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“Not one of your best decisions, Archie,” he murmurs to himself. He leans on one leg, then the other. Limping is always a little awkward when both legs are damaged. But he can't stay here. Fleet stumbles through the dark streets, avoiding ominous puddles and alleys draped in shadow with practice despite his injuries, which are really starting to hurt at this point.
Even Greater London is as it always is: incomprehensible, ever changing, and with a slight whiff of those socks one’s brother left to grow a new civilisation. In short, it is home, but not quite the home that Fleet wants to be in right now. A warm fire, a hot drink, maybe a snuggly jumper - is that too much to ask? But instead he is here, stranded and not convinced he has quite escaped those thugs. He does not have the energy to face them again this night.
It hadn't seemed any different to their other cases. A woman contacted Clara about a missing brother, convinced that it wasn't one of his usual 'wanderings'. A few red herrings (and other herrings of a riot of colours) and they found themselves sprinting down the streams of Lower Warringford, chased by some odd men in animal masks. A hurried argument and he and Clara split, Fleet taking a sharp turn towards the bridge.
That was when he jumped. It seemed to work alright as a last resort escape measure, but the broken legs did put a bit of a downer on the “escape” portion of the plan. What's more, the whole situation felt a little too familiar. Fleet shudders a little, the faint memory of bone saw vibrations and the wet splitting of skin parading itself through his mind. He bites his lip, trying to root himself in the present.
Clara seemed to get away alright, he thought. Better that one could hurry back to the police to shut down this penguin smuggling operation once and for all, instead of both of them plodding along, damp and cold.
A cold breeze whips through the street, stirring up dust and sending a shiver down his spine. He unconsciously reaches to the back of his neck, covering his off switch. Ever since that particularly fun revelation, he has remained rather paranoid about anything approaching that weakness. Scarves, particularly spontaneous hugs, rogue boa constrictors, all are rather off the table for the moment. Though supposedly disabled, he is not convinced that a similarly unpleasant surprise had been slipped into its place.
Finally, that familiar cafe (and other things) comes into view. Fleet lays one shaking hand against the brick hall, panting a little. Beyond those doors he knows lies a rather small office with an even smaller living space, just in case of times like these. But it is his and that is something. Better than out here, at least.
Fleet knows that in the morning he will have to figure out how to repair these broken limbs of his. He suspects that it is not as straightforward as going to a regular doctor, what with him not knowing where the original him ends and his mechanical self begins. But that can wait. For now, his bed is calling, and he couldn’t be so rude as to ignore it.