The Doctor stands on the cliff, in the Dream, his hand resting in the air as though propped backside up with balloons at the cufflinks.
He’s not wearing any cufflinks… but he –has- just pushed Jack off the edge.
The boy is safe, for the moment.
Out on a limb.
He spins on his heel in a flash of coattails and looks up, glimpsing the darkening thunderhead growing over him. Behind him.
Or rather, ‘from’ behind him.
He grabs the outstretched left hand and forces it down to the side, then snaps his wrist slightly, as if turning something.
A sound echoes, the rasp of a clicking mechanism, and gears shift somewhere, clunking in the quiet like great rusted elephant automatons. War machines.
A line draws itself in front of him, a pencil down wonder with no lifted measurement. A trace of a door.
He turns his wrist again, this time to jostle the knob.
He ducks into the quiet dark behind the door, snapping his head back in to say a hurried, “…Some other time, thanks!” to the rushing overhead him-shaped shadow of maddening clouds. It’s not him of course, because him’s down Here. Innit?
Once through, his black boots land on a slurp of wet grass near a landscape-y signage with a horse and a church on it.
“Ha!” he says, starting off down a street, “…never been to Eaton before. Wonder who I’ll…”
It’s just an ordinary street.
Just a simple, ordinary line of ordinary houses and shops and the occasional brick building.
He counts them, picking finally the one with a familiar blue door. Obviously.
He’s always wanted to come here.