A/N: I felt that Sir Doctor of TARDIS needed this.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. BBC owns everything. I want shares in the BBC.
Warning: Spoilers for 'Tooth and Claw' and bits of the classic series, characters of the First and Second Doctors particularly.
'By the power vested in me by the Church and the State, I dub thee Sir Doctor of TARDIS.'
Not a bad title, that. He's heard a lot worse in 900 years, and anything beats the titles the Daleks bestowed on him.
A knighthood from Queen Victoria…
'By the power vested in me by the Church and the State, I dub thee Dame Rose of the Powell Estate.'
He tries not to giggle in excitement and fails as soon as he looks at Rose, or rather, Dame Rose. Funny, she doesn't look like a Dame. You always expect Dames to be about eighty or so, pearls, fancy dress and all that.
He straightens his face as Her Majesty lowers the ceremonial sword and studies the human girl and Time Lord standing before her.
'You may stand.'
He tries a cheeky grin on for size. 'Many thanks ma'am.'
Rose fights down a giggle of her own. 'Thanks. They're never gonna believe this back home!'
He stands a little taller and leans conspiratorially towards the petite woman.
'You Majesty, you said last night about receiving no message from the great beyond. I think your husband cut that diamond to save your life. He's protecting you even now ma'am, from beyond the grave.'
He can't help but fight back a shiver of jealousy and pain. He knows how fortunate she is. To be loved and protected even past death…
He's tried. He's tried so hard and so often, calling out in his dreams and waking moments, trying in his mind to touch the frayed bonds which connected the minds and souls of the Time Lords.
The bonds cut by his hands.
The Empress of India and Defender of the Faith shows no response.
'Indeed. Then you may think on this also, that I am not amused.'
Rose holds in a squeal of delight. Just.
And there goes ten quid. Ah well.
The monarch's eyes are now of steel.
'Not remotely amused. And henceforth…I banish you.'
His throat tightens.
The Queen stares imperiously at them. And he sees not the petite, plump, grey-haired old woman dressed in white lace and mourning black, but a tall, thin, dark-haired man dressed in the silver-grey collars and black robes of the Time Lord Elite.
Borusa. Once upon a time so long ago, his teacher and friend.
The one who had delivered the decision by the High Council to have him exiled from Gallifrey so many centuries ago. (1)
The one whom he had thought he could trust.
His eyes focus vaguely on the figure before him, listening to the words of regret and anger.
'I have rewarded you, Sir Doctor, and now you are exiled from this empire, never to return. I don't know what you are, the two of you, or where you're from, but I know you consort with stars and magic, and think it fun.'
Not Rose beside him, but a younger girl, dark-haired, dark-eyed. He wears not his dark brown suit and running shoes, but a velvet frock coat over neatly pressed trousers, a smart linen shirt, his favourite silk waistcoat and highly polished brogues. Susan, so smart, so curious, so brave, clings onto his arm in fear as she listens to the proclamation against the one she loves above all others.
'But your world is steeped in terror and blasphemy and death...'
He knows what Borusa, what the rest of those arrogant, feeble-minded bureaucrats see when the look at him and his precious grandchild. A white-haired, crotchety old man who has a list of crimes against the Time Lords and Gallifrey as long as his own life. One who is of Gallifrey, and yet not. The one who saw what power would do to his people, and destroyed himself to save the future from the Pythia's curse.
'…And I will not allow it. You will leave these shores, and you will reflect, I hope, on how you came to stray so far from all that is good…'
Good? Good? How could simply observing the universe and not aiding the wondrous people and races within it be good? There is no-one beside him now; they are held like prisoners in the witness box as the President and the Chancellor watch over the proceedings. He feels his hearts ache as he watches his companions. Forbidden from comforting them, from even patting Jamie on the shoulder or pressing a kiss onto Zoë's forehead.
'…And how much longer you may survive this terrible life.'
Terrible. Humph. His normally twinkling blue eyes darken in anger as he glowers under his messy dark mop of hair at the stand. Shows how much a mob of drowsy senators and politicians know about life. But what if…what if Borusa and the others are right? What could happen to those he loves? Jamie and Zoë, and all those before and after them…could he endanger them just through taking part in the life of the universe?
'Now leave my world and never return.'
As he spins away into the darkness to begin his exile, and the nausea creeps up on him, he wonders how long he now has to exist in his cursed life, how long it will be until he is needed once more, how long it will be until those who banished him will hunt him down once again for their own purposes...
So many hundreds of years later, and banishment still leaves such a bitter taste in his mouth. He watches the Queen depart and studies the floor, wondering once more.
How long does he have?
How long does Rose have?
How long until he is called once more?
And how long until he is reunited with his past?
(1) OK, I know the Doctor left Gallifrey pretty much of his own free will, but it's clear his people did help him along to a certain extent. Silly buggers.