Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who.


The man wore a green hooded robe that, at a casual glance, could be mistaken for a raincoat. He was leaning against the far wall of the train-station, his arms folded in the baggy sleeves and his face concealed in the shadows of the hood. Only his mouth, grey stubbled chin and creased cheeks were exposed. The Doctor watched him from the platform on other side of the tracks.

Around them both the station was churning. A torrent of people flowed towards the big steam-train, ready to board, and others lined up at ticket booths or wandered around the shops on the concourse. The air was saturated by the buzz of the crowd.

Beside the Doctor an auburn haired woman was squinting over the tracks at the tides of people on the opposite platform.

"No, I still don't see him," she said.

"Next to the booth, against the wall, on the far right," the Doctor said.

"Can't you just point to him?"

"I don't want him to know we've spotted him."

"Next to the booth?"

"Yes."

"Which booth?"

"The one on the far right."

"How far right?"

"Thirty meters or so."

"Uh huh."

"You see him?"

"Sure don't."

"In the green robe."

She turned away to look at him. "You do realise there are hundreds of people here. And about a fifth of them are wearing green?"

"Yes."

"Don't you think maybe you're just being-"

"No."

She peered out over the tracks again. "Well then, are we going to stand here playing where's Wally for another fifteen minutes? Or shall we go say hi?"

The Doctor looked over to the platform. The man in green was gone. He wanted me to see him, the Doctor thought. He's playing with us. But he'll be back. He shows up at the café, then the park, the street, the pub and now the station. Wherever we go he follows. No. That isn't right. Not follows. He is always already there. Waiting for us. He won't be back. But he will be ahead.

"Well?" she asked.

The Doctor looked up from his thoughts. "No," he said.

"No?"

He nodded.

"Right," she said. "Brilliant. Another triumph for communication."

"He's gone now," he said. "But that's fine. I want him to come say hi to us."

"And if he doesn't?"

"He will."

"How do you know?"

"He's been tracking us since we arrived."

"Says you."

"And he isn't armed. Which means he's interested, but not hostile."

"You're never armed, and you can be pretty damn hostile."

A smile twitched briefly on the corner of his mouth. She saw it and beamed at him.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go make ourselves a bit more approachable."

They sauntered up the staircase and towards the entrance. On the way through the concourse, the Doctor stopped by a market vendor and gazed at the brands of cigarettes.

"No," She said. He gave a deep, gravelled sigh. She took his arm and led him away from the vendor. "Don't you growl at me."

"You wouldn't have believed some of my older habits," he said as they walked. "Some of the things I used to eat."

"Eating is fine. People need to eat. Smoking kills and serves no other purpose."

"Have you tried it?"

"Of course not."

"Then how do you know it serves no other purpose?" he asked.

"Okay then, I have tried it and that's how I know," she said.

"So you're a hypocrite?"

"Yes."

Something green and long flickered in the corner of the Doctor's eye. He glanced and caught a green-clad back disappearing around a corner. He looked down and saw that she was gazing up at him curiously.

"How about a drink?" the Doctor said.

"Now there's a habit I can endorse," she said.

"It's not my fault you know."

"What's that?"

"The smoking. It's these lungs, I never used to crave cigarettes."

"And I never used to fight cybermen, but I can hardly blame my arms for that."

"Well no, but your arms don't crave such things."

"I blame you."

"Lovely."

"Aren't I though?"

"Of course."

They were both smiling now, walking with their arms entwined. Him, in the black trench coat, the open-collared shirt, the loose tie hanging from his throat and the solid boots; like some sort of throwback detective. And her, in jeans and the red cardigan with the sleeves rolled up.