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The Doctor had decided he was going to a ball.
Not because the universe was ending, which was generally his preferred reason for attending social functions. He simply fancied it, and after a few centuries of running about in the same coat and being expected to save everyone from absolutely everything, he had decided that there were moments when a man ought to be allowed to dress properly, go somewhere pleasant and spend an evening without anything going wrong.
The trouble was that the Doctor had discovered, rather too late, that Regency dancing was considerably more complicated than it seemed.
The TARDIS had endured three weeks of it, which was longer than most people would have tolerated and considerably longer than the Doctor himself thought necessary, though he had somehow continued. Chairs had been dragged into various configurations across the console room, a length of rope had been tied between two coral struts to serve as an imaginary dance partner and abandoned after the Doctor became annoyed when the rope refused to follow his lead, and somewhere in the depths of the ship he'd found an old gramophone which had taken the better part of an afternoon to persuade into producing something resembling music.
He'd also gotten far too many books. Etiquette, country dances, courtship, the proper forms of address, the history of the waltz. The history had turned out to be considerably more interesting than he'd expected and considerably less useful than he'd hoped, although the Doctor had read it twice anyway. At present he was attempting to perfect a bow, which involved considerably more concentration than one might expect from something that, in theory, consisted largely of bending at the waist.
He stepped forward, turned with a flourish and dipped towards an entirely imaginary lady, only for his heel to catch the leg of a chair.
The chair tipped sideways and the Doctor caught it just before it struck the floor. He straightened it, brushed a hand over his waistcoat and looked around the empty console room as though somebody might have witnessed the incident.
"Perfect."
The TARDIS hummed.
He glanced towards the console.
"That sounded sarcastic."
The ship gave another low, rather unimpressed groan.
"Really, you could try being supportive."
Another hum answered him.
"You're jealous."
He adjusted the chair by an inch.
"I can tell."
The TARDIS gave one final grumble.
"Oh, don't be like that."
He brushed an invisible speck from the sleeve of his evening coat and checked himself in one of the brass panels beside the console. Black coat, waistcoat, white cravat, shoes polished enough to see his reflection in. He looked rather good, at least by his own estimation, and he had spent enough time preparing that he wasn't going to let a chair undermine the whole thing.
"Tonight," he announced, "I shall be perfectly ordinary."
The TARDIS made a noise which was suspiciously close to laughter.
The Doctor pointed at the console.
"That is very hurtful."
The ball was being held in a country house outside London, and for once the Doctor had arrived without immediately being chased, arrested, shot at or asked to explain the existence of his blue box. He stood just inside the ballroom and took it all in, momentarily forgetting about his carefully rehearsed entrance.
Candles burned in enormous chandeliers overhead, throwing warm light across polished floors and the glitter of silk, jewels and black evening coats. Music drifted through the room while couples moved in measured patterns beneath the chandeliers. Gentlemen with military bearing spoke in quiet groups along the walls, ladies adjusted fans and masks and servants moved between them with trays of champagne. Everywhere he looked there was movement and conversation, the comfortable hum of people who had come expecting to enjoy themselves.
The Doctor smiled.
Oh, yes.
This had been a very good idea.
He took a breath and walked into the room.
A gentleman passing him paused, inclined his head and moved on.
The Doctor bowed, perhaps a little more deeply than necessary.
The gentleman blinked.
The Doctor straightened.
"Good evening."
"Good evening."
The gentleman continued on his way.
The Doctor watched him disappear into the crowd before glancing down at himself. He was beginning to wonder whether dancing might be easier if he had something to drink when he noticed the woman standing by the window.
She wasn't watching the dancers, which was the first thing he noticed. Most people in the room were watching everyone else, checking who was talking to whom, who had arrived with whom and whether anyone important had noticed them. This woman seemed to have very little interest in any of it. She stood alone beside one of the tall windows, dressed in pale blue with silver embroidery catching the candlelight, a small silver mask covering the upper half of her face although it did little to disguise the expression beneath it.
She looked bored.
The Doctor knew boredom.
Boredom was dangerous.
He crossed the room.
"You're not dancing."
She turned her head.
"Neither are you."
"Ah, but I'm preparing."
"For what?"
"Dancing."
She gave him a slow look.
"You've been preparing to dance? That explains the shoes."
The Doctor glanced down.
"What is wrong with my shoes?"
"Nothing. They're very shiny."
"Thank you."
"I wasn't complimenting them."
"Still counts."
She looked back towards the dancers, apparently deciding that whatever conversation had just begun was unlikely to improve her evening.
"You always interrupt strangers?"
"Only the interesting ones."
"That's unfortunate."
"Why?"
"I was hoping to have a quiet evening."
"Then you've come to entirely the wrong room."
"Clearly."
There was something familiar about the way she said it. Not the words themselves, but the tone, a sort of dry patience that suggested she'd already decided he was ridiculous and was waiting to see whether he would prove her right.
The Doctor liked her immediately.
"Are you hiding?"
"No."
"Investigating?"
"No."
"Running away?"
"Not yet."
"Would you like to?"
She finally looked at him again.
"For a man who's been practising his dancing, you seem remarkably interested in escaping."
"I contain multitudes."
"You contain something."
He smiled.
"That's terribly rude."
"So I've been told."
The music changed before either of them could say anything else, and the Doctor glanced towards the dance floor.
"Well?"
She frowned.
"Well what?"
"Come and see whether all this practice was worth it."
She held out her hand.
He stared at it for half a second, surprised enough that he forgot whatever clever response had been forming, then took it.
"With pleasure."
She led him onto the floor.
The first few steps were easy. The Doctor had learned the sequence, the turns, where his feet were supposed to go and, more importantly, where they weren't. For once, all those hours of practice paid off. His confidence returned almost at once, and the awkwardness that had followed him through the ballroom vanished as soon as he had something definite to do with his hands and feet.
"There," he said, unable to resist. "You see?"
"I see."
"You're impressed."
"I'm reserving judgement."
"Cruel."
"You'll survive."
"Almost certainly."
He turned her and she followed perfectly, so he tried something else. She anticipated him. His eyebrows rose, and when he changed direction she went with him without missing a step.
Another turn, another change, and she laughed.
"You are testing me."
"I might be."
"You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
He led her through another sequence and she followed without hesitation. The Doctor grinned despite himself.
"You're very good."
"So are you."
"I know."
She laughed again, and there it was.
That laugh.
Something in him caught on it.
For one strange second the ballroom seemed to tilt, not physically but somewhere behind his eyes, as though he'd opened a door onto a room he couldn't quite remember entering. A feeling passed through him so quickly that he almost dismissed it, except the woman was still there when he blinked, watching him with a small crease between her brows.
"You all right?"
"Perfectly."
"You're staring."
"Yes."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Do you always admit it?"
"It saves time."
A smile appeared at the corner of her mouth.
He liked that smile too.
"What's your name?"
She hesitated.
"Why?"
"Because I'd like to know."
"That's not much of a reason."
"I've got more."
"Go on."
"I've forgotten them."
She laughed under her breath.
"Clara."
The name struck him so hard that he stopped moving.
She nearly collided with him.
"Doctor?"
He stared at her.
"What did you call me?"
She frowned.
"I said my name."
"No. After that."
"I said Clara."
"You said—"
He stopped himself, because she was looking at him with the same bewilderment he felt.
"Doctor?"
His face had changed and he knew she could see it. He hadn't told her. He hadn't introduced himself at all.
"How did you know my name?"
"I don't."
"You just said it."
"I've got a fairly good guess."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
The answer unsettled him more than it should have.
Then someone screamed.
The ballroom erupted.
The music stopped so abruptly that the silence seemed louder than the noise which followed. People crowded together near the doors, voices rising over one another, and the Doctor was moving before he'd consciously decided to move. He pushed through the gathering crowd and found a man lying on the floor with blood soaking through his shirt.
The Doctor dropped beside him.
"No pulse."
He examined the wound. A single puncture beneath the ribs, clean and recent. He checked the man's neck once more even though he already knew there was nothing to find.
"Dead."
Clara had followed him.
She crouched beside the body and looked at the blood rather than the dead man's face.
"How long?"
The Doctor glanced at her.
"You've done this before?"
"No."
She pointed to the man's shirt.
"But the blood is very fresh, so ten minutes?"
"Closer to eight."
"That's very reassuring." She frowned.
"I wasn't trying to reassure you."
"You might want to try."
The Doctor rose and looked around the room. There were too many people, too many possible motives and too many people who had already begun whispering that they had seen something. Murders at parties were always inconvenient. Everyone had an alibi.
Then Clara's hand closed around his sleeve.
"Doctor."
He followed her gaze.
Across the ballroom stood a man in a dark coat. He wasn't looking at the body.
He was looking at them.
Their eyes met.
The man smiled.
Then he disappeared behind a group of dancers.
The Doctor's expression hardened.
"Stay here."
Clara folded her arms.
"No."
"Clara."
"Don't use that voice."
"What voice?"
"The one that means you're about to do something stupid and want me to stay behind."
"I don't do stupid things."
She stared at him.
"Right, because that's definitely true."
"This could be dangerous." He finally caved.
"So could staying here. I could end up like that." She said gesturing towards the corpse.
"That's true."
He offered her his arm.
"Come along, then."
She looked at it, then back at him.
"That was quick."
"I've always admired commitment."
She slipped her hand through his arm.
"You're going to be trouble, aren't you?"
The Doctor smiled.
"Almost certainly."
They slipped through a narrow door behind the musicians and found themselves in a quiet corridor, the ballroom becoming a muffled blur behind the wall. Clara leaned against it for a moment and took a breath.
"You know, most people would be frightened, are you?"
She considered lying and decided against it.
"Yes."
"Good."
She looked at him.
"Good?"
"It means you've got sense."
"I thought you liked dangerous women."
"I do."
"Then perhaps I'm disappointing you."
"Not remotely."
The answer came too quickly.
Clara smiled.
"You're very easy to embarrass."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"I'll have to work on that."
"No, don't."
"Why not?"
"It's rather charming."
They continued down the corridor. After a few moments Clara caught him looking back.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You keep checking."
"I like knowing where you are."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Clara's expression softened.
"I'm here."
He turned away before she could see quite how much the answer affected him.
They found an empty drawing room and shut the door behind them. The Doctor immediately began pacing, one hand running through his hair as he tried to fit the pieces together.
"The killer knew where the victim would be."
Clara watched him.
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Thinking out loud."
"I find it useful."
"You find it impossible not to."
"That too."
He stopped near the fireplace.
"The victim wasn't chosen at random."
"Why?"
"He wasn't carrying anything valuable. No sign of a robbery and no struggle."
"So the killer wanted him dead."
"Precisely."
"And you think they knew each other."
"I think the killer knew something about him."
Clara wandered towards the writing desk.
"There are names on this."
The Doctor came to her.
An invitation list lay open on the desk. Several names had been marked.
He read them, and his expression changed.
"Interesting."
"What?"
"They're all here."
"Everyone on the list?"
"Everyone who matters."
She glanced at him.
"You say that as though there's a difference."
"There usually is."
She turned back to the papers.
"Who are they?"
"Witnesses."
"Witnesses to what?"
The Doctor's eyes narrowed.
"That's what we're going to find out."
Clara studied him for a moment before asking, more quietly, "Why are you staring at me again?"
"I've no idea."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
She smiled.
"You really don't remember me?"
The Doctor went still.
"Should I?"
"I don't know."
"That's a rather ominous answer."
"I've had an odd life."
"So have I."
"Then perhaps you should tell me yours."
"That would take rather a long time."
"I've got tonight."
He smiled faintly.
"So have I."
Something in his expression made her stop smiling.
He looked tired.
Not physically. There was something older in him than his face suggested, something worn down by too many things he had never quite managed to leave behind.
"Who hurt you?" she asked.
He stared at her.
"That's an impertinent question."
"Probably."
"You've only just met me."
"I know."
"Yet you ask."
"Yes."
He looked towards the window. For once there was no clever answer waiting behind his eyes.
"Everyone," he said.
Clara didn't reply.
She stepped closer instead.
His cravat had slipped crooked during the chase, and without thinking she reached up and straightened it. The Doctor went very still beneath her hands.
"There."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Neither moved.
Clara became aware of how close they were, and when she looked up she found that the Doctor had noticed too. The usual brightness was still there, but beneath it was something quieter and far more vulnerable than she had expected to find.
"Clara."
"Yes?"
"I don't understand you."
She smiled.
"Join the club."
He laughed, and this time there was nothing theatrical about it. It was a genuine laugh, warm and unguarded, and Clara found herself wanting to hear it again.
"We should find the murderer," she said eventually.
"We should."
He reached for the door.
Clara followed.
"I was enjoying that, you know."
The Doctor glanced back at her.
"So was I."
They returned to the ballroom.
The body had been removed, though nobody had forgotten what had happened. Conversations had resumed in small, nervous clusters and the musicians were waiting uncertainly near the far end of the room. The Doctor moved through the crowd with a different purpose now, his attention darting from face to face as he tried to work out which of them belonged to the list on the desk.
Clara watched him.
He was different from the man who had arrived wanting to dance. Somewhere between the murder and the discovery of the names, the frivolous stranger with the polished shoes had disappeared. In his place was the Doctor she was beginning to suspect existed beneath the jokes: alert, restless and carrying a sadness he had become very good at hiding.
"You can't save everyone."
He looked at her.
"I know."
"No, you don't."
His eyes remained on hers.
"I've learned."
"That's not the same thing."
"No."
The music began again.
The Doctor held out his hand.
"One more?"
She looked towards the dancers, then back at him.
"Are you sure this is the time?"
"Absolutely not."
She laughed and took his hand.
They returned to the floor.
This dance was slower and quieter than the first. His hand settled at her waist with careful restraint while hers rested against his shoulder, and for a while they moved together without speaking. The Doctor seemed almost content to let the music carry them, which Clara suspected was unusual for him.
After a while she said, "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone older."
He looked scandalised.
"Older?"
"Yes."
"I don't look old."
"You look like you've argued with several centuries and lost track of which ones."
"I've argued with considerably more than several."
"I believe you."
He smiled.
"What did you expect me to look like?"
"I don't know."
"That's terribly vague."
"I'd only just met you."
"Fair."
They continued around the room.
The Doctor watched her over the edge of her mask.
"Sometimes I meet someone and I know them."
Clara's smile faded.
"You know me?"
"Not properly."
"But you feel as though you do."
"Yes."
"How?"
"I don't know."
She gave him a look.
"That's becoming your favourite answer."
"It has the advantage of being true."
She was quiet for a moment.
Then she asked, "Have you felt it before?"
"Yes."
"With me?"
The Doctor didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Clara understood.
The music ended, but neither immediately let go. Eventually they slipped outside onto the terrace, where cold air swept over them and the gardens stretched below in darkness, silvered by moonlight.
The Doctor leaned against the stone railing.
"Beautiful."
Clara followed his gaze.
"The gardens?"
He looked at her.
"No."
She stared at him.
For once, the Doctor looked genuinely embarrassed.
"That was rather forward."
"Very."
"I apologise."
"I didn't say I minded."
He smiled.
"I like you."
The words were quiet, almost uncertain.
Clara's heart skipped.
"I like you too."
He stepped closer.
"Clara..."
She shook her head.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Think too much."
"I always think too much."
"Then for once, don't."
She kissed him.
The Doctor froze for a heartbeat, surprise flashing across his face before his hand rose to her cheek and he kissed her back. There was no grand declaration and no music swelling at precisely the right moment. There was only the cold night air, the warmth of his hand against her face and the strange sensation that she had somehow been waiting for this without knowing it.
When they parted, neither went far.
The Doctor looked almost bewildered.
"Well."
Clara smiled.
"Well?"
"I wasn't expecting that."
"Neither was I."
He glanced at her mouth.
"Would you do it again?"
She laughed softly.
"You're very honest tonight."
"I've been drinking."
"You haven't."
"Then I'm naturally reckless."
She kissed him again.
This time he smiled against her lips.
For a little while the murder seemed very far away. So did everything else. There was only the terrace, the moonlight, her fingers resting lightly against his coat and the Doctor looking at her as though he had stumbled across something precious and hadn't yet decided whether he was allowed to keep it.
Then the clock began striking midnight.
The Doctor looked towards the house.
"That's odd."
"What?"
"I've forgotten something."
"Then forget it."
He looked back at her.
"All right."
He took her hand, and they stood beneath the stars for another few minutes, talking quietly about nothing in particular. Clara told him she had always hated formal dances because everyone seemed to be watching everyone else, while the Doctor confessed that he had spent three weeks practising because he had been determined not to make a fool of himself. She teased him about the rope in the TARDIS without knowing whether there really was one, and he became suspicious enough to ask how she knew.
Neither of them noticed the man watching from an upstairs window.
Neither of them knew that midnight was the last peaceful moment they would have.
They had barely returned to the ballroom when another scream tore through the room.
The Doctor released Clara's hand as the ballroom doors slammed shut. Several guests rushed towards them and tried the handles, but neither door would open.
"Locked," the Doctor said.
Clara looked around at the frightened faces.
"Why?"
"I don't know."
A gunshot cracked through the room.
People screamed and scattered.
The Doctor looked up.
The man from before stood on the balcony, a pistol in his hand. Beside him lay a stack of papers, and even from across the room the Doctor could see names written across the top sheets.
His eyes narrowed.
"Oh, no."
Clara followed his gaze.
"What?"
"The invitations."
Understanding came quickly now. The guests hadn't been gathered simply for a ball. They had all been witnesses to something, and now someone had decided that the only way to make them pay was to make sure none of them left the house alive.
The man on the balcony raised his voice.
"They thought themselves untouchable."
The Doctor stepped forward.
"Whatever they did, this isn't justice."
"You don't know what they did."
"No."
The Doctor's voice hardened.
"But I know what you're doing."
"They deserve it."
"Perhaps."
The man stared at him.
The Doctor's expression softened.
"But you don't get to decide who lives."
The gun came up.
"You aren't one of them."
"No."
The Doctor smiled sadly.
"But I'm still going to stop you."
The gun fired.
The bullet struck the wall beside him.
Clara grabbed his arm.
"Doctor!"
"I'm fine."
"You've just been shot at."
"I noticed."
The man disappeared through a door at the far end of the balcony.
The Doctor started after him.
"Stay here."
"No."
"Clara."
"You know by now that doesn't work."
He stared at her, then despite himself smiled.
"Come along."
They ran upstairs.
The door at the end of the corridor was locked. The Doctor tried it once, then again, and finally stepped back.
"Move."
Clara did.
He kicked the door. It shook but remained shut.
He kicked it again.
Still nothing.
Clara looked along the corridor and noticed a narrow passage behind a tapestry.
"There's another way."
The Doctor followed her.
They emerged onto the balcony from the other side.
The man spun around.
His gun came up.
"Put it down," the Doctor said.
The man laughed.
"You think this is finished?"
"No."
The Doctor's gaze moved towards the table.
There was another gun.
His expression changed.
"You were never going to let them leave."
"No."
"You were going to kill them all."
"Eventually."
The Doctor stepped forward.
"You don't have to do this."
"They killed my family."
"Then make them answer for it."
"I tried."
The Doctor's voice became very quiet.
"Then let me give you something better."
The man stared at him.
"What's that?"
"Another choice."
For one moment the man hesitated.
Then he raised the gun.
Clara saw where it was pointed.
She saw the Doctor standing too close to the railing.
She moved before she had time to think.
She slammed into the man.
The gun fired and the shot went wide. The man staggered backwards, caught Clara and pulled her with him as the old stone railing cracked beneath their combined weight.
The Doctor lunged.
"Clara!"
He caught her wrist.
The man had hold of her other arm.
For one terrible second they hung there.
The Doctor pulled.
"Let go of her!"
The man laughed.
"She'll come with me."
The Doctor's grip tightened.
"You'll fall."
"Then we all fall."
Clara looked down.
The courtyard was far below.
Then she looked back at the Doctor.
He knew.
Of course he knew.
"No," he said.
She hadn't spoken.
"Whatever you're thinking, no."
"I haven't thought of anything."
"You have."
"You're very presumptuous."
"Clara."
His grip tightened around her wrist.
"I've got you."
"You can't hold both of us."
"I can try."
"You'll fall too."
"I don't care."
She stared at him.
"You should."
"I don't."
The man was slipping.
The Doctor pulled again, muscles straining.
"Hold on."
"I am."
"Don't let go."
"I don't want to."
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Clara smiled, a small, sad smile that frightened him more than anything else had that night.
"I wish we'd had more time."
The Doctor shook his head.
"We will."
She looked at him.
He meant it.
That was the worst part.
He genuinely believed he could save her.
"I don't think we will."
"Don't."
"Doctor—"
"Don't say goodbye."
She swallowed.
"I've met you before, haven't I? I don't know how, but I have."
The Doctor stared at her.
Something in her face told him that she felt it too, some half-remembered truth hovering just beyond reach.
The memories were there somewhere.
He pulled again.
"Clara, please."
She squeezed his hand.
Then she let go.
His eyes widened.
"Clara!"
She caught the man's arm and twisted with everything she had. The man lost his balance and his hand slipped from her.
For one final second Clara looked at the Doctor.
Then both of them went over the railing.
The Doctor reached.
Nothing.
"CLARA!"
He ran down the stairs.
He barely felt his feet touching the ground or heard the people shouting around him. He reached the courtyard and dropped beside her before he had even properly registered where he was.
The man was dead.
Clara lay several feet away.
The Doctor touched her shoulder.
"Clara?"
Nothing.
He checked her wrist.
Nothing.
"No."
He tried again.
"Come on."
Still nothing.
His hands were shaking.
"No, no, no."
He looked at her face and then saw the mask lying beside her.
The silver mask had fallen free.
He picked it up.
There was a crack running through it.
He stared at it, and something inside him broke open.
Memories came rushing forward.
A girl falling through his own timeline.
Clara.
The memories didn't arrive gently. They crashed into him, fragments becoming whole in an instant, and suddenly he could see every face, every impossible encounter, every time he'd met her without understanding why she felt so familiar.
He closed his eyes.
"Oh."
His voice was barely audible.
"Of course."
He looked at her.
"You're Clara."
His hand trembled as he touched her cheek.
"You're the one."
The Impossible Girl.
She had somehow followed him through his own life. Every time he had lost her, the universe had found some impossible way to put her back in front of him, and every time he had failed to understand what it meant.
Now there would be no next time.
His Clara was dead.
He bowed his head.
There was no clever answer this time, no machine hidden somewhere in the TARDIS that could be pulled apart and rebuilt quickly enough, no temporal trick he could attempt without making everything worse. There was only the terrible certainty of her lying still beneath his hands.
Behind him, the courtyard filled with people.
The ballroom doors had opened. The murderer was dead. The guests were safe. Police were arriving, servants were shouting and somewhere above them the musicians had started playing again.
The world was continuing.
The Doctor heard none of it.
He held the broken silver mask against his chest.
"I promised you more time."
His voice caught.
"I'm sorry."
He stayed beside her until someone came close enough to say his name.
He didn't answer.
Eventually he stood, slowly, as though his body had forgotten how to move without her beside him. He slipped the broken mask inside his coat and walked back towards the house.
Halfway along the corridor, he heard music.
A waltz.
Their waltz.
The Doctor stopped.
His eyes closed.
For a moment he could almost feel her hand in his, almost hear her laugh as she teased him about his dancing. He remembered the terrace and her smile, the warmth of her cheek beneath his hand, the way she'd told him not to think and the way he'd listened for once.
He opened his eyes.
"Clara."
Then he walked on.
Outside, the night was cold.
The TARDIS waited beneath the trees, blue against the darkness. The Doctor opened the door and paused with one hand resting against it, looking back at the house for the last time.
Then he went inside.
The doors closed.
The engines began to sing.
And the TARDIS carried him away alone.