FANDOM: Doctor Who
TITLE: The Return
GENRE: Drama, Mystery, Suspense
CHARACTERS: the Eleventh Doctor, the Master, the Time Lords, Various OCs
WARNING/S: Violence. And Time-Honoured Gallifreyan Curses.
SPOILERS: Invasion of Time, Sound of Drums, End of Time, Eleventh Hour, The Big Bang, Various Eighth Doctor Adventures if you blink.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own them. What I do own, it's obvious.
AUTHORS NOTE: The reader may recognize about three pieces of verbage from the meshyfish site; not necessarily canon, that site, but still a very delicious read for people looking for brain food. Plus, anyone who figures out the anagram gets a fic written especially for them. Whatever you want, people!
SECOND AUTHOR's NOTE: Anyone who is NOT on speaking terms with Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell, is NOT fond of wibbly wobbly timey wimey-ness, does NOT think too much, is NOT vaguely familiar with mind sciences, philosophy, psychiatric ideas and such, and has NOT seen all the available episodes from Classic Who/New Who and read some of the books, namely these Eighth Doctor Adventures:
The Year of Intelligent Tigers, The Adventuress of Henrietta Street, Camera Obscura
The Seventh Doctor Adventure, Lungbarrow
Will be very confused by this story and its subsequent sequels. If in doubt, ask about something you don't understand. Everything in here is meant to be a treat for the reader. Everything. The more you know, the more you enjoy. So, please ask.
SUMMARY: Thanks to the Doctor and Amy Pond, the memory which restored the universe also restored Gallifrey. With the Ponds off on a honeymoon planet, the Eleventh Doctor comes home to check up on the Master. Naturally, the Doctor is impressed with his progress. But as we all know, decay touches every heart…
THE RETURN HEPTALOGY, PART ONE: THE RETURN
A familiar wheeze resounds through the half-melted halls of Gallifrey's Citadel, drawing the Time Lords out from their broken shells of complacency.
Like before, the Chancellory Guards come to investigate.
Also like before, the Blue Box materializes, leaving streaks in the vision of the unwary who look upon her before she's quite dressed.
Unlike before, the Lord President comes to greet the owner of the Box, wearing skinny jeans, a hoodie. The Sash of Rassilon rings his shoulder and waist; a week's worth of stubble graces his short chin.
He waits for the doors to open, unwilling to give even an inch, a single metre to the Box's owner in this instance.
The two doors creak; stout boots fill his view. He moves up. Trousers, tweed and dress shirt follow. Soon a whole body with hair and everything escapes the double entrance.
There is a bowtie, he realizes, shuddering. The thing is green with red stripes.
"Did you just come back from fucking Christmas or something? You look like a donkey's arse."
The owner of the Box just smiles, his sunken green eyes taking in the shining length of the Sash and the bedraggled man upon whose shoulder it hangs from.
"Not exactly, but close enough. Let me guess… you stole it from his cold dead hands," the owner of the Box murmurs as he smacks a hand across the Lord President's back then grips him briefly by a bicep.
"No. he gave it to me. As a birthday present. And, oh look," the Lord President says, waving off his guards long enough to glare. "I'm bigger than you. Get in my belly."
"Not hardly. But then, I'm usually the one playing bottom, at least in the fanfics."
The man who is Lord President rolls his shoulders and smirks.
"You mean those... things where you get pregnant with my love child whilst I deal with my repressed issues by slaughtering all the cute fuzzy animals? Perhaps we should discuss exactly which of us would over a cuppa?"
The owner of the Box smiles and waves his arm in the direction of a scorched hallway.
"Lead on, Koschei," he says, stuffing a jelly baby in the closest guard's gaping mouth as they walk hand in hand toward the Lord President's rooms.