. I wasn't always the last. They liked sending me on dirty jobs—Renegades were cleverer than most, if expendable.

"I had to end it. Trapped Daleks and Time Lords both, along with a thousand other species screaming for mercy. It nearly killed me. All the screams, echoing in my head and then—silence." The Doctor takes a step forward. "I spent years—decades—in the Void, barely alive. When I realized I'd survived, I tried to commit suicide." He taps the walls. "She wouldn't let me. Tough old girl. Tougher than I was."

"Stay back!"

"You think it hurts to be alone? Imagine them all dying, your mum and your friends, everyone you've ever known, everyone you've ever loved." The Doctor's voice grows louder. "Then imagine you killed them. You locked them in hell forever, and when they escaped, you had to shove them back inside."

"Stop!" Luke had stepped away from the console now.

"But that's not the worst of it. They want you to. They beg you to send them back, because the universe will die otherwise. And the rest of the world cowers from you, hates you, fears and admires you because of something you never wanted to do." He breathes heavily. "That's what it means to be the last Time Lord, Luke Smith. I know."

The gun falls from Luke's hand, clanging against the floor. "D-Doctor, I'm—"

He hadn't meant to say those things, hadn't meant to dredge up old wounds and parade them as badges of honor. "Life's like that." His hearts twist in pain. "And sometimes you can't go home, no matter what people say. I should have a talk with Bon Jovi about that song of his."

The Eye of Orion is still restful. He even thinks of taking Luke to Calderon Beta, or Florina—somewhere peaceful, with no monsters to chase and be chased by.

Luke races up to the TARDIS, glancing back over his shoulder at the approaching army. He digs the key out of his pockets, shoves it into the lock, and pushes the door open. "Come on, Doctor."

The Doctor stumbles into the control room. "Dematerilization…lever. Now." He presses his hands against his chest.

Luke obeys, gasping in relief. "We made it. I haven't run so hard in a long time."

"Me neither." He sinks into a beach chair. "You're…okay?"

"Those vines tore up my arms a bit, but some cream should solve that." Luke releases the lever. "You?"

"Fine," the Doctor slumps over.

"Doctor? Doctor?" Luke runs over. "What happened?"

"Nothing," he mutters.

"No, something's wrong." The central motor seems to falter for a moment. "Don't lie to me, please."

"Nothing happened," he repeats. "But these old hearts are about ready to give out. Too much running."

"You're dying?"

"Old age," he tries to laugh. "Been a long time since that happened. Not since mark I, I think."

Luke stares at the Doctor's hands, trying to catch a glimpse of golden light. "Aren't you going to regenerate?"

"Can't." He shakes his head. "Love to, but can't."

"You mean…" Luke clenches his hands into fists. But that means—he can't, he can't-

"Thirteenth life. Lucky thirteen—I found you."

"No, you can't—there's no one else…"

"Feels different, dying for real. At least I've had plenty of practice."

"But I'll be all alone. You can't—please—don't do—REGENERATE!" Luke screams.

The Doctor smiles. "Goodbye, Luke Smith."

His chest falls.

Rise. Rise. Keep breathing. Come on, breathe.

It remains still.

CPR, he can try that. So what if it's for humans? He presses on the Doctor's chest, in out, in out. Mouth-to-mouth, check for a pulse, press again. Ribs snap under his hands (that means he's doing it right, he remembers that part) and the skin grows cold, but he can't give up, he just can't.

The world needs the Doctor. I need the Doctor.

He isn't sure what happens next. He doesn't remember anything for a very long time.

Luke Smith lies on the floor of the TARDIS, empty as a conch shell on the shore.

All black holes now, swallowing light, a voice whispers inside his head.

Who's there?

Old and new, borrowed and blue…the voice softens. He used to call me Sexy. Tenses were rubbish, aren't they?

The TARDIS?

Small stray, so lost…last and alone. Two exiles, alone: end or the beginning?

The end, he would say, but the voice is so strange, so real—so much more real than anything has been for a long time. So he just listens.

My thief is…what is that word? So big, so complicated, so sad when it's over?

Luke's gaze flickers to the body.

Dead? Word-in-your-head, very loud. Echoes. Want to share the universe. Golden light spills from the console. Look at me when I talked to you, Luke Smith.

He stares at the light, spilling across the console like a waterfall. Liquid gold flows over the Doctor's body, dissolving it into twinkling atoms. Goodbye, Doctor. Thank you for trying.

Little old one, look at me.

Luke staggers to his feet, holding onto the console for dear life. He stares into the Time Rotor, watching it slowly pump up and down. Shining light caresses his eyes, revitalizing the horrible dryness after the tears.

Bad Wolf, yes, but that was and will be. blue box boy, so like my thief. The light flashes brighter than a hundred supernovas, blurring the edges of his body and the edges of the console like chalk. The old wooden seams buckle, spilling atron energy into the void and splitting open the Time Lock.

In a dusty corner of the citadel of the Time Lords, the exterior shell of a type forty, mark III time travel capsule is slowly covered by dust, yet her awareness simply is: twenty-second century Earth, the Library, the caves of Androzani. The remnants of a soul were cleaned from her console and cast through the Great Gates of the Future, with all the Might-Bes, who know no past and hope for no future. And the soul knows nothing of Time until its Looming, on a day when Earth is high overhead and the twin suns shine like blood on the fields of wheat.

The child is given a name that will never be spoken on Earth, and raised with all the pomp and ceremony of an ancient, archaic race. But nestled between his hearts are two names, the two suns of his life. Earth. The planet spins with foreign colours. Sarah Jane Smith. The name sings a lullaby of comfort.

"I'm half-human. On my mother's side."

-The Eighth Doctor