Silencing the Drums

IN WHICH THE DOCTOR DISCOVERS THAT ALL IS NOT WELL

The Master had been sleeping for hours. He'd hardly stirred, and once or twice during his hourly visits the Doctor had leaned close to make certain he was still breathing. It was clear that he'd recently begun regenerating, but that the process had been halted somehow. The energy of the Vortex clung to him like a second skin. This was strange, for the deep wounds on him did not seem to be healing, as if something was impeding the process, and the Doctor found himself completely flummoxed by this. Surely the Master would welcome a new regeneration and the renewed strength it would bring. Hadn't he been given a new cycle not so long ago? This was not his last life, not something he'd need to cling to.

The Doctor found himself in a rare moment of stillness as he monitored the TARDIS's controls. He leaned against the railing, gazing up at nothing in particular, his bowtie undone and hanging around his neck. He hadn't felt still or safe since he'd brought the Master on board, and the sustained stress was tiring. He knew that Amy would be waiting for him, and that he ought to go pick her up, but he was afraid of exposing her to the Master. Indeed, now that he'd brought him on board, he wasn't sure what to do with him.

He let out a long-suffering sigh and pushed off the railing, pacing slowly around the center console. He'd grown to hate the empty echo of his feet on the glass floor. Even with Amy and Rory along he felt alone, and filled the empty space with stuff. Words, mostly – his, Pond's, rarely Rory's - all helped distract him from his restless mind. A short while ago he was convinced that he was, again and indefinitely, the very last of the Time Lords, and now the Master had once more dropped right into his lap.

He wasn't certain how to feel.

A ringing from the small box strapped to his wrist pulled him back to the present. It was the other half of the Master's collar, and the ringing meant that he was moving – impossible, unless he'd unlocked the door. Which was more likely than the Doctor was willing to admit.

He threw the TARDIS into auto-pilot and lurched down the stairs as the ship shuddered into automatic. The Master had only gone as far as the library pool, but the Doctor wouldn't put it past him to get into trouble there. There were hundreds of valuable books stashed along the stories-high shelves, not to mention weapons schematics and in-depth blueprints of the TARDIS. He tripped and stumbled as quickly as he could through the warren of rooms and hallways, pausing only to check the Master's location on the little box strapped to his wrist.

He reached the library and swung around the doorframe, screwdriver in hand, hair and coat all askew from his mad dash, expecting to find the Master with a makeshift weapon in hand.

Instead, he found the Master submerged beneath a mountain of fleecy soap bubbles.

He'd turned the Jacuzzi into a giant bathtub and was almost invisible beneath the foam, his skinny body floating in the steaming water. A series of small, colorful bottles lined the rim of the pool, and a bar of blue soap floated in a dish at the periphery of the soap-bubble island.

"Close the door, you're letting the steam out," he said, propping himself up against the edge.

The Doctor gaped at him, then shut his mouth and the door abruptly. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't this. "How did you get out? I locked the door, I'm sure of it – and there can't have been anything you could've used to pick the lock."

"Haven't you learned anything?" the Master asked with a patronizing smile. "You can't have expected a simple door lock to keep me in."

"In the state you're in, I'm surprised you made it to the door, much less past it," the Doctor replied, his tone sharp to cover his own discomfort. He knew how he ought to feel – he ought to be furious, perhaps even a little bit frightened. He ought to feel that it might be better to eliminate the Master while he still had a chance. Yet, standing before the only other Time Lord in existence, he found himself unable to hate.

The Master shrugged. "Again, you underestimate me. How long have we known each other? I'm very disappointed in you, Doctor."

"You do realize that's laundry detergent you've used in the… Jacuzzi."

The Master looked down and sniffed the bubbles, then glanced at the row of soap bottles. "Well, if you'd had a proper guest bathroom, I wouldn't have had to use laundry detergent in your Jacuzzi."

"Always an answer for everything," The Doctor muttered. "You could have asked, instead of breaking out of your room." He circled around him, screwdriver still in hand. "The last time we met, you'll remember, you tried to drop the Time War on me, so you'll have to forgive me for being cautious."

At the mention of the Time War, the Master shuddered and turned away. Though the water was hot enough to throw clouds of steam, he shivered as if caught in a draft.

The Doctor squinted at him and drew a step closer. He could see now that the Master was still ghost-pale and weak, leaning on the edge of the pool because he couldn't hold himself upright any other way. The Doctor dropped his guard a fraction, and felt a short-lived stab of pity.

"What did they do to you?" he asked, half to himself.

"The burning, and the drumming – the sky was rent through, black with smoke, and the corpses lay like garbage." The Master curled in on himself, hands tucked around his knees. He wasn't speaking to the Doctor, but to himself, words spilling from him in a toneless mantra. "The Daleks scoured our planet of life, and we threw bodies at them until there was nothing left. All gone – our home, our families, all gone and drowned in the drumming, the sound of the drums!"

His voice rose to a shout, and then he slipped suddenly beneath the water's surface, unconscious.

The Doctor didn't think. He dashed to the edge of the pool and plunged his arms down to hook under the Master's shoulders, hauling him out and dragging him to dry ground. With swift efficiency he pumped his palms against his chest, forcing a few weak wheezes of water out of his lungs. The Master choked and drew a shallow, shuddering breath, and though he came to quickly enough, it was clear that he wasn't really all there. Whatever madness had grasped him at the mention of the Time War was still with him, and he stared at the Doctor with stark white eyes and did not recognize him.

The Doctor gathered him up, wrapped in his own slightly soggy jacket, and carried him, unresisting, back towards the guest room. He was disturbed by how light the body was, how clearly he could feel his spine and ribs. This was more than the savage insanity that had gripped the Master the last time he'd returned to life. At least then he'd still been strong, self-assured. This time he was a mere shell with moments of lucidity.

Now would be the time to finish him off, put him out of his misery. What if the other Time Lords used his head as a conduit out of the time lock again? What of the multitude of times over the centuries that the Master had tried to end him? Why could he not feel the cold distain for him that he had for the Daleks, the Cybermen, the Sontarans?

He lay him down again on the rumpled sheets and covered him over with a few spare blankets, watching until his shivering subsided and he slipped once again to sleep. The collar still lay securely around his neck, and the controls seemed undamaged. At least the Doctor knew what sort of man he was dealing with now – one who was apparently too ill to make it very far. This was a small comfort to him.

He locked the door again on his way out, and after a moment's consideration, pushed a nearby cabinet in front of it as well.