or_timelords | This could prove to be interesting.

[The Doctor's sleep is dreamless. Dreams are essential and if you don't dream you'll lose it at some point - yes, he knows that. But he doesn't actually need to sleep as much as he does; it's just a habit he's developed. When you hang around humans a lot, you sort of slow the pace of your routine to accommodate theirs. But just because he sleeps more than he has to, it doesn't mean he has to dream during that additional time. Self-hypnosis is a good thing.]

[So when he feels the mattress moving and someone kicking his calf, it doesn't feel like he's on a ship on a rough sea and his sheaved pirate sword is slapping against his leg. It just feels like someone is kicking his calf.]

[He blinks his eyes open, but before he can even properly wake up, there's more movement, a shout, and then the sound of someone falling out of bed. People falling out of bed make a very distinctive sound; it's hard to mistake it for anything else. He pushes himself up on his elbows.]

What?

Who the bloody hell-?

[Except then he looks up at the man on the bed, and he recognises him. Of course he does. He loves Doctor Who. It was always something Maya teased him about, especially when the new series came on and he had to watch it. So what's the only explanation? He must still be dreaming. One of those irritating moments where you think you've woken up from a dream but you've really just switched to another one.]

[He sighs, and gets himself up off the floor, brushing down his vest.]

Well, better dream than the last, anyway.

[He runs a hand over his eyes - dreamless sleep is harder to wake up from than normal sleep, interestingly - and squints in the general direction of where the voice came from. The room is dark, but there's a faint ray of light falling in through the window, which -]

[Wait. Window?]

[He turns on his back, and the bed squeaks - his own bed never squeaks. This isn't the TARDIS. This doesn't feel like the TARDIS; this doesn't even smell like the TARDIS.]

[When he speaks again, the Doctor turns his head back to the man beside the bed, who is barely more than a silhouette.]

Dream? What? Where am I?

[And doesn't that voice seem strangely familiar?]

[Really, you'd think if the Doctor's going to go about showing up in his dreams, he'd at least know where he was. Or have some sort of reason for being there. Dashing about saving the universe, doing the things the Doctor usually does.]

[Sam lifts an eyebrow, before stifling a yawn into his hand, and leaning over to flick on the light switch. The lights complain for a moment, as if they can't quite decide whether it's worth the effort, before flickering on, illuminating Sam's flat in sour, yellow light. The eye-searing wallpaper, the peeling paint on the ceiling, the ratty brown carpeting; the place is never any better in his dreams than it is in real life.]

[Not that this is real life.]

[Sam takes those few paces back to sink into the armchair, leaving the bed to the dream-Doctor.]

You're a figment of my subconscious mind; shouldn't you know?

[The lights flicker and turn on, illuminating a room that - well, it does have a certain, uh, retro - no, it doesn't really have any charm at all. It's hard to decide whether the wallpaper, the peeling paint, or general brown-green-beige color scheme are the worst part.]

[All of this registers with the Doctor only marginally, though. If the voice seemed familiar, it's because it is. The Doctor's not sure what the Master is putting on the accent for, and the choice of outfit seems atypical, but, yeah. It's the Master.]

[Oh, marvelous. He flops back down onto his back.]

What's all this now? A revenge scheme? I thought we came out rather equal last time we met. No reason to disturb the status quo. Not so soon, anyway.

[Sam's brows furrow at the Doctor, part confusion and part irritation. Since when does he have to explain himself to his own dreams?]

Sorry?

Oh, drop it already, you know what -

[He looks over at the other man, and the genuine confusion on his face makes him break off. The Doctor frowns and lowers his mental shielding, just enough to see if he can feel the Master. He's fully expecting to, so when he doesn't, he drops the shields completely, eyes widening in surprise.]

You're human.

[This is new. He scrambles to his knees, the blankets falling away and leaving him kneeling on the bed in just his pajama bottoms.]

You're - properly human. Who are you?

[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.

[This is - quite implausible. When he'd thought that this was the Master's doing, it hadn't actually made any sense either, but then, things involving the Master rarely do. There had been the whole thing about him waking up in a strange bed, which would have been the kind of symbolic gesture the Master would have gone for in a revenge plan. Still no reason behind it, but at least an explanation.]

[This? This is just strange. Interesting, though. He gives the so familiar looking stranger a smile.]

Pleased to meet you, Mr Tyler. I'm the Doctor.

[He's about to reach for the sonic screwdriver when - yeah, right. Sleep. Bed. Pajamas. He peers around the room.]

Have you seen my clothes anywhere?

Yeah, I know.

[He says it like it should be obvious. Because really, shouldn't it be?]

I'd have a hard time dreaming you up if I didn't know who you were.

Dreaming me up?

[The man - Sam Tyler - keeps going on about this not being real. The Doctor has ignored it so far, because the statements make as little sense to him as most human in-jokes and cultural references do. He's trying to keep up with these things, of course, but really, humans can't expect him to know everything.]

[It sounds like Sam isn't joking, though.]

I'm not a dream. I'm quite real, thank you very much. Now, clothes?

[Ah! He spots them hanging over the back of a chair in one of the less well illuminated parts of the room and climbs out of bed to retrieve them.]

'Course this is a dream. Doctor Who's a telly programme I happen to watch, and apparently tonight, my subconscious got bored of torturing me the usual ways and decided to spice things up.

[It doesn't occur to him that people don't usual have to explain to their dreams that they're dreams]

[Trousers, shirt, jacket, tie, t-shirt, even the socks - it's all there. He quickly puts them on, resting his foot on the edge of the chair as he's tying his shoelaces. As he does so, he gives Sam a frown.]

You do know that there's no such thing as the subconscious, right? Freud himself revised that theory while he was still alive. [And the second shoe, and then he's done, all dressed and ready to go. He hesitates for a moment, then puts the discarded PJ bottoms over the back of the chair.] I have to admit, though, that the whole thing about the id and the ego didn't make a whole lot more sense.

[Sam crosses his arms across his chest; somehow, the gesture looks slightly less impressive when he's half dressed]

Right then, you're real. Convince me. How is it a fictional character comes to life in my flat. My flat that... isn't even real. The flat's in me mind!

[Oh, now that's a puzzling concept. The Doctor, who was in the process of reaching for his sonic screwdriver - he's not sure what he was going to do with it, but he remembers wanting it before - stops in his tracks and frowns.]

Now why would you think that?

What, that none of this is real?

[Sam huffs out a bitter little breath.]

I'm in a coma. In the future. 2006. All of this... this is just in me head. You, and the flat, and the entire city, and I'm here until I can wake up somehow. But I'm not even awake now; it feels real, this world, but you- you're impossible. So I know I'm dreaming.

I'm not impossible.

[Really. Too many people tell him that. They should know better, considering they're staring the fact of his possible-ness right in the face.]

And this isn't a dream, really. I mean, I'm acting on my own volition and impulses, I'm not a figment of your imagination. I think I'd know if I were.

[Right. Gene and Annie insisting they're real is one thing, and that- well, Sam doesn't really know what to believe about that. But the Doctor's different. He's a fiction. Sam grew up watching his adventures weekly on telly. He rolls his eyes.]

And you'd know that how? You're not real, mate; you're a fictional character. Even if you're not a figment of my imagination, you're a product of somebody else's.

[If the Doctor were a man to get insulted, he'd be getting rather insulted by now. Sam's insistence that he's not a real person is anything but flattering.]

I'd really like to know where you're getting all this knowledge from about what's real and what isn't. Have you got any proof that I'm not real?

[And if Sam was the sort of man who quailed at his own occasional, ill-chosen words, he'd be doing that. The Doctor in his flat and he's choosing to spend this time denying the fact that the man's there? But, alas. Once again, he looks at the Doctor like it should be obvious.]

You're from a television show. I grew up watching you, I-

[Ok, no need to share that bit, even if this is just a dream].

If it was a bit earlier, we could flip that on- [And that'd be the television he waves at] and watch you saving the world and managing not to trip over your scarf.

[He's actually listening now, because while people do tell him quite a lot that he's impossible, they don't tend to tell him he's a TV show.]

But - I'm not - I don't wear a scarf! At least not in this - wait. How do you know I used to wear a scarf?

[But he's not waiting for an answer. That's a good use for the sonic screwdriver, right there. He goes over to the telly and points the screwdriver at it, accessing its temporal memory and flicking through the shows that were on the day before.]

When do you say that show was on exactly?

[And finally, finally something seems to have eked through there.]

Well, you won't be wearing a scarf for about another year; at the moment you're still in frills and smoking jackets.

[It doesn't really strike him that he's speaking about the Doctor as if he was an actual person. It just sort of... happens. And oh wait, what, was that a question?]

Saturdays. At six.

[When Sam names the time, the Doctor jumps directly to the program in question. The wobbly image of 1970ies television greets him, and a creaky voice from the telly speakers announces that the next scheduled program will be episode four of the Doctor Who serial The Mind of Evil.]

Doctor Who? What sort of name is -

[He breaks off in astonishment when the grainy picture of a face materializes on the screen - it's fuzzy and of quite bad quality, but it's unmistakably the face of his Third.]

What in Rassilon's name...

[He lets the title sequence finish, but as the colorful swirls fade out to be replaced by a from-above shot of his Third in a state of distress - and he remembers that, how could he ever forget it, that blasted machine the Master had been vain enough to think he could keep under control - he freezes the image and turns around.]

What is this?

[It's the Doctor's shock more than anything else that trips Sam up, so to speak, and he stares, trying in vain to ignore what logic (what logic? This is not logic) is telling him. He puts a hesitant hand out, just enough to press fingertips against the fabric of the Doctor's sleeve. His brow furrows again.]

You're real? You-

[He draws his hand back, looks from the Doctor in front of him to the one onscreen, his lips pressed together. His face can't quite seem to decide if it wants to be gleeful or disbelieving or irritated]

You're actually- I'm not dreaming.

No, I told you before, you're not.

[He turns back to the telly with half a mind to turn it on again - he's curious; how could anyone have made this? - but at the image of himself in that chair, he just frowns again and leaves the TV screen frozen up.]

Who made that show? And where did they get their information from?

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