CHANGING SPOTS

Doctor Who and the TARDIS are trademarks of the BBC.

This is a one-off idea I had some time ago. It's a "What-if?" concept really…what if it wasn't the Seventh Doctor who got infected with the Cheetah-virus...and what if that virus was not so easy to dislodge?

Okay. It's weird, I know. Just let me know what you think. Please try not to flame if you can.

Tegan turned from the control panel and headed off into the maze of corridors that the TARDIS had conspired to create for her that day.

Every day different – why couldn't the blasted thing make up its mind where it was going to keep the kitchen and have done with it? Especially today, when she was not feeling at her most inventive, and her mind was all of a confusion.

Still, perhaps the TARDIS was upset too. She got the feeling that the time-ship was linked to its master in more ways than one. Maybe his condition was affecting it.

She opened three doors before finding the pale cool tiles of the kitchen: once there, she stayed only long enough to pick up the blotchy-red, wrapped package from its place. Holding it as far away from her as possible, she went out again, this time in search of the Doctor.

He was, fortunately, where she had left him.

The door opened out into a long tiled corridor, lit with dim yellow lamps. Up ahead was the white glow of genuine daylight, and the sounds of splashing echoed down towards her.

Natural light…

It has to be an illusion, she told herself as she hurried towards it. No daylight could possibly get into this sealed ship…or could it?

The package she was holding leaked something wetly onto her hand, and she almost ran out into the pool room with a squeak of disgust.

The vast, glassy ceiling of the pool room stretched up to apparent infinity. In the corners were massive green tree-ferns and fresh ivy crawled up the roof supports, lazily. Tegan walked out almost to the edge of the deep end, concerned because there was no sign of the Doctor. She wavered by the blue water, peering into all corners – experience over the last few days had taught her to do this – then called:

"Doctor? Are you here?"

She nearly died of fright when she realised he was mere feet away from her, watching her unblinkingly, standing so still that her eyes had missed him in the dancing, watery light. "Oh, Doc," she gasped, "don't do that…"

His head cocked to one side, pale blond hair falling over one eye. Then, apparently losing interest, he turned and dived into the pool, splitting the water with barely a ripple.

The scars on his back and flank were horribly noticeable against his tanned skin. They stood out, five of them, thin and white and freshly healed. Tegan frowned. One of them looked redder and more raw than it had that morning, and she suspected he'd been worrying at it.

He swam with unnatural grace the length of the pool, then turned and swam back, immediately. Ceaseless energy. That was another thing she'd noticed. He did not seem to tire (not, Tegan corrected herself, that the Doctor had ever really been easily wearied) and if not occupied became sullen and restless, pacing about the corridors of his ship without ever seeming to realise where he was.

The swimming idea had been hers, and it had proved a good one.

Steeling herself, she peeled open the packet and crumpled the paper in one hand to make a noise. The Doctor's head surfaced instantly, hair dark with water (Rabbits, thought Tegan, I can still see the spots) and he grasped the concrete poolside to haul himself out.

She hurried to the little picnic table set up on the dais at one end of the room, and put the packet down. The Doctor (He's got himself a towel, thought Tegan with relief, now there's an improvement on yesterday) padded damply up to one of the white plastic chairs and sat down awkwardly. One hand scrabbled awkwardly towards the packet.

"Before you eat," said Tegan quickly, pulling the food away from him, "would you like to –"

She struggled to remain calm as the rumbling growl built in the Doctor's throat and rattled irritably around his ribcage. It only ceased when she took her hand off the packet. "Okay," she said. "Okay. Have it your way."

There was a brief, messy interlude, but not (thought Tegan) as messy as the first day he had come back in from Ferisian, when not only had the meat had to be raw, it had had to be moving as well. She managed to only heave once.

The Doctor looked at her with bright eyes – no longer hungry, he was ready to be more co-operative – and Tegan was relieved to see a hint of blue behind the gold irises. "Now," she said, "what shall we do today, Doc? You want to play a game?"

The Doctor beamed at her. He had obviously been waiting for this. He vanished off around one corner, returning seconds later with a rather tatty paperback book in one hand, which he gave to her and looked expectant.

"You want me to read to you?"

He nodded, then coughed and said: "Ye-essss…pleassse…"

Tegan was overjoyed. The first word in English he had spoken had been two days ago, and it had not been friendly. His voice was raw and ruined from the howling Ferisian speech, but it was there. He was talking.

Tegan took the book, and to her surprise it was an old copy of "Puss in Boots" complete with pictures. She glanced at him, but he looked now plaintive, so she opened to the first page and began:

"Once there was a poor boy, but he was not unhappy to be poor because he had a marvellous cat that could walk on its hind legs and talk like a man…"

As she read, she watched him out of the corner of her eye, and wondered if she'd ever get him back.