Harry
Sullivan's Magical Sideburns of Luurve
[Rating: General
···
Length: Long ···
Genre: Humor ···
Word count: 2, 391···
Completed: Yes]
Serious Pre-bit
He watched them all whizzing around, oblivious to the
cold winter night outside their bubbles of happiness.
Some were in groups, others on their own. Those in groups
moved more slowly, supporting each other and laughing.
The lone skaters just stood still, or moved continually,
an almost meditative state apparent on their face.
Such a wonderfully simple idea- go around in circles
until you are too tired. But there are those who go against
the idea, who skate against the flow, thinking themselves
clever. They’d only be clever if there was a reason to
skate the other way.
He hated people who always go the wrong way for no reason,
causing collisions and injuries for the sake of being
different. But the Doctor wasn’t like that. If he turned
around and knocked some people over, there was a jolly
good reason for it. Sure the Doctor tended to knock him
over at the first possible moment, but he didn’t mind.
There was always a reason.
Turning his back on the celebrations, he strolled out
of the ice rink and down the road. It’s all well and good
for UNIT to have a party after another invasion has been
foiled, but that wasn’t his cup of tea. Brigadier Alistair
Gordon Lethbridge Stewart wanted a pub, and fast.
*.......*.......*
The control room humming gently, the Doctor stretched
lazily in his reading chair. His cup of tea was long empty,
balancing on the untidy mass of papers that covered the
small table by the chair. His stretches complete, the
Doctor closed the book reverently and sprang from the
chair. Walking briskly across the huge room and completely
ignoring the clutter that threatened to trip him, he whistled
softly to himself.
Stopping in front of a bare wall, the Doctor sidestepped
until his nose was inches away from the bookshelves. Continuing
his sideways movement, he slowly lowered his height until
he was on his knees and finally stopped just in front
of an empty slot. Carefully he placed the book he had
been reading on the shelf.
It always saddened him, putting books away. He’d enjoyed
them so much, caught up in the stories or science they
presented him, but eventually he came to the last page.
The words trickled off, leaving him still wanting much
more. No matter how big the book (he had once read one
three leagues and five thousand cups of tea long) there
was always the inevitable final sentence. Rather like
people, he thought sadly, debating weather to choose another
leatherbound volume.
Fitz and Trix slept soundly in their quarters, unaware
that the Doctor had pressed a few switches on the console
and slipped out the door. He’d left them in a null time
field so he could spend as long as he liked outside, but
it would only seem seconds to them. As much as he liked
them, he needed some time with something stable. Something
that never seemed to trickle off into an ending.
He was going to find the Brigadier and get plastered.
The good thing about being a timelord was the lack of
hangovers, his metabolism conveniently processing alcohol
after a short while. Pulling on his coat as he walked,
the Doctor followed the arrow on the little black box
with “Brig-o-matic” written on it and strolled into the
cold british night.
Not So Serious Pre-bit
The Brigadier was not surprised to see the Doctor stroll
in the moment he sat down. He had become used to various
versions of the man just popping up the moment a pint
of beer was consumed.
“Which one are you?” He asked, moving across a stool to
allow the Doctor to sit.
“Model number eight, with new added folate. Are you going
to buy me a drink or do I have to part with my own meager
earnings?”
“Your earnings are only meager because you wouldn’t let
us pay you,” Grumbled the Brigadier, signaling to the
barman for another pint.
This Doctor didn’t have the same alcohol tolerance as
the third one, the Brigadier thought through his beery
haze. They were both splayed out across several stools,
the bar and each other, surrounded by at least twenty
five glasses that once contained beer. The barman prodded
them with a broom again.
“Come on you two, you’re turning away the customers,”
“We’re not!” The Brigadier protested, putting his hands
on his hips and managing to scatter a couple of empty
glasses. The Doctor, feet on the bar and head dangling
upside down from the stool grabbed a passing leg.
“Don’t eat the cheese hamburger. It may look nicer, but
the bacon one is the way to go.” Peering down at the frizz
haired weirdo, the poor miner felt compelled to leave.
Enough being enough, the barman grabbed a mop as well
as his broom and firmly pushed them both out.
“Well that washh nice,” The Brigadier mumbled, sagging
onto the Doctor’s shoulder so he could stay standing.
“Delight-del-it-ful, these humansh.” Agreed the Doctor,
sagging on the Brigadier’s shoulder so they both fell
over.
“Tell me a stoooooooory!” The Doctor suddenly called out,
pulling himself up to sit cross-legged and clapping like
a lunatic.
“I’m not your ruddy father!” The Brigadier slurred, attempting
to stand and failing miserably.
“I’ll dig up the Silurians!” The Doctor threatened, making
digging movements with his hands.
“No,” The Brigadier decided that lying on the concrete
was just fine.
The Doctor began to dig at the Brigadier’s shoulder.
“C’mon!”
Judging the shoulder thoroughly excavated, the Doctor
began to dig the Brigadier’s stomach. The Brigadier giggled
and tried to slap the Doctor’s hands away.
“Story!” he chimed, whirring his hands menacingly above
his drink mate’s face.
“Ok, ok, just stop it,” The Brigadier gave in, slumping
down onto the Doctor’s lap.
“This is the story of Harry Sullivan and his magic sideburns
of luuuurve.”
*....... *........*
Chapter One: Harry Gets Out Of Bed
The sun barged its way though the small, rather depressed
curtains of Harry’s temporary home. The curtains where
very depressed, as someone had painted “Meanie” on them
during the night, most probably for their tendency to
block the public’s view of Harry Sullivan changing into
his pyjamas. The curtains would need counseling, but not
having much money they were probably destined to commit
suicide eventually. Harry had noted their depression and
would, at some point, use his magic sideburns to make
them happy again. But today he had more important things
to do. Today he had to work out how to get out of bed.
Normally he fell out and woke up on the floor, but this
morning he had been woken by the barging sun and not by
the “THUMP” of his head hitting the wooden floorboards.
It was a nice change, but did present rather a challenge.
The sheets had decided they liked his legs and seemed
intent of pulling them off. Unlike many of the people
he had met during his time at UNIT, his limbs weren’t
detachable. He had often wondered that, if he grew a moustache,
would be detachable like the Brigadiers? He had not really
thought about trying it though, because his sideburns
would get jealous and who knows what they would do with
their magic.
He found a pair of scissors on the window ledge and poked
the tight sheets with them.
“Are you going to let go or am I going to have to cut
you off?” The sheets did not answer, as only sheets in
the mighty valurie empire have had vocal chords. Harry
looked very britishly navy-doctor-type-manly annoyed and
took to the sheet with a swash and a buckle. The swash
was relatively useless, but the buckle was in the same
hand as the scissors and they seemed to do the trick.
The sheet fell away, and the curtains in an insane bid
for popularity flung themselves apart. Unfortunately Harry
had his pyjamas on, so not much was seen (apart from an
anchor pattern) so the curtains flopped back down limply.
Harry noticed their limpness and doing what only Harry
could do, engaged his magical sideburns. These sideburns
banished all limpness in anything, including curtains,
and they soon perked up and began to flirt with the windowsill.
Just then came a nock on his door. Quickly pulling on
his naval dressing gown (made entirely of whale’s belly
buttons), Harry walked to the door. Peering through the
spyhole the size of a small microwave, he could just make
out the Doctor standing on his doorstep. When he opened
the door, he noticed several tassels hanging out the Doctor’s
nose. The Doctor looked rather pained and handed Harry
a note.
Chapter Two: A Time Lord’s Nasal Passages Are Longer
Then You Think
The note read:
Had an argument with a Silurian laundry firm. Manager
shoved my scarf up my nose and my socks up my bottom.
Rather alarmed, Harry looked up to see the Doctor was
gone. He found the Doctor in the kitchen, pulling his
pants back up and holding tongs with two muddy brown socks
hanging off them. Before Harry could say a word, the Doctor
dumped the socks in the bin and rinsed the tongs off in
the sink. Patting them consolingly as he put them down
on the bench (Harry made a mental note to clean that later),
the Doctor pointed first at Harry, then the wool sticking
out his nose and made a pulling gesture.
Three hours later, ten feet of scarf lay on Harry’s living
room carpet. He’d gone for a coffee break, leaving the
Doctor on the couch with the other end of the scarf still
up his nose. The Doctor looked about quite happily, playing
with his yo-yo and ignoring the wool that covered his
grin.
Kettle boiling, Harry began to spoon the coffee into
his mug. Thinking twice, he poared the boiling water into
the instant coffee tin and drank from that instead. Sure
it was more solid than liquid, but he’d never guessed
just how big a time lords nasal capacity was. Glad of
his medical training, Harry finished his coffeelump. He
set down the empty tin on top of his black and white television
set and returned to pulling at the scarf.
“Oh, thankyou so much Harry!” The Doctor sighed as the
final tassels were clear.
“I thought I’d never be free of that. Never tell a Silurian
that you don’t like his washing detergent.” He collected
his scarf as he spoke, scooping it under one arm.
“Well, must dash, I left Sarah Jane in mortal peril again.”
“Need any help saving the old girl?” Harry asked hopefully.
“Oh no, it’s just an issue about a Zygon’s ironing bill.
I’m sure it’ll be easy to come to an understanding.
The Doctor gone, Harry decided it was time to get dressed.
Luckily the curtains were too busy breeding, so he had
no trouble with getting changed (he didn’t know that several
of the general public had recently purchased X-ray goggles)
Chapter Three: A Sea sponge Called Bob
Now almost completely dressed, Harry came to the awful
conclusion he’d lost his shoes. After a thorough search
of his room, he found a small note under his bed. Wondering
if he was doomed to spend this day communicating mainly
in the written word, Harry read it out loud for no apparent
reason.
“I couldn’t take your smelly socks anymore. You don’t
use your magic sideburns to help me, so I must go in search
of Bob the magic sea sponge. I may be back in time for
lunch, love from your shoes.” He put the note down and
sighed.
Bob the magic sea sponge was notorious for luring unsuspecting
shoes into his aquatic shoe shop and selling them into
slavery. Pulling on his flippers instead of his shoes,
Harry resolved to save his footware.
Being very Naval in his doctorness, Harry had no trouble
walking down the road and into the sea, diving in and
holding his breath for a good 10 minutes. He’d even remembered
to bring a clipboard and a nifty underwater pen for communication.
The large neon signs saying “Magic Sea Sponge This Way”
were very helpful, and he soon found the mystical Bob.
‘Hello’ he wrote.
‘Hello’ bubbled Bob
‘Have you sold my shoes into slavery yet?’
‘Yes. But you can have these ones,’ and Bob magically
made some blue shoes appear.
‘I don’t want those ones, I want mine’ Harry scribbled.
‘Well you can’t have them,’ Bob bubbled, activating his
magic to get rid of Harry. Harry was not easily rid of
though, as he activated his magic sideburns and fought
back.
‘Aaag!’ Bob frothed.
‘Your sideburns are to magic for me!’ and he disappeared,
leaving Harry’s shoes in his place.
‘Sorry,’ they mumbled sheepishly.
‘Just don’t do that again.’ Harry wrote scoldingly.
And so Harry and his magic sideburns of Luuuurve happily
got ready to walk down the road to buy some bread, but
that's another story.
*.......*.......*
“That wash beautiful, my friend. Just beau-eu…iful…”
The Doctor clapped appreciatively from the Brigadier’s
lap.
“I thought it was a jolly good yarn meself,” The Brigadier
said proudly, ignoring the fact the Doctor was tugging
at his swaggerstick.
“Weeeee!” The Doctor hummed, waving the useless piece
of military accessorising about. He then poked it back
under the Brigadier’s arm and sighed.
“Harry never used his magic sideburns on me,” He said,
almost mournfully.
“Oh ho, you unlucky thing!” The Brigadier laughed.
“Wot- are you saying he chose you over me?” The Doctor
was getting indignant now and tugged at the Brigadier’s
tie.
“I never did, you little time lordy man, it was him I
say!”
The Doctor was about to comment, but fell asleep instead,
still clutching the tie.
*......*......*
The next morning, the Brigadier woke up with a hangover
and a snoring Doctor attached to his tie. Wondering what
anecdotes he’d let slip this time, he sighed and gently
picked up the floppy alien. It only took a moment before
he found the Brig-o-matic. Turning it over whilst amazingly
managing to hold the Doctor, he revealed its other function.
He pressed a button and began to follow the bleeps of
the Doctor-too-drunk-to-walk-TARDIS-this-way o matic,
careful not to rouse the Doctor’s dreams of Harry and
his magic sideburns.
Here endeth the story.
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