1. In which the Doctor runs out of tea (or: Prologue)
VWORP. VWORP. VWORP. VWORP.
Battered leather jacket flung over the seat beside him, the Doctor leaned back in his chair, savoring the best sound in the world—and a cup of apple tea.
Heretofore he'd been strictly an Earl Grey sort of man, but this afternoon (if it was still afternoon) he'd gone into the kitchen—well, a kitchen, as the TARDIS had eight—and found himself suddenly out of Earl Grey. A mildly frantic rummage through the seven other kitchens had proved equally unsuccessful save for a small, dingy box of apple tea on the bottom shelf of one or other of the pantries the Doctor had devastated in his search. Despite the pitiful state of the package, and the fact that the Doctor could not for the life of him figure out which of his companions had been an apple tea drinker, the teabags themselves had smelled sweet and fresh: the result of the curious preservative effect of time travel on the food one time-traveled with.
It certainly was an occasion for a good cup of tea. The last month had been rather eventful. Just hours earlier, the Doctor had saved a family from perishing aboard the Titanic by enabling the father to find work in Southampton and remain in England. Almost disappointingly low-tech, that was. Still, he'd only even glimpsed his new face a few weeks ago, while confronting the Nestene Consciousness about its most recent attack on Earth: Deprived of its food planets by the last, great Time War, the Consciousness had attempted to infiltrate Earth via shop-window dummies.
The Time War. The Doctor sighed, scrubbing a hand through his cropped hair. His head throbbed—not with the presence of other Time Lords, any longer, but with the effort he made to suppress his memories of the war. Despite his efforts, his mind presented him with bits and pieces: screaming, and the horrible grating sound that passed for laughter among Daleks. Dismembered TARDISes. His first glimpse of the Nightmare Child. Legion upon legion of Daleks. Fires, so many fires. The dead, scattered on the ground like so many leaves in autumn. The final explosion—the searing pain of regeneration—
And then, falling to Earth in the TARDIS like a meteor. His first encounters with people in his new body: a frightened passer-by, the kind elderly lady at the Oxfam he'd stumbled into, still clad in a waistcoat and frilly cravat. (It was here that he'd found the leather jacket of which he'd since become fond, initially purchased as a cover for his somewhat attention-grabbing Victorian garb.)
Nor had all of his endeavors since his regeneration been successful. Just days ago, he'd prevented an inhabitant of the planet Khorno, incredibly well-versed in human history, from assassinating U.S. President Kennedy in a misguided attempt to create a stable time loop. Unfortunately, Lyarvyozold's murderous ambition had been fulfilled by his human near-namesake.
Despite his extended exposure to Earth recently, the Doctor hadn't taken on any new companions. Sometimes, given his newly bitter, cynical nature, this was just fine with him. But at other times, he couldn't help but concede it was a shame. After all, companions weren't just a source of conversation—they tended to be extremely helpful, he reminded himself dryly. If not for Ace, he wouldn't have had a small stockpile of bombs to choose from when he'd blown up a department store (not for fun, but in the process of battling the Nestene Consciousness). If not for Rose Tyler, a young woman he'd met in that same store, he'd be dead now.
He just wished she'd accepted his offer of companionship, that was all.
The Doctor's hand hovered briefly over the cream and sugar before he reminded himself that this wasn't his Earl Grey, but a new tea, one he'd never tasted before, and he ought to give it a chance first: as if it was some species of dangerous alien, not an innocent fruit tea. The Doctor poked a tentative finger into the cup he held in his other hand. Satisfied with the temperature, he lifted the faintly-steaming cup to his lips and drank.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that inhaling one's food or drink is never a good idea, however often one tries it. Wheezing, the Doctor nearly dropped his teacup as he doubled over.
The apple tea, as the Doctor had realized long before he'd stopped coughing sufficiently to articulate the thought, was all wrong. It was much, much too sweet for his taste (although it did actually taste like apples). He might as well have heated up some apple cider, and drunk that, he thought, disappointed. Bugger. He was just going to have to run out and purchase tea.
Leaping from his seat, the Doctor consulted the scanner before setting his course for a Sainsbury's in London. He opened a drawer in the TARDIS's console, found a thick green notepad, scrawled "tea" in a large bold hand, and tore off the page, which also read "eggs," "pasta," "peas," "socks," and "assorted sandwiches (cheese/salmon, bacon)."
In due course the TARDIS landed, and the Doctor (having also extracted a thick leather wallet, full of pound-note-sized strips of psychic paper, from the drawer) set off down the street at a brisk pace.
Despite having just emerged from a large, recently-materialized blue police box one block away from the Sainsbury's in question, the Doctor attracted little attention as he walked. In dark trousers, muted jumper and black leather jacket, he was dressed simply and inconspicuously, just the way he liked it.
The Doctor's life is not entirely as fraught with danger as he would have anyone believe. In fact, nine times out of ten he is able to go shopping without incident. Tonight, the Doctor thought, allowing himself a small smile, might just be one of the nine times (although he had not been able to purchase new socks).
However, the Doctor is also mistaken more often than he would like anyone to believe. Tonight was the one time out of ten that the Doctor would go out to buy eggs and tea, and come back surprised. It didn't help that the surprise didn't come until the Doctor had got inside the TARDIS, closing the door behind him.
As he puttered around, stowing his wallet and trying to remember which way his favorite kitchen was, a door on the other side of the control room opened. A young woman with curly hair strode through, saw the Doctor, stopped abruptly, and dropped the plastic carton she was holding.
"Who the bloody hell are you?" yelled the Doctor.
"Shit," said the woman.