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Possible in Dreams	By : DJCo Category: 1 through F > Doctor Who Views: 6291 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Doctor Who is the intellectual property of the BBC. I make no money from this story. All characters and settings created by Steven Moffat.

Chapter List
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“Amy... help me,” the woman pleaded.
She froze. Something inside her turned to ice. Amy turned to mark the embodiment of evil who had caused her so much pain. The frightened, shivering woman now cut a pathetic figure, her dignity in tatters.
How the mighty had fallen.
Amy's heartbeat echoed through her body, palpable rage and intense hatred permeating her entire being. Slowly, she took a few steps closer to the woman, and in her heart she knew what she would do.
A strange ocean of calm washed over her, and she began to speak, her voice heavy with rancour. “You took my baby from me... and hurt her.”
The dread in the woman's eyes magnified a hundredfold as she saw the intent in Amy's own.
“And now she's all grown up and she's fine,” Amy continued, “but I'll never see my baby again.”
The trembling woman spoke through her tears of terror, voicing her assertion that Amy would still save her, because he would, and Amy Pond would never do anything to disappoint her precious Doctor.
“The Doctor is very precious to me, you're right,” Amy replied, ignoring Captain Williams' – Rory's – urgent call to get to safety, “but do you know what else he is, Madame Kovarian?” Her own voice sounded alien to her, as if some external force had assumed control of her body; it had taken on a distant, childlike quality that vanished quickly as she answered her own question. “Not here.”
The look of confusion evaporated from the woman's features, replaced by one of abject terror as Amy replaced her fallen Eye-Drive, in the knowledge that several hundred volts of electricity were about to course through it into her tormentor's body.
“River Song didn't get it all from you... sweetie.”
Then Amelia Pond left Madame Kovarian to die.
The woman's agonized scream echoed as Amy opened her eyes. Immediately she closed them again as she always did, denying the awful reality of what she had done. It had been another reality, but reality nonetheless.
She had played those events over and over in her mind many times. The fact that that timeline had been negated, and in this reality Kovarian was still out there, didn't make her actions any less heart-wrenchingly difficult to bear. She often tried to console herself with the thought that the woman had torn her family apart, but the fact remained that she had murdered a defenceless woman in cold blood in an act of primal vengeance. When she closed her eyes, she saw first her beautiful baby, wrenched from her so cruelly, and then the face of the woman who had performed the deed.
River had tried to assure her that it didn't matter – the event had un-happened, and River was her beautiful baby, alive and well and returned to her, but it would never leave her. Who was she? What was she truly capable of? What had her experiences made her?
What had the Doctor done to her?
No. It wasn't his fault. That wonderful, eccentric Raggedy Man had shown her so many amazing things, and the fact that there could be awful, horrible side effects to travelling with him was not something for which anyone could blame him directly. He was her best friend; she knew he loved her, and she loved him in return. Yet she couldn't confide in him, not about this. Nor anyone else for that matter; not even Rory.
She suffered in silence.
Just having her beloved near her was enough, though. She turned over onto her side, to drape her arm over his sleeping form as she did every night, to feel his warmth, his closeness.
He wasn't there.
Her eyes snapped open, and she remembered.
Amy's vision clouded almost immediately as visceral memories returned to her, hitting her with the force of a thousand tidal waves. She caught her breath, and waged war against her tears. Her defiance was beaten down in an instant, and she was unable to stop the onslaught, her spirit breaking as she sobbed into her pillow.
Sleep eluded her now, and so when she had exhausted her tears and could cry no more, she decided to get up for a glass of water. The bedside clock read 2:50am, yet she would probably stay up for a while – maybe watch TV or read for a little bit – until she could no longer keep her eyes open. She had long since given up on ever getting a decent night's sleep; that hadn't happened since the first time she had encountered the Weeping Angels, and the myriad of monsters she had encountered since hadn't done wonders for her psyche. Although she couldn't consciously remember what the Silence looked like, the Sentinels of History certainly stalked her subconscious; these days she lived in constant fear of looking down and seeing those all-too-familiar tally marks on her hand.
Amy shivered.
She donned her dressing gown over her pyjamas and made her way downstairs to the kitchen, her mind racing. She debated whether to open the bottle of red wine in the fridge; she knew it wasn't a good idea to drink alone when feeling like this but right now she didn't care. As Amy reached the bottom step she noticed a letter on the doormat. She paid it no mind for a moment and continued to the kitchen, but then something inexplicably made her stop... and go back for it. She had picked up the post this morning – or rather, yesterday morning – and she didn't remember hearing the sound of the letterbox since then. Nevertheless, as she picked up the letter her curiosity grew, for it looked remarkably old, and the sender's address – 13 Paternoster Row – and her own were written in a very old-fashioned style of beautifully neat handwriting.
“What the hell?” she said to herself quietly, turning it over to see the words 'Open When Alone' written on the seal.
Taking the letter into the kitchen as she opened it, she paused only to flick on the overhead light before taking the letter out of the envelope.
My dearest Amy
I hope this letter finds you well. The Doctor entrusted me with your contact details in the event of an emergency, and while this certainly does not constitute as such I hope you will not object to my contacting you in this manner. This coming Sunday, January 14^th 1893, my beloved Jenny is to celebrate her 26^th birthday, and we would like very much to request the pleasure of your company in a “conference call” which will act as a social gathering. I have been led to believe that this is a time-honoured human tradition.
Assuming you are willing and able to attend, please find and light the enclosed candle. It will release a soporific which will induce a trance state, enabling direct communication across the years. We hope very much to see you soon.
Yours sincerely,
Madame Vastra
Amy frowned. She had only met Vastra and Jenny once, at Demon's Run, and she owed both an enormous debt of gratitude. They had fought bravely against the Church and the Headless Monks to retrieve her daughter, but the battle had been in vain, and whatever the bastards had done to her had robbed her of her ability to give the love of her life the one thing he had always craved – and so she had been forced to give him up. She both admired and respected the lizard woman and her paramour, but any reminder of those events was too painful to bear.
She breathed deeply, letting out a long sigh.
She sat down at the kitchen table and placed her head in her hands. The only sound was that of time slipping through her fingers as the tick of the wall-mounted clock echoed around the room.
Amy picked up the letter and read it again, failing to understand her compulsion to do so. She searched the envelope for the enclosed candle – the Victorian equivalent of an email attachment, she mused – and turned it over between her fingers. How the hell was this supposed to work anyway? Time travel across 118 years in dreams? Vastra must have some sort of technology beyond the usual means of Victorian society, probably given to her by the Doctor. Why wasn't she contacting him and getting him to ferry her there in the TARDIS? Why contact her directly using what seemed to be such a convoluted method? She couldn't deny that she was intrigued.
Several minutes ticked by, before some inexplicable urge drove her to get up and go to the odds-and-sods drawer by the sink and rummage around for the box of matches she kept in there. Having found them she went back to the table and, without dwelling on what she was doing, lit the candle.
* * * *
“What is this place?” Amy asked again.
“You are sleeping,” Vastra replied, and indicated their surroundings. “This is a representation of the Hôtel de Ville in Paris, in the fourth arrondissement.” The building's reconstruction had been completed last year, twenty-one years after the blaze that had swept through and consumed its interior, leaving only an empty stone shell. “It is in actuality a dream-scape where we can communicate in a manner that would not otherwise be possible.” She had reasoned that a change in the façade would be prudent in light of Jenny's previous ordeal.
Amy regarded the Silurian curiously. She was virtually identical to Alaya and Restac, and Amy experienced a momentary pang of unease and uncertainty. “So this is like a shared dream?”
“That is exactly what it is,” Vastra replied, “driven by our collective subconscious.” The lizard woman looked her up and down, noting her attire. “I do apologise if we caught you at an inopportune moment.”
Amy looked down at her dressing gown and pyjamas, and blushed. She gave a slight chuckle. “Don't worry,” she assured, “the Doctor first took me away in my nightie – I'm used to it.” Her expression changed then as another thought struck her. “Oh God, I have bed-hair!”
The two human women chuckled, and Amy took note that the unfamiliar young woman on her left was looking at her curiously, and had been since she had mentioned the Doctor.
Vastra and Jenny looked between the two women, then at each other. “I don't suppose you two have met,” Jenny said.
Without tearing her eyes away from the beautiful brunette, Amy answered, “No. No we haven't.”
The young woman blinked and shook her head almost imperceptibly, as if admonishing herself for staring. “Sorry,” she said quickly, and held out her hand. “I'm Clara.”
Amy nodded, and shook the woman's hand. “Amy.”
Clara smiled faintly. “You know the Doctor?” she asked. “You've travelled with him?”
Amy's eyebrows raised slightly. “Yeah.” She opened her mouth to continue, but Vastra interrupted.
“Amy is one of the Doctor's travelling companions from a different point in his timestream.”
A look of understanding showed on Clara's face. “Not his 'assistant' then,” she said after a moment, giving Vastra a knowing smile.
She spoke with a discernible Northern English accent – Lancashire, perhaps? Amy studied the woman's face intently, noting her cute little dimples and big, round brown eyes. She had seen visual records of all her preceding TARDIS inhabitants –Clara certainly struck her as typically beautiful for one of the Doctor's travelling companions – yet she couldn't recall the woman's face being amongst them, which suggested the possibility that Clara's time with the Doctor had yet to occur from her own perspective. She knew that the Doctor was currently – for her – in his eleventh incarnation, and that she herself was the first to travel with him in that persona. “Which Doctor?” she found herself asking.
Clara looked at her for a moment, debating whether to answer. She knew who this woman was now; Amy Pond, her immediate predecessor in the TARDIS. That meant that Clara had certain knowledge of Amy's future. The Doctor didn't like to talk about her or her husband – Rory, was it? – too much but he had explained her fate, and she knew she had to be careful not to give Amy any foreknowledge. “Well, I...” she faltered, wary of revealing too much information. “I probably shouldn't say too much.” She reasoned that Amy would likely have the same regard for the dangers of polluting the timeline as she did, and hoped that the woman would respect the situation and not ask too many questions.
Amy nodded slowly. “You're the next one aren't you,” she said, a solemn edge to her voice. “Well, some point after me, anyway.”
Clara paused before replying with a simple, “Yeah.”
Amy did her best impression of a smile. “Does he still wear the bow tie?”
Clara returned Amy's expression in kind. “Yeah... There's no telling him. I think it's just to draw attention from his chin.”
The women shared a giggle as Vastra spoke. “Well, it's good to see you two getting along. You know why I've asked you both here.”
“Yes!” Amy said suddenly, remembering. “Sorry Jenny, happy birthday.”
“Thank you very much,” Jenny said with a warm smile. “I hope you like the new desktop.”
Clara gave her an amused frown. “OK, I have to ask, do you even know what a desktop is?”
Jenny's expression was one of mild embarrassment, and she shook her head.
“No matter,” Vastra interjected. “I think it's time for the cake.”
Jenny smiled broadly. “At last!”
With a theatrical wave of her hand, Vastra summoned a delicious-looking birthday cake from the ether, which faded into view on the table before them. It appeared to Clara to be a sponge cake, and was frosted with icing and a few candles – it seemed that even in this dream world, a full twenty-six candles might well be a fire hazard.
“That looks great!” Amy said. “What's in it?”
“Whatever you like,” Jenny replied with a wink, then with a conspiratorial whisper, added, “It's not real.”
“Whatever you like, my dear,” Vastra corrected.
“I used to make sponge cakes with my mum,” Clara said wistfully. “A layered sponge cake filled with raspberry jam and lemon curd, and finished with butter icing – her speciality.” She smiled at the memory. “That and her famous soufflé; the stuff of legend.”
“Sounds gorgeous!” Jenny exclaimed. “Can we have that?”
Clara looked at her strangely for a moment, before realising that her subconscious mind was driving this illusion as much as any of the others'. “OK,” she beamed, and concentrated as hard as she could on summoning the memory.
“Think of the taste,” Vastra encouraged. “Really bring to mind the texture.”
“Got it,” Clara said, and her smile was infectious.
A knife materialised in Vastra's hand, which she used to cut into the cake. She issued a slice to each of the women, and Clara was astonished to find as she took a bite that it was indeed her mum's special cake, made every year without fail for her daughter's birthday until her untimely death.
“This is delicious!” Amy said as she enjoyed her slice. “Your mum's, like, the best cook!”
“Thanks,” Clara replied, putting on her best brave face as her eyes misted. She decided not to reveal that her mother was dead, for right now, in this world at this moment, she was as alive as Clara herself was.
“And,” Amy continued, “since this isn't real we can eat as much of this as we like and not have to worry about calories, right?”
“Hmm, imaginary cake...” Clara nodded. “Has its advantages.”
They spent the next half hour or so talking, drinking tea and champagne, finishing off the cake and celebrating Jenny's special day. They traded stories and answered each other's questions. Clara was intrigued to know why Vastra's Silurian breed shared so many common physical traits with humanity, and the woman explained that her people had long ago experimented with genetic manipulation in a bid to adapt to the changing world; the species had spent thousands of millennia underground in cryostasis, and was ultimately forced to turn to science to compensate for missing several million years of natural evolution. Given that Vastra therefore had at least some mammalian or primate DNA in her make-up, her relationship with Jenny suddenly didn't seem quite as far-fetched a concept as it once had, not to mention that it explained certain things – Clara had always wondered why a woman descended from lizards had mammary glands.
During the course of the conversation, Amy was surprised to hear Strax's name come up in the present tense, having believed him to have died at Demon's Run. Vastra and Jenny explained that they had used alien technology to resurrect him, despite his ingratitude owing to his hope of dying in glorious battle. Amy reasoned that if the Silurian woman had access to such technology, her ability to conjure up this whole charade was probably child's play. The image of Commander Strax as the duo's faithful butler and retainer amused her greatly, as did Vastra's account of how bar-brawling in Glasgow had become his new favourite pastime. “Yep, that's Scotland,” Amy said with mock weariness. “Nothing changes.”
Clara was equally astounded to learn of Amy's connection to River Song, almost spitting out her cake at the revelation. River was Amy's daughter?! The Doctor hadn't told her that. Yet Clara had known River as a much older woman than Amy. Time was a funny old thing. So, that made Amy the Doctor's...
“Mother-in-law?!” Clara blurted out suddenly, unable to hide her astonishment. “You're his mother-in-law?”
“Yes,” Amy pouted. “I know. Don't rub it in!”
Clara's face fell. Amy had spoken of her daughter as if she were alive... She shivered and denied the implications of what she had realised; Amy had no idea that her daughter was destined to die before her time. She consoled herself with the knowledge that at least River was to have some continued existence, in the form of information uploaded to the biggest Library in the universe, before willingly passing into non-existence, and that she had sacrificed her corporeal existence for the greater good.
“Are you OK?” Amy asked, bringing Clara back to the present.
“Yes,” she said quickly. “Sorry. Just daydreaming.”
“A dream within a dream,” Vastra observed, eliciting a half-smile from Clara that didn't meet her eyes.
“This is good champagne,” Amy opined, seeming to accept Clara's dismissive explanation.
“It is,” Jenny agreed. “This is from one of my memories.”
“It is good,” Clara agreed. “Can we get drunk on this?”
“If you wish,” Vastra clarified. “But the effects are easily dismissed.”
“This gets better,” Amy said with a smirk.
“Do you wish to get drunk?” Vastra asked.
“It's my favourite pastime at the moment...” Amy replied under her breath, suddenly seeming to become distracted. Vastra's quizzical expression drew a dismissive head shake. “Nothing,” she added. “Sorry. Bad time.”
“I'm sorry to hear that,” Vastra replied.
“Maybe we should give the champagne a rest,” Jenny said quickly with a nervous chuckle.
“Better than real pain,” Amy said, then chortled at her own joke.
“Sorry?” Jenny asked, clearly confused.
Vastra leaned closer to her wife. “21^st Century humour, I shouldn't wonder.”
“See what you did there,” Clara said, sipping her champagne. “Corny but clever.”
Amy and Clara shared a knowing look and a smile that Jenny, if she didn't know them better, would have described as flirtatious. She watched as the pair began talking quietly, no doubt comparing notes on the Doctor, finding it difficult to avert her gaze. She felt Vastra's sweet, cool breath on her neck, as her wife leaned in to whisper in her ear.
“Beautiful, aren't they,” she said, quietly enough to not be heard across the table.
Jenny glanced at her beloved for just a moment.. “Yes,” she breathed. She became aware of Vastra joining her in observing them, the two women too engrossed in their conversation to notice.
“Clara has the loveliest eyes, don't you think?”
“Why are you doing this?” Jenny asked, her voice a harsh whisper.
“What do you mean?” Vastra asked, feigning ignorance.
“You know what I mean!” Jenny whispered. “Why did you bring them here?”
“For you, my love,” Vastra admitted.
“I knew it.” Jenny's shoulders sagged. “I told you, I –”
“Everything OK over there?” Amy's voice punctured the atmosphere.
“Yes, thank you,” Vastra assured, and Jenny was partially grateful for the interruption. She exhaled sharply as her wife continued to speak.
“We were just discussing my full intentions in bringing you here.”
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Possible in Dreams