This is different from most of my postings. It started out as one of my usual smutty one-shots, and grew into a monster. So, here's installment 1.

It's a Law & Order UK / Doctor Who crossover - not sure how it will go over! Hope you enjoy it!

Please note: it's a continuation of the story, "Fantasy," which is also a crossover, and reading it might help to make more sense of this story. But it's up to you, as always. :-)

PART 1

"You miss her," the Doctor could hear in the corners of his mind. "You miss them all. It's okay to miss them. I miss them too."

The Doctor smiled. Really, he smirked at the interesting non-comprehension of his most trusted companion. The TARDIS was his best friend, and sometimes the console room was the most tranquil place in the universe, and where he and his beloved vessel both did their best thinking. Sometimes it was just noisy. This time was one of the latter. But it had nothing to do with the TARDIS' gears, in fact, she was currently parked.

The sentient ship was sensing a certain agitation in her kindred Time Lord partner, a restlessness pulling him one way, attachment pulling him another. It might have seemed as though he was quite a confused man, but indeed he was not. His attachment made him restless. He was unable to settle down because there was nothing to hold onto, and yet he was holding on to everything – or trying to.

At their very core, at the deepest of levels, that could not be denied nor buried under his bluster, the Doctor and his ship were both children of the greatest civilization the universe had ever known. Time and space turned and pulsed within their minds as a whole, and they had been part of a chain, part of a network of the most grandiose thinkers in existence. It was like a psychic Mandala that spanned all of creation. Yes, the Doctor was a rebel, but he was a Time Lord first, and he had chosen his TARDIS and never looked back. And then the Time Lords were destroyed, and she and the Doctor were left hanging, like cables ripped from the wall with their stringy copper guts hanging out. Nothing to connect to anymore, only each other.

The TARDIS mourned, but the Doctor suffered worse. She, a more or less disembodied mind and soul, was content to share her psychic existence with the only being in the universe who had ever really mattered to her anyhow. But he, a fully corporeal being, was not so lucky; his needs were more complicated. He had hands that craved warmth and proof of another physical presence. He had eyes that craved the gaze of other eyes, and ears that soothed his spirit by relaying to him the voices of those who spoke in words.

As such, she had come to understand as she and the Doctor pulled further and further away from the Time War, and as the sting grew duller and duller, that the greatest pain in his life was not simple isolation. It was being without. It was a keen sort of absence, a longing that was highly specific. For, companionship isn't just about other bodies, eyes and voices. It's far, far deeper. Companionship leaves prints, echoes.

For some time, the TARDIS had been sensing the echoes of Rose inside the Doctor's mind. He had connected with Rose, related to her differently than with any other traveller he'd taken on. It was an echo quite foreign to the TARDIS when Rose was lost. The Doctor's sorrow took a different tone, the absence was a different shape, and the Doctor was never the same again.

Once Martha came along, those echoes would dissipate for long intervals. But then, without warning, they would return at full force, hotter and more violent than before, almost as if Martha's presence made the echoes louder, made the Doctor's longing worse. When she left, after hearing plenty of those echoes herself, the echoes of Martha ricocheted within him for a time. It was even more of a foreign language to the TARDIS, the Doctor being pulled in so many directions. Love, loss, guilt, the sense of time wasted, of a life interrupted and ruined.

And the Doctor was feeling their absence, that highly specific absence, today. Her heart ached when his did, so she tried to reassure him that missing his precious companions was normal and understandable, and that he was not alone in this.

And that's what made the console room so loud.

All of the TARDIS' understandings and musings linked and swirled in his head like clouds of light and realization. Her reassurances were bouncing around in his brain, and solace was solace, all the more effective since she was part of him. She knew just how to make the psychic debris push to the side for a while, so that he could see clearly.

But the absence he was feeling today was not of a psychic nature. There had always been a part of his existence that the TARDIS could never touch – literally. It was his physical being. She understood that he had certain needs, even knew what some of them were, but she could not empathise, nor sense them when the needs arose. She had never felt hunger or thirst. She had never longed to be held or to hold someone, had never been cold or hot or in pain. All of her needs and desires and chagrins were abstract, and had to do with the turn of the universe, and psychic energy from the Doctor himself.

Therefore, of course, she could not fathom what he was feeling now. Far from love or regret, the echoes oscillating through his being at the moment were entirely physical.

This one corner of his mind was all his own, and he needed to sort through it, needed to get some peace and quiet. He had a bit of an errand to run anyway, so he left the noisy console room and stepped out into a cold, grey English afternoon in March. He walked away from the TARDIS and detached as much as he ever did, and felt free to be as physical, lonely, and physically lonely, as he wanted.

He was in London on business again, and felt like a sailor coming into port. His mind wandered back several months to the assignment that UNIT had asked him to accept, which had led him into the capable hands and bed of the lovely Belle de Jour. Lovely, and vaguely frightening. Her physical resemblance to Rose made his entire world reverberate like the universe's largest gong for a few days, until he regained his senses and worked out the energy leak which happened to be coming from her flat. He had played out some of his deeply-held, Rose-related fantasies with her, and had felt liberated by it. How convenient that she should be the type of woman who allows men to play out their fantasies with her, for a fee. Not that he was judging. He was glad for it.

And blimey, was he sorely tempted ring her up now. His body was tight and on-edge, and he needed… well, something that the TARDIS, in her near-infinite wisdom, would never understand.

A montage of memories assaulted his senses; Belle's lips wrapped around him, sliding over and back, her eyes drifting closed for the pleasure he was giving her, her thighs parting as she begged him to take her. He felt the warmth of her mouth, her sex, her body pressing against his, the sound of her voice, such a familiar voice, saying filthy things to him. Much as it was at the time, he couldn't stop now. His mind was out of his control. He couldn't turn off the images, the succession of heat and pleasure that led to…

He stopped and faced the river, gripping the concrete barrier. His knees buckled and his vision blurred. The moment when he'd come with Belle, looked into those familiar eyes and just let go, gave himself up and released into her body… he'd been unprepared for the power of that memory. He bent at the waist and buried his head in his hands, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Fortunately, London was a place where depressed people from all walks of life frequented the edge of the raging river, so no-one stopped, nor even thought twice about his distress.

Until now, he hadn't fully realised how potent an experience that had been. Yes, Belle was a professional, so of course the sex was fantastic. All three times, in fact, were Earth-shattering. But the cleansing of his soul, the lingering desires, the lust-soaked regret that had plagued him up until that point, those were things not so easily dealt with. Belle had helped him resolve some of his Rose issues, scratched an itch that he had been too daft to ask Rose herself to scratch when he'd had the chance.

But that memory was just a memory, and he felt he'd moved on, thanks to Belle. It was just fuelling today's ardour. As it stood today, things were much simpler. Today, the itch had nothing to do with Rose. He reckoned he just needed to get laid, plain and simple.

Just ring her. It's perfect. She's a sure thing, and she won't care if you disappear from the face of the planet and never call again. And if you're going to have a shag, it might as well be with someone whose face and form you appreciate.

No, no, no, what's wrong with you? She's a prostitute, and you're not that guy. Just go out and meet someone. You're a good-looking bloke, won't be that hard. Human relationships have changed a lot, not all women expect a commitment…

"Ugh, get ahold of yourself, mate," he said out loud to himself, standing up straight and pulling his right hand down over his face. "No time for this!"

He hurried up the embankment toward the agreed-upon meeting place. He had spoken to two different coppers on the phone, one of them sounded younger, probably late twenties or early thirties. The other sounded a bit older. No-one was certain which of them would be meeting him at Stella's Café just off the embankment, so the Doctor made a deal with himself. If the younger one was there, he'd venture out into the world, and act like a young single guy for an evening, find his own fun. If the older one was there, he'd take it as a sign that he needed to grow up and learn how to control his nine-hundred-year-old libido. He honestly wasn't sure which one he wanted.

The man in the charcoal grey coat finished his last sip of tea and went back over his notes. It was a quarter past four, and all he hoped was that this meeting wouldn't take long. He hoped this John Smith character didn't have a long, elaborate story to tell, and a lot of witnesses and locales and dates to check out. He knew that it was best to get all that rubbish done immediately, before the week-end, and he just wasn't in the mood. It had been a hell of a week. He was meeting up with some of the boys later on, and all he wanted to do was knock off and get home to change clothes.

Smith had given him a description of himself and said what he'd be wearing, so that no matter who went to meet him, he'd be recognisable. Six-foot-one, slim, dark hair, tan coat, brown pin-striped suit, always trainers, never dress shoes. Should be easy enough to spot in a café with four other people in it, all of them female and over the age of seventy.

When the Doctor entered the café, the man in a charcoal grey coat walked up and offered his hand. "Mr. Smith?"

"Yes," the Doctor responded, shaking the man's hand. He was, the Doctor guessed, around thirty years old. He sighed inwardly, and re-examined distractedly within how badly he really needed that itch scratched and how much venturing out he really wanted to do…

"I'm Detective Sergeant Devlin," he said. "Thanks for meeting with me."

"Agh, no problem," the Doctor said. The two men sat across from one another.

Devlin took a pen from his pocket, and found a clean sheet on his notepad. "Okay, so…" he began. "I guess I'll just jump in… tell me what you know."

"Franklin didn't do it," the Doctor said.

"So you said on the phone," Devlin responded. "What we need to work out is how you know that."

"I was there," the Doctor told him. "I saw it happen."

"You were there? You… wait, you're an eye-witness?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't Carlson see you?"

The real answer was that he was standing near enough to the TARDIS at the time that the perception filter encompassed him, but he didn't tell DS Devlin as much. Instead, he said, "The man was tied hands-to-feet with a gun to his head, and he'd just seen his best friend thrown over the side of a building. I think he had a thing or two on his mind."

"What were you doing there?" Devlin asked.

"I was in the building doing some business. You know, it's a bank," he shrugged. "I heard noises, sounded like someone was in trouble, so I went up to investigate. When I got there, Franklin was holding a gun to Carlson's head, and Gentry was screaming bloody murder at Fenwick."

"What was he screaming?"

"I couldn't tell. All I know is that within five seconds, he had Fenwick by the lapels, and was hauling him over the side of the building. I didn't step in because I reckoned it was too late. I was scared so I ran."

In reality, Gentry had galactic affiliations and was on a short list of Awlerhalk associates on Earth who were gunning for the Doctor. Alerting the Awlerhalk fleet to the Time Lord's presence could have caused an intergalactic incident, with Earth as the main target. Why risk stepping into this fairly rudimentary organised-crime incident when the British justice system had plenty in the way of intervention for this sort of thing? All he had to do was alert the authorities…

"So you're saying Gentry did it? In spite of the fact that Franklin has confessed."

"Yes," the Doctor said.

"Why would Franklin confess?"

"I don't know. Maybe he's scared of Gentry. Maybe he feels responsible. Maybe he's had a neural inhibition procedure and his memory has been changed to reflect an alternate, false reality."

"Excuse me?"

"Sorry. Too much X-Files," the Doctor shrugged. "Got to stop that."

"So then, why did the forensics team say that it was Franklin's fingerprints on Fenwick's buttons, and Franklin's skin cells on his clothing?"

"You're asking the wrong questions, Detective Sergeant," the Doctor advised. "You should be wondering why didn't they say that it was Gentry's prints and skin cells?"

"Are you suggesting that police forensics is accepting bribes?" One of Devlin's eyebrows twitched.

"What? No. No, I'm saying, why was there no evidence that Gentry had touched him? I suspect if you can work that out, follow a few leads there, you'll find the evidence you need to arrest him, and probably convict."

"What about you? You're an eye-witness, that'll go a long way toward convincing a jury, especially if you can produce your bank statements…"

"I'm not giving evidence," the Doctor said.

Devlin was nonplussed. "Why not? Don't you care that an innocent man might go to prison – well, not an innocent man, but a man not guilty of murder, anyway – and an actual murderer might go free?"

"Yes, I care," the Doctor assured him. "That's why I've put this bug in your ear. And now that you know what you're looking for, you'll be able to find it. But I'm not giving evidence. You don't even have to tell anyone you had a source; just say it was a hunch. Won't your partner back you up?"

"Give me one good reason why you won't appear in court."

The Doctor sighed. "Well, strictly speaking, I don't exist."

"What are you on about?"

"Just trust me," the Doctor said. "Trying to force me into a courtroom will only cause more problems for you. I am… an anomaly. I have no identity."

"What are you, in deep cover?"

"Something like that."

"Is it military?" Devlin wondered.

The Doctor thought about this. If all else failed, he could get UNIT to back up his story. "Yes."

Devlin sighed. "Fine," he said. "Will you at least speak to the CPS? They're the ones going after Franklin. If we're going to ask them to change gears, they're going to need a jolly good explanation as to why."

"I'd rather not," the Doctor responded, averting his eyes. "The fewer people…"

"Please, it's the CPS," Devlin said. "Crown Prosecution Service? It's not like they keep an internet blog of all of their dealings, Mr. Smith. They will guarantee total discretion, it's what they do! I can put you in touch with James Steele, we work with him all the time, and he never reveals a source. Neither do I, and neither does my partner."

The Doctor bored holes into Devlin's forehead. "Are you sure this is necessary?"

"Well, if nothing else," Devlin sighed. "I'm in over my head, I think. This sort of thing is going to require some manoeuvring, and I'm more of a bulldozer sort of bloke."

"Fine," the Doctor said. "But it has to be tomorrow, and no later. I can't stick around."

Devlin opened his phone and dialled. "We'll do our best for you."

Five minutes later, the Doctor had an appointment for Monday morning at nine, with James Steele, and he and DS Devlin were leaving Stella's Café together. As it happened, they both turned right, and found themselves in stride abreast of one another.

Devlin looked at the Doctor and smirked. "Where are you headed now, at half-past four? I expect you'll want to blow off some steam, guy like you."

Ah yes, he thinks I'm in covert ops or something. Never mind – fair cop. He's right. I do need to blow off some steam.

"Yeah," the Doctor responded, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Not sure how yet, though. It's been a while since I've been out in the world quite so."

"I'd imagine," Devlin chuckled. "Not much time for a night life?"

"Nope," the Doctor told him.

"Work obligations," he said, nodding his head. "I get it. I mean, you wouldn't think so, but I work some wicked hours at times."

"I know you do," the Doctor said. "This city owes you, DS Devlin."

"Thank you, Mr. Smith," he answered. They walked a few more feet, then the detective asked, "So is it just work, or have you got a family?"

"Oh, no family to speak of," the Doctor told him. "Just..." He trailed off.

"What? A girlfriend?"

"Well, no. Not really." His tone was halting, self-conscious. He had meant to say "just a companion from time to time," but stopped because it made him sound like a travelling salesman or a gigolo. Also, the image that had popped into his brain when he thought about commitments and companions had surprised him, given him pause.

Whoa. Hadn't seen that coming.

"Ah," Devlin said, nodding once more, knowingly. "Bad break-up. I can always tell from the tone. I'm a detective, you know."

The Doctor examined his face, and he was smiling in a self-deprecating way. Devlin was joking, but the Doctor reckoned he was right on the money.

Well, clearly Martha and I are more complicated than just a bad break-up but I've still got to give the detective his due...

Wait. Martha? Well, there she is again. Hunh.

The Doctor nodded back. "And a mightily good detective, at that."

"Well, seeing as how you don't exist, and I have palmed you off onto the CPS," Devlin said. "Some mates and I are meeting up at King's Head for darts, maybe some prowling. It's a free country – can't fault you for stopping in for a pint and saying hello."

The Doctor stopped and smiled at Devlin. "Thanks," he said.

When the Doctor entered the King's Head, Devlin was seated at a small square table looking forlorn. He looked up, however, and smiled, and waved the Doctor over. The Time Lord took his place at a rickety wooden table in a tavern, across from a human nursing a pint and rubbing his eyes. It felt right somehow, inexplicably.

"Hi. Why the long face?" asked the Doctor, shedding his coat and being seated.

"Lost the first round to Rumplestiltskin," Devlin told him, indicating the group of guys playing darts. "He's rubbish at this, and he beat me."

"Rumplestiltskin?"

"Well, his name is Roland Stills," Devlin said. "But we call him..."

"Got it."

"It's 'cause he's short. And a bit creepy. So, what do you drink? Why don't you go on up and grab something then we can put you into the dart matrix."

"Nah," the Doctor protested. "That's now how I blow off steam."

"Well, if it's... you know, that other thing you're looking for... this lot, they're going to Mercury's later," Devlin told him, referring to the group of young men. "Why don't you go?"

"What's Mercury's?"

"It's a club," he said. "See, the idea is that you come here to get loaded and loose, then you go on the pull at Mercury's. It's a chuffing good plan. The ladies do the same thing, except they have their own pub that they go to beforehand."

"Classy," the Doctor commented, smiling, nodding.

Devlin chuckled. "I know, but we all need a bit of lubrication."

"Does it work?"

"Meh," Devlin said. "Eighty to ninety per cent. I suppose I've taken a few lovelies home from there."

Something in Devlin's demeanour didn't sit well with the Doctor, though. "Meh?" he asked.

"Well, it's fun for a while, isn't it?" he explained. "But once you get that ache..."

"That ache?" asked the Doctor.

"Yeah, you know. When you find someone you like..."

The Doctor smiled. "Oh, I get it. Got your eye on someone."

"Hey, Matty," one of the boys called out, already a few sheets to the wind. "Let's hit the bricks, mate. Mercury's a-waitin'."

"You know what, guys, why don't you go ahead without me," he said. "Er, this is John. I think we're going to sit and chat for a bit longer."

Someone offered his hand to the Doctor, who shook it. It reminded him of yet another thing that had been missing from his life for quite some time: good, clean camaraderie with other men. And Captain Jack didn't count; there was nothing clean about Jack's camaraderie.

Reacting to Devlin's balking, the first guy said, "Oh, right," he said. "Got to remain pure for your new lady love, have you? Blimey, Matt."

"Oi, leave him alone," one of the others said. "Just 'cause you ain't got a shot with that redhead in your office..."

"See ya, Matty," one of the others said, as they were leaving.

He saw them out the door, and then looked sheepishly at the Doctor, before bursting out in nervous laughter. "Sorry about them. Morons."

"You shouldn't stay here on my account," the Doctor said.

"Sorry," Devlin said. "I didn't even think... you should have gone!"

"No, no," the Doctor said. "I'm more bark than bite, really. I want to hear about your lady love."

"Oh, it's nothing really. Just a crush. Someone I sort of work with, so it would be really, really complicated if we were to, you know... get together."

"But you've got to remain pure?" the Doctor asked, one eyebrow sceptically up.

Devlin laughed. "Nah, just a joke. I just... can't look at anyone else right now. Can't think of taking home someone random when she's on my mind, that's all."

"I know the feeling."

"Looking at the wrong face, hearing the wrong voice while you're... it would feel wrong. My heart couldn't be in it."

The Doctor nodded, wondering whether to relate the story of finding someone who, indeed, had the correct face and the correct voice, but was in fact, the wrong woman. He decided against it. Too weird.

"So you?" Devlin asked. "Bad break-up?"

The Doctor exhaled through pursed lips. "Well, more just... unresolved issues."

"Like what?"

"Well, there was this one girl. I loved her, and we were happy, I guess. And then she was sort of... we'll just say she was unceremoniously ripped from my life. And I tried to start a new relationship before I was ready, and wound up annihilating that one."

"How so?"

"Kept talking about the first one," the Doctor confessed. "Shot her down anytime she tried to get closer to me. Thwarted her somehow, every time she started to tell me she loved me. Tried to pretend we were just friends... and we weren't. And even if we were, she wanted more from me, and I knew it. But I held back everything, didn't even act like I noticed until it was too late, and I could see the hurt in her eyes..."

Something choked him and he stopped. He had realised earlier that Martha was taking up a new space in his mind, at the forefront where Rose had once been. He hadn't noticed when his feelings changed, just all of a sudden this afternoon, there she was, like a great big mocking neon sign. He had said goodbye to Rose properly now, and had closure on the sex issue... he'd said goodbye.

Martha. Now she was torturing him.

Well her, and the need to blow off steam, as Devlin had put it. Yikes, this could mean trouble.

They still lacked closure, he still had never apologised for his behaviour, she still didn't know how dynamic and beautiful he found her. Really, really beautiful.

"Have you seen her since?" Devlin asked.

"Oh yes," the Doctor told him. "She rang me a few months later and asked for help, asked me to come and see her. I went. She was engaged by then."

"Is she still engaged? Maybe it's not too late."

"No," the Doctor chuckled. "Now she's married."

"Sorry, mate," Devlin sighed. "I guess you'll just have to tell yourself that it never could have worked anyhow."

The Doctor nodded, knowing that Devlin's philosophy was for the best, but also knowing that if he'd given Martha Jones half a chance, something magical could have happened. It was tragically true, he had learned, that we never really realise what we have until we've lost it. And there it was, in all its hideous glory. He had unresolved, possibly romantic feelings toward a married woman.

"I suppose it's karma," the Doctor said aloud. "The universe has a way of giving you back what you've earned." He thought of all the times when Martha must have felt this way about him, that horrible brick wall between them, that universal angst knowing that even if you grew the courage to say something, the one you cared for was still unavailable. Or in his case, deaf, dumb and blind.

The Doctor, in spite of not being a drinker, and Devlin had a few that night. The Doctor eventually explained how when he and Rose were separated, they hadn't had sex (but had really, really wanted to), and never got to say goodbye. He didn't reveal the goodbye-closure scene with his double, nor did he reveal the sexual closure scene with Rose's double, but he skirted around it in a way that satisfied the half-drunk DS.

"So what you've got to do then," Devlin said. Or Matt, as he had eventually insisted upon being called. "Is delineate what's causing the clog with Martha. You said you thought she was hot..."

"Oh yes."

"But you never said."

"Oh no."

"And you never apologised for being an arse while she was with you."

"Right."

"So fix it. Whatever you did with Rose, do the same thing with Martha so that the next lucky girl can have all of you."

Wow, this was way better than having a girlfriend. A bloke with insight who didn't want to shag him? What a coup! And how many humans did he know who often used the word delineate, especially after several pints?

But of course, Matt didn't know all the weird, sordid, otherworldly details of how closure with Rose had been achieved. He didn't understand that the odds of something like that happening again were nigh on impossible.

The light of day came, and the TARDIS was still whispering in his brain. He willed her to be still – he couldn't take the pressure today. He told himself it had nothing to do with the alcohol, but he knew better. That was another thing: the TARDIS had never got drunk and only understood the concept of a hangover.

He got up and dressed, and as he climbed into his suit, he scolded himself. Why had he gone all blotto last night? He hadn't been completely pissed, but it had been enough to give him a right headache, and it had been the first time drinking alcohol of any consequence in this body. It was like getting hammered for the first time! And what had it solved? Absolutely nothing. He'd been gagging for a shag before that, and had recognised the haunting of Martha Jones, and after a mini-binge with Matt... well, he was still gagging for a shag, and still thinking of Martha. He didn't quite think it was right to have those two things mix... not that it had never occurred to him before...

He went through all of these motions, realising that he'd be standing still for two days waiting for his appointment with the CPS. Two days in nine hundred years was a drop in the ocean, but the idea of it made him positively exhausted with tedium. Normally, he liked London just fine and didn't mind killing time there. But just now, he wasn't in the mood. He wanted this over with.

Screw it. I'm going to cheat.

So he jumped ahead, hangover and all, to Monday morning for his nine o'clock appointment in James Steele's office. He desperately hoped this would be his last involvement with the Fenwick murder case.

He walked with his head down, eyes fixed on the concrete, sunglasses on, trying not to let the light in nor make any eye contact. When he arrived at the CPS, he was ushered into a cluttered office with crooked Venetian blinds and rickety, institutional chairs. A secretary brought him a cup of lukewarm tea in a Styrofoam cup, and apologised for Mr. Steele's tardiness.

Within a few minutes, Steele burst into the room with armloads of files, his briefcase crooked in one hand and his suit coat draped awkwardly over the other. He dumped his belongings on his desk, smiling half-heartedly at his nine-o'clock. He looked like Daniel Craig's less-threatening brother, with rather a chiselled, stressed face and a gravelly voice. His demeanour, in spite of coming upon the scene like a firecracker, was gentle, and the Doctor imagined that he might be someone who could put a witness at ease.

"Mr. Smith," he gasped. He stumbled over to the table where the Doctor was seated. The Doctor stood, and they shook hands. "So glad you could come by. I hope you haven't been waiting long."

"Time doesn't mean much to me," the Doctor quipped. "It's no bother."

"I'm sorry to do this to you, but unfortunately, I've been called out on an emergency."

"Oh?"

"Yeah... a different case," he sighed. "A witness has been killed, my boss pulled some strings and got them to hold the crime scene for me. I hope you understand."

"Sure," said the Doctor. "But I'm not available after today, you see..."

"Oh, I've taken care of that," Steele assured him, moving back toward his desk. He pulled his jacket on and straightened his tie. "Don't worry, I wouldn't leave you hanging. You'll be meeting with my associate instead, Miss Phillips. She's had to put her head together on the fly, peruse the file and things, but she'll be here presently."

"Oh. Okay."

"I hope you don't feel I've passed the buck, as it were," Steele said, picking up his briefcase once again. "Really, she's more than capable, and she and I work very closely together."

"Okay. No problem."

"Thanks for your understanding, Mr. Smith," Steele said. "Perhaps we'll see each other again."

With that he was off, and the Doctor clasped his hand behind his back and sighed, "Blimey, I hope not." Not that he didn't like James Steele, he just hoped to have his nose out of this case as soon as damn possible so that he could move on, go off to brood in some other corner of the universe.

He wandered over to the window and looked out upon a teeming city. So many lives, deaths. So much love and hate, so much to be seen and yet more that couldn't be seen. The most brilliant human beings he'd ever known lived here, some of them in this time, and yet it all felt dead to him. The Doctor was a man who liked closure. The nature of his life meant that he couldn't always have it, and so he craved it. There was a barrier between him and this living London, and...

"Hi, sorry to keep you waiting," a voice said from behind him.

He turned and laid astonished eyes upon James Steele's young associate. She introduced herself, and suggested he sit.

And then she smiled. In response, the Doctor grabbed hold of a bookcase to steady himself.

Whoa.

In the fifteen minutes he'd spent in that cluttered office with Alesha Phillips, he'd completely forgotten about his aching head, and had run the gamut of possible emotions. He'd begun by feeling woozy and so stunned he couldn't speak. Then, once seated, he'd asked almost as many questions as she had. She'd dodged every single one of them in a very lawyerly manner – after all, as she'd good-naturedly reminded him, they were not there to interrogate her. He was suspicious, and then starry-eyed and amazed. Then he regressed into a bit of schoolboy smitten until he was finally sure that he'd sufficiently freaked her out, and needed to get the hell out of there.

Because it wasn't just that she was pretty. It wasn't just that she looked like Martha Jones. It wasn't just that they had exactly the same voice, and lovely skin, beautifully-formed lips and liquid dark eyes. And it wasn't just that the timing was extraordinary, or that he was now completely smitten. It was that in seeing her, he began to feel the wheels turning. He began to think of how Alesha could be the key to closure. This one's not going to be as "easy" as the last one – how can I manipulate her? How can I get her to give me what I want?

He didn't like where his mind was wandering to. He needed to get some distance, so he left, careful of his words and facial expression, careful of how quickly he moved and how hard he squeezed when they shook hands and parted company. He'd likely scared her with all of those questions and the goofy, unrestrained look in his eye, and made this already fairly unpleasant murder case into something that was personally quite dodgy for her... and he wanted to make amends. She wasn't Martha, but he couldn't help but feel close to her, protective. He didn't want her feeling unsafe...

...but he also did not want to leave this opportunity untapped.

He stood outside the CPS and stared back at the building. He took a deep breath, and headed back inside. He returned to Steele's office and found it empty. His eyes darted about, and spied another door, through which he reckoned Alesha had come (since he hadn't been watching when she'd entered). He opened the door and saw the lovely, lovely lady sitting at her desk, going through a file.

She looked up. "Hello, there. Can I help you with something else?"

"I... erm... just wanted to say..." his mouth was still open, and the pause was growing.

"Yes?"

"I wanted to say that I'm not a creep."

She smiled. "I didn't say you were."

"But I acted like one."

"Maybe a bit."

"It's just... I like you."

"I kind of noticed." Fortunately she was still smiling.

"I think you're lovely."

"Thank you," she said. Her chin was up, and for a moment, she looked nothing like Martha. Martha had always had a prevailing shyness around him, no matter how brave or assertive she became. If ever he complimented her, her face went to distortion, and she looked away. Except for once, on the day she left.

Alesha's different demeanour was interesting and refreshing to him. It felt like a brand-new start.

"I'm involved in a case that you're working on," he began, walking toward her slowly. "And it might be a conflict of interest, and all that. I know that you have your ethics, and I respect that. Really. But you know, I'll be at Moriarty's tonight. It's a free country – couldn't fault you for stopping in, saying hello."

She turned her head and looked at him sceptically, tantalisingly. "Are you asking me out?"

"No, no, that wouldn't be right," he insisted exaggeratedly. "I'm just telling you where I'll be this evening, and pointing out that it wouldn't be illegal if you were to be there too. Especially since I'm an anonymous source who does not exist and has no identity anyway."

She continued smiling. "Very well played, sir."

"Yeah? I thought so too," he told her, grinning widely.