He slips inside. There is only one bed being used. Everything is tidy. There are glass cabinets with food pills everywhere, and canisters of grow-skin gas capsules for the handheld medical scanners. Spanners, more like. Perhaps he should fill those with spectrox concentrate before he leaves?
The Doctor’s wife, that gun-happy bitch with the curls. She’s left a book open on the pull-out tray near her husband’s monitor. Whore must have run screaming when the dung hit during The Testimony. What a shame, he thinks as he skirts the Doctor’s bed, fingering the white sheets from which one of the annoying Time Lord’s toes are poking out, that interference from his little parting gift to Gallifrey had fried the comms just as he’d been about to watch them all get blasted into the Void. Oh well. At least it was over. He can just see the green of Hitchemus coming over his readouts, filling the screens of the little ship he’s -borrowed- from Confiscation and Storage. All he has to do is retrieve the Node fixed to the Great Seal, then use it to teleport off-planet.
Oh, how he’s missed her, his White Lady.
He’s going to be with her soon.
His hands reach toward the Time Lord on the bed, feeling for pulses. The man is barely breathing, mired in the throes of a healing coma perhaps. Well, he won’t need that where he’s going. And he’s so still- yes, definitely some level of coma.