Title: Mistaken Identity
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: The Fifth Eleventh Doctor, OMC
Summary: The Fifth Doctor finds himself the subject of a case of mistaken identity.
Word Count: 596
Disclaimer: I don’t own Doctor Who, or the characters. They belong to the BBC.
“I'm the Doctor, not a vet! What do I know about cows? We don't have cows where I come from. We have knids, and trust me, there’s no resemblance at all between cows and knids. You wouldn’t ever want to try to milk a knid with your bare hands. Not if you wanted to keep all your fingers anyway.” The Doctor stared between the sick cow, laying limply on the grass, and the old farmer whose field he’d accidentally landed in.
“Are you sure you’re not a vet?” The farmer peered at him. “You look just like the young one in that TV show, you know the one, ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ or somesuch.” Except that as far as he could recall, the young vet hadn’t generally gone about dressed for cricket. Not that it mattered; it took all sorts to make up this funny old world.
“Oh! I remember that, used to like watching a bit of that now and then. Oooh! That’s probably where I got the face. I’m not him though, sorry, and even if I was, I wouldn’t be much help. He’s an actor, not a vet; you’re better off with me. Except, I don’t know about cows. Now if you had a sick knid I might be able to help!” The Doctor looked hopeful, but the farmer shook his head.
“Never seen a knid, it’’s just me cow.”
“Ah, well, it’s probably a good thing. At least you get to keep all your fingers when you want milk. But, since I’m here I suppose I might as well take a look…” Pulling out his sonic screwdriver, the Doctor waved it over and around the cow, then studied the readings. “Oh dear, she appears to have a serious calcium deficiency. Stay there, I’ll be right back, I think I have just the thing in the TARDIS.” He trotted away across the grass and disappeared into the blue police box standing rather incongruously in the middle of the field.
The farmer frowned. He was sure it hadn’t been there earlier, he would have noticed. That was a rum puzzle, and no mistake. He was saved from wondering further by the reappearance of the man who claimed he wasn’t a vet but a doctor. The farmer shrugged; any port in a storm, and one medical practitioner was as good as another in his books. The strange man crouched down, opened the cow’s mouth, and squirted something inside that made the cow’s eyes bulge for a moment. It gave an indignant moo, shook its head, then rose ponderously to its feet and shambled off to graze.
“Well I’ll be blowed. A miracle worker, that’s what you are!”
“Oh, not really, it’s basic chemistry. Your cow should be fine now.”
“You might not be a vet but you’re a damned good doctor. Why don’t you come inside for a cup of tea?”
“I’d love a cup of tea, that’s most kind of you. Very partial to a nice cup of tea, I am.”
“Nothing like a good cuppa.” The farmer nodded agreement. “I’ll see if the wife can rustle up a little something to go with it if you can stay for lunch.”
“Now that you mention it, I am rather peckish. Don’t suppose you have any celery, do you? Very underrated, celery…”
Their voices trailed away into the distance as they walked across the field towards the farmhouse.
Back in the field, the cured cow gave a loud hiccup, and got down to the serious business of grazing.
There wasn’t a knid in sight.