The last Silurian
The Doctor looked at the Tardis console in alarm as an alert began to sound. Someone was trying to interfere with the timestream, somewhere…. He checked the instruments… on Earth. "Location?" he muttered, tapping buttons, "Come on, come on, be more specific! Aha!" The readout flickered, changed, steadied, and he frowned as he read it. "New Grange, Hertwood, England, 1937. Now why would anyone…?"
The name, New Grange, tickled a memory and he tapped his fingers together for a moment while he thought.
"Oh, my word!" he exclaimed, softly, when he pulled the memory to the forefront of his mind, "Yes, that would change a few things, wouldn't it?" He patted the Tardis console. "Come on, old girl – we've got work to do!"
Crouching in the scrubby undergrowth that lined the country lane, the Doctor could see his quarry about fify yards ahead. It was well disguised under a long hooded cloak, but he'd known instantly by the creature's height and gait that it was a Silurian. As he panted to catch up, it stopped, took some readings from an instrument on its wrist, and crept behind a tree. The Doctor could see it clearly, but he knew it would be hidden from anyone coming up the lane.
So intent was he on the Silurian that he forgot to look where he was going, and tripped over a tree root. He was still too far away for the creature to hear him fall, but when he got to his feet he saw, to his horror, that it had seen its quarry.
A small dark-haired boy, dressed in a grey blazer and shorts, was wandering down the lane. He had a satchel over his shoulder, his tie was at half-mast, his socks likewise, and he kicked idly at the stones on the path as he walked. As the Doctor watched, the Silurian moved to take aim – and trod heavily on a twig.
The boy spun around. "Who's there?" he called. In an instant, he had pulled a catapult from his satchel, and scooped up a stone from the lane. As the Silurian moved again, raising its weapon, the boy loosed the stone in the direction the noise had come from. He must have scored a hit, for the creature jumped with surprise and dropped the weapon.
As it bent to retrieve it, the Doctor grinned. "Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, I might have known you'd be armed," he said. Then, resuming his charge toward the Silurian, he yelled, "Run, Alistair! Run!"
The Silurian turned, startled, and the Doctor threw himself the last few feet and crashed into it, taking it down in what Alistair's games teacher would doubtless have applauded as a perfectly executed rugby tackle.
For a moment, he had the advantage of surprise, and managed to wrest the weapon from the Silurian's grasp. Then the bigger, stronger creature began to fight back, and as the Doctor struggled desperately to bring the weapon to bear, he felt scaly fingers at his throat, the creature holding him with one hand while its other tried to wrest the weapon away from him.
Choking, the Doctor tried a couple of Venusian Aikido kicks, but they had no effect. He couldn't breathe, could feel himself losing consciousness… and then the Silurian gave a grunt and toppled forward on top of him.
Coughing, the Doctor heaved himself out from underneath it and sat up. Standing over the creature, holding a tree branch like a club, was young Alistair. "Lethbridge-Stewarts don't run," he said, raising his chin in a defiant gesture the Doctor knew all too well.
"No," he said, "I should have known you wouldn't."
The boy stared down at the creature. Its robes covered it well, but one green hand was still visible beneath the sleeve. "What is it?"
"It's… um… he's a patient of mine. From the hospital," the Doctor said, quickly, "Terrible case. Scrofulitis Verdigris. Made him go a bit strange in the head, I'm afraid, poor chap."
He smiled. Alistair gazed back, a young and more innocent version of a long-familiar look that told the Doctor he didn't believe his story – but he wasn't going to push for the truth.
"You're a Doctor?" said the boy. He looked down at the still form at his feet. "I haven't killed him, have I?"
"No. I expect he'll have a bit of headache though."
Throwing the branch aside, the boy braced his hands on his hips, and the Doctor had to stop himself saying 'Brigadier'. "How do you know my name?"
"Oh, I've… seen you around," he said, vaguely, "You're at the Prep school down the road, aren't you?"
"Yes. But I don't board. My grandfather lives over there." He pointed in the direction he'd been heading and added, "I'll have to go. I get in trouble if I'm late home."
"That's alright, Alistair. I'll see to this chap."
The boy nodded, and turned to go.
"Wait!" The Doctor extended a hand. "You saved my life, Alistair. Thank you."
The boy took his hand and shook it. "You're welcome, Doctor," he said. His voice was solomn, but he was smiling as he spoke. "Goodbye."
He jumped down the bank, retrieved his satchel from where he'd dropped it, and resumed his walk along the lane. At the corner he stopped, looked back, and waved.
The Doctor raised a hand in farewell. "Goodbye, Alistair," he whispered, "I'll see you around."