There's a knock at the door to his hotel room. Nobody ever knocks at where he is unless he orders room service, which he hasn't, yet. With a sigh, The Doctor gets up, smiling for whoever's there to hide his distrust.
"Er… Flowers for a Mister… John Smith?" A pimply and freckled kid says, half asking, with a glance to the vase of pink and yellow roses in his hands.
"I didn't order any," The Doctor replies simply, looking bemused for the kid.
"Don't have to, sir," The kid replies with a smile, his voice cracking, "They're a gift from someone. Just read the card."
He smiles and shakes his head, subtly holding his breath as he takes them and mutters a thank you. Nobody but an amateur would try anything with a public service like this. Especially since it was a major company. But who else would be able to track him down?
So he does as instructed and reads the card: "Want to get a coffee? Or maybe chips? –Hannah Baxter"
He just stares at the card for a moment. How did she find him? What, did he slip up and…
Fuck. He used the same name for his hotel reservation. And he calls himself a professional.
The Doctor ends up staying for the required two days… But he switches hotels. And towns. And identities.
The trip back to his flat in London is uneventful.
He gets to use one of his older identities – in every sense of the word. He looks about 60, white hair and sharp eyes, and acts like just an active old Englishman. It was one of his first alternate identities, started as a joke with a partner when he first made his name in the industry: She used to pretend to be his granddaughter. It was more fun, back then. He'd snipe at someone with words every so often and she'd act shocked or try to make nice. Too bad Susan settled down. He read somewhere in the paper that she'd been caught up in a family member's war and was presumed dead, along with quite a few of his old contacts… Just one more thing to isolate him, he supposed.
When he's back, however, he undoes his prosthetics and unpacks just in time for his phone to ring. It's Jack.
"Hey," his friend says, not even waiting for a hello, "We've just got an anonymous tip that Ms. Tyler is going after the Crown of Queen Elizabeth. She must have a hell of a lot of confidence, since it's still locked in the Tower of London and is easily protected."
"When's she going to go after it?" The Doctor asks, already planning how to best approach this.
"Next week we've got a bit of an event for the girl guides," Harkness replies, "and the security is going to be a bit more focused away from the Tower. Normally we'd just add more, but given past experiences…"
"I've got it, Jack. Just tell me where you want her dropped off." The Doctor then writes down the slight idea he's got – as well as a reminder to use his tranquilizer gun – and smirks at the fact he can make his friend laugh before hanging up.
He gets his flat into order one last time before turning to sort through what his plan of attack will be. "Save them one last time," he says to his laptop, waiting for it to power up, "I remember when I thought I would never be done saving them… Never thought I'd feel this old."
((A/N: Sorry I've been gone a while! I went to a 5-day con and met a Doctor who I am now the Rose for and the week since has been… Distracting. Anyway, I'm hopefully going to be able to write longer and more often [sorry for inconsistent updates, btw] and finish the two prompts I also have running. If not, I apologize, but please bear in mind I might be busy either working on my vocal group/press kit or some other [potentially professional!] writing! Which reminds me, I have to call that man about his manuscript…
Anyway! Comments, questions, prompts, and recipes are always welcome~ Hope you liked the [unfortunately short] addition! Ta!))