New fic: Five And A Half Hours Later
Title: Five and a half hours later
Pairing: Nine/Rose
Rating: Adult
Content: Adventure; Romance; Graphic Sex; Angst; Ten
Disclaimer: BBC owned as usual
Chapters: 1/9
Summary: At the end of 'Five and a half hours' the Doctor came back through the fireplace. If it was Nine, this is what happened next.
Authors Note: Thanks to nina_ds and prchung for support, I appreciate it.
Chapter 12: Consequences
Five and a half hours later, it was a completely different story.
Five and a half hours later, he was left wondering exactly what he’d done.
Back from death and regeneration, back through time, back through the fireplace, back to the arms of the salvation he hadn’t earned and couldn’t bear to be without, he strode across the room, his eyes fixed on Rose, half turned away from him and rubbing her hand convulsively. He refused to think about what he might have sacrificed to be there. He refused to think about what might happen as a result. None of it mattered. Speech was meaningless. Words and explanations and complicated theories involving temporal mechanics paled into insignificance beside the sheer physical reality of being actually here, walking towards her, with a second chance.
With both hands he clutched her shoulders, span her to face him and pressed the precious, familiar softness of her body into his. In many ways, he knew her better than he knew himself. The curve of her breasts, crushed against his chest, the swell of her thighs, the yielding heat when she parted them, the sweetness in between. The look on her face when she came. All of her he knew, he remembered. Now he had enough time to start remembering all over again.
He kissed her. He dropped his mouth to hers urgently, revelling in the silk wrapped smoothness of her lips, inhaling the scent of her skin like some life giving elixir, feeling her breathe. He kissed her. He opened his mouth, took her in his arms and he kissed her, like there was no tomorrow, and no yesterday, and nothing and nowhere else but now. Gentle at first, just a subtle glancing motion that probed the closed arch of her lips, a sliding mouth to mouth caress promising hotter and harder kisses later. He held her, and he kissed her, and he knew he had come home.
After only a second or two, a minute, or an eternity, he relaxed, watched her eyes flicker open sleepily and whispered directly against her mouth: ‘How long did you wait?’
A throat cleared itself behind him, overly noisy and a bit annoyed. ‘Five and a half hours,’ said Mickey, quite clearly. ‘And where the hell have you been?’
He released his grip on her slowly, slowly, searching her face for some hint of awareness, some fragmentary response that might indicate she remembered the five and a half hours that were beaten permanently into his thoughts. Five and a half hours of falling in love, five and a half hours of knowing it couldn’t last and hoping for a bit more time, five and a half hours of telling her he loved her as often as he could, just in case each time was the last chance he had to say it.
He straightened away from the confusion swimming up from the depths of her gaze, from the slight frown gathering between her eyebrows. ‘Where do you think I’ve been?’ he asked, ignoring the unexplained presence of Mickey behind him.
‘France,’ came her slightly delayed response - delayed by the exact time it took her to take a step backwards out of his embrace.
And he realised, finally, that he’d made a mistake. Probably more than one. Three in fact, not that he was counting. Life didn’t have a rewind button. He wasn’t going to get a chance to go back and pick up where they’d left off. She didn’t remember.
He’d promised to look after her, to be there wherever, whenever, however she needed him, and that was right at the top of the list under the heading Mistake Number One. Mistake Number Two was emergency programme one and specifically, its lack of an off switch. Because once he’d turned it on, it just kept running and running and eventually, it ran away with him. If Rose or the TARDIS ever needed saving, the programme was set up to reverse, and bring her back to him and he’d known from the minute she woke up with that interesting new haircut that it was still running and that he was slap bang in the middle of an alternate timeline. Which brought him neatly to Mistake Number Three.
In the way of these things, third time was most definitely not lucky, in a sort of trip over a black cat whilst walking under a ladder and smash that mirror you were carrying type of way. Instead of going straight back and re-establishing the dominant timeline, he’d behaved like he was in the middle of a steamy romantic novel, the sort of dizzy teenage fiction where the eyes of two star crossed characters meet across a crowded room and the words ‘love at first sight’ are unavoidable. He’d spent another hour, and then another, and then an afternoon and an evening and a whole day and then a week with Rose and still he’d hoped for more time. The unhappy ending was inevitable. He wasn’t meant to be there, holding her hand, waking up in bed with her, falling a little bit more in love with every stolen minute that passed. Making Mistake Number Three.
For the sake of a forlorn hope, and a bit more time, he’d put himself first, had deliberately chosen to risk destroying the universe rather than saving it for a change. He’d done a Bad thing. With Bad things came Consequences. He was working his way through the alphabet in capitalised letters. He’d gambled everything for the sake of the woman he loved. For the sake of a woman who didn’t remember that he loved her. It was another mistake, and it was going to stay a mistake whether she ever remembered that she loved him back or not. Now, he’d have to sit and wait for the consequences to unravel around him. The thought made his teeth itch. And his stomach churn with guilt, and his head ache with responsibility, and his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth as he wondered what he’d have to do to make it right.
He realised, belatedly, that the woman he loved who didn’t know that he loved her (a less snappy title than ‘Rose’ but one that he was going to have to get used to) was standing there, staring at him as if he’d lost his mind. Which wasn’t too far from the truth.
She took another step back, scratching her ring finger, clearly waiting for him to remember the concept of language. ‘I said - are you alright?’ She overemphasised each word, as if she thought the trip to France had rendered him incapable of understanding English.
‘Alright? Of course I’m alright. I’m always alright. What possible reason could there be for me not to be alright?’ He was most definitely not alright.
She didn’t look very alright either. He glanced at Mickey, who appeared to be making up a trio of non-alright-ness, casting extremely wary stares in Rose’s direction, and outright suspicious glares at him.
‘So, what took you so long?’ she asked, with suspicion appearing to be the order of the day among every human in the room. She had the potential for shouting written all over in her in great big invisible letters. She took another step back, and her chin raised, even as she folded her arms.
Mickey appeared to be sidling away from her without actually moving.
He groped after an answer, and saw that there were other memories now in his head that hadn’t been there before. Memories that had nothing to do with carnivals in Barcelona and bus stops in Sheffield, but contained slightly different versions of Christmas, and New Earth, and werewolves and dinner ladies and fireplaces. He remembered living through all those things, only with much more attractive hair and shiny new teeth. It was like playing lucky dip with the contents of someone else’s brain - facts and images coming up randomly, disconnected.
He tried to work out what he was supposed to have been doing, according to the chain of events tangled in Rose’s mind. He was not supposed to have been flying away, leaving her and his heart behind, leaving - and doing the hardest thing he’d ever done. He was supposed to have been in...’France,’ he murmured. ‘I was in France, in a bedroom. There was a woman. Beautiful.’ He surprised himself with the revelation. A thought occurred. ‘She read my mind.’ That was unexpected. ‘I kissed her.’ That was something of a shock. Quite a lot of a shock actually.
The resulting shock-wave caused both Mickey and his ex-girlfriend to take a step backwards, although Mickey continued edging towards the safety of the TARDIS as silently as if he’d been taking lessons in sneaking away.
‘So you left me behind for nearly six hours to go off French kissing?’ The tone in Rose’s voice made him wonder if Mickey might not be such an idiot after all.
He wished both that he’d kept his mouth shut, and that his erstwhile next incarnation had kept his mouth shut too. He shrugged helplessly. ‘It was only a kiss.’
She nodded to herself. ‘Only a kiss.’ She nodded again, and took another step backwards, not even noticing Mickey ghosting out of her way as she reached the open door of the TARDIS. ‘Only a kiss,’ she muttered again, disappearing inside.
He was left staring at Rose’s other ex-boyfriend, and wondering exactly what he’d done.
Rose Tyler sat on her bed. She’d been doing a lot of sitting on her bed over the last couple of weeks, lots and lots of sitting, and thinking. This time, there wasn’t so much thinking going on as recalling what it felt like to be kissed. She’d been kissed before of course, but never by a nine hundred year old alien who had obviously put the last nine hundred years to good use on the kissing front. The Doctor had kissed her. Just strolled on up and kissed her squarely on the lips with the sort of first kiss that she doubted she’d ever forget, the sort of first kiss that was nothing like a first kiss, not tentative, or sweet or hurried, but a thorough, self assured masterclass in kissing that would have made her legs tremble if she hadn’t been so annoyed. He had also kissed that French….woman. And then he’d brushed off both of them as ‘only a kiss’. But it wasn’t only a kiss at all. It was just the latest in a long line of very odd behaviour that had caused her to sit and think quite hard to try to make sense of it all.
She’d pinpointed the start of it to that time she’d rescued him from the Daleks. Her memory was a bit blurry but she distinctly recollected him telling her to let go of the power and then bending towards her before she blacked out. When she had woken up, she’d been lying on the floor of the TARDIS and they’d already landed near her mother’s house. The problem started there. He’d clearly been annoyed with her for smashing the TARDIS open in the first place, because she didn’t remember seeing a lot of him over Christmas, until he’d forgotten to be in a temper and turned up to defeat the Sycorax.
Then they’d gone to New Earth and there had been that whole body swapping exercise with Cassandra where they had - technically - kissed, but seeing as how she’d been possessed at the time, it hardly counted. He was still the same person, he still wore the same coat and the same range of dull coloured jumpers and he still cut his hair short and shouted too much. But he didn’t seem to look at her in the same way. He didn’t seem to be watching every time she turned around and he was treating her more like a friend and less like a…something else. Then came the adventure with the werewolf, and after that she’d realised that she wasn’t special. She’d met Sarah Jane, and she’d understood finally that he had a past and a future that would never include her, and that he was quite happy about it. He’d even said he wasn’t going to stay around long enough to watch her get old, and then he’d proved it by disappearing off to France with no way back.
She scratched her finger. She couldn’t understand why she felt so betrayed. She didn’t have any sort of hold over him, and she couldn’t claim not to have known exactly what she was getting herself into when he’d asked her to come with him that first time. He was the same person he’d been since the word ‘Run’, it was just that she knew him a little bit better and maybe trusted him a little bit less. He had seemed so different in the beginning, just the sort of mysterious Prince Charming you’d want to appear and sweep you off your feet. He’d kept all his promises, he’d shown her the universe and he’d kept her safe but somehow, lately, she found herself wanting more. The longer she stayed with him the more fallible he became, more prone to making mistakes, more human somehow.
Once, he’d had the power to make her heart flutter just by glancing in her direction. Once he’d hesitated between saving her and saving the world, but now things were complicated. He’d left her, if not for the first time, then for the longest time, and she was nearly sure that when he’d gone to France he’d had no intention of ever coming back. And that hurt. That stung, like antiseptic in a wound, a persistent scab she kept picking off, reopening the pain just to see if it had healed yet and finding it still fresh and sore. He’d left her behind. He might do it again for the next beautiful woman who came along and offered him ‘only a kiss’.
She needed to know exactly what that meant. She wanted to know exactly how he felt. She found herself halfway down the corridor to his room without any conscious memory of how she’d got there, and no conscious memory at all of just how she knew which door to open. She was certain she’d never been to his room before. She didn’t knock.
He was sitting on his bed. It was a huge bed, with a couple of rumpled white sheets and the odd pillow and it didn’t look like he used it very much. The single bedside table was groaning with half assembled machinery and the floor around it bore the evidence of a hundred lonely nights in the form of nuts and bolts and spare parts. He stared up at her from across the room with a sort of anxious hope in his blue eyes and a hint of something else that she thought she half recognised for a split second. He didn’t question her right to be in his room. In fact, he shifted his legs closer together, almost as if he was making space for her to sit beside him.
‘Who you kiss has nothing to do with me,’ she started firmly, ignoring the way his gaze dropped, focusing on the little gold circle he was playing with in his fingers. ‘It’s not like we’re married or anything.’ He put whatever it was he had away in his pocket. ‘Just tell me this - when you left, were you ever coming back?’
He didn’t answer. She tried again.
‘Alright - are you sorry you came back?’ It was an effort to drag the words out of her mouth.
He didn’t answer that either, not directly. ‘It was only a kiss,’ he repeated, not looking up and she wasn’t sure if he was referring to kissing her, or kissing his mademoiselle in distress.
And because he’d been gone for five and a half hours and she’d missed him so much she thought she was dying, and because she wanted him to look at her like he used to, as if she was the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen, she took a very deep breath. And because she wanted to belong in this room and she wanted him to love her, as much as she still loved him she shouted, at the very limit of her lungs, before running away as fast as she could: ‘There’s no such thing as only a kiss.’
Five and a half hours Chapters 1-10: http://sap1066.livejournal.com/11963.html
Chapter 11: Technical Note: http://sap1066.livejournal.com/14703.html
Pairing: Nine/Rose
Rating: Adult
Content: Adventure; Romance; Graphic Sex; Angst; Ten
Disclaimer: BBC owned as usual
Chapters: 1/9
Summary: At the end of 'Five and a half hours' the Doctor came back through the fireplace. If it was Nine, this is what happened next.
Authors Note: Thanks to nina_ds and prchung for support, I appreciate it.
Chapter 12: Consequences
Five and a half hours later, it was a completely different story.
Five and a half hours later, he was left wondering exactly what he’d done.
Back from death and regeneration, back through time, back through the fireplace, back to the arms of the salvation he hadn’t earned and couldn’t bear to be without, he strode across the room, his eyes fixed on Rose, half turned away from him and rubbing her hand convulsively. He refused to think about what he might have sacrificed to be there. He refused to think about what might happen as a result. None of it mattered. Speech was meaningless. Words and explanations and complicated theories involving temporal mechanics paled into insignificance beside the sheer physical reality of being actually here, walking towards her, with a second chance.
With both hands he clutched her shoulders, span her to face him and pressed the precious, familiar softness of her body into his. In many ways, he knew her better than he knew himself. The curve of her breasts, crushed against his chest, the swell of her thighs, the yielding heat when she parted them, the sweetness in between. The look on her face when she came. All of her he knew, he remembered. Now he had enough time to start remembering all over again.
He kissed her. He dropped his mouth to hers urgently, revelling in the silk wrapped smoothness of her lips, inhaling the scent of her skin like some life giving elixir, feeling her breathe. He kissed her. He opened his mouth, took her in his arms and he kissed her, like there was no tomorrow, and no yesterday, and nothing and nowhere else but now. Gentle at first, just a subtle glancing motion that probed the closed arch of her lips, a sliding mouth to mouth caress promising hotter and harder kisses later. He held her, and he kissed her, and he knew he had come home.
After only a second or two, a minute, or an eternity, he relaxed, watched her eyes flicker open sleepily and whispered directly against her mouth: ‘How long did you wait?’
A throat cleared itself behind him, overly noisy and a bit annoyed. ‘Five and a half hours,’ said Mickey, quite clearly. ‘And where the hell have you been?’
He released his grip on her slowly, slowly, searching her face for some hint of awareness, some fragmentary response that might indicate she remembered the five and a half hours that were beaten permanently into his thoughts. Five and a half hours of falling in love, five and a half hours of knowing it couldn’t last and hoping for a bit more time, five and a half hours of telling her he loved her as often as he could, just in case each time was the last chance he had to say it.
He straightened away from the confusion swimming up from the depths of her gaze, from the slight frown gathering between her eyebrows. ‘Where do you think I’ve been?’ he asked, ignoring the unexplained presence of Mickey behind him.
‘France,’ came her slightly delayed response - delayed by the exact time it took her to take a step backwards out of his embrace.
And he realised, finally, that he’d made a mistake. Probably more than one. Three in fact, not that he was counting. Life didn’t have a rewind button. He wasn’t going to get a chance to go back and pick up where they’d left off. She didn’t remember.
He’d promised to look after her, to be there wherever, whenever, however she needed him, and that was right at the top of the list under the heading Mistake Number One. Mistake Number Two was emergency programme one and specifically, its lack of an off switch. Because once he’d turned it on, it just kept running and running and eventually, it ran away with him. If Rose or the TARDIS ever needed saving, the programme was set up to reverse, and bring her back to him and he’d known from the minute she woke up with that interesting new haircut that it was still running and that he was slap bang in the middle of an alternate timeline. Which brought him neatly to Mistake Number Three.
In the way of these things, third time was most definitely not lucky, in a sort of trip over a black cat whilst walking under a ladder and smash that mirror you were carrying type of way. Instead of going straight back and re-establishing the dominant timeline, he’d behaved like he was in the middle of a steamy romantic novel, the sort of dizzy teenage fiction where the eyes of two star crossed characters meet across a crowded room and the words ‘love at first sight’ are unavoidable. He’d spent another hour, and then another, and then an afternoon and an evening and a whole day and then a week with Rose and still he’d hoped for more time. The unhappy ending was inevitable. He wasn’t meant to be there, holding her hand, waking up in bed with her, falling a little bit more in love with every stolen minute that passed. Making Mistake Number Three.
For the sake of a forlorn hope, and a bit more time, he’d put himself first, had deliberately chosen to risk destroying the universe rather than saving it for a change. He’d done a Bad thing. With Bad things came Consequences. He was working his way through the alphabet in capitalised letters. He’d gambled everything for the sake of the woman he loved. For the sake of a woman who didn’t remember that he loved her. It was another mistake, and it was going to stay a mistake whether she ever remembered that she loved him back or not. Now, he’d have to sit and wait for the consequences to unravel around him. The thought made his teeth itch. And his stomach churn with guilt, and his head ache with responsibility, and his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth as he wondered what he’d have to do to make it right.
He realised, belatedly, that the woman he loved who didn’t know that he loved her (a less snappy title than ‘Rose’ but one that he was going to have to get used to) was standing there, staring at him as if he’d lost his mind. Which wasn’t too far from the truth.
She took another step back, scratching her ring finger, clearly waiting for him to remember the concept of language. ‘I said - are you alright?’ She overemphasised each word, as if she thought the trip to France had rendered him incapable of understanding English.
‘Alright? Of course I’m alright. I’m always alright. What possible reason could there be for me not to be alright?’ He was most definitely not alright.
She didn’t look very alright either. He glanced at Mickey, who appeared to be making up a trio of non-alright-ness, casting extremely wary stares in Rose’s direction, and outright suspicious glares at him.
‘So, what took you so long?’ she asked, with suspicion appearing to be the order of the day among every human in the room. She had the potential for shouting written all over in her in great big invisible letters. She took another step back, and her chin raised, even as she folded her arms.
Mickey appeared to be sidling away from her without actually moving.
He groped after an answer, and saw that there were other memories now in his head that hadn’t been there before. Memories that had nothing to do with carnivals in Barcelona and bus stops in Sheffield, but contained slightly different versions of Christmas, and New Earth, and werewolves and dinner ladies and fireplaces. He remembered living through all those things, only with much more attractive hair and shiny new teeth. It was like playing lucky dip with the contents of someone else’s brain - facts and images coming up randomly, disconnected.
He tried to work out what he was supposed to have been doing, according to the chain of events tangled in Rose’s mind. He was not supposed to have been flying away, leaving her and his heart behind, leaving - and doing the hardest thing he’d ever done. He was supposed to have been in...’France,’ he murmured. ‘I was in France, in a bedroom. There was a woman. Beautiful.’ He surprised himself with the revelation. A thought occurred. ‘She read my mind.’ That was unexpected. ‘I kissed her.’ That was something of a shock. Quite a lot of a shock actually.
The resulting shock-wave caused both Mickey and his ex-girlfriend to take a step backwards, although Mickey continued edging towards the safety of the TARDIS as silently as if he’d been taking lessons in sneaking away.
‘So you left me behind for nearly six hours to go off French kissing?’ The tone in Rose’s voice made him wonder if Mickey might not be such an idiot after all.
He wished both that he’d kept his mouth shut, and that his erstwhile next incarnation had kept his mouth shut too. He shrugged helplessly. ‘It was only a kiss.’
She nodded to herself. ‘Only a kiss.’ She nodded again, and took another step backwards, not even noticing Mickey ghosting out of her way as she reached the open door of the TARDIS. ‘Only a kiss,’ she muttered again, disappearing inside.
He was left staring at Rose’s other ex-boyfriend, and wondering exactly what he’d done.
Rose Tyler sat on her bed. She’d been doing a lot of sitting on her bed over the last couple of weeks, lots and lots of sitting, and thinking. This time, there wasn’t so much thinking going on as recalling what it felt like to be kissed. She’d been kissed before of course, but never by a nine hundred year old alien who had obviously put the last nine hundred years to good use on the kissing front. The Doctor had kissed her. Just strolled on up and kissed her squarely on the lips with the sort of first kiss that she doubted she’d ever forget, the sort of first kiss that was nothing like a first kiss, not tentative, or sweet or hurried, but a thorough, self assured masterclass in kissing that would have made her legs tremble if she hadn’t been so annoyed. He had also kissed that French….woman. And then he’d brushed off both of them as ‘only a kiss’. But it wasn’t only a kiss at all. It was just the latest in a long line of very odd behaviour that had caused her to sit and think quite hard to try to make sense of it all.
She’d pinpointed the start of it to that time she’d rescued him from the Daleks. Her memory was a bit blurry but she distinctly recollected him telling her to let go of the power and then bending towards her before she blacked out. When she had woken up, she’d been lying on the floor of the TARDIS and they’d already landed near her mother’s house. The problem started there. He’d clearly been annoyed with her for smashing the TARDIS open in the first place, because she didn’t remember seeing a lot of him over Christmas, until he’d forgotten to be in a temper and turned up to defeat the Sycorax.
Then they’d gone to New Earth and there had been that whole body swapping exercise with Cassandra where they had - technically - kissed, but seeing as how she’d been possessed at the time, it hardly counted. He was still the same person, he still wore the same coat and the same range of dull coloured jumpers and he still cut his hair short and shouted too much. But he didn’t seem to look at her in the same way. He didn’t seem to be watching every time she turned around and he was treating her more like a friend and less like a…something else. Then came the adventure with the werewolf, and after that she’d realised that she wasn’t special. She’d met Sarah Jane, and she’d understood finally that he had a past and a future that would never include her, and that he was quite happy about it. He’d even said he wasn’t going to stay around long enough to watch her get old, and then he’d proved it by disappearing off to France with no way back.
She scratched her finger. She couldn’t understand why she felt so betrayed. She didn’t have any sort of hold over him, and she couldn’t claim not to have known exactly what she was getting herself into when he’d asked her to come with him that first time. He was the same person he’d been since the word ‘Run’, it was just that she knew him a little bit better and maybe trusted him a little bit less. He had seemed so different in the beginning, just the sort of mysterious Prince Charming you’d want to appear and sweep you off your feet. He’d kept all his promises, he’d shown her the universe and he’d kept her safe but somehow, lately, she found herself wanting more. The longer she stayed with him the more fallible he became, more prone to making mistakes, more human somehow.
Once, he’d had the power to make her heart flutter just by glancing in her direction. Once he’d hesitated between saving her and saving the world, but now things were complicated. He’d left her, if not for the first time, then for the longest time, and she was nearly sure that when he’d gone to France he’d had no intention of ever coming back. And that hurt. That stung, like antiseptic in a wound, a persistent scab she kept picking off, reopening the pain just to see if it had healed yet and finding it still fresh and sore. He’d left her behind. He might do it again for the next beautiful woman who came along and offered him ‘only a kiss’.
She needed to know exactly what that meant. She wanted to know exactly how he felt. She found herself halfway down the corridor to his room without any conscious memory of how she’d got there, and no conscious memory at all of just how she knew which door to open. She was certain she’d never been to his room before. She didn’t knock.
He was sitting on his bed. It was a huge bed, with a couple of rumpled white sheets and the odd pillow and it didn’t look like he used it very much. The single bedside table was groaning with half assembled machinery and the floor around it bore the evidence of a hundred lonely nights in the form of nuts and bolts and spare parts. He stared up at her from across the room with a sort of anxious hope in his blue eyes and a hint of something else that she thought she half recognised for a split second. He didn’t question her right to be in his room. In fact, he shifted his legs closer together, almost as if he was making space for her to sit beside him.
‘Who you kiss has nothing to do with me,’ she started firmly, ignoring the way his gaze dropped, focusing on the little gold circle he was playing with in his fingers. ‘It’s not like we’re married or anything.’ He put whatever it was he had away in his pocket. ‘Just tell me this - when you left, were you ever coming back?’
He didn’t answer. She tried again.
‘Alright - are you sorry you came back?’ It was an effort to drag the words out of her mouth.
He didn’t answer that either, not directly. ‘It was only a kiss,’ he repeated, not looking up and she wasn’t sure if he was referring to kissing her, or kissing his mademoiselle in distress.
And because he’d been gone for five and a half hours and she’d missed him so much she thought she was dying, and because she wanted him to look at her like he used to, as if she was the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen, she took a very deep breath. And because she wanted to belong in this room and she wanted him to love her, as much as she still loved him she shouted, at the very limit of her lungs, before running away as fast as she could: ‘There’s no such thing as only a kiss.’
Five and a half hours Chapters 1-10: http://sap1066.livejournal.com/11963.html
Chapter 11: Technical Note: http://sap1066.livejournal.com/14703.html