Jimmy wakes to a throbbing in his head and a terrible confusion about where, exactly, he is. He's not in his bed, that's for sure, because his bed isn't soft by any stretch of the imagination, but it's not quite as hard as all that, either, not like the surface he's currently lying on. When he opens his eyes, the ceiling above him doesn't belong to his room, and the blurred vision that resolves itself into a pale face after a few blinks belongs to someone who wouldn't be caught dead in his room, not after what happened last time. It's Thomas Barrow and he's looking quite worried.
"Are you alright, luv?" Mr. Barrow asks and Jimmy blinks again, even more confused. Since when does Mr. Barrow call him 'luv'? Even when he was being so very familiar in those early days, he was never that familiar.
"I'm fine," Jimmy says anyway, deciding to ignore the oddity of the question. He sits up with a groan, feeling bruised and beaten on every part of him. And worse than that, the room he's in isn't one he's familiar with. It's some mix between a parlor and a dining room and there are clocks and clock bits absolutely everywhere. Still, he doesn't want to ask, 'Where are we?' since that seems a tad confrontational. Instead, he goes with the slightly safer, "What happened?"
At this, Mr. Barrow expression changes to one of extreme disapproval, a look to make Carson proud. "It was Sally," he says tightly. "Stupid mangy cur tripped you up on the stairs. She's gone off somewhere now, probably hiding under the bed, so you'll need to coax her out before you open shop."
"Open shop," Jimmy repeats blankly. His head is still pounding and he's starting to think something really very wrong is going on here. "Right. Er, what shop would that be, exactly, Mr. Barrow?"
Mr. Barrow stares at him, apparently uncomprehending, for a long, long moment. Then he takes a sharp breath in. "Exactly how hard did you hit your head, Jimmy?" he asks slowly, and his face has gone past worry and into deep fear. "Do you not know where we are?"
Jimmy takes another look around the crowded room, at the mismatched furniture and the cogs and gears spread out across the table. "I'm guessing," he says after a moment, "that we're not in Downton."
"That," Mr. Barrow says after a long moment of horrified silence, "is a spot-on guess." He's clearly shaken, though trying not to show it. He goes to put a hand on Jimmy's shoulder, but thinks better of it when Jimmy tenses up. "That's it," he says, standing. "I'm calling the doctor."
As they wait for the doctor, Mr. Barrow helps Jimmy stand and move over to the rather tattered-looking sofa on the far side of the room. Jimmy's tense through the whole process, from the pain, sure, but also because even though he and Mr. Barrow are best mates now, he's not quite up on the whole touching thing. Mr. Barrow seems to sense Jimmy's discomfort, though, and he very kindly backs away once Jimmy's seated and goes to stand at the far side of the room, looking worried and rather pinched about the mouth.
The doctor, when he comes, is certainly not Doctor Clarkson. (Not that Jimmy expects it to be, because he's had a look out the window while he waited and he doesn't know what city it is out there, but it's plain that it is a city and not Downton village.) Instead, when Mr. Barrow goes to answer the bell downstairs, he comes back with a sort of young chap, blonde and with his hair all slicked back.
"Hello, Jimmy," the doctor says, rather too familiarly, in Jimmy's opinion; evidently getting a bump on his crown means everyone gets to be his best mate today.
"Hello," Jimmy replies cautiously. He goes to stand to shake the man's hand, because he can be polite, even if no one else is willing, but the look Mr. Barrow throws him when he starts to get up makes him keep his seat.
The doctor doesn't seem to mind the rudeness, in any case. He just smiles and wanders over to sit down in the space right next to Jimmy, dropping his black bag rather carelessly on the floor and peering into Jimmy's eyes. "Mr. Barrow says you've got an injury," he says, pressing his thigh right up against Jimmy's. "Can you tell me what happened?"
Jimmy fixes the man with a rather tense smile and scoots away a fraction. "I tripped," he says, remember what Mr. Barrow told him. "Over the dog, I guess."
"I see," the doctor says, not perturbed at all by Jimmy's moving away from him. "And are you suffering any pain, anywhere at all?"
"My head," Jimmy says, grimacing as a particularly fierce throb hits him. "Neck and back, a bit." He spares a glance for Mr. Barrow, still looking worried and standing just a bit away. Jimmy's not sure if he's more embarrassed to have to do this examination in front of him or grateful for his presence, because lord, this doctor is sitting mighty close, isn't he?
"And are you suffering from any confusion or dizziness?" the doctor persists.
"…a bit," Jimmy ventures after a pause, because he doesn't want to say he's just about gone past confusion and into genuine bewilderment about just what is going on here.
"I see," the doctor says again, his face losing a bit of its humor. "I'm going to ask you a few questions, then, shall I? You just answer me the best you can."
"Alright," Jimmy agrees, because what else can he do? And who knows, the situation is strange enough that the doctor might be right and he might actually have some sort of trauma or something in his brain. "Go on, then."
"What's your name?" the doctor asks, and Jimmy tells him, "James Joseph Kent," and the doctor nods, though how he knows Jimmy's whole name is a bit of a mystery to Jimmy.
"And what year were you born?" the doctor asks, and Jimmy tells him, "'91," then stops, because, no, that's not right, is it? "Sorry," he says at once, looking to Mr. Barrow, who's face has gone blank in that way it does sometimes when he doesn't want anyone, not even Jimmy, to know what he's thinking. "But that's you, isn't it, Mr. Barrow?" He doesn't know how he knows that or why he'd get it confused with his own birth year, but he does know it, somehow. Mr. Barrow nods woodenly and Jimmy turns back to the doctor, who doesn't find this exchange odd at all, for some reason. "I meant to say, '98. That's the year I meant."
"Alright, then," the doctor says, shrugging. "And who is the king?"
"George V," Jimmy says automatically, and the doctor nods.
"And what year is it?" the doctor asks, and Jimmy says, "1923."
And that's when things get odd, because the doctor's brow furrows a bit and Mr. Barrow makes a noise, the sort a dying animal might make, if a dying animal could stifle the noise as soon as it's out of its mouth. Jimmy looks between the two of them, confused.
"What?" he says stupidly, head starting to pound quite fiercely. "What's wrong with you lot? It is 1923."
"No," the doctor says softly as Mr. Barrow turns and walks away. "It's 1927."