Until We Burn | Dr Who

Chapter One Hundred and Two: The Next Doctor

The funeral party marches in silence, marked by a single, repeating bell toll. They wear solemn expressions, all in black against the white expanse of the snowy street. Before them, the horse-drawn hearse rolls on.

We peek through the bars of an iron gate, out of sight from the Doctor and Rosita yet close enough to overhear them. "The late Reverend Fairchild," we hear him say, "leaving his place of residence for the last time. God rest his soul. Now, with the house empty, I shall effect an entrance at the rear while you go back to the Tardis. This is hardly work for a woman."

"To be clear," I hiss, "I don't care if he's you. He says something like that in front of me and I'll slap him right into a new face."

"Trust me, you'll hear no complaints."

Rosita seems to be of the same sentiment. She scoffs, "Oh, don't mind me saving you life. That's 'work for a woman', isn't it?"

"The Doctor's companion does what the Doctor says. Off you go."

Beside me, he chuckles. "Oh, that'll be the day."

I practically drag him after me, asking a passer-by the directions to the late Reverend's house. Standing guard, I wait for the Doctor to unlock the front door using his sonic. It opens easily, welcoming us into the musty building. Movement by the window catches my eye. "He's coming. Back door."

By the time we make it there, the handle is already turning, the lock picked. The door swings open and we greet him. "Hello."

"How did you get in?"

"Oh, front door. I'm good at doors. Um, d'you mind my asking? Is that your sonic screwdriver?"

He smiles, holding up an ordinary, wooden-handled tool. "Yes. I'd be lost without it."

We share a glance. "That's a screwdriver," I note.

"How's it sonic?"

"Well, er, it makes a noise." To prove it, he taps the handle against the doorframe. "That's sonic, isn't it?"

I clench my jaw. "Yeah, everything 'sonic' if you hit it hard enough. Are you sure this is the Doctor?"

He seems a little surprised by the sharpness of my comment but dismisses it from his thoughts, glancing over his shoulder. "Now, since we're acting like common burglars, I suggest we get out of plain view."

As they make their way back into the main house, I pull the Doctor back. "I don't trust him."

"He's me."

"And?"

Huffing, I lead the way. We come into the parlour — a large, airy room with a red Turkish carpet and ornate furniture. A Christmas tree decorated with unlit candles, ribbons and dried orange slices stands in the corner. "This investigation of yours, what's it about?" my Doctor asks as we hurry after the man's retreating figure.

"It started with a murder."

"Oh, good." Earning a strange look, he quickly corrects himself, "I mean, bad. But whose?"

The man returns to his investigation, opening one of the draws of an ornate writing desk and perusing through the pages and pages of notes and books within. "Mr Jackson Lake, a teacher of mathematics from Sussex. He came to London three weeks ago and died a terrible death."

I take one of the books from him and turn it over, weighing it in each hand and flicking right to the back page. "Cybermen?"

"It's hard to say. His body was never found."

The statement surprises me. I look up sharply. "So how do you know he's dead?"

"Well, that's when it started. More secret murders, then abductions. Children stolen away in silence."