This is my first serious fic, and my first Doctor Who fanfic, so bear with me everyone. Anyway, fanfics about this pairing are far and few between, so I decided to contribute a little. Set somewhere around 'The Last of the Time Lords'.
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It was raining.
He could see it quite clearly from the window of his office.
Not the rain, of course, but the dark grey, nearly black clouds beneath his floating haven told of nothing else.
That was partly why he liked being up here, above the clouds: blue sky the whole time.
If he had wanted to be deeper, he would have connected the fact that he liked to see people suffer with his enjoyment of watching rainfall whilst he was completely dry.
But he had never been a very deep person.
Depth was pointless, when everyone around you was shallow.
He paced around the office, the harsh winter sunlight streaming through his windows, drumming his fingers subconsciously on anything he could find- the desk, the walls, the window sill, it didn't matter.
He didn't need to consciously drum his fingers any more to know that he was doing it. It had become a habit. No, more than a habit, an obsession.
He did not have many obsessions, and the ones he did have puzzled him, for they were mostly nonsensical and fairly useless.
Just like this blasted drumming, which never stopped.
Like the constantly blue sky and the continuous sunlight, it only stopped when he was asleep at night, when he dreamed of nothing.
He never had dreams, and had no particular desire for any. Foolish, fantastical, human things they were, and he had no wish to have his mind contaminated by anything even remotely human.
He checked his wrist watch for the fifth time that half hour. His daily messenger was late.
Probably the rain.
He stopped beside the window and looked down.
The earth was concealed by the dark, menacing clouds.
Every now and then distant flashes from somewhere in their depths would illuminate them for a few seconds, and then vanished again.
Yes, that was it; the weather.
He gave an impatient sigh and drummed on the window sill with renewed agitation.
Tap tap tap tap
Where was his messenger?
Tap tap tap tap
He checked his watch again. It had only been a minute or so since he had last checked it, but it seemed like an hour to him.
Tap tap tap tap
He sighed. He was a patient man; he had waited a long time since arriving in modern day London till finally capturing the Doctor and his little band. A couple of extra minutes were nothing to him.
Tap tap tap tap
Tap tap tap tap
He turned around. The last set of taps had not been him; they had been someone knocking at the door.
About time too.
"Come in," he said curtly.
A young, thin faced man came in, hair and coat soaking wet, looking terrified.
"I'm sorry I'm late, Sir," the young man stammered desperately. "It was a difficult journey from earth back up here, it's quite a storm down there, Sir, you see?"
"I don't care about your excuses, James," spat the older man. "Just don't let it happen again."
"No Sir, of course not." The man called James said, both relief and fear in his voice.
"Any news?"
"There was a- a riot in Cardiff last night," James stuttered. "We found out about a secret organisation plotting against you. Called themselves Torchwood apparently," the young man gave a small, nervous laugh. "We took care of them."
"I should hope so," the other man replied, before repeating a question he asked every morning without fail. "And… any news on Martha Jones?"
"No Sir, not anything."
"Good. Right, well, get out then. And for God's sake get some dry clothes. I won't have people dripping around here like some sort of walking puddle."
"Yes Sir, sorry Sir, of course Sir," the young man said, and half ran out of the room.
The doors closed, and he was left alone in his office.
No news on Martha Jones.
He was expecting such an answer, of course. There never was any news about her at all. Oh, he had heard legends of course. He wasn't so detached from the planet beneath him that he hadn't heard the legends. They were sometimes brought to him by young messengers like James, desperate to please him a little.
But these legends meant nothing to him. Humans were like that, they invented stories to help comfort them, they clung tightly onto any strand of hope that they could.
What a foolish race they were.
He gave a slightly disgruntled snort.
It was raining beneath him, and there was no news on Martha Jones.
Despite there never being any news, he always asked. Every day, religiously, obsessively, and not even he knew why.
As was aforesaid, the Master had few obsessions, but the ones he did have puzzled him. And this one puzzled him most of all.
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So, first chapter. What do you all think? The next chapter will probably be following Martha and what she's up to. Please review, whether you liked it or not... I've got special time cookies!