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UPDATED: New Doctor Who Novella "Harmony" by TBITT

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thebunnyinthetardis
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« on: May 03, 2012, 07:01:14 pm »

Chapter Ten



“Well, look what the poodle dragged in.”

He opened his eyes slowly. Every inch of his body ached, most especially where he had been shot. Shot. What a novelty. He steadied himself as the upholstered bench beneath him lurched and tipped. They were riding in a finely appointed coach. After their incarceration in the smoke house and the dreary, pongy cellar it was encouraging to see they had moved up in the world.

The Doctor sat across from him, leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped. Clean hands. Clean, shaven face. Clean, combed hair. Well, clean at any rate. The Time Lord’s mud-caked moleskin jacket had been replaced with a dapper Harris Tweed, the red bowtie swapped for blue. He looked every bit the eccentric history professor. Between them, on the carriage floor, sat a very large, very black poodle, its luxurious coat trimmed so as to give it the appearance of an ebony lion.

A horse drew alongside the carriage, a hell-spitting stallion that put poor George Mott’s plough-cum-war horse to shame. No doubt it had the temper to match its wide eyes and flaring nostrils. A well-dressed young man with long flowing black hair and the most magnificent hat he had seen yet looked in with keen interest.

“Your brother is fortunate Boi took a liking to him or else he’d have been executed as a Roundhead conspirator before you arrived with your credentials, Doctor.”

“Timing is everything. Thank you for providing us with transport and give my regards to your mother. And thank you,” the Doctor told the dog, opening up the coach door to allow the poodle to leap down to the ground. It loped off after its master. Try as he might, he could not remember what had happened. Except…

“That dog… talked to me.”

“Yes. Rather well versed in Time Lord history for a poodle, too. I couldn’t confirm it without arousing suspicion, but I suspect the prince’s pooch is a relative of the Whifferdill. Which explains a lot, really. The Parliamentarians got it half right. I gave ole Boi a little heads up about the Battle at Marston Moor. It seemed only fair. Kept guard over you and wouldn’t let anyone near you until I arrived. Not even Rupert.”

He struggled to stifle a fit of coughing as the coach hit another rough patch of road. Correction. Rougher patch. The Doctor poured a thimble’s worth of amber liquid from a decanter into a small glass and held it out.

“How long have I been here?” he wheezed, sniffing the fluid suspiciously, then downing it in one gulp. A rush of warmth rose from his chest into his head and for a moment everything was crystal clear. Including his injuries. “You were gone--”

“I was gone. But here I am. Surprise! I was gone long enough for the bleeding to have stopped, but I see it has begun again—in various places. Lucky for you I know a nurse,” the Doctor told him, holding out a clean handkerchief.

“Check Jackie’s phone,” he said, pressing the hanky against his head and seriously debating another drink. He could do with some numbness just now. “Doctors Sullivan and Jones are both on speed dial.”

“Are they?” the Doctor smiled.

“Go on, you want to ask.”

“Tell me then. More?”

He shook his head, handing back the glass. “I’ll regret it. You?”

“I already regretted it.”

He gathered a blanket about himself and settled back. “They’re brilliant. Both of them. Twirled Martha off the floor first time I met her. Forgot where I was. Who she was. Or wasn’t. But she’s the same. And Harry… well, Harry looks at me sometimes like he remembers everything that he can’t possibly remember and it’s all I can do to pretend that I’ve only known him on this world. That world. Whichever.”

“Then we’d best get back and see if we can save it for them. The Rift is growing even more unstable. Rifts, actually. All over the country. And they’re shifting. I came out on the other side in an art gallery on Eel Pie Island. In the Ladies, no less. Rather awkward, really.”

He looked around the inside of the coach, tugging the blanket closer. He almost felt warm. “Nice wheels. Who do they think we are now?”

“Yes, well, don’t get too comfortable. You… need to stay awake.” The Doctor handed him the psychic paper. “Here we are. Doctors John and James Lambert, recently arrived from Gallavally with a special dispensation from Charles himself.”

“Wait,” he said, the handkerchief dropping from his fingers as he gripped the wallet with both hands. “The equations are gone.”

“Oh good. You noticed. It took a while for four dimensional calculations to be expressed two dimensionally. The last bit appeared while I was attempting to reassemble the hand dryer in the loo,” the Doctor told him, squirming at the memory. “We need to get back. And we need to get your Tardis off world before the planet is destroyed. Well, part of it anyway. She‘s been quite insistent. Haven‘t you been listening?”

Someone spoke his name.

He swallowed deeply, his vision narrowing. The Doctor was talking, but he could no longer make out the words.

Don’t you hear me? Why can’t you hear me? Where are you?

“Stay awake now—“

“Wh-what?”

The coach slowed, each grinding bump a reminder of what had turned out to be less than a fun time. He would have to register his complaints with the Brentford Tourism board. If he lived.

“This will be our stop. Can you walk?”

“If I can stand, I can walk… maybe… but--“

“I’ll explain later.”

“You’ll explain now.”

“No, I won’t. There’s no time. And I don’t say that very often.” The Doctor pushed open the door so they could exit and bid the driver to move on.

It took an inordinate amount of concentration to keep from collapsing there in the dirt. More to shuffle his feet forward. He squinted up at the three storey brick building looming in the mist. Time had wrought changes, but there was no mistaking the dwelling. It was Pete Tyler’s manor house. Or would be in several hundred years. The Doctor led him around back… led by half-dragging, half propping, half… wait. That was too many halves. He forced himself to focus. The Doctor had told him to stay awake. Why did he need to stay awake? Why--

“Why are we here?”

“I’m assuming that is not a philosophical question. Short cut. Not a pretty one, but it will have to do,” the Doctor told him, heaving open the cellar door while he concentrated on not falling head long down the cellar steps.

“Down there… what?”

“Lady Spencer? Yoo-hoo! It’s the Doctor. Ah, good. No one’s here. Walk, don’t fall… thank you… I did say walk, didn’t I? “

“I’m trying to remember how,” he moaned as they descended into cool darkness.

“Yes, well, you’re doing fine! Well, you’re upright, that’ll have to do. Stroke of luck locating this really. I found it on the other side while I was looking for something else. Wild chance, really. I like it when that happens. Come along then, don’t dawdle. This one is going to be rough…”

They passed into a corridor of ice and shadow. He felt twisted, as if every atom in his body was separating and the pattern for reassembly had been lost. Passing between worlds, between Time and Space itself had once been so simple. When there were still rules governing such things. When there was logic and order… not that he had ever felt obliged to entertain such notions. Well… not in a long time. When had the passages gone from being like drifting through fog banks to tearing through razor blades? They should have emerged on other side by now, no matter where or when that was. Streaming needles of scarlet coursed past him, through him, intermingled with equally blinding ribbons of cobalt blue. The Rift was collapsing. Physical context had lost all meaning, yet was he aware of the Doctor’s presence, aware that the sheer power of the Time Lord‘s will was manipulating the event. From somewhere deep within himself, corresponding energies emerged, coalescing into a single thought. Together they burned like a beacon outside of Time, their distress call broadcast in narrow ranges only a Time Ship might detect.

Come home. Come home.

The forward rush into real time was a sickening jolt. He drew a lungful of stale, damp air and began to cough again. They were still alive, standing knee deep in swirling water in the cellar of Pete Tyler’s house. The boiler had sustained significant damage and the old galvanized water tank was riddled with holes. While he concentrated on not being sick, the Doctor reached over and twisted the stop valve closed. Water continued to drip. After this, Jackie would have no trouble convincing Pete to install a tankless water heating system.

“Oh dear. I really shouldn’t have sent the plumber home earlier,” the Doctor muttered, sloshing back to where he was still standing, eddies of warm and cold water swirling around his legs. “Hello? Did I lose part of you back there? How was that for a spot of Vortex Walking!”

He realized he was still clutching the psychic paper, staring at the names.

Jamie,” he said suddenly, dropping to his knees in the wet sludge. Musket balls dotted the floor like dark pearls in a muddy soup. “We called him Jamie.”

The Doctor caught him before he slipped entirely into sorrow’s cool embrace. “My son’s name…was Jamie.”

“Yes. I know.”


***


The first sense to return was his hearing. And the first thing he heard returned all his other senses in a hurry. From deep within the ship, the sound of the Cloister Bell reverberated like a mournful Tibetan gong. That, and the Tardis engines were phasing. More like groaning in agony. He sat up. Mistake. It was all he could do not to be sick right there in the alcove where they had placed him, safe and secure behind shielding that provided the most healing environment he was aware of on his ship. Not that there was anything left in his stomach. 17th Century Brentford could not be noted for cuisine. At least not this trip. He clutched at his throbbing head, squeezing water from aching eyes, waiting for the interior of the Tardis to stop spinning. Even so, visions of flickering roundels and light scattering off every burnished surface brought him to the edge of consciousness. After a few more tolls the head-splitting ringing ceased, but the ship still sounded like it was in pain. He could sympathize. When he managed to open his eyes again, he found Rory Williams beside him, offering a tall drink of something cold.  Being so parched, he wrapped quivering fingers around the glass and drank without hesitation.

Aaagh! What is that?” He wiped his tongue frantically with his fingers. “That‘s disgusting!”

“Celery juice. The Doctor said it might help.”

“Maybe if you give me the rest of the Bloody Mary to go with the celery! Oh, never mind. I don’t even fancy them. What I need is-is-is…” he ran his hand over his expertly bandaged shoulder, struggling to remember why he had required medical attention in the first place. “Was I shot?”

“Well, yes. Twice. And you really should rest--”

“What? And miss out on all the fun?” he asked, staggering to his feet to look over the scene in front of him. When the Tardis began once more to spin, he sank back down heavily on the bunk. This time Rory pressed a tall glass of water into his hands. Good, but a ginger beer from the cooler in his workshop would have been better.

The floor was a sea of co-axial, tri-axial and fibre-optic cable, multi-coloured tie-wraps and gaffer tape. Several enormous power leads had been wired into an elaborate lash up with the main feeds beneath the central console, the lot of it run down the stairs, out the hatch, and through the open door of the blue Police Call Box now sitting nearby. Once more the bell tolled a mournful warning, setting every nerve in his body on fire. There was nothing more exhilarating. Or more terrifying. After what seemed an eternity, the noise stopped again and he realized that the pounding he could still hear was rain… that and the Doctor, working feverishly at an open panel below the central column which housed the Time Rotor. A great heap of seemingly random stuff scavenged from the house, his workshop, and the other Tardis lay within the Time Lord‘s reach.

Amy entered the ship then, one of Tony Tyler’s football equipment bags slung over one shoulder, her arms loaded down with clothing he recognized as having come from the bureau in his bedroom. It was only then he realized that he wasn’t wearing any. He gathered the duvet about himself. Her eyes danced as she placed the stack of clothes beside him but she said nothing. To do so obviously required a great deal of self control.

“So,” she told him, shaking the water from her rain-drenched sleeves, “the Doctor told me to get the blue pin-striped suit from the back of the Tardis wardrobe. As if you need to be wearing a suit right now. Are we going to church? I don’t think so. I got what I could from the house.”

She lowered the bulging equipment bag to the floor with a terrific metallic clunk that reminded him of young Rusty Tyler banging a wooden spoon on the tea kettle. That could only mean… the Doctor was improvising.

He mumbled his thanks, not so much out of embarrassment as a mouth that tasted like antibiotics and… narcotics. They’d knocked him out. No wonder Amy’s dripping ginger tresses were haloed in angelic light and she had three, four, three, yes three eyes.

When Amy dragged her gear bag full of cookware off to where the Doctor was working, he attempted to dress himself. Torture by clothing. This was new. Simply stepping into the blue jeans with an injured leg was an experience he was unlikely to forget. Rory assisted with his shirt, but the effort of donning either the Christmas jumper Amy had retrieved from under the bed, or the shoes with all those... laces... was too much to even consider. Ignoring Rory’s protestations, he padded barefoot up the steps and across the cool, crystalline deck, gingerly stepping over a partially dismantled strimmer. He ran a gentle hand along the length of one of the shell-like buttresses.

“Poor little girl, what are they doing to you?”

“Your poor little girl needs a talking to,” the Doctor told him, scooting out from under the console, a pair of tweezers in one hand and half of a hand-held game system in the other. Oh. Tony was not going to be happy.

“She’s been trying to dematerialize on her own without any coordinates. I’ve connected her directly to the Tardis to try and stabilise her, but she‘s threatening to drain our power, which will be very inconvenient if I‘m to return Rory and Amy to their world. I‘ll have you know they said they were more concerned about you than getting back to their Earth, which seems foolishly sentimental on their part seeing as they hardly know you.”

He lost his response in too many words for his diminished capacity. Instead, he lowered himself to the floor to survey the work being done. Belatedly, he realized he might not be able to get back up. The Doctor scarcely looked at him, intent on wiring the video game console into a bit of 32 gauge wire. He wasn‘t sure he even wanted to ask.

“There. Done. And maybe now that daddy is home she’ll behave herself.”

“You came back for me,” he said, watching the Doctor snap what remained of the digital game. in place with evident satisfaction before grabbing what looked like a dismantled mobile phone.

“Yes I did. I thought that would have been apparent in the coach.”

He ignored the Time Lord’s sarcasm. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Probably not. But I was out voted. Besides, I knew where I’d left you. I thought it would save time. But never mind that, we have more important things to talk about.”

“Right,” he said, rubbing a cheek thoughtfully. “Dematerialization? I suppose--“

“Rose phoned. We patched it through to the big screen in the Tardis so I could show off.”

“Oh? Oh…” he hoped he didn’t sound as startled as he felt, realizing that the Doctor had spoken to her. Had seen her. Had--

“I told her you were fine.”

“Did she believe you?”

“Not for a minute. Do I really have a face that can’t be trusted?” the Time Lord asked, looking up at him briefly. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. Before we lost the connection she said that at last count there were 162 documented Rifts just in Britain. The good thing is that’s keeping UNIT and Torchwood busy and they aren’t here to bother us. Just in case, I‘ve extended the Tardis shielding over the entire greenhouse. I thought about materialising around the entire structure, but containing such dimensional instability is likely to give the Old Girl indigestion.”

“And the bad thing?” he asked, sure he didn’t want to know given what the good news had been.

“It’s our fault. You really should drink the celery juice,” the Doctor told him, reaching for a set of pruning shears and a plastic spork. “You‘re going to need it.”
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