After watching The End of Time, Part 1, this missing scene was just begging to be written! So... I did! :) I have to squeeze as much wonderful whump out of 10th as I can before the end... *sob* Two more days to go before we bid goodbye to the 10th Doctor. :(

As ever, all feedback and concrit gratefully received.

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR THE END OF TIME - PART 1!!

A Moment in Time

Consciousness returned along with a pounding headache. The Doctor groaned. It took him a moment to make sense of his surroundings; the gritty feel of dirt under his cheek, a cold wind ruffling at his clothes. He stirred sluggishly. He ached all over. His body felt weak, shaky, and a dull throbbing at the base of his skull spoke to the viciousness of the blow that had felled him. He was still shaken from the Master's assault, the vicious surge of raw power that had slammed into his chest and thrummed through his entire body, sapping his strength, leaving him gasping and weak, sprawled helpless on the ground while the Master loomed above him.

The Master. Taken. The sudden attack came flashing back; blinding lights, helicopters circling above, masked soldiers snatching the Master away, gunfire, and something slamming hard into the back of his head. And then nothing.

He tried to move, to get up, but his muscles protested and his arms trembled as he tried to push up from the ground. He gritted his teeth and locked his elbows, his breath rasping in his throat as though he'd run a Danithian marathon. Slowly, wearily, he managed to push to his hands and knees and, from there, climbed unsteadily to his feet. His head swam horribly as he lurched upright and he wobbled dangerously, his vision darkening and legs threatening to give way under him. Grimacing in concentration, he focused on breathing through the momentary nausea. When he dared to lift his head and look around he found the Master's wasteland dark and deserted. Staggering a little, he made his way to the top of the small hill where the Master had stood and crowed over him, where the soldiers had dropped from the sky and snatched him away. He looked around. He was utterly alone, the wasteland empty and cold.

The stiffening breeze tugged at his overcoat, snapping it around his ankles, and he shivered a little. His chest ached, a lingering throb as though he'd taken a hard punch to the breastbone. He looked down and saw his jacket and shirt ragged-edged, burned through, revealing a circle of charred fabric across his t-shirt. He rubbed a hand absently across the persistent ache, scraps of burned fabric flaking off, the wind catching them and whipping them away.

He had to find the Master. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to take him and whatever they wanted him for, it couldn't be good. He closed his eyes, swaying a little, and concentrated through the pulsing ache in his head, centring himself and opening his mind. A clamour of noise nearly overwhelmed him, the chatter of a hundred thousand human thoughts, and he staggered backwards before he got control of it, narrowing his focus and tuning out the human minds. Another Time Lord mind should be easy to find; he should be able to feel him, to sense his presence, like a magnet pulling them together. Like it or not, they were connected. Their fates forever entwined – the last of the Time Lords. But there was nothing. Not a trace of him. Wherever the Master had been taken, it was too far away for him to sense his presence. If he'd been conscious he'd have sensed at least the direction he'd been taken but... He wondered if that was deliberate. Did they know who – what – he was? Did they know who the Master was? Or did they see only Harold Saxon?

He needed to find out. And quickly. He opened his eyes and, with a crack of his neck that did nothing for his headache but at least made his shoulders feel a bit looser, he made his way, still a little unsteadily, down the uneven slope to the scree of dirt and shattered concrete below.

It was a twenty minute walk to where he'd left the TARDIS – far enough away that the Master wouldn't stumble across it if their meeting hadn't gone well; he wasn't about to make that mistake again – but it felt more like hours. By the time he fumbled the key from his pocket, his feet were dragging with every step and his legs were trembling under him. He closed the door behind him and leaned back against it in relief, his chest heaving as he exhaled shakily. He stayed like that for a long moment, his eyes closed, soaking in the familiar, comforting presence of the TARDIS. He could feel the ship's gentle hum reverberating through the walls, the door at his back, soaking down to his bones, easing the ache there and restoring a measure of strength. With a tired smile and a grateful pat of the worn wood, he opened his eyes and pushed his body into motion.

Shrugging off his coat, a gesture so familiar he did it almost without thinking, made his shoulders ache, and when his half-hearted toss of the garment towards the usual supporting column missed, he couldn't summon the energy to bend down to retrieve it. He headed instead for the central console, leaning into it tiredly as he pulled the screen around to face him and quickly tapped a few buttons, his frown deepening as he scanned for any trace of the Master. He sighed. Nothing.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair. There had to be something he could do, some way to find him. His eyes felt dry and gritty and he rubbed at them wearily. He was missing something. The battle with the Master had taken it out of him, both physically and mentally. He shuddered a little, remembering that brief touch of the Master's mind, the thrumming rhythm of the drumbeat in his head. It had been real, it had been tangible; he'd heard it, echoing through his own mind. What he'd assumed to be a symptom of the Master's madness was... something else. Something... real. But what? What was it that...

He screwed his eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose. His headache was getting worse. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his head. He wasn't anywhere near his best right now, and he needed to be if he was going up against the Master. He needed to heal.

Straightening up from the console, he moved stiffly out of the control room, following branching corridors until he found the door he was looking for. Unlike humans, who seemed to see their bedroom as an intensely personal space, a refuge, his was exactly what the name implied – a room with a bed, a place where he (rarely) slept, and little more. His refuge, his personal space, the room where he felt at ease, was the control room.

Moving stiffly, gingerly, he shrugged carefully out of his jacket and shirt. Getting the t-shirt off was harder; lifting his arms over his head made him groan as muscle and bone protested the movement. He dropped the charred garment on the floor and sat down heavily on the bed, momentarily light-headed. His chest felt sore and he looked down to see the skin reddened and raw in a rough circle that matched the blackened area on his t-shirt. He pulled a face, wincing as he brushed a finger across the angry mark. He'd been lucky; he'd fought against the Master's blast of energy, bracing himself against it, pushing forward step by step, gambling that the Master wouldn't be able to maintain the power. He'd been right, but only just. A few seconds longer and the crackling energy would have burned through the final layer of clothing and charred flesh instead of just fabric.

Moving carefully, he laid back on the bed, swinging his legs up on the bed with a hiss of indrawn breath. For a moment he held himself stiffly, his body tensed and aching, and then with a sigh of relief he let his body relax. Exhaustion washed over him, his every muscle aching. His head felt heavy and it was hard to resist the temptation to just give into sleep, but he needed more than just sleep. Breathing deeply and slowly, he focused his mind, concentrating on his breathing, deliberately slowing his metabolism. His body temperature gradually dropping, his breaths became shallow and infrequent, his chest barely rising and falling, as he sank into a healing coma.

When he surfaced, an hour or so later, the lethargy and bone deep ache was gone and the reddened skin on his chest had faded to a dusky pink. The pounding in his head had eased and he felt refreshed and rejuvenated. More importantly, he awoke with the answer he needed; Wilf. He didn't know how exactly, but the answer to all of this somehow lay with Wilf Mott.

Throwing on a fresh shirt, tie and jacket, he hurried to the control room and set the coordinates, racing around the console as he sent the TARDIS spinning into the vortex, heading across London.

Fin.