HARMONY (a Doctor Who Novella)

Chapter 10

"Well, look what the poodle dragged in."

He opened his eyes slowly. Every inch of his body ached, most especially where he had been shot. Shot. What a novelty. He steadied himself as the upholstered bench beneath him lurched and tipped. They were riding in a finely appointed coach. After their incarceration in the smoke house and the dreary, pongy cellar it was encouraging to see they had moved up in the world.

The Doctor sat across from him, leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped. Clean hands. Clean, shaven face. Clean, combed hair. Well, clean at any rate. The Time Lord's mud-caked moleskin jacket had been replaced with a dapper Harris Tweed, the red bowtie swapped for blue. He looked every bit the eccentric history professor. Between them, on the carriage floor, sat a very large, very black poodle, its luxurious coat trimmed so as to give it the appearance of an ebony lion.

A horse drew alongside the carriage, a hell-spitting stallion that put poor George Mott's plough-cum-war horse to shame. No doubt it had the temper to match its wide eyes and flaring nostrils. A well-dressed young man with long flowing black hair and the most magnificent hat he had seen yet looked in with keen interest.

"Your brother is fortunate Boi took a liking to him or else he'd have been executed as a Roundhead conspirator before you arrived with your credentials, Doctor."

"Timing is everything. Thank you for providing us with transport and give my regards to your mother. And thank you," the Doctor told the dog, opening up the coach door to allow the poodle to leap down to the ground. It loped off after its master. Try as he might, he could not remember what had happened. Except...

"That dog... talked to me."

"Yes. Rather well versed in Time Lord history for a poodle, too. I couldn't confirm it without arousing suspicion, but I suspect the prince's pooch is a relative of the Whifferdill. Which explains a lot, really. The Parliamentarians got it half right. I gave ole Boi a little heads up about the Battle at Marston Moor. It seemed only fair. Kept guard over you and wouldn't let anyone near you until I arrived. Not even Rupert."

He struggled to stifle a fit of coughing as the coach hit another rough patch of road. Correction. Rougher patch. The Doctor poured a thimble's worth of amber liquid from a decanter into a small glass and held it out.

"How long have I been here?" he wheezed, sniffing the fluid suspiciously, then downing it in one gulp. A rush of warmth rose from his chest into his head and for a moment everything was crystal clear. Including his injuries. "You were gone--"

"I was gone. But here I am. Surprise! I was gone long enough for the bleeding to have stopped, but I see it has begun again-in various places. Lucky for you I know a nurse," the Doctor told him, holding out a clean handkerchief.

"Check Jackie's phone," he said, pressing the hanky against his head and seriously debating another drink. He could do with some numbness just now. "Doctors Sullivan and Jones are both on speed dial."

"Are they?" the Doctor smiled.

"Go on, you want to ask."

"Tell me then. More?"

He shook his head, handing back the glass. "I'll regret it. You?"

"I already regretted it."

He gathered a blanket about himself and settled back. "They're brilliant. Both of them. Twirled Martha off the floor first time I met her. Forgot where I was. Who she was. Or wasn't. But she's the same. And Harry... well, Harry looks at me sometimes like he remembers everything that he can't possibly remember and it's all I can do to pretend that I've only known him on this world. That world. Whichever."