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His world constricts to his screwdriver and the wires and the weight of his ship settled comfortably around him.
When his foot slips from the edge and falls to the ground, he might as well be lost.
He doesn’t mind. The hum of the sonic screwdriver is drowning out the roar of the time vortex. Everything that is, was, and could be is driven away by that wire there, this wire here, and soothe away the discomfort with his fingers.
Like the gears grinding behind the equations of time and space, there is a right answer. When the working parts of time travel are settled and straightened and soniced into place, he can feel the TARDIS stretch and ease. There is a promise of smoother landings and a comfortable, running bass note that he feels in the warm metal under his stomach rather than hearing in his ears. Anything else would be tinkering.
When he tries to stand up, his back crashes against the heavy floor above him. He flops back onto his stomach and remembers that he has forgotten where he is. A brief but judicious exploration shows that the opening in the floor is no longer at the toe of his boot. For someone with perfect history and knowledge of time and space, he has a remarkable ability of getting lost in his own ship.
Halfway through a good, long roll of the eyes and a heavy sigh, he stops. He can smell tea. He follows the scent, turns himself around, twists himself into a ball and in an amazing feat of flexibility that he never would have thought possible, pops his head out of the opening and into a face full of steam. Rose has left a mug and disappeared and he is grateful. His mind is still underneath, in the quiet of the TARDIS.
He sits on the edge with his feet dangling and blows ripples across the hot water. There are other trails to lead him back now, he realizes, and other ways of finding home.