There is one thing a person must understand before delving into the world's most talked about, obsessed over, and loved story. Given the circumstances of our time, you know you can't avoid it forever. In fact, if you weren't raised and brainwashed already, you're doing better than 90 percent of Earth's population. So, once you've succumbed to the force that is Doctor Who, there is one thing you must keep forever in mind.

The Doctor is not real.

Maybe aliens exist somewhere out there. Maybe time travel is just on the cusp of our reach. Maybe one day a black hole can lead us into another dimension, or the barrier between time and space and reality itself can be opened. But The Doctor is nothing but a made up character on a television show.

He's both lovable and loathsome and fixes the broken despite being irrefutably broken himself, and it's easy to be consumed by his changing, yet always interesting persona. But the Doctor isn't real. It would be wise, in and out of daily life, to remember that fact.

But alas, in our obsessive and fantasy craving world, such an illusion is hard to break. So much so, that our world has completely fooled itself into believing a lie.

The Doctor is real and, someday soon, he'll come for us.

. . .

"The day after tomorrow." The young woman picks up her stack of paper towels, placing them on the checkout counter. She turns back to her partner. "Around one. In the afternoon, I mean." She shoots him a sly smile and leans in with a delighted spark in her eyes. "Count on it."

Her friend scoffs as he helps her lift an extra large bag of dog food onto the checkout counter. "Are you daft? Everyone knows he doesn't show up on Sundays." Then he throws out, "He could come tonight, right on the stroke of midnight."

She starts to frown at the blunt insult, but her lips turn up and betray the switched line of thought. "Which one do you think it'll be?"

He smirks, picking up a jar of pickles. "Twelve, of course. Reckon he'll look exactly like Sir Capaldi. They must got a psychic as a casting director, just so we'd know what to look for when he comes."

I snort. I had tried not to. I tried to keep it in, and I had been succeeding too, but you know when sometimes, no matter how hard you try to keep in your sneeze, it bursts out anyway? It shoots out loud, and wet, and obnoxious? Yeah. Exactly like that.

The Queen had been knighting every actor to play the Doctor for years now and my exact thoughts on the subject didn't help any at keeping my reaction in. It never matters if the actors are any good — though they always are. No one even bothers to wait for their first broadcasted episode. As soon as the actor is announced, they're dragged over to her majesty.

She's cute with her little, grumpy, old lady face. She treats her daughter-in-law alright and doesn't try to use her connections for anything selfish and self-serving. She's smart too, funny without really trying, and man, those adorable little outfits of hers sure are charming.

God save the queen and all that. I've British-ed up in that regard. Doesn't mean she's immune to the Doctor Who obsession. He makes everyone a little stupid.

I regret moving to London almost every second of my newfound life. Not saying the "Doctor Love" isn't just as strong back in the States. Of course it is, it's strong everywhere, even in the least developed of countries where televisions are scarce.

You don't need cable to watch it. Channel One. Doctor Who. twenty-four seven, in order. If you've no TV, they have novels and comic books to tide you over.

That show, though. People treat it like a religion. In the dark areas of the world, people kill over it. There's statues in every major city. Government funding is spent more on researching the science behind the show than helping the underprivileged. There's linguists still trying to break down the Gallifreyan language.

People treat you like a pariah if you don't believe. Landlords don't have to rent to you. Jobs can fire you. People get stabbed in abandoned parking lots and barely get a week's worth of investigation.

Here, where the patriotic pride is strongest, there's fines that cost more than parking tickets. They force you into these weird history classes and push you into marathons to drive the point home.

This world is crazy. It's like one long, ridiculous dream. The kind you wake up from and laugh about because it's so outrageous. No one, but a few seem to realize it, though.

The couple's heads snap in my direction. "So you're one of those, are you? A nonbeliever?" She spits the words out like they hold a horrid taste, even when I know for a fact that she has Brussels sprouts in her cart. Not a more horrid taste than that.

I smile, showing teeth. "I just find it funny, is all."

I let the pause simmer between the three of us as I ring up a group of cereal cups. The pause is initially for dramatics, but as it lingers I have the perverse urge to leave it at that and let them do what they see fit. How far will the happy couple take it?

I have trouble at first, but eventually I'm able to shift the dog food around enough to find the barcode, and I scan that too. I slide it to the end of the counter. I pick up the tub of custard, because of course they have custard. Women do tend to favor the custard loving one, don't they?

"And what's that you find so funny?"

The woman has a clear warning in her voice, her eyes daring me to say what she just knows I'm thinking. What happened to the happy, bouncing little fan girl from earlier? Who is this hissing badger?

I can see she has her hand on her phone, waiting. It's a replica of Rose Tyler's and I have to physically restrain myself from rolling my eyes. Smart phones have games and the internet, but she'd rather a cheaply made, overpriced, outdated replica.

Maybe I shouldn't have played with fire, but it's too late now to take it back. "That Twelve will come on the stroke of midnight." I pop out a little giggle to send the excuse home and try not to groan at my own pathetic existence.

Silence lingers for half a beat too long. I have half a mind to book it out the door and hope for the best. I know that I can't. I'm used to running, but only in the metaphorical sense.

The woman lets out a peel of laughter. I jump back as she latches onto the counter for support. "That's hilarious, that is."

I blink down at her, eyes wide, as she thumps her fist on the counter.

Her friend rolls his eyes. "It isn't that funny." He glances at me as I give them their total and hand their groceries back to them.

"Thank you, come again." I call after them as they leave, the bells above the doors chiming behind them.

I sigh, untying the ridiculous pig faced apron from my waist. I lean back on the counter, fingers massaging my temples.

I realize now why people become shut-ins.

I turn off my checkout light and stalk over to the back room where my manager has been hiding out all day. Nothing unusual there.

I'm tempted to barge in. Really, really, really tempted. I'm frustrated, restricted, and completely tired of everyone's obsessive bullshit. But I need this job. That single fact, however, makes me all the more tempted. Screw the job, what I needed is the money.

I should just go back to hustling full time.

I clench and unclench my fists, breathing through my nose as I try to calm myself. I check into the sounds around me with a slow, calming breath.

The ringing from the checkout counters, the whining of a cranky, tired baby down aisle five, the soft hum of the radio playing through the loudspeaker, and the shrill cry of "EXTERMINATE!" coming from inside my manager's office.

A vein nearly bursts in my forehead.

I take another deep, steadying breath; exhale slowly, and knock.

Keep calm, Sage. Bludgeoning your boss is bad. Violence is a no go. You're not a kid anymore.

When I stop hearing war cries and hurried screwdriver buzzing, and can only hear the flipping of paper against paper, I take it as my cue to enter.

The man behind the desk is not my manager. When he hears me, he looks up and gives me a smile that doesn't reach the crinkle of his eyes.

He's the polar opposite of Seamus, a portly middle aged man whose acne showcases his habits and the imbalances they inflict upon his hormones. A guy with a constant cigarette pack in his breast pocket, and the type to cycle through the same three shirts. All with permanent stains.

Unlike Seamus, this man is tall, his shoulders reaching far over the high back of the office chair, and guardrail thin. He looks shiny in his immaculate suit and bendy as his body seems to almost wilt to one side as he stands.

There are similarities between the two men, though. Their brown hair, and the oddly small size of their ears. That, and the fact that Doctor Who had been on what was supposed to be a live running of the store's security footage.

"Seamus was fired, then?"

The words slip out like most of what I say. My brain to mouth filter has a hole the size of Jupiter.

It's rude, but I've been hoping for it all three months I've worked here. I hate watching him laze around in his office and hide from customers. Hide even more from employees needing their bi-weekly check.

Did management finally wise up?

I can understand, at least a bit, with the obsession with Doctor Who being as strong as it is. Yet, even a child learns when to work and when to obsess over The Doctor. Seamus has made it so far down the deep end of obsession there's just no pulling him back.

The new man's grip hangs tight to a stack of papers, but they loosen as his fragile smile cracks. The papers fall along with it, a muted thump on the desk.

"Oh, no." He comes around the desk and leans on it as he drags his hands down his sunken in face. "No, my brother died last night. During his sleep."

I feel numb to the news. It's a usual reaction for me. I've dealt with death before. Some far apart. Some in groups of threes. Drug overdoses, suicide, old age. Some, wrong place, wrong time.

What kind of person does it make me, knowing that I'm not going to cry even when it does hit me?

"Sorry to hear. Are you the new manager?" It is a family owned store, after all. "We had agreed beforehand on an extra amount for payday, because I worked some overtime last month. He wrote the exact amount on a note. It should be somewhere . . ." I look at the desk with a raised brow and wave a hand at the mess on top. ". . . in all that."

"Yes – name's Finnegan," he offered. "Just filling in for now. And I apologize for its tardiness."

I hesitate, latching onto my wrist and tapping the veins. "Well, given the circumstances."

He frowns, sifting through the papers on the desk, and picks up a small, lime Post-it. He glances at it and sticks it to the computer monitor.

"No, no." He plucks a checkbook and pen from his blazer pocket. "Can't punish you. It isn't your fault. The doctors warned him of heart disease, but Seamus always has been the stubborn sort." He pauses, his lips thinning for a bare second, then shakes his head. "Had been."

I push forward. "I, uh . . ."

He looks up. "Yes?"

"I had an agreement with Seamus." I start, but hesitate. He nods for me to continue. "Cash only."

"Why?" He looks confused. "You get paid without it being documented?"

I look down at my feet, shifting from one foot to the other with a hand to the back of my neck. "Extenuating circumstances – look, it's a little personal."

"Seamus agreed to that? Really?" He sighs and mumbles under his breath.

I hold back a groan, realizing where this is about to go. To shit. "I can come back another time."

He sets down the checkbook and nods. "Please. Please do. I'll have it ready for you by Monday." He turns, grabs the old, taped together TV remote, and hits play.

I watch as he drops it on the desk. It bounces once, before tilting to one side and falling flat on its face, a battery popping up.

The screen that should be telling him whether or not we have any issues going on in the shop is filled with The Doctor. Who cares if there's a robbery, shooting, fire, or anything else that can possibly go wrong? The Doctor will save us, right?

I shut the door behind myself and sigh as I let my head fall back against it. I check in, hearing war cries, faint buzzing, and the sobs of a grown man.

I groan, thinking of all the sobbing I, myself, will be doing tomorrow morning if I don't get my hands on some quick money.

I clock out, hang up the pig print apron, and start my way towards the nearest bar with my stomach in my throat.

. . .

The small, red coin purse flies high, almost hitting the ceiling fan, before it lands in my palm with a heavy thunk. The weight is good, familiar. I grin, tossing it up again.

Not a single coin is in that baby. The bar — sorry, pub — had been extra busy last night, given the start of the new season of Doctor Who and all. If there is anything the old doctor is good for, it's a distraction.

After only thirty minutes of playing pool, I'd gotten what I had come for. Though I missed the game, the thrill was long gone. Neither the math nor the easy money was enough to make it interesting.

I didn't bother to stick around for anything more. I may not be the most honest person out there, but I don't swindle money for the fun of it. Hell, I don't do anything for the fun of it, these days.

The loud, staccato knock I've been waiting for all night finally comes. I stop myself from cringing at the thought of what's to come. That possibility is on hold now. Lucky me.

I rise from my spot on the living room floor, dusting off my faded jeans as I go. My bare feet smack against linoleum as I make it to the door and pull it open.

"You've got my money?" Clint's slurred, sandpaper tenor greets me as usual, a deep set frown burrowing into his hard cut wrinkles.

The middle aged man is full of sharp lines. Shadows curl into the leathery wrinkles of his skin like swarms of gnats tucking into a caved in fruit.

I did that to him. Before me, he looked his age.

I roll my eyes and hold up the coin purse. He peers at it for a minute, the cogs in his head needing a good douse of oil and tinkering before they can turn at the average human speed again.

"Well if I didn't know any better, I'd say there's actually money in that crummy old thing."

You're a crummy old thing, I want to say.

"What, did you stuff it with tissue like you do your tits?"

I almost shove the coin purse down his throat. I've been doing better with getting his money. I don't need his approval, but some improved manners would be nice.

The corners of my lips pull taut, but I otherwise ignore what I can. "It's money." I pull the zipper back and dump the wad of cash into my hand. "See?"

He catches it the second it touches my skin, reflexes quick for someone with not a sober bone in his body. He leers at me. "Must be getting better with that fat arse of yours, getting that amount of cash in such short notice."

I ignore the comment, even if some of it sticks in the back of my head. "You come every month on the same day, it's hardly short notice."

"Hustled some sad sack in pool, then." He guesses, sending me a sneer.

I cross my arms. "Maybe I did. And trust me, it had nothing to do with my ass. It's all in the math."

"You always were good at math."

I frown, "If I was really good at math I wouldn't be needing to give you this, now would I?" I shrugged.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I stare at him, not really wanting to bring up past shit just to help a bad joke. Like I'm gonna say "If I would have done the math and kept my mouth shut, we would've stayed one big happy family." Yeah, right. Like I'll let him know I miss anything that has to do with him.

"What?"

I shoot him a withering look, my hand practically finding its own way to the door, ready to slam it into his hooked nose. "You have your money, Clint. You can go now."

"Without counting it first? What kind of businessman would I be?"

"Fine, count your money, then leave."

His cloudy gaze turns down on me, a dark shadow cast from his heavy brow. "You should watch that tongue of yours, Sage." There's an intent behind his tone and I know exactly what he means.

I shrug, nodding slowly in agreement. "Probably."

"I've got a lot of people who'd just die to have what you got." He scowls. "People who'd offer a whole lot more than what you're really worth."

I put a mocking hand to my chest. "And yet you're helping little old me? How generous."

He rolls his eyes, flicking the notes in his hands as he counts. "You know damn well why I'm still helping you. It has nothing to do with being generous. If it weren't for Ellie you'd be dead right now and I'd be rich."

I grimace. "Ain't that the truth."

He looks up from the bills, slaps me on the shoulder with an easy, sleazy smile on his face, and shoves the money in his pocket. "Seems all here."

"Good, you can go then." I shoot him a gummy smile.

He sees it, rolls his eyes, and leaves with a promise to come back next month.

I briefly contemplate testing if the climate in the North Pole is hospitable.

. . .

It's dark under the bed. The flashlight does almost nothing to light what I need. I clench it between my teeth, then unclench. It drops to the floor as I search around my pockets for the extra batteries I've brought.

"Sage —"

I shush her, replacing the batteries, and shove the flashlight back in my mouth as I scoot closer to my target.

The bed's hydraulics system is so outdated, I'm surprised it hasn't sparked a fire. So I'd ventured to fix what the hospital refused to, claiming a lack of funding. All I needed was a few tools and a motor and I'd beat even the newest version on the market.

"What are you doing?"

I roll my eyes, trying to talk through the flashlight between my teeth. "Upgrade."

She giggles, "Please don't turn me into a Cyberman. My face is too pretty for that."

I spit the flashlight out again, taking a Velcro strap from my butt pocket and securing it to the frame above my head. This job isn't going to be a silent one like I'd hoped.

"Trust me, Princess, they'll have nothing on you when I get done." I joke back, adjusting the light to get a better view.

"Seriously," She laughs. "What are you doing to my bed?"

"Like I said, upgrade."

I feel the bed shift above me, its springs squeaking. Eleanor's head pops into view, her fingers clutched to the mattress for balance.

"Is it the sort of upgrade I'm going to have to hide from the nurses?"

I stare at her. Her long, curly hair frames her face like a cloud as she looks down at me. The sun shines through the window and illuminates her in a golden glow. Her lips are laughing, and her eyes are sparkling with mirth. She's not just putting on a mask. She's happy. She's not in pain today. Good.

I cough, snapping my head away as I concentrate back on the bed. "Probably. I'm sure they'd get suspicious if you were suddenly comfortable." I scoff. "Heaven forbid."

"You can't exactly blame them." There's a sadness in Eleanor's voice I choose to ignore.

"I can blame whoever the hell I want to blame, thank you. It's my right as a human being after all."

"Sage."

"You're not your mother, but they refuse to see past that."

Her laugh is soft, happy even, and its sound reminds me of how innocent she still is. After everything she's been through, Eleanor is still able to smile and mean it.

"Everyone judges. It's only natural. I know you always say not to judge a book by its cover, but that's just what we do. We see first, interpret second, then ask questions later, and by then an opinion's already been formed that's hard to let go of. I can't blame them for doing what comes from a long seeded survival instinct."

I sigh. "You're right, but here? Your point is null and void."

She gasps with a laugh. "You're just as judgey as you claim them to be, judging them for judging me."

I snort. "Who are you, Doctor Seuss?"

"Who?"

I roll my eyes. I should just go ahead and give up on society before I give it anymore small expectations. "Never mind. The world's obsessive, narrow view of entertainment is not important right now. What is, however, is eating your breakfast and watching TV, and letting me continue with my work."

She grumbles something I don't bother to hear, and turns the television on. My lips quirk up when I hear the soft clanking of utensils. The smile doesn't fade for the rest of the day, either. Even through Ellie's Doctor Who marathon.

. . .

"You're late."

I glance up, then back down again, wiping what oil and rust I can from my hands and onto the parts of my jeans covered by the garish pink apron around my waist.

"You're observational skills continue to astound me."

Tiffany plops one perfectly manicured hand on her hip. It is a slim, shapely hip too, one I'd probably be jealous and irritated over if I had the mind to compare our two polar opposite bodies. It'd be like comparing a duck to a screwdriver.

"I'm assistant manager, love. It's my job to notice these things. If you had a reliable car, maybe this wouldn't happen."

"It's Sage, not love." I walk over to my register. "Besides, I'm working on the ride situation. That's why I'm late."

"I can see that." She glances at the remnants of grease on my hands. She clicks her tongue at me as she slinks back behind her own cash register.

I throw a look towards the windows at the front of the store and watch as cars pass and people walk from store to store. Friends, colleagues, families. A muscle ticks in my jaw as I tear my eyes away.

It isn't much longer before I'm called to the back room. My first instinct is to run. I'd been late and I'm not much of one to handle shouting. However, the possibility the temporary manager has remembered our last discussion moves me forward.

He has.

On the way home, I contemplate on either saving the extra money I've acquired or buying Eleanor a gift. After all, she deserves one.

. . .

I'm put on edge the second I make it to the lobby. The nurses, whose eyes are usually sharpened my way, and whose lips are supposed to be pulled tight, are smiling. Walking forward, my skin prickles and my stomach sinks.

Their eyes are avoiding me, they're hands are unusually busy with folders and papers, and they're smiling. The nurses are smiling. They never smile.

Either my latest gift of comfort is the final straw before they officially ban me from the premises – after this one last visit, of course – or something, the worse case scenario, has happened. I hate the idea of both, but I prefer the former.

I know I shouldn't have been so obvious about my dislike of the staff. I shouldn't have let them get to me. I don't regret making Eleanor as comfortable as possible, but I regret some of my motives behind it.

I loved seeing their baffled frowns when I'd fixed the adjoining bathroom's plumbing and took away their joy in having Eleanor struggle all the way down the hall just to pee. I enjoyed the way they bristled when I upgraded her out of date bed. The one they claimed to be standard issue, despite the fact that I'd seen top of the line technology in other patients' rooms. I did everything in my power to make her feel special because Eleanor was special.

But these idiots can't see past the people who raised her. Both had paid their dues. Her dad wasn't the best of people, but he treated his daughter like a princess, especially since her mother was killed.

I fight against the urge to quicken my pace. I don't want to know. I have half a mind to turn around and ignore the situation as best I can. If this is what I hope with all my soul that it isn't? I'd rather remain blissfully ignorant for as long as I can manage.

When I finally make it to Eleanor's room, I'm met with a timid and placating smile. My feet pause just inside the door frame.

"Now, don't be mad – "

"What the hell happened to your face?" I jerk forward, a mixture of relief and something else, something altogether malicious shredding through my chest. "Who did this to you?"

"No one." Her voice is slow and mixed with honey. She's lying through her teeth. "I tripped on my way to the bathroom."

I slide off my shoulder bag and sit down beside her, the bed creaking with the added weight. She gives me a serene little smile, despite the pain her split lip and swollen eye are sure to be causing her.

"Eleanor." I warn.

She sighs. "You are capable of a lot. You can build a car out of a few screws and a paperclip – " she ignores my snort "and you can fight the most gruesome of foe," She takes hold of my hand. "But you can't protect me twenty-four-seven. You don't need to protect me twenty-four-seven."

"Flattery will get you nowhere." I scoff. "And obviously I do need to."

"No, you don't." She rolls her eyes. "Don't you think you deserve a break from being a knight in shining armor?"

"No."

She sighed. "Well, I do."

"Are you taking away my visitation rights?"

She laughs like I'm joking. "I'm telling you not to worry."

I turn, falling down beside her on the bed, and sigh. "There's no way I won't worry."

She grabs my hand. "I know. You're the biggest worry wort I know."

"And I can't promise my fists won't take on a mind of their own." I grin. "So sorry if a nurse or two shows up one day a bit cranky."

She laughs. "How about a bit of telly?" When I don't give a reaction, she continues with a squeeze to my hand. "I hear there's a Harry Potter marathon going."

"Well," I offer a small smile. "it can't hurt."

Four hours later, I'm sobbing like a baby. Something about a sad fictional character always gets to me. Sympathetic crying is my kryptonite.

"He'll be back, you know that," She reassures me.

I sniff. "I know that. But look at him! He sure as hell doesn't know that." I turn to her, "But does he care? Does he run away?"

She smiles at me. "He sacrifices himself."

I nodded. "Damn right, he does."

We sit in silence, the end of the marathon drawing near.

Just as the green light leaves from Voldemort's wand, a commercial comes on. Eleanor laughs at my groan.

I turned to look at her. "Ellie."

"Hmm?"

"You really think I'm your knight in shining armor?"

She nudges me, "'Course I do."

"I don't have a sword, though." I chuckle. "Or a wand."

"You don't need one." She looks at me, catching my eyes. "You have your hands." She squeezes my hand, then pulls it up to her lips, grazing my knuckles. She gives me a Mona Lisa smile, pulling my hand up to kiss the pulse point on my wrist. "They can protect me just fine."

I blink at her, mouth dry without a single word coming to mind. How does one react to that? What am I supposed to do with that?

I spring up, almost falling off the bed.

She smirks, watching me as I rush from the bed. I reach into my bag, pulling out a small, white box. "Here." I can't look at her, so I just place it on the side table. "I gotta go. There was a, uh, a part for the car that I . . . uh."

"See you later?"

"Yep — Totally — Bye!" I scoop up my bag and make a run for it.