He stands outside the picket fence, behind a tall spreading shrub that overhangs the gate. The house is fresh and shining under a new coat of white paint, and the green lawn is only slightly marred by thin tyre tracks, as though a small but heavy cart had been run frequently over the grass. It's just her sort of house, really. Perhaps journalists need some kind of normality to return to after whipping up all their scathing commentary on world chaos.
Heaven knows she's seen chaos enough.
Seven wild daisies dangle from his hand: the results of a four-mile walk on a dusty highway and a last-minute decision to bring flowers. Casting about for a distraction, he digs a knife out of his pocket and trims off the dirty ends of the stems. He snaps the knife shut with a brisk gesture that utterly belies his state of mind, lifts his hand to open the latch, hesitates, and drops it again in indecision.
She has not seen him in... he doesn't know how long. That business on Gallifrey can't be too far in the past. He has not seen her for far longer. They were friends once. She probably still thinks of him occasionally, as something out of the past, and maybe as something that should stay there.
He fumbles with his white hat and digs his toe into the earth. Why should he interrupt her cosy, predictable existence? Rassilon's confounded Game has given her trouble enough. Does she even want to be reminded of all the near-death experiences they used to share? Will she think that he wants something from her -- that he intends to risk her life again? He might as well call himself Doctor Doom and find himself a nice hermitage where he can't hurt anyone by appearing where he's not wanted.
What is he doing but setting himself up for another goodbye?
And I hate goodbyes.
He turns away, but stops. If he leaves now, he probably won't see her for centuries, if ever again. They wither so quickly, even such strong weedy flowers as the drooping daisies, which should have lasted another hour at least. She walks, as surely as he does, hand in hand with death. It's a feeble bond, but it's something.
A few cars go by, and he digs a watch out of his pocket and studies it importantly, just to look as though he's doing something. Maybe the neighbors have already noticed him loitering by her gate. Will they notify her, or the police, or only start to share rumors about her? The thought makes him sick.
One of the cars has stopped at the curb. A familiar face peers out.
"I'd go knock, personally. No use alarming the constabulary, eh?"
"Yates?"
"Thought it was you, Doc. Just been down to the quarry, and I'd know that blue box anywhere. Changed again, have you? The Brig'll love to hear that."
The Doctor looks again at his watch, holding the flowers mostly out of sight. "He already knows. How are you, Yates?"
"I've got over it, Doctor," says Yates, stepping out of the car to wring the Doctor's hand. The captain's bars are still shiny on his sleeve. "I... well, I'd have looked you up, if it was possible. You stuck by me when it counted. I owe you a lot."
The Doctor shakes his head. "It was my fault in the first place, old fellow." His new voice is young, but unexpectedly bitter. "Trouble does follow me about."
Yates shrugs easily, but his eyes are keen and serious. "There was a time when I thought that about everyone. Myself, the lot of us, the whole human race: troublesome parasites in a world that didn't want us."
"Nonsense," murmurs the Doctor. It's his race that can't get its act together, and he should really leave before she comes home and finds them hanging about her doorstep like a couple of strays. She can't be in right now, after all; she would have come to the door, or else she's writing and wouldn't want to be disturbed.
But the captain's smile is genuine. "That's what I found out."
Before the Doctor can stop himself, he wonders aloud: "Have you come to see Sarah as well?"
"Over a flying saucer sighting in Manchester. We've had several false alarms from that area recently, so the Brig wanted her opinion on our source." Yates leans against his automobile, his long face alight with mischief. "Most of them were just red and green winglights, but this one was a sort of purple and someone saw it just zigzagging about."
"Zigzagging about..." Intriguing: twentieth-century airplanes aren't supposed to be capable of such feats. The Doctor hesitates, glancing at the house. "I'm glad to hear that life goes on."
"With the usual interruptions." Yates pulls a thick folder out of the car, thumbs through it as if thoroughly involved in the details of the case. "Tell you what," he says. "This isn't urgent, so why don't you go up and visit, and I'll be along in about fifteen minutes to fill you both in?"
"I should--" The Doctor pauses. Every meeting leads to a parting, and whatever else Sarah Jane has been through, she deserves better than to be avoided just because he hates to say goodbye. "No. You're right; I should go up and say hello as I planned." He grips the captain's hand again. "You're looking well, Yates. It's good to see you again."
Yates nods, perhaps in friendship, perhaps in understanding. "Run along, Doctor -- and give her my regards."
The Doctor opens the gate and strides briskly up the walk. Behind him, he can hear pages turning as Yates leafs through the folder. He also imagines that he hears the man chuckle, and for the first time since Gallifrey, his smile reaches his eyes.
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