HARMONY (a Doctor Who Novella)

Chapter 9

The end of every good adventure began when it was time to sit down, put up his feet, and congratulate himself on a job well done. It was not time, nor was it the end, (and as far as he could tell, nothing good had come from their travels) but he was sitting down nonetheless. It was preferable to melting like a damned chocolate teapot and being dragged back to his feet, a dance move they had been perfecting for at least half an hour. The Doctor ran circles around him now, bright circles like gold thread stitching lovely Gallifreyan arithmetic into the November air. Loud arithmetic. He covered his ears and put his forehead on his knees. The grey sky was also far too loud. As were the trees. And the ground? The ground's only kindness would be an unmarked grave in 1642. If he was lucky.

The Doctor dashed past him again, pointing the sonic screwdriver six ways to Sunday, scanning the road, the air, the trees, the back end of a snarling badger, muttering and criss-crossing the road, waving the instrument high and low. His own screwdriver was bollixed up again. He whacked it hard against the palm of his hand. Blue light flickered then faded. He sighed.

"I'll have a proper look at that when we get back. Better yet, I'll give you a new one. My parting gift. I'd say party gift, but this has been anything but a party."

"I don't want a new one," he growled, thumping the device hard against the bottom of his shoe. He did, but not that way.

"No, I didn't think so," the Doctor said thoughtfully, spinning around. When the Time Lord scratched a cheek, skin-coloured smudges appeared where the grim flaked away. "What?"

"You look like hell."

"I'm cultivating a new image. Do you like it?"

"No."

"Neither do I." The Doctor whipped out the sonic screwdriver again, sweeping the air once more. "It should be right here! There are still faint energy traces from where we came through, but the Rift is gone. Well, not so much gone as moved. Well, not so much moved as shifted... a lot, which is terribly inconvenient. And--"

"There's more?"

The Doctor scanned again, examined the results, then extended the sonic screwdriver so he could see for himself. There was no mistaking. The energy signature was fading.

"Oh, that is not good," he said, a surge of adrenalin giving him the strength to regain his feet.

"Very, very not good," the Doctor agreed.

"You are Welsh, aren't you? Or Scottish. Anyway, you are, Thin Man."

They both turned slowly at the sound of a familiar voice, and found themselves staring down the barrels of George Mott's pistols. The soldier sat astride the bay gelding in the shadow of the forest, training wheellocks on the pair of them like a cowboy with six shooters. A rather incongruous pose for one dressed like a Puritan.

"Oh, not again. I suppose it was my fault this time. Head's not working like it should. Never realised Gallifreyan was my default setting. Explains why Rose can't understand me when I talk in my sleep. You might have said something," he told the Doctor.

"I was rather enjoying it."

"Shut up, the pair of you!"

"Oh, you are persistent, I'll give you that, George Mott," he began crossly, arms swinging. He wondered how they were going to get out of this one, almost too tired to care. "But, George--can I call you George? Well, it would be silly to call you anything else wouldn't it? George. Dear George. Dear, dear George... you really don't want to do that. Really, you don't."