Tag: giant/tiny

Zepheera-Vision Prologue — The Vanishing Box

((Bit of a detour. Since yesterday was 9/9 and I meant to do this earlier but move-in and school and aahhhh. Anyway, here’s the beginning of something new))

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

London, 2005

For the most part, Zepheera loved living in
the Tyler household. Only two humans, aside from the mother Jackie’s occasional
gentleman caller. She was much more energetic than her daughter, Rose, who
spent most of the day at her job in a shop in town. It was relatively quiet,
the humans were predictable and often distracted. No better place for a
borrower.

Yet, deep down, Zepheera longed for the days
of her youth. Not being able to physically age certainly did not mean she
didn’t feel old every now and then, though nowadays it was
quite a common feeling for her. She missed being nineteen with a boyfriend, not
knowing what the future would hold and frankly not caring. It seemed to her
that Rose Tyler had settled on the life that Zepheera would give anything to
have back. And here they were: both stuck in the Powell Estate with no
prospects whatsoever.

Zepheera supposed, if she were human-sized
rather than four and a half inches tall (or vice versa), she and Rose Tyler
might be kindred spirits. But for now, neither Tyler knew of Zepheera’s
existence and it was going to stay that way.

Then one night, her sleep was disturbed by an
unusual commotion out in the humans’ part if the house. Lots of loud talking,
telly blaring something awful, and constant vibrations betraying the giant
being’s every movement. As her head cleared, Zepheera decided that something
important and worth checking out was going on. So she trudged through her many
passages and lifts through the walls until she could enter a small vent high up
the wall in the main area of the house. She could see everything and nobody
could see her.

Rose was sitting numbly on the couch while
her mother paced the room with the telephone, calling each and every one of her
friends about what had happened to her daughter. According to her and the
television, Rose’s shop had exploded. Police were investigating and Jackie was
raving about demands for compensation.

When Rose’s boyfriend Mickey showed up,
Zepheera gathered that the worst was over. She’d heard enough to know what to
expect in the morning. Rose wouldn’t be going out tomorrow, but she might mope
around enough for Zepheera to make a short supply run. She had enough food to
last her a while if worst came to worst.

The last thing she saw or heard as she turned
to go back to bed was Rose sending Mickey off with a plastic arm.

She spent the next morning determining which
foods in her meager pantry would go bad sooner if she didn’t eat them right
away when a new male voice rang through the house. She couldn’t hear what he
was saying from inside the walls, but she immediately abandoned her chore to
investigate this newcomer,  grabbing her
borrowing equipment on the way out. She’d need to know if this man was going to
be around often or not.

He was very odd to watch, she found as she
peered down from her usual vent. While Rose made him coffee, he wandered the
entire room touching everything: he commented on a tabloid, flipped through a
book and declared it had a sad ending, and made a mess of a deck of playing
cards. Zepheera pitied Rose, who was trying to make conversation with this man
who was clearly not paying much attention to her.

Then talk of the police arose, at least from
Rose’s end, and Zepheera honed in on her speech. It was hard to tell, but it
seemed like Rose knew that the man was somehow involved with
the destruction of her job.

Everything happened so fast after that. The
mystery man was attacked by the plastic arm from then night before, and then it
turned on Rose. The man disabled it with some kind of device, a tube-like thing
with a glowing blue light on the end, and before anyone knew it, he was off.

Zepheera raced down the wall to her entrance
to the room as fast as she could. Jackie was busy blowing her hair and getting
ready for the day, so the borrower had an ever-shortening window of time to
make it to the window. By the time she’d climbed up, Rose and the man were
walking swiftly away. She lost them behind the garages for a few minutes, but
she watched the man stride away from Rose toward a blue box. Zepheera
recognized it as a police public call box, but she hadn’t seen one since the
sixties.

Before she could even wonder about it, the
man shut the door and the box disappeared. Vanished into thin air. Zepheera
stood gaping open-mouthed at the empty spot where it used to be until she saw
Rose returning to the Powell Estate and she knew her time was up.

Zepheera high-tailed it back to her humble
home in the walls and immediately began packing. For years she’d dreamed of
something different, something to take her away from everything that reminded
her of her mistakes and regrets. She never belonged, she only stayed. Maybe the
mysterious man could be the answer to the prayers she never dared to say.

Things didn’t just vanish into thin air, so
that man and his vanishing box had to be somewhere. And if it was the last
thing she ever did, if it took a hundred years, Zepheera was going to find it.

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Commissioned Art

creatorofuniverses:

Commission for @borrowedtimeandspace of her characters Zepheera and Quaxo. I adore their outfits, they were such fun to draw. ^^

Only one day left for the Flash Sale! Get yours before it’s too late!

Look at my sons!

Edit: This is a sneak peek of a fantasy-style story I have planned further along the line in BTaS, in which Zepheera not only gets a new outfit, but she also gets a companion of her own!

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Zepheera-Vision Prologue: How Very Clever

“Why on Earth did you bring her here, Sherlock?”

“Where was I supposed to bring her, St. Bart’s? Parade her around, introduce her to Molly and shove her under a microscope? Dull. Messy. No, I needed a look for myself, in private.”

“No, I mean, why did you bring her anywhere at all?”

“Because she makes no sense!”

“She’s a person, she’s not yours to take! She had a life – it’s like that-that thing about how you shouldn’t pick up and move a snail, because you don’t know where it’s going.”

“Oi!” Zepheera protested. She’d been meaning to interrupt the humans’ arguing, but John Watson had been doing well on making her points for her up until that last addition. When he turned in reaction to her shout, he nearly flinched at the scathing indignation she shot his way.

“Sorry, no, I didn’t mean that you’re like–”

“‘Like’, she’s not like anything, certainly not a snail,” interrupted Sherlock as he strode across the kitchen toward Zepheera. “She’s not even like herself, if there’s even a self to be like.”

He dropped back into the chair still sitting by the counter where four-and-a-half inch tall Zepheera stood, leaning forward with his fingers steepled just under his chin. She took a couple wary steps back from his sudden proximity, enough for her to feel like she wasn’t looking straight up into those nebulaic eyes of his.

“I’ve always found the human mind problematic. So many emotions and concerns, not always simple to piece together, not for me anyways. I can, however, know a person’s entire life after seconds of observing them with near complete accuracy, but you. Setting aside that scientifically you shouldn’t be able to function as highly as you do at this size, you are positively full of contradictions. Everything about you clashes with the logic of something else, and I demand an explanation.”

“Sherlock,” John warned. He was ready to tear the detective a new one for continuing to treat Zepheera as a specimen. The one thing stopping him was Zepheera herself raising a hand to stop him.

“It’s okay, John,” she assured, to his confusion and Sherlock’s poorly hidden amusement. The black-haired human’s smirk was as infectious as it was unsettling, Zepheera found as she bit back a grin of her own. She pursed her lips and addressed Sherlock. “Please, enlighten me about these contradictions. What have you observed?”

“Here we go…” muttered John, leaning on the fridge with crossed arms.

“Your clothes were the biggest tip-off,” Sherlock began, his cool gaze jumping up and down Zepheera’s form with each observation. “Trousers and vest hand-made, but your long-sleeve looks factory-made and somehow shrunk down, unless you’ve got a tiny clothes maker hidden around somewhere which I highly doubt. Your boots, as well, are manufactured, but you’ve altered them to look plainer.

“You appear quite young, but your eyes, they tell a different story. And that’s saying nothing about their deep violet hue, but that’s irrelevant to your contradictions. Point being, they’re much older than the rest of you. Exactly how much older is hard to pinpoint, the biggest clue being, of course, your vest. You’ve stripped down and woven together several candy wrappers, easy enough for someone your size to procure. One of them is different, a particular style that would have been in circulation in the 80’s and 90’s. Now, it could be that the material was simply passed down by an elder, or even the vest itself, but not likely enough since the rest are modern sweets and the vest fits you so snugly and hasn’t been altered even once. You made it recently, no more than nine or ten months ago if the wear is any indication.

“Additionally, you’re rather clean despite the fact that I found you outside and your lifestyle of living dependant on humans. Oh, it’s obvious,” Sherlock scoffed at Zepheera’s surprised expression. “Given your size and evident resourcefulness, it can only be assumed that you rely on humans for food and materials and shelter, probably within walls or under the floors or whatever nooks you can find outside. In either case, you shoulf be sporting some kind of dust or dirt residue, but you’re not. I would also expect a scavenger shorter than a pencil to carry a bag of some sort, perhaps climbing tools and a weapon, all of which you lack. Another contradiction. That, and your short hair, indicates a life of ease.
Self-administered haircut, but such an even job along the back can’t be achieved on one’s own. Not without a series of mirrors or a friend…”

Sherlock trailed off, consumed with the implications of his last statement and observations overall. He’d suspected there could be more people her size despite the shrunken appearance of parts of her wardrobe, but he hadn’t considered the possibility of her having a companion. Maybe it was due to all his time spent around John, but something in him wrestled with the ethical dilemma before him on top of the scientific and logical dilemma of her very existence.

While he was silent and introspective, Zepheera looked down at herself and remarked on his observations. They were all correct, but she knew the reasons for her ‘contradictions’ that woulf clear up Sherlock’s confusions. The shrunken-looking pieces of her outfit were taken from the wardrobe in her room in the TARDIS, which had been downsized for her. She’d left her borrowing bag and tools behind because she’d thought she was in for a relaxing day with the Doctor. Now she was in some unknown flat with a pair of strange humans. Strange in every sense of the word.

“Impressive, I’ll admit,” she said st last, breaking both humans out of their swirling thoughts. “For a human, that’s quite extraordinary.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John piped up, the corner of his mouth tugging up mirthfully.

Zepheera shrugged. “I’m sure Brainy here has already worked out that if I am to survive at this scale, I have to be fairly good at observations myself.”

What am I doing?

“Of course, Sherlock seethed. "Obviously.”

“Well then, what say we find out how much I can deduce about you two.”

John’s brow shot up and Sherlock frowned suspiciously. Meanwhile, Zepheera’s instincts were panicking. What am I saying? I don’t have time for these games, I have to get out of here! The longer I’m here, the higher the chances become that the Doctor will do something rash.

And yet here she was, challenging the human before her in his own field. Sherlock must have rubbed off on her more than she realized, because overriding every survival impulse she had was an increasing need to show off. She had to get it out of her system. And, she reasoned, she’d need to put herself even with Sherlock, or at least with a human being in his mind, before she could begin to negotiate her exit.

“If one of you could be kind enough to give me a lift to the other room, I’d be appreciative,” she smirked.

Sherlock stared her down for a moment, hesitant to take her bait. Eventually he gave up with a sigh. “John,” he ordered tersely as he stood from the chair and strode into the other room without either of them.

John blinked when he was left alone with Zepheera, who was looking expectantly up at him. “Erm. How-how should I…?” He still struggled with the idea of handling her, but he supposed if he had her permission it was alright.

“Actually…” she mused, peering down from the very edge of the counter at the dining chair. “I forgot about this. I might be able to see myself down after all.”

Before John could protest, she jumped off and landed expertly on the
seat of the chair, repeating the action down to the floor. He hurried forward
and leaned around the chair, half-expecting to see her limping body hobbling
along. He was more than a little surprised to find himself staring down at the
tiny woman practically unscathed, jogging across his floor. A jump like that
would have messed up any human being, proportionally speaking. Whoever she was,
this Zepheera was sturdier than she looked.

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Helping Hands — Part 3/3

((aka Happy Belated Hug A Tiny Day!))

Prompt from @neonthebright: The Doctor drops/misplaces his sonic somewhere he can’t reach and Zepheera goes on a mini-adventure to retrieve it for him.

BTaS Canon: No – DonnaAU

Timeline: Post-Midnight, Pre-Turn Left

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The Doctor couldn’t keep still as he waited for Zepheera. She was so close to retrieving his sonic screwdriver from the underbelly of his TARDIS, something he would never have been able to do without either an unthinkable amount of effort or a four-and-a-half inch tall companion.

“How’s it coming?” he called down  the gap, excited and impatient in equal measure. He hadn’t heard her voice in a little over two minutes, and he was eager to know the current state of his beloved screwdriver. He wished he could see into the hole he’d dropped the device into in the first place.

A small grunt echoed down from the shadows, a little closer than the last time Zepheera had filled him in. “Had to dislodge it from between two…I don’t even know. Things. Then I had to push it up a slope – this thing is harder to roll than it looks!”

“Do you think you can manage it?” asked  the Doctor, a little worry leaking through his voice. He hadn’t thought about how the borrower would be able to retrieve his sonic, a device almost longer than she was tall.

After a pause, she replied, “Don’t worry, I’ve got an idea. Give me a moment, and keep an ear out.”

The Doctor sat back and placed his chin on his folded arms, drumming his fingers restlessly. He hummed quietly to stop himself from actually counting the seconds until he heard Zepheera’s voice again. “Okay, I’ve got it attached to my rope! I’m gonna need you to ease us up!”

“Right! Gotcha!” The Doctor shot up, nearly bumping his head on the underside of the floor. He pinched the tiny rope, the size of a thread to him, in two fingers and tugged. Hearing

Zepheera’s surprised cry, he halted.

“I said ease, not wrench!” she chastised.

“Sorry,” mumbled the Doctor, this time drawing the rope back slowly. He was extra careful when Zepheera and the screwdriver were almost out; she needed to align the probe so it would come out cleanly without crashing into the sides of the long, narrow gap. Once that was achieved, it emerged easily and the Doctor slipped his free hand underneath it.

After his companion dismounted the device, he scooped it up into his right hand, ignoring the rope still attached to it. He adjusted his grip and gave it a buzz. It was music to his ears.

“At last! My arm is complete again!” he exulted.

Zepheera’s fatigued mind had only begun to wonder if that was a reference to something when she found herself being lifted quickly to the Doctor’s face. To her chagrin, he planted an overjoyed kiss to the top of her head.

“You’re the best!” he proclaimed, beaming gratefully even as Zepheera ran her fingers through her dark bob to brush off the feeling his lips left behind.

“Don’t ever do that again,” she emphasized, scowling halfheartedly up at his stupid face. Little did she know the Doctor had only begun to display his gratitude toward his companion, and he drew her close once again.

At first, she worried that he was disregarding her wishes, so she threw her arms up to fend off another peck.

Instead, he pressed her to his cheek and thanked her over and over. Once the shock had worn off, she realized that what she’d done meant a lot more to the Doctor than she realized. She smiled and patted his cheek fondly.

“You’re welcome, big fella,” she murmured.

They stayed like this for a good while, until Zepheera broke the contented silence between them: “Now, I believe you owe me a cuppa.”

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Zepheera-Vision — Watson

image

Prologue

“I’m fine,” Zepheera insisted.

John raised an eyebrow at her, kneeling by
the kitchen counter for a closer look at the tiny woman. “Are you sure? No
offense, but if Sherlock wasn’t careful, he could have easily hurt you–”

“I was careful!” Sherlock
contended, still pouting in the corner while trying not to seem like it. John
rolled his eyes, but looked back at Zepheera for confirmation.

Zepheera sighed. If she had been hurt
by Sherlock, even just slightly bruised, any damage done would have healed by
now. But she dared not tell John that, a medical man who had already proclaimed
that she was an impossibility.

“Look, I’m okay, really. See?” She
prodded at her ribs, which had been the most vulnerable in Sherlock’s grip, and
moved on to the rest of her undamaged limbs. “No bruised or broken ribs,
arms and legs intact, joints unstrained. I’m fit as a fiddle. No need
for…”

She trailed off and gestured vaguely to the
human’s hands, hovering nearby in preparation to help. John looked down at
them, realizing how large they looked to her, and self-consciously pulled them
back to his middle. “Right. Sorry…”

Zepheera wrung her hands, glancing between
John and Sherlock. “So. You’re a doctor?” she asked John. Of all
the cruel coincidences in the universe…

John blinked at her question. “Uh, yeah.
Yes, I am Doctor John Watson.”

She regretted asking as her heart ached,
desperate once again to get back to her own Doctor. And while she thought this
Watson chap would probably help her if she asked, she still advised herself
against jumping into that too quickly. The look in his eyes told her that he
was just as curious as Sherlock. He just hid it better.

“I’m Zepheera,” she replied.

A whole new level of awe leaked through in
John’s expression, and he stared at her for a moment as his perception of
reality was twisted. Somehow, putting a name to the impossibly tiny person made
her all too real. He stood with a sharp intake of breath and wandered away from
her, toward the living room. He paced back and forth for a bit, running his
hands down his face and scratching the back of his head, until his gaze fell
back on Zepheera who was staring up at him with concern.

“Are you okay?” she asked at
length.

John froze, the shock hitting him all over
again. Then he chuckled, forcing a smile as he swung his arms back and forth to
release some of the confused tension in his shoulders.

“Just trying not to lose my mind,”
he admitted, glancing at Sherlock for some level of sanity.

Now there was a troubling thought.

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Zepheera-Vision Prologue — Watson

“What. Are. You?”

Zepheera narrowed her eyes at her captor and
took a long sip of tea, setting her tinfoil cup pointedly on the small coin she
was using as a saucer. She sat to lean back on the cold tile of the kitchen
wall and crossed her arms, steadily meeting the gaze of the man leaning on the
counter to loom over her. She’d lost count of how many times he’d asked that
question in the last five minutes, or asked something similar, but she stubbornly
refused to speak until he talked to her like an equal.

Clearly he wasn’t catching the hint. The
longer she kept quiet, the more determined he seemed. His frown deepened and he
let out a crisp sigh, unintentionally billowing Zepheera’s short dark hair with
his breath. Then he reached behind him and dragged over a chair to sit across
from her, slouching to achieve an angle somewhat closer to the four-and-a-half
inch tall woman’s eye level.

“You’re not clever for remaining silent,
you know,” he pronounced emphatically, his tone dangerously quiet.
“It’s obvious you understand me and that you’re intelligent enough to have
at least some form of communication with which to express thought and
response. Even if that’s not English, even if you’re a mute, I demand
you to tell me what you are.”

Zepheera quirked an eyebrow at him, but
didn’t otherwise move a muscle. She was hardly in a position to bend to his
threats now, he’d have hurt her already if that was his plan for getting the
information from her. As if to prove her point, he huffed again and leaned back
in the chair, crossing his own arms to mirror his miniature captive. The
tiniest smirk tugged at her lips as she smugly lifted her cup for another sip.

Before it could reach her mouth, a sound
echoed from downstairs, one that sent Zepheera’s instincts running high. The
main door of the flat opened and closed, and the stairs began to creak with the
weight of the approaching human.

“Sherlock!”

This voice was all Zepheera had to go by to
determine the temperament of the human drawing near. It was a man, his tone
kind but more than a little annoyed. That was understandable since, given the
brief glance he spared to the kitchen entrance, her captor knew this man.

She took this moment of distraction to make
her move. Tossing her cup aside, she shot to her feet and took off for the side
of the counter closest to the door, slipping behind every instrument she could
until she reached the edge.

“HELP! I’VE BEEN KIDNAPPED BY A
MADMAN–!” she shrieked, cupping her hands into a megaphone to help her
small voice carry, but a pale hand wrapping around her cut her off. Her head,
shoulders, and arms were free of the measured grip surrounding the rest of her,
lifting her away from the ground.

“What–who is that??” Concern
filled the man’s voice as he hurried up the stairs and rounded the corner.
Zepheera’s captor, Sherlock, froze halfway through lifting her to eye level
when the new man came into view.

“What the hell’s going…” The
newcomer trailed off when he noticed what Sherlock had in his grip, and he
stopped to stare. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, it had to be a trick.
But that notion went flying out the door when the little being spoke.

“Please, I haven’t done anything
wrong!” she implored, relying on the man’s pity much to her distaste.

“Oh, don’t play innocent,” Sherlock
spat, finally losing  patience and
bringing her up to his eyes. “I knew you could speak, but you had
to play your games–!”

“Sherlock, that’s enough!”

The borrower and the human turned to stare at
the other man. His look had hardened, trained only on Sherlock.

“John,” said Sherlock steadily.
“You don’t understand–”

“Sod that!” shot back the blond.
“I’m a doctor, you don’t think I understand how incredibly impossible
she is? Believe me, I get it. And what I also get is that she is clearly a
sentient person, and you should not be handling her that way.”

A tense silence hung in the air between the
humans, and Zepheera held her breath as her fate was decided for her.

“What would you have me do then,
John?” Sherlock asked quietly, his voice more subdued than his expression.

John sighed, possibly in relief. “Put
her down. Let me see if I can have a look at her, make sure she’s not
hurt.”

With reluctance, Sherlock lowered her back to
the counter, grumpily stomping off to the far corner of the kitchen.

Newly freed, Zepheera looked up at John. Now
she was right back where she started, though hopefully in hands that were more
aware of her, concerned for her.

“Th-thank you,” she stammered,
nodding gratefully up at John.

The human’s mouth twitched briefly, still unsure of what to make of this situation. “Ah. Don’t mention it.”

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Helping Hands — Part 2/3

Prompt from @neonthebright: The Doctor drops/misplaces his sonic somewhere he can’t reach and Zepheera goes on a mini-adventure to retrieve it for him.

BTaS Canon: No – DonnaAU

Timeline: Post-Midnight, Pre-Turn Left

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

If anyone had told Zepheera decades ago that one day she’d be able to sit comfortably in a human hand, she’d have told them to bugger off. And yet there she was, leaning tiredly against a human look-alike’s fingers as he sauntered off toward the console room. Completely at his mercy, yet with complete trust in him.

She straightened when he entered the dome-shaped room, peering over the edge of the Doctor’s hand curiously. Indeed, one of the floor panels was pulled up and set aside, leaving a gaping hole in the floor. Those compartments were still a bit of a mystery to Zepheera, even after all this time. She’d observed that a few of them were used for storage, filled with old trunks and boxes and the like, but most seemed to be dark mazes of machinery that Zepheera would rather not get lost in.

And now she was about to crawl willingly into one. Spectacular.

The Doctor climbed slowly into the hole, careful to jostle the borrower as little as possible. Crouching, he took up less than half of the space inside, but once Zepheera found herself lowered below the floor level, she saw that there was more room than the size of the panel would suggest.

“Where did it fall through?” she asked, stifling a yawn.

“Down here.” The Doctor leaned down and reached in to lay his hand next to a slight slope. Just big enough for the sonic screwdriver, and too small to fit his hand through. Zepheera slid off the Doctor’s palm at the top of the slope to carefully examine her surroundings.

Nothing in this place was smooth or flat, not even the slope. It all seemed to be made of wire or hose or angular mechanisms and couplings that Zepheera could never begin to understand. She didn’t need to, though. All she needed was a secure place to attach her hook.

The ground shook the moment she reached for the grapple hanging from her shoulder; in her fatigued state, she hadn’t thought to expect movement from the Doctor, so she stumbled a bit before she felt steady enough to shoot a glare over her shoulder. Her silent scolding had no effect, the Doctor was shifting to lay on his back and wasn’t even looking her way.

“As you can see, I was working like  this, on that stuff up there,” he explained, pointing out a few wires and plugs dangling from the underside of the console. “It’s all kinda technical, and actually quite volatile without the right tools–”

“Then I guess I’d better not delay,” Zepheera snipped, securing her hook around a black cord near the top of the slope and disappeared through the gap. “Really don’t need the graphic details.”

The Doctor cocked an eyebrow at the gap. “Well, someone’s grumpy.”

“Someone is owed a cup of tea after this.”

She slid slowly down her rope at first; even knowing how quickly it would heal, she’d rather not sprain anything by jumping in too fast and hitting the floor too hard. She couldn’t even see the bottom through the shadows, much less the Doctor’s precious probe.

“A torch would be much appreciated if you’ve got one!” she called up.

“Ah! Right, yes.” Zepheera halted her descent when she felt a few vibrations through her rope indicating the Doctor was moving. Then a pale yellow light washed over her and illuminated her destination perfectly. “Better?”

“Much, thanks.” Now that a floor was in plain sight, a little less than a foot away, Zepheera dropped easily down. She frowned when she didn’t see the sonic anywhere. The immediate area was cavernous and irregular, and a glance upward told her she was about a foot and a half down  from the Doctor’s level.

A massive tangle of wired machinery stood behind her, a few outlines of passageways before her.

While she took a moment to choose a direction, the Doctor’s voice echoed down to her. “See it yet?”

Zepheera rolled her eyes. “Not yet. Give me a minute.” She almost asked him to angle the torch to a better angle, but given how narrow the opening was, she doubted that would be easy. Instead, she started toward the passage right in front of her. It seemed to be wide enough to accommodate a falling screwdriver and was the only logical place for it to go. She proceeded cautiously, trailing her rope along in her hand so she wouldn’t get lost or fall down a hole with no way back. “How’d you even manage to drop it down here?”

“I dunno, it’s never really happened before. Guess I just…got lost in thought or something, and it slipped.”

“You? Lost in thought? Shock and surprise,” Zepheera murmured, a twinge of humor teasing at her lips.

“Oi! Heard that.”

This actually brought a chuckle out of Zepheera, who turned to call over her shoulder. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re starting to sound like DonNA-A-A!”

Her foot caught on something she couldn’t see even if she were watching where she was going, and she tumbled down a low slope of hard metal things until something cylindrical broke her fall. It buzzed briefly as she landed on it.

“Zepheera! What happened, are you alright?”

Slightly dazed from the impact, Zepheera shook her head and breathed deeply. “I’m okay!” she assured. As she got to her feet, she realized exactly what she was leaning on for support.

“I found it!”

“Brilliant!” the Doctor exulted. “Can you get it up?”

Zepheera regarded the probe at her feet. It was taller than she was, but she was stronger than she looked. “Hang on! I’ll see what I can do.”

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Zepheera-Vision — Bit Hot

image

Zepheera gasped sharply as the fist around
her opened and exposed her to fresh air for the first time in five minutes. She
scrambled away from the giant unknown hand, tripping over the edge of a saucer.
She was wedged awkwardly between the lip of the small plate and the cold
porcelain curve of the cup, but still she maintained eye contact with her
captor.

His lips pursed as he observed her behavior,
then reached toward her again. She threw her hands up in futile defense, but
they weren’t needed. Rather than grabbing her, those long fingers curled around
the handle of the teacup and lifted it away. Zepheera fell back in its absence,
catching herself on her elbows as she watched the man sidestep far enough away
that he no longer filled her vision, but he could easily glance over to check
on her.

Zepheera stood and seized the opportunity to
take in her surroundings. There was a large coffee maker to her right and some
other machine she didn’t recognize to her left. She was on the kitchen counter
in the human’s small flat. The dining table across from her was filled with odd
instruments and glass containers that sent an ominous chill down her spine.

She had a bad feeling about this human.

Another hand approaching broke Zepheera out
of her thoughts, and she did her best to not flinch. Again it didn’t touch her,
only hovered expectantly nearby. She glanced up at the man’s face and realized
that he wanted the saucer. As she hopped off and pressed her back against the
wall, she wondered about this sudden concern of his for her consent. He had
kidnapped her, after all.

He dragged the saucer about an inch closer to
himself and carefully set the filled teacup onto it. Automatically, he popped
two blocks of sugar into it and began stirring. After a moment, he glanced at
Zepheera again and frowned to himself. He opened a drawer out of her sight and
rummaged through it. Then he slid the cup and saucer toward Zepheera,
not-so-surreptitiously placing a few items next to it.

She hesitated before peeling herself from the
wall. The cup was now filled with what looked like tea, and by her feet lay a
package of creamer, a paper clip, a length of string, a coin, and a sizeable
torn-off corner of tinfoil. Her violet eyes flicked up to suspiciously meet the
icy blues staring down at her. Noting her trepidation, the man rolled his eyes
and picked up the teacup, taking a small sip for himself.

“Good for the nerves,” he muttered,
his deep baritone rolling over Zepheera like thunder. “And definitely not
poisoned. How dull would that be.”

With that, he replaced the teacup and
observed her closely to gauge Zepheera’s reaction. She wondered if he thought
she could even understand him; clearly he was testing her intelligence and
civility, if the materials he gave her were any indication.  As much as it sickened her to play into this
game of his, she was quite thirsty. The salt from the chips she’d eaten with
the Doctor had really dried her out.

The thought of the Doctor drove her to step
forward at last. She needed to get back to him by any means necessary, and if
that meant playing along for a while…

She picked up the tinfoil, tearing off the
excess. She didn’t need much to mold into a makeshift cup. Once that was done
and she’d checked it for weak spots, she went straight to the tea. She inspected
it for a moment, inhaling its fumes. Earl gray. Not her favorite but tolerable
enough, especially with a little sugar. She leaned down with her foil cup to
retrieve some.

“Bit hot,” said the man under his
breath, giving Zepheera pause. Indeed, warmth wafted up from the liquid. It
wasn’t steaming, but it was as hot as could be expected on such short notice.
Hot enough to sting, that was for sure. Perhaps the kettle had still been
lukewarm from that morning.

Zepheera carefully lowered her cup into the
drink, ignoring the man as he observed her reaction to his warning. Despite how
much she wanted to dunk her whole hand in and give him something to observe,
she knew that having him know about her healing ability would be counter-productive.
His curiosity would only grow. So she settled on a half-filled cup and took a
measured sip.

For the Doctor.

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Doctor y Doctor

John Watson didn’t stop to think. The fact that he and Sherlock were already late to meet Lestrade at a fresh, new, and conveniently nearby crime scene completely left his mind. He saw a man get blindsided by some punk kid on a skateboard and fall hard on the ground while the assailant rode on. John immediately rushed to his side.

He shoved his way through the small crowd gathering to gawk at the man with morbid curiosity. It was easy to see why; on top of the spectacle, the man was rather odd-looking in general. Mid-thirties, early forties but with a forward-sweeping spike to his hair, a brown pinstriped suit paired with white Converse of all things, and a long, tan overcoat to put it all together. It was a wonder how this strange person had escaped the skater’s notice. Luckily the chap didn’t seem too badly hurt, but he was groaning something terrible and clutching his head.

“Steady on, mate. I’m a doctor, and you’ve been hit hard.” John spoke evenly and kindly as he knelt by the man and moved his hands away from his face so he could check for signs of concussion. “Do you remember what happened?”

The chocolate-brown eye John was holding open zeroed in on him, and the brow above it furrowed. Then his hand shot to his right shoulder and scrambled around, as though he were looking for something.

He started to sit up quickly, but John stopped him with a hand to the chest.

“No, no, don’t get up too fast–”

“Get off!”

The man shoved John roughly away, knocking him on his arse. Then he got on his hands and knees, calling out some strange word that John didn’t recognize. It almost sounded like a rejected spell from Harry Potter.

Regardless, John stood and made one last attempt to calm the man down.

“Sir, you need medical attention,” John insisted.

The man shook off the hand John laid on his shoulder, then jumped up to his full height. John blinked as the man loomed over him, despite only being about half a foot taller than him. His eyes, while clear, were crazed and deadly.

“I don’t need a doctor. I am the Doctor. Now go. Away.”

John stared as the man went back to searching the ground. By then the thin crowd had been scared off by the man’s apparent madness. “Alright, man, suit yourself,” the doctor muttered as he backed off. Clearly the matter was out of his hands, and he was on his way to see Lestrade anyhow. Perhaps he could tip the detective inspector off, and send someone over to deal with the situation.

“Well, I tried,” sighed John as he approached Sherlock, who had waited for him. “Let’s go, I guess.”

“Actually, John, you go on ahead,” said Sherlock.

John frowned. “But Lestrade–”

“Something’s come up. Besides, I highly doubt he has anything you can’t handle on your own. Meet back at the flat.”

And that was it. Sherlock walked off without another word, leaving John confused and more than a little annoyed.

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