Doctor Who: The Great Gospel of Humanity

 If the abysm
Could vomit forth its secrets . . . But a voice
Is wanting, the deep truth is imageless;

He’s dangling in the chasm, a tiny, bright orange thing, over the impenetrable darkness.

Casual talk. Keep the unpleasant feeling that’s rising in your stomach in check.

“Neo Classics, have they got a devil?”
“No, not as such. Just er, the things that men do.”
“Same thing in the end.”
“What about you?”

“I believe, I believe I haven't seen everything, I don't know.”

(He undoes the caribiners one by one. Call it an act of faith.)

“Impossible. Doesn't fit my rule. Still, that's why I keep travelling. To be proved wrong. Thank you, Ida.”
“Don't go!”
“If they get back in touch, if you talk to Rose, just tell her. Tell her… Oh, she knows.”

And he falls, into the black.

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 “All these things I don't believe in, are they real? Speak to me! Tell me!”

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Citizen of the universe. He keeps an open mind.

“Well, I’ve changed opinion about half a dozen times… I’d say… agnostic humanist. Not just humans, mind you; you think you’re the only species I have to keep saving? Though I have to admit, if you were going for a competition on that, you’d win.”

He glances at her and ducks, suddenly feeling very religious indeed. Someone help. 

“But that’s because you’re great explorers, and all so special and brilliant and inquisitive and you thrive and endure despite everything, and Earth is my favourite planet, I swear!” he manages in a single breath as Donna Noble rounds on him.

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“Day I know everything? Might as well stop.”

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He serves life, for life prevails. He defeats false god after false god and then he wonders. 

(For a short period after the Time War he had passionately demanded that some sort of deity, or Supreme Being, or whatever, better start existing if it didn’t before, just so that he could hate it. He later acknowledged that yes, that was a rather unorthodox take on the whole subject.)

He loves Christmas, that pervading Earth holiday.

At first he thinks it’s because it really is quite refreshing for him to not land smack–dab in the middle of a religion which is controlled by a very powerful delusional alien, an oppressive super-computer, or one whose followers are dangerous fanatics who want to ritually sacrifice him in front of a weird statue.

(“Put the lights on the tree? Like this? Great! Now look, unless those socks are quite bigger on the inside, I don’t think the presents are going to fit in. Unless we use a shrink ray.”)

Not actively harmful or evil? Wow.

But no. It does have something more.

Out of curiosity, he attempts to visit the first Christmas, and amidst all the chaos, he ends up taking the last room. When he realises what he’s done, he feels so incredibly embarrassed, that the kind old lady who lives next door recommends him a nice balm he can use for sunburn, that’s how pink he manages to get. Poor kid, mangers can’t be comfortable.

Easter is no better, because a bunch of huge, worm-like creatures decide to take advantage of the rare combination of the great celebration + multiple public executions + darkness and earthquakes + people getting excited about resurrections, and try to invade and take over Judea. He spends five days running after them and he doesn’t really get to see anything.

Three sonic screwdrivers are sacrificed for the noble purpose of keeping giant sandworms out of the Bible, and he decides to give up on religious tourism once and for all.                                                                                                                                                            --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Oh, come on. Give me a day like this. Give me this one”, he had begged one time. Whom?

(“Not very Spock, is it, just asking. I think you should do a scan for alien tech. Give me some Spock, for once. Would it kill you?”)

Logic is the beginning of wisdom, not the end.

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(Then the next would-be-god comes along and it nearly destroys a galaxy and fries his brain.)

“You’re really ungrateful, you know!” he shouts at the sky in annoyance, leaning against the TARDIS, a hand massaging his pounding forehead.

Lightning strikes nearby, a jagged line of blue-white fire, and thick sheets of rain come pouring down, blinding him and immediately soaking him to the bone.

“Oh, come on!” He rummages in his endless, bigger-on-the-inside pockets trying to remember where he had put his key or at least an umbrella, while the dull rumble of thunder grows louder. His companions have wandered off as per usual. “That’s… that’s just plain childish now!”

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“Everybody lives, Rose! Just this once, everybody lives!”

(Every once in a very long while, every day in a million days...)

Thank you. Oh, thank you.

(As a wise man once said, it doesn't stop being magic just because you know how it works.)

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“…And I mean, in the end, we live in a strange universe. For a time, I though the Ancient Greek Gods were the ones! I remember a vision where I helped…uh… Katarina?... Yes! I helped her get to the Elysian Fields, the abode of the blessed. Pluto was a real stick in the mud, but Persephone helped… I’ve been to Limbo, the Forgotten Places, the Land of Fiction. How do you reconcile the simultaneous existence of Santa Claus and Lovecraftian monsters? The Guardians of Time? The Eternals? The Devil? Well, possibly, I’m not sure it was actually the Devil…”

Silence.

“I’ve been an atheist. I was a bit of a Buddhist once. I suppose that’s normal, with the regenerations and all that… My own people have gods, very nice ones… but they also have all that weird mysticism about Rassilon, which is utter rubbish… Jesus was nice. And the other day, Iris Wildthyme told me she won the Ark of the Covenant from Archangel Gabriel after a three week-long game of gin rummy! And I wouldn’t believe her, but she’s really good at gin rummy!”

Silence.

“Do you know, almost every culture in the universe has some concept of an afterlife. Of course, most people are idiots. But I don’t know. Why not? Again, weird universe, trust me. Totally ridiculous. Grace Holloway was resurrected once by the Eye of Harmony and she mentioned that there was something and that it was nothing to be afraid of. That’s good! Well, Jack Harkness told me he remembered nothing and was very existential about it. But he's a fixed point. Does he really die if he always comes back? And, you know... he comes back. From somewhere. Just drop the whole doom and gloom attitude, and think! Use the pudding! And long ago… oh, my memory’s been in shambles ever since the War! I think… I had to fight evil parts of beings which were left in Null-Space and couldn’t enter a higher plane of existence... Yes. So, I suppose Neo-Platonism is an option!”

Still silence.

“Okay, this is getting a bit scary now. I usually have to tell people to shut up a dozen times before they reach this level. I thought you were interested in my opinion… Uh… Was I boring you?... Oh! Oh, is it the Dalek? Sorry about that, time displacement, it’s completely harmless now… And my apologies about the roof... and the desk… and that nice wardrobe…”

He continues to sit in his chair and to not say a thing.

“All right, I know when I’m unwelcome; in fact, I’m unwelcome most of the time, depending on your species. I just wanted to say… Mr. Ingersoll, I’m a very big fan. Oh, and I brought you this. Anachronism, yes, but I think you’ll like it.”

And the grey-haired, stick insect of a man who claimed to be an alien (!) shakes his hand, hands him a book titled Small Gods, and walks nonchalantly out of his office, leaving “The Great Agnostic” to sit there utterly bewildered.

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“I am and always will be the optimist, the hoper of far-flung hopes and the dreamer of improbable dreams.”

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Clara is back by his side. A second chance for him is a miracle. He doesn’t know who to thank and when she suggests Father Christmas, he spends a week climbing down chimneys, ruining his clothes, getting stuck, and leaving him colourful sweets from other planets. They are certainly better than biscuits and milk, come on pudding brains, try a bit more. The man’s coming all the way from the North Pole. Or don’t you really believe he’ll come?

(“It didn't want just me, so you must believe in some god or someone, or they'd have shown you the door too. So what do Time Lords pray to?”)

Labyrinths and psychic barriers and people dying. Breaking a heart to save a life.

“Hold them! Hold them!”
“I don't know that I can!”
“You've got to have faith! Have faith. Faith. Faith…”

He steps away from the door, back to the middle of the room, and concentrates, just as the haemovores burst in the church vestry.

“Susan, Ian, Barbara, Vicki, Steven, Jo, Sarah Jane…”

He’s distantly aware of screams and retreating footsteps. A sound like otherworldly singing. Wainwright’s pale, amazed face. He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t turn to look.

Ace is suddenly there with Sorin and his men, looking around, at him, astonished. He finally snaps out of it and relaxes with a great sigh. Deep, exhausted breaths, as if he had been running. He doesn’t manage the reassuring smile he wants, nor does he get the time for it.

(“Look after you”. Amy kisses his forehead and it feels like a benediction.

His beautiful gods can die; so he lets them go. He is going to die instead, and they both know it. His gods will be there with him then, their hearts breaking. But at least he'll have that, their presence; a small comfort. Now, he walks away alone.

He still manages a smile, almost a real one. Don’t you worry. Brave heart, glorious Pond. And the madman waves in her direction, gets in his box and disappears.)

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“Why?”
“Excellent question. Excellent question. Why what?”
“Why is it up to you to save us? That's quite a God complex you have there.”

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There is one thing he knows for sure. He isn’t one, and neither should he ever be.

“Don't worship me, I'd make a very bad god.”

(“I brought them here. They'd say it was their choice, but offer a child a suitcase full of sweets and they'll take it. Offer someone all of time and space and they'll take that, too.”)

But oh, it is so easy after the Time War. He’s so clever, why shouldn’t he help? (And genius needs an audience). He gives them so much. He fights back every monster. He can make everything better, he could do so much more. Can he demand that they stay ungrateful? Could he ever really persuade himself that he wants them to?

“I am the Doctor. If you don't like it, if you want to take it to a higher authority, there isn't one. It stops with me.”

(Ancient and forever. Praise him.)

“You act like such a radical, and yet all you want to do is preserve the old order? Think of the changes that could be made if this power was used for good.”
“What, by someone like you?”
“No, someone like you. The Paradigm gives us power, but you could give us wisdom. Become a God at my side. Imagine what you could do. Think of the civilisations you could save. Perganon, Assinta. Your own people, Doctor, standing tall. The Time Lords reborn.”  

(I could save everyone. I could stop the War.)

How long can he resist the temptation? Is it something anyone could do? With fury choking him, held back by hearts turning to ice?

“We wanted to live forever, so the Doctor made sure that we did.”

With loss after loss piling up, guilt and misery and paralysing fear like a fiery, tightening ring around his skull? Alone?

“And there's no one to stop you.”
“No.”
“This is wrong, Doctor. I don't care who you are. The Time Lord Victorious is wrong.”
“That's for me to decide.”

(It really isn’t though.)

So when he slips again –though this time he has far purer, nobler motives– and someone knocks four times, he doesn’t have to die. He listens to the last immortal in the dying universe, he listens to Clara, and he stops. Because maybe there is another reason he chose this face after all. Let someone else decide. Let’s call it luck, or karma.

He deems the verdict just, even though it pains him. And nobody has to die in the end; not today.

He keeps that precious knowledge, that tiny, hard-bought victory, and treasures it. And he goes back to being himself. Space Gandalf is as far as he goes.

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“I knew. I knew this would happen. This is what always happens. Forget your faith in me. I took you with me because I was vain. Because I wanted to be adored.”

This time he speaks with utter honesty, he doesn’t need to lie. Every word feels true, bitterly true in his tongue; even though it’s not the only truth there is.

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I don't know anything about death. Except that I am certain I get to try again. Game Over. Continue? I know that's not what happens in real life; but I know all sorts of things that I don't believe.

He doesn’t remember where he found it, but he has nailed a piece of paper with the quote under the console. His universe will die one day; and another will come after it. There was one before.

He is not scared of death, not really. Not of what might or might not come after.
(He dives sideways behind a rock and the energy beam that would have liquefied half of his internal organs flies harmlessly over his head.)
After all, he spends a disproportionate amount of his time being quite rightly afraid of and trying to avoid the whole actual dying bit.

“I lived. Everyone else died.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone died, Sarah.”

But death means loneliness, absence, an empty TARDIS. It means failure. Above all, it means a void, rocks and dust where his planet should have been.

And in that aspect it terrifies him.

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“Whatever flower of hope springs up in my heart I will cherish, I will give it breath of sighs and rain of tears. But I cannot believe that there is any being in this universe who has created a human soul for eternal pain. I would rather that every god would destroy himself; I would rather that we all should go to eternal chaos, to black and starless night, than that just one soul should suffer eternal agony.”

Gallifrey falls no more and he’s so happy, he wants to hug the entire universe.

Since that is not possible as far as he knows, he settles for giving Clara a spinning hug and finally taking her to the Moon for cocktails. The whole day is a bit of a blur after that, really.

He sleeps and he dreams of home, and for the first time in centuries it is not painful.

(Forgiven. Always and completely forgiven.)

He wakes up and something is not right. It tingles persistently at the back of his mind. He looks at the books by his side, at his bow tie resting on an armchair, the console room that can be seen through the door. He can’t understand. (Perhaps he doesn’t want to?)

“Are you trying to tell me something, Old Girl? Is that you?”

He pats the console affectionately. “Oh, even that time you couldn’t tell. Is it my future? I’ll not have you worry about that, not today. And there’s no sense in worrying about the past”.

He thinks of his two past selves and their short, hopeless future. Ah. Maybe something there. They would forget. And he has forgotten. How long did they have?

“He always says that.”

Well. Not very long at all. And quite unpleasant.

“Was she happy? In the end?”
“Yes. Yes, she was. Were you?”  

Something clicks. A sense of shame, a forgotten sin. The five minutes of mindless terror he had spent inside a different box, three hundred seconds of horrible infinity.

How could you? How could you still, after that?

Face grave, he sets the coordinates one after the other. Anyone can break into a prison, no matter how inescapable it is. The designer even more so. And he breaks down the walls, be it gravity, chains, glass, time itself.

John Smith has been dead for centuries. So he lets vengeance die too.

They are all still in human form, but their lifespan is expired, more than a thousand times over. And he watches the Family die, trying to read the damage in their faces, in their eyes as they empty, fixed on him. He can’t tell if he sees some sort of remorse, gratitude, or hate. Maybe he sees only what he wishes to see. He feels only pity now.

“You are free. I forgive you.”

He sighs and runs a hand afterwards through the unconscious dust, and he doesn’t need to hope or fear, he refuses to think of a Hell he might go to, because such a thing can’t, mustn’t exist. And it mustn’t be built in the world by humans or Daleks or Time Lords, either.

Just for a moment, he becomes The Man Who Regrets again. And this time, he means it completely.

“Forgive me too.”

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It becomes obvious quite easily, that you don’t need a lifespan of only three months to look like a mayfly to a time-travelling, ageless god.

“To you, I'm a ghost. We're all ghosts to you. We must be nothing.”
“No. No. You're not that.”
“Then what are we? What can we possibly be?”
“You are the only mystery worth solving.”

(I think you look like giants.)

“I just saw something I wish I hadn't.”
“What did you see?”
“That everything ends.”
“No, not everything.”

(There is a force that is not bound by Time.)

His hearts beat just as fast when his twelfth self sees her, and there’s a sensation like exploding butterflies in his stomach even though at first, River fails to recognise him.

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“You bring him back, whoever you are.”
“No, no, no. Rani, don't you see? It's you, isn't it? You've done it again.”
He smiles.
“Hello, Sarah Jane.”
“Doctor.”

(Love is like a Time Lord: you can always recognise it, though it holds numerous faces).

He had looked back on all of them, at all the brilliant things they could do without him. So proud. And he looks at them now, at the wonder and relief in their eyes that he’s alive after all. There’s a rare feeling. 

“I need you, Sarah, and you, Jo.”

And they help, like always, the priceless spark still there, his amazing humans.

They have to run again and he glances back at Sarah Jane, one of love’s many, many faces; and this time he looks carefully, even as words and ideas battle in his mind and all manage to be said at lightning speed.

He looks carefully, and he manages to look past the wrinkles and the decay his love-struck or dying previous self could not.

And he smiles, relieved. Maybe he’s in passionate denial. But whatever Sarah Jane Smith is, it is not something that can be contained in flesh that ages and withers. Whatever Sarah Jane Smith is, it is not a thing that dies.

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“Souls”, he says. It gets increasingly hard to understand what he really means by it.

(“We are talking about sacred life. Everybody clear on that? Everybody? Good.”)

But whoever said that everything has to be put into words?

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He’s the grey-haired one, now. A well-hidden limp and aches in his bones. The lines that deepen on his face are the tracks of Time, the scars left by the passage of the hands of the great clock on the bell-tower he lives in.

(Apparently, advanced age also encourages needless poetry.)

What, you though I wasn’t mortal? I breathe, I eat, I sleep. Granted, the last one is bit rarer and usually not in front of you. But how many times does a bloke have to get horribly injured for people to realise there’s no ichor, but just good old blood in his veins?

He’s sitting by an open fire, warming his hands, a bit far away from the latest party. He hears crunching footsteps in the snow and he turns. 

“Hey, Barnable. Feast’s almost over, thought I’d go back inside. Well, eventually; love a good marshmallow. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
The child looks at his boots and mumbles something about an unfinished game of hide-and-seek. He chuckles.
“Okay, what is it?”

“Is it true what you said the other day? That you once met a sentient, living sun?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I thought it was impossible. It’s just… hard to believe.”
“Many things are.” He ruffles his hair playfully (where did you leave your cap again, it’s cold) and stands up, leaning slightly on his cane. “Yes, it’s true.” He turns to leave.
“And I also thought… it must be interesting. I’d like to meet one, someday”.
“Oh, Barnable”. If only he had his TARDIS. If only the armies above would just pack up and leave this planet in peace. “Such things are dangerous, you know. And rare. But hey, who knows?” he adds as he sees the young face fall.

The siege becomes an all-out war and he still can’t take him even when he gets the TARDIS back. But he can still do something. He goes through his books and searches with diligence.

A nine-year-old would get bored with Time Lord studies about space and other non-fiction. He’s got lots of really great science fiction novels, but he finally judges that Isaac Asimov is not age-appropriate. Perhaps a bit later. 

In the end, he finds a copy of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, and hands it to the boy while he’s making a snowman near the TARDIS. He smiles and puts a finger to his lips.

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“When I have become as young as a child that was born yesterday, then I shall take my rising once again (for we are at earth's eastern rim) and once more tread the great dance."
"In our world," said Eustace, "a star is a huge ball of flaming gas."
"Even in your world, my son, that is not what a star is, but only what it is made of."

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He’s time and stardust, constantly reforming. 

(But sometimes it still feels like death.)

He doesn’t know what his friends, the fragile human beings are, but he’s sure that he’d still be a coward even if he did.

“People have travelled with me and I've lost them. Lost them all. Never again.”

The forced isolation does no good. And he falls into the trap again and again, willingly. Because if he is to help, to be the Doctor, he needs the mayflies.

(It always ends. That’s what gives it value.)

“But I do think that all the skies of all the worlds might just turn dark if he ever, for one moment, accepts it.” 

The goodbyes pile up, even though he rarely works up the courage to really say them. He comes too late so many times. Others, he just has to say it to a tombstone (there isn’t always one) and desperately wish that somehow, impossibly, it is heard.

It’s true that time heals all wounds, but ugly scars remain. So maybe it’s for the best that his skin routinely smoothes over by the golden fire, that his entire being is renewed and changed.

He never forgets them despite the new faces that always come and drag him out of the shadow; he still loves them all. But somehow, the wounds hurt less, the crushing burden of grief becomes lighter. 

Sometimes, he visits beloved graves and plants silver trees from far away planets. He watches them bloom and he cries. Life from death.

(He gets up slowly afterwards, and leaves. Because there are worlds out there where the sky is burning, and the sea's asleep, and the rivers dream; people made of smoke and cities made of song. Somewhere there's danger, somewhere there's injustice, and somewhere else the tea's getting cold.)

He’s got work to do and he now knows that he will never have to do it alone.

They smile from the photographs, they smile from his hearts and from the stars. (Not a sad smile, unlike his). When he thinks about it, he feels like an idiot. But in those rare moments, he takes a deep breath, he lets go of sense and thought, and he reaches out, feeling.

(“We, too, have our religion, and it is this: Help for the living, hope for the dead.”) 

And he smiles back.