Chapter Text
The streets were quiet that morning. Sunlight was just starting to trickle over the rooftops of the residential street, and birds could be heard making music from all corners. The small town was barely awake, except for one person.
Her shallow heels clicked along the cobblestone path, a rhythmic sound that echoed in the still morning. Her short sleeve dress - unthinkingly modern - was pear green, complimenting her long curly red hair, which was pinned to fall specifically down her back, and she held an intricately designed fob watch tightly in her gloved hand. On her neck was a golden locket, with similar intricate patterns detailing the cover.
Florence Reagan studied the fob watch carefully, her body certain it was important but her mind insisting it couldn’t be. The incongruity between them left her feeling stuck, immovable, even as her feet took her to her place of work on instinct and memory alone. She fiddled with the button that would open the intricate cover to show the broken watch face underneath, just as unsure how she knew it would be broken as she was sure that it would be. She ran her thumb across the circles and lines, feeling the metal warm to her touch as she tried to decipher their meaning.
Around the corner from her, John Smith, wearing his usual three-piece suit and bow tie, was striding quickly, his maid, Martha Jones, following behind him. They both carried a travelling case each, and in John’s other hand he held a fob watch with intricate designs on the cover. He studied it carefully even as he walked, only half listening to his maid as she fretted over his last minute placement at Farringham School for Boys, and instead more focused on why he felt so insistent to keep the broken watch so close to him.
As John Smith and Martha Jones turned the corner onto the main street of Farringham, John collided with Florence. John’s case, having been filled to the brim nearly with his personal belongings, exploded, and two fob watches scattered along the ground as John fell on top of Florence.
“Oh my god,” Martha exclaimed, dropped her case to help John stand, dusting him off before he was able to offer Florence some help. “Come on sir, back on your feet.”
“I’m so sorry, miss, I am terribly clumsy,” John started saying, ignoring Martha’s fussing. His face flushed in embarrassment as he caught a glimpse of Florence’s face.
“No, it’s quite alright,” Florence replied, pushing herself to a seated position. John offered his hand, thankful when she accepted his help back onto her two feet. He didn’t immediately let go, however, and Florence allowed herself a moment to study his brown eyes. They were so big, seemingly filled with wonder and adventure.
“I wasn’t looking where I was going,” they said together, and both their faces flushed bright red as they looked away.
“Sir, your clothes!” Martha said, seeing the mess around them. His clothes had seemingly leapt out of the case, and now were a mess across the cobblestones.
“Oh, let me help!” Florence said, bending to help fold some of the clothes and put them back in the case. As she picked up a shirt, she noticed a watch on the floor, and she realised she must have dropped it when she’d fallen. She quickly stored it in her dress pocket, not noticing how the designs were slightly different.
John frowned, “you don’t have to, miss, it’s my own fault, after all!” He bent next to her, bunching up as many clothes as he could into a fist to try and quickly end his embarrassment in the situation.
“No, please. It’s the least I can do,” she smiled at him, and John found himself momentarily captivated by her striking blue eyes. He felt he could spend an eternity swimming into their depths, such was the vivid colour of them.
“My name’s John. John Smith,” he finally said, breaking eye contact with a blush and clear of his throat. Florence smiled, heart stuttering.
“I’m Florence Reagan, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Smith.” She handed the clothes she’d folded to Martha, who packed them into the suitcase while keeping an eye on the two. Florence then reached out to the clothes balled in John’s hand and gently took them, folding them neatly. “You should make sure to fold your shirts carefully, else you’ll be dealing with wrinkles for months to come.”
John’s mouth gaped momentarily, and Florence chuckled.
“Thank you, Miss Reagan,” he murmured, heart stuttering.
As the three of them finished packing up John’s belongings, Martha noticed a fob watch on the floor underneath a pair of trousers, and she quickly pocketed it to hand back to John after they had left Florence.
Florence finally stood, having cleared the street of John’s belongings, and she smiled at the man as he firmly closed and locked the case.
“I am sincerely sorry for the disruption to your morning, Miss Reagan,” he said, turning to her with a slight blush and a sheepish smile.
Florence smiled, ignoring her slight breathlessness, and said, “it really is quite alright. I was distracted myself, you are not solely at fault.”
“I apologise for interrupting, but Mr Smith, you are required at the school in half an hour,” Martha mentioned, sending Florence a mildly suspicious glance. “We need to get going.”
“Oh, yes!” John remembered, and he looked back at Florence, a hopeful look in his eyes. “Will I perchance see you around, Miss Reagan?”
Florence blushed slightly, but she replied, “I do hope so, Mr Smith.”
She gave a small curtesy to him, and turned to walk away from them. Her heart beat hard in her throat, and she fiddled nervously with her fingers.
She really did hope to see him again.
It wasn’t until John and Martha were nearly at the entrance to the school that Martha returned the watch to John, and a cold spike of fear shot through her when he said, “oh, I must say this is not my watch. I wonder if Miss Reagan and I had similar watches.” He shrugged, ignorant to the absolute panic that filled Martha. “Well, if I see her again, hopefully she will have my watch and I hers.”
Martha fervently hoped that it had been just a small mix up.
Florence, red hair intricately braided to be out of her face, wore her favourite blue dress, with short sleeves and white lace gloves. She carried with her a worn leather book bag, the strap over her shoulder, filled with several types of books. In front of her was the large, intimidating school: Farringham School for Boys.
Out of habit, her hand found its way into her pocket to clutch at the broken fob watch there, only to remember that it wasn’t hers. She wasn’t too sure when she’d lost her fob watch and picked up someone else’s, but she was still hoping to stumble across Mr Smith, thinking they might have somehow mixed up their watches in the chaos of their first meeting. Still, her fingers carefully traced the unfamiliar designs, and the habit brought a similar comfort that her own watch would have.
As she entered the school, she was greeted by the Headmaster, who smiled at her and accepted her outstretched hand to shake.
“Miss Reagan, it is a pleasure to see you once again!” He exclaimed, shaking her hand with enthusiasm. Florence smiled at him, the older gentleman a familiar face and friend.
“Headmaster Rocastle, how are you?” She asked, falling into step with him as he led her into the grand school.
“I’m just grand, thank you. How are you? Are you adjusting well to the countryside?” He asked.
Florence nodded. “It is certainly a change from London, but the air is doing me well, I believe.” The headmaster nodded, and lead her into the school’s library.
Florence observed the young boys around her as they rushed between lessons or studied their textbooks or spoke quietly to each other. She received some curious looks, but she was quickly disregarded and ignored. With a sigh, she thought to herself, ‘young boys and their ego’, and paused as it occurred to her that she had never had that kind of thought before. Thinking of boys…
“How is my brother, Headmaster? Not giving you any trouble, I hope?” She asked, and the Headmaster led her into a meeting room at the end of the library.
“He is doing well in his classes, to my knowledge, although I have heard that the new history teacher is quite surprised at his knowledge,” the Headmaster told her, and Florence couldn’t hide the pride in her expression or voice as she responded.
“That might be my fault, I have a particular passion for history. I fear it might have rubbed off on him in our youth.”
The Headmaster hummed, pulling out a seat for Florence and offering her a cup of tea. It was as the Headmaster was pouring her cup of tea that her brother finally arrived.
A mess of blond hair, Timothy Latimer was very much his father’s son, but even so, once he spotted Florence, he rushed over and pulled her into a hug.
Florence stood the moment the door had opened, and she willingly allowed Timothy to pull her in, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and kissing the top of his head.
“Florie,” he whispered into her stomach, “it’s so good to see you.”
“I’ll leave you to it, don’t forget your maths class is in 20 minutes, Latimer!” The headmaster instructed, before he left to continue his duties. Florence wished him well as he left, before returning her attention to her brother.
“Timmy, I’ve missed you so much! I came as soon as I heard,” Florence stroked his hair out of his face, cradling his head as his brown eyes shone up at her. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured.
“They say it happened quickly,” he spoke factually, and Florence recognised the tone as a way to protect himself. “He passed easily in his sleep.”
“It doesn’t make it easier, does it?” She whispered, and Timothy shook his head, eyes turning down. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to hide from me, especially not your tears.”
He wrapped his arms around her waist again, pushing his face into her shoulder. Florence embraced him warmly, as she remembered doing for years before his move to this school, and let him cry.
Once he’d had his fill of tears, Florence poured him a cup of tea and the pair spoke easily, catching up on the two years they’d been apart.
“Gosh, you’ve grown so much, Tim. You look like a young man,” Florence murmured, taking in his face.
“It’s been years, Florence. Of course I’ve grown.” Timothy said. Florence chuckled.
“Let me reminisce about your youth, would you?” She teased, pinching his cheek gently. He waved her hand away with the annoyance of a teenaged boy.
“Did Peter come with you? Or is he waiting for you in London?” He asked, and Florence sighed.
“Peter and I broke it off." Timothy’s eyes widened slightly.
“What happened? I thought you were quite taken with him,” he asked, and Florence smiled sadly.
“Would it surprise you to know that I called the engagement off?” When Timmy’s eyes widened, Florence chuckled. “I found out that I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did. We split ways four months ago.”
“Oh,” Timmy murmured, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Florence reached across the gap between them to grasp his hand, smiling at him warmly. “I’ve never been happier without him, truthfully,” she told him, a glimmer of humour in her blue eyes.
“I never liked him,” Timothy said, grinning at her.
“Now that I don’t believe,” she smirked, “I remember you being very happy to show him the train set I bought you a few years ago.”
“I was 7!”
“And Peter was quite happy to indulge you,” Florence recalled fondly. “But you don’t have to pretend you didn’t like him just because we aren’t together anymore. I simply wasn’t ready to marry.”
Timothy frowned at her. “But you’re getting old, and people might begin to talk.”
Florence laughed, shocked at the audacity of her surrogate brother. “How dare you? Cheeky mongrel!” She released his hand to scuff his hair up, laughing as he protested loudly.
“I need to get to class,” he said after a moment, voice quiet. “Will you visit again soon?”
Florence nodded, “of course I will. I came here for you, Timmy. I’ll be around for as long as you need me.”
Florence stood with Timothy, and with a gentle hand on his back, they left the meeting room.
Other students had filled the hallway while they’d been talking, and a pair of older boys ran into Florence, knocking her slightly. She called out, “excuse me boys, please mind where you’re walking. Manners are vital, even in a school.”
The two boys turned back to her, both tall and larger than she was. She could tell they played rugby by their stances, and how they thought their size could intimidate her. She kept a hand on Timothy as she stood to her full height, not letting two children intimidate her.
“Oh yeah, miss?” One said, a smirk on his face as he glanced her up and down, “how about you walk into my room and you could give me a lesson on manners while on your-“ he didn’t get to finish his suggestion, as a few things happened at once.
Seeing a disturbance in the main corridor, John Smith had approached from the end of the hallway and called out to the boy talking, “Hutchinson, that’s no way to speak to a woman.”
Timothy had backed away, trying not to be associated with the disturbance else he get bullied more.
Florence’s hand had struck out, backhanding the boy in front of her. His head whipped to the side, and his friend saw her blue eyes ice over until they were shards of glass, piercing through him until he felt frozen inside and out. The first boy clasped his struck cheek, eyes burning in fury until he saw his teacher behind her.
The students in the corridor froze, watching the occurrence with hungry eyes. There was no doubt in Florence’s mind that this event would be the talk of the school before dinner.
“You will not talk in such a manner to any person. Am I understood?” She demanded, eyes burrowing into the boy. He didn’t respond, and she lifted her chin slightly, challenging him. “Am I understood, child?”
His gaze flickered to her, and he nodded minutely.
“On your way,” she dismissed, the militant tone of her voice clear, and he ran off with the second boy.
“Mr Hutchinson, Mr Baines, my office, 3pm!” John Smith snapped, watching the boys scarper down the corridor. “Do you not all have places to be?” He called to the hallway, and the students rushed to do as he had bid. He finally looked to the woman, and his eyes widened when he realised it was Florence. “Miss Reagan, what a surprise,” he murmured, lips turning up in a small smile.
Florence’s heart seemed to stammer as she turned to see John Smith, and she smiled shyly at him. “Mr Smith, I didn’t know you worked here,” she replied.
Timothy moved back to her side, and he mentioned, “Mr Smith is the new history teacher.”
John glanced between his student and the woman, and his eyes lit up in realisation, “is this- are you Timothy’s sister? Marvellous! I hadn’t realised, with the surname-“
“Oh, yes. I became his father’s ward late in my youth. Timothy and I are as much siblings as any,” she smiled at him, and squeezed his shoulder. “Off you go to class now, Tim.”
He whispered a goodbye, glancing between her and his teacher in confusion, before he ran off.
“I do apologise for the behaviour of Mr Hutchinson and Mr Baines. They’re due to finish school this summer, but that’s no excuse. I will make sure they are appropriately punished,” he promised, but Florence frowned.
“I think being scolded in the school’s hallway is humiliating enough. After all, boys will be boys,” the words tasted like dirt even as Florence said them, despite the rhetoric being familiar.
John frowned at the words, “unfortunately so.”
Florence recalled the weight in her pocket, and she smiled at him, “I do have a question for you, actually. Maybe we could…”
“Let’s go to my office, yes?” He offered, his cheeks slightly flushed, and Florence nodded, stomach fluttering with slight nerves.
He walked her towards his office, unsure what to say to the woman he’d met once last week.
“So I see you’ve adjusted to the school well?” Florence said carefully, glancing at him from the side of her eye. He cleared his throat, and looked down to her.
“I have indeed. There’s nothing like teaching the next generation the foundations of our society, and hopefully how to avoid the conflicts that occurred in the past.” He seemed to realise something, as he asked next, “as Timothy’s sister, do I have you to thank for his seeming unending thirst for historical knowledge? And seemingly unending knowledge of history?” His lips curled upwards as Florence’s face flushed, freckles exacerbated by the blush.
“That may be my fault, Mr Smith. Do you require an apology?” She smirked, looking at him with a hint more flirtation that she might have wanted to use, and was rewarded with his own cheeks turning red.
“N-no, Miss, not at all,” he stammered, “I-it’s refreshing to see a young boy so invested in our nation’s story, is all.”
She chuckled, and John led her into his office. The desk was the primary focus of the office, with a number of books scattered across it, several with bookmarks inside. Against the side wall was a bookcase half full above a tidy bed, and the case he’d been carrying was leaning against it, propped open with a few more books inside it. Near the door was a fireplace, decorated with stray papers already. A few frames holding images of butterflies were propped against the far wall. In the centre of the desk lay an open notebook, with a few graphite pencils, an ink pot and pen scattered next to it, and an unfinished drawing in the centre of the page. Florence curiously walked towards it, tilting her head.
“What’s this?” She asked as John closed the door, and he grimaced, moving to the other side of his desk to clear the items away.
“Just…umm…just drawing some weird dreams I’ve had recently,” he explained, and Florence glanced at him as she reached out to ask his permission to look at it. When he nodded, she turned the book around to face her, studying the two drawings there.
He had drawn a portrait of himself, but not as he was now. Instead, he stood wearing a long trench coat and a suit and tie underneath. His hair was somehow more dishevelled than it was now, and Florence smiled softly as she traced a finger over the drawn figure.
The next drawing on the page was of a tall box, with a lantern on top and the words ‘Police Box’ written across the top. It was drawn in such careful detail that Florence felt an intense amount of warmth towards it, despite having no idea what it was.
“These are beautiful,” she murmured, eyes still transfixed by the box.
“Just some…crazy dreams about a travelling lunatic with a blue box,” John replied, nervously fidgeting with his hands. “I’m going to take some lavender tea tonight, to hopefully have a dreamless night. I think the travelling must have caused my imagination to become overactive.” He rambled a bit, and Florence finally looked up to catch sight of his blush. She smiled kindly, and reached out to grab his hands, bringing his fidgeting to a halt.
“It’s an impressive imagination,” she reassured. He paused, eying her with some hesitation, before he recalled why she was now stood in his office.
Florence pulled her hands back as he spoke, “so, um…what was your question, Miss Reagan?”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the fob watch, fingers tracing over the top unconsciously even as she held it out to him. “Do you recognise this? I fear I have misplaced mine and picked up someone else’s on accident, but the only time mine wasn’t on my person this week was when we…fell into each other, and I’m not accusing you of taking it on purpose, but I have looked through all of my own belongings and this one is so similar to mine, but the carvings are different-“
“Yes,” John murmured, before he realised he’d spoken too softly. “Yes, that’s mine. Thank you so much for bringing it to me. That must mean this is yours,” he reached into a drawer in his desk and pulled out a very familiar fob watch, showing her the patterns on the cover. Something lifted off Florence’s chest as she reached out to take the watch, fingers gently brushing John’s palm, and she thought she could breathe easier with her fob watch back in her possession.
“Yes, that’s mine,” she murmured, passing John’s watch back with the same tenderness she held her own. “It’s crazy how much it means to me, given-“
They spoke together, “it doesn’t even work.”
Florence laughed, looking up from her watch to see John looking at his watch with the same care that she felt towards her own. He also looked up to her, and a blush coated his cheeks as he realised he’d been caught.
“That’s quite a coincidence, two fob watches that don’t work,” she laughed, and John joined in.
He found himself marvelling in her laughter, thrilling in how her blue eyes looked like oceans and how she laughed openly instead of hiding it like many young women seemed to do in their time period.
“I really must thank you, Mr Smith, for taking such care of this. It is really just a sentimental trinket more than anything else, but it is important to me.” She finally said, and John nodded, his brown eyes warm and inviting and his smile felt bright and friendly.
“It was the least I could do, for apparently swapping our watches and knocking you over in the first hour of morning,” John grinned, and a pang of longing for something she couldn’t identify hit her.
The door opened before she could analyse it, and Mr Smith immediately stood straighter, pocketing his watch and nodding courteously at the entrant. “Ah, Miss Jones, I believe you met Miss Reagan with me last week.” Florence recognised the woman who’d entered as the maid who had been with John last week. “Miss Reagan, I apologise for not introducing you both properly when we first met. This is Martha Jones, my maid.” Florence bowed her head to the woman, glad to finally know her name.
“A pleasure, Miss,” Martha said, doing a short curtsey. “Did you manage to find your watch once more, sir?” She asked the man, and John grinned.
“Yes, it was as I predicted! Miss Reagan and I merely traded watches for the week. I daresay we should do it more often, as it appears you have even polished mine!”
Florence smiled and replied, “well, I could hardly return it looking worse for wear.”
“Of course,” he smiled at her again, and Martha had to watch as both their cheeks started flushing the longer they looked at each other.
Feeling the urge to prevent something, Martha said suddenly, “Sir, don’t you have class in 5 minutes?”
John checked his wristwatch, and his eyes widened. “Oh dear, you are right. Miss Reagan, I am afraid I’ll have to leave you here. Will you be alright finding your way out of the building?”
Florence smiled and nodded. “Yes, I think my navigational skills haven’t completely deteriorated, despite my stay in the city,” she teased, and she saw the interest pique in his expression, even as he rushed around grabbing books and his mortarboard.
“M-m-maybe, next time, we could plan a meet up? ” He asked, “I-I’d love to hear more about how you enjoyed the city.”
Florence’s cheeks shone bright red, but she confidently said, “that would be really nice, I’d like that.”
John stood still for a moment, his face bright and earnest with a brilliant smile, just taking her in. After a moment, Martha cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows at him, and he jumped, making Florence and Martha chuckle together. “G-good! Right. I’ll see you. Soon.” He pulled his books closer to his chest and breathed deeply. “I have to run. Goodbye, Miss Reagan!”
Florence watched him scarper from the room, and she chuckled as he left, a fond smile on her face even as the door closed behind him.
Martha’s stomach coiled, and she knew she was jealous and had no right to be. But at the same time, she also knew that in 3 months time, John Smith wouldn’t exist anymore, and the Doctor would feel guilty for having led this poor woman on.
The poor woman who also owned a fob watch.