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In the time between battles, they stayed together, working continually to find a cure; until the drums got too loud and the Master had to leave.
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“What were you dreaming about?” the Doctor asked, when the Master jerked awake with a gasp, rolling over in a panic and pressing himself against the Doctor.
“Logopolis,” the Master whispered, shuddering.
The Doctor stroked sweat-damp hair where it lay on his chest, feeling hot, wet splashes against his bare skin. He didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t think the Master would ever forgive himself for letting the Doctor fall to his death. He didn’t know, deep within, if he forgave the Master.
“You’ll have to go soon,” the Doctor said finally. If it was bad enough that the Master was dreaming about Logopolis, it wouldn’t be long before the drumming got bad enough to drive the Master away.
“How many will I kill this time?” the Master wondered bitterly, face still hidden.
The Doctor drew a shuddering breath. “None,” he said firmly. “I’ll stop you.”
“You can’t always stop me,” the Master whispered. “You haven’t always been able to stop me.”
Against the Doctor’s throat, burning drops were splashing, one-two-three-four.
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