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In the early days after he tracks the Doctor down, the Master studies the Earth. The planet appears to him like some cheap treasure of the Doctor’s—a favourite book left unguarded. He feels that he’s stolen it already. In spite of the constant hum of anger in his breast, certain discoveries pique his affection. He’s surprised by the bright flanks of the Himalayas; the Doctor seems more intellectual for loving them.
The Master is fascinated by Terran leather, these porous, black-tanned animal skins worn so close to the flesh. The weight and heat of the material suits him. So does the hypocrisy it represents. The Doctor could never justify the practice, at least not while clinging to the high ground that had driven him from Gallifrey. He’d have to see reason eventually.
As a species, the Master finds humans to be overwhelmingly dull and brutish. Still, he likes to walk through town and watch the cold-eyed ones on High Street playing at civilisation, and he comes to enjoy the company of certain women. He learns that a woman travelling alone through a large city might bind a knife to her thigh.
In his hotel room, he lies back on the made bed with his shirt open. He wills the wound to close. With a glimmer of admiration, he thinks of the woman, an intelligence agent he’d cornered outside of a pub. It had been a good fight. Her subconscious had been strong, and she’d resisted like her life was in danger even though he’d only been after some access codes. Clever place to keep a knife.
Absent-mindedly, he remembers a similar practice from the early dawn of reason on Gallifrey: a Time Lady caught in unfamiliar territory would tie her TARDIS key around her neck. A vulgar strategy, and long-discarded.
His own key lies on the windowsill beside a bloodied leather glove. A quiet anxiety compels him to bring it close, to hold it for a while, so he shifts himself carefully from the bed. As he fumbles in the dark, a burst of pain in his belly brings him to his knees. He rests a forearm on the windowsill and leans his forehead atop it. The cool air does him some good.
Eyes closed, he lets his mind out over the street. Only dim animal consciousnesses dot the blackness. He breathes slowly. Gently, gently, with shaking fingers, he touches the scarring flesh of his stomach, and then he brings them lower. He works his hand under the waistband of his trousers, and he holds his soft cock in his hand and imagines being touched with gratitude. With respect. With fear.
And he pictures a cord coiled around his hand, a soft throat beneath it, the ridges of the primitive key cutting into his palm. The Doctor stranded in a strange world, needing him.
The room is dark; the Master is alone. “Doctor,” he whispers into his shirtsleeve. “My dear Doctor.” He can’t think of anything else to say.