Disclaimer: I do not own the Doctor. No one owns him actually, he's a free entity! I do wish I owned the Doctor Who franchise, though, or at least had the clout to contribute story ideas in an official capacity... Alas that I am but a poor student, separated from the powers behind the BBC by a massive ocean. Oh—and in case you were wondering, I don't own the Beatles either or any of the songs or books or technical manuals referenced in this purely unauthorized work of fiction. Please don't sue me or steal my story. Thanks!

Author's Note: This story features the tenth and fourth incarnations of the Doctor, accompanied respectively by Rose Tyler, Sarah Jane Smith, and Surgeon-Lieutenant Harry Sullivan. It also features the use of a very peculiar and unique dialect created by John Lennon and seen only in his published writings. I've tried my best to be as faithful to his style as I could in using that dialect. I only hope it's understandable!

Author's Note II: The Beatles, as portrayed in this story, are inspired by the fictional representations of these historical figures seen in the movies A Hard Days Night, Help, The Magical Mystery Tour, and Yellow Submarine. They and any related characters are intended to be true to life only so far as that is represented in their movies.

A Lengthy Note of Rationalization: This story was inspired by the singular writings of John Lennon and the frustrating fact that the SciFi Channel only plays one lone episode of Doctor Who a week. (DVDs have spoiled me so badly!)

I know I really, really, really shouldn't have started this, considering I'm in the middle of earning my degree. If I were rational, I'd recognize that I barely have enough time to eat let alone write for fun, and I've already got six other unfinished stories in my head battling for attention. You're reading this, though, so it's obvious I'm not rational.

But I can rationalize. After all, what argument could possibly stand a chance against the prospect of getting to play with Doctor Who and the Beatles? Let it be and run for the TARDIS, I say. The school work will sort itself out even if it means I have to pull several all-nighters to get it all in on time. I work better under stress anyway. Keeps my restless mind from wandering too far astray. See--classic rationalization, right there!

So here it is, in print and hot off the presses: Lucky number seven on the 'yet to be completed' stories list. Sorry in advance—school, work, obligations, and the aching need to get my other stories done as well will force me to be slow with the updates I'm afraid, but I'll do my best. No matter how long it takes, I always make a point of finishing my stories. Especially stories that have been reviewed. ;)

And now, without further ado, may I present:

DOCTOR WHO

The Nowhere Men

By

Rowena Zahnrei

Liddypool Prime

The Imperial Palace

7 Marge, 5106

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

The rhythmic pounding shook the heavy doors, causing their antique hinges to creak in protest. The King glared from across the cavernous throne room. Those rebels were persistent, he had to give them that. Imaginists, they called themselves. Heretics, more like it. They had already turned his ministers against him with their misguided words. Even his trusted guards had joined them in the end. This last, barricaded room was all that remained of his sacred government—an absolute divine-right dynasty that had kept its hold over the planet for over five hundred years.

BOOM

BOOM

CRRAACK!

Kakky Fingletoad, the King's youngest aide and the only member of his court to remain loyal in the aftermath of the initial assault, cried out as the door began to splinter.

"They're conning!" the girl trembled, speaking in the distinctive dialect unique to Liddypool Prime and its three orbiting satellites. "They're pudding threw the drawer! By the light of their faithful dog Cragesmure, my king, they're pudding threw the drawer!"

"Hush, Kakky, my loyal," the King replied, staunchly facing the straining door. "I hold no fear of starch rubbles. Our dinnersty shall prevail!"

"You must recough, sir, the rubbles spake on behave of thousands," Kakky said, backing up until she was standing beside the stained-glass window that spanned the entirety of the room's north wall from floor to ceiling. "The ancient books discowled by the Imaginists hove grate influenza among the populist! Our old whorled is dead!"

The king's eyes blazed at that, but before he could respond the doors burst open with a crash of rending wood. Kakky jumped and whimpered, shaking in unconcealed terror as the rebels flooded into the room in noisy triumph.

"We hove catapulted your place, oh King," their leader said breathlessly, his blue eyes glinting in his lean, hard face. "Yer royale dinnersty is now ended. Hereby, you may consort yershelf deposited."

"Deposited, my humble toe!" the King retorted, striding up to slap the taller man across the face. A startled gasp rippled through the crowd.

"Don't lock so astoundagast, Alec," the King scorned. "If 'all you are saying is give peace a chance,' delaware you are a hippycritter! All of you hippycritters all, guilty of violets and treeson—violets and treeson I shout!"

"Strand downs," Alec stated flatly, menacing the King into taking a step back with the sheer intensity of his glare. "You heft no trowel here. Knot ankle longer."

The King raised his chin in defiance. "Oar watt? Yule kilt me, Alec? You Imaginists are all alight. Sprouting utopianism, yet flailing to lift up to your own nibble sediments. Deep drown, you aren't differential form me."

"Four five centaurs your family hat kept this kingdome tracked in fear," Alec said sadly, his followers murmuring their assent all around him. "You unt yer ancestories perverted the wisedome of the grate philosopher's philosophies, training the holly name of Jonlen-on into a motorcar."

"Hoe dare you spake starch balamory!"

"Truth," Alec retorted. "Unt truth is never balamory. Now shut yer blubbering and come. Prison is the piece fur you."

"Kakky!" the King shouted. "To my side!"

Pale and shaking, the young girl did as she was ordered, taking the King's hand as he pulled a large, black, slate-like device from within his cloak. Alec's eyes widened in horror at the sight of it.

"No!" he exclaimed. "That diverse is outlord throwup the entyre quadrangle! It's fur too dangerous to puddle with!"

But his warnings came too late. Before anyone could react, the King and Kakky were encased in a glowing orb of bluish energy. As the crowd watched, the orb flattened, then turned, shrinking and stretching as it slowly began to fade.

"They hove galloffed threw the dimensional plate!" Scientist Nicely Clive gasped from the doorway. "They shall be racked to pieces—or wurst, become lost in the street of thyme, diminished into nowhere men!"

Alec stared for a long, thoughtful moment at the place the two had been. Finally, he turned to face his companions, lowering his head and his eyes.

"Than thusly ends the rake of King Ann XV," he sighed regretfully. "Last of the royale lion. May he join the grate and holly Jonlen-on, just watching the wheels go round."

The gathered Imaginists nodded somberly, intoning a heartfelt "Amen."

To be continued, in English, some 3,145 years in the past….