Inconspicuous
"This isn't me," the Doctor muttered, unpinning his red cravat and loosening his starched white wing-collar. "Not any more."
Looking around the Library of St. John the Beheaded, the time lord sniffed the air, picking up traces of musty old paper, dust and fish glue. It reminded him of something. Stale, patrician and out of date. At least the hint of leather smelled good. Not something they had back home.
Except he didn't have a home. Not any more. It was time for him to listen to the lack of voices inside his head. They didn't lie.
A polite cough drew the Doctor's attention to Arnold Soames. A short, squat man born to the stiff cut of Victorian gentlemen's wear, Soames had originally served in the Diogenes Club, resigning in protest following an invasion by suffragettes. Shocking business.
"Your brandy, Doctor," said Soames, discreetly arching his neck to observe the scribbling on the open page of the Doctor's notebook, which lay on the reading table beside a thick book – a first hand biography of Dr John Dee by someone called Pere Johannes. Forcing a cheesy grin, the Doctor followed Soames' gaze to the pencilled list he had been checking against.
New Alexandria X
Ardaith X
Celeano X
Carsus X
Kar-Sharrat X
Miasimia Goria X
Felsecar X
Tersurus X
Portmeirion X
St John the Beheaded X
Bophermeral
Atlantis
"No thanks," the Doctor snapped his notebook shut, snapping elastic over its black leather cover. "I'm off now, Soames."
"Oh," this wasn't like the Doctor, thought Soames. Any of them. "Very well, sir."
Standing, the Doctor retrieved the notebook, which he replaced with the cravat. He then turned to leave the room.
"Sir," said Soames, picking up the silk and another object the Doctor had absently left on the table, "you've left your hat and tie."
"Don't need 'em anymore, Soames," said the Doctor without breaking his stride. "I'm a doctor, not an undertaker."
And with that, he left.