The Master watched him recover, the drums perpetuating a dull ache throughout his brain and making it difficult to think straight. Hitting the Doctor had automatically made him feel much better, and that was good. But they demanded more, wanted him to hit again and again. Kick him across the floor of this room, break every last bone in his body. And the House, feedbacking on his own desires, gleefully seconded that motion.

His eyes narrowed when the Doctor spoke. Much more of this back talk and he wasn't going to be able to control himself. Surely there was no harm, though, in grabbing a fistful of that flop hair and yanking the Doctor's head viciously back. Far from it; it was instructive.

"We'll have to resume our little walk down Memory Lane later," he murmured, struggling to keep his voice even and soft, oh so very soft.