Doctor WHO – The Watchtower.
By Scott P. Vaughn (DocRedfield).
2002 -

The Doctor watched from his place on the cliff face, stared as stars swirled into existence
out beyond his perception. From this vantage, on this world, several close moons and
bodies of amazing color and size could be seen so very close, and yet so far away. He
watched as the planetoids passed by so seemingly close to each other, almost at a speed
he could discern without the use of a telescope. A great wide smile of joy broke across
his face when light from a nearby star broke over the edge of the largest moon, the golden
halo mixing with the swirling blues, greens, reds, and yellows of the gas giant, the effect
not unlike watching the sunlight dance upon a butterfly wing.

"Beautiful," he laughed aloud, that silly grin splitting his face. He brushed back stray
curls from his forehead and simply watched the scene, not knowing where the TARDIS
was, or how he'd got there, nor caring. At that moment, nothing else mattered; not
friends long lost, nor enemies not far behind. Not adventure, not mystery, not plans, not
imperfections, not injustice or love or hate. Simply the wonder of the heavens above as a
shower of meteorites peppered the moment by splashing across his view, skimming over
the invisible atmosphere and sparking out of life. He placed his hands in his pockets,
brushing aside the long velvet coat and yet ignoring the pocket watch that so often
begged him to make certain Time was on track.

The Doctor leaned back against the cliff, the rocks behind steadying the Time Lord as he
balanced on his heals. The wind blew, rustling hair and coat tails, threatening to brush
the passion of the moment from his eyes and down his cheeks. He didn't care. To still
find wonder in a universe traversed from one end to the other on almost every dimension
during the period of over one thousand years was enough to make even he stop and
simply be.

A final gust of the warm breeze caused his eyes to squint, and when he opened them
again he found before him not the expanse of space, but a clean brook under a green tree,
a fishing pole in his hands, the blue TARDIS sitting under a blue sky. He was almost
surprised to find how easily he had fallen asleep, despite the hobby's effects on him in
past regenerations, and he might have been saddened to find the moment had been simply
a dream or a stop on the astral plane; he might have been, but then he was too busy