Work Text:
Alone in the Dark
When Alistair stepped out of the theater, he was greeted by the strange darkness one only sees after entering a building in the day and exiting in the night. A cool wind sent his hands into his pockets as he glanced around with a dazed smile on his face. People moved in pairs around him. They chatted. They grinned. They argued about who had fallen asleep during the best portions of the show, and who had finished the snacks they were meant to share.
When yet another pair - a couple in their nineties who walked arm in arm down the steps with the help of a young usher - were back in their cars, Alistair rolled his eyes and went back inside the theater to search for his own companion.
“Doctor!” he called, casting his eyes around the yellow-lit entranceway. A chandelier glistened above his head, sparkling with mesmerizing diamonds. A burst of purple entered the glass beads of the chandelier, and when Alistair looked ahead again, he knew why.
The Doctor burst toward him with a bright smile (brighter, almost, than his purple suit with matching purple and black cape).
“Brigadier, you won’t believe this,” he said excitedly, “This chap here wants to interview me for the newspaper.”
Alistair felt around his pocket for his car keys. Feigning interest, he asked, “What newspaper?”
“One of the theater magazines. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Wonderful, Doctor, would be getting home sometime before tomorrow. Sunday is my only day off, you know, and I want to fit a lot into-”
“Yes, yes Brigadier. I’ll only be a moment, I promise!” The Doctor started off toward a skinny man with a camera bigger than his hands and a mismatched suit. “Tell you what,” the Doctor said, spinning back around, “You go start up the car and I’ll meet you there.”
“Doctor-”
“Five minutes, Brigadier! That’s all I ask.”
With that, the Doctor was gone, separated from the Brigadier by a large crowd of theatergoers and a screen they’d put up to shield the interview area from the rest of the hall. Alistair sighed deeply, then popped the collar of his jacket. Pulling out his keys, he went back into the chilly night air alone.
Something told him he would wait longer than five minutes for his companion to be finished with the spotlight.
. . . . .
The night was gorgeous, it had to be said. Chilly, like an October evening should be. But gorgeous nonetheless.
Leaves tap danced across the street, billowing under a late bus and into the gutter. Alistair’s shoes made a satisfying click against the pavement as he walked, hands in the pockets of his London fog and smile bright as he passed a few theatergoers parked nearer the building than himself. Turning round the corner, the sounds from the theater faded with every step. This road was a little darker than he’d like; one of the streetlights had blown out and there was decidedly less footraffic than the theater road. But Alistair carried on walking, glancing at his watch to see that the Doctor’s five minutes was nearly at its end.
When he heard footsteps and voices ahead, he paused. Tilted his head. Squinted through the dark, trying to distinguish shapes. But before he could make out more than the briefest shadows of a human figure-
“C’mere,” a deep voice growled in his ear.
Hands grabbed him by the shoulder, the coat. One grubby hand covered his mouth, pressing against his face so suddenly his heart leaped into his throat.
Alistair struggled. He pushed this way and that, rolled his shoulders, kicked out his legs. But even in the whirlwind of the attack, he saw that there were three of them against just one of him. He knew when he was outnumbered.
Now, if only he knew exactly where he was.
“Wallet. Now.”
Alistair shook his head and found himself against the wall of an alley, conveniently located beside the burned out lamppost. He wondered briefly which had come first - the lamp, burned out to create an opportune place for a mugging or the group of muggers, conspiring to burn out the lamp. But his wondering was cut off by a glistening object in the faint moonlight.
A knife, in one of the young men’s hands.
“Wallet,” the voice demanded.
The voice of a boy. Someone younger than the youngest soldiers in UNIT. Alistair frowned at him and his wired eyes, wide with fright.
Against his will, a spike of fear ran through Alistair’s veins. Automatic reactions churned through his brain. He kicked out, rather before he’d consciously decided to do so. He shoved against the arms holding him against the wall. Breathing harsh, he made eye contact with the boy with the knife.
When he’d finally pushed the hand off of his mouth, Alistair spat onto the ground and shook his head.
“Get off of me,” he said, louder than he meant.
The boy’s eyes darted toward the pavement, the knife dancing in his shaking hands. His ears perked up, then his head.
“Do you hear the coppers?” one of the other boys asked, still holding the struggling Alistair’s shirt.
“Do you?” The knife-carrier asked, his eyes widening yet more until they took up half of his angular face.
“Get on with it!” The third boy urged, locking his hand over Alistair’s mouth again.
The boy glanced to the knife in his hand, then to the pavement. His ears perked up again.
“Christ, I think I hear the coppers.”
“Hurry up!”
Alistair could not hear whatever sound the boy thought he heard. To be fair, he could barely hear their conversation, with his heart thumping in his ears the way it was. Once again, he pushed against the arms restraining him, thrashed his head against the hand clamped over his mouth. But it was no good; no good at all. Three boys had him held up in a dark alley and the Doctor was being coddled by an interviewer and-
A sound erupted from Alistair’s throat, a shouted scream muffled by the hand still clamped over his mouth. The world - that beautiful October night - dimmed for a moment as pain exploded from the left side of his torso. Murmured voices spoke frantic words around him. What those words were, he didn’t know. All he knew was the sharp pain, the dulled senses ebbing in and out, the world tilting and strobing in and out of focus.
His legs dropped steadily downward until his knees sank into a puddle on the ground, the leftover water of today’s light rain. He’d remarked about the clouds to Liz Shaw, back at UNIT HQ. One had reminded him of a dog he owned as a boy. Another looked like the Minister of Health. Liz had agreed, and they’d shared a long laugh alone in the courtyard.
It was remarkable how much one’s life could change in the course of a single day.
The hand on his mouth was gone, now tearing the London fog from his shoulders. Once his coat was on the filthy ground, hands started rifling through the jacket of his suit. One bumped into his injury, bringing out another unconscious scream. Alistair’s head tilted slightly as he swayed, held up only by the boys’ strong, shaking hands on his arms.
The boys, it seemed, were frightened by his latest shout. They murmured to each other, and then shoved away from him. Their footsteps crashed along the alleyway. Three boys running off with his wallet and the bloodied knife that had stabbed him.
Oh God, he’d been stabbed!
Alistair’s bleary eyes looked downward. Even with the lamppost out, he could see a dark stain just under his ribs. Dark red against the white of his button-down. Part of the stain was hidden beneath his suit jacket. It probably extended to his side, maybe even his back.
His hands hovered above his torso. They were shaking terribly, unsure what to do. Unsure where to start.
A man kneeling on the wet asphalt of a dark alley with a stab wound. What would that report look like? Damn, he was used to making the reports, not being a part of them!
Alistair blinked a few times back into focus, until he could make out the words on the advertisement pasted to the wall across from him. “Doctor,” he breathed. He knew full well that the Doctor couldn’t hear him. But he had to speak. Had to do something other than kneel here in this alley and bleed.
“Doctor,” he repeated, as his vision darkened around the edges. The words on the advertisement blurred out of recognition. “Hurry.”
With that, Alistair felt his body slip down to the ground. He managed to throw an arm out to catch himself before his body hit the pavement. But his arm was so weak it crumpled almost immediately anyway, sending him crashing down despite his efforts. A breath gasped out of his lungs as he slowly turned himself over, onto his side.
He’d picked the wrong side.
He was turned toward the alley with his back to the street. Passersby would think he was sleeping; homeless or drunk or any number of other things (the Doctor would remind him at this point that no one should be left sleeping in a darkened alleyway in the middle of the night, to which Alistair would explain that though he agreed, 1970s London wasn’t an ideal world and they couldn’t repair it all themselves. He and the Doctor and their chats. Would they ever have another?).
There was no more energy left in his body to stay awake. He couldn’t even try to keep his eyes open; they shut, opened in terror once, and then shut again for good.
Alistair’s arms went slack beside him, and he knew no more.
. . . . .
“Alistair?” the Doctor spun on his heel, looking up and down the theater road. He’d thought Alistair would wait for him. He usually did, even when he promised to go ‘warm up the car’. But this time, it seemed, Alistair really hadn’t waited for him.
Shaking his head, the Doctor checked his watch. He’d only been...alright, he’d kept the interviewer for twenty minutes. But that was hardly enough time to begin a proper discussion about the theater. In fact, the Doctor had plenty more material he could discuss…
But that was for a different time. Because right now the Brigadier was waiting for him, and he’d be more and more cross with every passing second. If the Doctor didn’t show up soon, he might even leave without him. That wouldn’t be an enjoyable experience, to say the least. UNIT HQ was a long walk from here.
So the Doctor put his hands in his pockets, burrowed his neck into the safety of his cape, and started toward the car.
The night was cold and getting colder. Autumn started early this year, and she was making her presence known. Hardly anyone even dared leave their house tonight. That, or they’d all rushed home after their respective parties and theater nights and drinking sessions. The streets were nearly deserted.
It was actually quite unsettling.
The Doctor turned around the block and found it incredibly dark. He paused for an instant, and then whipped out his sonic screwdriver. Someone had forgotten to repair a damaged light post; that was all. There was nothing of the horror genre involved. Just a silly electrical problem.
With a flick of a switch, the light was again lit, brightening up the street tremendously. The Doctor stashed his device into his coat pocket with a proud little smile.
But then his eye caught something. A figure, lying in the alleyway beside him.
His first reaction was to jump. It was, after all, an unexpected sight. And he was a little bit...unsettled by the darkness of the night and the emptiness of the streets. But once he’d discovered that it was a normal human sleeping on the pavement, he relaxed.
Until he noticed the man’s attire.
The London fog coat crumpled against the brick wall of the left building. The black suit jacket with the dark brown trousers. The shoes that he’d helped Liz Shaw pick out as a birthday present for-
“Alistair!”
The Doctor surged forward, kneeling to the ground on the opposite side of the man.
And there he was. There was no doubt about it now. The moustache, the short black hair, the silver watch - they all belonged to Alistair. Only now there was something else that belonged to him: a terrible injury.
The Doctor set one gloved hand on Alistair’s shoulder as he studied the unconscious, slackened features of Alistair’s face. His brows were furrowed slightly, even as he slept. It must’ve been a hell of an attack, to leave the man in this state. Was it one of their latest world conquest-seekers; someone UNIT had missed? Or was it something else entirely?
The Doctor shook off these thoughts. He didn’t know the answers, and these weren’t the questions he needed answering right now.
With his other hand, the Doctor carefully peeled away Alistair’s jacket. He unbuttoned the shirt enough to tear the fabric away from the injury so he could inspect it. When he did, he frowned sharply.
This was no alien attack. This was a stab wound, plain and simple. The Doctor had seen enough of them in his time. This one was jagged, uneven. A novice. Or an idiot. Or, perhaps, both.
“Alistair,” the Doctor breathed. He shook him by the shoulder, but Alistair remained completely unaware of the world around him. A spike of anxiety punched through the Doctor’s gut. “Alistair, please wake up.”
Still no response.
The Doctor ripped off his gloves and set a hand on Alistair’s cheek. He was chilled, but that was to be expected on a night like this. Running his hand down to Alistair’s neck, he checked his pulse. It was there, and it was steady. But he really was too cold. Too lifeless. The sight of him, pale and resting his face directly on the pavement, was more than a little unnerving.
The Doctor carefully turned Alistair’s face away from the filthy ground and his body onto his back, maneuvering his own cape beneath Alistair’s head as a sort of pillow. It was mostly a waste of precious time, but it made the Doctor feel a little bit better about the whole thing. The guilt was settling in. Staying behind for the blasted interview, chatting about theater shows while Alistair bled alone in an alleyway.
He shook his head and pressed his hands into Alistair’s injury. Thinking would do no good. This was a time for action. For getting critical help. For saving Alistair’s life.
“Help!” the Doctor cried, glancing up to find that nobody was there. “Help me! My friend is injured!”
The words weren’t enough. Alistair was more than a friend. He’d taken the Doctor in when he was homeless, abandoned to a world that wasn’t his own. And ‘injured’ didn’t quite convey the feeling of Alistair’s blood soaking through three layers of clothing to bathe the Doctor’s hand in red; the pale claminess of Alistair’s skin; the shallow breaths rasping between his slightly parted lips.
“Stay with me,” the Doctor begged, touching a blood-stained hand to Alistair’s cheek. “I’m here, old chap. Just stay with me.” The Doctor looked up again, turning teary eyes this way and that. “HELP!”
He’d have to leave to find help. There must be a phonebox nearby (if only he had the TARDIS right now! Damned Timelords! Damned blocked memories!). He’d call for an ambulance, but first he’d need to leave Alistair.
Only, Alistair might not last for a few minutes without someone putting pressure on his wound. There was no telling how much blood he’d already lost. His breathing was shallow, his skin pale. Those weren’t good signs. No, they were quite the opposite.
“HELP!”
“Sir?!” a young man appeared, one of the ushers of the evening. He was a tall and skinny lad, drowning in a white button-down that hung around his frame like a multi-folded piece of paper. He turned wide eyes across the scene in front of him and let his mouth fall agape.
“Call an ambulance,” said the Doctor, pressing his hands harder into Alistair’s abdomen and praying the man couldn’t feel what was being done to him. “Tell them where we are, and that a man’s been stabbed.”
The boy paled visibly, but nodded his head and tore off down the road, presumably to a phonebox.
Trusting the man with something more precious than his own life, the Doctor turned back to his charge.
“Alistair?” He touched Alistair’s cheek again, running a soothing thumb down his skin. “You’re going to be alright. I promise. And,” he swallowed thickly, shaking his head, “I am never leaving your side again.”
He continued to stare at Alistair for another long moment. His own hands were numb - from the cold, from the force of his pressure on Alistair’s injury. But nothing would tear him away. Nothing would make him worry about anything but his friend’s condition.
“Sir?” The young man appeared and knelt at the Doctor’s side. He cast a shy glance down at Alistair, and then shook himself back into focus. “The ambulance is on its way. There’s a hospital five minutes away or so.”
“Thank you.” The Doctor breathed out and forced a quick smile. “You might’ve saved his life tonight, you know?”
The boy’s face lit up, but he shook his head with a nervous smile. “I-I just phoned. I’m just an usher.”
“And tonight, that makes you a hero.” The Doctor flashed another smile the boy’s way before he turned back to Alistair. “It’s getting cold.”
“Y-yes, it is sir.”
The Doctor frowned. He could see his breath when he spoke, and felt the wind whipping at the tops of his hands.
“You see that coat over there?”
“The London Fog?”
“Yes. Bring it here.”
The boy did as instructed, then held the coat awkwardly in his hands. He had a white knuckle grip that the Doctor didn’t fail to notice.
“Set it over him, if you can. That’s it, adjust it there-thank you.”
The boy sat back on his haunches, looking over his work. Alistair was covered from knee to shoulder with his coat, as the Doctor continued to press his hands against his injury.
The young man was quiet for a long moment. Then, stammering, he asked, “Is...is he going to be ok?”
“Yes,” said the Doctor automatically. “Yes, I’m sure of it.”
He wasn’t sure of much of anything. He was sure that Alistair was a couple degrees colder than he should be. He was sure he’d never been angrier with himself for letting this happen. He was sure that he would never underestimate a London mugger again. But otherwise, the world was built of uncertainties.
It unnerved the Doctor.
No, more than that.
It scared him.
“Alistair,” he said, hearing the beginnings of a siren’s wail in the distance, “You’re going to be fine.”
He repeated this phrase until he believed it, and then he continued to repeat it. By the time the ambulance arrived, the young usher had joined in his mantra, stroking Alistair’s shoulder with a trembling hand.
A week later, the doctor at the hospital said the same phrase, with a smile and a pat on the shoulder of a conscious - and very alive - Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart.