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I took to that car. It had character… It could persuade me to stay, you know.
–The Third Doctor ‘Spearhead from Space’
The car the Doctor ‘borrowed’ from the hospital was red. Like the grass he used to run through, on the planet he was exiled from. That car had character! But the Brigadier wouldn’t let him keep it, saying that UNIT would get another.
And they made good on their promise. The Brigadier, the Doctor’s unofficial handler, was sent to help him choose. The military man clasped his hands behind his back impatiently. 'Really, Doctor, I cannot understand what is taking so long. Surely, one vehicle is as good as another.’
But, row after row, the cars were just not right. Drab. Boring. Not nearly suitable for a distinguished person such as the Doctor.
Then he spotted the Edwardian roadster. Cheery canary yellow. Positively brimming with character.
'Yes, this will do nicely.’
The Brigadier stammered, 'Surely, Doctor, you can’t be serious –’
'My dear chap, I assure you I am.’
With a heavy sigh, the Brigadier acquiesced. 'Very well. Let’s just get back to work, shall we?’
* * *
By day, UNIT headquarters is swarming with bothersome people. The Doctor finds himself constantly interrupted by people wanting this or that. Trying to order him about. Trying to make cocoa in his lab – the nerve!
At night, the place is empty, which is pleasant. He can sing loudly without anyone complaining about the racket. He can perform experiments blissfully uninterrupted. Frustratingly, though, none of the experiments work. Every night, he tries in vain to repair his ship. He should be able to fix her, but the knowledge has been hidden from him.
The background hum of the TARDIS used to be comforting presence in his mind. But now it sounds wrong. Whatever the Time Lords did affected the resonant frequency of their connection. The pitch is off – a constant reminder of his punishment.
When it gets to be too much, the Doctor escapes to the garage to tinker with almost insultingly simple Earth automotive machinery. Honestly, it’s embarrassing how much fulfillment he gets from a simple combustion engine these days. But it’s reassuring to be able to roll up his sleeves and have something finally work.
Some nights, the Doctor drives out into the country with the top down and the wind whipping his cape around. The yellow car zips along the narrow roads, faster than the local law enforcement would like (but they know that car by now, and they know who’s driving it).
Out in the countryside, the view of the night sky is unimpeded by the lights of the city. Lying back in the open-roofed car, the Doctor stares up and murmurs stories about the planets he can see, and sings songs from different star systems.
The yellow car can’t answer back, of course, but he feels that she’s listening.
The Doctor so often feels betrayed: by his own people (who stranded him on this planet), by his ship (who can no longer take him places), and by his own mind (which won’t let him remember how to the old girl and escape). Ensconced in this roadster he feels, secure. As if all his experiences are only a temporary setback.
Staring out into space, the Doctor wonders when he will get out there again. In the meantime, he’ll continue zipping along this green and blue planet in a yellow car with his UNIT friends, waiting for the day he and his blue box can visit the stars once more.
Look at the stars,
Look how they shine for you,
And everything you do,
Yeah, they were all yellow.
–Coldplay 'Yellow’