A/N: Dogwood Rose symbolizes pain and pleasure -- part one
Finishing the scotch, he listened absentmindedly to the clink of ice cubes hitting together at the bottom of the glass. His fingers, wrapped around the glass, were damp from the beaded condensation that gathered along the skins edge. He breathed into the glass, watching the warm air create a wide pattern of heavy vapor, hiding his fingers for a moment before quickly evaporating.
Growing bored he let his head drop onto the back of the sofa and stared upwards in silence at the swirl of paint patterns that marked the ceiling. Setting the empty glass on his thigh, he ignored the cool moisture that soaked into the thin material of his trousers. With his free hand, he unbuttoned the shirt further, pondering if he should shrug out of the jacket as well, but didn't feel like moving much further at this point.
What was taking Mickey? Or was the idea to bore the prisoner to death, hoping they would be happy to finally be doing anything, they would spill all the world's deep dark secrets. Harry exhaled slowly, letting his eyes close, then was reaching once more for the remote. The football highlights had now been replaced with a caller talk in show, and the last thing he wanted hear was anyone besides him whining.
Thumbing leisurely through the numerous channels offered, he toyed momentarily with the idea of giving way to his unsated desire, before the thought of Mickey interrupting prompted him to continue channel surfing. He grimaced in the knowledge that he should have been discovering what it was that made a particular female blush, then shook the thought from his head. That could wait.
Finally, settling on a rerun of the Telepatch Kids, he tossed the remote onto the sofa. The similarities between the two realities, never ceased to be oddly interesting.
He shifted, allowing himself to sink further into the cushions, if Mickey wanted to play games, he was going to get some rest. He set the glass down beside himself, crossed his arms and let his breathing slow. His eyelids grew heavy and he allowed himself to drift off, seeing blond hair and a shy smile looking down on him.
Rose tossed and turned, unable to still her thoughts. Giving in to her restlessness, she reached for the small lamp next to her bed turning the darkness in her room into a soft golden glow.
She ran a finger over the white bloom that sat on the stand, seeming to soak up the lamplight. Boule de Neige, she'd looked up its meaning only to find it slightly vague: only for thee.
The Doctor, her Doctor, had used roses to convey his feelings for her, in what seemed like another lifetime. Was Harry another incarnation, perhaps an earlier version? That would explain why he seemed hesitant, or was it possible that there was another version of the Doctor. Yet, he'd said the Time Lords use to be able to travel between realities.
What if it was a completely different Time Lord? But then she immediately chided herself, remembering the Doctor had once told her he would be able to feel the others in his mind.
Still the question went around in her head. Just who was Harry Saxon? He appeared quite human, as had the Doctor. He didn't prattle on for days, or dance wildly around a TARDIS console. In fact, come right down to it, he seemed a normal bloke when one didn't think to hard on the double heartbeat.
Trying to silence the voices and questions in her head, Rose opened her mobile, while gathering some clothes. Pausing, she gave the screen a puzzled look, hit a few buttons and listened again. Harry's cell was disconnected? One thought jumped out and she hurriedly pushed a few more buttons, holding the phone between her ear and shoulder while slipping into a pair of jeans.
"Mickey? It's Rose, yeah, I couldn't sleep." She took the phone from her ear momentarily as she pulled a shirt over her head. "What did you find out from Harry?" She stopped. "Why haven't you talked to him yet?" A feeling of dread began creeping through her. "Wait until I get there. No, I've been thinking, and I'll be all right talking to him." She hoped that wasn't a lie, and hurriedly grabbed a set of keys, the pink hoodie and placing a crutch under her arm, set off. "Just wait until I get there, yeah? Mickey?" Cursing under her breath she pocketed the mobile and made her way slowly down the hall. Now to remember which hotel Harry had told her he was staying at?
The firm rapping at the door brought Harry back from his pleasant dream, dropping him back into harsh reality. Room service he thought, and yelled. "Enter." Not bothering to turn and acknowledge his visitor he gave a quick wave towards the bar. "Over there is fine," he instructed, before realizing that it was Mickey standing beside the sofa and not a waiter.
Difficult to find good help these days, he mused thrusting his empty glass towards Mickey. "Scotch." Harry didn't have to hold the empty container for long, as Mickey, snatching the glass from his hand walked to the bar, while Harry remained obliviously enchanted watching the antics displayed on the telly. The only sounds other than the programme, were the unmistakable rattle of ice cubes dropping into a glass. Harry smiled in triumph.
Mickey returned, setting one of the drinks on the table with a plonk, ignoring Harry's open hand, and settled into a chair opposite the sofa. Softly sighing, Harry punched the mute button and swapped the remote for his new drink. Leaning back he swished the amber liquid around the edge of the glass as if daring it to spill over.
"Who are you?" Mickey finally broke the silence.
"Harold Saxon." As if that wasn't obvious.
"Not good enough."
"Well I am sorry, but that's what is printed on my passport, driving permit, bank statement, even the University certificates on my wall. Would you rather I was Albert Einstein, Thomas Edison, Neil Armstrong, Winston Churchill?"
Mickey glowered at him. "You know what I'm talking about," he spat, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees.
"Nope." Harry popped the p for emphasis, enjoying the others look of barely contained anger.
"You stay the hell away from Rose until I have answers."
Harry felt his jaw clench. Who the hell did this young pup think he was coming into Harry's room and threatening him. Time to put someone in his place.
Harry stood, the storm barely contained. "You've worn out your welcome here. I trust you can find your way to the door?" Striding past the seated man, Harry took a long drink, stopping in front of the sliding door. The darkness outside allowing him to watch his reflection as he grimaced from the sting of the alcohol burning its way down his throat.
Mickey had gotten to his feet as Harry walked past, turning to face him. "Are you the Doctor?" he asked forcefully.
Harry's hand froze, the glass barely touching his lower lip. Had he heard correctly? Quickly taking another swallow, trying to steady his racing heart, he watched the liquid slosh in the glass. "Yes, I'm a Doctor."
"That's not what I asked," Mickey stated quietly, his words coated with a dangerous undertone.
Harry shrugged, trying to remain outwardly calm. "Then I don't understand." He was surprised how steady he was able to keep his voice, as his thoughts were becoming a haphazard jumble of possibilities.
The Doctor. Could he dare to believe, to even think Mickey was referencing his one and only nemesis? It wasn't possible to have an alternate, which only left the impossibility that the Doctor had travelled to this reality.
Before the destruction of his home world Gallifrey, travel between realities had been quite common. One of the aftermaths to the Time Wars was the eradication of those pathways, at least not without tearing the very fabric of reality. Had the Doctor found a way, and what was his connection to Mickey, then his thoughts turned to Rose. Was she, did she--
Harry was lost in his own musings, and the flicker of light across the sliding window came too late as he felt the sharp sting of a needle prick his neck. The glass of scotch fell from his grasp as he reached for the side of his neck and the source of discomfort. Idiot he thought, attempting to turn his body, which was unnaturally unresponsive, as a creeping blackness stole over him.
The last thing he heard was the shattering of glass as he fell to the tile.