The Doctor sauntered into the wardrobe, double took, stopped dead in the middle of the floor and glared at the ceiling with his hands propped on his hips.
"All right," he said, his voice coated in the thinnest veneer of patience. "What have I done wrong this time?"
In lieu of a response he didn't expect, he rolled his eyes and moved further into the room, plucking at various garments with an expression of deep distaste printed across his face. Now he was in a position to take account of the general theme about the place, he found himself forming a tentative conclusion, backed up by a recent offhand comment he was only now beginning to remember. He trudged past racks of orange Paisley shirts, purple corduroy bell-bottoms, rainbow tie-dyed kaftans and chunky tartan sweaters with a sour smirk on his face, occasionally pausing to examine some particularly noteworthy horror, then reached the end of the row and turned around, stuffing his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels.
"Okay, I'm sorry," he said, almost smiling. "I didn't know you missed him that much, and yes," – here he paused to indicate the serried ranks of vicious crimes against fashion with a wide sweep of his arm – "I admit it could have been a lot worse. Point taken. Very subtle. Well done. Yes, I'm really, really, really sorry," he added, his tone heartfelt. "Can I have my clothes back now, please?"
Silence.
"Pretty please with a big dollop of fresh cream?"
If anything, the silence got a little louder, but in the wake of this he sensed a small change in the texture of the air and turned over his shoulder in a dense fog of foreboding. Standing at the foot of the spiral staircase, just where it hadn't been standing a second ago, was a tailor's dummy, and on the dummy was a painfully familiar outfit. A despairing groan issued from his throat.
"You're not serious?" he said. A rhetorical question: he knew she was. She was never anything less than perfectly serious. Cursing softly, he reached out for the garish patchwork coat.