Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

Lord Peter Views the Bobby

The Doctor feels his lips turn away from his mouth in that bad way they have again, as more gold pours from between his teeth. (It reminds him of Glamour, really, only without the…) His stomach is rebelling too, judging by the nasty little arrangement they have with his lips. And his throat. In fact it feels as though everything is peeling off him, one annoying nuclei at a time.

His skin goes first, shedding outward like a banana at a Roman bath. His toes curl with the force of it, and his nerves shake in their sheaths of fat, imagining they’re next. His bones curve like hot cakes after syrup, leaning into the golden glow of newness melting the snow beneath his prostrate body in indulgent rivulets.

It all ends eventually.

Soon, the glow withdraws like the dusk sun of so many Earth-like planets, leaving him cold and unclothed.

“Huh. You weren’t this quick when Rory and I were around, Doctor.”

Pond? Pond. Pond!

His bleary eyes clear with a bit of a rub, and he finds himself standing again, having a staring match with a red headed woman who once made a serious claim on the family fortune.

Her body is just as he remembers it, soft thin curves, long red hair, black skirt, checkers. Police hat. Baton. White shirt. Two legs like blessed chopsticks, finely turned and elegant. Off-limits. Mother-In-Law. Little girl with big dreams.

Amy.

“Amy,” he breathes, running his hands along his naked body, surprised to find himself naked in front of an old friend, “… what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“Spoilers!” she laughs with that downturned pout of hers, tossing her vivacious red locks so that they flow against one police vest-covered breast, “You never could handle the truth! Just take this and don’t drop it on anyone’s head. I found it on the bottom! Later!”

She sticks her long, thin, articulate hand in a vest pocket and curves her fingers round something… which she tosses toward him from where she floats like a wet witch over the middle of the iced over lake. Then she blows away in the penetrating wind.

The Doctor strains to see the object, and leans forward a bit, jolting his ankles into belated action.

He falls flat, his new chin digging into the impaling frost with a black and blue vengeance.

Forcing one hand to scramble out from underneath his ribs, he crawls his fingers through the snow until he finds it.

It burns gold and demure in the snow, blinking away the ice crystals like a little lamp.

His cold hands wrap around it, tiny, inviting.

He looks down as his hands drag the small object close to him, cupping the light to shield it.

“Ahhh…” he murmurs, humbled. “I should have known.”


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