Doctor Who: Dead of Winter by James Goss

Author:James Goss
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Doctor Who, Published Fiction
ISBN: 9781446416525
Publisher: BBC Digital
Published: 2011-04-27T23:00:00+00:00

Dr Bloom’s Journal

7th December 1783

Disaster!

I was standing on the beach with Kosov. Even my wife was frowning.

‘The Doctor was not Familiar,’ said Kosov sadly. ‘The Doctor that The Sea created… lost…’ He gestured out to the grey watery horizon. ‘We need the Doctor.’

Perdita patted him on the arm comfortingly. ‘Don’t worry – we’ll find him and Madame Pond. We’ll find all of them.’

I made to protest, but Perdita stilled me with a glance. ‘My dear, you worry about so much – leave this to us.’

She is always so kind to me.

We stood there for a minute, listening to the song of The Sea, watching the other patients dancing gently around each other. There was a light rain. There always was a light rain, and The Sea churned a dull grey, little flecks of white floating on top of it like snowy mountains or sleeping gulls.

Behind us, we heard a cough.

‘Hello,’ said a voice. ‘Could I have a word?’

We turned. Standing there was poor Rory Williams. He waved, nervously.

What a funny little man, I thought. His face still looked soft and foolish, even if it was set with determination. Kosov grabbed hold of him, the fog pouring out of his mouth, but I stayed him. Perdita put on an interested smile, and Mr Williams continued.

‘It’s just… well, I thought I’d come and… talk to you. Before it gets… before it gets unpleasant.’ Mr Williams looked as though he wanted to run away. I remember confessing to my father about stealing apples. He was trying desperately hard to be brave. ‘I think the right thing to do, the fair thing to do, is for me to tell you about the Doctor.’

We looked at him. He was offering us just what we wanted. The Sea washed in, The Sea washed out. We waited, eagerly. Some of my charges say that I am not a patient man, but this is not true. A good doctor learns the art of waiting, of letting things play themselves out, of not interfering. Many is the time I have sat up with the dying. I know that they will find peace in the end. But in between sometimes they shout, laugh or cry. It is rare the dying wish to play cards.

Eventually, Mr Williams spoke. ‘Right then,’ he said, eyes darting around the beach. ‘The Doctor. I understand him so well right now, because I’ve had bits of him bubbling around in my head. You see, the thing is, what you’re trying to do, Dr Bloom, is so good. You are trying to cure a terrible disease – and you’ve got so much of it right. Fresh air, clean linen, sterile equipment, lots of rest. But whatever it is that’s in The Sea… it’s wrong, somehow. It’s using you. And, at the moment, it’s simply a difference of opinion between the Doctor and you. You both want the best. You’ve only tried to kill him a couple of times.’

I argued at that grossly unfair accusation. But Mr Williams pressed on, his voice getting firmer.

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