The Doctor was getting old. That is to say that although this specific he was only a few years old, the Time Lord that he was— the unique and constant though somewhat bumpy and rather eccentric time line that most often called itself the Doctor—was seriously getting on. Regardless of the regenerations he went through (this was his tenth body) certain aspects of his Gallifreyan core biology bore testament to the inevitability of aging even for a Lord of Time.
For example, his penis. Over the last few hundred years and the last few bodies, the Doctor had begun to experience a certain (how to put it?) lack of agility, elasticity, and manoeuvrability down there. However, after he'd first taken Rose's hand and subsequently taken Rose, he experienced a fantastic serendipitous reaction to all the thoroughly fantastic emotional and physical joys they were sharing: shagging Rose Tyler somehow kept the Grim Detumescer at bay. In fact, as a ghostly little voice in Alonso's head liked to remind him in that smug Northern accent, in less than one year of bucking Rose, his predecessor had not merely bucked the trend, Brutus had turned back the inevitable. (One could say he'd reversed the unspectacularity of the hard-on show. But one really shouldn't.)
Nine had kept Rose nicely hoisted on his own petard. And what a petard Brutus had been—oh yes, the smug ghost of the Doctor's smug former member reminded Alonso of that too, every chance he got. Brutus had been long and thick and strong, very athletic and fantastically agile. He'd been straight as an arrow, fit as a fiddle, long as the day was long (on Venus yet!— although Alonso had suspicions that Brutus had been taking special vitamins and exercising in a high-gravity chamber.) And Brutus could rise to full mast at the mere snap of Rose's fingers.
However, despite the accomplishments of the Doctor's self-proclaimed impressive ninth penis, biology will always will out. The Time Lord's sexual prowess declined after Rose got lost in the alternate universe the first time, or, to be scrupulously honest — which Alonso could be even though the Doctor couldn't—after the Doctor had let Rose get lost and then left her there. Then came the Doctor's aborted regeneration and his spare hand's naissance into the metacrisis human-Time Lord with its disgusting, braggart metacrisis penis, and that was when things got really weird for the Gallifreyan and his sentient penis. The clone took a good half of the Time Lord's vitality into the parallel universe along with the Doctor's True Love. Add to that Ten's disdain and jealous envy of the metacrisis killer hand-job and his growing obsession over that knock-off sonic screwdriver resonating Rose Tyler day and night (night and day). It all played havoc with his blood pressure. And that played havoc with Alonso, who found himself sluggish. Worrisomely sluggish. Frighteningly sluggish. Painfully, unsatiably sluggish.
Any sentient penis with even half a brain and his head on straight could recognize the signs. But Alonso wasn't ready to throw in the jock strap. If he was ever to survive this, and live free and happy and stiff and unchafed, there was only one thing to do. He needed to bring Rose Tyler back from the alternate dimension. Technically, he needed his Doctor to save Rose from the alternate dimension. But the point was the same: his. If they didn't get Rose back soon and shag her rotten every chance they got, the Time Lord's primal sex drive would die out. Alonso would wither and shrink. He'd require a circulating supply of fresh oxygen and a constant ambient mean air temperature just to exist day to day. He'd be put into boxers with thick elastic waists, flappy legs, and huge flies that any self-respecting penis would be terrified to be seen coming out of. And Alonso would rather be dead than let that happen.
"We love Rose Tyler," Alonso came out with no segue and little ballyhoo.
"Yes," the Doctor replied immediately, out loud, and with no punch line.
"We need Rose Tyler."
"We have to breach the Big White Wall, cross the Void between realities, and get Rose Tyler back!"
"We can't," the Doctor replied sadly. "The universes may be destroyed by our actions."
"You don't know that," Alonso sputtered.
"I don't not know that," the Doctor reasoned.
"We will shrivel up and die without Rose Tyler."
The Doctor raised an eyebrow and looked unconvinced.
"I'm telling you—" the penis all but spat.
Alonso knew that something had to be done, or the Time Lord penis would limp into its next regeneration a tired, wrinkled, malfunctioning, good-for-nothing member.
He turned to his good buddy and neighbouring organ for help. Paul-Luc, the Doctor's prostate, was on his side. Actually, Paul-Luc (or as he liked to be called, the Velvet Vise) was behind and under Alonso, but the sentiment was the same. Paul-Luc was small, but Paul-Luc was mighty. And he was in his own way every bit as brilliant and impressive as the Doctor. Together Alonso and Paul-Luc would be a pair to be reckoned with—an anatomical Butch and Sundance, Han and Chewy, Batman and Robin, Simon and Garfunkel, Hilary and Bill (maybe not them) that the Time Lord couldn't best.
Paul-Luc came up with a strategy that Napoleon, Alexander the Great, Judah Maccabee, Genghis Khan, and for that matter Kaaaaahhhhhhnnnnnn! would have applauded. Soon Alonso was part of a powerful triad, a Peter, Paul-Luc, and scrotum that worked in devious and pitch-perfect harmony to hammer the Doctor whenever he peed or masturbated—and they would do so until he crossed the barrier between realities and brought their Rose back.
Word spread through the Doctor's reproductive, urinary, endocrine, binary respiratory, and nervous systems that the triad was putting the squeeze on him, and Rose Tyler would be home soon. There was much rejoicing, and though it was premature bets were laid on how long it would take a horny Time Lord to blow his first wad.
The Doctor quickly realized that he was spending more time standing over the urinal than usual, and peeing frequent, tiny, ineffectual rivulets that did not befit a former Lord High President of Gallifrey. His only moderately successful trips to relieve himself became more and more painful. And his attempts at masturbating were… never mind.
After one particularly painful night in the loo with his bum planted on the toilet seat and his trousers and pants in a heap around his ankles, the Doctor put down the special anniversary issue of Cosmo he'd been reading, sighed, parted his knees and frowned down at his penis.
"A bit out of sorts are we, Alonso?"
"Finally noticed the old pipes are a bit rusty, didya?" Alonso asked sweetly.
The Doctor growled. Alonso nudged Paul-Luc, and the prostate nudged the Doctor as only a Velvet Vise with an agenda can.
The Doctor yelped. "Cut that out!"
"I'd like to see you try an' make him," Ten's scrotum goaded, itching for a fight.
"Balls!" Ten scoffed.
"Better be careful, Doc," Paul-Luc drawled, "you got only one set of pipes, and you'll be playing the same tune on 'em even when this song ends."
Ten ran his fingers through his hair and sniffed. "Fine! What is it, then?"
His scrotum was firm. "I need Rose. You need Rose. Alonso needs Rose."
Ten sniffed more quietly this time, maybe with a bit of reflection and self-pity mixed into it. "I've learnt to accept that Rose Tyler is forever lost to me. Alonso will have to as well."
If the Doctor really thought that would happen, he didn't know Alonso as well as he thought.
(Though the Doctor's right hand knew Alonso quite quite well, there were rumours that Jack Harkness knew him better. With Rose gone for good, his left hand had given it a go. Lefty didn't have the finesse of Righty, and constant comparisons to the ambidextrous Jack… Never mind; another story.)
Days went by, long painful days better spent foiling evil geniuses, saving planets, repairing the TARDIS, and successfully masturbating. The triad of torture had their Doctor by the short hairs. Finally, after the Velvet Vice played him like an accordion throughout the entire Director's Cut of "Titanic", the Doctor raised the white flag. By that time, of course, the pole he raised it on was only metaphorical.
Alonso had won.
"Very well, Alonso, how do we get through that impregnable wall?"
"Wall-shmall," the Velvet Vise scoffed silkily. "Cosmological hokum, logically bupkis."
Alonso winked at the other two-thirds of his triad and cleared his throat.
"Look at it this way, Doctor. It's not a wall that separates you from Rose, but your own doubts and fears. Does the Last Time Lord fear the unknown even in himself? I think not! Your self-doubt has left you impotent in the void of your own inaction. Before you lies the Promised Land. Heed your heart and make a leap of faith. You will sow the seeds of your love and reap its bounty!"
The Doctor looked sceptical, but at least he was listening.
"Is anything truly impossible for the Last Time Lord? I think not! Eden awaits you. Ungird your loins and enter, for the tree of knowledge grows within. It is full and thick. It is young and smooth and supple. It grows with no constraint and no reluctance into what it is meant to be. It is comely and robust, Doctor, and its vitality is legend. The fruit of knowledge is potent. Its nectar is sweet--so sweet! I promise you, the one who tastes ultimately devours."
"Is he really buying this shit?" Paul-Luc asked the scrotum.
The Time Lord's balls shrugged. "I feel like I'm gonna puke," he answered heatedly.
"Shhhhh," Alonso warned. Like this Doctor, Alonso sometimes strayed from his subject, and he was known to run more than a little long; but he was as loquacious as his Time Lord, and he was on a roll. "There is a burning bush in the wilderness of your fear, Doctor… heed its charge for it is a Rose bush! Lo, her hips are tender and spicy and hot, and heat blooms in plump fragrant petals. Her fire consumes but does not combust. Take off your Converses, kneel, and let your mouth pay homage."
Paul-Luc leaned over to Ten's balls and whispered tightly, "Tell the putz enough with the biblical metaphors, he should just tell the other putz to go nail her already."
"Shut it," Alonso hissed to the Velvet Vice (which Paul-Luc did, to the Doctor's discomfort and dismay). "Doctor, you don't have to live with existential pain and angst. Happiness is yours for the taking. All you have to do is climb a wee little barely significant trellis and then –"
"I'll get Rose back? I will be Time Lord victorious?"
"You'll be Time Lord satisfied and snoring. And I'll be long and smooth and handsome again. Doctor, the hand that twiddles Rose Tyler should be attached to your arm, not in some other universe masquerading as a man. Your blood should burn with hunger… race with want … surge with desire… The point is, we need Rose in order to live, and you have to do something about it now."
"Let's just say," the Velvet Vise squeezed the Doctor tightly then released him, "the point is, if you don't rescue Rose Tyler, the Master will receive a hologram of the impressive Doctor sitting in the loo with his boxers around his ankles and a stack of Cosmos on the counter next to him."
"Fair point." The Doctor put himself together, set co-ordinates, and grinned gamely. "Allons-y Alonso!"
"Oi! Get to the wardrobe first! We can't let Rose Tyler catch us hanging out of these embarrassing boxers!"