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Wet Streak of Alien Nothing

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The Doctor made sure to look down both sides of the hallway before sliding into the closet. As soon as he shut the door, he got the strangest sense that he’d forgotten something. 

 

He ignored it as he stretched. The wall seemed to house another closet. So he opened the door, hoping the second one had a bit more room. But it wasn’t a closet. It was a switchboard.

 

It was bright green, and had a lot of weird buttons. Pressing them did nothing, neither did pulling the big handle in the middle up and down. He needed to investigate outside of the closet. Unfortunately, people could still be walking down the corridor outside, so he was stuck. 

 

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The Doctor was sat down on the floor, tossing his sonic screwdriver around. Then he began spinning it with one hand between his knees. He switched hands. When he returned to the old throwing around gambit, he realised he was still fanning his legs in and out. 

 

He stood up. He felt the familiar light and heavy prickling below the waist. He raised an eyebrow. 

 

It couldn’t be...no, no way, he asserted. It was too much of a coincidence, needing to go somewhere he couldn’t. It was probably just his mind playing tricks on him. 

 


 

Or not. The Doctor did a light hop around the closet. 

 

“Oh, blimey,” he breathed, grabbing himself, to see if it would go away. The spasm that made him bend over once, proved that it wouldn’t. 

 

The Doctor breathed carefully, one foot crossed over the other, as he checked his pockets for a bottle. There was none. 

 

He tried to remember what happened. Then he did. He’d thrown out the last bottle of water he drank at Torchwood One, busy convincing Hartman to stop the ghost shift. 

 

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He continued wiggling with crossed legs, until it didn’t help anymore. One hand went down and stayed there. Same for the next hand. The Doctor spun around helplessly, bending his hips and squeezing his thighs either which way, until finally, he ended up on the floor, both hands in fists, panting. 

 

He began leaking every time he breathed, as the motion loosened the pressure applied by his knuckles. He tried contouring his body in such a way that there was no opening below whatsoever. Alas, he slipped, dug his nails into his crotch and slowly stood up, one hand on the wall for support. 

 

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Meanwhile, Donna exited the ladies room, keeping the memory of the hallway Miss Foster walked through fresh in her head. First, she had to find the Doctor. If she was alien, which wouldn’t surprise her with those creatures she was herding around in creepy vans, then the Doctor would be the expert in how to deal with this, arguably quite cute, threat to intergalactic security. She ran over to the men’s room, but found it totally quiet. 

 

She frowned. A toilet would be a logical hiding place for such a long time. Then again, they hadn’t worked out all the quirks of his timey wimey-ness yet. 

 


 

The Doctor rolled his eyes at his clumsiness. Unfortunately, in his rush to secure himself, his legs had ended up just short of a hand, and just wide open enough to let a large stream begin. 

 

“Oh no no no no no no..” he quickly returned both hands to the iron grip posture he had previously, eyes widening at the sight of the large wet patch already on his trousers. 

 

He winced at the pain. Then he froze for a millisecond at the return of the ominously warm feeling. 

 

“No no no no nooo… ” he whined, crossing his legs. It didn’t stop, but it slowed down. 

 

The Doctor closed his eyes, praying to Rassilon that it would cease. He didn’t care how he would solve the problem of all the pee still inside of him, his thought process was severely limited. So much so he didn’t notice the trickling along his left leg. 

 

The stream had indeed not stopped, rather accelerated. 

 

“Oh no, just one more second, please ,” he begged, but it was firmly apparent that it was too late. 

 

He separated his legs, wincing with a few stray tears ran down his cheek. 

 

Martha was right. I should always go before I go, ’ the Doctor grumbled internally. 

 

 

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Donna approached the janitor’s closet. She yanked the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. 

 

“Stupid slinky boy, locking me out,” she muttered, grabbing a hairpin to pick the lock. 

 

Because the door was only locked using sonic technology, it didn’t take long to break the seal. 

 

She successfully opened the door.


The Doctor heard the door swinging open, while he was still mid-flow. All he could do, was turn away from Donna when she inevitably saw him, hoping that there wasn’t a puddle. Even though his wet socks said there definitely was one...

 

“Donna!” he spluttered, still in shock.

 

“Doctor?! You’re..” she squinted, trying to understand the colourful splattering spreading on the floor and the Doctor’s vaguely dark trousers. He had barely managed to obstruct her view.

 

 “Ehm...I don’t..know how this happened, it just..” the Doctor tried in vain to explain. 

 

“Oh..you’re wetting yourself,” Donna stated the obvious, too shocked. Not merely by the accident the Doctor was having, but by the puzzlement as to how it happened in the first place. 

 

“Donna I’m so sorry, really sorry,” he ended up just apologising.

 

The fact that it was an accident was reaffirmed. So Donna did the natural thing, done by many teachers to many children including and pre-dating her, and put a hand on the Doctor’s shoulder. 

 

“Just..finish up. Let it run out,” Donna advised softly. 

 

More tears escaped the Doctor, very visible on his cheeks, which were as red as Gallifrey at this point. 

 

Once the Doctor was well and truly done, he turned to Donna, making an effort to look her in the eyes, neither smiling nor frowning, awaiting a reaction beyond the comfort he’d just received. 

 

“Why didn’t you hide in the gents, Spaceman? I hid in the ladies,” Donna queried. 

 

“Then I’d feel like..” he was about to say ‘needing to go’ referring to the noise he’d be enduring, but shook his head in exasperation at himself. 

 

“Nevermind, I was just stupid. Boneheadedly stupid,” the Doctor lamented, at his own expense. 

 

“Aww...Lil’ Mr Cricket, don’t beat yourself up about it,” she soothed. “Even a Time Lord can run out of it,” 

 

The Doctor grew a small smile. How this earth woman could accept his alien bladder giving up on him like that, he didn’t know. Nor did he care. 

 

“Do you have a change of clothes in those giganti-normous pockets of yours?” Donna reminded him before he stepped out of the closet. 

 

The Doctor narrowed his eyes warily. His last search for something useful had been futile. At least that particular day. He fumbled around his jacket once more until his hand hit something soft. He pulled it out. It was brown fabric. 


“Yes!” he cheered. At least clean up would be somewhat simple. Donna respectfully closed the door, waiting for him to change. The TARDIS was close enough to sneak a napkin or two into the bundle of clothes. So there was no rash remaining as a mark of the incident.

 

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The Doctor shook his feet, feeling oddly light without socks. 

 

“How often do you need to go, anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?..” Donna pondered, stroking the Time Lord’s back for good measure. 

 

“Once every three days,” he stated plainly. 

 

“Well, then you really should’ve hidden in the loo. Can’t be expected to keep track of that long, always,” she pointed out. 

 

The Doctor could do nothing more than nod sideways in agreement. 

 

The End.