Archive of Our Own

Sarah Jane Smith was one of the best investigative reporters in the country. At 52, she could have been the editor of the newsdesk, but what good was that? She didn't love the words of her articles, she loved chasing down the truth. She'd uncovered the sordid scandals in Whitehall, thwarted the pension embezzlers in The City, used her power to frustrate the crime lords in Hackney, and tipped the bomb squad off to enough likely threats that they were on a first-name basis with her, now. She'd raked the muck and done her bit to provide justice and peace for her country.

But being out on the street meant she wasn't there to fight the knaves in the board room. At first she couldn't believe her ears. "You fired him? Because he wouldn't drop a good story?"

"I fired him because he wouldn't take direction," the publisher told her, when she'd stormed the corner office.

"You'd kill for that story if it wasn't about an investor. How do you expect any of us to do our jobs if you hobble us? Do you want reporters or yes-men?"

He looked patronizingly smug, in his conservative suit and his expensive haircut. "Don't you worry. You're our golden girl, your place is secure."

He was buying her off, she realized. Buying her off, holding out the carrot of her pension. It made her blood boil. "You've changed. You used to care about the truth, but you've changed, you've gotten older and more comfortable and more willing to pretend you were always like this. You've forgotten that not everyone sells out when they hit 30, or 40, or 50. To hell with you, and to hell with this newspaper. I quit!"

In a 15 minute flurry, she ran a small program on her computer, packed her tea mug and a few other personal things into a spare box, and gave away her potted plant. By the time she was done, Security was at her desk to escort her out of the building. The crowded, always-busy newsroom, slowed, hushed. Phones were put down, typing stopped. Her colleagues stood as she passed, silent witness to her leaving. It was one of the sweetest tributes she could imagine.

In the lobby, she handed her security badge and her keycard to Milton, the security guard who had been working at the paper back when she started. "Keep in touch," he said. "Take care of yourself."

She summoned a smile and patted his hand. She could still feel the rage, and the sadness, someplace inside her chest, but overlaying it was the profound conviction that she would manage without great difficulty. "It was time, that's all. I'll be fine."

Out in the street, she called her opposite number at the competition. Like spies for quarrelsome countries, they weren't supposed to be friendly with each other, but (like spies so often were), they'd become friends anyway. "Meet me for coffee, Tim. No, make time. And bring your recorder. I'm leaving journalism, and I've got a bunch of story leads for you. No, I'm not kidding. Just call it a goodbye present, okay?"

Three hours later, she hopped the Tube home. In a bit, she supposed, she'd call up her old old friends, maybe even Harry or Sergeant Benton, and they'd have some wine and she could storm about the hypocritical idiots taking over her paper, and then she could cry a bit about the end of a life she'd loved, and then she'd get on with figuring out what to do next. But for right now, she just wanted to be alone for a bit.

She petted K-9 and put her feet up. That was one thing, she could scrap the professional clothes. Tomorrow, she'd wear jeans. She never got around to picking up the phone, and was beginning to think about bed when the doorbell rang.

Rose Tyler, with a clenched jaw and a broken heart, stood on her doorstep.

Later, when they'd both got around a few glasses of wine, Rose sighed and said, "Now I'm back for good, I guess I need a job."

Sarah Jane said, "I guess I need one, too."

At the time, it was hilarious. It had been that sort of day.