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UPDATED: New Doctor Who Novella "Harmony" by TBITT

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thebunnyinthetardis
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« on: April 20, 2012, 04:57:20 am »

Chapter Three



Rain drenched grass soaked the cuffs of his trousers. He was barefoot in the garden, sonic screwdriver in his hand, wondering where that old biddy of a housekeeper had put his shoes. Last time he’d come in muddy and soaked, she’d thrown them out here and turned the garden hose on them. Aha. He picked up a sodden trainer and tipped it over. A cloudy stream trickled between his fingers. He emptied the other one, then set them to dry, wondering when the sun would be coming up.

Behind him, the stately brick manor house loomed silent and large in the fog, the centuries old country estate Pete Tyler had restored in the aftermath of the John Lumic Cybermen affair. He closed the door securely. It wouldn’t do to have wee Rusty Tyler trailing after him in the dark, following him like he was some sort of sonic Pied Piper.

A boom echoed dully, like a far off thunderclap. He whirled, startled by the sound but unsure why. The night sky, dark and clouded, blazed to light for just a moment, shimmering lights crackling in the mist, roiling in an unearthly display of colour above the tree line at the far end the pasture. Almost too late he saw the yawning maw open in the haze and spotted a projectile hurtling toward him. He watched, bewildered, as the object skimmed a line of cedars, tore into the greenhouse on the hill, exiting one side after apparently making contact with the Tardis within. It careened wildly, knocking the roof off the brand new, freshly painted garden shed before coming to rest on the lawn just feet away from him. He blinked.

What?”

A cannon ball. He stepped forward, squinting at the deadly sphere, then back into the sky from which it had come. A rush of adrenaline made him forget, momentarily, why he was even standing in the garden at 4am, barefoot. Aside from deflecting the Yugglorrh Transperion’s latest feeble attack on the planet, this was the most excitement he had had in months and the realization came as something of a depressing shock. Cannonballs hardly compared to Cybermen, Carrionites or even Agatha Christie. Then again, cannonballs hurling out of mysterious lights in the sky were better than nothing and a lot better than disappearing sheep. A proper right mystery this was. Why, maybe even enough for Agatha Christie to have penned a book about it. The Case of the Careening Cannonball.
 
Against the dark ground the compact ball of iron was darker still. And quite harmless now that it was no longer in flight. He picked it up, rolling it over and over in his hands, then held it close to his nose. It smelled of sulphur and burned grease. A well-lubed cannon had launched this little beauty. He touched a forefinger to his tongue then wished he hadn’t. Iron, silicon, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, a dash of Nathaniel Nye’s proprietary gunpowder blend. He rolled the unpleasant flavours around in his mouth before spitting them out. Blasted human physiology again. A curious flavour lingered. Strange. Trace amounts of non terrestrial iron ore. No. It couldn’t be. Zeiton 7? But that was ludicrous. The only Zeiton 7 mines he knew of were on Varos and even when he considered that the planet shared the Mutter Spiral with Earth it was far beyond his reach in the constellation of Cetes. With a fully functioning Tardis he could reach it. Without it, the Tardis might never even achieve proper functionality. His attempts to substitute several rare earth elements for Zeiton 7 had produced mixed results, not to mention noxious fumes. To date only Gadolinium-153 and Dysprosium had proved marginally palatable to the finicky Time Ship.

He trained his sonic screwdriver on the cannon ball to confirm his suspicions, but it provided little information beyond what he already knew before it whistled, sparked, then sputtered out. It hadn’t been resonating frequencies correctly since he dropped it in the peat bog.

Lights flicked on in the house as those within seemed to have realized something was amiss on the lawn. Tony was jumping up and down at his bedroom window, calling for his dad to come quickly. A moment later it was Pete’s voice he heard, “…not the shed again.” As if on cue, the precariously leaning structure disintegrated into a pile of lumber, potting soil, and garden implements. It was probably a good time to make his exit. It was that or try to explain why what appeared to be a 17th Century cannonball was sitting in the Tyler’s award-winning, manicured garden.

Someone spoke his name.

He stood quickly, sweeping the night with his gaze.

You aren’t listening. Why aren’t you listening?

With more questions than answers, and no time to retrieve his soggy trainers before he was discovered at the heart of chaos, he pocketed his malfunctioning screwdriver, fished a torch from the wreckage of the garden shed, and ran.




As he plucked a mud encrusted acorn from between his toes, he had to admit that stopping for his wet shoes might have been worth both the discomfort and the momentary inconvenience of the interrogation that he knew would be waiting for him upon his return. Rose would be laughing at him by now, pelting him with slimy acorns and anything else she could scoop up from the forest floor. He‘d have reciprocated, putting wet leaves down the back of her jumper. Mysterious voices and rain aside, it was entirely too much fun. Lights in the sky, cannonball smashing her father’s new garden shed to smithereens, him mincing along muttering vulgarities he‘d learned while playing truant with the Shobogans in Low Town during his years at the Academy on Gallifrey. Oh, he‘d missed this kind of adventure. Missed being with her, running like mad through the unknown for sheer pleasure rather than out of a sense of duty to whoever paid his expenses. No one to answer to and no paperwork to fill out later. He did so detest paperwork. It was enough to make him forget just how tired he still was. Jackie would have rung up her daughter for a second time tonight, no matter the late hour, beckoning her back if the fate of the planet (or at least Scotland’s sheep) wasn‘t at stake. Which it obviously wasn’t because, well, they’d have told him. And expected him to do something about it.

This time he would have to face her. No more excuses. Much longer and, well, much longer and he might never go back. That was the danger of always running away. The day came when you took one step too far and the way back might be lost forever. He had imposed this little exile on himself. Time. He needed time. And answers to those age old questions about The Meaning of Life. Questions he had long made a profession of ignoring. How he expected to find those answers now while running pell mell all over Britain he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t meant to be gone so long. Hadn’t meant to drop his mobile in a sink hole while triangulating a signal back to an orbiting alien warship and overloading their guidance systems. He needed her more than ever. The reality of that hit him like a blow to the chest. Oh, he needed her. Needed her in the worst way. Needed to know she didn’t blame him for the empty cradle in the nursery. Needed… her. He trusted she knew that, but supposed saying it now and again might help matters.

With any luck she’d have boarded the zeppelin moored at Balmoral and would soon be here, notice he’d left his trainers behind and bring them. With matching socks.
 
He trudged onward. Judging by the trajectory of the cannonball--and the tang of temporal energy in the night air-- he was heading in the right direction. Unless of course it had bounced, though that was some bounce if it had originated in the English Civil War. A real temporal Rift? Right here, under Pete Tyler’s nose. Worse, under his nose. Had he really become so thick? Thick and dull and stupid? And old.

Since any place that he was was considered a high risk zone, the area surrounding the Tyler’s sprawling estate used to be monitored closely for everything from Zygons to space portals. Before the budget cuts multiple teams of temporal engineers had trekked these forests and hills, sweeping acre after acre with the finest equipment available and consistently turned up nothing, nada, zilch, zero, zed. Neither here nor in the city where at one time had existed a Rift between worlds high above Canary Warf. A Rift that allowed a Void Ship entrance to Torchwood Towers. The other Torchwood, he reminded himself. From Rose’s world. The parallel world she and Jackie had come from.

The longer he had lived in this skin, separated from the universe in which he had originated, the less he trusted his biologically-altered Time Lord senses; but his intriguing new human intuition had always told him something was out here. Or would be. Or had been. Funny thing, Time. Perhaps that’s what drew him back. That and the awakening
Tardis. And rightly so.

A dim light shown in the forest on the far side of the motorway. He’d come to the edge of the Tyler’s land. Beyond was protected woodland where, on Other Earth, lay city sprawl. There was little traffic this time of night and he hastened across cold tarmac and down the far embankment, pushing aside branches, sweeping the ground with his torch, all the while stepping gingerly on walnuts and jagged rocks. The air was ripe with temporally-charged particles here and his sonic screwdriver indicated further traces of Zeiton-7. If he could pinpoint the source and secure a pure enough ore sample he would have no trouble aligning the trans-power system in his Tardis. His spine tingled with anticipation. If only he had a pair of handy dandy 3-D glasses he was sure the whole of the woods would be awash with Void Stuff. This was it. The real thing. Finally!

As the last twig snapped beneath his bare feet and the last leaves brushed his arms he stepped into a small clearing and stopped. The torch slipped from his fingers and went out. There in the mist, like the glowing lamp post that marked the north west boundary of Narnia, stood a blue police box.

“You are kidding me,” he breathed softly.

He ran the rest of the way, fingers tracing a smooth line down the wooden door. It was solid and smooth, warm to the touch. Impossible! But he had learned long ago, in another life, to believe in impossible things, and was more than willing to take this leap of faith. Whatever had transpired to bring the Tardis across from one universe to another, it was important.

He pressed his cheek against the door, closing his eyes. Not even the cold rain could spoil this moment.

“Hello, Old Girl.”

He had no key.

He realized quite suddenly that he had no key. Rose did. The key he had entrusted to her on the eve of World War III. It hung amid the stars and moons above the cot he had built, and Rose had stained blue, and together they had placed in a warm, snug little nursery room on the south side of that rambling old house in Scotland.

He shook the memories away, focusing once more on the closed door. A simple knock would have to suffice. Unless… He looked down at his right hand, thumb and middle finger rubbing together. It couldn’t work. Not for him. Not the Halfling. Could it? Determined, he stepped back slightly and raised his hand.

The door opened before he even had time to snap his fingers, golden light spilling out of the gloriously Regenerated interior of the Tardis herself. It was all he could do not to push past the young man standing in the doorway to survey the interior, all copper and brass and gleaming with beauty that was breathtaking, even for him.

“Aw, this is brilliant!” he cried, craning his neck to see the vaulted ceiling and the towering chamber that held the delicate Time Rotor. “Very, well, Maritime. Quite the Edwardian nautical theme you have going on here. Love the malachite finish. Mind you, I liked the coral, too. Had that warm home grown organic feel that… oh. Sorry. Getting ahead of myself aren‘t I? Happens. But, blimey! This is brilliant!”

“Uhm. Thank you?” the brown-haired stranger said awkwardly, green eyes wide with surprise.

A familiar stethoscope hung around the man’s neck, partly obscuring a blood-splattered plaid shirt. One look at the poor fellow’s nose explained the blood. Hefollowed the man’s glance left, then right (expecting someone else?) then met the questioning gaze once again.

“I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

That was his cue and he beamed his cheeriest smile.

“Hello! I’m the…”

Doc-tor!” a woman’s voice bellowed from inside the Tardis, the name followed quickly by: “Rory! Is that River? Rory, get back down here! Ror-y!”

“Sorry, I have to--”

“I should say so if the misses is using that tone with you, mate. Rory, is it?”

He breezed in, making straight for the flight controls. His hands passed lovingly over the vintage sextant and compass before he gazed up at the central column once more.

“Blimey,” he said again. “She really outdid herself this time…”

His words of admiration were cut short when the woman’s voice called out again, more urgently. He looked side to side then down at the shadowy figure below him. The grated floor panels he remembered had been replaced with a transparent deck through which he could glimpse the intricate undercarriage.

“This way,” Rory told him, motioning for him to follow, but he was already two steps ahead, clattering down the steps to the lower deck, Rory trailing behind him, asking him who he was exactly.

“That’s always the question,” he said, turning in circles, taking in the wonders of the cave like space below the flight deck. “Oh, this is great. Really, really great. Really, really, really great. I haven’t seen it like this in years!”

He absently connected loose electrical couplings, igniting a shower of sparks.

“It always does that,” Rory offered.

“Oh, I know.”

“You know? How can you know? Who are you? And where are your shoes?”

A tall, young woman in skin-tight jeans and a red plaid shirt emerged from the shadows under the steps. Ginger hair spilled all about her pretty face. Her accent was Scottish and she looked cross. She was glaring at Rory.

“I thought the Tardis was taking us to River.”

“River?” he asked, surprised. “Professor River Song?”

Rory and the young woman exchanged a glance.

“You know about Tardises and you know about River?”

“I know a lot more about Tardises than I know about River. At least this one. I know all about her, don‘t I Old Girl? We go back a long way. The Tardis I mean. Not… River, uhm…”

She was looking down at his bare feet. He wiggled his muddy toes and rocked back and forth. “I was in a hurry. And they were wet...”

“Right,” she said crisply.

“Amy,” Rory said suddenly, ending the awkward pause that had fallen between them. “Where’s the Doctor?”

Now he really grinned, but she’d already turned away, pointing under the stairs.

“That’s why I was yelling, Stupid Face. He’s gone and locked himself in the cupboard again.”




No amount of physical force made any difference. The door had been locked from within. And probably soniced. At least that’s what he would have done, if he didn’t want anyone else to get in. Or didn’t want something to get out.

“Let me have a go,” he told them, hunkering down by the door. He drew his screwdriver from his back pocket and fiddled with the switch. It hummed to life then sputtered. He whacked it against his palm. Twice. When that didn’t work he flipped it end for end and began to back the screws out of the door hinges manually. Less elegant, but still effective under the circumstances.

“Is that sonic?” Rory asked, exchanging glances with Amy. They’d been doing that for several minutes. He supposed explanations were in order, but not until they’d gotten this door opened. He couldn’t wait to see his face when he saw himself.

“Yup,” he answered the question, leaning hard against the tight screws, passing each in turn to Rory.

“It’s totally rubbish!” Amy accused. “You have a rubbish sonic. Who are you?”

The last of the over-sized screws twisted out, saving him from the immediate question. With a grunt, he moved the heavy door aside and peered in. Amy was on her hands and knees beside him, shining a torch into the cramped storeroom. They crawled past 900 years of souvenirs crammed into beat up trunks, odds and ends spilling out like vintage movie props in a forgotten back lot. It looked worse than a teenager’s bedroom. The Doctor had wedged into an impossibly small space between an open suitcase full of shoes and a biplane propeller, knees drawn up, face buried in hands like one of the Weeping Angels of old. The Time Lord’s shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow and one of the buckles on a pair of black braces had come unclasped. A red bowtie had slipped its central knot, and hung unevenly against the collar of a handsome hounds tooth patterned shirt. An unruly mop of brown hair spilled over long fingers.

“Oh now, what‘s happened to you?” he said, surprised by the sight in spite of himself and keenly sensing the other man’s pain. This was a well read page out of his own life. “How long has he been like this?”

“A day. Maybe longer. He’s been strange since he picked us up this time,” Amy told him.

“Stranger than normal,” Rory corrected.

“May I?” He gestured at the stethoscope still hanging around Rory‘s neck.

“Yeah, sure. But…“

He held one finger to his lips to silence them, moving the stethoscope around on the Doctor’s chest with some difficulty given their cramped quarters.

“Hearts sound fine. Pulse a little rapid. Let’s get him out of here, shall we?” he glanced around and sniffed. “Reminds me of being in a ventilation shaft. In a shoe factory.”

A pair of black and white Converse trainers in the open suitcase caught his eye. He fished them out, looked them over, took a cursory whiff, then tied the laces together and slung them around his neck. He preferred the red, but any port in a storm. Besides, his feet were getting cold.

“Wait,” Amy said suddenly, laying a hand on his arm and meeting his gaze. This close to her he could see her freckles in the wavering torch light. And, he supposed, she could see his. “You knew the Doctor had two hearts. Are you some sort of alien doctor or something?”

“I… have been,” he told her, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Lucky for you I still make house calls.”




Slowly, but firmly, they half dragged the Doctor from the darkness of the storage locker into the softly lit compartment below the main deck. Once there, they wrapped a blanket around the Time Lord’s narrow shoulders. He doubted it was necessary, but the gesture seemed to make Amy feel better. A good thing seeing as what was next to come probably wasn’t going to reassure her at all.
 
“Right then,” he said, taking a deep breath as he drew the Doctor’s hands away from such unfamiliar features. He brushed back a shock of hair to examine deeply set green eyes. The Doctor looked at him, recognition slowly registering on the Time Lord’s narrow, young face.

 “Hello, look at you. And River thought I was pretty. Still not ginger, are we?” he gave a sidelong glance at Amy. “I don’t know that even the Tardis would be big enough for more than one.”

A twitch of the Doctor’s upper lip might have betrayed a smile.

“Oh, you are in there, aren’t you? Good. Locked yourself in a cupboard? Haven’t done that in--ooh--long time. At least not on purpose. So what were you hiding from? And,” he said thoughtfully, “what could possibly be strong enough to have taken your measure?”

The Doctor swallowed deeply. They both knew what was coming.

“If you can‘t trust yourself,” he said simply as he placed his fingertips gently on both sides of the youthful-looking face. He closed his eyes, concentrating, hoping he still had the capacity to do what needed to be done. He never knew where being human ended  and being a Time Lord began.

“Wait… Rory, what’s he doing--?”

He whistled softly. “Oh, there are Cowboys in here, aren’t there? Shh-shh-shhh… don’t pull away. You came a long way for help. Let me help you if I can.”

Well, he reasoned later. He had asked for it. Wave after shattering wave of emotion crashed over him, showering him in memories. The Winds of Time rushed past, filling him with the thrill of adventure. He danced among the stars, witnessing the birth and the death of entire galaxies. Then fear, panic as he was ensnared in a Dalek time corridor that threatened to empty out into The Nothing. Fleets of Time Ships amassed across the horizon of space, obliterated in an instant by eye searing bolts of energy. Regret. So much regret. Space and Time collided, exploded, cracks rippling back through the Time Vortex, erupting into too many realities to count. Time lines that once presented themselves as fixed points splintered, shock waves branching in every direction. The known universe collapsed, taking everything and everyone with it. Loneliness replaced it. Loneliness like he had felt first in his dreams, then as he lay awake, unable to reconcile dream to reality. Which reality? His? Or his?

A rush of sorrow assailed him then, an intense longing, searching for recognition. Blue-white light ebbed toward him, over him, tumbling him into darkness, sweeping him back, back, back, until he could scarcely breath. Like waves upon the shores of time he felt himself grow stretched and thin until the inevitable pull of the sea swallowed him back then swept him forward on a crimson tide of blazing energy. He swam for his life, surrounded by feelings of such insatiable hunger he could barely fathom it all. So very hungry for life, for freedom. A voice called his name. Cried his name back and forth  across all of Space and Time. I hear you. I hear you. We hear you. His voice united with the voice already giving answer. He wondered how far back in time a plea that powerful might ricochet. What could possibly call that loudly? Who could possibly need him that much? He squeezed his eyes closed, fighting the nausea, struggling to maintain contact until at last the gnawing hunger released them both and the Doctor collapsed against him with an anguished gasp, dark head resting in the crook of his arm. One eye, one bloodshot green eye snapped open.

You,” came the barely audible whisper.

Oh yes,” he replied, grinning down at the Time Lord.

“You have… a beard.”

Oh, yes.” he replied again, running his free hand over his whiskers.

“It’s totally rubbish…”

“Says the man with the fringe!”

“.. and you cannot… cannot… be here,” the Doctor’s words slipped away even as the green eyes, heavy with sleep, began to close. “It‘s imposs--imposs…”

“Impossible? Now that‘s where you‘re wrong, Time Boy. It’s you that can’t be here. But we’ll get to that later. Right now you need to rest. Trust me,” he grinned. “I’m the Doctor.”
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