((OOC: Watch as I conveniently gloss over details of how Lucy actually, you know, managed to knock out the Doctor or get back to her flat))

It hadn't been as difficult as she'd anticipated, frankly.  Even in the body of what looked like a large green cat, he was pathetically easy to predict, and it wasn't long before Lucy had him unconscious, stowed neatly in a box and tucked under her arm.

She took a moment to look around the TARDIS, sighing a little in recollection of her time with Harry, before it had... gone rather sour.  He'd flown her to the end of the universe in this ship, promised her the stars and then given them to her.  And even later, the TARDIS had looked oh so pretty with the paradox machine set up in its heart, pretty red like an open wound.  She grimaced, and her arms tightened faintly around the box that held the Doctor; now was not the time for nostalgia.   She was doing this to spite Harry as much as she was for her own amusement, and oh, wouldn't he just think it a lark if he caught up with her because she was too busy reminiscing about him.

Back to her flat, then, as quick as ever she could, and she opened the box with tender hands, smirking a little down at the Doctor's limp, furry form, and laying it open on its side on the richly carpeted floor.  She filled a bowl with water and set it nearby- he'd probably have a nasty headache when he awoke, poor thing- and sat by to wait, pouring an absent glass of wine for herself.

It wasn't long before the cat-creature in the box began to stir, its tail twitching faintly as it murmured small, cattish noises of sleepy distress into the ground.  Lucy allowed herself one rather mad grin.

'Oh, Doctor...' she sing-songed softly, 'Wake up little Doctor; see where you are.'