[For the first time, he registers faint embarrassment that he's apparently dreamt up the Doctor, half dressed, in his bed. The last time he had a dream that had involved that, he'd been about sixteen, and the Doctor in question had been blonde and boy-faced.]

[Though he has to admit, the longer this goes on, the less it feels like a dream. Time isn't passing by in great, movie-reel montages, or leaping from moment to moment, and the Doctor seems utterly shocked. He doesn't feel like he's dreaming, not really, but it has to be a dream. There's simply no other option. So, that in mind, he decides to play along. Might as well.]

[He arches a wry eyebrow at the Doctor.]

DI Sam Tyler, Greater Manchester Police.

[He gestures around himself.]

My flat. Or, well, the flat me head's made up for me. Apparently my subconscious has a masochistic side to it.