7: Not Normally a Problem...
There was no getting around it; they were headed for a bad time.
The TARDIS was more worried about him that she was herself. She found the old chair he used back in his last incarnation and he sank into its embrace with a deep breath. Just in time. The timeshift shuddered as the first wave of meteoroids struck.
Meteoroids normally weren't a problem for a TARDIS. They were basic nickle-iron chunks or ice; but this meteoroid field was different. It was impregnated with Taranium.
Taranium was the element of time travel machines.
The TARDIS did not like being around what must have felt like vibrating, buzzing, electrical impulses. She dimmed her lights and groaned in protest; the Doctor managed to rally enough strength to manually operate the extra defenses—including the power-greedy Extreme Emergency shielding—even a few grams of taranium in the entire field would be enough to bring Daleks, or heaven help them, Sontarans.
Finished, he gasped back into the chair, closing his eyes. The TARDIS jerked, and he nearly fell to the floor.
"Just hold on, old girl," he said out loud. For once he worried if she could hear him or not. "Just hold on."
8: Getting Involved...
His hands ached from taking apart the Helm, but the pressures against his mind was gone. The Doctor would have laughed for relief had he the energy. He chose instead to let the bits lie where they'd fallen and sank back into his old chair, wiping his face with his handkerchief. It was somewhat clean, being safe in his pocket for most of his run across the half-repaired ruins of London.
Good Lord, London looked just like Skaro laid waste! I cannot believe that is over, he closed his eyes. The narrowness of his escape—and the scarcity of his odds—fell over him at that moment, and he began to shake.
Oh, Susan! You're as bad as I am for getting involved! Still, he relished his short reunion with his granddaughter—and the faces of her smiling husband and children. They were well and healthy and if all went well, would stay that way. It was worth every sacrifice.
Just then that the Console rang and he blinked. A tall, dour holographic Time Lord stood shimmering in the room.
"Oh." He said flatly. "There you are."
"Report, Parolee 2(9*200)." The CIA officer demanded. "You were out of contact! Why?"