He lands back where he should be, in his half-robed body, in the disrobing room, where he always was, now. Was he on the ceiling, before? He can’t recall. All he knows is that his hands are cold. He holds them against himself, careful not to touch Flamina where she’s sleeping just below his navel. She’ll kick him for certain. His bench is still beneath him, still solid. He molds his fingers to the edge of the little dressing seat and struggles for air. A knot is building in his throat, like the crunch of leaves when dark intentions follow a child into the woods. He berates himself, swallowing something back down where it belongs. “You ought to be glad you only want to sick up, after screwing around with the chronologic presets like that. Even if it was an accident, it was stupid of you, because of Flamina.” His fingers drift afloat over his stomach again, loathe to touch because they’re like icicles dangling from his palms. “Stupid, stupid Time Lord. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, st-?”
“Nonsense. You’re not a boy anymore.”
A hand lands like a feather on one shoulder blade. He stiffens, his motions at once thick with the abrupt grace of a crane alerting to something in the water.
The small voice and hand, as it turns out, belong to a small face, judging by the size of the hand.
The Doctor looks up.
A seven year old blonde girl in a white gown is standing on the step next to the bench, her delicate fingers pressed against his back, her young shoulders drenched in a bright velvet cloak of Prydon red.