Disclaimer: I own nothing here, not even a fan letter.
A/N: I've been only writing snippets lately so I thought I'd set myself the task of finishing a ficlet.
A Fan-tasy
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A puzzled Doctor wondered where his latest companion had got to. It wasn't like her to miss their usual early morning cup of tea.
"Where are you, Donna?" he yelled out.
A voice from far down the corridor called back, "I'm in here."
Following the location, he found her in a room filled with piles of papers. "What are you doing in here?"
"Wondering what all this is." Glancing up at him from the floor, she held up dozens of filled envelopes. "They are all addressed to you. Been avoiding the tax man or something?"
"No," he denied and anxiously rubbed the back of his neck. "Nothing like that."
"But you are avoiding something in particular," she noted. "Oh look, this one is open."
"Don't look," he begged but was too late.
She pulled out a scented piece of paper and, after giving it a judgemental sniff, carefully read through it. Twice. "No," she drawled in disbelief, "it can't be. This is a piece of fan mail. You actually get fan mail!"
"Maybe," he allowed and went to snatch it out of her hand.
Inevitably, she resisted his attempt and opened another. "According to this one, you're devilishly handsome and she wants you to send a token of your goodwill. And get this one… It says they swooned in your presence. When was this written?" She peered closer before bursting into laughter. "1845, this comes from. Can you believe that? Only you could have centuries of adoring fans."
"Yes. Well. Now you know," he admitted, blushing to the tips of his ears.
"Is this how you met Rose? Was she a groupie?"
"Okay, enough questions," he huffed, grabbing the envelopes from her hands. "All these can wait until later."
"Hmm." She eyed him thoughtfully. "You know what you need, don't you?"
Feeling somewhat suspicious, he asked, "What?"
"Me!" she declared, pointing at her face.
"You?"
"I'm a professional PA, remember, you prawn," she tutted. "I could have these organised and answered in a jiffy. Just give me a desk and a computer or typewriter. With a stack of paper to type on, obviously."
"Obviously," he echoed. "What would you say?"
She airily waved a hand about. "Stuff like: 'thank you for your attention, it is very kind of you,' blah blah blah. Have you got any photos to sign?" she wondered, looking around at what might be her working space.
"No. Should I?"
"Can't do any harm, can it," she reasoned, "depending on the historical era, naturally. Black and white might be best. Let me go and get my phone to take one." As she passed by him, she added, "Go comb your hair. You need to look good for your fans."
"I really don't….," he began to protest; but she was gone. He ran a hand through his hair and considered this new situation, before looking down at the piles of paperwork by his feet.
If he got all this done and out of the way, the TARDIS would be delighted with him, and she might cooperate a little bit more. Plus, she had led Donna into this room in the first place, so the Old Girl's intentions were crystal clear.
"Okay. Another reason you sent Donna to me. I get that," he murmured and felt the tinkling laughter of self-accomplishment in his head.
All this approval wouldn't go to his head after all. He knew Donna would make sure he stayed grounded as they tackled this difficult task.
"If I find anything incriminating or embarrassing, I get first dibs in sharing it with Martha!" she then cheekily cried from afar.
Yes, definitely should be fun, he assured himself.