Who: Donna Noble and John Watson When: Afternoon, last week Where: A diner by Donna's job What: Meeting and chatting and flirting a little Warnings/Rating: None
Before and even at times during the war, John had been a habitual walker. From morning and evening strolls to stubbornly refusing to buy a car, he walked just about everywhere his feet could take him. He was not a jogger or a speed walker, because it wasn’t really about exercise. He got enough of that as it was, what with his rugby team and, eventually, dodging enemy fire. But those activities, all of them, now appeared to be a thing of the past, and what he was left with was a cane and a limp. Walking had become a chore.
It seemed every day he was more melancholy, more sour, the chip on his shoulder a little more deep. Therapy was a chore, too. Sherlock had been a nice distraction for a few weeks, but the trail on their case had gone cold and that meant Sherlock was getting bored and when Sherlock was bored John avoided the house as much as possible. Hopefully his work visa would be issued before much longer. Then he could get a real job and stop this silly game of playing detective.
Every day, Monday through Friday, Donna woke up early in the morning and went to work. She felt as though she spent her entire week idling around filing cabinets and rushing through memos. It was thoroughly unsatisfying, but it brought in money and would have to do until she found something better. So she suffered through her days. The afternoons had the possibility of being lovely, though, if Donna really worked at it.
Some days she would just drive until she felt a gnawing restlessness subside. Closer to the weekend, she’d find a pub by her place of business and get drunk or watch a game with strangers. Every once in awhile, she’d go to a little corner diner, a little safe haven in the middle of the business-y district in which she worked. It was the sort of diner with waitresses that were always there, older and tired-looking, but kind. Where you could get breakfast well into the evening. It reminded Donna of her grandfather, of all things. Maybe the comforting simplicity of it was something Wilfred Mott would appreciate. Or maybe it was all the old biddies carrying trays around. Donna couldn’t be certain.
In a way that showed that she’d done this more than once, Donna entered the diner, took a seat at the counter, and dropped her bag to the floor just between her feet. Her back was to the door and she didn’t notice the sound of the chime indicating someone else had entered just moments after her. She didn’t look at the menu, deciding pleasantly that this evening called for chocolate chip pancakes. Hell with what it would do to her waistline. Smiling to herself, she sat back and tried to let the day fall off her shoulders.
The arrival the chime had sounded was John’s, if in fact his entrance was something worthy of being announced. Avoiding the flat also meant taking meals out more often than he liked. This diner was not one he typically frequented, but it was not far from the immigration offices, and he’d had a bad experience with his usual gyro place earlier in the week.
He sat at the counter, not directly beside the woman with the long red hair, but close enough to hear her give her order. He’d chosen the counter because booths were difficult to manage with his leg.
“Evening shift?” he asked her casually. When she looked at him, John continued. “Or did you really just order pancakes for supper?”
It wasn’t an especially common thing for Donna to have a stranger strike up a conversation with her. When it did happen, it tended to be in the middle of a bar and the person talking always felt a bit slimy. This one looked harmless enough, if a bit pale. She quirked a brow at him when he asked his question, unsure if she wanted to be molested after work.
She noticed the accent first and then the cane, just glancing down quickly and then bringing her eyes back up to his face. It was the accent that won her over for the moment. “I can order pancakes for dinner,” she said in a way that was both playful and indignant.
“Of course you can,” John replied, smiling across the counter at her. “You’re in America, now, which is the land of the free, or so I’m told. Originally from London?”
"Chiswick," Donna said. "You?"
“Not far from South Kensington,” he said, which really referred to a tiny neighborhood that had no name. “I just moved a few weeks ago, actually; as evidenced by the fact that I spend the equivalent of a part-time job at the immigration office. Do you live here, or just visiting?”
“Live here. Moved a few months ago, actually,” Donna said, finding herself not minding his questions so much. “It’s a bit of an adjustment.” There was a pause where the waitress set down syrup and butter before Donna but not pancakes. “What are you doing here?” she asked the man.
At this, John shrugged. He pressed his lips together. “That’s a very good question.” Currently, he was ordering meatloaf, but that was more of a minor detail. He handed the waitress his menu with a nod.
“I moved here to live and work,” he continued. “But so far I’ve only got the first one under my belt. The visa situation is... a real pain in the arse.” It was not the most crass phrase he could have used, but it was still something John might have thought better of had she not been the sort of woman to orders pancakes for supper.
“John, by the way.” He held out a hand.
Though it felt strange, Donna took his hand and gave him a shake as manners dictated. Her pancakes arrived as they broke apart and Donna gave the waitress a small and pleasant smile. “Thanks,” she said quietly before turning her attention to John. “I’m Donna,” she said to him.
“Don’t really envy you working through getting a visa. I was lucky. I had some friends working in the right places. Even had a former employer willing to help me out.” Her divorce settlement hadn’t hurt the process from moving along, either, but she wasn’t about to say that. She didn’t know John’s situation. It might have been rude. “But you’ll get there,” Donna said, “Just have to be... patient. Or forceful.” She’d been the latter, of course. “Will there be a certain sort of work you’re looking for?”
“I need to make friends with your friends,” he replied, placing his hands back on the counter. He drummed his fingers on the counter. The tone of his voice took on a darker, slightly more sad and certainly more irritated quality. “It’s a bit complicated for me. I was a surgeon. In the army. Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers... but I don’t go throwing that around. At least, not to impress women.”
But he wasn’t flirting with Donna. Not yet, anyway.
John picked up his cane and gave it a few knocks on the side of the counter. He smiled to diffuse some of the tension he knew talking about the War would cause. “This was my lovely parting gift.”
If Donna was bothered by the mention of war or his being crippled, it didn’t show on her face. She looked from his cane to his leg to his face, sympathy shining through for one moment before it faded. “Lucky you,” she said wryly.
Her reaction was not the typical one, to say the least, and John found himself momentarily confused. Then, he smiled, and quite warmly, too. He gestured to the stool beside her. “May I?”
“Go ahead,” Donna said. As she went on, her tone got just a bit teasing and warmth crept in, “Don’t get any ideas, though.” She smiled and looked up to catch a waitress eyeing them curiously. There was a brief moment where she suddenly felt exposed to the world, but did her best to push through this feeling. She hadn’t flirted with anyone in such a long time that she felt almost awkward.
The cane had slowed him down on that front, but not as much as it apparently should have, according to his therapist. Then again, John had never relied much on his physicality to flirt or pick up women. He was all daring and boldness, and women seemed to respond to that.
But again, he was not flirting with Donna. At least, not yet. At least, he didn’t think so. He hadn’t decided yet. She wasn’t conventionally attractive, but she had a lot of spirit.
“Alright,” he agreed. “No ideas will be gotten, but you must keep up your end of the bargain as well. You would be astonished how many women are looking for men with a limp.” John winked and settled into the place beside her. “So, what do you do?”
John got a small laugh out of Donna. “I have a girl at the office, actually, who was just telling me how she was running herself ragged looking for a fellow with a limp,” she joked. “Might have to pass on your name.” The comfortable space between them became just slightly less comfortable, but Donna reminded herself that nervousness probably had to do with her own issues with men since the divorce. John seemed perfectly alright and a little harmless flirting was just that, harmless. If they were even flirting. Who knew?
“I temp,” Donna said. “It’s very dull. Very menial work. But I’m good at what I do. I’m hoping to get a permanent spot as a secretary eventually.” Because she didn’t especially like the attention, she shifted the subject, “Think you’re going to get back into surgery when you can? Or would you rather do something new?”
John considered her question, pupils dilating somewhat as he stared at the surface countertop. His lips were parted in a thoughtful, though someone uneasy, smile. After a moment, he shook his head. “I really don’t know. Not yet. I’ve been helping out a friend with his work, while I sort things out. He’s a detective. It’s been...” Infuriating. Bewildering. Exciting. “Well, it’s certainly something different.”
Donna noticed the way his features shifted. She also noted the pause. “How’s that work exactly?” she asked, “Do you go with him to crime scenes?” It sounded exciting. Like something someone would do with The Doctor. Or one of The Doctors, at any rate.
He nodded, pausing before speaking only to make room for the arrival of his dinner. “I do. I actually started as his flatmate and he started dragging me along.”
Donna grinned. It sounded quite like they were running off and having adventures. “That sounds... interesting. Do you enjoy it?”
Running off was a subject concept, for a man reliant on a cane. John flexed his brows and lifted his fork. It hovered in the air above his meal. When Sherlock was struck with inspiration, it was like a cyclone of manic energy. They could power the city of Los Angeles with the electricity in the man’s brain. In was dazzling, to be sure, but it was only now that John realized he had ever considered whether or not he was enjoying himself.
“I think so,” he said, sincerely. “It’s intense at times. But... there’s something quite invigorating about it. I suppose that’s the word. Some people grip you. There’s no one like him I’ve met in the world. I mean, the man can read people like a page out of their own diary. The first time we met, he was able to tell me things about myself that no one should know unless I told them: my old job, what roads I’d walked that day, things about the war. He’s arrogant and really quite rude, and he looks about twelve, and I definitely think he might be mad, but he is also strangely likeable. He has charm. But, like I said, it’s all very strange. Strange is the key word, really.”
Donna almost snorted. For how he was describing his friend, John might as well have been describing The Doctor. Suddenly, it occurred to her that he might. It was, after all, a funny little universe. If a rather impressively large group of TARDIS-travelers could reconnect mysteriously in the same area of the world around the same time, it made just as much sense that John might have been one of the Doctor’s friends. “Sounds like your friend could be someone I know.” There was a glimmer of knowing amusement on her face. “Does he have a name?”
John had finally taken his first bite of dinner. He swallowed. “Holmes,” he said. “Sherlock Holmes. Ring any bells?”
Donna had been munching delicately while John had spoken. She let the fork dangle from her fingertips and dance along her plate. "Nah, not really, no." She didn't frown. The fact that there could be multiple mad spirits roaming the world was a good thing.
Had she posed that to him, he was not sure he would have agreed. One was plenty for him. “But you know a similar chap?” he asked.
"Yeah," Donna dragged out the word for longer than was absolutely necessary, a grin curling her lips. "A few, actually. But one of them's my best mate." She paused momentarily, wondering if that was actually still the case, but once it was out of her mouth, she couldn't put it back. She continued on. "They seem like they're an entirely different species. And utterly mad. But good people."
John sipped at his water and cleared his throat a little. The way she was speaking about these people was slightly odd, as if they were all members of something like a club, rather than a typical group of friends. It was not so odd that he thought much of it, but just odd enough that he noticed. He was getting better at noticing things.
“I’m not so sure mine’s a good person. He does fight for them, though,” he said.
"Why do you say that?" Donna was suddenly deeply curious, perhaps because she was imagining this friend of John's as a lonely wandering Time Lord.
“Because he’s... well, maybe you would have to meet him to understand. I can’t do him justice.” But then John had an idea. He pulled out his phone and called up his voicemail. Still saved was a rather snippy message Sherlock had left about wanting john to bring home a very specific brand of laundry detergent and set of cutlery. “Listen for yourself.”
Donna listened to the message, brows knitting together as Sherlock went on. When it was over, she sat back and slid John's phone back to him. "Sounds a bit demanding," she said. "But you can work around that. He doesn't seem so bad. Just a bit... rude." There was a pause. "Maybe you're meant to bring out something better in him."
John chuckled as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. He momentarily paused, wondering if he had just missed an opportunity to get Donna to key in her own phone number. He let it pass, for now. “Just as long as he doesn’t bring out the worst in me,” he said.
Donna only laughed for a moment before responding. "You seem to have a good enough head on your shoulders." She really didn't know this man, and here she was making sweeping generalizations about him. "Think you'll be alright."
“Well, no one’s been murdered,” he said. “Unless we’re talking about a crime investigation...” John’s voice trailed away, cut off by a buzzing of his phone. Unfortunate timing. He had only just put the thing away. He pulled it back out of his pocket and saw that it was a text message. From Sherlock, of course. “Speak of the devil...”
John read the message and sighed. He keyed in a few quick words and placed the phone on the counter. “Oh, we’re in the middle of a case about a stolen piece of jewelry...” he explained. “He wants to visit the house again...”
"Do you have to go?" Donna was grinning, as though this behavior were somehow quaint or charming. Part of her wanted to peer over to see the screen, but she controlled the urge.
He sighed. The phone buzzed again, as if on cue. “Maybe. He’ll probably be cross for the rest of the day if I don’t, but... “ He looked at the screen. “Not sure I always believe him when he says he needs me immediately. Sometimes, he only wants me to change the channel on the radio.”
“Well,” Donna said, “you can’t let him boss you around too badly, can you?” She seemed warm and amused by the spectacle that was John and Sherlock. “Maybe you could show up late, get him trained?” Donna Noble was nothing if she didn’t know how to deal with men. Usually by training them or badgering them into proper behavior.
John almost winced at the idea. “Tried that. Didn’t go well...” Privately, he recalled a morning spent taking notes in his pajamas, because Sherlock hadn’t allowed him the time to dress. “Ah, I should probably go. He’s the one training me, I’m afraid.”
He gave her a bit of a wink as he pulled out his wallet and placed a few bills on the table, enough for his meal and what the Americans called a tip. “Perhaps we’ll run into each other again,” he said, and wondered if it might lead to her offering her number. He had officially decided he wanted it. If it wasn’t offered, he would ask.
If he was trying to give her a message, Donna wasn’t really picking up on it. She just didn’t have the self confidence that made her think strange, not altogether unpleasant looking men were interested in her phone number. She simply believed he was being friendly and that wasn’t unwelcome. “Wouldn’t mind that,” she said, giving him a smile and sliding over a little to give him room to comfortably get out of his seat.
John was about to ask for her number when the phone in his pocket changed from a text message buzz to a more aggressive phone call brrrrzttt. Damn it all. “Shit, I have to bolt. Pleasure running into you.”
“Likewise,” Donna said, giving him a little wave and smile. “Go on, then, don’t want to make him mad.” She watched him go and wondered idly whether they’d see each other again. It wouldn’t be so terrible, dining from time to time with a new friend.