Title: Sympathy for the Devil

Author: E.A. Week

E-mail: The Doctor is determined to find the meaning of the drums the Master claims to hear in his mind. The truth may be more than either of them had bargained for. First of six parts.

Category: Doctor Who.

Distribution: Feel free to link this story to any Doctor Who or fanfic site, or distribute on a mailing list, but please drop me at least a brief e-mail and let me know you've done this.

Feedback: Letters of comment are always welcome! Loved it? Hated it? Send me an email and let me know why!

Disclaimer: Copyrights to all characters in this story belong to their respective creators, production companies, and studios. I'm just borrowing them, honest!

The story title and all chapter titles are shamelessly stolen from the Rolling Stones.

Datclaimer: This story is rated M for language, sexuality, and adult themes.

Possible spoilers: This story is an alternate ending to "Last of the Time Lords," the final episode in season three of the new Doctor Who series. Major spoilers through the end of season three of Doctor Who and season one of Torchwood.

Special thanks to Alipeeps for the excellent beta-reading and Brit-picking!

Prologue

Not Fade Away

Movement caught Martha's eye, so subtle and stealthy that if she'd blinked at the wrong moment or turned her head the wrong way, she'd have missed it altogether; a year of living on the run, surviving by her wits, had sharpened her senses to an acute degree. The shimmer of red satin; the pale white arm rising slowly, shaky but determined; the black semiautomatic clutched in the manicured hand—

"NO!" With a powerful sideways leap, Martha flung herself at the blonde woman. Chaos followed: the gun exploded, Martha not sure for a moment if anyone had been hit. Then she lay sprawled on the floor, winded, Lucy Saxon's unconscious form beneath her. The Master's ersatz wife had struck her head when Martha knocked her over.

The Doctor flew to her side, scooting down to assist his companion.

"Are you all right?"

Martha nodded, still too winded to speak. She just pointed.

The gun had discharged, the bullet harmlessly piercing the hull of the aircraft carrier. Martha could see the small black circle from where she sat.

"She was gonna kill you," she wheezed when she caught her breath.

"Not me." The Doctor's head jerked backwards by a fraction. "Him."

Martha turned her head and looked. The Master stood staring at Lucy's prone form, his expression unreadable.

In that instant, they all heard a steady, muffled, mechanical thump, growing louder.

"Doctor, that's a US military chopper," called Jack. He hadn't released his grip on the Master's arms. "Winter's assassination was broadcast all over the globe—we're gonna be up to our ears in commandos any second now."

"Right!" The Doctor sprang to his feet. "Martha—you deal with them." He nudged Lucy's body with his toe. Under his breath, he said, "Make sure she gets medical attention—starting with a psychiatric evaluation."

"What do I tell the Americans?" asked Martha. "Their president's a pile of dust—be a little tricky to talk our way out of that one."

"Improvise!" The Doctor had located a crumpled pile of brown fabric: his long coat. He shrugged into the sleeves, moving at his usual whirlwind pace.

"Where're you going?" asked Martha.

"We have to get him out of here."

"He's a criminal!" Martha was aghast. "He should be punished for everything he's done—even if nobody but us remembers last year, there were still other people he hurt."

"What human prison could hold him?" the Doctor inquired, retrieving the jar containing his disembodied hand. "He can mesmerize people by looking at them. You can't execute him; he'll just regenerate." The Doctor searched about the bridge, looking for something.

"You can't let him go!" Francine burst out.

"I'll deal with him," the Doctor insisted.

"Yeah, that worked out really well the last time!" shot Tish.

"Ah!" The Doctor had located the object of his search, choosing for the moment to ignore Tish's jibe. "Mind your ears, everyone!" Martha realized he'd found the Master's laser screwdriver. The Doctor pulled out his sonic device and aimed it downward. A loud BANG and a blinding flash of light followed, reducing the Master's weapon to a smoking, twisted piece of metal.

"Right, I think that takes care of all the loose ends."

"The chopper's landing," called Jack. They all felt the faint vibration as the massive copter touched down on the helipad overhead.

"Doctor, you can't…" Martha protested.

But he was already sprinting over to Jack and the Master. "I'll catch you up in a few days!" He ordered Jack, "Back to the TARDIS." Flanked by the two Time Lords, Jack activated the teleportation device on his wrist. The trio shimmered and vanished, leaving Martha's last objections stuck in her throat.

"What're we gonna do now?" wailed Tish.

"All right." Martha turned to her stunned family. "Look, this is what we're gonna tell them. Tish, we'll say he hired you as an aide even though you didn't have any qualifications—that's true. Then say he targeted your family and took the rest of us hostage."

"He accused you of being a terrorist!" Tish pointed out tearfully.

"Right, and there's no proof of that, so it makes him look even more crazy. Don't forget, with the Archangel Network disabled, nobody's gonna believe him anymore. That's gonna be our story: he took us hostage—we don't need to know why, he just did. He forced us to watch him assassinate President Winter with some weird high-tech military weapon. We all ducked 'cos of the blast, and when we looked, he'd vanished."

"What about Lucy?" asked Clive.

"She had a gun on us, and I knocked her over in self-defense."

"Good," Clive nodded. The irony didn't escape Martha, that her father was regarding her with such pride. As a child, she'd sometimes wondered if he even knew she existed.

"All right, everyone got that?" asked Martha. "Remember—keep it simple. Let me do the talking." They could hear the sound of voices, the thunder of boots as a platoon of US military personnel approached the bridge. "He was crazy; we were taken hostage; Lucy pulled a gun; Saxon vanished; we don't know anything." Lowering her voice, she said, "We'll probably have the sympathy factor in our favor."

(ii)

Jack had taken the precaution of locking the TARDIS doors after he'd disabled the Master's paradox machine, and now he opened the ship again, hustling Earth's would-be conqueror inside.

"Hold onto him while I scan him," the Doctor said.

"With pleasure." Jack tightened his grip on the Master's arms.

The Time Lord exhaled, making a suggestive noise in his throat. "You've done this before," he purred.

"You have no idea," Jack snarled.

The Doctor passed the sonic screwdriver up and down his foe's body, pausing to remove a pin from the Master's necktie. "Hold out his arm so I can get a look at that wristwatch."

Jack unfastened the cuffs and raised the Master's left arm. The Master made no effort to fight him or escape.

"I have every idea, actually," he drawled. "The question is, does the Doctor?"

"What, know about him?" the Doctor asked. He told Jack, "Now, the right arm."

While the Doctor scanned the Master's right arm and hand, the Master went on, "You might think twice about him, Doctor, if you knew the jobs he's done for the Time Agency. Hit man and torturer, wasn't it? That last was something of a specialty of his, if I'm not mistaken."

The truth of his past, revealed so casually to the Doctor, hit Jack like a kick in the gut. The Doctor hadn't so much as twitched, absorbed in his examination of the Master's fingers.

"Gallifreyean signet ring?" He tweaked the Master's cheek. "Getting a bit sentimental, there? Yes, I'm aware of Jack's past." The Doctor scooted down to scan the Master's feet, and he smiled up, serene and benign. "Did you hope to shock me? Sorry, old friend."

"You—when'd you find out?" Jack wheezed.

"When you first came on board." Jack couldn't stop staring, and the Doctor asked, "You really think I'd let you travel in the TARDIS without looking into your past? Yes, I know about your work for the Time Agents."

"And you still let me…? Why?"

"Because you changed." The Doctor straightened up. "All right, his shoes are clean. Lock him to one of the supporting posts. No, not that one, the one over there."

Jack's mouth opened to form a response, but the Doctor evidently considered the matter closed. Striding to the console, he said, "Let's get this poor old thing back to normal."

They worked in silence after that, only speaking when necessary, the Doctor checking the monitor from time to time, scanning the corridor outside the ship. Jack guessed the commandos wouldn't make it down this far for a while, considering how preoccupied they must be up on the bridge. Not for the first time he wondered exactly what the Doctor's plans for the Master involved. Surely he didn't believe he could keep such a dangerous enemy in the TARDIS like a pet?

The Doctor needed only the better part of an hour to dismantle the trappings of the paradox machine and unfuse the ship's coordinates, tossing unneeded scrap metal out into the corridor. It nonplussed Jack when the Doctor wired his extra hand under the console, but when he did, the control panels lit up, the engines hummed, and the time rotors began to rise and fall in a steady, gentle rhythm.

"You might wanna get rid of that," Jack murmured under his breath. They stood side-by-side, on the opposite side of the console from the Master.

"Don't be silly; you never know when you'll need a spare hand." The Doctor set a few coordinates, then said, "Hold on to something."

Jack complied, and the Doctor pulled a lever. With a powerful grinding reverberation, the ship began to dematerialize.

"Yes!" the Doctor laughed, stroking the console with one hand. "Good as ever!"

"Where're we going?" Jack yelled, but the Doctor pretended not to hear him over the racket. A few moments later, the noise began to subside, the ship shuddered and thumped, and then everything went quiet and still.

"Look outside," the Doctor suggested.

Jack hurried to the doors, ran outside, and came to an abrupt halt. They'd materialized in Cardiff, in the Millennium Center. Overhead rose the towering waterfall, the liquid cascade splashing down in its usual soothing cadence. People strolled around the square, hurrying to and fro on their business, talking into cell phones, walking dogs, laughing. He felt as though nothing had changed.

"Why here?" he asked. The Doctor had emerged from the TARDIS to stand beside him.

"Well, you might want to contact your team, get them home from Tibet." The alien grinned, hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "And, no offense, but—" he sniffed the air. "Shower, Jack. Really."

"What about you?"

"Places to go, things to do," the Doctor shrugged.

"With him?"

"Yes?"

"By yourself?"

"Yes."

"Doctor—that's too dangerous. Look how fast he took you down on the Valiant. Yeah, I know he's disarmed, but he's not powerless."

"I can take care of myself," the Doctor huffed.

"Please don't do this," Jack begged. "You're—we just got you back, and Doctor, nothing personal, but he has a very strange effect on you—"

"I'll be fine."

"Doctor—"

"Jack. I've been dealing with him for a long, long time. Centuries. Trust me when I say I can handle him on my own."

Realizing he'd never out-argue a stubborn Time Lord, Harkness relented. "Where are you taking him?"

"Someplace special," the Doctor said. "I still have a lot of questions, and there's one place I know I can find some answers."

"But your planet's destroyed."

"I'm not talking about Gallifrey."

Jack sighed. "Suit yourself." He tapped the Doctor's chest. "Come back in one piece."

"I will."

"I mean it." Jack winked. "Dobby the House-Elf is not a good look on you, Doctor." With his thumb and forefinger he indicated a space of one inch. "I was this close to offering you a dirty sock."

"A thousand unemployed comedians," the Doctor grumbled. Growing serious, he said, "Take care, Jack. I'll check in with you in about… about a week's time, probably."

"All right. Be careful, Doctor. And good luck."

The Time Lord vanished back into his ship. The doors closed, and Jack stood there, watching as the blue box faded and vanished, unable to shake a deep sense of foreboding.

Part II

Under My Thumb

"Alone at last," the Master smiled. As he always did in private conversation with the Doctor, he'd switched to the Gallifreyan language. "I've never seen you jettison two sidekicks so quickly."

"Don't think you can sweet-talk me into unlocking you." The Doctor pointed his sonic screwdriver at the Master's chest. "I've been patient, and you've been very naughty."

A lewd gleam came into the Master's eyes. "Sounds like I could use a good spanking, then."

"Don't tempt me." The Doctor buzzed happily about the console, flipping switches and levers, using the toe of his right foot to move a control knob on another panel. The Master sighed loudly with exasperation, rolling his eyes upward.

The time ship groaned and vibrated as it dematerialized, and the Doctor held his breath as it slipped from the twenty-first century Earth timestream. For an instant, the TARDIS vibrated so violently that he thought it would break apart, then it steadied itself as it entered the time vortex. The Doctor exhaled, pleased that the ancient vessel hadn't been permanently damaged by its months in the Master's captivity.

The Master had had all he could do to stay upright during the takeoff, and now he got his feet under him again, watching the Doctor, disgruntled less by his captivity than what he likely perceived as the Doctor's inept handling of the ship. He glared and he scowled and he shook his head, but he said nothing.

"So quiet," the Doctor remarked, circling the console. "It's not like you. Not even a token, 'Curses, foiled again?'"

"So impressed with yourself," the Master sneered. Then he said, "You know, if you unlocked these cuffs, I could show you how to properly operate this wreck."

"Nice try." The Doctor pulled up a piece of the floor grille and dropped down, reconnecting some cables. "It won't work."

The Master fell silent again. The Doctor grinned as his sonic screwdriver hummed and glowed, counting in his mind as seconds and minutes passed.

"How'd you infiltrate the Archangel Network?" the Master finally spat out.

"Been driving you mad, hasn't it?" the Doctor murmured. "Well—madder than usual." His head popped up above the grating. "You haven't worked that one out yet, have you?"

"If I had, do you think I'd be asking?" The Master said, "I designed that network myself; I patterned it on my own brainwaves so that I'd know immediately if someone—namely, you—was trying to worm his way into it."

"And you never felt me, not once, never knew I was there?"

The Master glared, "How could I have missed it? You were always rubbish at telepathy, barely scraped through at the academy."

The Doctor climbed up and replaced the panel of metal grating. "You allowed me access."

"I did not!" the Master snarled.

The Doctor pocketed the sonic screwdriver, still smiling. "You did, and you didn't even realize you were doing it. Because there's one thing you forgot."

With another exaggerated eyeroll, the Master sighed, "Enlighten me."

The Doctor strolled over and draped an arm around the other Time Lord's shoulder. The Master flinched from the contact.

"You forgot," he said, "that Time Lords' telepathic abilities increase with age."

The Master stared at him, unable to conceal his shock, especially in such close proximity.

"I worked my way into the network, bit by bit, blocking my own thoughts so I wouldn't trip any psychic alarms. Of course, it helped that you needed a year to get your missiles built. It might've tipped my hand if I'd had to act quickly." He gave the Master's shoulder a friendly pat before returning to the console. "It's ironic, isn't it? Making me weaker only worked against you in the end."

"You smug prat."

"I'm not allowed to gloat? You did."

After another few minutes of stony silence, the Master said, "So, what now?"

"A field trip."

"To where?"

"Ah, that's my surprise."

"You've been planning this."

"Yup."

"You've been planning it all along."

"And you're just realizing this now?" The Doctor shook his head, clicking his tongue. "You're slipping."

"Since last year?"

"Yes."

The Master's face registered many different kinds of disbelief. "You let me capture you."

"It was the only way to learn what you were up to. I had to get closer."

"You knew I'd take you prisoner."

"You're predictable like that."

"I could've killed you."

"If I was dead, you couldn't gloat over your victory."

"You knew I'd torture you."

"I'd have been disappointed if you didn't."

The Master shook his head. "And people say I'm mad."

"It worked, didn't it?"

The Master couldn't argue with that one. Instead, his mouth twisting into a ghoulish rictus, he said, "Did it hurt?"

"What?"

"When I aged and shrank you… did it hurt?"

The Doctor smiled down into the console. Since losing Rose, he'd been throwing himself into one situation of mortal peril after another, flying headlong into excruciating pain with a reckless disregard for his own well-being. Why? To prove that he still lived, still felt? A lyric from an Earth song floated through his mind: I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel… It floated away. He could barely begin to understand this masochistic impulse himself, let alone explain it to someone like the Master.

The other Time Lord watched him, fascinated, waiting for an answer. The Doctor shrugged off the question with irony.

"Clearly you've never met Sutekh the Destroyer."

A few moments passed while the Doctor turned his attention to the console, then he realized the Master hadn't responded. He looked up, perplexed to see the other Time Lord staring at nothing, his lower jaw slack.

"Or did you?" Nothing about the Master could really surprise him. "Did you try something stupid with him?"

"What?" The Master jolted, looking dazed and startled. "What were you prattling on about?"

Just then the TARDIS began to shiver and vibrate as it emerged from the time vortex, and the Doctor turned his thoughts back to the ship, getting the vessel safely to its destination. He filed away the Master's odd reaction to mull over later.

With a rumble and a groan, the TARDIS began to materialize. The Doctor checked the monitor—he'd deliberately ordered Jack to lock up the Master so that he wouldn't be able to see the screen—and gave a small shout of triumph.

"Perfect! Weeell, not quite. Won't do to be out in the sun like that…" He set a few switches and re-materialized the ship in another location nearby. A look at the monitor confirmed the success of his maneuver.

"Bee-you-tee-ful!" he sang out, racing to open the door. "And here we are." He used his sonic screwdriver to free the Master from the post, then quickly re-cuffed his adversary. "Out we go, come along."

With an irritated glare, the Master trudged out of the TARDIS. He stopped short, looking up, awestruck for once in his long life.

Around them stretched a barren desert landscape of orange-red rocks lying scorched beneath the harsh light of an enormous, unforgiving sun. Here and there, the Doctor spotted the twisted husk of a long-dead tree trunk, the dusty bed of a dried-up river.

Directly before the two men stood a vast white tower, perfectly cylindrical in shape, rising so far overhead that it almost seemed to touch the glowing orb of the planet's moon. For in the afternoon light, the planet's primary moon was fully visible—the Doctor knew there were three smaller moons, only visible at night. He and the Master stood in the column of shade cast by the tower, protected from the sun's rays, but not from the heat, which scorched the air around them, searing their lungs.

"How do we get inside?" the Master rasped, "or do we just stand out here and roast to death?"

The Doctor pushed him forward, aiming his sonic screwdriver at the base of the building. A sheath of some glass-like material rose as high as the first level of narrow windows, encircling the tower like a ring on a finger. With a soft grating noise, the ring began to turn, and the outline of a doorway appeared, stopping immediately in front of the two Time Lords. Over the door, a pale green crescent moon was etched into the glass. The doors slid open with a hiss.

"In we go," the Doctor said, prodding the Master ahead of him.

"You must be joking," the Master said. "A hospital?"

"The Mestinon Hospital of Haustra," the Doctor said. "Best mental health facility in the known universe."

The Master stopped, twisting around to stare back at his nemesis. "So this is your grand plan, then? You're going to try to cure me?"

"Yes."

Before the Master could marshal scorn or sarcasm, a tiny creature with vermillion skin approached, legless, rolling along on pseudopodia with wet squishing noises. It emitted a series of chirps, which translated as, "How may I be of service to you?"

"I'm the Doctor, and this is my patient," the Doctor chirped back. "I'd like him admitted to this facility."

"Right this way, please. An intake counselor will be with you shortly."

The spacious lounge area didn't seem very busy, only a couple of other patients waiting to be admitted. The Doctor kept a close eye on the Master, whose face had begun to take on a panicky expression as the truth of his situation sank in. Elsewhere in the hospital's vast main lobby, the Doctor spied any number of other species, some humanoid, others not, all waiting to be treated for their various ailments.

A male creature with a curious ruff of bone at the back of his neck approached. "Come with me, please."

The Doctor prodded the Master to his feet, and they followed the employee into a cubicle.

"Please have a seat. My name is Ondenz, and I'll be your intake counselor." He slid behind a desk with an unadorned black surface, but when he put his hands on the desktop, lights began to glow and flash. "Names, please."

"I'm the Doctor, and this is Professor Yana."

"Which one of you is the patient?"

"He is."

Ondenz tapped the desktop. "Could you describe his condition or symptoms?"

"Mania," the Doctor said, ignoring the Master's glare. "It's an acute case."

"I see he's restrained. Is he dangerous?"

"Yes, quite dangerous. He's also a very powerful empath and hypnotist."

"Our staff are specially selected, impervious to psychic influences. What species is he?"

"Time Lord," the Doctor said. "We both are."

The alien's hands paused on the desktop. "That's not possible," he said smoothly. "The Time Lords are extinct."

"Not quite," the Doctor said. "We're the only two survivors."

"You'll have to excuse me for a moment." The counselor twisted around, touched a panel on one wall, and after a moment, he spoke into an intercom. "This is Intake Alpha Five Seven Zed. I have two humanoid males, claiming to be Time Lords. Thank you."

He turned back. "If you'll wait a moment, please. There's certain protocols we need to observe with endangered or extinct species."

"Lock us up and dissect us, no doubt," the Master snarled.

The alien seemed shocked. "We never experiment on patients without their consent." He stood. "You'll need to come with me," he said. "To another room. Our director wouldn't find this space very comfortable, I'm afraid." He led them out of the cubicle, down a corridor, and through another door. The room they stepped into resembled the intake cubicle except everything in it was easily four times bigger.

A tall door at the back slid open, and in stepped an alien of shocking, magnificent proportions. Even the Doctor, who stood over six feet tall, felt dwarfed. The creature swept toward him, skin gleaming a rich, cobalt blue, eyes pale yellow, the pupils vertical slits, like a cat's. Its robes, cream-colored with bands of green trim, rustled subtly when it moved.

Ondenz bowed, and said, "Vamana, these are the newcomers I told you about. Gentlemen, may I present Vamana of Ja'faar, the esteemed director of our facility."

The director's gaze turned down to the two men. "You are Time Lords?"

"Yes." The Doctor stared up, finding it an effort to hold this creature's gaze. She—for she gave off a distinctly female energy—stared at his face, his eyes, like she could see through him. "We're the last ones."

The Master piped up. "He destroyed our planet! He conspired with the Daleks to—aaaahhhhh!"

Vamana had stepped forward, putting one hand on the top of his head. She applied barely any pressure, just touching his hair, but the Master reacted as though she'd driven an iron spike through his skull.

"You stink of evil and lies," she pronounced, her voice rich and mellifluous. She raised her hand and turning to the Doctor. "He is your patient?"

"Yes, he's in my custody," the Doctor said, watching as the Master tried to shake off the effects of the alien's touch. "He's been mentally ill since childhood, I think. He claims to hear the sound of drums in his mind, and I want to find out what's behind it."

"I see. And you are?"

"I'm the Doctor."

"The Doctor," she repeated. "The Doctor?"

"As far as I know, there's only one of me."

She touched the top of his head; the Doctor knew better than to fight or to try to hide anything. He felt her presence in his mind like a lovely cascade of cool water; it caused him no pain whatsoever. A moment later, her hand and her presence withdrew.

"You should have announced yourself sooner; I would have come down immediately." Vamana settled herself in the large chair and gestured for the Time Lords to sit. "You never met me, Doctor, but you spared my planet several centuries ago—it would have been devastated by Silurians if not for your intervention."

"I did?" the Doctor blinked.

"The planet Ja'faar. Don't you remember?"

He searched back through the tangled concatenation of memory. "Oh, yes! Ja'faar! That was… that was four or five centuries ago, now. I had Jamie and Zoe with me, then." He smiled with fond reminiscence. "Good times."

"You're still considered a hero among our people, Doctor."

He blushed. "It was nothing."

"It wasn't 'nothing' to us." She said, "Whatever services this hospital can offer are at your disposal."

"Thank you, then. It shouldn't take too long and won't require anything complicated. We'll need some kind of accommodations, I suppose."

"Yes, of course. We'll prepare a room for you right away. Come with me."

They followed her to the back of the room, through the tall doors, which opened into a lift. The Master said nothing, staring down at his feet in stony silence while the Doctor made cheery small talk with Vamana.

"Lovely place you've got here. How long have you been director?"

"A decade. I've served here nearly my entire life—first as an attendant, than as a physician, and now as director."

The lift took them up—and up—and up—until finally they emerged on floor 327.

"There are eight floors above this one," Vamana said, strolling out into a corridor whose high ceilings had been installed to accommodate her height. "Floor 335 is a greenhouse and an observatory. If you have time, you should go up there—the views are magnificent."

"Thanks, I might just do that."

She led them to a door marked 327-Gamma-2. "I hope you'll find this comfortable."

The room proved spacious and plain: two beds, a table and chairs, tinted windows overlooking the landscape to the hospital's southwest. Vamana's blue head brushed the ceiling, seven and a half feet up.

"Splendid," the Doctor pronounced. The moment he stepped inside, he felt a peculiar sense of amplification in his mind, as if the volume of his thoughts had become louder. From the twitch of the Master's shoulders, he'd noticed it, too.

"Where's the telly?" he sulked. Vamana stared at him, blank and impassive.

"There isn't one," the Doctor said. He asked Vamana, "Do you have any kind of entertainment network?"

"Noise is too distracting to our patients. There's a library on the first level."

"Books?" the Master sneered. "How antiquated." He faltered under Vamana's cat-like gaze and fell silent.

The Doctor used the sonic screwdriver to unlock the Master's cuffs, and Vamana handed him a set of clothes: a pale green tunic and trousers, plain sandals. "You can shower in there." She opened a narrow door in another wall. "Put your own things there. Doctor, there's another cupboard for you." She gave him an identical tunic and trousers in pale blue. "Green is for patients, blue for their advocates."

"I had a shower this morning," the Master complained.

"Standard hospital procedure," the Doctor said. "Be glad they didn't douse us in the lift. Go on."

The bathroom door slid open, and the Master vanished inside, scowling. The Doctor waited until he heard water running, then gestured Vamana into the corridor outside.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "His mind is broken with rage and hatred, and much of that is directed against you."

"I have to at least try. He's the only other one of my species left alive. I have to help him."

"As you wish. What treatment were you planning?"

The Doctor quickly sketched out his ideas. Vamana nodded, looking thoughtful. "I can't do it on my own," he explained, "he's so powerful, he'd just take me over. I couldn't fight him. That's why I need someone like you there."

"Of course. But Doctor—you may not like what you find. Or you may not find anything at all. What then?"

"I have contingency plans."

She nodded again, letting the matter drop. "When do you wish to start?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"All right. I'll see to it everything is ready."

"Good." The Doctor glanced around. "Is this a secure area?"

"Every floor is. You need a special password to open the doors or use the lifts, and there's a retinal scan, too."

"Good. The Master can mesmerize with his voice. Are your staff prepared to deal with that?"

"Psychic immunity is a requirement of employment."

"Good." The Doctor fished into his pockets, producing his TARDIS key, the sonic screwdriver, psychic paper, and the handcuffs he'd used to restrain the Master. "Keep these for me until I'm ready to leave." He tapped his head. "And before you let me leave the building, make sure it's really me in here, would you?"

Her mouth formed a smile. "Yes." His effects vanished into a pocket of her cream-colored robe.

"I should get back inside."

She followed him into the room. A few moments later, the Master emerged, clad in the green hospital uniform, his hair damp from the shower. Divested of his habitual black, he appeared smaller, strangely naked and vulnerable. Without speaking either to the Doctor or Vamana, he went to his cupboard and began to arrange his clothes inside, hanging up the trousers, jacket, and shirt with fastidious neatness.

The Doctor tossed aside his long coat and jacket, removed his tie, and kicked off his trainers. Leaving the clothes on one of the beds, he went into the bathroom, the door sliding shut behind him. The bathroom had been tiled in a soothing pattern of pale gray and pink, the toilet small and efficient, the sink a white basin protruding from the wall in a nearly flat arc. There was no tub, only a walk-in shower with no visible fixtures, and the one mirror had been set flush into the wall, covered with a clear sheet of unbreakable plastic. The bathroom was as suicide-proof as a room could possibly be.

Satisfied, the Doctor finished disrobing and stepped into the shower stall. Water sprayed out from all sides, perfectly adjusted to his body temperature. It was the Doctor's first shower in over a year, and he laughed with the sheer pleasure of water running down his skin. As he lathered up, he broke into a spontaneous chorus of "Singin' in the Rain." After he rinsed, jets of warm air puffed out to dry him. The hospital provided only the smallest of hand towels—too little fabric to be used as a noose—which the Doctor used to pat off the excess water and rub his hair. The pale blue hospital uniform, made of some synthetic fabric, caressed his skin like an exotic blend of microfiber and silk.

Out in the room, the Master stood staring out the window at the desert below; from the clench of his jaw, the Doctor surmised he was grinding his teeth to powder. The Doctor scooped up his clothes and dumped them in a ball the bottom of his cupboard.

"All right?" asked Vamana.

"Everything's lovely."

"Would you like something to eat?"

"Yes, please."

"I'll have something sent up." She nodded toward a nearby intercom button. "You can use that if you require assistance."

"Thank you. For everything."

She slipped out, and the Doctor flopped onto the bed nearest the door, folding his hands beneath the back of his head. He crossed his right leg across his left knee, admiring his foot. He liked his feet in this incarnation—slender and well-shaped, with strong, high arches and long toes.

"It's too loud." The Master didn't turn around as he spoke, and the Doctor knew he wasn't referring to external noise.

"The rooms are designed with psychic shielding. I imagine they don't want patients interfering with each other's thoughts."

The Master clutched his temples, rocking himself back and forth, his face contorted with pain. The Doctor watched, concerned and sympathetic, realizing that the Master's drumming was going to seem a lot louder in here.

The spasm passed, and the Master relaxed, sagging against the window so that his breath fogged the heavy glass.

"What are you planning?"

"You'll find out tomorrow."

"What if I don't go along with it? What if I refuse?"

"Don't you want that drumming to stop?"

The Master turned around, staring at his old foe. "That's your game? The drumming? You think if that stops, everything will be fine, and we can skip out of here hand-in-hand, singing 'Kumbayah?'"

"It's a place to start."

"I don't need your help, Doctor! I don't need you to heal me."

"That drumming isn't normal," the Doctor stated. "I've never heard drums in my head, and no other Time Lord I ever knew said they experienced anything like it. You're the only one, and I want to know why you hear it."

The Master folded his arms, stubborn. "And if I refuse?"

"You won't at least try?"

The Master gave him a pointed glare.

The Doctor sat up. "All right, then." He hopped off the bed. "Come here."

"What?"

The Doctor stood in the doorway to the bathroom. The Master immediately grew suspicious, and the Doctor said, "Oh, come, do you think I'd go through all this effort if I planned to drown you in the toilet? I could've done that back on the Valiant if I'd wanted."

At last the Master trudged across the floor and into the bathroom. The lights blinked on. The Doctor said, "Look in the mirror. What do you see?"

"Apart from two pathetic-looking Time Lords? Nothing."

"Right. Now, close your eyes."

The Master gave him another wary look, and the Doctor sighed, exasperated. They stood glaring at each other, but at last the Master's curiosity got the better of him, and he shut his eyes.

The Doctor closed his eyes also, reaching back into his mind, into that black place of ice-cold rage, a place he didn't like to acknowledge existed, but which he'd been touching all too often lately. Beside him, the Master let out a quiet, almost erotic gasp. He could sense the Doctor's dark power, and it stirred him.

"Now, look."

The Doctor opened his eyes. His own reflection stared back at him, his hair wild, his pupils so dilated that the brown of his irises was swallowed up in a pool of black, his eyes like twin disks of obsidian. The Master turned, staring first at the Doctor, then at the Doctor's reflection, his breathing more audible. Then he gave some consideration to the third figure reflected in the mirror.

"Who is she?" he asked, peering closer for a better look. "Is she human?"

"She was an Earth child in the early twentieth century, before an alien stole her body and turned her into a monster. In life, her name was Lucy Cartwright."

The Master studied the girl. "It's not an illusion. She's in the mirror. Trapped there."

"Not just this mirror," the Doctor said. "Every mirror, everywhere."

"That's brilliant," the Master breathed. Then he stiffened. "Lucy used to see her sometimes, on the Valiant. She'd tell me she kept seeing a little girl with a red balloon, out of the corner of her eye." He rounded on his adversary. "You were making her see the girl."

"Keeping myself amused, yes."

"You're a sick fuck, did you know that?"

"I learned from the Master."

The Master had caught the alien's attention, and now she lunged for him, her face hideous, contorted, only stopping when she collided with the boundary of her prison.

The Master jolted back, an involuntary reflex. "She can feel me."

"She knows you're a Time Lord. If she got free, she'd try to steal your essence to prolong her life indefinitely."

"She's an Aubertide," the Master realized. "We learned about them in the academy when we studied parasitic species." He turned to the Doctor. "Aubertides are short-lived insects. Is that what she did to you—tried to hijack your remaining regenerations?"

The Doctor didn't answer. He just watched his prisoner.

"So you created a tiny dimensional oubliette and trapped her there, allowing her to see out onto any point in space and time you choose. She can only see, she can't touch or escape or experience anything… she can only watch. Endless psychological torment." The Master regarded the Doctor with admiring eyes. "You surprise me. I'd never have given you credit for something so deliciously cruel."

"Cruel?" A ghost of a smile touched the Doctor's face. "This isn't cruel." He snapped his fingers, and the girl vanished, leaving only the reflection of the two Time Lords. "You should see what I did to the rest of her family." He turned on his heel and left the bathroom.

The Master followed him out. "What'd they do to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I know you. You don't punish anyone like that, not even me. They must've done something to offend you on some personal level. Something to do with Miss Tyler, I assume."

"Rose was out of the picture by then." The Doctor flopped down onto his bed. "Are you keeping a tally of how I deal with my adversaries? I should be flattered. Next thing I know, you'll be starting a fan club."

The Master sat on the edge of the bed opposite. "I've been tracking your activities since you sent me back to Earth. The lovely thing about infiltrating a government is gaining access to all its surveillance. You're considered a 'person of interest' in many parts of Earth, England in particular."

"Tell me something I don't know," the Doctor yawned.

The Master leaned forward. "Taking down an entire government, Doctor? Really, now, don't you think that's a bit extreme? Over the Sycorax debacle? Poor Harriet Jones. Poor England, denied its Golden Age. If she'd been in office, it mightn't have been so easy for me to take power."

"Like you couldn't have had her assassinated in a heartbeat?" the Doctor scoffed. "Blaming me for it, no doubt, and setting up yourself as the country's savior in the aftermath of tragedy. Or discredit her and run her out of office. That'd be child's play for you, barely another hoop to jump through."

"You must've lost your hand in a fight with the Sycorax."

"Big swordfight," the Doctor agreed. He waved his new hand at the Master. "Hello!"

"I examined the tissue. You'd only just regenerated, or else the hand wouldn't have grown back."

"Lucky me!" The Doctor waved again. "Hello!"

"Do stop." The Master made a face. "So, let me guess: you took out the Sycorax leader in one-on-one combat and sent the rest of them packing. According to the UNIT reports, they'd used blood control to hypnotize a third of Earth's population and were threatening to have them all commit suicide if Harriet didn't surrender the planet."

"Everyone with A+ blood. Cheap voodoo. They would've intimidated and bullied the population into surrendering without raising a single weapon."

"And when the Sycorax ship was on its way out of Earth's atmosphere, she authorized Torchwood One to shoot it down." The Master's voice grew soft, mocking. "And you didn't like that, because you'd already averted the crisis in a way that minimized bloodshed on both sides. She wasn't willing to play by your rules, so you cut her throat politically."

"That's not the reason."

"You got up on your high horse of morality over the Sycorax? Those scavengers?"

"Nope."

"Was it over Torchwood, then?"

"Getting warmer," the Doctor allowed.

"I toured their facility at Canary Wharf," the Master said. "Every alien artifact they'd ever collected had been disabled or destroyed—your work?"

"In case some other group of would-be imperialists got the same idea. I'm sure you've read up on Torchwood. They weren't collecting all that stuff for the benefit of humanity. They were planning to use the technological advances to build a new British Empire."

"So you took down Harriet Jones because she was in league with a bunch of prats who wouldn't let the rest of the world play with their toys?"

"Driving you mad, isn't it?" the Doctor laughed. "Can't figure out my motivations; that's a new one for you."

The Master folded his arms. "Humor me."

The Doctor sat up and faced him. "She authorized Torchwood to destroy the Sycorax ship without a full understanding of the weapon they were using. The most powerful weapons tech in the history of humanity—developed from an alien ship Torchwood pillaged—and she used it to shoot down a gang of scavengers who'd not only been defeated but were never much of a threat to begin with."

"You didn't like her making a pre-emptive strike. Ah, so she didn't share your pacifist ways. That's it."

"She didn't consider the political consequences," the Doctor said. "How would the rest of the world react once it knew England possessed a laser cannon that could blow anything into dust? And don't get me started on the environmental impact—if the ship'd blown up any closer to Earth, there would've been huge chunks of burning rock falling on populated areas. As it was, we had ash raining out of the sky practically all night. For all she knew, the Sycorax ship might've been a giant slab of asbestos, or there might've been a nuclear reactor on board. She authorized that strike without any understanding of either the weapon she was using or the target she was aiming for."

"And you punished her for her ignorance. Or was it her hubris?"

The Doctor scowled, "She had options. It's not like her back was against the wall and she had no other choices." Not like me, he added silently, with Gallifrey.

"You punished her for bad judgment?"

"It wasn't her ignorance or her bad judgment," the Doctor revealed. "She took the two worst lines of defense you can ever take with me. She said she shot down the ship on behalf of the people who'd elected her."

The Master laughed, delighted. "In other words, she was just doing her job?"

"And then she said Britain's Golden Age 'comes with a price.'"

"The ends justify the means." The Master made a soft tsking noise. "Harriet, Harriet. Didn't she realize that when you beg the Doctor for help, you play on his terms?"

"Begged me for help?"

"She got on telly and begged you to help her. I saw the tape."

"I never knew that." The Doctor swung around and lay prone on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "It must've been while I was unconscious—post regeneration trauma."

"Would it have made a difference?"

"None. She showed no respect for my moral beliefs. That wasn't the first time I'd helped her. She knew me well enough to know what she was doing wouldn't sit well with me, and she went ahead and did it anyway. And you know, she blamed me for the whole debacle afterwards? Called me an alien threat, even."

"Insult to injury. And I suppose you think all that justifies taking a major political figure out of power? Even if the country's government fell into chaos afterwards."

"How many centuries has England existed as a political entity?" the Doctor countered. "How much war and upheaval and violence have they endured? If they can survive all that, they can survive the ousting of one trigger-happy politician."

"And that's how you justified it to yourself?"

"Don't expect me to shed any tears of pity over Harriet Jones, and don't think you can lay a guilt trip on me over it. If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't change anything—especially now that I know she'd been begging me to help her." The Doctor's mouth closed in a hard, unforgiving line.

The Master began to speak, but the Doctor interrupted him. "You shot down the Racnoss mother ship a year later, so look who's talking."

"You drowned her children, though, didn't you? Drained the Thames. Bloody mess on our hands afterwards. I knew it had to be you—your fingerprints were all over it."

"Like you would've let the Racnoss live. A bunch of giant spiders, interfering with your plans for global domination? I doubt it."

Before the Master could reply, they heard a soft ping from outside the room: the announcement of a visitor. The Doctor hopped up off the bed to answer the summons. In the corridor outside stood a trio of hospital workers with an elaborate cart.

"Ah, dinner," the Doctor said, stepping aside to let them enter. "Good—I'm starving."

To be continued…