Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who or its characters.
He shot up with a gasp, shaking his head like a wet animal to ward off the dizziness. One, two, three…ten fingers, he counted. Tossing off his shoes, he gave his wiggling toes the same treatment.
"Ten toes," he sighed in relief.
His hands reached his chest, feeling the beating rhythms of two hearts before patting his face. Yes, as handsome as ever. The check-up, of course, was not a regular occurrence but provided some much needed reassurance that his very soul had not just been wrested from his body. It was an odd sensation that persisted, creating an uneasy tension in his aching bones.
His last memory was submerged in murky waters. It started silently as he ruminated on his next course of action. Despite his long and eventful life, regardless of how he was loath to admit it to himself and others, he never found solace in the loneliness. Solitude was one thing. Loneliness was completely different. It was then the air changed. The TARDIS was ill at ease but unable to pinpoint the problem. Without warning, he fell forward, yet there was no collision. With his gangly legs, he raced away from the controls and swung open the doors. Then, his vision faded.
His eyes widened in disbelief as he examined his current lodgings and rose from the hammock. He felt around the walls and the floor frantically, crouching with his buttocks thrust in the air before letting out a groan, "Why wood?"
Taking out his sonic screwdriver, he glared at it in desolation. Fortunately, no one was there to observe this source of embarrassment. No one ever bowed down in praise of his staggering intellect or his ability to evade danger for centuries. Yet they made such a huge fuss at this one little flaw in his versatile contraption. The incredulous mirth on their faces never failed to deflate his ego. No one knew that he actually could not figure out how to update the device, and he would take that secret with him to the grave.
"Doctor!"
He swiveled his head at the voice and hastened outside, heedless of his surroundings. When someone called to him, he would always and irrevocably come. No matter what.
"Doctor!"
"Yes, Captain Eight?" A droning voice answered.
He froze. It seems I am not the only Doctor aboard. He looked up and down, marveling at the vast emptiness of space. A sickly green moon revolved beneath him. Millions upon millions stars twinkled before him as he gazed in awe on this two-masted schooner. There was nothing between him and the passing stars, yet this small ship creaked with every movement and every step, belying its old age.
"What sort of doohickey tech is this?" He whispered to himself.
Peering from behind yet another wooden wall, he spied a little girl and a rather tall, bald-headed man who he assumed to be the Doctor.
"How's the patient?" The girl asked with great authority.
The top of her head barely reached the man's bony, gaunt hips. She appeared quite peculiar with unruly, magenta hair. Her clothing was a vibrant array of colours with red-and-white stockings, ruby shoes, and a periwinkle dress. The man, on the other hand, wore a white lab coat that matched his pale, leathery skin. The two together were quite a contrast to behold.
"Last I checked, he was still dozing, Captain." The man hunched over in deference, resembling a crow poised on a branch.
"Ah, but sleeping no more." The girl's brown eyes directly caught the Doctor.
"Captain, I presume." He offered charming smile as he approached her.
"We were worried about you. What's your name?" She asked.
"Doctor."
"But this is Doctor, and we have no need for another." She gestured to the bald man.
"It's a name, not a profession," he found himself having to clarify yet again.
She furrowed her brow in thought before shrugging. Turning to the bald man, she declared, "All right. From now on, you'll be Surgeon."
"Yes, Captain," the man responded indifferently.
"What, may I ask, is your name?" The Doctor asked the little girl.
"You may address me by Captain Eight or Captain." She turned her nose up at him.
"Why Captain Eight?"
"Because I'm eight years old," she replied as if it were the most obvious answer.
"Right, I was wondering if you would be so kind as to locate my TARDIS."
"If you're talking about the blue box, we saw it swerve by a day ago. You took quite a tumble from it. You know, for a ship, it's a funny-looking thing. You should get a new one," she spoke cavalierly.
"A new one? A new one?" The Doctor spluttered before continuing, "Never mind, is there a way you could help me look for it?"
"Well, we're kind of on a mission to hunt down a pirate ship, the Poseidon's Plunder. Captain Half-Tooth stole our bounty and we're hot on his trail. We'll help you look later."
"Little lady, it's very important we find the blue box…"
"First of all," she interrupted, "it's Captain Eight, not 'little lady.' Secondly, this is my ship and I make the decisions. Savvy?" She put her hands on her hips as if she were chastising a schoolboy, and the Doctor was not used to being ordered around.
"Oh all right. I can see you will not be swayed. I know your type."
He recalled the personalities of some of his more obstinate companions. In the end, he relented that Captain outranked Doctor on a sailing ship. There was no shame in letting someone with expertise call the shots. There was no need to fear the unknown. After all, he supposed he owed her his allegiance for saving him, and he was at her mercy with nothing but a sonic screwdriver. Blasted wood!
Captain Eight nodded in victory before heading to the steering wheel. The surgeon slinked back to the cabin, casting a withering glance at the Doctor as if he smelled a lowly dung beetle. Perhaps the sooner Captain Eight completed her mission, the sooner he would retrieve his TARDIS. Still, he disliked the overwhelming sense of helplessness. The TARDIS was his livelihood, his purpose. It was like an extension of his body, a limb he depended upon. Wherever and whenever he went, he was home.
"Full speed ahead!" Captain Eight shouted, wresting him away from his thoughts.
The Doctor nearly fell as he was shoved aside. Sailors surfaced from below the ship to do as the captain commanded. They rushed to the paddles and navigated the vessel with skillful precision. What baffled the Doctor were their lolling tongues and wagging tails. All her sailors were dogs – four-legged, panting, furry canines! It certainly gave a whole new meaning to the term "seadogs," but he did not have time to muse before one of them dragged him away by his cuff.
"Oi! Just what do you think you're doing?" The Doctor cried out as the dog dragged him to a rickety stool. Robotic canines definitely come equipped with better manners.
Perhaps he was still on his TARDIS and having a vivid dream. But if that were true, where were the tap-dancing Oods that usually shook him out of his slumber? One thing was certain. Captain Eight was the only one who could assist him. For the time being, he was her companion. The Doctor leaned his head back, thinking that it was time he was the one to be taken for a ride.