The Doctor throws open the TARDIS doors and steps out, careful to turn around and lock her properly instead of using his clicker. Or snapping his fingers. She’d shocked him for it… He’d learned not to snap too often, after that.
Feeling his feet touch solid ground, he closes his eyes and lets himself revel in the touch of the wood under his squarish, not quite slim fingers.
“Wait a moment. That doesn’t smell remotely like chocolate cake,” he says, sounding confused even to his own ears as he takes a backstep away from the TARDIS.
One more step backward.
But his naked foot doesn’t touch floor first, oh no. It sinks a little, and he can feel something cool and wet. And slightly sticky.
He can feel what it is through his clothes. He can smell it on his skin, the instant recognition seeping through his body. Has the TARDIS taken him back to Gallifrey already? Gallifrey. Gallifrey? Gallifrey! Of course Gallifrey. Idiot.
He looks down, and sees only the marble floor, and the vermillion of Time Lord blood in a pattern like spilt paint beneath his feet.
Suddenly there is a tugging at his sleeve. He looks around, but sees only the Master’s body. He clutches his head, trying to stave off the creep of a vascular headache that so often accompanies such flashes of shared pain and failing miserably as the tugging fingers? It is fingers, isn’t it? pull at his shirt again.
“Are you Jesus?”