I thought it was high time I shared some of my fiction writing. Doctor Who is, of course, owned by the BBC and the story is fan fiction only, not shared for profit. It features the Seventh Doctor and Ace and is set a short while after the events of the last-ever episode of the classic series.

Enjoy…

The Wall in the Workhouse

“I told you inside,” said Ace. “It’s a brick wall. Boring!”

“Ah,” breathed the Doctor as he poked the wall in front of them with his umbrella, “But when is a wall not just a wall?”

The Doctor was making little holes. Grey powder and the occasional lump cascaded down onto the already dirty wooden floor of the room he and his companion had found themselves in just a few minutes earlier. Behind them stood the TARDIS. Its manifestation had already stirred up enough dust and debris to make the air less than pleasant. The Doctor’s apparent determination to bring the wall down only made the atmosphere more oppressive, and Ace coughed.

“Give it up, Professor,” she spluttered.

He nodded. “1844,” he said. “At a pinch. Yes. Definitely 1844.”

“What,” began Ace, incredulous, “you can tell that from the damp?”

He smiled at her. “Give or take a few years,” he replied. “A decade if I’m under the weather. No. I checked the readings before we came out here.”

“So it’s Queen Vic on the throne?” Ace asked.

The Doctor nodded in such a way as to suggest he wasn’t giving Ace his full attention. “Yes. Tell me, what do you think of this room?”

“Cold,” the young woman snapped, zipping up her badge-festooned bomber jacket. “Gloomy. There’s a door. The window’s big enough to let light in but looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in years. Last time I saw a window that dirty—”

The Doctor finished her sentence. “…was no doubt when you broke into a derelict factory for a scout around. In Perivale, was it?”

“You know everything,” said Ace sulkily. “You tell me.”

“Let’s see what’s through door number one, shall we?” the Doctor asked, ignoring the jibe.

“Monsters, probably,” Ace suggested. “Yeah, go for it!”

The Doctor and Ace found the door opened easily and together they stepped through into an office where a large-moustached and red-faced Victorian gentleman was sitting behind a desk. He looked up, astonished at their entrance, but the Doctor confidently extended his hand in greeting.

“Good evening!” he declared, having taken in the fact that lamps were providing the illumination.

“Who the blazes are you?” the gentleman asked, indignant at the intrusion. “And what on Earth were you doing in there?” He indicated with his finger the room from which the Doctor and Ace had emerged.

The Doctor removed his Panama hat and held it low in both hands as he made apology. “I’m rather afraid we got a little lost…”

“That room has been in dire need of refurbishment for over three years!” the man exclaimed.

“Reminded me of a DHSS office in Plaistow,” quipped Ace. “Went there with a mate who had to sign on. Once was enough.”

The man looked at her, puzzled. Before he had a chance to pass comment on either what she said or the clothes she was wearing, the Doctor asked what his name was.

Distracted from Ace, the man snorted. “A question from an intruder, but I shall answer. My name is Smith. Marcus Smith. I’m the workhouse master.”

“Smith, eh?” the Doctor repeated. “Nice surname, use it myself sometimes. Pleased to meet you. I’m the Doctor, this is my friend Ace—don’t worry, she has spent an awful lot of time abroad—and I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr Smith, if I may?”