Life is short, but the years are long, not while the evil days come naught.
- Robert A. Heinlein
Having put the TARDIS in the vortex, the Doctor settled into his armchair with a cup of tea, and a worn, dog eared copy of the Time Machine. He sighed, sipping his tea, and pondered how he felt about the whole sordid mess. A very long time ago, the Master had been the dearest of friends.
The Doctor had never really given up the secret hope that he might once again be such a friend, but his death had put the kibosh on that. It hurt less than expected, though the Doctor suspected that the grief and pain would hit in earnest soon. Right now though, the Doctor just felt tired.
Had the Master felt tired? Was that why he'd all but committed suicide on Skaro? One did not go to the Daleks and expect mercy. Abruptly the comforting white noise of the blues song playing disappeared, replaced by an earsplitting, hellspawn screech.
The Doctor winced, annoyance surging, and replaced the needle of the record player. Slow, mournful music spilled forth once more. Smiling just slightly, the Doctor sat down again, paging through the book. He'd gotten to the point where the time traveller saved one of the Eloi from drowning when the TARDIS screamed, projecting a bolt of white-hot agony down their bond.
Then things began to happen very fast. The TARDIS console let out a shower of sparks, and his teacup flipped up in the air, seemingly of its own accord. Then it shattered, and the Doctor's time senses went wild. Timelines proliferated, seemingly endless.
Jerking himself free of their grasp, the Doctor ran to stabilise the TARDIS. The TARDIS whining pitifully, the Doctor finally managed to get the TARDIS stable. Then he happened to glance up at the readout, and his blood went cold. Instead of displaying the word Gallifrey, and the projected date, it flashed between two screens: one warning of a critical timing malfunction, and the other alerting him of an emergency landing.
Huh. London, 2005. Not much in the way of dimensional technology. The TARDIS keened, bucking again, and suddenly the changes in the bond made sense. Going white as powder, the Doctor bolted for the shrine room as fast as his legs would carry him. Only to freeze in the doorway, terror turning his blood to ice water.
The Gallifreyan stasis casket was shattered, grey slime dripping from the pieces. A slime trail led away from the ruined stasis casket, towards the console room. No doubt whatever was left of the Master was trying to take control of the TARDIS telepathic circuits.
In a matter of seconds, the Doctor had already calculated and laid to rest several courses of action. Only one remained. The TARDIS had landed. He could go out and try to find the necessary supplies to fix the TARDIS. Or he could wait for the Master to kill him. After Ace, goodness knew he deserved it.
Then the TARDIS screamed again, and the Doctor knew that he couldn't leave the old girl in his enemy's hands. He patted the console, and left so quickly he didn't even bother to look at the readout, or the timelines. That was the last mistake this version of the Doctor would ever make.
The Doctor got two steps out the door before three bullets drilled into his shoulder and above his right heart. He fell against the TARDIS, and a wave of pain knocked him down and out for a few seconds. When the Doctor came to, he could hear soft footsteps. That was when she found him.
Rose Marion Tyler was having a distinctly rotten day. She detested her job at Finches, the local butcher's shop, with all the passion she could muster. Which, admittedly wasn't much tonight. Rose was exhausted, and she missed her job at Henrik's. Even if her job at Finches paid well enough to allow her to get a flat of her own, it just wasn't the same.
Why did Henrik's have to get blown up? A cold wind whipped around her, digging icy fingers into the flimsy fabric of her uniform. Rose hunched her shoulders miserably, and walked faster. Rose started to pass by an alley, and stopped.
A pained noise wafted towards her, Rose froze in her tracks. Fear and indecision wrapped around her in paralysing ribbons. Should she check it out? It could be a trap. Then some unknown altruistic impulse gripped her, and she took a few steps into the alley.
Once she was into the alley, it was surprisingly well lit, both by the light of the moon, and the city lights. Strangely enough, a blue police box stood at the end of the alley. Propped against the bottom of the police box, a man half-sat, half-lay. Blood was already soaking through his tan coat, and dripping in sticky lines to pool around him.
But his colourless grey eyes were clear and sad as he looked at her. He was an older man, with dark, flyaway hair, and looked like his smile could light up a room.
Slowly, Rose walked over to him, and crouched down in front of him, already dialling emergency services. "Hello, yes, I would like to report a gunshot victim?" Rose quickly rattled off the street and cross street as requested, then hung up.
She turned her attention to the injured man in front of her. He was also watching her. Rose had heard that the best way to keep gunshot victims alive was to keep them talking. Otherwise shock would set in. "I'm Rose. What's your name?"
The man tried to smile, and failed miserably. "I'm the Doctor."
Kind of an odd name, Rose thought. But she didn't say so. Didn't want to upset him. "Got any plans?"
The Doctor laughed, which turned into a wracking cough, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. "Perhaps not dying?"
His hand fumbled, caught hers. It was cool, colder than it should be, and Rose wondered with a pang just how much blood he'd lost. A squeal of tires, and headlights flashing, the ambulance pulled into the alley.
Much later, after they'd loaded the Doctor into the ambulance, and promised to call Rose with any news, Rose walked home. She never noticed the string of ooze crawling into the exhaust pipe of the ambulance. Rose never realised just how much her life was about to change.