The Elusive Number Twelve Grimmauld Place

The Doctor sidestepped a volley of sparks as he hammered on the TARDIS's control panel. In the panic he'd dredged up bundles of wires from the console, rushing to try different combinations or at the very least redirect some power. Dropping the rubber mallet, he fanned haze away from the monitor before moving back to the keyboard.

"No. None of that makes sense," he slapped the side of the screen. "What are you doing?" After being on his own for any amount of time, he resorted to talking—to the ship, to himself, to anyone who would listen…

He glared at the towering cylindrical structure jutting up from the console. Its interior whirled and glowed erratically as he cranked at a small metal arm on the panel. The TARDIS shuddered and there was an explosive crackle of electricity followed by another shower of sparks. Wires dropped from the ceiling and steam billowed up from the floors. The ship wouldn't stay airborne. It definitely wouldn't access the Time Vortex.

This was his third failed attempt, though the ships condition would see to it that it was his last for now. He couldn't get a feel for what was doing it, but something was drawing the TARDIS down, playing at the ship's guidance so that it didn't know up from down.

Or the Vortex from regular space, for that matter.

Grabbing hold of whatever he could, the Doctor fought his way to the door and threw it open. He was careful to keep a grip on the inside as he peered out at the London cityscape below the jerking and twirling ship. He slammed the door; the crash wouldn't damage the ship, though it didn't matter if he still couldn't take off.

The drone of the TARDIS engines suddenly became more apparent. He clutched the panel bowing down over the console to shield his face from another deluge of sparks and with a thunderous sound he was thrown to the floor.

The Doctor raked the sonic screwdriver toward himself and climbed to his feet. It would take a while for the ship to be ready to do anything and here he was again. Thrice he found himself in the same general area, same dull little London street. He made his way outside and found that at least this time he'd landed right side up. As he shut the door of the TARDIS, its blue police box camouflage appeared unharmed, unchanged. As it always was.

"What is wrong with you?" he wrapped on the side of the TARDIS. It was going to have to be left to repair itself. He turned back to survey the street. "What is it about this place—what's here, is it something I'm meant to see…" the Doctor extended the sonic screwdriver into the air and it chirped slowly. He brought it down to glance at the side of it and aimed it out at the line of flats ahead of him.

Crossing the street with the screwdriver extended in front of him, he checked the sign at on the side of the post boxes. It was quaint, short black iron fences guarded the windows with steps between them leading up to doors. He paced a portion of the sidewalk and glanced back. The detail in it was so small he didn't even notice at first. As the revelation washed over him, he fiddled with the screwdrivers top.

"Number Thirteen Grimmauld Place," he said before turning and pointing at the next address. "Number Eleven Grimmauld Place. Where's Number Twelve?" The Doctor glanced up at the side of the building. It was a numbering anomaly, not exactly unheard of. So why was the TARDIS sitting in the unusually large space between the two? He had seen this before; his own ship had something similar. His eyes flicked to the side to get a look at the building through his peripherals.

"There you are—right where no one is supposed to be looking—Number Twelve Grimmauld Place!" the Doctor charged up the newly revealed steps to the blue door with the gargoyle knocker. He gave the area a once over with the sonic screwdriver. "It's not the usual perception filter—definitely not Time Lord—doesn't even appear to be alien. Someone went through a lot of trouble to hide you," he slapped the screwdriver shut.

Craning his neck up, he surveyed the windows. "Looks old, but not deserted," there was a light on in the third floor. After a quick check of the watch he wore, he straightened his bowtie and gave the hem of his tweed jacket a tug. "July 31st, 2000—well then, let's see whose home," he said as he poised his fist to knock on the door.