There was an avalanche of thudding – a fumblingly enormous racket, emitting from the far-flung depths of the TARDIS.

In crashes, slams and stumbles, for the first time in centuries, its pilot's quarters underwent a rather frenzied tidying. Books swept violent off the bedspread, dirty laundry punted into the cupboard, hundreds of years' worth of well-memorised tripping hazards nudged out of sight into the gloom beneath the bed. It had been quite some time since it'd hosted company of any sort, and the hallmarks of consistently male solitude were incredibly conspicuous. Question-marked boxers were snatched off the bedpost. A rogue stalk of celery swiftly binned, a cricketer's hat tossed in a box atop a flute: the varied personal effects of what appeared to be ten different bachelors hastily sorted from most to least difficult to explain, and hidden accordingly. The History of the Last Great Time War consigned to a bureau drawer under lock and key – removed from the desktop where it had spent the last several years, its final chapter in a perpetual state of agonised incompletion.

The TARDIS, ever the loyal sidekick, did its part dutifully. Subtly lengthening corridors, shuffling doorways, quietly remapping its own layout – turning four lefts and a right into half a mile and an exasperated what the hell – until all was presentable.

At which point the Doctor's off-the-wall bounding reeled to a screeching, skidding stop, and he stalled out in the centre of his bedchamber: breathing a bit too heavily as he looked it all over with dire intensity.

"What'd you think?" he exhaled, combing a swift hand through his hair, mindlessly dragging the top to stand madly on end. "Will that do?"

The spaceship provided a subtle, churning hum: utterly indistinguishable from any other sound it had ever produced.

"Good," he murmured, and nodded imperceptibly, mouth barely moving with the determination. "Good."

Perhaps he was overthinking how keenly Martha would be interested in the environment, given the circumstances of the invitation, and what she'd be preoccupied with doing whilst she was actually in his room, but – well. Couldn't be too careful. She'd a dangerously sharp eye, that one.

All was well, all was in place, his sanctum sanctorum as close to respectable as it'd ever get – primed and ready for guests.

Time to get down to the very next order of business, then: himself.

The Doctor took rapid and thorough stock of his physiology. He gave a slight sniff, a bit of a bounce on his toes – the Time Lord equivalent of running system analysis.

And he was gratified to discover: all systems were a definite go. Namely, the ones relevant to this particular endeavour – all the fiddly bits below the waist he normally paid no mind to, that sort of just existed in isolation on his person.

Sex organs. Interesting, really, that he even had them. A kind of evolutionary oversight, on behalf of the Time Lords; a pointless holdover from the pre-loom days, that they'd never quite got around to editing out of the genome. As of yet unused, but decidedly functional nonetheless.

The blessing of a younger, fitter body. He could hardly imagine how he'd go about this were he crotchety and grey at the moment. Had this regeneration not been such a rabbit out of a hat in terms of 21st century sex appeal, poor Martha might've been doomed.

But she was rather fond of the lanky, ruffly, sideburned visage he was sporting at the moment (if her astounding pheromone output in close proximity to him was any indication), and it was a fortunate thing indeed. Were he in another incarnation, were he not quite her type; this could get dreadfully uncomfortable. Terribly visual creatures, after all, humans. Especially when it came to sex.

Which wasn't to say that the Doctor was himself immune to visuals, of course. Most of his regenerations had only cared for a riveting intellect, but this one in particular – it seemed to be a bit of a blunt instrument, embarrassingly humanlike in the way it experienced attraction. It was jarringly surface-level, all furtive glances and stolen admiration. This time around, he knew, frankly, when he saw something he liked.

Rose's destructive influence, he suspected. This regeneration in so many ways had her fingerprints all over it, and his new humiliating proclivity for pretty things seemed an inevitable culmination of all of the forbidden, decidedly unintellectual ways he had appreciated her company. It'd all begun with that bloody lace shawl and Charles Dickens. Loose yellow strands and a delightfully pink mouth had more or less taken a wrecking ball to his psyche.

And it'd only snowballed from there. Case in point: after losing Rose, and being (rightly) rejected by Donna after committing a teensy-weensy bit of a genocide in front of her, he'd sworn off companionship entirely, vowing to himself that he wouldn't drag another poor human into the crossfire of his raging grief. Then Martha Jones had tossed him one coquettish over-the-shoulder smile, offered a little extra swing of her hips that her white coat hadn't even begun to obscure as she walked away: and his solemn vow of solitude had gone right to hell.

That, he'd decided, then and there. He liked that – and so he'd gone and taken it, like a fool. Like a magpie entranced by a shiny thing, squirreling it back to his nest and hoarding it for himself. No self-control whatsoever.

Though they had possessed rather more restraint in their appreciation, it wasn't as though other incarnations had been blind to such things. The Doctor's fixation with humanity wasn't entirely cerebral admiration, or innocent enthusiasm for their inventive, indomitable spirit. Humans (whether through pure coincidence or some sort of unethical timeline meddling, he'd have to look into it) appeared wonderfully – albeit superficially – Gallifreyan on the surface. A fundamentally different creature, of course, cursed with mayfly lifespans (and couldn't pick up on a telepathic wavelength to save their little lives), but visually, they appealed to all of his senses in all the right ways.

And he'd been around the block more than once – he didn't need to be with a species that resembled his own. There was a certain thrill, to be sure, in the unknown and exotic, the vivid diversity that the cosmos had to offer. But that wasn't to say he didn't appreciate, at this moment, that Martha was human, and not, say, a little green space snail from the pewter mines of Trandileos Prime. Lovely individuals, those snails, brilliant personalities, cracking sense of humour…

Still. Now that he was all aesthetically-inclined… not the sort of species he'd want to have sex with, a Trandilean. Great for a drink and a laugh. A shag? Not so much. Highly-evolved and complex a man though the Doctor was; even he couldn't get past the slime.

Human beings, on the other hand, as far as shags went… well.

There was an admission he wasn't about to touch. Jack Harkness would intercept it a thousand light years away and materialise in his TARDIS just to gloat.

It was hardly without complication, this; what with Martha being in love with him, and his lack of reciprocation of those feelings. But as for pure physical compatibility – they'd rather gotten lucky. There would be no mental acrobatics necessary, to get himself in the right frame of mind, so to speak. With sex being the adaptational relic that it was for him, it was only natural that the human body, such a close analogue of his own, set him at ease. All the responses were largely the same, all the parts matched up nice and neat. He was a masterful student of human biology, and knew all the pressure points, erogenous zones and ticklish bits like the back of his hand.

And now more than ever, he could appreciate a beautiful thing. Whether that happened to be iridescent nebular gas, or the first blushing glimmer of a freshly-birthed star, or Leela running around in that skimpy, leather little bit of nothing she'd been so fond of. Whether it was the dawn of an intergalactic ceasefire, or a glimpse of Rose Tyler's tongue on the heels of a full-beam smile. Whether it was a fleeting moment of equilibrium in the whirling sands of time, or Donna Noble's wedding day décolletage. Not to mention Sarah Jane Smith, Peri Brown, Liz Shaw, Grace Holloway…

…or Martha Jones. The dramatic womanly curves – the deliciously unforgiving fit of the denim on those curves. The Egyptian hints of her dark, probing eyes. The radiant revelation of her skin, flesh that sheened and shimmered like flowing gold. So very palpable, her beauty, and yet still somehow ethereal all the same; bright and dark and lush, like daybreak in an Earthen glade. As though she were not quite real, some tortured and painstaking work of art – sculpted by the hands of a self-indulgent god.

He'd always had immaculate taste, but she really was harrowingly exquisite. Which wasn't even to speak of the mind. That gorgeous, wicked sharp mind of hers.

No – he couldn't imagine the energy transfer was going to be particularly difficult at all.

The distance between them he'd been so careful to maintain was about to wholly and utterly implode; for better or for worse. All of his careful manoeuvring, all of his dancing about her obvious adoration, dodging every whisper of meaning or sentiment she pushed at him… it had been a bit exhausting, the whole routine. He found himself almost relieved there was no longer a point.

He was going to have to give in to the particular weaknesses of this regeneration. The tightly coiled, untapped volatility he'd spent so much time mastering, that he'd up until now kept an airtight-sealed lid on… he would have to let it out.

To save Martha Jones, to facilitate a full energy transfer, he'd be obliged to – if not entirely un-lid himself – crack it just the tiniest bit open. Let a little bit of the fever and rebellion and the darkness seep through. To subdue the hard-worn Gallifreyan self-discipline, and give into all those warm, natural, corporeal impulses which had wildly addicted the entity inside Martha.

He'd have to get his blood pumping in a way he hadn't dared in so long. Give into parts of himself that were kept quiet and satiated by the regular courses of hearts-bursting adrenaline and mortal peril. Let himself uncoil properly for the first time in… blimey. Centuries. Absolute yonks, really, when he thought about it.

And when he did think about it…

The Doctor stared hard at the bed he'd slept in for hundreds of years, letting his mind venture to corners it had dared not touch for an age.

The benefit of a Time Lord's mind was that there was no such thing as an intrusive thought. His mind was laser-sharp, rigidly organised, intentional – every connection of synapses orchestrated and deliberate. She was his companion, it was forbidden; and so he had never thought of her before in a sexual context. It was simple as that.

But the downside of a Time Lord's vivid imagination was that, even for a moment, in allowing his thoughts to run to those untouched places – the result was almost devastatingly powerful.

He could see her there. Sitting on the edge of the sheet, her little fingers running nervous over the wrinkles in the fabric. Her complexion would glow like sunrise against the bedspread, he already knew: all the deep, rich tones bleeding together, rises and crests of golden brown poured on burgundy like a gentle, bottomless wave. He could see it undulating softly, twisting, writhing and rustling and coming alive, silken and soft. Could smell the sweat and the salt, the sex and the sweetness, feel her arms and shoulders flexing, calves and thighs drawing up, drifting apart, her legs spreading wide and willing as…

Ah – look at that.

He was hard.

The physical response brought the Doctor back to reality with a deep inhale, a forceful blink. His bed went vacant again, the vision beautifully awrithe against the red sheet vanishing.

Well. That was… something, certainly.

He cleared his throat lowly. Made a point to relax the blood vessels which had involuntarily begun to constrict below his waist, the uncomfortable tightening at the front of his trousers.

Maybe he'd been wound a bit tightly this go round, but that… seemed a bit much. Simply wouldn't do to be worked up when she entered the room. At attention in expectation of her, like some overexcited virgin, a nervous adolescent of ninety.

He wasn't nervous, of course. He'd gone down this road loads of times. He remembered enough to know that his fifth and eighth incarnations had been utter fiends, when the opportunity (and inclination) presented itself. So – nervous, that was hardly the word. Apprehensive, perhaps. A natural trepidation, probably just to do with the incredibly intimate particulars of what he had to do; a bit of par-for-the-course, deeply-instilled Time Lord squeamishness surrounding sex and emotion and other gushy, messy human affairs.

He wasn't nervous. He was the Doctor; he didn't do nervous. Could potentially explain why he spent so much time waltzing blind into things and getting killed in creative ways – but it was the principle of the thing. Nervous was insulting and pointless, irritatingly human and – come on, where was she?

What in God's name was taking so long? Was she taking the scenic route? Clipping her bloody toenails? Didn't she know they were on a time crunch here?

The Doctor gave a mild growl of frustration, raked at his hair again and went for the door.

He'd have to retrieve her. He certainly wasn't going to have her hiding out, getting herself soupified because her nerves had gotten the better of her. Sighing, he sent a mental communique to the TARDIS to report Martha's whereabouts to him, and—

Oh.

"Oh," he said, startled, almost running her down outside his doorway. "There you are."

And there was a bit of unease, then. If she'd decided to come in just a few moments prior, blimey. That'd have gotten the ball rolling.

Martha looked up at him a bit sheepishly.

"Here I am," she affirmed, voice small, arms hanging lame to her sides. "Sorry."

"Good! Worried you'd go and scarper on me, for a bit."

She shifted her weight uncomfortably. "No, I wouldn't… scarper."

The Doctor looked around, then, and frowned. "How long have you been standing here?"

"Oh, y'know…" She exhaled with puffed cheeks and forced a little self-deprecating shrug. "Not long."

"Right," he said. "So you're just…" He glanced about the corridor, eyes flicking over the glowing roundels. "Hanging out, then?"

"Actually, I… well." She seemed to gather herself. "There's – a problem."

One brow went up. "A problem," he repeated.

"Yes. It's just, I – I realised that I haven't got any, you know, erm… protection."

The Doctor's other eyebrow joined the first in elevation.

The apples of her cheeks began to go a lovely shade of mauve. "I – I did check the infirmary, but I couldn't find anything – I don't suppose you'd have a thing like that anyhow – and I didn't bring any myself when I came along because, well." The longer he stared at her, the faster her speech rushed. "Thing is, I'm taking norethindrone, but I don't know if that… you know, actually works with you. As you're not human. And I know it prevents the full development of the egg but, I mean – you can turn yourself human and absorb suns and do a million other bloody impossible things, so it's not exactly a stretch of the imagination to think you could fertilise a half-developed—"

"Martha."

She stopped, eyes overly wide, breathing a little too fast.

The Doctor shook his head and gave a faint chuckle.

Here he'd been, worrying she was off hiding in a cupboard, awaiting death in the grip of some tedious he loves me not business; and all the while Martha had been thinking it through on a forensic, biological level. Contraceptives, prophylactics: logical, practical, even in dire straits. Sure, he'd done a number on her, but even in love, Martha Jones was no quivering damsel. Eminently sensible, she was. A pure scientist, clinical to the end.

He really had struck gold with her, hadn't he?

"It's fine," he promised, unable to help the twitch of his lips. "You're all right. I assure you, there'll be no fertilisation of any sort."

"Well, how do you know?"

He sighed. "Trust me. I know."

"Have you ever done this with a human before?" she pressed.

"Martha…"

"Because I'm going to need a bit more than trust me on this one, Doctor. I mean – have you never watched a film? It's all, I can't get you pregnant, no way no how, pish posh, biologically impossible, until I'm carrying around the Not-Quite-Last of the Time Lords in maternity knickers and my mum's breathing fire down my…"

"I cannot," he said firmly, grasping her by the shoulders, "get you pregnant."

And what an interesting conversation, to be having with his young human companion. Nine-hundred years; live too long, and you really did get around to doing everything.

Martha paused, clearly hesitant.

"No way," he added for good measure. "No how. Pish posh, biologically impossible."

She did not look amused in the slightest. "My mum would kill me, Doctor. And you too. I'd have to drop out of med school to take care of a baby, and—"

"And she'd make a fully-armed Dalek fleet look like a bank holiday Monday, yeah. I've met her, remember?"

"— and I probably couldn't even get an abortion! Not that I'd necessarily want one, mind, but – if I even thought about it I'd probably be brought up on… intergalactic charges for endangering a species, or something! Trying to abort your baby? I'd be halfway to genocide! I can't even begin to get my head around the ramifications of…"

In spite of the rather disturbingly morbid analysis, he chuckled again – more at her frantic conjecture than anything. "Martha," he interjected, soothing, "Martha. Slow down."

She looked up at him, swallowing.

"I mean it. Time Lords and humans… it wasn't done." He sighed and glanced away. "Notoriously, well… xenophobic bunch, as it happened, the Time Lords."

Her brow furrowed, and she seemed a bit startled. "Really?"

"I know I only ever talk about the good, but… yeah. Really. Interspecies mating was unspeakably taboo, and as for interspecies offspring – genetically impossible, without medical intervention. They made sure of it. Couldn't stand the idea of any unsanctioned little hybrids running around."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

For another moment or two, she regarded him, biting the corner of her lip.

"So we don't… need a condom."

He cocked his head. "Do you want one?"

She gave an unassertive shrug. "I mean, I don't… you know." She winced a little, gestured broadly. "I don't have anything."

The Doctor's brows went slightly askew as he looked down at her, gaze quizzical.

"I mean," she fumbled, cheeks darkening, "STDs, or anything, I don't—"

"Oh," he realised. "No, I know."

Her eyes just about doubled in size – and then narrowed, rapid, into puzzled suspicion. "You know?"

"Yeah. When you were in quarantine, the TARDIS ran a full bio-scan on you. Would've picked up anything like that. Didn't detect so much as an ear infection. Healthy as a horse, you are."

"What – other than the possession and pending death, you mean?"

His lips turned up at the corner, quirking swiftly at the sarcasm. "Other than that, yeah."

"Then…" She hesitated. "I mean, you haven't got anything, have you?"

"Three-hundred years, Martha," he reminded her drily, one eyebrow upraised. "You're asking a fossil."

She seemed to hold her breath for a second.

"Right – it's not that I don't trust you, yeah?" she started, insistent.

"Mm-hm," he said slowly, squinting a bit.

"Because I do. I mean, with my life. But…" Her face was twisting. "It's just – in the club, with that bloke, I didn't – you know, really get a choice. So I suppose I'd just feel a bit more comfortable if…"

"I'll go get my coat."

Her expression was unmistakably relieved. "Would you really do that?"

"Of course, Martha. Whatever you need."

"But you'll…" She smiled a little. "You'll get looks."

"Oh, I always get looks," he dismissed. "Now. Why don't you go in," he waved to his bedroom, "make yourself at home?"

"I can come with you."

"Nah, then we'll both get looks. Best not." He stepped back to let her into the room.

She took a few tentative steps forward, hesitating on the threshold: peering inside a bit shyly.

"I won't be a minute," he told her. "So don't you go—"

"Wandering off," she finished, rolling her eyes a little. "You always say that, but I never do."

"Don't start now." He gave her a pointed look. "I want you right here when I get back."

She blushed a bit. He wasn't sure why – he was serious as anything about the order.

"I will be," she said.

"Good. Be back in a tick."

A stalling tactic.

She was clever, but not that clever, and the Doctor knew a play for time when he saw one – as he was basically the unofficial patron saint of playing for time.

He didn't mind giving her the space she needed to work herself up to it, though. Getting mentally prepared for what they had to do – it was for the best.

Not that he was benefitting from the brief postponement himself. As he was not, in any way shape or form, nervous, and was frankly offended by even the implication.

He put the TARDIS back down in Cardiff; sent a family of rats diving for the shadows in panic, discarded paper and plastics fluttering into a mini vortex. In the alleyway where he had thoroughly upended two lives, he strode out onto planet Earth for the second time that evening, hands plunged deep into his pockets.

On his way, striding down the pavements of the Rift-adjacent city, he stopped briefly by an ATM and committed a casual robbery with the sonic. As he stuffed cash into the pockets of his trench coat, he felt the weight of observation – and lifted his gaze to find a woman sitting against a brick wall in a little heap of dingy coats, watching him keenly from beneath the flaps of a trapper hat.

He thought about it for a moment, then crossed to her swiftly and dumped a good handful of his loot into the little tin at her side. She looked down at the money.

He put a finger to his lips.

The woman gave him a sly, snaggled, conspiratorial smile.

"Bless you, love," she said.

Another two blocks of walking provided him with precisely what he was looking for.

It was a small storefront along the pavement, gleaming late into the night. From without the entire place looked a bit seedy (promising), sheltered under a rain-moulded red awning which stoutly declaimed: Newsagents – Tobacconist – Confectioners – Off Licence – General Store.

Ah, yes. The Doctor loved a little shop.

A large poster upon one of the greasy double windows informed him, through a sea of overlapping adverts, that he could hope to procure a diverse range of goods from within: beer, lottery tickets, calling cards, a sandwich, and even apparently oysters. Such a place would have been a harbinger of psychosis on Gallifrey. But the human race; they really did think of everything. Splendidly deranged, the lot of them.

Didn't quite say condoms on the tin – but he suspected they were being coy. He reckoned he needed a closer look, and strode across the damp street in long, sweeping strides, coattails billowing out behind him.

The bell above the door gave a sickly little tinkle as he nudged it open.

It was unexpectedly humid inside. The oysters hit him immediately, no time to brace for it, and he drew a deep, startled inhale, brows going up.

A man in a turban with a formidable moustache sat behind the till, nursing a cup of tea, deeply immersed in some sort of Bollywood drama playing out on a chunky wall-mounted television overhead. He glanced at the Doctor irritably upon his softly melodic intrusion – as though enormously inconvenienced by encountering business at his 24-hour business.

"Sorry! Don't mind me," called the Time Lord, whisking past. "Just stopping in, won't be a minute."

He turned away from the developing glare, and wandered down the narrow aisle between a solid panel of nothing but crisps and a refrigerated wall of about eighteen different kinds of fermented grain, hands plunged in his pockets, dim LED panels buzzing oppressively overhead. There were sweets for ages, a delightful rainbow of shiny plastic wrapping, which distracted him for a good minute – no, Doctor, got to keep these teeth – and plastic novelty keychains for touristy sorts. Just under a billion garish tabloid magazines hung upon the wall, largely splashed with flashy typeface exposing some heartthrob actor's secret and incredibly torrid affair with a male co-star (good for him, thought the Doctor) and various blurry 'bombshell' photographs of what could have been literally any two people on Earth snogging.

In a tiny nook in the back where the ceiling and wall were soiled by an enormous brown water spot that resembled a humpback whale, he discovered toiletries, little travel-size anti-perspirants and lotions and toothpastes – and he crouched to scour the floor-level shelves, wrists bracing across his knees, keenly scanning the products.

It seemed to be the right place, but none of his nosing about turned up any result. He found himself contemplating a packet of reusable plastic shower caps a bit too long for comfort. Then he imagined Martha's face, and stood back upright with a sigh, turning his attention to the front of the shop.

Best get it over with.

"Evening! Hullo."

The shopkeeper tensed up as the Doctor again interrupted his programming – doing his best to ignore him. Onscreen a rather beautiful woman in a sari was swooning dramatically, clutching her heroic lover, hiding from gunfire behind a tumbleweed.

"Hullo-o-o?"

There was a hurricane-force sigh. The man grudgingly lifted a remote, pausing his entertainment, turning on the Doctor a look that could've cracked glass.

"Sorry to bother," he wheedled, sidling up to the counter, flashing the wide, stretchy, full-toothed smile that Martha always told him was more unnerving than reassuring. She'd come around one day, he was sure. "Got a bit turned around, and I was just wondering if you could help me find something," he propped his elbows on the speckly laminate and peered closely at the man's crooked nametag, "Raj."

The man breathed another hard sigh. It seemed to come from the pit of a rapidly deteriorating soul. "What is it?" he exhaled, already seeming exhausted by the interaction.

"Well, I'm seeing the confectionery and the news and the tobacco, all as promised – and, blimey, those oysters are humming, aren't they – but I don't suppose you sell prophylactics around these parts?"

Another winning smile, for good measure.

The man stared at the Doctor blankly.

"You what?" he said, tone flat.

"I believe it's the most common form of contraception, this time of the century." He frowned at his wrist as though checking a watch. "Haven't got my dates wrong, have I? No, unless the coordinates have shifted again… but no, we had words, she wouldn't have played up like…"

"Contracep…" The man was working through exasperated puzzlement, which only seemed to be compounded by the fact that English was clearly his second language and the Doctor was pelting him with the sort of rapid-fire incoherence that could (and regularly did) trip up native speakers. "You mean, condoms?"

The Doctor's face lit up. "Ah! You've got them, then?" He leant his torso over the countertop, standing on his toes like a child at the ice cream counter. "You should advertise that in the window, Raj! Get more business in that way. Humanity's favourite pastime, intercourse, you lot can't get enough of it. And you're not the only ones in the universe, turns out… but that's a whole other story. I don't even know most of it. Anyway, condoms. Brilliant innovation. And necessary. Because believe you me, you do not want to overpopulate your planet."

The shopkeeper stared at him.

"No joke," said the Doctor. "I've seen it. 2080, worldwide drought. Hell of a crop shortage. Not to mention, landmasses shrinking, polar bears kaput, sea levels risen up to your neck – very sticky time to knock about on Earth. Steer clear. Bet my life your grandkids'll be shaking their fist at the ozone layer, cursing randy old Gramps for not wearing a condom and saving them the trouble…"

The man muttered in Hindi – something which the Doctor clearly understood as bloody English loon – before sliding from his stool and trudging to the glass display behind the counter. He unhooked a key from his pocket and unlatched the anti-theft door.

Just across from a wealth of little boxes that filled his sensitive olfactories with the sour bite of nicotine (even through the oyster-haze, impressively), a section of wall adorned in high-shine packaging came to the Doctor's attention. He focussed rapidly, zoning in on the display. "Why'd you keep them back there?" he wondered curiously.

The man gave him a tedious look. "People will steal them."

"Oh, will they? Mm, I reckon they would. Just walk right out the door. That's a bit clever."

The shopkeeper's patience was non-existent to begin with, but somehow the Doctor still pinpointed the exact moment when it ran out. He didn't suppose the endorsement of shoplifting had helped, but…

"What brand?" the man pressed – seemingly itching to get rid of the blithering, pinstriped madman who'd ambled into his shop.

"Brand?" the Doctor echoed, brow knitting. He hadn't foreseen this variable. "More than one kind, is there?"

The man looked at him with a dubious squint. He pointed harshly to the display. "Lots of kinds."

"Yeah, I'm seeing that," he murmured, inspecting the selection with a frown. "Hrm, I dunno. Could go very wrong here. What do you recommend, Raj?"

Consternation turned to outright astonishment.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Just – it's a bit of an emergency," continued the Doctor. "Sort of life-and-death, actually. Time-sensitive type of thing, you know how it goes. And I reckon I could stand here and read off all the different labels, weigh the pros and cons. But that could take ages. I mean, ultra-thin – seems risky. Bare skin? Rather defeats the point, doesn't it? And ribbed, that's funny – d'you know there's a reptilian species in the Otesian Cluster with naturally-occurring—"

A box slammed down on the counter before him.

"Four pound fifty," grunted the man.

"Oh, you're a lifesaver, Raj." The Doctor began digging in his pockets rather elaborately. "And you strike me as a man who knows his product. Wouldn't just go selling any cheap tat to the people, no, not you. No bargain-bin condoms here, nothing—"

A heap of crumpled notes spilled onto the countertop. The man drew a sharp breath, recoiling a bit in surprise.

"—that I'll regret buying – not that they're for me, of course. I mean, obviously they're for me, but no, my friend, she's the one who'll have the last word on quality. I'm telling you, though – I trust you, Raj, I've just got a feeling—"

"It's – only four pounds," the shopkeeper managed.

"What? Is this a lot?" The Doctor continued to shovel cash on the counter, frowning absently. "I can never tell if it's a lot. Haven't got any use for it myself, I don't suppose you'd mind hanging onto the change. Keeps the old pockets clean."

The man was frozen.

"Is this… a joke?" he asked, glancing about uncomfortably, like he was searching for a film crew – or a SWAT team.

"A joke? Raj," he scolded. "A matter of life and death, I said that."

"Are you the police?" There was a harried look in his eye.

"Right," sighed the Doctor. "If it makes you feel better – how about I just level with you, and take one of everything. Then we'll be even."

"We won't be even," the man exclaimed. "How did you even – fit all of that in a pocket…?"

"Raj, ordinarily I'd love to stand here with you and have a good waffle about dimensional transcendentalism and its place in any proper wardrobe, but I am actually on a bit of a schedule. T-minus seven hours and forty-six minutes to an agonising and extraordinarily slow death. And between you and me, that sort of stain just won't come out a carpet, so—"

"You are going to die in seven hours?"

"No. Well. Maybe. Sort of impossible to say, the life I lead, and this time round I've got a sinking feeling about a brick – but no, not me. My friend is going to die in seven hours, which is infinitely more important. So if you could just hand over the condoms I'll be right up out of your hair."

It took the man a moment to regain his composure. When he did, he tentatively unfurled a plastic bag and began filling it, taking the boxes down row by row with an unsteady hand.

He offered the bag to the Doctor almost fearfully – as though experiencing a burglary in reverse.

"Cheers," the Time Lord chirped, swinging the handles up on his wrist, already turning away.

"Is there…" The man seemed unreasonably nervous, fluttering behind the counter; trying to see around the enormous heap of money. "Is there anything else I can – that you…?"

"I'll let you know, Raj!"

The door tinkled as the trench-coated stranger swept out, as abruptly as he'd entered.

The shopkeeper stood immobile, staring blankly at eight-thousand wadded up pounds.