A/N: Just a bit of a teaser chapter! I would be more sorry about this, but the next four are all huge, so... Next one up on Wednesday!

Thanks to: Paul (twice!), FlyingLovegood123, Ashlee Pond, Epic Emma 2017, and PersonBehindScreen.

Sonic Screwdriver Setting 42: Writing from the POV of a Time Lord plays hell with your pacing.

He rounded a corner, not entirely sure where he was headed.

What do I know?

London. He was in London. Oh, he knew loads of places to hide in London. The only problem would be figuring out which ones existed in 1995.

His feet slipped in the medic's stolen trainers. Too large – he'd almost rather they were too small, but then all the rest of the clothes would be too small as well, and that would make things more difficult.

Breath hissing in his ears as he ran down the streets, he muttered thanks – to who, he didn't know – that he was in a residential district. No one on the street to get in his way, a nice orderly predictable grid pattern, enough intersections to turn down that it was all-but impossible to predict where he went – perfect.

The medic's clothes were a fraction too large, but not by enough to cause any actual trouble. He extended his stride easily, finding himself at that pace he could hold for hours if need be. The familiar thud-thud pattern eased the chaos in his heart. To find the Corsair only to lose him again…

It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was whoever was behind the manipulations surrounding him. Someone had the TARDIS. Someone had set up his arrest. Someone was controlling the British police force. Someone had told the Aurors that he was in Diagon Alley. Someone had gotten Albus Dumbledore to show up at Grimmauld Place. Someone was controlling the Corsair. Someone had the other Time Lord freaked enough that he had hidden his TARDIS and would risk death and insanity before going to get it. Someone had been manipulating him from the instant he opened the watch and he was ready for it to stop!

Skidding to a halt at an intersection, he patted himself down rapidly. The medic had to have some personals – a faded photograph, a handful of aspirin – on him at all times, and somewhere in there… Aha! His wallet. And in the wallet – thirty pounds in assorted bills.

Bingo.

Now to find a cab. Fortunately, this was London, and even in a residential district, there were cabs everywhere. Flagging one down proved to be a bit more of a challenge – it was the middle of the day during midsummer, the things were full of tourists – but eventually he was able to clamber into one, telling the driver "Charing Cross Road," and then ignoring the man's attempts at small talk.

He needed a new plan. The old plan – what there was of it, which never had been much – had been shot all to hell when the Corsair turned on him. So – a new plan. That man on the front steps – he had been familiar, but he couldn't come up with the correct memories. Which meant…

The Doctor grinned at nothing in particular. Arthur Weasley had now become number one on the most-likely-to-have-the-TARDIS list. It was a short list. Arthur Weasley occupied the first, last, and only spot on it.

So, next step was to find Arthur Weasley and figure out where his TARDIS was. He called Time to him, searching for the thread that went with a tall, ginger – and why did he get to be ginger? – wizard, a little brow-beaten, poor… He was getting there, narrowing it down…

"Charing Cross Road, gov. Seven pound twenty."

He extracted a tenner from the wallet and gave it to the cabbie. "Keep the change." Climbing out, he wandered haphazardly over to the nearest bookstore. Bookstores had chairs and books and people and sometimes tea. All of which would be helpful at this point.

Collapsing into a chair, he rubbed the back of his neck before diving back into the Time threads. Arthur Weasley… The thread, when he found it, was strong and woven around a million others, some he'd seen before, some he hadn't. And one… But following that one would alert his enemies… He hauled himself back on track to examine Arthur Weasley's thread. It was the work of a thought to trace it back in space and find where – south. South by west. No. West by southwest, from London, go – oh – a hundred miles or so. Where did that put him? Cornwall. Devonshire, unless he was mistaken. Which was always a possibility.

So. How to get to Cornwall on twenty pounds and an empty stomach? The problem was, he could only solve the second half of that by aggravating the first. Also, twenty pounds wasn't likely to get him anywhere.

He ran a hand through his hair. Arthur Weasley was important, he knew that, but he didn't – he still didn't – have the resources needed to figure out why and how.

His nervous muttering – he wasn't nervous. He was never nervous. Stressed, then. His stressed muttering was interrupted by a blazing pain coming from his left arm.