AN: This story features the Richard E. Grant Doctor seen in the BBCi webcast, The Scream of the Shalka, and is set pre-Shalka.
Aftermath
The fighting had stopped.The Doctor lay still, eyes open but too dizzy to stand. Concussion, he guessed, running his tongue across dry lips and tasting blood. He would have suspected that he was dead or in the midst of some bizarre regeneration crisis if it hadn't been for the pain and the sudden appearance of a face above his.
He felt strong arms lifting him to his feet, and found he was able to stand. Almost.
"Foolish as your plan was, Doctor, it seems to have worked."
He wanted to sleep, to close his eyes and slip away. Let his thoughts make some sort of sense. But he couldn't stand the uncertainty. The not knowing.
"What happened?" he asked hoarsely.
"You don't remember?"
He wanted to shake his head, but the dizziness was too much. He felt himself falling forwards, but the arms caught him in time.
"I think it might be best to take you to the Zero Room," the other man muttered. "So nice of them to install another one."
The words seemed to make sense, and so he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. As they passed through the corridors, one after another, so similar and yet he knew there were differences. He knew this place.
And there was something missing. Something he'd forgotten.
Until he saw her.
Just a few steps ahead, her dark hair catching the faint light. She glanced back as he stumbled and gave him a tiny smile.
There, it was enough, and he closed his eyes, not caring if he fell.
III
"Doctor!"
The sharp tone of the voice broke him out of his sleep.
"What do you want now?" he snapped easily, opening his eyes and sitting up. He blinked once, letting his eyes become used to the bright whiteness of the room.
"Merely to check your condition," replied the Master.
"I'd heal a lot faster without you constantly fussing," came the muttered reply.
"Nevertheless our superiors would be most displeased with me should any permanent harm come to you. And this is the first day when you've had more than a few minutes lucidity. I intent to make sure that your mental faculties are intact."
"They are perfectly intact, thank you very much. Now go away."
The Master ignored the dismissal, and asked, "So you remember?"
"I...no, not everything," the Doctor said quietly. "It doesn't matter. It'll come back."
And when he closed his eyes he saw dark hair and soft laugher melting in the flames of his perfect, stylish solution.
III
"What is this?" demanded the Master storming into the room that the Doctor used as his study. The bottle landed heavily on the oak desk.
The Doctor glanced at the bottle and replied, "A fine bottle of Armaganac. I picked it up when...
"It's empty."
"Yes. So?"
The Master sighed and looked around the study. So compact, so cozy, so very full of sentimental nonsense.
"This has to stop," he said finally.
"No one is asking you to take care of me," retorts the Doctor, practically spitting the last four words. His eyes narrowed as he sat back and looked up at the Master, his skin as pale and gaunt as ever. But the shadows under his eyes were growing; his voice was hoarser than it should have been.
"Nevertheless, I feel an obligation."
"Well, don't."
There was a moment of silence as the two Time Lords glared at each other. It was the Master who looked away first, spinning on his heel and clasping hands behind his back. For a moment, he was tempted to leave. It would be so easy, so much easier than this. But he couldn't quite see the Doctor saving himself from the self-destructive path he has set himself on. And whether he liked it or not, he did owe the Doctor his life.
"They've called," he said quietly.
"I do hope they enjoyed the answering machine message," came the retort, and the Master couldn't help but cringe slightly. They hadn't been particularly happy about that.
"They wanted to know why we...why you haven't been in contact."
That, at least, gave the Doctor pause for thought. He looked away for a moment, his eyes resting on an ancient globe of the Earth. "What did you tell them?" he asked.
"Complications."
"How succinct."
"You'd prefer some other explanation?"
"No," the Doctor shook his head. "No." He reached out to the globe, touching it with one finger and then sending it spinning on its axis. "I think...I think I'd like to go to Earth," he said softly.
"You're sure?"
"You wanted to help, didn't you?" snapped the Doctor. "Go and set the co-ordinates."
The Master parodied a bow and left.
III
He was wearing one of his old coats and an over-sized scarf. Nothing feigning to be elegant there, but even a Time Lord wouldn't last long in these temperatures without some form of protection.
Helping to pick out suitable clothes for the hostile environment was hardly entertaining for the Master, but he hadn't seen the Doctor this animated for weeks. It seemed like once the other Time Lord had given up his short monosyllabic responses, he was quite unable to shut up.
"I'll be back soon," the Doctor told him, pulling the hood up over his head.
The Master raised a hand in farewell and operated the controls to the door. Without another look behind him, the Doctor stomped out into the snow, letting a flurry of flakes into the TARDIS.
It was self-indulgent and pointless as far as the Master was concerned, but the Doctor has insisted on this retreat to the wilderness. Apparently, it helped one to think.
The Master was just glad that the TARDIS would be free of his companion's brooding presence for a few hours, at least.
He moved the low table back between the two armchairs by the fireplace and set up the chess pieces. A few hours quiet reading would pass the time before he would have to respond to the Doctor's opening move. Now, at least the Doctor had moved on from a brooding silence, and perhaps the change in mood would present him with a more challenging game.