"Right," said the Doctor, propping one elbow on the table and dropping his chin into his palm, a classic study in insouciance as he regarded his lunchtime companion with equanimity. "Let's see if I've got this straight. Last time you saw me was..."
"In Rassilon's sepulchre, my dear Doctor, as I have already told you. In fact," said the Master, a distinct look of barely subdued pain crossing his face as he went on, "I had the unpleasant experience of confronting no fewer than four of your selves at once."
"Yep, I remember," said the Doctor, mildly and happily. There were in fact no gaps in his memory whatsoever, but it had been worth feigning a temporary lapse to see the unhappy twitch in the Master's expression as he put the man through the minor ordeal of relating his recent circumstances. "That's right. Oh yes, and the Brigadier punched your lights out, didn't he?"
The Doctor was now struggling with a small eruption of laughter, and this time, the Master's beard positively bristled with hostility. Before he could interrupt with some protest or other, however, the Doctor calmed his amusement and carried on.
"I always wondered what Rassilon did with you. The old devil!" the Doctor crowed. "He dumped you in the café of the British Museum. I wonder why?"
"I am not in the mood to wonder at anything, Doctor," said the Master, his jaw firmly clenched, "since whatever his motives for doing so, that treacherous charlatan has stranded me on this filthy little planet without my TARDIS. I am not, however, entirely without means of persuasion." So saying, he reached into his velvet tunic with rattlesnake speed and produced a familiar sleek black cylinder, which he aimed at the Doctor's chest.
"I feel sure you'll remember this," he said, his voice reverting to its customary well-oiled purr, "and, more to the point, what it can do. Now, I must insist that you –" he went on, but got no further. With a show of dexterity easily the equal of the Master's, the Doctor reached across the table and deftly plucked the instrument from his adversary's hand.
"Oh, you never lighten up, do you?" he said, peering at the tissue compression eliminator over the top of his glasses. "Maybe next time, you won't stop to waffle. Where do you get your dialogue, anyway – the Ladybird Book of Dastardly Threats? You might as well twirl your moustache while you're at it." As he spoke, the Doctor extracted his sonic screwdriver from his pocket with a slightly preoccupied air and played it down the length of the Master's weapon, producing a token crackle and a short wail of acoustic feedback, after which he handed it back with a cheery grin.
"Deactivated, I think you'll find," he explained, almost as an afterthought, as the Master wrestled with the now entirely unresponsive device, slapping it with one gloved palm in growing frustration before rattling it briefly and irritably. "You ought to watch that thing, anyway. I've probably done you a favour, because I swear you'll do yourself a mischief one of these days if you're not careful."
He stopped speaking at that point as a pertinent memory struck home and reminded him that his words were far more prophetic than the Master, currently approaching the anger event horizon on the far side of the table, could ever have imagined. The Doctor covered himself with a light cough and subsided.
"You find all of this highly amusing, no doubt, Doctor," said the Master, in tones designed to preclude any suggestion of a question. His blue gaze was rimed with frost.
"Very amusing indeed, as it happens."
"And what do you intend to do with me now?"
"Do?" echoed the Doctor, innocence coating his voice like clear honey. "I'm not going to do anything. You're on the wrong timeline and I can't muck about with that, even if I wanted to. You're going to go and do your thing, I'm going to go and do mine, and you'll see me again before I see you, but that's all I'm going to say for now. Okay?" he finished, brightly, hauling himself out of his chair and smoothing the line of his jacket. "Meanwhile, can you get this?" He indicated the bill for the tea and cakes. "I'm a bit short at the moment," he explained, patting his pockets theatrically and offering the Master an apologetic little half-smile.
"But...my TARDIS..." the Master spluttered, panic and fury fighting one another for control of his features as he struggled to his feet and glared at the Doctor.
"Oh, is that all that's worrying you? Sorry," said the Doctor, pleasantly, "I should have told you before. It's behind you." He nodded at a fine colonnade of short Doric columns on the far side of the café, one of which, the Master could now see, was not quite the same shade or texture as its fellows. He uttered a quiet but potent oath in Gallifreyan and jerked his head around to remonstrate with his hated enemy.
The Doctor, however, had gone.