#my mum told me ic should do a set design course without knowing about the issues with goud

[vogelmeister]

at little women and i forgot how genuinely trigging amy burning jo’s story is.

[harmony88]

As Dreamers Do

The Doctor and Rose, a couple of months after they are back to the stars, take a trip for baby food with their 8 month old daughter to a new planet, where they unexpectedly meet a man who thinks the TARDIS is the key to unlocking the one dream he's always wanted, but has never had.

First Story in my series Forever With You: Part 3 

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 

(Chapter 1 posted below)

He told her once not to make this place domestic.

To be fair, it had less to do with her and more to do with her mother, whom, at the time, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of and whom, he had to remember, came on board without permission. He rolled his eyes at that thought now, because he should have known Jackie Tyler wasn’t the ‘ask for permission’ type, but he’d been rather grumpy back then and mothers were a bit of a touchy subject. He also knew he hadn’t meant it, not really, but still, he’d said it, and he was thinking about it as he glanced around the galley.

A messy finger painting was hanging on the refrigerator. A gift from his daughter, crafted when Rose let her do some art the other day, and he’d been so excited about it he hung it up before it was completely dry. There were stuffed animals thrown about the hallway that led to the console room, his wife’s breast pump was sitting on the counter next to a photograph of all three of them he’d framed, and there was an empty carton of milk sitting in the bin, designed to serve a visual reminder that they needed to pick up some more.

The TARDIS was a domestic playground at this point, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He had never been happier, and he thought about all the baby books in the nursery, the closet that was half his clothes and half Rose’s, the ensuite that had two toothbrushes in a gold holder, and the library that always had two coasters on the coffee table for both of their cuppas at night.

They’d built a life together, circling the vortex and traveling in between, and somehow, someway, the one adventure he never thought he’d have was exactly the one he was living.

What a privilege it was.

“Here,” Rose said, giving him a look when he just smiled like an idiot at her, and he took a jar of baby food from her hand, followed by a small spoon. She had one, too, and they both looked down at Alice, whose smile was reminding him so much of her mother it was making it hard to breathe, and he bent down to kiss her cheek.

They put all the stars to shame, the two of them, they really did.

She giggled when he kissed her a second time, and Rose laughed too, grabbing onto his arm and pulling him back. “If we don’t start soon she’s gonna cry.”

“One more,” he urged, kissing her other cheek with a pop, and Alice giggled so hard the sound imprinted on his hearts, he was sure of it. Rose bit her lip and held up her spoon, and like a sword pulled from its sheath he did the same, and he raised an eyebrow at her.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Please, this is child’s play,” she said, and the corners of his mouth twitched as they twisted the lids off of their jars, and each took a small spoonful. “Alright, Alice. You pick. Which one do you want? Daddy’s stupid bananas? Or Mummy’s yummy pears?”

“No, no, no, don’t do that, don’t use adjectives to try and persuade her opinion,” he scoffed. “Use science. Bananas, Alice, are much higher in potassium which you need. They also have about 44% more iron, 3 times the amount of magnesium, are higher in protein and will give you more energy and are the all around smarter choice.”

“But Daddy loooooves pears,” Rose said, and he lowered his spoon and turned to stare at her. “Eats them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

“Why would you say that?” he asked, and she smiled, her tongue playing with the corner of her mouth as they looked back at Alice.

“Goo-ba-da,” she said, smiling at them, and he sniffed.

“Go ahead, darling. Which one?” he asked her, and they held their spoons up to her face, waiting in anticipation as she looked between them, and she reached for the bananas. “YES! ALICE! BRILLIANT!”

Rose groaned and handed him 10 quid, and he did a happy bounce as he set the jar to the side and kissed his daughter’s head, only to pick it back up and hold the spoon out to her. Rose couldn’t even pretend to be upset, not when her child was about to eat some semblance of actual food for the first time in her life, and she found herself quickly mesmerized by the look on her face as the Doctor got her to open her mouth and slurp up the mashed bananas. Half of it fell onto her bib, then onto the high chair, and he tried again, and again, until she finally swallowed a bite and clapped.

She giggled.

“Oh my God, she likes it,” Rose said, biting her lip, and suddenly her eyes were watering. The Doctor, too proud of his daughter to notice anything else at the moment, merely smiled and got her to eat another bite.

“Of course she does, it’s a banana. It’s impossible to not like them. And now! Rose Tyler! HA! Now, we should always take a banana with us to -”

“Don’t start,” she teased, nudging his side a little, and he just laughed, until he noticed she was trying not to cry. His smile fell and the jar of baby food was forgotten about as he stood and cupped her cheeks, using his thumb to wipe away her tears.

“Oh, Rose…” he said, pulling her into a hug.

“When did she get so big?” she said against his chest, and he smiled. “She was in my belly, the size of a banana yesterday. Do you remember that?”

“Course I do,” he whispered, and the softness of his voice made her tears spill over. “Rose, it’s okay.”

“S-s-she won’t want my milk soon, will she? She’s going to be so grown and- and- and what am I supposed to do with all of it?” she sobbed. He smiled at her.

“You’ll stop producing -”

“And then she’s going to be talking and walking and then she’s gonna run faster than we can and then the next thing we know she’s going to be piloting the ship and we’re going to be -”

“Okay, shhhhhh,” he said, rubbing her back. “It’s just a couple of bananas.”

She fluttered her lips, and he smiled at her, trying not to laugh. She wiped the last of her tears away and collapsed onto a chair and just sulked for a moment, but when she scooped up a sample of the pears so she could eat her feelings like it was ice cream, and had the audacity to do it right in front of him, the face he made was nothing short of horrified. “WHAT DID YOU JUST DO?!”

“Oh, God, it tastes like plastic,” she said, spitting it out into a napkin, and his skin felt like it was crawling with bugs. He began to stick his tongue in and out of his mouth, not hiding his disgust, and she started laughing. “Sorry! It was just there!”

“I can’t believe you just did that!” he shouted. “WHY?! WHY WOULD YOU...WHY!? I just gave that speech! Choose the bananas!”

His reaction was delighting Alice, who thought he was just being silly and she began to giggle and bounce in the high chair.

“Oh, not you, too. Don’t you dare, it’s not funny.”

She laughed harder, as did Rose. A happy high pitched sound coupled with a few syllables rang in the air as Rose got up to grab a glass of water, letting her own amusement subside as she gargled and washed the horrible aftertaste of that particular brand of baby food out of her mouth. He just stared at her. “I could have told you that was going to happen. Been saying it for years.”

“Mum told me that was the best one!” she said.

“And you believed her?” he asked, still unable to stop making a face. “I need you to go brush your teeth before I kiss you.”

“Are you serious?” she asked, and he raised an eyebrow at her. “Oh, please. It was one small bite and it’s washed out. Come here.”

She reached for him, having every intention of going to brush her teeth but she just wanted to watch him freak out a little bit more, and he jumped back and went to hide behind Alice, placing his hands on the edge of her highchair.

“Nope,” he said. “Superior taste buds. Palette has to be cleansed. I made an exception when you were all pickles and ice cream during pregnancy but this? Can’t do it.”

“You’re a bigger baby than she is,” she said.

“More adorable, too,” he said, smiling, and she just rolled her eyes. He looked down at Alice, and he winked. “Kidding.”

Rose smirked, but she knew how serious he was and she wanted him to be able to kiss him more than she wanted to win this battle of banter, so with an effort to rock her hips just to rile him up a little, she sauntered off to their ensuite to brush her teeth.

“Aaaaaaand we’re just going to throw this away, yes we are,” he said to his daughter as he picked up his wife’s jar of poison, making sure to use a tissue so he didn’t directly touch it, and it was in the bin faster than he could say Raxacorcicofallapatorius. Alice began to cry when he walked away, and he was at her side again instantly. “What’s wrong? You still hungry?"

He helped her eat more bananas, though she only consumed about a quarter of the jar. The rest was on the floor or her face, which was honestly better than he expected for her first time. He smiled at her and wiped her chin clean, and he let the TARDIS take care of the floor as he grabbed a bottle of breastmilk, too, figuring she was probably still hungry.

For a few minutes, it was just him and his daughter, and he smiled at her while she suckled the bottle, slowly rocking her in the chair as he did. “I love you so much, you perfect little thing.”

She started to fuss a little, and he shifted how he was holding her and the bottle, and he started to sing to offer a distraction. Her eyes widened at the sound, and she smiled, and he remembered how much she loved music, so he just kept going.

“Okay, so I -” Rose started to say as she walked back in, but she shut up the moment she saw what he was doing. She bit her lip, letting the cadence of his voice wrap itself around her, and she had to lean against the wall to steady herself, falling impossibly more in love with him, and thinking he really was the most wonderful man.

She waited. When the song was over he turned around to set the bottle down, smiling at her when he realized she was there. “Hello.”

“The Beatles?” she asked softly, pushing away from the wall so she could wrap her arms around his neck as he kissed their daughter.

“Well….she likes to hold my hand,” he whispered. Rose smiled.

“Not just her,” she said, proving her point as her fingers molded to his without either of them having to look, and a spark of arousal flew between them. “That was really sweet.”

He winked. “Did you brush your teeth?”

“Maybe. Kiss me and find out,” she flirted, but he could smell the toothpaste, and he kept Alice on his hip as he brought their lips together. She moaned a little, and he smiled.

“So much better,” he said, but she ignored him and just kept kissing him, until they both had to pull away when Alice tugged on her father’s hair. Hard. “Ow!”

“Come here, sweet girl,” Rose said, pulling her daughter into a hug. “Mummy loves you. I’m so proud of you. Yes! Good job.”

She smiled wider with every word Rose spoke, and he watched them hug. “We should go somewhere. Celebrate her milestone.”

“Okay,” she said, smiling. “Where’s the best baby food in the galaxy? We can get her to try it all.”

“Brilliant,” he murmured, kissing her again. “We’ll go in the morning. I promised her I would read her a bedtime story. Charlotte’s Web? What do you think?”

“No, that’s so sad, read When You Give A Mouse A Cookie,” Rose said, and he raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“She’s a Time Lord, I’m not reading that to her,” he said, and she rolled her eyes. “And, Rose Tyler, I'll have you know I happen to have the first draft of Charlotte's Web. Long story - how I got it, not the draft - grammatical errors left and right, but the plot is much better.”

“Oh, well now I have to hear it,” she teased. He laughed, and together they walked to the nursery, where Rose curled up on the rug and watched him hold Alice in the rocking chair, and as he read the story, she found herself falling asleep, too.

He stopped the chapter before he was even halfway through when he noticed they were both out like a light, and he chuckled a little, carefully bringing Alice over to her crib. Gently, he laid her on the blankets and tucked her in, and he aimed his sonic screwdriver at the lights, flipping them off.

The projection of the cosmos in the paint illuminated around him, spilling over every inch of the room. He clenched his jaw a little and looked down at Rose, making sure she was still asleep before he walked toward the bookcase, and he shifted the view, revealing the spot in the sky Gallifrey once sat.

He stared at it.

“Hey,” Rose whispered after a few minutes, slowly stirring on the floor. “Hum in my head.”

“Sorry, I’m fine,” he said, pulling his focus to her and helping her stand up. “She’s asleep.”

“You want her to stay here?” she asked, and he nodded. “What if she needs us?”

“Nah, she’ll be okay. She’s been sleeping through the night for weeks,” he said softly. “And we both share a bond with her. We’ll know if she wakes up, and she’s getting too big for the bassinet anyway. I think it’s a good day to do it.”

Rose bit her lip and looked at her, watching the rise and fall of her stomach. It was slow and steady, and she just nodded, but there was a lump in her throat that was hard to swallow. She wanted her to grow up, she did, she couldn’t wait for so many things, but two milestones in one day just felt like a lot, and this one she hadn’t been prepared for at all. “I just…”

“Come here,” he whispered as he pulled her into a hug, holding her tightly, and he kissed the top of her head. “I promise she’s okay.”

“No, I know,” she muttered. “I’m just... sad, I guess. I know it’s stupid. And I’m not...It’s a good thing, I know it is, but…”

“What?” he murmured.

“Can she sleep in our room tomorrow night? Maybe?” she asked, and he smiled at her.

“We can switch off, hm? Every other night for a bit? Until you feel ready?” he offered.

“Really?” she asked, and he smiled at the tenderness of her tone.

“It’s not stupid, Rose. I understand. I really do. I’m sad, too,” he said. “Even if we find a way to get her regenerations, which we will, she’ll never be this little again. I know that. But like you said. It’s a good thing.”

Rose felt tears well up but she held them back, and he hugged her again. She looked up at the projection over his shoulder, and when she saw the hourglass nebula he once showed her after they defeated the Master and Rassilon so very long ago, she froze. “Is that…”

“Hm?” he asked, and then realized what she was looking at. “Oh. Yeah.”

“You okay?” she asked, and he nodded.

“Just...looking,” he said. “Making sure nothing changed. Making sure it’s still...well…”

“Hidden?” she whispered. He just took a deep breath and exhaled sharply.

“Something like that,” he admitted. “It’s safe, it’s fine. I’m fine. I promise.”

“Good,” she said, and he kissed her, letting his tongue swipe across her lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he murmured. “Let’s let her sleep.”

He took her hand and walked directly across the hall to their own room, keeping both doors open in case Alice did end up needing them, but as soon as they were both washed up and laying down, he realized they were essentially alone, and he decided to take advantage of it.

“Can we…” he started to say, and she straddled him, apparently thinking the same thing. His hands roamed her back as they kissed, and she pulled her t-shirt over her head, suddenly bare chested and hovering on top of him. He began to explore her skin with his tongue like it was new territory, despite the fact he knew the map of her moles just as well as the stars. He was careful and almost tentative, and she let out a long moan when he flicked his fingers over the soft mounds of flesh that were right at his eyeline, giving them a gentle squeeze.

He rolled them over so he was on top of her, peeling his own shirt off as he found her neck, then her jaw, licking and sucking, and she panted his name. “I want…”

“What?” he asked, stopping and looking at her. “Tell me.”

She connected their minds, and he shuddered. She took over the kisses for a moment, bringing her lips to his chest, and as they shimmied out of the rest of their clothing he slithered down so he could explore more of her with his tongue, and he made her scream, which she somehow had the brain power to remember to cover with her hand so they didn’t wake Alice up with the open doors.

“Have I ever told you…” he began as he trailed kisses up her stomach, then her chest, until he reached her lips. “How much I love how you taste?”

“Mmm, no,” she said, smirking at him.

“Wait, really?” he asked, his tone suddenly more alarmed than sexy, and she laughed.

“Every single time,” she whispered, gripping his hair on the back of his head. “Even if you don’t say it out loud, I hear you. We share a mind, remember?”

“Good,” he said, his voice returning to its husky tone, and he kissed her again. “Because I do...It’s...there’s this sweetness to you I can’t get enough of. And also this tanginess that’s just...I just want it. All the time. It’s intoxicating ....Drives me absolutely insane....”

She whimpered, and he winked, then let her massage his scalp as they kissed. He couldn’t resist joining their bodies together, and they slowly started to move, exploring every inch of what the other had to offer. Every tightening of every muscle, every gentle stroke.

It lasted for a while, full of soft pants and quiet moans, and they both marveled a little at how incredibly addicting it was to be able to do this without stressing about timelines or diamonds or vengeful Time Lords; without worrying in the back of their minds about whether or not it would be the last time they got to make love at all.

It was just them, dancing and writhing and groaning between their sheets, letting time stand as still as it possibly could.

His forehead buried itself onto the crook of her neck as he began to make strangled noises, so close to bursting it was starting to feel like a fire inside of him, and when she thought the word ‘forever’ he came so hard he nearly broke the bed frame.

She was carried away with him, and they smiled as they caught their breath, glistening a little with sweat. He kissed her, and she pulled her hair out of her face as they settled next to each other on the mattress. “Think it’ll still be like that in seven hundred years?” she panted.

He chuckled.

“No,” he said. “I think it’ll be better.”

She smiled at him, and he gave her the most adoring look as he wrapped his arms around her, and this time fell asleep together, ready for whatever the following day would bring.

[theclaravoyant]

a Noble tradition

The Doctor loves Christmas, so Ryan, Yaz, and Graham take her to a local Christmas market on Earth, where she runs into some unexpected old friends. (*Very* old friends.)

AN ~ I was prompted to write a fic where Thirteen meets Donna, and I really got into a nostalgic Noble family mood with it. I wouldn't technically call this fluff, but it's bittersweet with a positive outlook and lots of wholesome platonic goodness. Enjoy <3 (but please note Donna doesn't remember the Doctor, because I enjoy suffering too much)

Relationships: The Doctor & Wilf, The Doctor & Donna, Team Tardis 13/The Fam

Read on AO3 or Pillowfort (word count ~1900)

a Noble tradition

“I love Christmas,” the Doctor remarks cheerfully, beaming as she looks around at the market Yaz, Graham and Ryan have brought her to. There are baubles and strips of tinsel draped from every snow-and-pine-covered surface, bells jingling, and carols warbling over a distant speaker. “So colourful. And everybody’s nice to each other, mostly. Not that people should need an excuse, but…”

She trails off, distracted by a tray of gingerbread men someone is carrying past. She follows it to a patisserie stall and Graham, ever grateful for the opportunity for food, jumps at the chance to follow her while Yaz and Ryan trail a few steps behind, admiring the handmade wreaths and glowing lights and hats with unnecessarily long ear flaps that decorate the nearby stalls. By the time they reach the Doctor, she has already picked out their gingerbread folk, and passes them around enthusiastically. They are fresh and warm in the frosty air, and Yaz and Ryan accept them with delight as the Doctor begins to regale them with a story of a town called Christmas on a planet oh so far away from here - a tale Graham briefly interrupts to pass her a jam donut shaped and decorated like a Christmas tree, and which as a result, diverges into one about the time a Christmas tree nearly killed her. Naturally.

“Hold on,” Graham remarks. “All that funny business at Christmas in London a few years back, was that all you?”

“Well-“

“Oh yeah!” Yaz cries. “Pig in a spaceship? Disappearing hospital? My cousin was in there, you know. Said something about alien rhinoceros?”

“Well, it was- I mean, I was there,” the Doctor explains as all three of them look around at each other, impressed. “And it was actually more of a space vampire. The space rhinoceros were just looking for her.”

“Oh, well that’s alright then,” Ryan shrugs, smirking as the illustrious, ancient, alien defender of earth takes a gigantic bite out of the tree-shaped donut and in doing so, all but buries her nose in jam and bright green icing. Her eyes are bright with mirth for a moment and then - mid-chew, like a deer on high alert - she pauses.

Graham, Yaz and Ryan eye each other warily.

“I know that voice,” the Doctor whispers.

“We about to become one of those stories then, Doc?” Graham offers. “Assassin Santas running about or something?”

He glances up and down the fairway of the market. Ryan is wondering how effective a nearby baguette would be as a weapon. Depends what they’re facing, he supposes. He can already see Yaz mapping the exits, figuring out which would be best to heard civilians toward in the case of an emergency, but then the Doctor leaps into action.

“Quick!” she orders. “Hide me!”

“What?”

She runs a lap around the display table, trying to figure out where to go, and settles for nicking one of those beanies from the neighbouring stall instead, with the really long ear flaps. This one is deliberately designed to look like a cartoonish reindeer, with stuffed antlers sewn on and all, and it really would look utterly ridiculous if they weren’t all so busy trying to gauge the danger as the Doctor bustled around and muttered to herself. Probably not all that dangerous then, or she’d be rallying them instead, but try as they might to ask her what is going on she - as per usual with the first go round of things - doesn’t quite have time to clearly explain.

“What’s the point of that?” she frets, tugging at the hat. “He doesn’t know what I look like. It’s fine. It’ll be -“

She cuts herself of when she realises that the man in question is already at the stall, staring her in the face. He’s got on an old hand-knitted sweater with pine trees stitched into it, and red foam antlers around his head. He beams, full of merriment, and gestures to the treats on the table.

“These yours then?” he asks. “Love the hat!”

“Wilf.” She doesn’t mean to say it, doesn’t mean to give herself away, but how can she not? She has missed this family for so long, and this is the man she died for all those years ago. She just knows that he’s been watching the sky for her, all this time, and she wonders if he knows how grateful she is for that constant reminder that she is not alone.

Wilf, of course, is good natured but confused by all the carryings-on. He laughs it off as the Doctor releases him from the hug, and watches her with a strange expression. But he is very bright, and there’s something about this strange woman, so he tries something. Nods to Graham and suggests -

“All these young whippersnappers with you? You should take them round the corner, there’s one of them police boxes, like the ones from when we were young. Amazing. It’s like going back in time.”

He sets his eyes very deliberately back on the Doctor for that last part, and she’s smiling and almost crying at the same time. Oh, she has missed him. But now he knows, so she opens her arms and gestures to her new self.

“I told you I was going to change, didn’t I?”

“Blimey,” Wilf remarks. “Did a good job of it. Even if you are dressed like a rainbow upchucked on a fisherman.”

“Told you,” Ryan mutters. Yaz elbows him.

Wilf’s face lights up upon seeing they’re with the Doctor, and he gleefully shakes everyone’s hands and introduces himself to the full circle.

“This is Wilf, he’s an old friend,” the Doctor adds. “Very old friend.”

“How long’s it been?” Wilf wonders.

“A long time,” the Doctor breathes. “Decades. Centuries. Depends who you ask, really.”

“And you still remember us old things?”

He looks so surprised, it almost hurts, and the Doctor wonders if he’ll ever know what it feels like not just to miss someone, but to miss missing them… and then to get them back, if only for the briefest of moments. A smile touches her lips and she promises -

“Always.”

Wilf smiles back, with a solemnity that suggests he knows something of what she’s going through, at least enough to begin to imagine, and without further prompting he offers -

“She’s good, you know. Doing well. Started up her own contracting place a few years back, business services they call it - managing temps, bookkeepers, IT, all that stuff. She’s in charge of the whole thing, and getting quite a good reputation too.”

“Good on her,” the Doctor praises, and she can’t help but smile. “Helping people, and ordering them around all day. Sounds right up Donna’s alley.” Wilf laughs. “It’s a struggle sometimes, but she’s really grown, you know. I thought it would all go away after… after you left… but she is finding her feet again. Really taking responsibility for herself and grabbing life by the horns, eh? Bloody fierce, she is, I knew she could do it.”

“THERE you are!”  

Before the Doctor can so much as open her mouth to respond, there is an interruption. It’s a new voice, but an old one. It’s seared into the Doctor’s soul. (Speak of the devil, Wilf remarks fondly.) Upon hearing it, the Doctor freezes. Should she run? Hide? Dive behind the table? Suddenly it’s too late and that red hair is already here. A quiet voice whispers in her head: she doesn’t know what you look like. It is going to be okay. She doesn’t know. She can never know.

“What’s all this, then?” Donna wonders, looking around the gathering that has formed. Only half-jokingly, she points at Wilf and asks the Doctor, “Is he bothering you?”

She can never know. Words freeze on the Doctor’s tongue.

“I wasn’t bothering anyone, sweetheart,” Wilf insists. “We just got to talking, that’s all.”

“Bonding over crazy Christmas headgear, I see,” Donna remarks, eyeing the Doctor’s hat. Just as the Doctor is about to regain control of her voice, a pattering of tiny footsteps come crunching through the snow, and Donna sweeps a little blonde boy into her arms.

“This is my great-grandson Devon,” Wilf introduces, because of course, as far as Donna is concerned there’s no need. What is puzzling is the gestures he is making, until he explains a moment later, “He is deaf. Donna adopted him earlier this year. This is our first Christmas all together as a family!”

The Doctor beams, but finally manages to stumble into a response. Quite convincingly if she does say so herself, and with signs to boot.

“That’s brilliant! Merry Christmas! Have some gingerbread, on me!”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Donna jests. “Devon, what do we say to the nice lady?”

Blushing, Devon musters up the courage to say:

“… I like your hat, Nice Lady.”

The Doctor laughs. “He’ll fit right in, this one.”

Ryan hands her a cookie, which she passes onto Devon with pride. Donna nudges him.

“What do we say?”

“Thank youuuuuuuu,” Devon recites.

“Thank you,” Donna repeats genuinely as she takes a cookie for herself and, at this collection of strangers’ insistence, another for Wilf. “We should be going before Mum loses her head. Come on, Granddad.”

“Come on, Granddad!” Devon mimics in an exasperated tone. Yaz grins and hides it behind her hand, and Wilf sighs dramatically and makes a show of adhering to his dear family’s wishes. He spares one last glance for the Doctor, and a fond nod; a promise of all the things they’ve left unspoken. The Doctor stares after him for a long moment, until bittersweet tears fill her eyes beyond seeing, and then she wrenches the hat off her head because if she thinks of how Wilf-like it is for one more second…

She blinks the tears away, and turns back to her friends.

Ryan, Yaz, and Graham say nothing, and they’re all looking at her with such sympathy in their eyes it almost makes her tear up again. Instead, the Doctor takes a deep breath.

“I warned you to be sure when you travel with me,” she reminds them. “It doesn’t always end well.”

The others share a look. They could take this moment to ask any number of questions - was it Wilf who had travelled with the Doctor, or just Donna? Why did Wilf remember, and not Donna? What exactly did Donna not remember and why did the Doctor look like that about it all?

Instead, Ryan offers encouragingly; “I dunno, she looks alright to me."

The others nod in agreement and the Doctor finds her spirit is lifted. Donna is driven, successful, and loving, and so very loved, and as painful as things had been ending between them, the Doctor could hardly ask for a better life, even for her best friends in the world.

Gingerbread, surely, is the least she can do.

“Shall we get a box of these to go, then?” she suggests.

“I don’t know about you, Doc,” Graham puts in, “but right now I could go for something a little stronger than gingerbread.”

Yaz nods. “Here here.”

“They do mulled wine at the pop-up round the corner,” Ryan informs them. “Tis the season and all that, right?”

“Right,” Graham agrees. “I’m sold.”

“Me too,” Yaz says, and all three of them turn to look at the Doctor, who tucks a gift box full of gingerbread under her arm for good measure, dumps a frankly ridiculous amount of money into the cashbox, and gestures for her friends to lead the way.

[applebyarrows-official]

A Very Sheri(dan) Christmas 8 PM, December 25th, 2009

Perching uncomfortably in a stiff sitting room chair, near a quiet, flickering spark of a fire left in the ashes of the day’s burnings, Avery gazed out into the living space around them, taking in the wreckage that had sprouted from Christmas Day. Scattered on the floor were the torn remnants of the wrapping paper from many presents, as well as the many colored bows and ribbons that had topped them. Unwrapping gifts had taken place that morning, and it was long past sundown now, but no one could seem to bear cleaning up the holiday cheer. The only being set on doing anything this time of night after the celebrations were Jessica, who was off doing housework, and the dog. Avery had never been a big fan of dogs. Crups were one thing, as they were at least generally intelligent creatures, but even they were on thin ice! They thought fondly of the brief interaction they had had with the Headmaster’s crup as they informed him they’d be taking the holiday to visit family. Proper dogs though, they were a whole different can of worms. This dog, in particular. Avery looked cautiously at the dog in question--Jessica’s dog--and he looked back at them with a completely vacant expression. He was utterly idiotic, Avery thought, as they watched him try, again, to eat the lower branches of the Christmas tree. Jessica was proud of that dog. “He’s purebred, you know! Absolutely perfect in every way!” Jessica had spouted earlier today. The Hogwarts professor had sat through Jessica’s ramblings, thoroughly finding humor in the half-blooded witch being so incredibly proud of her designer idiot. As if he knew he was being thought poorly of, the Pomeranian trotted over to Avery’s exposed ankles and gave them a wet, sloppy lick. They lifted their feet up so they were out of dog-range, and tucked their toes underneath their legs, sitting barely on the seat, just barely out of reach of Chuffy’s mouth. Why were dog mouths always so wet? Avery frowned at Chuffy and shooed him away. As much as they tried to put up with being in this damn house, for Margie’s sake, they were not going to allow themselves to be subjected to and slobber that was not from their own pet, who was unfortunately stuck at the school while Avery was away.

It was just for a couple of days, but Jessica had told them straight off the bat that she didn’t want to introduce Chuffy to any cats, and Avery couldn’t promise that Ganymede would do well with such a small dog. He had hunted bigger things in Brazil than that Pomeranian, so maybe it was for the best, in the end. Sairish had promised to take good care of Ganymede, and Avery had told Ganymede to behave before they left. He might be upset for a little bit, but he’d be okay by the time they came back, and he'd be doubly affectionate upon their return, they were sure. It was just a matter of him behaving while they were away. Surely someone would write if he was causing problems at Hogwarts. A loud clatter from behind Avery, coming from the direction of the dining room caught their attention. They stood quickly, turning to see the source of the noise, only to see Jessica already stooping down to pick up a dropped platter and waving off Avery’s unspoken concern. “You are a guest,” she spoke clearly. “I will not have you lifting a finger to help clean in my house.” Ah, of course. Avery shrugged and returned to the stiff chair. This wasn’t their house anymore-- It was just hers. It would never be Avery and Jessica’s home again. Just…. Jessica’s house.  Avery was nothing more than a minimally wanted guest, staying the holiday to see their daughter. Jessica inviting Avery to stay the holiday had been nothing more than a peasantry, a “look, we’re doing just fine without you here,” now that they were back in the country again. Hell, it hardly seemed like Margie even wanted them here. The nine-year-old had only just barely managed to sit through the uncomfortable dinner with the three of them. She was much more excited to have time off of school this week and excited to wait up for Santa than she was the see Avery again. Perhaps seeing them outside of their regular summers was odd for her. Avery wasn’t supposed to get Margie again until late May. A long, wordlessly tense silence followed Jessica’s quick denial of any help that Avery had to offer. Now instead, they sat, once again returning to the terrible chair. They tried to relax into it, hoping that maybe sitting back into the cushions would soften them a bit. It did not.  Avery returned to watching the dying fire, only passingly noting as Jessica moved on from cleaning up the dining room and moved into another part of the house. Only the occasional sound of a passing car or muggle carolers singing broke through to Avery as they thought.

Suddenly, and with seemingly no warning, the sharp clunk of a heavy glass being set on a nearby side table startled them out of their thoughts. Quickly looking up to the source of the intrusion with a scowl etched into their features, Aver came face to face with the woman they had been thinking about, and the scowl vanished. Jessica held out a second glass towards them. “Ah, thank you.” Avery took a cautious sip of the offered beverage, briefly relishing in the familiar flavor before returning their gaze to the fireplace. “You know, if you stare at that fire long enough as intensely as you are, someone might start to think you were trying to get it to relight it without using your wand. What’s occupying your mind, Avery?” It would be asking for too much for Avery to choose to be completely honest with Jessica. Instead, the chose to keep silent for a long minute, mulling over just what exactly they should say back. “Oh, nothing much,” they replied eventually. “My mind was just wandering. You understand how I can be sometimes. I was thinking about how the other professors are holing up. You remember how restless the students can get when they stay at school over winter break. I just hope they’re managing with all the troublemakers we have this year.” Jessica smiled half-heartedly, most likely thinking about the adventures the two of them had shared over their own breaks, creating and causing havoc in the castle. “I didn’t ever think I’d see the day when Avery Sheridan turned over the ‘concerned professor's’ leaf in the place of the ‘quiet, rebel troublemaker’ leaf. It suits you.” She sighed deeply before continuing. “Taking that teaching position has really done some good to you. I’m glad it brought you to your senses about moving back into the country, even if it was a bit late. But,” she shrugged, “better ten years late than never, I suppose.” Jessica’s words seemed kind and joking on the surface, but Avery could all but taste the disgusting venom they were truly laced with. “Yep… better late than never, that’s what people always say, isn't it?” Avery forced a smile onto their face and gritted their teeth. Surely, Jessica wasn’t planning on having this conversation again, especially not with Margie sleeping upstairs. “But hey, I’m here now, and that’s what matters at the end of the day. Margie won’t have to go across the ocean to go between our homes anymore. I want to be better at this parenting thing. I want to make it all easier for her, you know? Especially before she comes to school. As much as I like being a professor, I want to be Margie’s parent before I’m her professor. I’m grateful that you’re allowing me to take a more active role in her life by inviting me for the holidays and that sort of thing before she comes to Hogwarts, Jessica. Thank you.” The tension that followed Avery’s thanks was thick enough to cut with a holiday carving knife. Avery glanced up at Jessica. “What’s the matter? Dog got your tongue?” “Marjorie will not be attending Hogwarts.” Jessie’s words severed the space between them both. “Pardon?” “I’m sorry, did you not hear me? Margie will not be attending Hogwarts.” “And why, pray tell, is our daughter not going to be attending the prestigious wizarding school we both went to?” “Because, Alberich, our daughter is a fucking squib, which you would very well know if you had spent any more time with your daughter than the couple weeks during the summers you were graciously given! She’s nine! There’s been no leviations, no color changes, nothing! Not a single thing other magical parents look forward to experiencing with their child! And I had to deal with that alone.” Avery stood quickly to their full height at Jessica’s raised voice, towering over their ex-wife, watching as she stood to match their gaze, unfaltering. Both of their faces were covered in deep-set frown lines, each of their furious intents matching the other’s. “How dare you” Avery’s voice came out in a curt whisper before raising to a volume just under a shout. “How dare you call me that fucking name. You have no right! How dare you blame me for thinking that my daughter was going to be an amazing witch one day, and for being excited about it! How DARE you act like it was my choice to split Margie’s time between us and to not have very much time with her. How DARE you blame my focus on my career for me not being around! You don’t think I know that I’ve been a shitty parent? You don’t think I want to try harder? That’s why I’m here, Jessica! I’m fucking trying, which is more than some other shitty fucking parents can say about their goddamn liv--”

“Baba? Mum? What’s going on?” Avery turned quickly towards the stairs where a soft-spoken girl, rubbing her bleary, sleepy eyes stood, and they felt their heartbreak. Of all the things they had wanted, Margie listening to them fight was never one of them. Jessica recovered first. “Go back to bed, lovely. Your father and I were just talking about what school he wanted you to go to when you’re older. I told him that you would be attending the local high school with your friends, as we talked about. It’s nothing to worry about tonight.” Avery bit their tongue and the obvious sleight by Jessica, for Margie’s sake, watching as Margie nodded slowly and turned around to go back to her room. Avery looked backed towards Jessica, an apology already forming on the tip of their tongue. “Jessie, I’m so sor--” “Stop.” Jessica held up her hand and looked away. “I don’t want to hear anything come out of that damn mouth of yours, least of all those words.” Jessica picked up the two glasses that had been left on the side table by the both of them. Not saying a word as she turned away and walked towards the dining room, Chuffy following happily behind her. Without so much as a glance back, she spoke again. “I think you should go.” Avery watched in silence as their life fell to pieces before them once again. Their daughter was likely confused and hurt because her parents were fighting, and Jessica wouldn’t want to try being friends again, not after this. Not even for Margie’s sake. The best they could ever be was cordial. They ran their fingers through their hair, messing it up in the process, before swearing and shuffling to pick up their things from the guest room before heading back to the castle. Hopefully, no one would ask why they came back so much earlier than they had planned.

[silvermarmoset]

Clara Oswald’s Wardrobe: The Eleventh Doctor Years

Yeah. You read it right. I’m back, bitches.

After a brief sojourn (like...two years) into not covering such fascinating topics as Martha’s elegance, Rose’s scrappy jeans, and River Song’s backwards-forwards style routine, I’m back to discuss Doctor Who and costume design, because we all have things we’re good at and mine is yelling about hemlines! So while we all mourn Bill Potts—please come back to the show, Pearl Mackie, I beg you honest-to-god—let’s throw in a flashback to a long time ago, and play around with CLARA OSWIN OSWALD.

One nasty bit that’s kept me from getting to this post earlier is that Clara’s series 7 arc, thanks to the fragmenting-into-ten-thousand-tiny-pieces bit, is a little hard to view from a “character/costume” perspective. Do I count Oswin as part of her, despite significant differences between "our” Clara and Souffle Girl, or do I view their costume choices separately? What about the Clara from “The Snowmen”? What about the one who ran after Tom Baker in a terrible incident of green-screen-enabled acid reflux?

Lord. Her feet don’t even hit the floor.

So after a lot of debate, I’m counting them, albeit shyly, and without extending to them the same connective layer I generally use between a character’s costume choices. They’re a part of Clara, so I can’t ignore them, but I won’t assume every choice they make extends to our Clara. After all, discussing all those Claras would just be impossible, wouldn’t it?

I know. Great segue, right? Join us, pals, for a new edition of The Companion’s Wardrobe.

When we first meet Oswin, I’m falling over myself because I love her so much. Ok, no, not really. But it’s hard to fend off the charm of this first outfit—it’s a mix of Pure Sex, Geeky Cool Kid, and Perky Sixties Air Stewardess that knocks together a couple diverse style types and leaves us unsure what her whole deal is. There’s the cheeky red dress with the asymmetrical neckline, the rose she tucks behind her ear, the sci-fi tool belt and watch, the youthful-chic sneaker-heels. It goes together, but what ties these into a cohesive character?

Uh, yeah, Os, and if you’re gonna sass me the whole post you can do it in a more productive fashion. What these posts do is analyze—not assume what the designers meant, ever, but take what we know from the dress, delete from our brains our own metas and conjectures and far-flung notions, fling whether we think it’s pretty out the window except for that one rose tyler outfit. it deserved to be sassed, and try to embrace this as Character Translated Into Dress™ (while of course letting insignificant details slide because not EVERYTHING ties into your analysis, dumbass). We’re being told something, here, or else it’s just shitty costume design.

Which is always perfectly possible.

But no, Oswin’s dress is aiming for something: perfection. Everything about this dress is right, but it’s also TOO much. Too clean. Too fun. She’s polished and pretty and happy and comfortable—and none of it could possibly be real, with a Dalek just outside the door. While most of the wrecked passengers we’ve seen in past under-siege dramas have looked a little wrecked, with a dusty spacesuit or a tattered hairstyle to prove it, Oswin’s perfect bouncy curls and scratch-free outfit signal us far before the Doctor does that something is off.

Besides the perfection of this outfit, unstained by real life’s messes, there are other hints of what Oswin’s got going for her. The bright red, like a warning signal, should hit us over the head: every other companion is a mish-mash of different hues and patterns, while Oswin reads like a stop sign. The heeled sneakers I love so much are almost kid-like, if not innocent—as is much of Oswin’s made-up life, as she calls her mum and lounges in her chair. She reads as both red-hot “NO” and a perfect, happy, straight-out-of-Pushing-Daisies “yes.”

It’s no wonder we didn’t know what to make of her the first time she showed up. She was popping into every different direction, and somehow making it work.

The next time we see her, the costumes hit us over the head with how this is the same character. Because guess what? The Lady in Red is back.

Same hair, same low neckline, but a subtler shade of red this time, all over.

I honestly don’t have a lot to say about this outfit (though it’s INCREDIBLY beautiful), except that red immediately marks Clara out as bold, and vivid, and a little bit larger than life. Remember how Rose dipped into dark reds slowly, after growing out of the safer pinks she got from Jackie? Clara’s already there, wearing blood red all over, inciting the Doctor to do something.

Until she isn’t. Count me confused.

I’ve got no answers why her bland young charge picks up her red, or why Clara suddenly wears something that departs so drastically from everything she’s coded into her dress previously. Sure, she’s in “disguise,” but isn’t she closer to her true accent now? Why align herself color-wise with the ice monsters? Why ricochet between blue/green and red to further this split personality deal?

I got no answers. Sorry, lads.

Modern Clara’s still got a touch of that “come on!” red, but it’s minimized. She’s wearing one of those light, tiny-pattern, floaty-fabric things that were SO EVERYWHERE in 2013, but that’s all we get from her. She’s a mystery, dressed in whatever’s currently in fashion, flaunting past a gravestone.

But the lady in red is never gone for long.

This is our first time with Proper Clara, and it lays out the elements of Clara’s personal aesthetic that we’ll see for quite some time. Little, adventuresome boots; black tights; a flimsy little dress with a subtle pattern; a big coat, comfortable and practical. The flying bird necklace is lovely. The skirt has the high-low hem of many skirts from this year; we’ll see one like it again. Aside from the visual shout-out to Dalek Oswin in the red dress/short boots combo, all this aligns with what little we know of Clara at this point—she’s competent at whatever she sets her mind to, she’s young, she's both adventuresome and fashionable; she’s very tidy and put-together.

I’d argue her look is still way more put-together than most normal people achieve—think of Rose’s slapdash jeans or Martha’s tank tops—but if I bite the inside of my cheeks and take deep breaths I can accept this as an outfit most TV costume designers would claim is normal, in the same impeccably-dressed “normal” vein of Iris West. It’s pretty, it’s contemporary, but it doesn’t tell me anything much.

[this briefly-seen outfit, with its cardigan and vintage-y blouse, marks Clara as a sort of pretty-librarian type, though again this look is very in with then-contemporary style.]

Which gets to the root of a problem I have with many of Clara’s outfits in Series 7. Clara is frequently accused of being “boring”—and I firmly believe this has loads to do with the way she dresses, divorced from any opinion on the writing or the plot at this point. Jenna Coleman is an engaging actress, but a lot of the costumes from this era give us a cute, ordinary woman at the expense of furthering her arc in a particular direction.

There are clues, of course. From the quality of her clothes, she’s somewhere in the middle-class range—not quite as effortlessly classy as soon-to-be doctor Martha, but not quite at Rose’s level of street style either. Clara probably reads The Guardian. Those boots aren’t cheap.

Her outfit is very well put together, though it doesn’t push any boundaries of style. Clara is always tied into contemporary fashion, from this point onwards, with her boots and jacket bringing a little frisson of tough to counter the femininity of the dress and bag. The bag’s a sharp, bossy red, and all together it kind of gives us who Clara thinks she is: perfectly turned out, girlish and flirty, tough enough to deal with a crisis, with just a small splash of opinionated red on the side. 

There’s red, again, in the flashback. (side note: how young is her dad????)

“Cold War” mixes it up, though this is still Clara: there’s the slightly flared skirt we’ve seen in the past two looks, and the tough jacket firmly in evidence. I love the buttons up the front, though, and the icy shimmer is a nice departure—a little more glam than we’ve seen before from Clara. Considering Clara thought she was heading to Las Vegas, we can see what she thinks is appropriate for a night out right now: that vaguely-retro 1950s look Taylor Swift started, with a strong streak of cute, but nothing your grandmum would hate. (Amy would have had that skirt at least 6 inches shorter and narrower.) She’s girly and tough.

“Hide” runs along the same lines. (also, bless all these full-costume promo pics.) The gentle cardigan look is back, and aside from the heels it’s all quite demure. It also looks great for the spooky tone of this episode! Incidentally, this is Clara’s third blue outfit in a row, leading me to wonder when we abandoned the vivid red Claras of earlier for these calm, cool, inward-looking young ladies. It’s almost a visual rebuke to the Doctor for seeing her only as the red adventuresses of earlier—those girls were red, sir, but this one is blue, so get your head together and consider the color symbolism.

Oh. Or fuck me for trying, I guess. That works too. Who needs consistency, am I right?

Aside from me throwing myself out the window because the red keeps coming back but I can’t figure out WHY, this dress is a lot like Clara’s others. Her favorite pair of boots is back, and it’s quite buttoned-up and modest, if a little shorter than before. And the tightrope of bold-but-girly continues to be Clara’s calling card, with the minimal jewelry keeping her just on this side of not-too-dressed-up.

It’s telling that she stands out in this episode, though: she’s in stark opposition to the cold blues worn by the Doctor and his TARDIS, a visible antagonist as these two question and frighten her about her right to belong.

“The Crimson Horror” gives us two great Clara looks, which is great because holy shit look what they did to this skirt.

I can’t quite explain what happened here, because for all the world it looks like they took apart a 1910s-style hobble skirt and  threw in a gradient underskirt for the solid reason of Why The Hell Not, but I love it despite it being bonkers-levels of  historically inaccurate.

Then there’s this.

I LOVE THIS TOO, but character-wise I really have to grit my teeth because I don’t get why Clara, ordinary girl from the twenty-first as she seems to be, would have either the knowledge or the inclination to dress her hair in the elaborate fashions of the period.  But it’s a spot-on perfect dress, with none of the historic bumbling Rose managed on her first try. It lacks the super-puff sleeves of the 1890s, but I can live with it because of those fantastic little V’s down the front. It’s perfect.

We’re back in red for “Nightmare in Silver,” and everything’s very much Normal Clara: the little heeled shoes, the slightly flared skirt, the tights and the tough jacket and the trim little collar. With stronger fabric choices, she looks more in control than ever; she’s developed slightly away from the girlishness of those high-low skirts, though that girly quality is still there in the short skirt. Her arc has not been consistently signaled so far in either silhouette or color choices, but this outfit marks Clara as being more in command than ever before.

In the finale, she’s in same silhouette as last time, but new shoes (Clara seemingly adores footwear that combines heels, boots, and little oxford-y things into one package). Compared to her first modern outfit, she’s much more visually controlled—dark-hued, geometrically patterned, no more flounce or flutter. The color scheme is much more similar to the blue/green of the governess outfit, and red’s completely vanished—she couldn’t be farther from the saucy little barmaid act in “The Snowmen.” And yet by the end of the episode, she’s shattered into her—and into a girl with spikes on her jacket, and a girl dressed like Sarah Jane Smith, and a girl and a girl and a girl and a girl.......

I can’t explain this. I’d love to say that Clara coalesces into a firm costume arc over the season, but I can’t find a clear arc without pushing my designer’s brain to untenable conclusions. Through costume, I watched Martha grow from a confident student to a warrior; I watched Rose grow from a thoughtless girl to a brave woman. River developed in ways that suggested where she was going and where she came from, despite the challenges of a plotline her costume designers couldn’t plan for. Series 7 Clara stretches my brain, and I still come up empty. Where was all that red going? Can a change so slight as “pretty girlish” to “a little less so” count as an arc? Did someone not tell Howard Burden the plot, so he couldn’t plan a clearer costume progression? What happened here????

Thankfully, Clara’s not done growing yet, though. Onto the specials!

Clara begins "The Day of the Doctor” in, again, red. I quietly scream because red can be such a dramatic and weighty color and I hate seeing it just pop up for reasons I can’t make sense of. Clara ignores my protests and hops into her adventure.

This outfit’s perfectly within the same realm as Clara’s previous gigs: heeled boots, check; black tights, check; small-print non-geometric pattern on lightweight fabric, all present sir; cheeky red and tough black jacket, reporting for duty. This outfit could have shown up any point in Series 7 and I would have accepted it. Clara’s working as a schoolteacher now (a very chic one), and the whole outfit reads as saucy and cute and just a little badass.

And then “Time of the Doctor.” Oh, I love the “Time of the Doctor” costumes. This is great. This is when Clara starts making sense.

Clara gets two outfits in this: the cheeky yellow-sweater one, and the red-plaid-skirty one. They’re both very twee and pseudo-vintage and Britishy, which is very much in Clara’s realm so far, but they take what Clara’s already had and push it—heartily, extremely, and in a way it’ll never recover from—into bold new territory.

Clara’s style has shifted in this episode. With the proud geometric plaid, the bright red hue, and the overall sharper fit, Clara has absolutely moved on from the girlishness from “The Rings of Akhaten” into something far more confident and controlled. There are significant details: the little infinity-symbols of her cardigan, the spikes on her necklace and bracelets, and the old-fashioned lace on her blouse make an unusual combo that finally distinguishes her from an H&M commercial. It’s strong and decisive, a little bit bossy, with boldness winning out over cute. Fashionable? Yeah! Modern? Always! But powerful, too, taking up the screen with tight shapes and controlled blocks of color.

The yellow sweater and leather skirt hit the same notes. The feminine flutter of early Series 7 is truly gone; without changing Clara’s style completely, the smack-you-in-the-face mustard sweater and the edge of the leather angle her away from “feminine adventuress” into “adventurer femme.” The priorities shift. It’s the signal of where Clara is going from here—into deeper, darker territory.

So, what do we take from this? Though Clara started out as a bit of a cipher—thanks to red dresses leading us in one direction, and then cute little floral pattern outfits taking us in another—over Series 7 Clara gradually came together as a bolder, more in-command character, and even started to develop a style of her own that verged beyond the norm. Where could that take us in Series 8? How will her costumes change to interact with an entirely new Doctor? Will I ever get to see that bird pendant necklace again? (yes.) Who knows! I’ll have to write a post about it!

Whatever happens, it’s going to be an awfully big adventure.

[Got thoughts & questions? Come at me! I love talking about costume, and anyway I had to edit this post extensively to even get it to post, so I couldn’t even mention things people might wonder about. LORD I LOVE COSTUME DESIGN SO MUCH.]

[strangedreamings]

And here’s the next one. I might add that I wrote these chapters long before Intertwined.

Sherrinford to the Rescue ch 2.

Carrying his two suitcases, Ford climbed the stairs to 221B and knocked on the door. After a moment, the door was opened by an old lady he knew from her file to be Mrs. Martha Hudson. She took in his dingy white trainers, faded blue jeans, grey t-shirt, navy hoodie, and black leather jacket without question, but it was his ginger curls that threw her.

“Sherlock?” she asked, confused. “I thought you were upstairs. I must say, this disguise…”

He smiled a bit, gently. “It’s Sherrinford, actually. I’m the Holmes brother no one talks about.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re Sherlock and Mycroft’s brother?”

He nodded. “I’m Sherlock’s twin, just back from six months in South Korea.”

Mrs. Hudson finally noticed the suitcases he was carrying and let him in. “Is Sherlock expecting you?”

“Uh, no, I’m something of a surprise.”

“He could use some cheering up, after everything that’s happened. Has anyone told you…” She trailed off, her eyes sad.

“Mycroft told me about Mary Watson,” he said gently. “It’s why I’m here. Mrs. Hudson, could I trouble you for some tea later? I need a nap but after that I could really use a cuppa and Sherlock probably needs one too. I’d make some but Mycroft said anyone entering Sherlock’s kitchen needs a hazmat suit.”

She smiled weakly. “Oh, of course, I’ll make a pot.”

He gave her his best boyish grin. “Got any Penguins?”

She laughed softly. “For you, I just might.”

“You’re a peach, Mrs. Hudson.” He gave her a salute then carried his bags upstairs to Sherlock’s flat. He set them down in the hallway then poked his head in the sitting room. Sherlock was sitting in the leather chair by the currently unused fireplace, his fingers steepled in front of his face.

The Mind Palace look, Ford thought. He’ll be unreachable for a while. He carried his bags up the stairs to what Mycroft had told him was John Watson’s old room. Taking the time to fully unpack, he then went back downstairs and walked into his brother’s sitting room, plopping down onto the sofa and promptly falling asleep.

“What the bloody HELL are you doing here?!”

Ford woke up from his nap with a start and looked up at the source of his disturbance. Sherlock was standing over him in black bespoke trousers, a white dress shirt, and the blue silk dressing gown Ford remembered his twin owning during their uni days. As if the cursing wasn’t enough, Sherlock’s ice-cold glare told Ford exactly what his twin was feeling.

Ford groaned quietly. “Do you mind, Lock? You know I can’t sleep on airplanes and I’ve been up since 5 AM Seoul time, thanks to Mike.”

“I don’t care about your sleep schedule,” Sherlock said, every word dripping in annoyance. “I want to know why you are suddenly in my flat now after not seeing you for fourteen years.”

“Mike told me what happened with the Watsons,” Ford said as he stood up and stretched. “He ordered me to keep an eye on you. Since he signs my paychecks, I thought I should obey.” At his brother’s wary look, he took a deep breath then held out his hand. “Lock … Sherlock, I want to apologize again for what I did at uni. Trying to pass off your papers as mine was beyond low and I’m sorry.”

Sherlock eyed his twin’s outstretched hand for a moment, his expression neutral, then he finally shook it. “Ancient history.”

Ford grinned. “Great! Now that that’s over, I’ll ask Mrs. Hudson if she can make us some tea.”

“I’ve already texted her. She’ll be up soon.”

“Got anything to eat around here?” Ford wandered into the kitchen and immediately started to gag from the smell. “Christ, I thought Mike was exaggerating! What died in here?” He looked around at the moldy, decomposing … things. “Maybe an easier question to answer is, what didn’t die in here?”

“They’re experiments,” Sherlock said from the doorway, his tone decidedly put-upon.

“Well, I’d say they’ve all definitely gone off,” Ford said, delicately poking one experiment with the handle of a spatula. “I’d willingly pay professional cleaners to come in and sterilize this place.”

“You can afford professional cleaners?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow as he took in his twin’s old and worn clothes.

“When someone actually works for Mycroft, instead of doing volunteer work like you, they get hazard pay,” Sherrinford replied, smirking. “I’ve got a healthy bank account after all the crap I’ve been through for him. I only dress like I’m homeless.”

“Speaking of which, where are you staying?” Sherlock examined a few of the experiments closely then binned some of them, much to Ford’s surprise.

“In John’s old room, for now. I’ll chip in for rent, though considering all your clothes are designer, I doubt you need help there.” Ford opened the fridge and regretted that decision as soon as he saw the bag of eyeballs on the top shelf. “This can’t be sanitary.”

“Don’t you have a flat somewhere?” Sherlock asked, decidedly annoyed.

“I didn’t see the point after I started working for Mike. I’m away from London most of the time, in one shite hotel room or another. The life of a spy isn’t nearly as glamorous as the Bond movies would have people believe.”

“You’re welcome to stay in John’s room for as long as you’re in town.” Both men heard a knock on the door downstairs. Sherlock moved to the window and looked out then quickly turned to his twin, his expression a bit anxious. “In fact, why don’t you go up there now?”

“If you need me out of the way while you talk to a client, just say so.”

“Not a client,” Sherlock said quickly, “still want you out of the way. Shoo!” He was practically pushing Ford out the door then froze as voices were heard coming up the stairs.

“Sherlock has a twin?” asked a female voice Ford didn’t recognize. “I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” Mrs. Hudson replied, amused. “I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. Same eyes, same cheekbones.”

“Same black curls?” the first voice asked.

The women had reached the landing, giving Ford a clear view of them. Mrs. Hudson held the promised tea tray, including an entire plate of Penguins. The other woman was younger, her reddish-brown hair in a ponytail, a white cardigan with embroidered cherries covering a pink blouse, and slightly-wrinkled khakis completing her attire. Both women looked up at the twins, the younger woman’s brown eyes widening. Ford realized the second woman had to Molly Hooper, one of Sherlock’s “goldfish,” according to Mycroft.

While they were coming up the remaining steps, Sherlock took the opportunity to none-too-gently shove Ford towards the stairs to the upper bedroom. “Molly, my twin brother, Sherrinford. Sherrinford, Molly Hooper, my pathologist. Sherrinford was just going to take a nap.”

Ford planted his feet, grinning from ear to ear. “Actually, I just woke up from a nap.” He held out his hand to Molly, who still looked amazed. “Please, call me Ford.”

“Alright,” she said, smiling a bit. “Sherlock never told me he had a twin. You’re fraternal?”

Ford smirked. “Identical, actually.” At Molly and Mrs. Hudson’s confused looks, he continued. “Lock dyes his hair, has since uni.”

“I was tired of everyone confusing the two of us,” Sherlock muttered, his cheeks slightly pink.

Sherrinford turned to Mrs. Hudson, smiling appreciatively at the Penguins. “Mrs. Hudson, you’re a saint.” He relieved her of the tea tray. “Will you be joining us?”

“I would but I’m going to the hospital to see Mary,” she said. “Molly was just there and said she’s currently awake.”

“Give her my love,” Sherlock said quietly then walked into the sitting room, Molly following him.

Ford looked at Mrs. Hudson worriedly. “He can’t even talk to her?”

“John confiscated her mobile,” Mrs. Hudson replied, wringing her now empty hands. “He’s treating her like a child he’s grounded, it’s terrible.”

“Try to talk John ‘round, Mrs. Hudson,” he said gently. “I’ll see what I can do from this end. We can’t let Sherlock’s family split apart.”

She nodded, her eyes sad. “I’m so glad you’re here, Ford. Sherlock needs someone to keep an eye on him.”

“I promise I’ll do my best.”

Back inside the sitting room, Ford found Molly seated on the sofa and Sherlock pacing the floor in front of the coffee table. He set the tray on the table then sat down on the sofa, keeping a respectful distance from Molly.

“I’ll be Mum,” Molly said as she started fixing the tea. “How do you take it, Ford?”

“No milk, two sugars,” Ford replied. At her curious look, he added, “I can’t always get milk when I’m abroad, so I learned to like my tea without it.”

“What is it that you do, exactly?”

Sherrinford glanced at Sherlock, who shook his head slightly. He turned back to Molly. “I work for Mycroft.”

She smiled a bit. “Say no more. Something tells me I’m going to want plausible deniability.”

Ford chuckled. “Smart move.”

Molly handed Ford his tea then held out a cup to Sherlock, who had finally stopped his pacing. Sherlock took it and raised an eyebrow at his twin. Ford took the hint and moved to the chair next to the sofa. Sherlock sat next to Molly, who just smiled over the wordless exchange between the brothers.

“How is Mary?” Sherlock asked.

Molly opened her mouth to reply but was cut off by the sound of Sherlock’s mobile ringing from its place on the coffee table. The number wasn’t one he or Molly recognized.

“You should take it,” she said. “It’s probably a client.”

Sherlock pushed the button, leaving the phone on the coffee table. “This is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock, it’s Mary. Is Molly with you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, relief evident on his face. “My brother Sherrinford is here too.”

“You have another brother?”

“My twin. Unimportant right now.” He ignored Ford’s eyeroll. “How do you feel?”

“I can definitely sympathize with how you felt when you were shot,” Mary said. They heard her laugh weakly then gasp. “Bloody hell, that hurt. Don’t make me do that again.”

“Noted. You’re calling from the room phone?”

“Yes, John took my mobile. I told him he was being ridiculous but he didn’t care. I convinced him to take a walk to stretch his legs, I don’t know how much time I have. Sherlock, I’m giving you a case.”

“What case?” Sherlock asked, immediately intrigued.

“I need you to save John. All of this is tearing him up inside. He needs you, Sherlock. To make him realize it, I need you to put yourself in extreme danger. Find a bad guy, a really bad guy. Go after him publicly. Fall into his clutches. John will save you.”

“You can depend on me, Mary,” Sherlock said firmly.

“He’s coming back, I’ll talk to you when I can.” The line disconnected.

Ford and Molly looked at Sherlock, who was already going into his Mind Palace. Ford reached out and grabbed a couple of Penguins from the plate.

“I suggest you get comfortable, Molly,” he said. “We may be in for a long wait.”

[i-am-very-very-tired]

January Cover Star Emily Ratajkowski Talks Feminism, Criticism & Being Controversial Emily Ratajkowski

Browbeaten for being beautiful and criticised for her self-expression, American actress Emily Ratajkowski is a twenty-first century conundrum. But her quest for liberty is one we should all respect. When Emily Ratajkowski answers the phone, the first two words we exchange are the kind of ice-breaker a journalist dreams of. “Nice name,” she laughs about our collective moniker. The customary awkwardness of a phone interview, where witty face-to-face repartee is lost to crackling phone lines and long-distance pregnant pauses, is replaced with a lucky common ground that sets the tone for an insightful and amiable telephonic tête-à-tête. Derived from Latin, Emily means ‘striking... eager... rival’, and I’m keen to know which might characterise her most aptly. “I don’t think all Emilys are born the same,” she proffers back. She has a point. Emily Ratajkowski (silent ‘j’, FYI) is a 26-year-old American A-list model-cum-actress with a side-line in design, living a charmed life in LA, with movie premieres, catwalks and 15.9 million Instagram followers. I, on the other hand, am a 39-and-three-quarters mum-of-one living the quiet life in Dubai, with Spinneys shops, nursery runs and 3,684 Instagram friends. Incomparable, I know. But what I learn through the course of our interview is that there’s one thing that binds Emily and I, something that transcends continent, age and social convention, and that’s a mutual and unwavering belief that women are awesome and that we should be allowed to be exactly who we want to be. Full stop. On this matter, Emily Ratajkowski is an unreserved feminist. A loud and proud campaigner, whose views are liberal and whose commentary is deliciously unfettered. Her Twitter account shoots straight from the heart, and she’s a no-holds-barred kinda advocate who gets up in people’s grill for all the right reasons. Her approach to feminism isn’t singular or particularly radical, in fact, in essence, it’s beautifully simplistic... Women should have choice, believing nobody, and certainly no man, should be able to dictate how a woman chooses to live her life, what she says, what she wears, or what she does. It’s a viewpoint she advocates and defends in equal measure, and often on a daily basis. You see, Emily came to fame in Robin Thicke’s controversial 2013 Blurred Lines video, in which a scantily-clad Emily rollicked around in a rather suggestive manner. Likewise, her @emrata Instagram account is strewn with semi-dressed selfies, including a provocative photo with Kim Kardashian West that went viral last year. It is a palpitating juxtaposition in which a woman wantonly flaunts her sexuality whilst fighting for freedom. Would Emmeline Pankhurst salute her spirit or fear for the female-driven future she fought so hard for? And it is here that the complexities of the discourse begin. Because, how can someone who labels themselves a feminist brandish their body so brazenly? Oh, the hypocrisy. I’ll let Emily explain... “I think a lot of people really feel that the idea of a woman being sexual or being sexualised is the opposite of feminism,” she says, “When I feel like, in some ways, that conversation itself can be oppressive to women, because you’re telling them how to dress and how to act, which is actually the opposite of feminism. The idea that you have to adjust because of society’s ideas of a sexualised woman or because of a patriarchal standard of beauty and sexuality is again putting pressure on women to change rather than the outside culture changing. However, if that makes a woman feel good, then likewise, who is anyone to tell them that they shouldn’t do that? Women should be able to do and say what they want without the burden of judgment from other people. Young women, in fact women of any age, shouldn’t have to feel judged or limited. However, I think younger women have this idea about feminism, that it’s like some kind of burden. It’s what Roxane Gay’s book Bad Feminist is all about, what does it mean to be a bad feminist? For example, you like a song that’s somewhat misogynistic, and the guilt that can be induced, especially in young women who are already under so much pressure, is awful. And that’s something I’ve made my cause about.” Having had an “interesting introduction into womanhood”, maturing physically far earlier than her peers, Emily has spoken openly about the additional pressures placed on her as a young woman. “I was a 12 year old [with D-cup breasts] but people looked at me as a 21 year old,” she explains. “It was really difficult for me to understand and to come to terms with – that identity, people’s perception of me... It’s hard for a 12-year-old girl, who is basically feeling like ‘Why don’t you just leave me alone’, because I don’t see men having to justify what they wear or how they express themselves.” “The fact that I didn’t feel I should have to change who I am for someone else” is down to her mother, who counselled Emily wisely. “She told me, ‘wear whatever you want, do whatever you want, it doesn’t matter, that’s just your body and that’s who you are so it’s not your issue.’ There was an acceptance there.” But naturally this scrutiny had a lasting effect, one which she describes in Baby Woman, an essay she penned for fellow actress Lena Dunham’s weekly feminist newsletter, Lenny, in which she writes: ‘Surprisingly enough, dealing with the world outside the [modelling] industry was the toughest part of my adolescence and young adulthood. Teachers, friends, adults, boyfriends were more often the ones to make me feel uncomfortable or guilty about my developing sexuality.’ That over-scrutiny eventually spilled over into her career, with a move into the entertainment industry where she found “a separation between being smart and being a woman who can talk about feminism, someone who is intelligent but also sexy and happy to flaunt her sexiness. That’s just sexism,” she resolves. “I think women should be able to be however they want to be with their body and their sexuality, and that shouldn’t be in any kind of opposition to what they want to say.” Being sensual is liberating, Emily says, explaining that she finds a certain beauty in being happy with who you are. “Absolutely. But I don’t think I’m an extremely sensual person every day. I’m just a human being and that’s something very personal. I feel all the different ways throughout the day – sexy, goofy, smart... And that’s the kind of life I would want for a young woman growing up. I would want her to feel all those different things in the span of 24 hours, and to feel empowered by that.” Not everyone agrees, of course, and when you’re in the public eye as much as Emily is, criticism is fait accompli. The more you post, the more you say, the more you open yourself up to criticism. Last summer British journalist Piers Morgan slammed Emily’s photoshoot in Harper’s Bazaar US’s August issue, which saw her riding a white horse sans vetements. Piers tweeted: ‘Do you want me to buy you some clothes – you look freezing.’ Emily’s acerbic retort... ‘I don’t need clothes as much as you need press.’ Likewise, in February this year, she spoke out against ‘slut-shaming’ when a New York Times reporter called America’s First Lady Melania Trump a ‘whore’. Taking to Twitter, she wrote: ‘Sat next to a journalist from the NYT last night who told me ‘Melania is a hooker’. Whatever your politics, it’s crucial to call this out for what it is: slut shaming. I don’t care about her nudes or sexual history and no one should.’ Emily won’t be silenced, but then again, why should she be? “Again, to me, women don’t have to or shouldn’t have to adjust their behaviour to make other people, men in particular, feel comfortable. Or uncomfortable. Women are doing their own thing, they’re not asking for anything when they dress a certain way or when they post certain things on Instagram. And even if they are, it’s their life, they have the ability to make those choices.” Her views on feminism are black and white. Choice is right, taking power away from a woman is wrong. “To me that’s what feminism is all about. So the idea of putting limitations on women is the opposite of feminism. Even if it comes from a place of trying to dismantle the patriarchy. If you’re telling women how they should dress or how they should be... I think that you’re making a big mistake.” We discuss the difference between the East and West, the history of cultural constraints, perceived societal suppression, and the preconceptions many have of how Arab women dress – or are forced to dress. She seems to understand the conflict, tweeting an illustration last September of a figure of a woman – on the left, the woman wears an abaya, on the right, a swimsuit – entitled, The Lottery of Indecency. “It’s about all the names that both of these women will get called, because I think to me, it’s very much the same,” she says of the illustration that calls out people that criticise a woman for what they wear, how they wear it and how they choose to portray their body. “A woman deciding to be covered up is ultimately as much a feminist choice as her choosing not to be,” Emily opines. “I think it’s different for every woman and that’s how it should be. Whatever you feel comfortable with and however you want to show your sexuality or not show your sexuality is empowering as long as it’s your choice. I just spent some time in Morocco and it was really interesting to see a wide gamut of women choosing different ways of dressing. I really respect that.” Last October Emily also tweeted an illustration of a woman in various guises of clothing – from a dress to a bathing suit to an abaya and so on. Underneath, the text reads: ‘Rape is never the victim’s fault.’ With the sexual assault allegations against Harvey Weinstein surfacing in October, the tweet was well-timed and impactful. “Nobody was surprised by these allegations,” she ventures, frankly. It’s a delicate subject, but I want to know whether she has ever been in a position where she felt uncomfortable or objectified? “Yes. I don’t know a woman who hasn’t felt that way in this industry. If you think about Salma Hayek’s op-ed in the New York Times last month where she talks about trying to make a movie and the sort of pressure and the position she was put in as a sexualised woman... She had a horrible time in the industry. But you know, as an actress, or anyone who’s worked in the industry, I feel the same way. We’ve all seen it... My male friends, who I think are feminists with great ideas about equality, they were very surprised [about Weinstein]. But none of my female friends were shocked. I think people need to wake up and realise there’s something deeply disturbing [about the industry]. I think that there are a lot of power dynamics that have been deeply sown from the very beginning of the industry, where there are very small things that even as a woman you are so used to, that you don’t realise how wrong they are. But I hope the culture is changing.” It’s a difficult time to be living in America, with the Weinstein allegations and Trump’s anti-feminist objectification of women both constant hot topics. “You know, I think it’s always been difficult, but now I think it’s just more visible. In some ways it’s a good thing when it is visible because you have to be really organised to really stand for the things you believe in and have something to rally against. I don’t think that the difference in a president changes cultural issues, because all these things were happening with Harvey [Weinstein] under other political reigns.” With her own rallying cry so emphatic, how else does she think the world – and entertainment industry – should move forward to a more inclusive and celebratory society that truly embraces women? “It’s really about women supporting women. But it’s more than just saying ‘me too’, it’s about saying ‘I believe you’, and really getting behind someone. We need to say, ‘I believe you, I believe your experience, your truth and your feelings, about what it means to be a woman.’ We need to take the responsibility off women to change how they have to act and behave, and instead look at how we can unite against the cultural issues that have lead us to where we are.” All this social injustice is just kindling that sparks even further rhetoric for Emily. While there’s this cause, Emily will take a stand. Of course, strong viewpoints elicit strong reactions. Haters gonna hate, so the saying goes. “I really try to live by the idea that other people’s reactions are not my problem,” she says. “But there are definitely times I would just love to lay in bed and hide under the covers and wish I didn’t have access to the internet, you know.” Do her critics fuel her still further? “Yes, I think so. I mean, I have moments of feeling really great about being outspoken and then I have moments of feeling really beaten down by it and misunderstood and misinterpreted, where things are taken out of context or in a different direction that I don’t believe in, and that can make me feel like, ‘What am I even doing?’” I wonder who it is that usually misconstrues what she says, men or women? “Generally men,” she says frankly. “I think a lot of women feel like that all the time. But I think if you don’t have haters or if you’re not somewhat controversial, then you’re not standing for anything in general and that’s something I think about a lot. So I’d rather be p***ing people off than just everyone liking me. I feel strongly that I’m right about a lot of the things I’m saying and that eventually the world will come around to that, and to me, and that’s worth all the frustrations that come with being criticised and being in the public eye and having people say that you’re basically full of s**t.” Well, you don’t want to be vanilla after all, I say. “No,” she smiles. “I’ve got no interest in that.