Chapter Text
Once upon a time, long ago in a faraway land, there lived a man named John Smythe. John was a man of simple pleasures but uncommon intelligence... the sort of man who didn’t know the first thing about lawn games but was unbeatable at chess. He took more comfort in scholarly pursuits than the other kinds of sport that the other men of his acquaintance seemed to favor.
While John walked through the town square with his nose stuck firmly in a book, only just managing to refrain from upsetting the apple cart (again) by running into it, most of the other men in town were engaged in a cricket match on the outskirts of town. While John was peering through his telescope and gazing at the stars, the other young men in town were busy waxing poetic about how the only stars they could see were in the eyes of the local barmaids, and crossing their fingers that skirts would lift for their efforts. While John was studying archaeology, descriptions and drawings of bits of pottery and coins, plotting their placements on maps and trying to determine when they could have been left there, the local soldiers were engaging in military drills, practicing the use of their weapons and plotting strategy in the (unlikely) event of war.
It wasn’t that John couldn’t do those things. He was actually quite skilled at all of them - there was nothing that he couldn’t do if he decided he wanted to. He was most certainly capable. He just didn’t want to. He wasn’t at all fond of chasing skirts; quick tumbles didn’t appeal to him, he had much more respect for women than all that. He found most sports to be apelike; who needed to compete for superiority anyway? Really, quite barbaric, that. And he had an outright, visceral dislike for anything and everything that had to do with the military and weaponry. Swords were intended to maim, wound and kill. Cannons were used to destroy and kill. A musket’s only purpose - its sole purpose - was to kill.
John Smythe was no killer, and did not condone violence. He wanted nothing to do with that, at all. He didn’t have the time nor the inclination to lend himself to violence of any sort. He was a man of knowledge, a man of learning. He could explain the dynamics of the royal court of Saxon and Celtic kings in the 11th century, or he could describe the intricate heliocentric orbit of the solar system in great detail. He could describe the process of photosynthesis and explain why apples fall to the ground. John had a firm understanding the workings of the world around him.
For all his genius, however, there were some things that John Smythe could not understand, let alone explain.
He couldn’t understand how a hideous soul could be hidden under a pleasant-looking exterior.
He couldn’t understand why anyone would ever pair exquisite beauty with such hideousness.
He couldn’t understand how someone could hold a rare, delicate flower in the palm of their hand and do anything but thank the good Lord above for blessing them with it.
He couldn’t fathom how people could stand idly by and allow this to happen.
But, perhaps more than anything, he didn’t know what on earth he was going to do about the fact that he was madly in love with Dame Rose Tyler.
@>--->---
John Smythe couldn’t remember anything of the first half of his life. He was unable to recall anything of his past, beyond horrific scenes of fire and screaming, pain and crying all around him. Nothing more. His first clear memory was of finding himself, filthy and wearing ragged clothes, drifting down an unfamiliar road.
A cart pulled up beside him and a woman jumped down, her curls barely constrained by her kerchief, and looked him and down.
“Hello, sweetie,” she said.
“‘Lo,” he’d replied.
“What’s your name?” She’d asked kindly.
He’d racked his brain, knowing that this was something that he should know but coming up with nothing.
“I don’t remember,” he confessed.
“Well now, that won’t do, will it?” She said with a cheery smile and the careless air of someone whose confidence saw them through day-to-day life. “Alright then, we’ll call you ‘John’ for now. So, John, how old are you? Look to have seen about fourteen winters, I’d wager.”
He had felt his face redden beneath all the dirt and soot. He should know this, as well. He didn't. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I don’t know.”
She looked concerned for the first time. “Where are you coming from?”
“I dunno, ma’am. I don’t remember anything.”
“Nothing at all?” Her voice was a little softer now.
“No ma’am.”
“Not even your age? Land of origin?”
“No, ma’am.”
She considered him for a moment, not too terribly long, then clapped her hands together in front of her, a decisive gesture. “Right! Well, John, if you don’t know where you’ve been you can’t know where you’re going, can you? Lucky for you, I know exactly where I’m going, and I have a seat right up here on my cart. So why don’t you hop up here with me and I’ll take you to my library. That’s it, up you go.” She held out her hand as if to guide him into her cart, then made her way to the other side, climbing into her seat. Taking the reins, she looked over at him and gave a bright smile.
“By the by, my name is River. River Song. You and I are going to be fast friends, I think, John.”
She tapped the horses' backs with the reins and off they went, into John's future.
@>--->---
River’s home had indeed been attached to a library, and once there, she had given him clean clothes and shoved him towards a bath, announcing in no uncertain terms that he smelled like the dead.
That had hurt for some reason, but he didn’t know why.
She’d burned his clothes - everything save a leather satchel he’d had slung over his shoulder and a bronze medallion he’d been wearing around his neck. The medallion had had an emblem on it, an elaborate pattern of figure-eights, but inside the satchel there was nothing but papers written in an odd-looking manuscript made up of circles, dots and lines. John asked River if she knew what any of it meant, but River only shook her head.
“I’m sorry, sweetie, but I’m afraid I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll be happy to research it for you, though,” she offered.
John just shrugged. It seemed familiar to him, but he didn’t much care. He was warm, fed and River was nice to him. Looking back made no sense at the moment. He was content now, and now was enough.
He was grateful when River bestowed a second name on him that wasn’t her own...he didn’t think he would have liked being known as “John Song.” Instead, she named him “John Smythe,” as it was the most common name she knew of. She gave him a warm smile when she told him of his new name, saying that it was only fitting for such an uncommon boy to have such a common name. It simply wouldn’t be fair otherwise, she said.
River was the curator of the library, and she named John as her apprentice. This was a cover, however, a ruse set in motion by her. Young men who were not promised to a trade were snatched up by the military, and River refused to let John be taken away into a life she saw as barbaric. He was very grateful, for something about the military and a life of war was deeply, deeply unsettling to him, as well. He wanted nothing to do with it, and was thankful for the opportunity to stay behind and take over the library for River.
“Oh, no,” she laughed. “You’ll not be taking over for me. One day, you’ll leave me and go to seek your own fortune, sweetie. Your future isn’t tied up in the basement of some library. No, no, not at all. You’re meant to live a big life, a full life, and that’s what I’m trying to give you. That’s why you’re getting your education. Books!” She cried, and tossed her hands in the air with a tome in each one. “Books are the greatest weapon one could ever have! Fight your battles with knowledge, sweetie!”
Young John was confused, but he did as he was instructed. He always did. His gratitude demanded it.
Over the many years he stayed with River, he grew in knowledge, reading constantly as he was encouraged to do. River even bestowed a nickname upon him for his studiousness, calling him “the little Doctor.” John took umbrage to the ‘little’ part, but he thought the ‘Doctor’ bit rather dashing, so he kept it.
One day, after a dozen winters with River, she came to him. The Doctor closed the book on greco-roman history he’d been reading, leaving his finger in to mark his place.
“What is it, River?”
“Sweetie, I’m dying.”
He just looked at her, dumbstruck.
“You can’t be! Look at you! Healthy as a horse! Not that all horses are healthy, really, nor that you look like horse, of course, but…”
She held up a hand to stop him, as she had done so many times over so many years. “I am, Doctor. I’ll be gone by week’s end.”
He protested again, but she just raised her hand once more and he quieted. “It’s alright, sweetie. There’s a big world out there, and this is what I wanted for you. I want you to go have a big life. Run. See everything you’ve only read about. Travel. And when you’ve had all the fun you can stand, I want you to come back to this land," she indicated something in her hand, "The Powell estates. And you'll go to this place.”
River handed him a slip of paper. On it was written the name of an inn.
“It's called the Tardis Inn. The innkeeper’s name is Clara," River continued. "Clara Oswald. She is my friend, and she has been for many years.”
“She can’t be that great of a friend. I’ve never met her,” he said, petulant.
River ignored him. “Clara has a message for you, from me. But she is under very strict instructions not to give that message to you until the right moment. She will know when that moment is. You won’t. I need you to trust her.”
“This is mad, River!” The Doctor cried out. “All of this! I can find a cure for whatever ails you! There has to be a way...just give me time!”
“Clara will have room for you and will help you find a job. You won’t be alone so long as you have her. She will be your friend and will help you along, just as I have.”
“I won’t go," he protested, angry at the tears pricking his eyes. "I won’t leave you.”
“You’ll leave in the morning, or I’ll chain you to the well in the town square and leave you there. Please don’t make me be mean to you, sweetie. Please let us part on good terms.”
The Doctor felt his eyes swell with tears. “Don’t send me away. I know I can heal you. I’m the Doctor, yeah? Let me research -”
River raised her hand again. “I already have,” she said. “Go now. Pack, then leave at first light. Go to Barcelona. Go see the glass pyramids. Go to the singing towers. See the things I never will. See them for me.”
“But what about the library?” He tried.
“Oh, it’ll be alright,” she pooh-poohed, looking around fondly. “Someone will take it up.” She looked back at him, her eyes stern. “But not you. You’re off to have mad adventures, sweetie.”
“I don’t want to go,” he whispered.
“You have to,” she said, firm. “Now, enough of that. Go pack. You can leave in the morning. Why don’t you pack for warm weather and head to the tropics, yeah?” She gave him a bracing smile and a raise of the eyebrows, then patted his cheek.
The next morning he hugged River goodbye and climbed onto the back of his horse, and old, faithful mare. He waved farewell to her - the only family he had ever known - and turned away from the place that had been his home for the last twelve years - nearly half of his life.
Since he had come to live with River Song, he’d followed her direction. She had loved him and had always taken his thoughts and feelings into consideration, but when she had instructed him to do something, he’d done it with little to no questioning of her or wavering from the path set for him.
She wanted him to go out and have a big life, but just now, riding on the back of his horse with shoulders slumped with grief and sorrow, he felt very small and alone. He didn’t want a big new life, he wanted his small, old life. He wanted the comfort of his little room in the library. Of his books. He wanted River and the familiar.
For the first time, John Smythe completely disregarded River’s wishes and instead of travelling the world, he turned his horse and headed directly towards the Powell Estates and the Tardis Inn.
River had said that this Clara was a friend and as long as she was around, he would never be alone.
John didn't need a big life. John needed a friend.