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The Last Ones

Author's Introduction: Hello there, and thank you for clicking on this story of mine! Really, it means a lot, and I hope you all enjoy The Last Ones. This is an all-new Doctor Who story from me tagged to my favorite genre: hurt/comfort/family, or what I like to call dark fluff.
Important Note: I am aware that this story seems a lot like a story written by another fanfiction author, After the Fall by *thatblue. I'd been reading her story and was taken with the premise, and realized I really wanted to write one that was similar. So I sent her a PM asking for her permission to base my story off her plotline premise, and *thatblue told me to feel free. So, while this story will be pretty different than After the Fall as a whole, its basic premise is being used with permission. A million thanks to *thatblue for letting me do this.
My cover image for this story features Isabelle Allen as young Cosette and Daniel Huttlestone as Gavroche from the 2012 Les Misérables movie. Personally, this is how I'm picturing the children.

Warnings: These will apply to the whole story, nearly ever chapter, so I'll just say it now and once. This story will contain several dark themes, primarily themes of depression, but there will be others as well. Thank you.

For my own reference: 6th fanfiction published, 1st story for Doctor Who.

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Chapter One: When the Children Cry

Numbness.

That's all he felt. Just a plain, empty numbness. Even on the worst days, there was only that dark void of numbness. He was not falling into that void. He'd already fallen deep enough that there was no clawing his way back up. Now he was suspended in midair, floating.

Some days would be full of just emptiness, days when he would just sit in the jump chair in the new console room she'd made for him and stare into space with a blank mind. Other days, their screams would claw their way up into his memory and he would scream, too, and rage — at her, mostly — and there was nothing the TARDIS could do. She'd stopped reaching into his mind recently, stopped trying to console him. Perhaps she was just feeling sorry for herself, she did that sometimes, or perhaps she'd simply given up on him.

Then there were the worst days, when he considered ending it. He could have died along with them, but no, he'd been a coward and run away to regenerate safely in his TARDIS whilst Gallifrey burned, and his people along with it. They would have no chance to regenerate. But now he was still a coward, and he couldn't do it. He could never even come close. He was afraid. Which was ironic, because death was surely a better existence than this thing that dared to call itself a life he now led.

He didn't know what this new body looked like. He'd only bothered to change out of his old clothes when they began to smell so bad they positively reeked, and even he couldn't stand it. Besides, they didn't fit this body: in some places they were too baggy, in others they were so tight he couldn't breathe. He found some jeans, a few T-shirts, and an inconspicuous leather jacket that fit comfortably. He didn't look in the mirror when he picked the clothes out; couldn't bring himself to care.

He wasn't eating, or at least not much. Only when he truly needed to would he take a small bite or two. He was never hungry anymore. He didn't know what hunger was. And sleep only occurred when he was exhausted after a day of raging, and he'd collapse in a heap on the metal grate of the TARDIS floor, only to wake up a half hour later and find himself there, on the floor. He would get up, sit in the jump chair, and go back to that empty staring.

Back into that void of numbness.

Right now, the TARDIS was being stubborn again. She'd planted herself on this blasted planet and refused to move, no matter what he said. He'd shouted at her, and when it became evident that wasn't going to work, he'd tried coaxing her, stroking her console and her walls the way she liked. But that didn't work either.

They'd been sitting here on Earth for over a week now, and the display screen told him it was the year 2179, the precise location London, England. Again. The TARDIS had a fondness for sending him to London.

The Doctor sat in the jump chair. He'd given up on talking the TARDIS out of moving. She'd leave when she wanted to, and there was no dealing with a stubborn spaceship time machine that was, as his old friends always called it, "bigger on the inside".

Suddenly, he heard a knocking on the TARDIS doors. Not the gentle tapping of any curious humans at the sight of this strange blue box. This was a furious hammering of someone with purpose. The Doctor stood doubtfully, for the first time suddenly aware of reality.

"Hello?" he called out. The pounding continued.

After some hesitation, he opened the doors. He didn't know what had driven him to do so, what had driven him to reach out and make interactions with the outside world. He didn't care about that world anymore. He didn't care about anything. But somehow, for some reason, he felt something.

In front of him were three figures. One was a young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties. She was in a sorry state, her dark hair matted and dirty, her clothes torn and her front spattered in blood. Some of it was fresh and damp, but some had dried to her shirt in dull, red, flaky crusts. Her feet were bare, despite the fact that the Doctor could feel the chill of the outside world even through his jacket and inside the TARDIS. And out there, it was raining hard, a steady and merciless downpour.

It took him a moment to spot the other two. Children, a girl and a boy, no older than eight years old, hiding behind the woman's frame and peering up at him with wide blue eyes. Both were just as battered-looking as the woman. They were bone-thin and their tattered clothes were too baggy for their tiny bodies. Their small faces were streaked in dirt also, and their feet were bare too, and blue from the cold. It took him a moment to realize they were twins, both with the same blond hair and the same shaped noses, those sad blue eyes identical. The boy's hair was long, almost down to his shoulders. Hers reached her midback. They were both shivering, the girl's teeth chattered and the boy was hugging himself tightly in a vain attempt at warmth. It wasn't until the girl broke into a coughing fit that the Doctor came to his senses. He stepped aside, and almost instantly the woman pushed the children into the TARDIS before following them in herself. When the Doctor didn't shut the doors right away, she did so.

"So," she said at last. "You're the Doctor."

He only nodded. He didn't like the way he was looking at her, so he preoccupied himself in finding blankets for the children. There was a small corridor down the stairs exiting the console room, and he discovered the TARDIS had left him some small blankets. Flannel. He brought these out, offered them to the children. Their little hands grabbed the flannel instantly, and wrapped it around their tiny bodies, rubbing their cheeks against the fabric. They were looking around the TARDIS in awe, but their eyes kept on darting to him.

The woman continued to stare at him, and at last she spoke up again. "They're yours, you know," she announced.

The Doctor froze. "Mine? But that's impossible."

She studied him with a frown. "It's funny, Doctor, because even though my sister only knew you for a few days, she said she was so in love with you. She said that when you left, you promised her that you'd never forget her and that you'd return one day. She waited. You didn't return."

His eyes darted towards the children. And he saw it. He saw the faintest resemblance they bore to her, to Maeve. The same shaped nose, the same eyes. He'd been on his fifth body when he'd met her, and he'd done possibly the stupidest thing he'd ever done in his life. They only slept together that one time in the few days they'd known each other, but he hadn't imagined he'd left her with a child, let alone twins. Hadn't thought that possible with one human, one Time Lord. His own parents had been the exception.

"Maeve," he uttered, almost as an afterthought. "You must be the sister she mentioned. Wasn't it … " He racked his brain for the name he'd heard uttered long ago, hundreds of years ago for him. "Sakura?"

She looked surprised that he'd remembered. "Yes. That's right." She suddenly broke into a coughing fit, like the little girl had. Her coughs were more violent. She dropped to her knees as her entire body shook. She drew her collar to her mouth, and when she drew it away again, it was slick with more fresh blood.

"You're sick," he said, almost as an accusation.

"Yes," Sakura replied. She coughed once more, and wiped the blood away with the back of her head. "Dying. Same illness that took Maeve, five years ago. There was another outbreak. I don't have much longer left. A week, maybe. A little less."

"Are they sick, too? The kids?" he demanded.

She shook her head. "No. The young and the old were all vaccinated in the first outbreak. They're immune, at least to what I have. She's been coughing too, though. I don't know what she has." Another cough. "We're all dying. Earth is. Soon, you'll be all they have left. They're only seven."

He found himself approaching the children and began wrapping the flannel tighter around their small frames. He led them to the jump chair. They sat on the edge of the chair together as if frightened to relax into it, and they were both small enough that they fit. They seemed to be aware he'd caught them staring, and the boy looked away. The girl coughed again, and he patted at her back. "You don't get it," he deadpanned. "I understand your – their – situation, but I can't. I just can't."

Sakura scoffed. "You can't leave them. You're their father. My God, you haven't even asked their names."

She was right. He knew that, somewhere inside, in what was left of him. He knew when someone was going to die and had accepted their fate, and that Sakura was one of those people. She was going to die, just like Maeve had before her, and the children would be left alone on an Earth that was dying. Perhaps he could do something. Perhaps he could find someone. But who? No, these kids deserved a life. A life with a father in it. There wasn't anything he could give them, but he could try. And for the first time in a long time, he realized he'd been showing a care for something, for his children. And he still didn't know their names. He asked Sakura, who shook her head in disapproval before answering.

"The boy's name is Ethan. The girl's is – " She broke into a fresh fit of coughs, so the girl finished for her, speaking for the first time.

"Elodie." Her voice was small and quiet, and in it there was a trace of a child's lisp just starting to fade.

"Those are good names," he told them. "Fantastic names."

Sakura had finished coughing. She straightened herself and began to walk towards the doors. "I don't know who you are, Doctor. But I know that Maeve loved you and called you a good man. I hope she was right. Take care of them. God knows they deserve as much." Then, without turning back, she opened the doors and walked out into the cold.

The Doctor watched her go. He could have called her back, told her he could try and heal her. With the advanced medicines in the TARDIS, there had to be something he could give her. Make her better, and leave the raising of the children up to her. But he didn't. He let her walk away until the fog consumed her. He went on staring until Elodie's coughs brought him back into the world, and he quickly closed the doors and turned back to them. "Do you need anything?" he asked them. When they only stared, he took in the sight of them again. "Well, I reckon we could start with a bath."

::

He didn't know what this new TARDIS was like, hadn't explored her new corridors. Now, as he held in both hands the smaller ones of each seven-year-old, he discovered there was a bathroom just off to the left. Whether it had been there before or the TARDIS had just decided to place it there, he didn't know. But there was a bathtub with bubbles and soaps, and warm pajamas that would fit the children neatly folded and placed on the counter. One pair was a soft pink and covered in a print pattern of brighter pink flowers. The other pair was a soft blue and had a pattern of little sharks. It was obvious which pajama was for which child, and once, he might have shaken his head at the TARDIS for sticking to such blatant stereotypes. The Doctor prepared the bath for them while they undressed, and then he scrubbed their bodies clean, washed their dirty hair, until their small faces started to gain back a childish glow. He helped them change into the pajamas, did up the buttons and the strings. "Warm?" he asked, and was met with two matching shy nods.

Afterwards, he ran a scan in the med bay, which was now right beside the bathroom. If Sakura's words didn't prove anything, then the DNA results matched to his own did. These were his children, and now he had to take care of them whether he wanted to or not. A second scan showed that they each had only one heart, but like him, they had two livers and strong immune systems. Good. That was good. He scanned them once more, to make sure they weren't too sick, and to find out what Elodie had. Luckily, Ethan was perfectly healthy, and Elodie simply had a bad cough. Some more time in the TARDIS, where it was warm, would do her well, and it would pass eventually. The whole time he was running the scans, both children remained completely silent. They didn't fuss or squirm or giggle. It occurred to him they hadn't reacted when their aunt walked away, hadn't even said goodbye to her. Perhaps she'd told them everything. Perhaps they'd been expecting it.

After the scans, he took them both by their little hands and soon discovered a children's bedroom. The TARDIS had clearly been putting some thought into making one while he'd been bathing the twins and running the scans. There were twin cots with thick blankets covering them, and a Scooby-Doo! bedspread on each of the cots. There were headboards with childish paintings of cartoon boats and planes brought to life in vibrant, exaggerated colors on the wood. The floor was covered mostly by a large round carpet, fuzzy, sunshine yellow. A small shelf in the corner held a generous scattering of toys: tiny little toy cars, dolls, various stuffed animals. Elodie's eyes widened when she saw the room, and Ethan's mouth fell open in a gape.

He invited them to choose a toy from the shelf to hold onto while they slept, and their small hands instantly sought the comfort of matching stuffed lions. He tucked them in, and as he brushed the overlong blond hair from Ethan's face, he had a sudden notion that these motions, these actions, were all too familiar to him. Tucking the children in, bathing them. He'd done all this before with his children on Gallifrey. Something about this realization made him recoil, draw back, back inside of himself. He bid the twins a hasty good night and fled the room, seeking comfort in clicking out the light and closing the door. Tightly shutting away what hurt too much.

He made his way back to the bathroom and slid away the door that covered the mirror, inspecting his new face for the first time.

This face had the look of a man of about forty years or so, probably the age a man that might have two seven-year-olds. It wasn't a face that would send women swooning, not like the face he'd had when he'd met Maeve, but overall, it wasn't bad. The body looked more muscular, broad-shouldered, than his last incarnation. Dark hair again, that was good, he'd decided that blond bodies didn't suit him a while back. The nose was a little long, but these eyes were an attractive shade of blue. Had those eyes not been so full of hollow grief, so bloodshot, they might have been called nice eyes. The ears were the real misfortune with this body, and his hands shot up in a vain attempt to flatten them. It didn't work, of course. And there was a beard that was starting to grow, proof of his lack of caring over these past countless days. He shaved off the beard and examined his reflection again. The lack of a beard helped, but he still didn't look fit to be a father. The Doctor stepped back and quickly slid the door over the mirror again.

Numbly, he began to explore this new TARDIS for the first time, but she wouldn't let him. Every turn he made, every door he opened, led him to his bedroom, which thankfully, she hadn't changed. He got the message: she didn't want him to explore, she wanted him to get some much-needed sleep. The Doctor stepped into the next room she gave him, sat on the bed, leaned his head against the wall. He could hear the children sleeping in the room next door, which hadn't been there before. The TARDIS must want him to be close to his children, then. When he poked his head out the door, he found that she'd moved the bathroom across the hall.

He could have tried to sleep, but he didn't. Instead, he remained sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands gripping the sheets so tightly he might have ripped the fabric. Clasp, unclasp, clasp, unclasp. He stared at the blank wall opposite as his mind raced and tumbled to conclusions he'd dismiss a moment later, his thoughts like clothes in a dryer. No, what had he been thinking, he couldn't raise two seven-year-olds, his life wasn't one fit for kids. No, that was ridiculous, they were his children and he had to look after them, he couldn't leave them on the steps of an orphanage somewhere, even if he traveled a hundred years or so into their past, before mankind had really destroyed the Earth, because they were his children. But … and et cetera, et cetera, et bloody cetera.

The door to his room creaked open. He looked up.

A small figure in flannel pajamas with pink flowers on them, at her heels another little figure in pajamas with a shark pattern, were both peeking in at him. When he stared over at them, they scuttled back again, whispering to each other. "It's okay," he heard himself saying. "It's okay, come in. Here, sit here. You can't sleep?"

Ethan came in first, and after a pause, he turned to his sister, as if to confirm it was safe for her to enter. She followed him and took his hand, but her eyes never left the Doctor.

The Doctor patted a spot on his bed and stood up, and after some hesitation, the children sat down on the edge. They were still watching him.

"Hey," he said, hopefully gently. "So you can't sleep?"

Ethan spoke this time, which surprised the Doctor somewhat: he'd passed Ethan off as quieter than Elodie. She, at least, had asked a question or two, if timidly, while her brother hadn't said a word. "No. This house is weird. It whispers things. And it showed us where your room was, with lights on the floor."

"Right next to ours," Elodie put in.

He nodded, and reached over to stroke her hair. "Yep, that sounds just like her. The TARDIS, I mean. My – our house now."

Elodie smiled when he said that. Then she said, very softly and tentatively, as if afraid to ruin the moment, "Daddy?"

"Don't call me that," he said, too sharply; it was too much of a connection to his first children, and Elodie recoiled. The spell had been broken. She clung to her brother and watched him from behind almost frightened blue eyes. Ethan held onto his sister and gave the Doctor a scowl, but it was no match for the look in his own eyes. They were afraid of him.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Sorry. But it's okay, yeah? Here, c'mere."

The children came close again, hesitantly. "What should we call you, then?" Elodie whispered. "I just called you Daddy because you're my Daddy, Auntie said you are."

He patted her knee. "No, no. It's fine, you call me Daddy. That's right, I'm your Daddy."

Elodie didn't seem reassured, didn't let go of her brother. But she smiled slightly and gave a tiny nod of understanding. "We haven't had one of those before. A Daddy. Just Mummy at first, but mostly we've just had Auntie."

"Well, now you do have a Daddy," he said levelly. "Right? And that's me, yeah?" The children nodded. A thought suddenly occurred to him. "How did you find me, by the way? You two and your Auntie? I reckon you didn't just stumble on my box."

Ethan looked to his sister, who gave him a nod. The boy spoke again. "Mummy said she saw your blue box when she met you, and after you left, she told everyone 'bout it. "And then one of Mummy's old friends was around here, and he saw it. So he went in his aeroplane to Auntie, and told her. Auntie woke us up and told us that we had to go now, to see you. She told us she'd finally found our Daddy. Then we went, and we walked for a long time, and then we saw your blue box."

"We walked for five days," Elodie put in. "Auntie said that we could stay with Mummy's friend if you weren't there. But you were." She released a short cough. The warmth of the TARDIS had helped her, already she was getting better.

The Doctor took in those small bodies. Five days. They'd been walking, looking for him, for five days. In that horrible weather, that war-torn Earth, they'd been walking, looking for him, even if he might not have been there. It was a wonder Elodie hadn't gotten sicker than suffering from a mere cough. His children. His responsibility.

He didn't try to say anything this time, just nodded and got to his feet. He held out his hands, and each child took one. "Let's get you two back to bed."

When they returned to the children's room, there were fake stars on the ceiling. Not the five-pointed, cartoonish stars you bought in a shop on Earth, but a much more realistic projection of the way the stars really looked. Like the stars he used to watch as a boy himself, so many years ago. He tucked them in again, and brought them each another stuffed toy, a little monkey this time. Ethan put the animals next to him, but Elodie buried her little button nose in the synthetic fur. In a heartbeat, they were both asleep.