The Questioning
by Am-Chau Yarkona
fandom: Doctor Who
spoilers for Human Nature and Family of Blood
summary: gen fic about John Smith. “What am I, then? I'm just a story.”
notes: all dialogue in the last section is direct from my transcription of Paul Cornell's episode. Many thanks for the beta work by Raven.

He clicks the watch open—why had he never bothered to do this before?—and the golden light floods into his eyes.

Somehow, John expected to see the Doctor's memories, to be overwhelmed by the man he was, the man he will be, the man who has been everywhere and done everything. But he finds himself looking at himself, and the Headmaster, and he just has time to sigh, “Life flashing before me, how cliché.”

* * *

The Headmaster stared at John Smith, who fidgeted under the intense gaze. Outside, the hallway echoed with Martha's laughter as she and the secretary chattered.

“What,” the Headmaster began eventually, “was your last job?”

“I taught history at a boys’ prep. school in North Wales,” Smith replied promptly and dryly. “A reference from Mr. Williams, the Headmaster there, will be in the post.” He found himself suddenly unsure of how he knew that, as his mental image of Mr. Williams had faded to nothingness, but he was nevertheless certain.

The Headmaster nodded briskly. “We need a history teacher,” he declared. “You are a history teacher. Therefore, I conclude, we should employ you.” He paused, then added, “I am a philosopher. You said you had a servant?”

* * *

Two weeks into his new post, and John Smith was settling into the rhythm of teaching. With each class, he simply enquired into what history they knew, and moved forward from there. He dwelt on wars, on the grounds that boys found those more exciting.

“... and with Harold's death, William had won England for himself,” he concluded, just as the bell rang. “Off you go, boys.”

He watched for a moment to check that nobody got crushed in the crowd at the door, then turned to dust the blackboard clean.

“Sir?” said a small voice behind him.

Spinning around, he found young Timothy standing there. “Yes, Latimer?”

“Sir, my father says I should speak to you—he wants me to go to up to Oxford, and history is my best subject.”

John nodded, slowly, thinking. “Your essays show a certain grasp of the events we've studied, certainly. You're a good many years off Oxford, though, aren't you?”

“I've four more years here, sir,” Timothy replied, “but I think... I need to get started, or an interruption might stall me.” Something like knowledge stirred in his eyes.

“You...” John began, then stuttered. “Yes, of course, as well to begin while you're keen. I did a good deal of reading the summer before I went up... more than I did while I was there, I suspect,” and he forced a little chuckle, though he had only a list of the books he had read and no sense of pages under his fingers or words sounding in his mind. “What are you most interested in?”

“Modern history, sir,” Timothy replied promptly. “Our most recent battles.”

“Very good,” John nodded. “I'll lend you a book or two—remind me after our lesson tomorrow.”

Timothy smiled, and turned to leave. “Thank you, sir,” he called as he reached the door.

John didn't hear; the chalk dust on his jacket and the blankness of his memories had absorbed him.

* * *

“That Latimer boy is an odd one,” Mr. Steadman complained as he poured the tea.

John nodded. “Two sugars, please. He's clever, though, told me he's aiming at Oxford.”

“No doubt,” Steadman replied. “His father's out in India, teaching the natives how to build bridges or whatever it is they do.”

“I thought it was mostly paperwork and imposing on the hospitality of the Raj,” John said, accepting the cup of tea. A little of it had spilled into the saucer, and he was suddenly irrationally reminded of the blank space he had found in his mind when he tried to remember his university days.

Steadman lowered himself heavily into the old armchair closest to the staff room's fire. “They're hungry for good British educations, though,” he said. “I didn't meet any Indians when I was at Cambridge, but I think there are plenty now.”

“Could well be,” John said. “I know there were law students from India in my year.”

“Which college were you?” Steadman asked, his frown lines lifting in a rare expression of interest.

“Balliol,” John told him dryly, knowing that the interest was about to disappear. To distract himself from Steadman's ugly face, he tried to summon up a picture of the college, but he found himself with a dreamlike image of a building under a red sky.

“Oh,” Steadman said, “an Oxford lad. Well, never mind. A few more years of teaching will knock it out of you—got rid of most of my education that way, by throwing it at the boys. But that Latimer, as I was saying, is an odd one, and won't make it anywhere if he doesn't start paying attention to his Latin. It's not a thing you can guess.”

“Latin's not required for everything,” John said, and drained his cup of tea even though it scalded his throat. When he shut the door behind him, Steadman was still muttering about Latimer.

* * *

“Tell me about Nottingham,” Joan demanded.

John faltered, stalling for time as he tried to get the words together. He knew his answer was dry and factual before he gave it, so her challenge came as no surprise.

“But more than facts,” she wanted. “When you were a child, where did you play? All those secret little places, the dens and hideaways that only a child knows. Tell me, John.” He looked into her eyes and knew that she was afraid he could not answer. “Please tell me.”

Somehow, he managed to answer her eyes, though he could not give her what she wanted. The blankness of the past had swollen to include his childhood—he could bring into light nothing before the Headmaster's interview nearly three months ago. “How can you think I'm not real?” he asked, knowing that as he mentioned the idea he was confirming it, hating that but unable to change it. “When I kissed you, was that a lie?”

Joan's mouth softened and he knew she was remembering. “No, it wasn't. No.”

“But this Doctor sounds like some,” John faltered for the words. “Some romantic lost prince—would you rather that? Am I not enough?”

As he said it, he knew that whatever her answer, he was not enough for what the world demanded.

“That's not true,” Joan said, desperately, “never,” but there were boys behind them, clamoring for orders.

“I've got to go.” He let her chide him about protecting the boys, the blankness of his past nagging at his soul, until the action—kissing, fighting, trembling—could soothe the emptiness.

* * *

As smoothly as it opened, the watch clicks shut. “Goodbye, Mr John Smith,” says the Doctor, and pockets the empty case before he steps out into the adventure.