A Teaspoon And An Open Mind: A Doctor Who Fan Fiction Archive
Fifth Doctor
Police and Public Call Boxes by PhoenixDragon [Reviews - 3] Printer
Author's Notes:
Warnings: Missing Scene, Character Speculation, Silliness
A/N: Written for who_at_50 for the prompt: Fifth Doctor/Minor Characters. This one is comprised of the usual ramblings, too much speculation and a general sense of whimsy. Wandery-blithery-silly within (youse has been warned), with a tad of 'bzuh?!' and *headdesk* thrown in for good measure. Accuracy to character was aimed for, but likely missed...sorry about that. As always, mostly unbeta'd and written in one go, so please forgive any mistakes and/or blatant vagueness. I apologize for any repetition, misspellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-thinky/blithery and unbeta'd.
Disclaimer(s): I do not own the scrumptious Doctor or his lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about!


It was a lovely day — perfect for a walk if one was so inclined. Which was handy, as the policeman currently walking the street didn’t have much of a choice, really. Walking was part of his job and while it was a nice enough part, the last two days were muggy, wet and unpleasant. So therefore — nice if you wanted to walk, super nice if you had to.

It had been a bad week. Tempers were high in the precinct (something to do with freaky deaths in a factory just outside of town) and being in the middle of a nasty divorce hadn’t help his stress levels at all. A walk was kind of what he had been looking forward to — and the weather (at least) was being cooperative.

Which was more than he could say for his captain or his soon-to-be-ex-wife.

He took a deep breath and thanked his lucky stars he was just a beat-cop. May not be what his wife had wanted, but he was happy he didn’t have to deal with the hippies, freaks and weirdoes that the upper divisions handled all the time. The factory deaths seemed to bring in more than the usual load of nut-balls and the detectives on four seemed to have their hands overly full with just sorting them out — not to mention the crazy crap that happened at the factory itself.

“Hullo? Sorry to be a bother, but I was wondering if you could help me.”

The policeman froze mid-step and peered over his shoulder, almost doing a double-take at the young blonde man that stood…well directly behind him. The accent caught his attention — the outfit held it.

Hell, it was one of the fruitcakes on the factory case. He clearly remembered the desk sergeant going on and on about ‘one of those British people — very friendly, slightly bonkers’. Unless he had two or three of them running around, this was probably the very one Leo had been talking about.

“Umm…”

“Officer…what? Never mind — I need assistance with something and I would be ever so grateful if —“

The blonde man broke off mid-ramble and cocked his head at him, squinting slightly, smile crooked like he wasn’t quite sure whether he was talking to a man or a lamp post.

“I’m sorry, was that rude? That was rude. I can be a bit…rude — at times. Old habits and all that. I’m just in a bit of a fix and wondered — well…you are a policeman aren’t you?”

The beat-cop nodded slowly, wondering if the man would ever come to the point and let him get back to his walk or if he would be standing here until it was time to go home to a frozen dinner (just like Mama never made) and a beer or two…or three.

“Splendid!” The man beamed like the policeman had told him he had just won the lottery, clapping his hands together and rubbing them briskly and — hang on a moment…was that celery on his lapel? “I was wondering if you happened to come across a London Police Public Call Box anywhere nearby? I am assuming this is your route and I thought I parked it somewhere around here.”

“London Police Public Call Box?” The beat-cop said slowly, eyes traveling from the white sneakers up to the whiter sweater and long overcoat (on such a hot day?) and then to the man’s face — which was still beaming like he had invented air or something.

“That’s the one!” The blonde fruitcake crowed. “Have you seen Her?”

Her? Oh, this day was shaping up to be a doozy already. And he had only just started his shift.

“Um…you do realize we’re in Boston, right?” The policeman asked carefully, wondering if the man had boiled his brains in his overly white, overly heavy clothing. White…after Labor Day. And it was over 72 degrees — and getting warmer. “I mean —”

“Of course,” the blonde man said, looking slightly irritated. “I’m not daft…just a bit turned around. Look — have you seen Her or not?”

“No. No, I can’t say I have,” the beat-cop replied, not sure whether to start laughing or walk away quickly. “What does it look like?”

“Well…She’s big, blue — like a telephone booth from the 1960s,” the man said thoughtfully, as if realizing how crazy he sounded. “Ah, wait — yes, thank you, never mind. Wrong block. Can you tell me how to get to Kent?”

The policeman gave him directions to the next two blocks over, nearly jumping out of his skin when both of his hands were grabbed and pumped vigorously, the young man prattling off about temporal locks and chameleon circuits and something about malfunctions.

“Look, this has been a wonderful chat, but I must dash — universe to save as per usual,” the nut-ball grinned, giving his hand another torturous wringing before running across the street like the devil himself was after him. He shouted something unintelligible and three other fruitcakes joined him (seemingly from nowhere), dressed in clothing that was even more strange than the blonde man’s. One of the looked like an airline stewardess, but that could have just been his imagination. They were quite a bit away from an airport and —

The policeman shook his head and considered whether he should continue walking or call in sick. He definitely felt feverish — and since his day had already started to go downhill before it had even begun…yeah, a bed, a beer and mindless soap operas were definitely what the doctor ordered for this type of day.

He had just about made up his mind when he heard a sound that he couldn’t quite identify — it was like a mix between a dying elephant and twenty chainsaws going off all at once. He turned in the direction the noise emanated from, realizing as he did so that is was the same direction the hippie-weirdo-(British)-freaks had headed to.

One hand rose to toggle his radio before the rest of him caught up with it and he dropped it back to his side (fingers twitching as if in protest). Wasn’t as if he didn’t have enough to worry about anyway. Let Lewis on Kent deal with it — it was his beat, after all. And if he needed help…well, he’d just have to be out of range, wouldn’t he?

With a shrug he turned back to his beat, hoping to put it out of his head. It took all kinds, his Mama used to say. But Mama hadn’t figured in people like the ones running all around Boston the last few days. At least he’d only had to deal with one of them. He could almost garner a new appreciation for the detectives up on four.

Almost.

“Never too late to become a mechanic,” the policeman muttered. “Or a shut in.”

Immensely cheered by these thoughts, he continued to walk his beat. He’d save the sick day for when he really needed it. And maybe he’d steer clear of telephone boxes from this point on.

Mama always said it never hurt to be too cautious.

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