"I don't want to watch Doctor Who," my younger sister grumbles, folding her arms across her chest. "The new ones are awful."

"But Allie, it's Doctor Who!" I say, poking her in the side. "And you promised to watch with us."

"Only because I was drunk!" she protests. "I don't like the new ones. They don't make any sense and they can be really sexist."

"Well, maybe it'll be different now," I suggest. "New new new . . . new Doctor, new show?"

She rolls her eyes at my pathetic joke. "You're hopelessly optimistic, you know that, right?"

"Yeah, but it's Doctor Who," I say, and purse my lips. "I can't not be."

"You're impossible."

"And you promised."

"Fine," Allie grumbles, and plops down next to me, sulking the whole time. I smile and nestle further into my claimed spot in the corner of the couch, popcorn bowl in hand. My best friend and roommate, Meg, is already sitting in the other corner with a jar of Nutella and a spoon, leaving Allie squished between us. "I hate you."

"No you don't."

"Yes I do."

"Except you don't."

"But I really do."

"Love you too."

"Shut up, it's about to start!" Meg whispers aggressively as the theme begins to play. My playful argument with Allie stops abruptly as Meg and I begin to hum along enthusiastically, and even my sister joins in after a moment. However, just as the theme is about to end, the TV goes black.

"Goddamn it," I mutter, and in the dim light I give a sidelong glance to the other two on the sofa. They stare back, and I sigh, knowing it's my turn to get up and fix the damn thing. I hand the popcorn bowl off to Allie and roll off the couch, crawling toward the blank screen. I check the plugs, the wires, the VCR, but nothing seems to be out of place.

"Meg, get over here, I can't figure out what's wrong," I call behind me, but there's no movement or answer. "Meg?"

That's when the lights go out, too. I glance behind me, but I can't see. There's absolutely no light, anywhere. Fumbling, I grab my iPhone out of my back pocket and try to open it up, but that's not working either. I frown and shake it, but the screen remains just as black as my surroundings, and I wonder why it's so dark.

The screen finally switches back on, though I haven't touched a thing, only to reveal static. Then something starts to form out of the static, inching across the screen. A bright, white light shines out, nearly blinding me, and I panic. I scramble backwards, but in my haste and confusion I stumble and fall, and fall, and fall…

…

The first thing I'm aware of is the excruciating pain streaking through my head like lightning. I've never felt pain this agonizing; it's like my brain is on fire.

Moaning feebly, I fist my hands into my hair and curl in on myself. What the hell happened? I rack my brains for a moment, trying to remember, but – nothing after the lights went out. So how did I get here? Why does my head hurt so much?

Here, as far as I can tell with my eyes screwed shut and my mind fairly preoccupied, is a floor made out of metal grating. With a deep breath, I try to open my eyes to get a little more understanding to where I am. They feel sticky, fixed together, and I practically have to pry them open. But the light that assaults my vision is too much for me, and I wince, closing them again. Where the hell am I?

It takes some effort, but after a moment I loosen my fingers from my hair and reach out, trying to get a feel for where I am. The metal grating is all I can feel, and it's cool against my skin. I roll myself over and press my forehead against it, hoping to alleviate the headache. Needless to say, it doesn't work.

There's footsteps off to the side, and I should really open my eyes, should really get up and figure out why the hell I'm on the floor in who-knows-where, but I just lie there with my face on the floor. "Leona?" calls a voice, stupidly familiar, tinged with a fair amount of concern.

"'s Lee," I slur, muffled by the fact that my face is smooshed against the floor. Then I whimper, realizing belatedly that even my own voice is too much for my now over-sensitive ears. I can feel someone kneeling beside me, and gentle hands grip my shoulders, rolling me over and into a sitting position slowly enough that it doesn't exacerbate the ache in my temples. It still hurts, though.

"Shh, shh," the voice whispers soothingly into my ear, soft enough that it doesn't hurt. "Relax, Leona. Tell me what's wrong."

"My head," I whimper, clenching and unclenching my fists. My eyes are squeezed shut so tight that colors burst behind my eyelids, and I flinch. A thumb strokes my cheek, brushing away a stray tear that I hadn't realized was falling. "It hurts."

More footsteps. "Is she okay?" asks another voice, this one more feminine. I notice distantly that it has a British accent, and that the first voice did too. I don't know anyone who has a British accent. So . . . who are these people?

I hunch over with a feeble moan. Too many questions, not nearly enough answers, a strange place with strange people and a blinding headache on top of that. I feel like I'm going to die.

"No, I don't think she is," the first voice murmurs, and the worry that was originally there has morphed into fear. And that makes me even more afraid; tears begin to stream from my eyes in what feels like a never-ending wave. The hand cupping my face stills, and the man whom the voice belongs to curses under his breath, scooping me up from the floor and carrying me away. I cry out at being jostled so much.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispers, quickening his pace. I can't bring myself to open my eyes or to ask what the hell is going on, though I desperately want to.

"What's wrong with her?" asks the other voice, the girl. "She's never been this bad."

"Not when you've seen her, no," he says, taking one final turn and setting me down on something blissfully soft. A bed. Oh thank god. "But most of what you've seen is later on. In the early days – the very early days – it gets so much worse."

"This much worse?" He doesn't answer.

I curl into the bed, ignoring the strange buzzing noise that starts up above me. My head still feels like a disaster zone, but I'm hoping maybe some sleep will help with that.

"Leona, I just need you to open your eyes for me," the man says, gently grasping my chin and pulling it up. I groan a little, but somehow I know he won't leave me alone until I do as he says, so I pry oven my eyes and stare up into his face. My entire body goes cold.

"Hello," he smiles. I am beyond speechless. My mind is frozen. I can't even process this; it's just too impossible!

"Oh," I say, because apparently I'm not that speechless. Then my eyes roll back into my head and everything disappears as the world goes wonderfully, wonderfully black.

Why yes, I have fainted.

…

This time I wake up much more comfortably, though still pretty achy and extremely confused. What kind of dream was that? It was a dream, right? Except I vividly remember the pain I felt, the pounding headache that ravaged my temples. It's gone now, the fire has died down to ashes, which is a relief, but I'm still reeling. My head feels full of cotton; I'm disoriented and I just want to go back to sleep, but something is bothering me and I can't until I find out what it is.

I'm in a bed this time, which is a relief, but even without looking I can tell that it's not my bed. Once again, I pry my eyes open, and look down. It's a plain white single bed, definitely not mine. I glance around the room, which is definitely not my room, or any room I know, and start to panic.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, I think, twisting left and right. I don't know where I am. I should know where I am – last time I checked, I was at home and the lights had just gone out. Or was that a dream? Or is this a dream? No, it can't be a dream, it feels too real.

It looks like I could be in some sort of hospital ward, with the heart monitor set up next to my bed and strange equipment set up all around, but the equipment is all wrong and it doesn't look like any hospital I've ever seen. My breath quickens until it feels like I'm not even breathing and I hunch over on myself. The heart monitor is beeping frantically, keeping time with my racing heart.

I can hear footsteps growing louder and louder, and two people burst into the room. Out of the corner of my eye, they seem to be a man and a woman. Perhaps the ones that were there when I first woke up before? But no, they couldn't be. That was a dream. Wasn't it?

The woman crouches by my bedside and tries to put a steadying hand on my shoulder. Instinctively, I flinch it off, and curl further into myself. The man races about, fiddling with the equipment.

"What's wrong?" the woman asks, sounding concerned, but I'm pretty sure she's not asking me.

"I don't know," the man says, frustrated. "Her heart's racing, but there's nothing physically wrong. She's – she's panicking. I don't know why."

"Well then, do something!"

The man stops short, walks over to my side, and grips my shoulders.

"Leona, stop," he orders, looking me straight in the eyes. I stare at him, and I think I've stopped breathing altogether. "Do you know where you are?"

"N-no," I gasp out eventually. But I think I do. He's still holding my shoulders; they're shaking. This has got to be a dream.

It sure doesn't feel like one.

"You're in the TARDIS med bay," he says slowly. In the back of my mind, I'm affronted to be talked to like a two-year-old, but mostly I'm just finding it hard to think. "You fainted, from the headache. We were worried something more serious might have happened, but thankfully not. Do you remember what happened? Are you alright?" And then he goes off rambling and god, my headache might just be coming back. Now he's scanning me with the sonic screwdriver.

The eleventh Doctor is scanning me with his sonic screwdriver. Screw headache, I'm starting to get a bit light-headed. This just isn't possible. He's not real.

"This isn't real," I verbalize unintentionally, dazed. Both the Doctor and the woman, whom I now recognize as Clara Oswald, stop short, gaping at me.

"What . . . makes you think that?" the Doctor asks carefully, slowly putting the sonic screwdriver aside. He takes my hands in his, and I have to wonder how it is that he is continually so gentle. Then I remind myself that this is a dream, and this is just my subconscious trying to tell me something. Probably that I need to stop watching so much TV. And get a boyfriend. "Leona?"

"I'm sorry?" I ask, then I realize I've been talking out loud. Oops. That was probably not good. Then again, this is a dream, right? "Ohh, my head feels fuzzy."

"Is she okay?" Clara mutters off to the side. I blink and shake my head, trying to focus, but it's too hard.

"I really don't know," the Doctor says, sounding really worried. He pulls me into a tight hug, my arms trapped between our two bodies and my face mushed against his chest, and buries his nose into my hair. I'm really confused by what's happening and this really has to be a dream because I'm being hugged by the real live actual Doctor and he actually seems to know me and care about me.

Clara quietly leaves the room and the Doctor and I stay exactly as we are. I couldn't even move if I wanted to. My vision goes blurry and I think I might be crying. "What is happening?" I hiccup. He doesn't answer me, just holds me tighter.

…

I don't even realize I've fallen asleep until I wake up. And it is quite a disappointing awakening, because I'm still in the TARDIS med bay.

I haven't woken up at my apartment, or my parents' house, or even a real hospital. I'm exactly where I was the last time I woke up, on the same bed, hooked up to the same heart monitor. It's a bit quicker than it probably should be, but a lot slower than it was last time I heard it. That's good. Probably. Yeah.

This time I don't panic. I don't even sit up. I stare at the ceiling and ponder the mysteries of the universe. Or more specifically: why I haven't woken up from this damn dream already. After all, it has to be a dream, I try to convince myself. The Doctor and Clara Oswin Oswald are not supposed to exist, they don't exist.

The Doctor is sitting in a chair pulled up next to the bed, and he just watches me watching the ceiling. Considering how quiet he is, and how rarely this regeneration is quiet, I wonder what he's thinking about. Usually the silence is when he feels guilty, or is thinking about his past. Or both. The two tend to interconnect.

"I don't understand," I whisper, surprising myself by even having the courage to speak aloud. He doesn't say anything, just waits for me to continue. "This isn't – this isn't supposed to be real. This is supposed to be a fantastical dream. So why am I so scared?" I close my eyes, not wanting to see his face, not wanting to see him seeing me when I'm this stupidly vulnerable. "This is just a dream . . . isn't it?"

"…the older I grew, the more afraid of this day I got," he says after a pause, and it sounds to me like he's avoiding the question. I open my eyes and watch out of the corner as he runs his hand through his hair. "I always knew it would be hard, but I never realized just how hard."

"What are you saying?" I ask, fear and confusion clear in my voice. Does that mean . . . he's met me before? Of course he has, don't be stupid. He does know my name, my full name, the one I never go by unless strictly necessary. But even for a dream, this is too unreal. Dreams are never this complicatedly in-depth.

"I'm saying this is it," he tells me quietly, his voice breaking a little. "This is your beginning. That's why you think this is a dream. But you're also scared, and that's because deep down you know it's not."

I breathe in sharply and roll over onto my side, turning my back on him, and watch the heart monitor beeping away. I don't want to hear this, I don't want to listen. He's wrong; this is impossible, this is a dream. It has to be.

Eventually the crisp, zigzagging green line smudges against the black background. I'm crying again. I don't like crying. I hate crying - I hate this - I hate myself - and most of all I hate him, because he's right. Everything's so sharp and defined, pain and exhaustion and fear that's more than just the mindless stuff found in nightmares. Too real, even if the situation is completely unreal. In my heart, I know that I'm awake. And it hurts.

It hurts like hell.

I curl in on myself and choke on a sob. Immediately the Doctor springs around the bed and kneels so that I'm once again looking into his green eyes. "Shh, shh, shh," he hushes me, stroking my hair. "It's going to be okay."

"Why is this happening to me?" I keen, scrunching my eyes shut. This isn't fair. "I wanna go home."

"I know," he murmurs, leaning forward to kiss my forehead. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Those words just serve to make me cry harder, like a confirmation of my worst fear, the fear that I will never get home. And I can't deny it any longer. I, Leona Maxwell, am stuck in a world that I thought only existed on a television show, sans everything I've ever come to rely on in my life. Even with the Doctor right next to me, trying to offer me comfort in any way he knows how, I feel so terribly, terribly alone.

…

Eventually, I cry myself out completely, until I'm just numb through and through. The Doctor stays by my side the whole time, stroking my hair and trying to keep me from hurting myself when I start to sob so hard I almost hyperventilate and pass out. At some point I just lay there, face stiff with dried tears, trying to drink in what little comfort I can take from his touch. It's not much – he is, in all technicality, a stranger to me – but I'm thankful anyway.

He seems to think I've fallen asleep again, because he starts to speak softly, about things that I probably shouldn't be hearing. Timelines, and all. "Oh, Leona," he murmurs. He sounds so sad. "I'm so sorry. I know – I know how it hurts. And you're so young. I don't think I ever realized just how young you were. But it'll get better. It won't ever go away, but pain can fade. You're not alone, you'll always have me. And oh, the adventures we'll go on!"

I want to be enchanted by his words, the charming, nostalgic way he talks. I can remember all the lovely things I ever imagined I would do with the Doctor. Yet the word adventure chills me to the bones. For the Doctor, adventure is synonymous with danger. Adventure is synonymous with death.

And I don't want to deal with my own mortality on top of losing everything I've ever known.

After a few more moments of silence, the Doctor sighs and clambers to his feet. He leans down to kiss my forehead again, whispering that he'd be back soon, he was just going to let the TARDIS drift through space instead of flying through the vortex, and leaves. Not long after, there's a knock on the med bay door. It's got to be Clara, though, because I don't really think he would knock.

"I know you're awake," she calls cheerfully. I crack my eyes open and sit up, trying to rub away the blurriness and the leftover saltwater. "Ah, good morning, sleeping beauty."

"How'd you know?" I ask. "Even the Doctor didn't know, and apparently he's known me for years." We both ignore the bitterness dripping from the end of that sentence.

"You've been sleeping ever since you got here," she shrugs, setting a tray full of food on my lap and laughing as my rebellious stomach growls loudly, reminding me I haven't eaten in who-knows-how-long. Then she smiles sheepishly. "Also, it was a lucky guess."

I snort, covering my mouth briefly as the sound slips out. Smiling at her in thanks, I begin to pick at my breakfast. I'm hungry, but it's really hard to even think about eating.

"Is it even morning?" I ask tiredly in an attempt to make small talk, mostly joking but still curious. Time on the TARDIS is pretty weird, as far as I can tell. Night is just when you go to sleep.

"I'm not really sure," Clara ponders, and tilts her head to the side. "Technically, I suppose not, I've been awake for about five hours now, according to my watch."

I nod, feeling a strange satisfaction that my theory has been confirmed, and take a bite out of some bacon. It's cooked just the way I like it. In fact, the whole tray is filled with my favorite breakfast foods made exactly how I would have if I had been the one to put it together. It is . . . extremely disconcerting, but also nice. Kind of.

Clara fills the silence with a story about where she and the Doctor went just recently. I can't tell where they are from the tale, but I'm also too afraid to just ask. Instead I just listen while gorging myself on my food, even finding it in me to laugh at some particularly hilarious moments. By the time I'm done eating, I almost feel better. I set the tray aside and continue to listen intently, hand instinctively reaching up to play with my necklace.

I stop short. My necklace.

Clara's voice trails off as she realizes that I've stopped paying attention altogether. I'm staring at the ornament sitting innocently in my palm. A large copper locket with a small galaxy painted onto the cover, and pictures of my family inside; I've had it since I was fifteen. And amazingly, I still have it now. This necklace and the clothes on my back, they're mine, they're all I have left of my family and my old life. I clutch the locket to my chest reverently and take a deep breath, thanking whatever deity may be out there that I still have this one memento, this one piece of home.

When I glance back up, Clara is looking at me with sad, knowing eyes. I try to offer her a smile, but it's weak and strained, hardly a smile at all. All the same, she smiles back, taking my hand and holding it tight. I squeeze back and almost cry again because the Doctor was right about another thing. I have lost my home and my family and my world, and I don't think I'll ever recover from that, but at least I'm not really alone.

…

The Doctor finds us chatting quietly, trying to keep my mind off of my situation through some easy banter, though I still hold onto Clara's hand like it's a lifeline. They nod at each other and Clara smiles and leans over to kiss me on the cheek before leaving us alone.

He dithers in the doorway a moment, hands hidden behind his back, holding something. I look at him curiously, and give him a hesitant smile when he looks in my direction. He grins back widely and bounds over to my side. "What's that you've got?" I ask cautiously, nodding my head towards his middle.

"I might have made a bit of a pit stop to get you this," he says with a flourish, triumphantly presenting me with a beautifully wrapped package. Furrowing my brows, I accept the package from his hands and carefully, without ripping the paper, unwrap it. It's a book with a soft sunset-orange binding and no title; with a flip through the creamy blank pages I realize it's a journal. "It's yours, to record your adventures in."

There's that word again, adventures. I flinch the slightest bit, trying to keep it small and unnoticeable, but the Doctor sees it anyway. He frowns and grabs my hand. "Is something wrong?"

"No, I just…" I sigh. "I'm sorry. I wish I could say I understand what's going on, but I just want to go home. And it's really hard to accept that I won't be."

His face softens, and he sits on the edge of the bed. "Don't be sorry," he insists, placing his hand over top mine on the journal. "Of course it's going to be hard."

"All I can think, all I can ask myself is why haven't I woken up yet?" I sniffle, furiously wiping tears from my eyes before they can fall, and avoid his gaze. "I know it's not a dream, but I wish it was."

"I know you do," murmurs the Doctor, grasping my hand and brushing the tears away himself, much gentler than I had. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," I chuckle weakly, throwing his own words back at him. I try to smile, to be strong, but I'm failing. Abysmally. "It's not like it's your fault."

He smiles sadly and says nothing, just rests his thumb on the side of my face. Then, slowly, he pulls me into a hug, kissing the top of my head. I rest my cheek on his chest, pressed against the stiff material of his shirt. It reminds me of the kind of shirts my dad wears for work.

Wore. The kind of shirts he wore for work. I swallow hard.

"Did you mean it?" I ask quietly.

"Mean what?"

"When you said it'll get better." I fist my hands into the back of his shirt. "When you said I'm not alone."

He huffs out a low, breathy laugh. "I thought you were asleep."

"I know. Just answer the question."

He tightens his arms around me. And it's so strange how I feel so comfortable with this man who I've never met before, who is in all technicality a stranger.

"…of course I meant it. Every last word."

…

It's a bit awkward, at least for me, when we eventually separate. I have to wipe away a few more tears. Everything is just so overwhelming, and wanting my family – Mom and Dad, Allie, and my little brother Vinnie – is like a bone-deep, ever-present ache. My necklace is like a lifeline. I'd always fiddled with it as a nervous habit, but now I do so more to reassure myself that it's still there.

The Doctor holds out his hand to help me up, catching me by the elbow when my knees start to buckle. I guess I'd been in that bed longer than I thought. He leads me out of the med bay and through the halls of the TARDIS.

"Where are we going?" I question, turning my head in every direction, trying to memorize details and directions. A futile attempt, but I do it anyway, because this is the first time it truly sinks in that I'm in the TARDIS. The thought fills me with both excitement and dread. Excitement because the TARDIS is the best ship out there, and dread because I'm seriously afraid of getting lost in here. What if she doesn't like me? I wonder nervously. Would I wander into the hallways and just never come out?

"I thought it would be a good time to show you your room."

I didn't think of that before. "I have a room?"

"Of course you have a room," he smiles back at me, though there's a slight stiffness to it. "Everyone does."

I nod and allow him to pull me further into the TARDIS. "Is it usually this far?" I ask exasperatedly when we've turned our tenth corner and apparently still haven't reached it. He laughs and squeezes my hand.

"No, actually," he tells me with an amused smile. "She knows it's the first time you're seeing her, she's showing off."

As if on cue, the ceiling lights flicker, almost like the TARDIS was scolding the Doctor. My mouth quirks up at one corner. Well, at least I know she likes me.

Finally, after turning down three more corners, going left at two forks, and, strangely enough, going down a big red slide, we come to a stop outside a bright yellow door with a white lion motif painted in the center. I groan at the pun on my name. And people wonder why I go by Lee.

The Doctor gives me an encouraging look, so hesitantly I reach out, open the door, and step into the room.

It looks nothing like my room at home, and I'm not sure whether I'm relieved or not. Frankly, it's gorgeous. The walls are a pale orange, the furniture all white with accents of a darker orange. I cross over to the far side of the room, which has a large window that has to be fake, overlooking an ocean scene. To the right of the window is a panel with what looks like a keypad. Pressing one of the buttons turns the beach into a city view. My eyes widen and I grin, looking forward to playing around with that.

Stuff – books, makeup, art supplies – is scattered about the room, making it look completely lived-in. There are no photographs, though. Suddenly I feel like I've swallowed a brick.

Is this really what's going to happen to me? Not only have I lost my family, but the fact that what is apparently my room is devoid of anything actually personal says a lot about my situation. My hands start shaking.

The Doctor threads his fingers through mine. "I know what you're thinking," he whispers in my ear, leading me to the bed. We sit down together, and he taps the orange journal clutched in my other hand. I'd forgotten about it. "Don't worry. Keeping your room up to date is hard, timelines and everything, so you'll keep your pictures in here."

Relieved that my future isn't as bleak as I'd feared, I relax a little. (Dear lord this bed is comfortable.) "Are you even allowed to tell me that?" I jest.

"'course I am, it's a relatively small detail, wouldn't change a thing," he waves off, before pursing his lips. "You were joking, weren't you?"

"Something like that," I admit, a bit embarrassed. "It was pretty lame. That, or you're just oblivious."

"I wouldn't hedge my bets on that if I were you," he jokes back. I chuckle, and without thinking, lean my head against his shoulder. It's nice, and for a moment I can pretend that this is a dream, a wonderful dream, but nothing more than a dream. I sigh.

"We should probably get Clara back to the Maitlands," the Doctor suggests after a while, albeit reluctantly. "We were actually going there when you appeared."

"Alright," I say, standing and stretching until I hear a very satisfying pop. The Doctor doesn't even grimace like people normally do, I note, as if he's used to these little habits of mine. I feel almost offended, a deep sense of injustice settling over me. As much as I know from watching him on the television, I can't actually predict anything this man will do or say. There may be all sorts of little quirks that just never made it into the show, things I don't know, and it is entirely unfair that he apparently knows these things about me.

My train of thought is derailed as the Doctor takes my hand again. He does that a lot, I realize. Is that one of those things I just didn't notice before? He usually only holds people's hands when he runs, doesn't he? We're not running now.

The console room is only a few feet away now, and I have to blink a few times because it definitely wasn't there before. It's still kind of hard to reconcile all the amazing, if disconcerting, things the TARDIS can do. She's biological, technological, bigger on the inside; she can rearrange her rooms and hallways; she can drive herself if she really wants to. There's probably more that I don't even know yet; I'm kind of excited to find out.

Clara pokes her head out of a white door to the left. "Taking me back, then?" she asks.

"Yep," I tell her. I notice that she didn't actually use the word home. My heart pangs. I wanna go home.

"Could we make a stop at the supermarket?"

"Clara I'm not your taxi service," the Doctor says.

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes," he grumbles, pouting when she gives me a not-so-subtle wink. I chuckle softly, slipping my hand out of his and leading the way into the console room, because I really want to see it. It's the most important room in the TARDIS, the only one I actually recognize, and though I've never been fond of this particular look – it was always just too cold and unfeeling for me – I find myself in awe.

The Doctor walks past where I've stopped short, taking in everything around me, and I catch a glimpse of the smug, pleased look on his face. I roll my eyes and go to stand next to him, making sure to stay out of the way when he starts pressing buttons and pulling levers. He looks like he's doing a particularly ridiculous dance around the console. The TARDIS jolts, nearly causing me to fall over as I stumble to the railing and cling to it.

"Is it always like this?" I yelp.

"Yep!" Clara yells back, clinging to her own railing. I groan.

…

We walk into the Maitlands' house about an hour later, according to my internal clock, each of our arms loaded with groceries.

"Clara, did you really need all of this?" I ask as we dump our bags on the floor of the kitchen and start putting things away.

"I'm going to be making a soufflé, so I'm going to need extra just in case," she explains, smiling determinedly. "It's my mum's recipe, I never could get it right, but I'm going to do it this time."

I stiffen slightly, remembering that Clara had mentioned her mom's soufflé recipe during The Name of the Doctor. I don't want to be going on one of the Doctor's adventures any time soon, preferably never. Then I force myself to relax, reminding myself that part of Clara's whole shtick was the soufflé thing; of course she's going to mention it more than once, and that does not mean I'm about to be sucked into a deadly situation just yet.

"Hey, you two should stay for dinner!" Clara suggests. I expect the Doctor to say no, but to my surprise, he actually accepts her invitation. We finish putting the groceries away just as Angie and Artie arrive with their homework in hand.

"Oh, no," Angie says, seeing what ingredients Clara has chosen to keep out for dinner. "You're going to try and make a soufflé again, aren't you?"

"My mum's soufflé, yeah," Clara nods, already beginning to put some of the ingredients together. The Doctor wanders off, probably to go fiddle with something he shouldn't be, while I stand awkwardly off to the side and try to convince myself that I am not reliving an episode of the television show I am now stranded in. It doesn't work. "This time I'll get it right. This time I will be Soufflé Girl!"

I turn on my heel, ready to run to the TARDIS and hide away in my room until this is all over, but Artie taps me on the shoulder. "By the way, Miss Lee, this came earlier." He holds out a letter that looks positively ancient. "It's addressed to you."

"Thank you, Artie," I say quietly after a moment, reluctantly taking the envelope. I should have been expecting this; of course after all I've already been through nothing can go my way. It's distressing that already events aren't going according to what I've seen on the show. I cross my fingers and hope that the changes will only be minor.

Since the side bearing the wax seal says Open When Alone, I take the letter into the other room and sit on the sofa. My hands are shaking as I open the envelope and take out both the letter and the candle inside.

My dearest Lee,

The Doctor has, at various points in his timeline, entrusted me with the contact information of various companions as a means to contact you in the event of an emergency, and I fear one has now arisen. In your future you will tell me which particular contact to send this to, so I assume that this letter will have reached you, as planned, on April 10th 2013. Please find and light the enclosed candle. It will release a soporific which will induce a trance state, enabling direct communication across the years.

I glance at the candle with trepidation, stuff it back in the envelope, take a deep breath, and continue reading.

However, as I realize you have no reason to trust this letter as of yet, I have taken the liberty of embedding the same soporific into the fabric of the paper you are now holding. Speak soon!

I sigh, and fall sideways as the world goes dark.