Note: Story has been revised as of 2017.

WARNING, this story will deal with mental illness and character death among other possible triggers such as brief spousal/substance abuse. Note that all depictions of situations involving mental illness could be prone to inaccuracy, but are not meant in any offensive or insulting manner.

Please just remember that this is categorized as tragedy for a reason, so if you have a real problem with these subjects I suggest you do not read this.

Disclaimer: All rights belong to the BBC, I own nothing.

Prologue:

It all seemed to happen very fast.

It was hard to believe that, really, she'd only met him one year ago. One year ago when she was first getting out of the asylum. One year ago when she'd started taking her pills regularly and the world she'd been fighting for so long settled into some kind of comforting, monotonous order.

She'd only found him one year ago.

And now here he was, down on one knee in the dark of their living room with a ring in his hands and a hopeful smile on his face.

"Clara," he whispered. "Would you…?"

She said yes. Of course she said yes. There had never been any doubt in her mind what she wanted with this man. This extraordinary man who had taken on her demons with a smile and still loved the woman he saw.

And as he stood to slip the ring over her finger and press his lips to hers she could only think of one thing to say.

"How the hell did we end up here?"

Eight Months Later.

John Matthew Smith stood over the grave of his newlywed wife with a single rose in his hand. Not a red rose of course, she had always believed red roses were pretentious and cheesy. Her favorite had always been the white roses. She said white flowers were the most honest because they hid nothing. Every blemish, every bruise, every speck of dirt could be seen on the colorless petals. And because of this they were the only flowers that his beautiful wife would ever accept.

He felt his lips twitch up into a smile as he laid the single flower on the grass. He stayed there for a moment with one hand on her headstone to balance himself.

Matt sniffed. "I…I've decided to finish the book after all…for us, for you…for me." He caressed the soft curves in the letters of her name and felt the hole in his chest eat away at his insides. How could this have happened? They were happy! Freshly married and only just back from their luxurious honeymoon in New York—the only city the two of them could agree upon as a perfect destination.

Matt flinched when a strong hand found his shoulder. He looked up into the dark eyes of his adoptive father, and reached out to take his hand.

His dad wrapped his arms around Matt. "She loved you. Very much."

"I know," Matt muttered. "That's what makes it hard."

His dad let out a soft sigh. "I know."

He remembered that his adoptive father had once lost a spouse himself, and squeezed him harder. "Does it ever get easier?"

"No," his dad murmured. "I won't lie to you. The hole you feel in your chest right now is never going to go away. Not ever. What you have to do now is learn to live with it."

Matt sniffed, and pulled himself away from the hug. "We better rejoin the others."

His dad clapped him on the back and let him lead the way.

Matt didn't look back until he was in the isolated safety of his own car. It was only then that he allowed himself that one last glance.

For a moment, he thought he could see her there. She was leaning up against her headstone with the rose in her hand. Her dark hair was splayed out around her shoulders and she looked at him with eyes full of grief. The same grief he could feel within himself this very moment.

He blinked, and the vision was gone. He shook himself and he started the ignition to follow the cars ahead of him out of the cemetery and down the road to the restaurant they were meeting in.

In all the time leading to this moment, Matt never shed a tear.

Four Months Later.

It was months later when he finally found it within himself to pull out the tapes again. He wound up at his desk, typewriter at the ready, with a mug of hot tea off to the side. Papers were littered all over his desk with hasty scribbles and notes scrawled across the pages. Each corresponded with a tape. Each would help him piece together the story he was preparing to write.

He swallowed down a large mouthful of tea, and reached for the first tape. It was labeled with a simple letter A written in red ink.

Matt popped it into his cassette player and readied his fingers over the typewriter keys.

"So…how does this work? You ask me questions and I…elaborate?"

He smiled when her soft voice echoed through the static of the speakers. He could almost see her sitting in the armchair in front of him like she used to during their sessions. And for one fleeting moment, his world seemed a bit brighter.

"More like I start you off with a single question and you go off from it. Talk about whatever you want to, or don't. Whatever you don't want published will remain confidential. You just have to tell me. Or not share. It's up to you."

His own clinical tone brought him back down to reality, and the room seemed even colder than before.

"How do you mean "tell you?" Like a safe word?"

Matt heard himself chuckle. "Yeah, like…I dunno…blue birds, or something like that."

He remembered her smiling over that. "Naw, blue birds are boring. How about…bowties?"

He shuddered, and crunched the papers in his hand in an effort to fight off the urge not to cry. He could still see her face when she said this. He could still remember that flirty smile that made his heart skip a beat.

"Oi! Bowties are cool."

"Whatever you say, Chinboy."

Matt reached out and snapped the tape off. The static cut off and the spindles of the machine slowed until the room was silent again. He shoved himself away from his desk and rubbed his eyes as he came around to her armchair.

"Clara," he whispered hoarsely. "Please come back."

The chair stayed empty and the room stayed silent. Matt slumped down in front of the chair so he could lean against it, and pulled out her ring from underneath his shirt. He kept the small band on a chain around his neck, hidden away from the public eye.

He brought the cool piece of metal to his lips and shut his eyes tightly.

"I love you," he murmured.

He was answered with silence.