InsaneJournal

Who: The Doctor. And Molly Suresh. Sort of.
What: Somebody had to find her. Unfortunately, the Doctor is the most qualified.
Where: The Grand Library.
When: After this.
Rating: R, to be safe. Warning for blood, implications of violence and disturbing imagery. Also, angst level is high.
Status: Narrative. Complete.

The Doctor noticed James Sirius's message straight away and was quick to offer his assistance. He had something of a soft spot for Molly Suresh, had done almost since he'd arrived here, and the thought that something might have happened to her didn't sit well with him. So, of course he offered to help find her. He really did hope she was just out of the city, or lost in a wardrobe, or cupboard. Or had dropped her PDA off a cliff by accident and then taken a nap in other-him's TARDIS. Maybe she would come back later, from an impromptu trip, and everything would be fine again. And they'd all feel silly for worrying.

But he doubted any of those things was the case. Molly would never leave them to worry, and things had been dangerous in the city lately. Something had probably happened to her, something bad, and he was just hoping that the real answer wasn't that she was somewhere in the city, dead. He wasn't sure if Adam's abilities would find her if she was dead, but the TARDIS definitely wouldn't. So now he was left hoping she was hiding or out of the city or in the Library. Anything that meant she wasn't dead. Because he wasn't sure he could cope with that. She wasn't Jenny. She wouldn't just come straight back.

He knew something was wrong as soon as he stepped out of the TARDIS. It was quiet, in a different way than it usually was, and the knights weren't making any effort to chase him away. It was almost disappointing, because he rather liked running about evading the constructs, but it was mostly just frightening. Something had happened. Something awful and terrible and oh so very wrong had happened and now the whole feel of this place was just off. The Doctor had half a mind to turn around and head straight back in the TARDIS, make some tea and steel his nerves because he just knew somehow that he wasn't going to like whatever he would find here.

But he couldn't do that. It wasn't fair, or right, and it was really rather selfish. If he put this off and later found it was something he could have stopped, he wasn't sure he would ever forgive himself. Besides, he'd promised Molly's friends he would look for her. And hiding in the TARDIS wasn't looking. It was hiding. Still, he found himself searching the upper areas, even though he knew that wasn't where she would be. Finally, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, heading down.

The wrong feeling intensified as he made his way down the steps. The guards were gone from here and it was so very empty and silent and dead. Like all the life with any sense had fled, and with good reason. The Doctor was dizzy with it, fighting the overwhelming urge to do the same. To run. Running was what he did and he wanted nothing more than to run away from what he knew deep down that he would find in the lower level. He wasn't consciously acknowledging it yet, too stubborn and too intent in his desperate need to save people.

But he knew. Somewhere inside he already knew. And so he continued slowly, hesitantly, fighting for every step that brought him closer. And then he was at the bottom of the stairs, and he knew which way he should go but he went the other, checking the side that felt the least wrong first. He couldn't delay the inevitable indefinitely, but he could spare himself and the others this pain for as long as possible. Still, he couldn't keep it up forever, and he finally had to go to the one area of the basement he hadn't yet checked.

The smell of blood choked him, and the taste of copper cloyed in his throat. The Doctor wasn't someone who got sick, but this was enough to provoke the sensation. There was blood. Too much of it. There was blood and metal and sharp things and something in the middle of it all. Someone. Someone torn and bloody and he couldn't make his mind accept who it was. Because it was wrong. She was supposed to be okay. He was supposed to find her and bring her home and she would be okay. There wasn't supposed to be something sharp sticking out of her, glinting in the semi-darkness of the oppressive room.

He stumbled forward, even as he wanted to run from the sight, dropping to his knees next to her. Heedless of the blood that stained his trousers. Molly's blood. Because this was Molly, as much as he wanted to deny it. This was Molly, broken and bloody and dead. And even though he knew there was nothing he could do, he still found himself pulling out the weapon and pressing his hands against the wound as if he could push the life back into her through force of will alone. It didn't make sense. She was innocent, a brilliant example of everything humanity ought to be. And here she was, dead. And not just dead either. Tortured. Broken. Torn apart. It hurt to even think that someone could have done this. It was so very wrong.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, trousers soaked through with blood and hands sticky with the substance. Blood all over everything and suffocating him. Finally, he reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear - he'd always thought she had such pretty hair - before he closed her eyes with a shaking hand, not wanting them staring at him. It felt like an accusation, and maybe it was. He saved people. It was what he did. He should have saved her. He wanted to damn the laws of time and make the TARDIS go back so he could stop this, but he knew he couldn't. Not without ripping everything apart. And he was almost willing, if it would stop this. But he couldn't.

So he did what he could. He got to his feet and gathered her up in his arms. More blood, and he felt like he was drowning in it, but he ignored the sensation. He didn't remember the journey from the basement back to the TARDIS. He wasn't even sure he actively directed her to go anywhere. Maybe the levers and knobs moved all on their own, taking him where she thought he needed to be. And perhaps that was best, because he wasn't sure where to go. He wasn't sure of anything. He'd lost people before, more people than he could count, but it had never hurt quite like this. He didn't understand it, but he knew the memory of what he had seen in that basement room would stay with him until his final death.

He stumbled out of the TARDIS, not noticing where he was or if anyone else was there. He was mindless of everything, the tears in his eyes and the blood on his clothes, everything but the broken doll of a girl in his arms. "I couldn't save her," he said quietly to himself. "I failed her." And he wept, really honestly wept, for the first time in a long time.