The Hollowing Series: Part I
Characters: The 11th Doctor, Amy Pond, ocs
Warnings: Platonic fic not romantic. Crappy writing?
Notes: So three? I want to say three years ago this idea came to mind. Well not this one. But I worked off that idea and came to this. I like the idea of the Doctor being around children. They’re just so innocent. But then I though what the hell let’s torture 11 and the kids and this was born. I’ll explain more later but for now Spoilers. I reall have worked hard on this it’s my first Doctor Who fic. It’s been in my head and notes for years so please be kind and enjoy. I’m going to try, try to break this in to only 4 parts. But hey I’m a detailed writer.
Special Thanks to my college buddy B, @mirkwoodshewolf, and @underskaro for tolerating my ramblish rants and beta reading the chapter.
Down the road aways, pushed against the hills, stood a cobblestone farm style home. The front lawn was messy, jagged and uncut. From the muddy earth sprang up wildflowers and weeds, northern marches, poppies, and heathers. It was all very wild. The pedestal of a concrete birdbath was cracked and lopsided, with vines wrapping around the very base.
A trike was tangled, hidden in the tall overgrown grass. It felt out of place among the weedy garden. The bike in contrast to the exterior of the old homestead must have been brand new. Green and black, the trike was just brilliant enough to be noticeable through the thrush.
Visible from the left lower window appeared a boy, no older than 14 but no younger than 12. He reached out toward the edges of the frame, grasping at the sangria red fabric. In one swift motion, he drew the curtains closed.
“There,” the boy said, standing back to admire his work.
The four windows of the well-sized sitting room. The warm golden light that once flooded through the glass panes, faded, leaving room to feel somewhat dark and empty.
Stepping backward, the young teen collapsed over an armrest onto a sofa. The sofa’s cushions sank under the weight of him, creating a spot perfectly tailored to the shape of his body. The sofa had seen better days. The brown leather fabric was worn, torn in some places and had a great dark stain on the Center cushion that the boy couldn’t remember ever not existing.
Dragging his legs over the armrest, he moved himself so he was in a sitting position. He stretched his right hand out, leaning his body so he could reach a drawing book on the right end table. The silence of the sitting room hugged him like a security blanket, his muscles became jello, all the stress of the day just melted off him. Being the man of the house was hard.
He became lost in his own world. He didn’t utter a word for the next fifteen minutes and barely moved from his spot for a full thirty minutes. His left hand carefully looped and curved over the blank sheet of paper, no longer blank. Every now and again he’d spin his pencil around in his fingers in deep thought, or wildly erase a thoughtless mistake. He hummed along to the song blasting through his one right earbud (the one thing he’d moved to retrieve.) nodding his head in time with the 60’s melody.
The sound of creaking floorboards overhead pressed through his exposed ear, carrying him back to reality. He could hear gentle feet beating against the wood. They were almost unnoticeable over the music. Almost.
There was a lull in the footsteps, creating silence.
They must be at the stairs, he thought, beginning to set his drawing tools away.
They always stopped at the top of the stairs and the base. The stairs of the old farmhouse were criminally steep, with each weirdly a different height than the last. They were enough to give anyone unfamiliar with them a headache. If his mother had gotten them carpeted, maybe the stairs wouldn’t have been so nauseating, but she’d wanted to preserve the house’s history as best she could.
He could just imagine the little human, the footsteps belonged to crawling down the stairs. Moving down them one by one, on their knees. Sort of in a reverse way of the puppy conquering the stairs in Lady and the Tramp.
“No, go away,” he called, pressing a pencil down into its colouring box. When there was quiet he looked over his shoulder, everything from the waist down just sitting there on the steps. The figure's upper body was obstructed from his view.
“I was kidding, you can come down.” He turned back to his tidying. He heard the little feet happily stomp about, then thump, thump, thump.
Focused on organising his things, he looked up only when noticing the pair of dust stained white socks out of the corner of his eye. He blinked, somewhat irritatedly, staring at the little girl who now stood across from him.
With a great sigh, he said.
“You’re really annoying sometimes, you know that?”
A child no older than four stood before him. Her brown eyes, earthy hues of the soil after rain or bark on a walnut tree. They gave him a look that was of youthful innocence. Bright auburn hair reached down to the middle of her back, slightly covering the sides of her cheeks. Her pale skin was dotted and marked with a surplus of freckles — Sophia.
Sophia frowned, taking a step back. This made the older boy quietly snicker.
He smiles in a reassuring manner, “Hello, Soph-a-loaf.” He teased goofily pronouncing her name. The slightest smile tugged at the corners of the ginger's lips. He brought Sophia onto his lap, letting her sit on his thighs. “What’s up ducky?” He asked, brushing some of her hair back behind her ear. Sophia scrunches her mouth to one side, making a few murmuring noises. “Oh really? Sounds like you’ve had a day.”
Sophia nods. She rests her head on Oliver’s stomach, looking up at him with her sweet doe eyes.
Her eyes darted off toward the window.
“No. No.” Oliver shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. Sophia tilted her head to one side, training her attention on Oliver’s. “Seriously the park now?” Oliver whined, backing into the cushion.
He reaches for a throw pillow and covers his face with it.
“I’m sleeping,” he murmurs from behind the fabric. Sophia fusses lightly, pressing at his stomach. Oliver grunted, but kept the pillow pressed against his face. “I’m dead,” he tried.
This time Sophia head butted him in the gut. Oliver pulled a face, bringing the pillow down.
“Bleh!” He mocked, tongue lolled out of his mouth. Sophia squeaks, swatting her palm against Oliver’s arm. “Hey, we don’t hit. Sophia, I don’t want to go to the park.” Oliver said leaning down so his forehead was against hers. Sophia kindly taps her temple against his. Oliver chuckles softly, giving her forehead a sweet peck. “Sophey Tophie.”
He lifts Sophia off his lap, setting her on the floor in front of him.
“I suppose… it would be nice to get out of the house.” His eye drifted to a calendar on the interior sidewall of the sitting room. He couldn’t remember when he circled that day. Sophia excitedly bounces up and down. “What are you a rabbit?” The little ginger doesn’t respond, bouncing her way to the front door.
Oliver rolls his eyes. Upon realisation, he sprang up from the sofa.
“Sophia, you need a coat!”
The two children squinted against the hazy Yorkshire rain. The rain was cool against their exposed skin. It felt nice, refreshing even. It ran through their hair, smoothing out Sophia’s auburn waves, mopping Oliver’s ash brown locks. It plastered small individual strands to each of their faces.
Oliver chatted away as they went down the muddy, winding path. Chatting isn't quite the right word as Sophia never spoke. It had only taken him two minutes to go off on a tangent about something or other.
Sophia, only kind of sort of listening, pedaling her hand-me-down trike. His voice disappeared into the white noise, allowing her to quietly enjoy the English landscape.
The countryside stretched and weaved as far as the eye could see. Rustic English cottages and cobblestone farm houses dotted the grassy hills. The land gently rolled up and down the valley, merging with the uneven, mist filled moors half way up the emerald green mounds of earth.
Dew, white and clear, decorated the damp droopy grass the land glittered, sparkling under the orange purpling sunlight.
The houses of the humdrum sleepy town were few and well spaced out. One could walk a good half a mile before reaching their neighbours' property. Those closer to the center of town were flats, pushed together in neat lines, occupying the space over the small, often family owned shops.
Oliver and Sophia arrived at the park in twenty minutes. Sophia having to struggle, pedaling through the mud had set them back. However, neither of the children seemed to care. Sophia hopped off the trike and clicked off her helmet, abandoning both on the pavement. She couldn’t wait to explore the soggy park.
For the next 20 minutes they hung out at the park, Sophia wandered the grassy playing field picking at wild flowers while Oliver practiced his kicks. In the following ten, Sophia ran up the stairs then went down the slide. She’d dust herself off, then go round again. The next five minutes she sat still, a bit tired, content to watch the villagers while Oliver puttered around.
“Oi! Sophia, I’m goin’ to the loo. I’ll be back right back!” Oliver shouted from the far side of the futbol field. The park had no bathroom, so he’d have to walk clear cross the road to Brews Brothers’ Pub. The popular bar had an outdoor side restroom reserved for the public.
Sophia watched Oliver leave until he became nothing more than a speck in the distance.
The quiet times brought a certain comfort to Sophia. It was the perfect time to watch people revel in the coolness of other humans’ lives. Usually the park was a buzz with townsfolk, mostly children. They melded together and dotted the public lawn like A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. But now there was little life to distinguish the little village from Oradour-sur-Glane, France.
The night air, though cool, had a biting sharpness to it. No thanks to the rain. Sophia sniffs through her nostrils, inhaling the almost intoxicating spring air. Sitting on the bench, her little legs swung over mud coated grass. Misty rain was still falling steadily, and the temperature had dropped considerably.
Sophia wasn’t bothered though.
Reaching for a short stick she traces some shapes in the ground. She nods her head, humming a tune she couldn’t quite place.
“You know, sometimes I wonder if you actually know how to fly the TARDIS.” A voice, female with a thick Scottish accent, said.
Two foreign voices cut through the cold silence. Her eyes dart down the path. From where she sat she could hear them, the voices, bickering. About what, she had no clue.
Out of mist in the distance strode what appeared to be a young couple. The man seemed tall. His dark brown hair was long, stuck to his forehead in a droopy fashion, much like Ollie’s. Despite looking like a young man, he wore clothes that reminded Sophia of one of the town retirees; a Donegal tweed sport jacket with elbow patches, an off white dress shirt, rolled up deep blue trousers and… and bow tie?
Bow ties are for Sunday, Sophia thought, eyes narrowing at the approaching pair.
His partner appeared to be much more put together. Auburn hair, just a smidge less vibrant than Sophia’s framed a pale Scottish face. An irradiated cross expression dominated her features. Her voice wasn’t high nor low, it perfectly suited her in an indescribable way. And unlike the man to her right, she wore clothes appropriate for her age.
The pair stopped in the middle of the path, continuing to argue.
“Of course, I know how to fly the TARDIS sometimes she- she just has a mind of her own.” The lanky man argued, earning an eye roll from the ginger.
“We’re supposed to be England,” She grouched. “What about Churchill? This looks like— are we in Scotland?”
Sophia scoffed, shaking her head, tourists. She watched as the man licked a finger, held it against the wind, then popped it back in his mouth.
“No, no. I’m sure we’re in England.”
The finger crossed her arms over her chest in a cool way.
“Shouldn’t there be I dunno fighters, soldiers, something? I’m getting sheep.” She said looking round the area. She wasn’t wrong there were sheep, white puffs mindlessly grazing on the hills. When she looked back at the man, he was squatting. In his right hand he held a good chunk of mud.
“Wha—What are you doing?”
“Definitely in England. Westerdale Yorkshire, to be more precise. Right country wrong period. Does something seem off to you?” He asked, running a thumb over the mucky mud, cautiously examining it.
His partner snorted indignantly.
“Something or… someone? No don’t eat the—”
Sophia quickly pushed her head down, crinkling her nose. Adults are weird. She turned her attention to her dirt scribbles. She didn’t understand what they were on about, anyway. Hopefully they’d be on their way soon. They didn’t belong.
There’s a weight increase, bending the planks of the bench. An electric chill ran up Sophia’s spine, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The reaction wasn’t from the cold. There was a weight increase bending the planks of the bench.
“Well hello there, I’m the Doctor. What’s your name.”
Surprise was never an emotion Sophia handled well. Her shoulders went rigid, her entire body defensively readying itself. Her sweet eyes become stoney. Her breathing felt as if it was becoming more shallow with each breath. The guarding alarms inside her mind we’re going crazy halting the thinking gears of her brain.
The man held his hands up resignedly. “No, no, don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.” There was a gentleness to his tone, a kind of concern. Sophia couldn’t be sure. No matter something about him. She let her shoulders go loose, but the rest of her still felt tense. “Would you mind? I have a few questions.”
Sophia allowed herself to relax a little more, not completely but more.
“Doctor!” The scot’s voice rang up briefly, sending Sophia back into defensive mode. “You can’t keep talking to children you don’t know.” She sounded like a mother chiding her young child.
Her comment sparked a minor argument between the pair.
Sophia took the time to lean back and take the pair in full, particularly the man. He was a little more normal-ish looking up close. Normal enough. There was something about his eyes she couldn’t quite describe.
Sophia observed the two curiously, unaware that the fear, once crushing her chest, was steadily subsiding.
“I introduced myself this time. Oh yes,” the Doctor swiftly turns to Sophia, “this is Amy.”
“That’s not how it works,” Amy grumbled.
Her partner ignores her, keeping his attention on Sophia. “There’s something… something about this place. Don't know. I think-" He spoke fast, flaggishly moving his hands about. “Well I know it’s something. Too many ideas. Head’s bit cloudy.” He knocked on his temple.
Sophia, though a little behind, shifted uncomfortably.
“Need to narrow it down…” he trailed off. Sophia, her left palm on her thigh, absently traces along each finger with her right index. He observes Sophia with a kind, sort of calculating, gaze.
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?
Concurrently, Ollie was on his way back from the toilet. He dribbles across the park, knocking a futbol between one foot and the other. “He’s going for the full court folks.” He deepened his voice, trying to mimic the vocals of a proper sports announcer. “He’s at the 75 marker, will he go for the assist?” He sped up, using a lace touch to control the ball. “He passes to,” Oliver knocks the ball clear cross the field.
He’d get his ball back tomorrow. The silence made his blood as cold as the icy waters of a polar plunge, as he strode across the park to where he had left Sophia.
Everything was still hazy and cloudy from the English rain. Billions of trillions of icy drops dripped down his neck and fell off the flaps of his slicker. In this de-focused world, he could just make the outlined silhouette of Sophia.
He goes taut, stopping in his tracks. For a moment his brain glitches. His eyes went wide, mouth falling slightly ajar. Although he was staring at Sophia, he was seeing more than he expected.
“Sophia, what do you think you’re doing?” His voice was steady, but had a sharpness to it. “Talking to strangers?” He holds a hand out, which Sophia compliantly takes within seconds.
“And you lot.” The ginger seemed taken back by Oliver’s frigidity. A tween scolding two strange grownups, one of them a Scot, bit startling. The gentleman, however, seemed off in his head, silently mouthing the same word over and over. “You can’t just be talking to people you don’t know, numpties.”
Oliver’s eyes sourly narrow. “You’re not from around here, are you?” He deadpanned.
“Just passing through. Hello, I’m the—”
“You should keep passing,” Oliver interrupted. Stepping between Sophia and the pair. Sophia could only watch as Oliver spoke to the two adults. “Leave town before it gets dark.” He warned, picking Sophia up, holding her on his hip.
“Is everything okay?” The gentleman asked, stepping up from the bench.
Though his expression held a casual indifference, his skin goes colourless. He let out an understated sigh, bowing his head and turning to leave. “I have to get Sophia home. It's almost supper time.”
Sophia beats her head against Oliver's shoulder, hitting it just hard enough to make the older child wince. He rolls his eyes, but turns back to the pair. “If you are going to stay… it’s only fair.” He sounded like a toddler forced to apologise.
“I must warn you.” He let his face fall in seriousness.
“Beware what lies in the mist of the Moors.”
