Chapter Text
The TARDIS lands with a shudder that rattles up through the soles of her shoes.
“Oi—” Sarah steadies herself against the console, laughing under her breath. “That was hardly necessary.”
The hum settles. Satisfied. As if it’s done exactly what it meant to do.
She doesn’t quite trust that.
“You said Croydon,” she calls, already reaching for the door. “You do remember Croydon, don’t you? Loud, inconvenient, occasionally—”
The doors swing open.
She steps out with her suitcase in one hand and Owlie tucked under her arm, mid-sentence, mid-thought, entirely expecting the rest of the world to meet her where she left it.
“—useful.”
The air meets her first.
Still. Too still.
She takes one step onto the pavement.
Behind her, the TARDIS doors shut.
And then—
That sound.
The one she knows better than she ever admits to.
The rising, grinding wheeze.
Sarah turns, already half-smiling, half-annoyed. “Oh no, you don’t—”
The TARDIS is already fading.
“Doctor—”
It vanishes.
Just like that.
The sound cuts out, leaving the air abruptly, completely empty.
Sarah stands there for a second, suitcase hanging at her side, Owlie pressed lightly against her ribs, staring at the space where it was.
“…right,” she says, after a beat. “Brilliant. Lovely. Thank you.”
She doesn’t shout after it.
Doesn’t run.
There’s no point. There never is.
Instead, she lets out a breath through her nose and turns back to the street.
“That’s not Croydon,” she adds, mildly.
Now she looks properly.
Terraced houses. Neat rows. The sort of place that should have noise leaking out of it—televisions, arguments, someone calling a child in for tea.
There’s nothing.
No movement. No sound. No sense of people just out of sight.
Owlie shifts slightly under her arm as she adjusts her grip, automatic, grounding.
Sarah takes a few steps forward, the wheels of her suitcase clicking softly against the pavement.
“Alright,” she says, quieter now. “So where are you, then?”
A bicycle lies on its side near the kerb.
Not broken.
Just… left.
She slows, frowning faintly, and nudges it upright with her foot as she passes.
“Someone’s going to trip over that,” she says, the words falling flat into the silence.
That’s when it settles in.
Not fear.
Attention.
Her gaze sharpens, moving quickly now—doorways, windows, the small details most people would miss.
A car with its boot open, a suitcase half-packed inside.
A front door ajar.
A milk bottle untouched on a step.
She pauses at the open door, leaning just enough to see inside.
Kitchen.
Table set.
A mug by the sink.
Cold.
Not abandoned in panic.
Left on purpose.
“…you didn’t just pop out, did you,” she murmurs.
Owlie gets tucked closer without her thinking about it, chin brushing the worn fabric for a moment before she straightens again.
She steps back and keeps walking.
A newspaper catches against her suitcase wheel a few houses down. She stops, bends, and picks it up, smoothing it flat against her palm.
Yesterday’s date.
The headline is large enough to shout even here.
She reads it once.
Then again, slower.
Her mouth tightens.
“That’s not funny.”
Evacuation orders. Coastal regions. Northern corridors. Civilian withdrawal under emergency authority.
There’s a map—broad, urgent strokes—shaded areas pushing inland like something coming in from the sea.
Sarah looks up.
The street hasn’t changed.
It just makes sense now.
She folds the paper neatly and tucks it under her arm with Owlie, balancing both with practiced ease.
“Alright,” she says, a little more briskly. “So where did you all go, then?”
Her gaze drifts instinctively toward the open pull of space at the end of the street—the direction the air feels colder, wider.
The coast.
Where the map says the danger is.
Where everyone has moved away from.
Sarah exhales, sharp and quiet.
“…Sea Devils,” she says.
A beat.
“…Silurians.”
The silence doesn’t argue.
Of course it doesn’t.
She glances once more at the empty space behind her where the TARDIS had been.
No blue box. No hum. No way back.
Something flickers across her expression—not fear, not quite, but the clear understanding of exactly how alone she is.
Then it’s gone.
“Fine,” she says. “We’ll do this the usual way.”
She shifts her grip on the suitcase and turns.
Not inland. Not toward safety.
The other direction.
Toward the coast.
Toward the problem.
Owlie’s wing sticks out awkwardly; she tucks it in with a small, absent pat as she starts walking.
“Because if you’re here…”
A beat.
“UNIT’s here.”
She doesn’t finish the rest.
She doesn’t need to.
She keeps walking, steady and certain, as if the world hasn’t just slipped sideways under her feet.
As if she hasn’t already decided—without asking, without checking—that somewhere ahead of her, in the middle of a war that shouldn’t exist yet—
he’ll be there.
Even if he doesn’t know her.
Even if she doesn’t belong here at all.
Sarah doesn’t slow down.
She never does.
The wind picks up just enough to tug at the leg of her overalls.
Not properly. Not like weather. Just a small, testing movement, as if the world’s remembering how to do it.
Sarah glances down at herself.
Andy Pandy overalls. Trainers. No coat worth mentioning.
Suitcase in one hand. Owl under the other arm.
She huffs out a quiet breath.
“…right,” she says. “That’s not going to work, is it.”
It’s not fear that prompts the shift.
It’s practicality.
The map’s still clear in her head. Coastal advance. Evacuation inland. Which means whatever’s out there—whatever cleared this place out—hasn’t gone anywhere.
And she’s walking toward it in canvas shoes.
“Brilliant plan,” she mutters.
She slows near the next house, this one fully open, the door pushed back against the wall like it was meant to stay that way.
Sarah doesn’t hesitate.
She steps inside.
“Hello?” she calls, out of habit more than expectation. “Anyone left behind, I promise I’m friendly and only a little bit nosy—”
Nothing answers.
Of course not.
She sets her suitcase down just inside the door, tucks Owlie onto the narrow hall table like it belongs there, and pushes her sleeves up.
“Stay,” she tells it lightly. “Guard the fort.”
Then she moves.
Not rummaging. Not tearing the place apart.
She walks through like she’s been invited—quick, efficient, eyes scanning rather than searching.
Kitchen first.
Cupboards open.
Tins. A few left behind—things people don’t think to take when they’re told to move quickly. Beans. Soup. Something unidentifiable but sealed and therefore useful.
She sets them aside on the counter in a neat little cluster.
Tap.
She turns it.
Water comes through after a brief, protesting cough.
Sarah watches it for a second, then reaches for a bottle by the sink, empties whatever’s in it without ceremony, and fills it.
“Alright,” she murmurs. “That’s something.”
She screws the lid on tight and sets it with the tins.
Upstairs next.
She takes the stairs two at a time, light on her feet, as if she’s done this a hundred times before.
Which, in fairness, she has.
Bedroom.
Wardrobe half-open.
She pauses there for a moment.
Not because of the clothes.
Because of the shape of absence again—hangers shifted, gaps where things have been taken, choices made in a hurry.
She doesn’t linger.
She pulls out a jumper first. Thick. Practical.
Tests the weight of it in her hands, then nods once.
“Thank you,” she says, automatically, to a room that isn’t listening.
Boots next.
There’s a pair by the door—slightly too big, but that’s fine. Better too big than useless.
She sits on the edge of the bed and swaps them out, tugging them on, stamping her foot once to settle them properly.
The trainers get left neatly beside the wardrobe.
Not discarded.
Just… not needed.
She stands, rolls her shoulders, adjusts the jumper over her overalls.
Better.
Not safe.
But better.
On the way back downstairs, she catches sight of herself in a mirror.
She pauses.
Tilts her head.
“You look ridiculous,” she tells her reflection.
A beat.
“…but you’ll do.”
Back in the kitchen, she gathers what she’s found—tins into the suitcase, water bottle tucked in beside them, the extra jumper slung over the top for easy access.
She closes it, then reconsiders, opens it again, and shifts things around until the weight balances properly.
Practical. Always practical.
Owlie is still where she left it, slightly askew on the table, one wing flopped over the edge.
Sarah picks it up, brushes imaginary dust off its head with her thumb.
“There we are,” she murmurs, tucking it back under her arm.
Then, after a moment’s thought, she opens the suitcase again and nestles it carefully inside, between the tins and the jumper, making sure it won’t get crushed.
“Safer there,” she adds.
She snaps the case shut.
One last look around the house.
Not checking for danger.
Checking she hasn’t… disrupted anything unnecessarily.
Satisfied, she heads for the door, pausing only long enough to pull it closed behind her.
Not all the way.
Just enough.
The street is still empty when she steps back out.
Still quiet.
Still wrong.
Sarah adjusts her grip on the suitcase, squares her shoulders slightly, and sets off again toward the coast.
Boots heavier now against the pavement. More solid.
More appropriate.
“Alright,” she says under her breath. “Let’s go find your war, then.”
She doesn’t hurry.
She doesn’t hesitate.
Just walks—like she’s already part of whatever comes next.
Morning comes grey and thin, like it’s not entirely committed to the idea.
Sarah is already awake.
Not properly rested—just… done with pretending.
The fire has burned down to ash. The cold has crept in properly now, settling into the bones of the place, into her fingers when she flexes them.
“Right,” she murmurs, pushing herself up. “Let’s not do that again if we can help it.”
She stamps her boots once, twice, feeling them properly on her feet, then moves without hesitation.
Pack first.
Not the suitcase. That had been yesterday.
The canvas rucksack sits where she left it, propped against the wall, heavier now, but balanced. Everything has a place. Everything can be found without looking.
She checks it quickly—habit already settling in.
Matches. Dry.
First aid kit. Intact.
Torch—she clicks it once, brief beam cutting through the dim—then off again.
Radio.
That one she lingers on.
She flicks it on, turning the dial slowly, listening as static rolls and shifts and catches—
Fragments.
“…civilian… relocation corridor—”
—crackle—
“…coastal exclusion zone remains—”
—silence—
She stills.
Because it’s something.
“Alright,” she says softly. “So someone’s still talking.”
She doesn’t try to answer.
There’s no way to.
Not yet.
She tucks it away again, zipping the bag closed, then reaches for the jacket.
It’s too big.
Of course it is.
Army surplus, worn at the cuffs, someone else’s name long since faded from the inside tag.
She shrugs into it anyway, pulling it tight, then settles the cap on her head, tucking her hair back without thinking.
Jeans, jumper, boots.
Better.
Still not enough.
But better.
Owlie gets lifted from where it’s been tucked safely into the top of the rucksack. She brushes her thumb over its head once, quick, automatic.
“In you go,” she says, softer than the rest.
Nestled back between everything else, secure.
Then she shoulders the pack and steps out into the morning.
The road carries her this time.
She’s reading the world now.
Tyre tracks—heavy ones. Military, most likely.
Directional signage, hastily erected and half-ignored.
Markers that tell her where people were meant to go.
Which means she can work backwards.
Toward where they came from.
Toward where the instructions were being given.
Toward UNIT.
She walks for hours.
Doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t stop unless there’s a reason.
A farmhouse gives her the jacket.
A shed gives her the rucksack.
A kitchen yields matches, tins, water containers.
Each place she leaves a little less intact—but not damaged.
Used.
There’s a difference.
By the time she sees the police station, she knows it before she reads the sign.
Low building. Reinforced glass. Radio mast out back.
Official.
Or it was.
She slows.
From attention.
Something about it feels… less abandoned than everything else.
Not occupied. Just… not finished with.
Sarah approaches from the side, not the front.
Habit now.
She keeps to the edge of the building, eyes moving, tracking lines of sight, entry points, anything that might have been left behind on purpose.
The door is closed.
Properly.
Not left open like the houses.
She pauses there, one hand resting lightly on the handle, listening.
Nothing.
No movement.
No voices.
Just the wind, moving past the building like it’s got somewhere else to be.
“Alright,” she murmurs. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
She pushes the door open.
Slow.
Careful.
It creaks.
Of course it does.
Inside—dim, but not pitch black. Enough light filtering through the front windows to see shapes, outlines.
Desks.
Chairs.
Papers.
A mug left beside a radio set.
Her attention snaps to that immediately.
Radio.
Not the little handheld one in her bag.
A proper set.
Fixed.
Powered—maybe.
She closes the door behind her—not fully, just enough—and moves toward it, already pulling off her gloves, already reaching.
“Hello?” she calls, out of habit more than hope. “Anyone still on shift, I promise I’m not here to cause trouble—”
Silence.
She exhales once.
“Didn’t think so.”
The radio set is cold.
But not dead.
She can tell.
Wires still connected. Equipment not stripped. Not smashed.
Left in a hurry—but left to function.
Her hands move over it, not with technical expertise, but with instinct.
Switches.
Dials.
Things that look like they should be on.
She flicks one.
Nothing.
Another.
A low hum kicks in.
Sarah stills.
“…there you are,” she says, almost fond.
Static crackles to life, louder now, fuller.
Not just fragments.
Channels.
Possibilities.
She leans in slightly, adjusting the dial, listening as voices flicker in and out—
“…UNIT command to all remaining—”
—crackle—
“…fallback position—grid—”
It cuts again.
But that’s enough.
UNIT.
She lets out a breath she hadn’t quite acknowledged holding.
“Of course you’re here,” she murmurs.
Of course he is.
Her fingers hover over the microphone.
She picks it up, presses the button, and leans in slightly.
“This is Sarah Jane Smith,” she says, clear, steady, like this is entirely normal. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be in your version of events, but I’ve landed just outside an evacuation zone and I’m heading toward the coast.”
A beat.
Static hums back at her.
She doesn’t fill it.
Doesn’t justify.
Just adds, matter-of-fact:
“If UNIT is still operational, I need to speak to Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart.”
She releases the button.
Waits.
The radio crackles.
Silence stretches.
And Sarah stands there in an empty police station, in someone else’s war, holding a line that may or may not connect—
like she already belongs on it.
The static rolls back in, thick and indifferent.
Sarah watches the set for a second, head tilted, listening past the noise for anything trying to form.
Nothing yet.
“Right,” she says under her breath. “That might help, mightn’t it.”
She lifts the microphone again, not hurried, not flustered—just correcting.
Press.
“This is Sarah Jane Smith,” she repeats, steady as before. “I’m at a police station just outside Aberdeen—north side, looks like it’s been part of the evacuation corridor. There’s a radio mast intact and the building’s still powered intermittently.”
A flicker of static shifts, like something trying to catch.
She doesn’t push.
Just adds what matters.
“I came in on foot from an evacuated residential area. No civilian presence. Signs point to controlled withdrawal, not panic.”
A small pause.
Then, more simply:
“I’m alone.”
Not dramatic.
Just fact.
Her grip on the mic doesn’t tighten. Doesn’t change.
“If UNIT is still operational,” she continues, tone even, “I need to speak to Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart.”
A fraction of a pause.
“I’ll hold position for a short time.”
Not indefinitely.
She doesn’t promise that.
She releases the button.
The radio fills the silence again, a low, persistent hiss.
Sarah sets the microphone down carefully rather than dropping it, eyes still on the set like it might decide to answer if she gives it space.
“…there we are,” she murmurs.
She doesn’t hover.
Doesn’t pace.
She steps back instead, giving the machine room, the way she does with anything that might respond better if it’s not being watched too closely.
The room feels different now.
Not less empty.
Just… connected.
Potentially.
She shrugs the rucksack off one shoulder, setting it within reach, and pulls the torch free, angling it briefly toward the darker corners of the station.
Still empty.
Still quiet.
But now—
not entirely cut off.
Sarah glances once at the door, then back to the radio.
“Your move,” she says lightly.
And waits.
Not passively.
Just… ready to move the moment the world answers back.