It's late at night and the blaring sound of a siren startles the Doctor. He's on the side of a street, and a cab hurries on by, its wheels passing through a heavy puddle against the kerb, splashing water back up against him.
He doesn't remember how he got here.
Moments ago he'd been standing in a twilight alleyway with Melody Malone, and yet now he's somewhere else entirely. There's a frown in confusion, how could he possibly have moved without knowing it? He begins to walk the streets, and as he does everything looks a little too precise. He can't quite put his finger on what it is. He stops someone in the street to ask the time, but they instead start giving him directions to Central Park. Before he can stop them to question more, they're already walking off along the street.
Strange.
Above him clouds hang heavily, and it's not much longer before they begin to rumble and crack, the rain pouring down like he's never seen before. It's heavy and almost impossibly so, he's drenched within minutes. It's only then when he goes towards a locked doorway and attempts to let himself through the door that he realises he doesn't have his screwdriver, or just about anything he usually carries with him. It hits him then, there in the pouring rain, that he's truly lost, no screwdriver, no TARDIS, no hope.
But then there's one thing, and he slips his hand into his pocket, a pocket that usually houses all manner of things. But now? Now just one, a business card for one Melody Malone, and on the bottom, an address. Through the pouring New York rain, he takes himself there, walking what feels like forever, through streets that all seem the same. But then he turns a corner, and there amongst a row of buildings is a doorway, dark, with gold gilt lettering. Melody Malone, Private Detective.
no subject
It's late at night and the blaring sound of a siren startles the Doctor. He's on the side of a street, and a cab hurries on by, its wheels passing through a heavy puddle against the kerb, splashing water back up against him.
He doesn't remember how he got here.
Moments ago he'd been standing in a twilight alleyway with Melody Malone, and yet now he's somewhere else entirely. There's a frown in confusion, how could he possibly have moved without knowing it? He begins to walk the streets, and as he does everything looks a little too precise. He can't quite put his finger on what it is. He stops someone in the street to ask the time, but they instead start giving him directions to Central Park. Before he can stop them to question more, they're already walking off along the street.
Strange.
Above him clouds hang heavily, and it's not much longer before they begin to rumble and crack, the rain pouring down like he's never seen before. It's heavy and almost impossibly so, he's drenched within minutes. It's only then when he goes towards a locked doorway and attempts to let himself through the door that he realises he doesn't have his screwdriver, or just about anything he usually carries with him. It hits him then, there in the pouring rain, that he's truly lost, no screwdriver, no TARDIS, no hope.
But then there's one thing, and he slips his hand into his pocket, a pocket that usually houses all manner of things. But now? Now just one, a business card for one Melody Malone, and on the bottom, an address. Through the pouring New York rain, he takes himself there, walking what feels like forever, through streets that all seem the same. But then he turns a corner, and there amongst a row of buildings is a doorway, dark, with gold gilt lettering. Melody Malone, Private Detective.
He wraps his finger on the door, and waits.