Chapter Nine: Black Pots and Kettles

Despite his fatigue, the Doctor had trouble getting to sleep. Every movement shot pain through his back and his mind was still active, too many thoughts going around it.

He couldn't believe Wilfred was refusing to leave. No, actually scratch that—of course he would. The Doctor should have realised he would. He would have, had the roles been reversed. And they had an awful lot in common with each other.

That didn't help. The Doctor had just had his hearts torn open seeing his mother for the last time. The last thing he wanted now was to have to go through the same routine with his … father.

He wasn't sure if it would be better or worse, the fact that they had never been a family. All he knew was he was afraid of getting used to having a father around, to being looked after, to not having to be the strong one all the time … because the moment Wilf stepped out the TARDIS, all that would be gone.

And he would go, eventually. He had a daughter and granddaughter to care for. A home and family. Where the Doctor could never go.

Wilfred rummaged through the medical box, looking for the one item he hadn't yet used. There had been no mention of them in the list of instructions, but the dosage was clearly written on the bottle and it must have been there for a reason. He tipped two sleeping pills into his palm, poured out a glass of water and presented them to the Doctor.

"I know you're not asleep," he said, and the Doctor opened his eyes. "Here. These were in the box."

He glanced at them, then half-sat up and swallowed them before laying back down. "Thanks," he said, now sounding groggy.

Wilf settled back in his usual chair, watching as the Doctor slid into a deep sleep. Once he was certain he wasn't going to stir, Wilf looked at the readings the Doctor had been studying before.

Not much made sense to him, but what he saw worried him. Different parts of the Doctor's body were coloured, with numbers and writing everywhere. The colours were shades of mauve, from completely white over the unaffected areas to his deep mauve hearts.

It didn't take a genius to guess that mauve meant something was wrong.

"Oh, Doctor," Wilf sighed. "Why didn't you just say something, you silly boy."

He didn't dare try and treat anything until the Doctor woke up, just in case. But they would definitely be having words when that happened.

Wilfred wasn't sure when he had fallen asleep, but when he woke up, he had a severe crick in his neck from sleeping in the chair. Rubbing it absently, he realised with a start that the bed next to him was empty.

"Doctor?"

A blanket had been laid over him while he slept and a pillow propped behind his head. Wilf pushed the blanket off and, after ascertaining that the medbay was empty, went looking for the Doctor.

It didn't take long. The Doctor had unwound the ball of string to lead Wilf on, and within minutes he arrived in the console room. "Morning," the Doctor said without looking up as Wilf entered. "I think."

Taking that to mean he still couldn't tell the time, Wilf bit back the question of how long he'd been asleep—or to be more precise, how long the Doctor had been up, fully dressed and playing with his TARDIS controls. Instead, he said, "Thanks for the pillow and blanket."

"No problem. I'd have moved you to a proper bed but I didn't want to wake you up; you looked like you needed the sleep." Before Wilf could comment on the hypocrisy of this statement, the Doctor looked around at him. "Did you not sleep when I did?"

"A bit. I tried not to," Wilf said. "And talking of needing sleep, what are you doing up and about like nothing ever happened?"

The Doctor, who had been flitting from one part of the console to another throughout the whole conversation, grinned. "Sleep did me good. I feel much better. Still sore, but stronger. Can you pass my sonic screwdriver? It's on the seat."

Wilf picked it up, but didn't hand it over. "What about the scan that says your hearts are mauve?"

"What?—Oh, you saw that. I did another one, they're much paler now," the Doctor said. "And the rest is mostly white. I'm on the mend."

"Yes, on the mend, not mended," Wilf pointed out. "Don't you think you should still be resting?"

"I can't. Keeping still for too long drives me bonkers. I need to move." The Doctor darted over to Wilf and relieved him of the sonic screwdriver.

Wilf sighed, feeling like he was trying to discipline a petulant child. The irony was not lost on him. "Well at least move carefully. Not rushing about all over the place, you don't want to—"

"Aah!"

"Like that." Wilf hurried over. The Doctor's legs had buckled and he was clutching his side. "What is it?"

"I—jarred my ribs … not all of them were quite finished—ow."

"Here, come on my boy. Let me." Wilf helped him up and into the chair.

The Doctor sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "This is so frustrating," he ground out.

"I know, but if you're almost well then it won't be for long, will it?"

There was an awkward pause. The Doctor had dropped his eyes. "Guess that means you'll be going soon."

"Not until I'm satisfied you'll be all right." Wilf didn't elaborate on when that would be. He wasn't sure himself. He sensed it was a good time to change the subject. "Maybe we should get you back to the medbay."

"No. I'm fine. It'll heal, I don't need anything."

"Just some rest and relaxation," Wilf suggested. "And don't you refuse," he added, waggling a finger, as the Doctor opened his mouth. "You can't deny that taking it easy is the smart thing to do."

The Doctor groaned. "All right, fine. But I'm not going back to the medbay. I'd rather be in my room."

"Fair enough."

"But first I'm gonna see what time it is," the Doctor said, struggling to his feet. "I can't stand this anymore."

"Er … aren't we still at the Naismith's place?" Wilf asked as the Doctor started walking, at a much more sedate pace, towards the doors.

"No. I moved her this morning, couple of miles away. I didn't look outside, though."

The Doctor opened the door and Wilf joined him, looking out on the London street. When the Doctor stepped out, Wilf stayed in the TARDIS—just in case the Doctor tried to hop back inside and shut him out. He wasn't taking any risks.

It was either getting dark, or getting light. Wilf couldn't be certain—it felt very strange, not knowing the time of day.

"Excuse me," the Doctor said to a passing woman. "Do you have the time?"

"Yes, it's …" She looked at her watch. "Just gone five."

"And the date?"

She gave him a funny look, but said, "Twenty-eighth of December."

"Thank you."

After much coaxing, the Doctor had agreed to stay in bed—at his insistence, his own bed. But rather than spending the whole time sleeping, Wilf kept him company—playing games together when the Doctor needed activity, or when he needed to rest, telling stories.

"Your turn," Wilf said, after having finished relating six-year-old Donna's trip to Strathclyde. The Doctor finished giggling and went quiet, thinking.

"Can we do requests?" Wilf said after a few moments of silence.

"Requests?"

"Yeah. I was wondering …" Wilf trailed off. "Nah, actually, never mind."

"What?"

"No—nothin'."

"Go on, Wilf, just tell me."

"I … I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything; it's too soon."

"Wilf," the Doctor said, though now he looked a bit worried.

"All right, if you insist. I was just wondering … about the Master. I mean, it seemed like you two had a history. An' I'm sure I've seen him before, just can't place his face."

"Oh," the Doctor said softly.

"Sorry. I shouldn't—"

"No, it's okay. It is an interesting story—well, actually, a whole lot of interesting stories. If I were to tell you all of them we'd be here till next Christmas." Wilf chuckled. "But I can tell you how you know his face."

"How?"

"Harold Saxon."

Wilf felt the blood drain from his face as it clicked. "Oh blimey! That was him!" He paused. "He looked different off the telly."

"Not to mention the blonde shock," the Doctor pointed out.

"Yeah, that too. Cor blimey. What happened then, then?"

"Well," the Doctor began, "it all started with a watch …"

TBC …