Between the Walls of the Worlds

by aragonite

The Third Doctor meets his old self in the TARDIS' Old Console Room and sees that things are very wrong indeed. Instant followup after THE TWO DOCTORS (1985), and 1974, before THE PLANET OF THE SPIDERS. Can be read alongside THE POWERS OF TWO as it fits within this personal canon. All of their Companions are referenced; as Peri, 6th Doctor, the Brig, Yates, Benton & the Master

Doctor Who Fan fiction
Second Doctor (Patrick Troughton), Third Doctor, Jamie, the Brigadier, Benton, Yates; mentions of the Master (Delgado), all of the Second Doctor's companions, Jo Jones (Grant)
Timeline: Simultaneous event: the instant followup after THE TWO DOCTORS 1985, and also some time in 1974, not long before THE PLANET OF THE SPIDERS.

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Note: Individuals are first mentioned in the 7th Doctor's novel CAT'S CRADLE. These were Galifreyans from the past, capable of blocking out the telepathic thoughts of other Gallifreyans. For a species that is as powerful and as messed-up as Gallifreyans, this is a complicated talent to say the least.

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1985 Seville, Spain:
As soon as the TARDIS closed her doors behind Jamie and the Doctor, the little Time Lord slumped against the wall with a deep breath. The Highlander leaped on instinct to grab him, forgetting that his thigh was all fashed from Shockeye's torture. He stumbled, struggled for balance, and ignored the ineffectual swat at his hands as the little man grumbled.

"Confounded, arrogant," the Doctor grumbled without heat. "I'm not going to last long in that body the way he's going! Can't believe..."

Jamie had to agree with his Doctor's assessment of his future self, but he tuned him out, and pulled him to the old chair next to the TARDIS. In the back of his mind he could feel the timeship singing her relief now that all three of them were together again. She must have been very unhappy when the Time Lords recalled her out of Chimera two weeks (it felt like twenty years) past. She always hated it when anyone besides the Doctor and his friends were not at the helm. Jamie shared her feelings. Right now a part of him would be happy to spend the rest of his life inside her walls rather than go outside ever again. Of all their missions, this was one of the absolute worst.

The Doctor paused on his way to the chair and slammed the dematerialization controls with more force than necessary—a rare action. He normally would strike himself than treat the TARDIS badly. Jamie was a warrior and he flinched out of reaction to a movement made in emotion instead of control.

"It's all right, Jamie." The Doctor was breathing hard. "It's...all right. I'm just...I'm just annoyed, that's all." He stopped and tilted his head to one side, listening as the TARDIS dematerialized. His relationship with the timeship had deepened over the years—it had probably been evolving from the start; just easy to not see the little changes until Jamie was separated from the Doctor and Zoe. After they reunited the differences had struck he still-young humans. The Doctor was a lot more thoughtful now, almost absent-mindedly aware of others when he rested by the Console for long periods of time, and more than once, Victoria claimed she felt "invisible conversations" in the air when it was just the Time Lord by himself in the room.

It always made the Piper sad, for as they understood the story, the Doctor had been reduced to little to no companionship at all in his first term of service for the CIA. The TARDIS had been there for him when no one else was, but relating to a machine wasn't the same as relating to flesh and blood. His temper was on occasion, erratic; his words heedless as if he'd forgotten the little things that made up conversation with others.

"Let's stay in the Vortex for a bit, shall we?" Example in point: The Doctor might have been talking to himself instead of Jamie. "Yes, that should do it." He smiled with a show of his old enthusiasm and, just as Jamie was thinking that he would have liked to have given Peri more of a friendly farewell, his Doctor suddenly stiffened, back turning rigid from base to hausen-bane.1 His eyes closed and his face simply paled to parchment. Jamie would have jumped to his side again, if the TARDIS hadn't suddenly made that sound in the back of his ear-bones; a pained caterwauling that said, [[stay back, stay back.]]
Heart in his throat, Jamie watched as the Doctor went even paler, whilst the TARDIS screeched a discordant song of mismatched flats and sharps...the drone struck, and Jamie knew full well that was never a good omen.

"...oh..." The Doctor groaned from inside the pit of his soul, and his eyes closed. His right hand slowly clenched into a fist as it rested over the heartspoon of his chest; he was listening to something past Jamie's ken. Was it the Time Lords again? They had ways of speaking with each other. And they never had anything good to say. This listening went on for some time, and finally his head bowed down, showing the dulled silver cowlick of the top of his head, and as the TARDIS quieted, he slumped back into the old wooden chair.

Jamie checked him over, carefully. He didn't care to get another smack across the nose for getting too close to the Doctor when he couldn't bear it. It was the least welcome of all the changes to come over the Doctor since working for the CIA. He'd always been a tactile man, like a Highlander more than an English even though he spoke like one. He was never stingy with his touch or his smiles and even when he was fussing you knew there was no harm meant. He was as warm and affectionate as Jamie's father had been to his bairns, and to see this new change was painful for more than one reason. Jamie didn't fully understand what had happened, save many years had passed before he could earn the right to have his old companions back. Working alone had required "adjustments" to use one of the Time Lords' favorite words (a word Jamie learned to hate), and one of the "adjustments" was training his mental abilities in new directions. The Doctor was now an "Individual"-safer than most from unwanted psychic controls, but the price had been a reduction in his old, playful personality.

Whatever these "good people" the Time Lords did to him to change him to this extent...it couldn't have been good or justified.

"Twelve days..." The Doctor muttered like a sleeptalker, and Jamie felt he was talking to someone who was not in the Console Room. The flesh of his neck crawled as he watched the Doctor's face twist. The effort of communicating on this silent plane was not pleasant.

"...Twelve days...hyperdrive."

The Piper was confused at first, but his mind was always agile, and he had had many years to learn how the Doctor behaved. He remembered how the New Doctor had bounced to his feet, excited at his conclusions:

"...this station was attacked ten or twelve days ago. In hyperdrive a Sontaran cruiser would take that long to reach Earth. It can only just have reached there..."

Jamie didn't want to remember (right now) all the strangeness of meeting and adjusting to the Strange Doctor that was his Doctor beneath the skin. It was still too much to take in. But he knew what the Doctor was talking about.

"...Stike...Commander..."

Jamie gnawed his bottom lip. The Doctor was giving a report to someone. Someone with a coldness. There was a heaviness to the air around them, as if they were on one of the extra-gravity planets. He felt that machine-like frost retreat by degrees, and remembered to breathe in its absence.

"Jamie..."

The Doctor's slow, slurred voice sent a prickle of dread down the young man's back. He paused, pulling his hand back from the controls.

"Jamie...help me get...to...Zero Room."

"Aye, Doctair." Jamie quenched his anger against the Time Lords. He knelt and hooked his arm around the waist. The Doctor had never been a heavy man though solid as a rock in his small body. These new times also showed a man grown dense with age. His waist had thickened some but the same energy burned beneath his skin.

Not age, Jamie reminded himself. Wear. He's wearing out. He wanted to ask the Doctor questions...oh, how he wanted to ask them. But he fancied that he knew the Doctor enough to know when he was disguising the truth by clowning.

"It's not been here before. It's a teleport control. You'd think I'd never flown a Tardis solo!" The Doctor had deliberately shown the control to Jamie and then shouted this complaint to the ceiling, as if the room had ears. Jamie had been separated from him for too long, but he hadn't forgotten the cues.

Rule Number One: When the Doctor acts the fool, pay very close attention. Rule Number Two: When the Doctor acts the fool, play like you think you're smarter than him.

"All right, Doctor." Jamie said as lightly as he could considering the Time Lords were no doubt watching him under their strange machines. Privacy meant nothing to such cold minds.

---

The TARDIS was not in the least bit happy.

Jamie walked slowly and carefully, an obedient human pet for any spying Time Lords as they made their way to the Zero Room. It took ages but at last the TARDIS sighed and the door opened and the Doctor almost fell across the jamb.

The Zero Room.

Jamie only hoped it would help. He loved the Doctor, but the Doctor's own race and their icy ways had left him sour. He would not cast them aside, no more than God would cast away a city of sinners if only ten pure souls were within. But he would never turn his back upon them.

The Doctor was almost limp. Jamie carefully settled him upon the floor and set back on his heels, waiting patiently. The wee man's face had smoothed almost as soon as they'd entered, but the black would never come back to his hair. Jamie swallowed hard and reached up, stroking the bit that had fallen over the left eye. The skin beneath was smooth, but it wasn't human. Jamie hated seeing the Doctor like this. In the old days the Doctor looked and played the gowk for a reason; to throw the hunters off the scent. This was different. Half the time when he got up in the morn...He was not aware of his hair or his clothing.
The Doctor was forgetting his own face.

James Robert MacCrimmon was quietly devastated at this unwelcome knowledge. For the most important years of his life, this clever wee chappie had been his beacon, his point of light under the glass. In the beginning he had lived bewildered at the fact that the Doctor, the uncontested leader of this particular clan, had never once demanded his fealty or his name-line. He'd not asked for the name of his father, or, most tellingly, never lifted the question of Jamie's mother where the lineage slept. As a MacCrimmon of the Skye aligned with the MacCleods, he had faced this taunt every day of his life. But once he'd met the Doctor, that fey little fellow had looked at him, and failed to ask the questions of his lineage that would have forced the truth of his past into his present.

Jamie was quite accustomed to those who looked within him. Everyone in his life had noted his roots the moment he'd opened his mouth and betrayed his lineage with the musical patten of his voice, and his consonants. Years grandfathered upon years later, Jamie still fretted that he had never repaid the Doctair's generousity. He was James Robert McCrimmon, son of James McCrimmon and Rose-Mary Robert, daughter of Iona, grandchild of Robert MacDonald, an unclaimed son of the prematurely killed Grimmond of the Orkneys, "the people who lived in secret." They'd given their child the name Robert in hopes of circumventing the fate-webs drawn about the clan. Did it work? Even Jamie wasn't certain, and he was a piper. But...he knew about fate. He knew about webs. And thanks to the Doctair's wit, he knew about traps; how they rested hungrily for the slightest brush of their shadows.

Jamie set back and made himself as comfortable as he could, resolved to wait until some sign of life stirred in the Doctor again. He rather liked the Zero Room, which always surprised the Doctor. Most humans, he said, reacted a bit badly to the notion of being stuck in one, but then Jamie wasn't most humans, he was himself. He was unique. He smiled as he said that, his sea-colored eyes proud.

Jamie blinked his own eyes, hoping they weren't tearing up. The Zero Room reminded him of the old places, where the mist hung thick most of the day for most of the year. There was a danger to living close in those quiet valleys and windswept tors; always the danger of walking into the mist and never coming back for the mist took away the definition of the world. Too many times in the stories did a mortal get caught in the mist and wind up in another world. Once in a great while, they came back but they were always changed by their journey out of their own time and space. As a bairn Jamie had been terrified of fog and mist from the stories, but as he grew older he realized that the dangers hiding in the whiteness was part of the reason why he wanted to go to it. It was not unlike the TARDIS. Both were things that existed to prove that the walls between worlds were sometimes thin. And the Zero Room felt the thinnest of all.

The cool hand twitched inside his, and he looked down. The Doctor's gaze had shuttered half-open and some of the strain had left his mind, for the eyes were clearing.

"Do ye want me to leave?" Jamie asked.

The grip tightened. "No!" The Doctor whispered. "No, Jamie, never that. Stay for now." He took a deep breath. "I'm afraid that I might need help and you couldn't...hear me call."

"I'll stay, Doctor."

"Good. You need to repair too, and this is a good place for it."

Jamie almost stiffened in surprise, for though the Doctor's lips had just moved, there had been no sound but the one in his head. It wasn't the first time the Doctor had spoken with him with thoughts. He could do it but it tired him out and he saved the trick for emergencies. Jamie always felt guilty about that, for the Doctor's mental efforts to pull he and Zoe out of the Land of Fiction had weakened his own defenses to the point that the Master of Fiction had caught them right after, like a fat fly in a spider's web. Jamie was already familiar with telepathy, thanks to the soothsayers, but he had come to dread the circumstances in which it was used.

Time Lords aren't the most telepathic of races, despite all their pomp and ceremony, Jamie. We can talk this way without their spying on us. By now they're probably bored enough to wander off from whatever viewscreen they have us on. The Temporal Web's a complicated thing to study.

Jamie also hated being reminded of that fact, like they were less than flies in webs, and more like fat sausages strung up for sale under a jaded public's eye.

The Doctor mentally "chuckled" as he glimpsed that comparison. Not too far from the truth. Not too far. CIAgents are organized according to skill, previous successes, and how far they can or can't be trusted. When the Council needs a dirty job, they look over the shelves, and make their selection.

Aye, and they've been selectin you quite a lot recently. Jamie kept his face calm but he grumbled.

There were a few years' worth of time where they didn't use me much at all. That was terrible. The Doctor admitted. One year is a long time when you don't know what is going to happen to you.

Jamie swallowed hard. What's happening now?

I'm tired, Jamie. I'm very tired and they've kept me on this...parole...longer than I thought...longer than they said they would! If they keep this up much further, my own Timestream will be damaged beyond repair. I'm trying not to think about that, but it weighs heavy. The Smug Dandy's timeline is far too live and healthy for me to keep crossing it! He shivered all over, a tremor wracking his small body. I've crossed over with all of my selves at least once! It's wrong, Jamie. I'm the obsolete model, and they're the future. It's as if...as if once they broke the first rule of Time with me, they can't resist doing it! And I'm already sentenced... The Doctor was getting worked up. Jamie squeezed his hand tightly, projecting peace. Slowly the little fellow settled, and Jamie thought that might be the end of it, but those sea-change eyes flicked open again, distant and numb with a horror the piper couldn't understand.

I don't want to be one of the Sundered, or Rassilon Forbid, one of the Rended or Scorched. Bad enough I'm an Individual now.

Jamie didn't know what those things were, but they sounded horrible enough, even without the terror lurking behind those eyes. Just admitting his fear had opened the door to the Doctor's hearts, and Jamie's own pounded in sudden dread. Something was in the making; he could feel it.

Jamie was too much the Celt to deny that destiny was fixed in stone. There were crucial hours, there were moments in which something passed never to return, or moments in which something was just random, or there were moments in which events simply came together, like Culloden.

Do ye think this is our last mission together? He didn't like the asking, but it might bring the Doctor's mind back to himself.

I don't know. If so, I hope they let me pick up Victoria! And there's still Zoe. She wouldn't be pleased if we left her in Dulkis!

Oh, you know Zoe and libraries. She'll read it all until the books are all empty!

Exactly. They only have thousands of years of history. She'll have read them all dry in a matter of weeks!

They shared a mutual smile at Zoe, imagining the fun she was having and the bemusement of the natives. Jamie clasped the cool hand within his two, thinking hard. The Doctor would rest and recover, they'd leave the Vortex and return to Gallifrey—or wherever the CIA's office was hiding. They had more offices than a Laird had horses. And then what? They'd been working for the Cold Ones for years now, and the Doctor had a point: they showed no sign of letting him return to his Time Stream as long as he was still useful.

The thought of this quick, clever little man turning into someone else still made Jamie ill. He didn't want the Doctor to change, but at the same time, he understood why the Doctor would crave it. A man who lives too long stops being useful. They lose their place in the order of things. And death happened to everyone. Jamie was just being selfish for wanting things to stay the same, because this wasn't the good days rolled back. The Doctor was a fine man, but never once had Jamie seen him content with monotony.

Do ye hope this is your last mission? He asked it with as much tenderness as he could summon.

Yes, The Doctor's eyes had closed and he was indeed resting. But if it were up to me, I'd have a few more centuries of travelling left. To travel without always looking over my shoulder...to look forward without being afraid of what's following...to just explore again. That would be nice, wouldn't it?

And he fell asleep.

This time, Jamie let the tears come. And for once, just this once, he wished the Time Lords were watching, because if they were, there was the slimmest hope that one of them might feel just a drop of pity for what they'd done.

---

1 Hausenbane: collarbone

Part Two: The Third Doctor is Annoyed by Silly Humans, by rude, well-dressed gate-crashing kidnapping aliens, Time Lords, and his previous selves, but especially his previous selves.

1974, UNIT, All Hallows' Eve

Pumpkins were everywhere.

They lined the walk to UNIT headquarters, every conceivable size, shape and tint and in the crisp, cool air they glowed from within, casting a yellowish candlelight that the Doctor found ghoulish and comical at the same time—not unlike the average grasp Humans had of their own history. Some of the northerners had gotten into the spirit of things and added a collection of traditional mangel-wurzels, turnips, and, even a few kohlrabi whose naturally green colour had inspired some carved-up Frankenstein's Monster heads, as well as a few "space aliens." The Doctor saw a creditable attempt at an Ice Warrior's gloomy visage but he couldn't for the life of him think of when UNIT had bumped into those.

The coconut Yeti with silver-painted table-tennis balls were positively inspired, especially when Benton put them on top of plastic chicken feet.

The Doctor paused in his walk. Some enterprising contestant had found an ancient mangel and used its smooth, wooden-like exterior to shape a Cyberman. Despite himself, the Time Lord shook his head in mild amusement, his white hair catching in the chilly breeze. Humans. He finally allowed himself a chuckle, and cold as it was, his breath steamed in the air. Hands on his hips, he tilted his head up and smiled at the star-freckled night sky. It was cold, crisp, and clear; tomorrow the Hunter's Moon would be full and fat and yellow. He could smell the damp earth, sweet applewood woodsmoke and the frost settling on the lawn, the pines whistling in the higher winds. In the distance the whisper of traffic hummed and flowed not unlike the ocean.

Outside UNIT the rest of England was celebrating the Celtic Festival of the Dead with all fervor. It was much quieter on the property—but Yates and Benton were already planning to open the Betting Pool November 2nd on the predictions of this year's Christmas Invasion. Ugh. Jo Jones nee' Grant had mailed in her offering already: Parallel Time Fascists who wouldn't have a holiday to respect. The Doctor didn't know if laughter or tears was the proper response. She had also sent him a box of very pretty little gypsum lilies, carefully mounted on beautifully polished wooden plaques of various rainforest species. The Doctor was privately thrilled; Earth was one of the few planets in the Galaxy that hosted the proper conditions for growing gypsum crystals. There were advantages to living in such a moist polar world.

Thoughts of the unexpected gift made his face twist. He still missed her. Sarah Jane was a delight and shared the same level of spunk as Jo when she wasn't doubting herself, but Jo had been his first true Companion since Jamie and Zoe.

The Doctor was not in the best of moods even though being outside had improved his funk. He was tired, he was frustrated, and his nerves were scraped raw with all the nonsense gadding about London. A part of him could not believe he and the Brigadier had been through all of that-!

He paused in the driveway, drew himself upright, dropped his long arms to his sides, and shuddered from head to toe, rippling his velvet umber cape in the movement.

"My sentiments exactly."

He jumped slightly at the Brigadier's dry voice. "Jehosophat, you startled me!" The Doctor snapped.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, that was not my intention." Mild reproach colored the Brigadier's voice as he crunched up the walkway in his heavy hiking boots. Other than the boots, the only concession to the cold was a short-waisted jacket of worsted wool. For a man born in India, the Brigadier was amazingly thick-skinned against the chill. "And I wouldn't think to do something that I believed was impossible. I'm not designed like that."

The Doctor snorted, unwilling to admit the Brigadier was starting to get him out of his temper. "No, you'd make a good Cyberman."

"I'm afraid I'd make a terrible Cyberman, Doctor." The Brigadier answered in that same dust-dry voice. "And I have a Doctor's note to prove it." Being human, his higher body temperature made the heat boil off his body like a cloud. The Doctor had long realized most humans couldn't see this energetic aura, and found it fascinating. For all that the Brigadier made an excellent imitation of a tree stump in his phlegmatic approach, his shell hid a powerful personality capable of almost anything if only properly applied (the bottom line being properly, which rarely happened and caused most of the Doctor's headaches with the infuriating man).

"A Doctor's note?" The Doctor lifted an eyebrow suspiciously.

"Yes. I have a mild allergic reaction to extended contact with metals. Chrome's the worse. Breaks out a rash like strawberries." The Brigadier cocked the other eyebrow up, letting the first one fall down. He continued to walk forward as he spoke, and quietly. It was just the two of them on the grounds—and save the skeleton staff, the building.

The Doctor's lips twitched. The Brigadier's choice of dress at the banquet had surprised him, but after the moment had passed, he wondered why he would be surprised at the sight of a man as Scottish enough as to have four extremely Scottish names attached to his person, wearing a kilt.

"Would you mind explaining that little altercation earlier?" The Doctor asked.

The Brigadier blinked. "Didn't we just go through all that?"

"I don't mean the alien invaders—whatever they were—"

"We're going to have to come up with a name for them eventually, Doctor. Otherwise we'll get another mess-up like with the Sil-"

"We'll call them the Distrainters."

"The what?"

"We do have to call them something, and Distraint means 'seizure of goods' and-"

"I do know my Scots English, thank you," The Brigadier had switched eyebrows again. "You're naming them from their actions?"

"I rather object to being seen as "goods" to be seized, even if the Distrainters are rather clever and fashionable aliens."

"Oh, yes. Best dressed villains that ever crashed a Halloween party." The Brigadier agreed solemnly. "But it troubles me that you're using that a-word again, Doctor." The two men fell side by side in the drive, the human's hands clasped behind his back. "You're not going native on us without saying something first, are you?"

"Me? Going native?" The horror was so comical and the shock so unfeigned the Brigadier almost smiled. Almost. A slight curl of his lip took wing before he yanked it back down. "Don't change the subject, man! I was just wanting to know what the fuss was about you wearing a kilt!"

"Ah."

"Ah."

The Brigadier cleared his throat. "There were some who might have taken offense at my choice of colors."

"I'm still waiting, Brigadier."

"Well, you know how Mr. McCrimmon tended to wear kilts of varying colors?" The Brigadier couldn't think of that boy without a fond smile, which was one of the Doctor's reasons for keeping his loyalty with the hard-headed military man. Not that he'd ever let that tin-plated buffoon know. "Back in his day the tartans weren't as coded as they are today. Now if you look at a pattern, it identifies your clan. Which is not the same as family; clan's a rather loose word and can refer to anyone who's allied with the Clan Laird."

"I find it a little disturbing how you can turn your accent on and off like a faucet."

"I don't think it's any different than you suddenly spouting Mandarin."

"I do but continue. Why were they annoyed?"

"I was preferring the colors of my mother's side of the family."

The Doctor stopped dead in his tracks again. He stopped and stared at the Brigadier.

"What do they have against your mother? Is she anything at all like you?"

"Heavens, I wouldn't know. She died when I was a child—right after I was shipped out of India and bang into England."

The Doctor's face was simply a picture. "I'm sorry, that was incredibly rude of me!"

"It happened a long time ago, Doctor. What little I remember of her is hardly likely to stand up in court..." Suddenly awkward, he smoothed down his sporran. Frost glittered against his face. "Some of the old fellows you saw are staunch patriarchs. They forget their past, you see. In the old days, the Clans were passed through the mothers, not the fathers, and they're not best pleased with the rise of feminism in the ranks. Been giving tiresome speeches to that effect of late."

"Oh, I see." The Doctor was recovering his composure. "That's not unheard of. People on Gallifrey do it all the time. So they objected that you weren't following the Good Old Boys?"

"If they were all that good, they wouldn't be serving the cheap scotch. I've drunk better bog-water on maneuvers in the High Tarns." The Brigadier sniffed. At the Doctor's laugh he sniffed again. "Really, Doctor, I mean it. It was very good bog-water. Had a hint of bilberry and lingon mixed with the heather. Rather astringent, though."

The Doctor was still laughing, but they were walking again. "I thought at first they were against your selecting the pibroch."

"No man who pretends to Scottish blood will dare complain against the pibroch." The Brig said in deathly tones. He paused for a moment before adding, with great care, "even if its an unsuitable way to end the evening."

"The aliens trying to net us like so many fish wasn't unsuitable? For that matter, why was it unsuitable? It was an ode to peace!"

"Good Old Boys, Doctor." The Brigadier reminded him.

"What balderdash."

"Seconded."

The Doctor looked at him again, a smirk on his lips. "You're rather the troublemaker, aren't you?"

"Me? I'm offended by that remark, Doctor. Though goodness knows, I've no right to be, considering you've called me much worse for so many years."

"Wearing your mother's clan colors, playing peaceful music at a military gathering-"

"Military is military." Acid couldn't have competed with the Brigadier's voice just then. "Peace should never be an exclusive word from military."

"-point taken. You didn't even try to make friends, did you?"

"They're the sort that howls that the world doesn't need women in the thick of things. I find it insulting whenever I think of those who serve this planet."

The Doctor nodded, thinking of Liz, and Jo...Sarah Jane. And of course the irrepressible Zoe and sweet, but quietly strong-willed Victoria. Polly and Barbara...even Dodo. And Susan...

"What was the point of making friends with people that are just going to stab UNIT in the back later? They can stab me in the back all they want—but not UNIT!"

"Maybe the Distrainters shook them up a bit. You should have made your plea for funds while they were still screaming."

"My dignity's taken a hard tucking in since you joined us, Doctor, but it's fitting tightly around my person enough that I don't feel up to another alteration."

The Doctor laughed, it melted into the freezing air. There had been plenty of alcohol at the party, and the human was still a little pink. The Doctor didn't think his ingested port explained the sudden warmth of camaraderie. The moments were getting more and more common, but slowly. The Brigadier had stopped expecting him to act like his old self, and the Doctor had finally witnessed some of the more demeaning things the Brigadier endured to keep UNIT afloat. They'd locked horns like two bulls in the field in the beginning, forced to band together because they both needed each other. Respect had always been there, but it had grown, and trust with it.

"Ah, I think that's your ride, Brigadier." A glow of headlights slipped through the main gate: a UNIT jeep with slightly mismatched lights.

"No doubt." The human sighed as the lights suddenly jerked as the jeep ran over something. "Yates for a fact. Why can't he let Benton drive once in a while?"

"Because Yates keeps cheating on the coin-toss."

"Too much information, Doctor." The Brigadier rolled his eyes. "Care to join the debriefing? I have to explain to Geneva why aliens wanted to "collect" their officers and stick them in a private art collection on the other side of Mutter's Spiral, which entails explaining why aliens would consider aliens like us a form of "artwork" and then I must explain to them why we should adopt the term Mutter's Spiral."

"Dear oh dear oh dear. Kind of you, really. But I need to do something really important."

"Polish the TARDIS?"

"With a toothbrush."

"Good for you." The Brigadier breathed through his nose, smoking the air about his face in sudden doldrums. "How the deuce do I explain that part about the art?" He asked to himself hopelessly.

"Well, you know how Life imitates Art on Earth?"

"Yes...?"

"Just tell them the Distrainters feel Art has to be alive to be Art."

"Oh, that will go down like a broken blimp."

"It's not any different than having a flower bed or an ornamental garden. Try that."

"I just might." The Brigadier threatened gloomily, but throughout their banter, neither man put their eyes off the erratically lurching Jeep.

"Oh, dear, he's got Eugene." The Doctor winced.

If Bessie was UNIT's Mascot's Mascot, Eugene was the local stray that wandered in one day and forgot to leave. He had been one of the first half-ton quads to arrive in England for the War. The Yanks had dubbed the small vehicles Jeeps after a cartoon beastie, Eugene the Jeep, from their POPEYE THE SAILOR cartoon strips.

Eugene had been part of the low-grade military equipment "given" to UNIT from a still-angry British government that didn't forgive the Brigadier's going over their heads when his appeal for UNIT was refused by their hand. Stuck with this embarrassment of riches, the half-ton was dubbed the "workhorse" for the grounds and could be seen at any time doing almost anything—whatever was required be it towing deactivated Cybermen off the property or shuttling lab equipment.

Eugene shared many characteristics with its namesake: both were blocky, ugly little creatures and spotted fore and aft (the car's from rust that no amount of sanding and paint could solve). The cartoon Jeep could travel transdimensionally and solve seemingly impossible problems (Jeeps were joked to have that ability for their sharp control over any terrain). But for UNIT's Eugene, their half-ton's greatest claim to fame was his constant circumvention of destiny by refusing to die. Somehow it just kept surviving everything that ever happened to it—Yates behind the wheel was just another of its ongoing tests.

The Jeep jerked up, a sudden braking action that made the standing men half-expect a cloud of rust particles to fly off its hood. Two familiar faces grinned out, boyish in enthusiasm. Benton was in the shotgun, and his arm draped loosely over the open window. "Hello, sir. Doctor. Would you like a ride anywhere, Doctor?"

"No, thank you. I've got Bessie if I want to go anywhere...and being bright yellow she has less chance of being in a vehicular manslaughter case."

"Did he just say he doesn't like my driving?" Yates murmured.

"You don't drive, Yates. You gallop." The Brigadier said in that dust-dry voice again, the voice of a military man faced long and often with the company of lesser beings. The Doctor smiled to see the man sweep himself into the back of the jeep with the exact same knack he'd often seen Jamie employ. A kilt certainly made a difference in body movement. Judging by what he'd seen this night, the Brigadier, like Jamie, also kept the hem of his kilt weighed down with lead to keep it from blowing about.

"Oh, by the way, Doctor." The Brigadier paused, his nose pinking from the cold more than the drink. "You may wish to avoid Dr. Coombes for a bit. He's got it in his head that he needs a new victim for the UNIT shinty team."

"Are you saying I couldn't play shinty?" The Doctor put his hands on his hips.

"Heavens, no. I'm quite convinced you can do anything you put your mind to. It's just that once you become one of his players you'll never get any peace ever again. Camanachd's coming up and if it's anything like last year, it'll be Scottish shinty on one side of the field, and Irish Camanachd on the other, and no one will be able to keep the rules separate."

"Or keep up with the bandages, splints, liniment and-" Yates whispered.

"I heard that, Yates!"

"Could we ask him to be the referee, sir?" Benton was hopeful. "He knows all the different languages, he'd know if the Irish are trying to slip foul language into the play."

"Benton if you can't understand the language, you can at least interpret the gestures. We've had this conversation."

"What we need are a few excellent cameras so we can track the teeth as they go flying through the air, sir." Yates offered. "I refuse to witness another repeat of last year!"

"That was rather an unusual circumstance. I mean. It isn't every day someone loses a solid gold tooth in the playing-field..."

The Doctor watched them pelt off, his face slightly wistful, but being alone was something he understood. The wind changed, and he caught the flavors of the city and more woodsmoke (pearwood this time).

"Humans!" he said under his breath, and turned his back to the driveway, keying the door open with his left hand. His TARDIS rested on the other side, and his smile grew.

Which lasted as long as it took to open the door.

Music was fluting into the Console Room from the back rooms. Songs of the Meteroids, by one of the few genuinely original composers on Gallifrey, Roytrexr the Gold.

"Not again," He scowled. It crossed his mind to wonder how he could play that damnfool thing so brilliantly one minute, and then badly the next...before common sense sank in and he wondered how there could be another crossed timeline within the TARDIS.

This was just too much, the Doctor thought angrily. Just when he was starting to feel good, all the goodness had been wiped away by this...invasion of privacy. Didn't he have precious little of it as it was, living in a glass bowl with poking, prying humans on one side and cold-eyed Time Lords on the other? On top of all of this he had to deal with his old self's bungling about in the Temporal Realities!

Wearing a face that would have actually startled the Brigadier, the Doctor stalked to the old Console Room.

---

Part Three: Time is Sometimes More Trouble Than It Is Worth

1974: UNIT Headquarters, Halloween.

It never took the Doctor long to get anywhere—his legs were long and used to great effect—but his mind moved quicker than his body and he was slowing before he'd gotten halfway to the Old Console Room.

This, he considered, made the third time his previous self had bled-over into his timestream (being air-dropped in so the Time Lords could use them both for their dirty work didn't count). All three times had been accidents and some harsh words had been shared between them, both of them masking their alarm at the situation with anger and defense. It was possible there was something about the Old Console Room that invited this sort of snarl, but who was to know?

If they agreed on anything, it was their dislike for the situation. The Doctor was well aware that his face and body was not the one of his predecessor's choosing, and his personal pride rankled and chafed through his wounded memory. And looking at one's self was not like looking at a mirror: He couldn't fathom half the things flitting through the little hobo's mind at any given time, so he had to rely on his suspicions. He'd always felt that his old self vaguely blamed him for everything, up to and including the loss of his freedom. All well and good, but he wasn't stuck here on Earth for years on end!

He still wondered how this could happen in the TARDIS, when it was her job to keep things like this from being possible. Battered and broken as she was, she wasn't that bad! There was a change she was doing this on purpose, but he couldn't prove it. Deuced awkward, though, meeting your past self inside your own TARDIS...

As if in response to his unkind thought, Songs stopped in mid-aria and switched to something low and haunting and undeniably Terran (key of D). The Doctor scowled, feeling it was familiar...

Then he placed it. "The Unquiet Grave," one of those old ballads Jamie played on his pipes when feeling low...come to think of it, the Brigadier had sung it once when he'd thought no one could hear him. It had chilled the Doctor to his very bones, and it was chilling him to hear it now.

The Doctor slowed, listening with a concentrated scowl across his face.

Time Lords weren't supposed to fear death, but it was strange to encounter something as alien as the Human concept of communicating with the dead over their own remains. It smacked of esoteric talents these people were supposed to have lost thousands of years ago.

As he listened, the music dipped in tempo, sinking down, the notes staggering through longer and longer beats. The living and mourning lover was appealing to the beloved dead for some crumb of contact:

When shall we meet again, Sweetheart? / When shall we meet again? / When the oaken leaves that fall from the trees / Are green and sweet again...

The air shifted, and with it, the dark-chocolate-and-fried-egg scent of ions. Peppery solar winds. Artronic waves, cool as mint and seawater.

The stalk is withered and dry, Sweetheart / So will all hearts decay / So make yourself content, old love / Till you are called away...

The Doctor breathed out through his nose, perhaps for strength, and squared his shoulders. Not in the least bit happy about being invaded by his own past, he shut the TARDIS and stalked down the hall to the Wooden Console Room.

The room was every bit as gloomy as he recalled, and the little figure perched in the darkest corner was just as unpleasantly unwelcome.

The Doctor realized he might have acted in haste the instant he stamped through the open door. The music stopped, and the little man pulled the recorder from his lips with a start. "If it makes a difference, I didn't know this would happen again!" The familiar voice was snappish; not unlike he would have been in the same spot.

"You never do." The Doctor grumbled as he stepped all the way inside. He was now starting to feel just a little embarrassed; his past self had clearly thought he'd been safe and snug inside his own timeline. If he'd just ignored it instead of act hastily they could have kept ignorant of each other until the stream smoothed out. Dratted temporal convolutions...His sharp eyes caught something in the shadows, something out of place. "What the devil's happened to you?" He barked, and it came out sounding a lot ruder than he'd meant.

The little fellow sighed. Wrapped in shadow, that mobile, moveable face looked strangely close to tears. He didn't answer.

Alarmed now, the Doctor risked stepping closer. His previous self had always been a mess, but always scrupulously clean—there was a pattern to his wardrobe and the Doctor remembered how he hated to be dirty. The untidy hair looked to have been cut with hedge-trimmers instead of scissors. Badly. His trousers fit but the cheerful check or the tartan trousers (a carryover from their oldest self's rare and well-hidden mischievous streak) was swallowed up in a gloomy Houndstooth. There was no coat; odd because the Doctor vaguely recalled that he refused to go anywhere without his precious coat. Without it he looked...strange. His shirts were loose and flowing, mostly short-sleeved but occasionally long and puffed with soft cuffs and always an immaculate snow white or a merry shade of light blue. Now it was a dull, washed-out dishwater gray, and the bright red braces with good-luck Earther charms embroidered in yellow thread were replaced with a frankly, boring and dull beige, grey stripe. The small bowtie was darker than ever, and barely hung at his throat.

But it was the too-aged body and the eyes that scared the Doctor. He was facing a younger self that was at least twice the age the Doctor was now. And his eyes were lost, and he could see nothing of the merry little prankster that was his second self.

"What's happened?" He forced himself to be calm. "Were you caught in a Time eddy?" That would explain the aging.

"No."

"How did you get so much older than me?"

"It would take too long to explain."

"Do you need to Contact?"

"NO!" The scream frightened them both. The little fellow had come out of his chair in alarm; he was pressing his back to the wall and for a crazy moment the Doctor thought his previous self was going to try to bolt out the Room entirely. He took a step back, hands lifting even as his other self shrank away and in on himself.

"No." The little fellow whispered. "I shouldn't be here...I'm not really here. Just a projection, I think."

"Where are you supposed to be?"

"The Zero Room. I'm recuperating. A Mission went...it went bad." He gulped hard.

"A mission for the Time Lords?" The Doctor tried to keep his disgust at bay, but another flinch was his reward. Calm down, he reminded himself. You never liked doing their bidding and you didn't have a choice. "Are you alone?"

"Jamie's with me." He said it so sadly.

"What happened?" The Doctor repeated gently.

"Time Lords...sent me to stop a people from experimenting with Time Travel." He took a deep breath and held it.

"Well, I don't blame them this once!" The Doctor shook at the thought. "Consider the damage our own people did when we were learning how to do it! We're luckier than we deserve that the Universe is still here!"

"The trouble was, those people knew a Time Lord would come to talk to them." The little man smiled bitterly. "They'd figured out the symbiotic link. And they needed a Time Lord to finish their experiments."

"Rassilon." The Doctor breathed. To find the link they... "Did they..?" His mind foundered, imagining vivisection and restraints and metal machines.

"No, just barely. The Mission concluded. But so many lives were lost. So many!" The small hand clenched into a fist, dug into his leg. "I couldn't stop the massacre...I couldn't stop what they were doing! An entire space station's a morgue now—Jamie was the only survivor and I don't know if he'll ever recover. He went battle-mad for a bit, and you know how strong he is! By the time he was rescued, he'd become little more than a feral animal, his mind warped into believing I was dead!"

The Doctor felt quite ill.

"They nearly killed Jamie." He watched himself mutter. "They took me and I believed he was dead! They had me sedated so I didn't know anything for two weeks, but in those two weeks he thought I was dead...and we'd be dead for certain but one of our future selves crossed into the Timeline and got involved."

"Again? This is getting to be an alarming habit."

"It gets worse." The wizened old face lifted, and a hardness gleamed in those green eyes. "I might as well tell you. The rules have been thrown away lately. One more won't make a bit of difference."

The Doctor pulled off his jacket and took a seat. "Tell me."

"He got into my Timeline." The Doctor said deliberately, slowly. "Somehow, what...was happening to me..." He took a deep breath. "He could sense it happening through the timelines. He jumped into my Timestream and got himself involved, as I said, but he literally stopped a paradox."

"That's insane." The Doctor breathed. "How could that be possible? Why just one of us? Why didn't we all sense you were in trouble? Why sense at all? We can't sense what's happening to ourselves, past or future unless we're yanked out of our timestream! What were they doing to you?"

"Torturing me, if you must know." The little man said matter-of-factly. "And lots of Siralanomode. I've no idea how much my memory's been affected yet, but I wouldn't be surprised if that's one of the reasons why our future selves have forgotten so much about this model." He tapped his breast-bone with a thumb in a flat, resigned manner.

"I didn't mean to ask that." The Doctor said dully.

"Don't worry about it." The answer was weary. "Too many knots in this thread." He sighed. "There's only one explanation as to why that was possible."

"Oh, no, you're wrong." The Doctor stood. "No, you can't be right."

"Then tell me what I can believe!" The small man shouted. His eyes were wide with nightmares. "You're here, so I did survive, didn't I? Survived to become an overdressed jackanape in primary colors with yellow stripes and...and...plaid and paisley and polka-dots and hair like a spun sugar and orange spats and-" He stopped for breath, chest heaving.

"Oh, dear." The Doctor said faintly. "You do paint an attractive image."

"This is the perfect time in which I thank you for just being a dandy." The little man snapped. "We do not, it would seem, improve with age."

"Most things don't." The Doctor agreed. He tried to think. He was still frightened. They both were.

It was silent in the Old Room. The little fellow was holding the recorder in his hands, as if he couldn't remember what to do with it.

"It could have been just a fluke." The Doctor offered. "They do happen."

"I've met all of our lives." The little man whispered. "Up to fifteen, impossible as that is, and glimpsed the ones beyond. You tell me that isn't an abomination."

The Doctor flinched. "That doesn't mean you're an abomination." No reaction. Oh, wonderful. "Look." He got to his feet, impatient out of nerves, but stopped when he saw how his other self tried to make himself smaller the closer he stepped.

"I can't stop it. It's happening, isn't it?" Dread mixed with guilt in the smaller one's voice. His eyes were almost dead.

"Stop it for a moment, just stop it." The Doctor said hastily. "You can't be Sundering. There's got to be another explanation."

"There isn't one. If there was, you would have thought it out by now." The green eyes dropped down to the recorder in his hands. "I'm already an Individual."

The Doctor froze solid at the confession. "Like Susan?" He whispered.

"No, not like Susan. She was born with those abilities; it sleeps in us...until...until someone or something brings it out." The little man reached up, rubbing at his aching forehead. His eyes closed wearily. "The CIA decided I would be more useful to them if...if I was harder to psychically trace."

"So that's their reasoning, is it?" The Doctor spoke with more heat than he meant, but he was angry. "It wasn't enough that they change my face and send me to live out my entire lifespan as an exile...they also have to make my mind invisible to other Time Lords?" Two and two were coming together and getting 10. "That's why you were acting so rubbish when we were all in the Death Zone, wasn't it?" He demanded.

"It wasn't easy to be around all of the past and future mes." The little fellow admitted. "It just...reminded me of what I used to be like...and what I'd be again." But not what he could be now. Once a Time Lord became an Individual, there was no hope to go back—only regeneration could heal that rift but it could still linger in the future lives. "I think," the Hobo continued slowly, "That was how our Sixth Self sensed what was happening. There are...traces of Individuality in his persona. Not much, but if you know what to look for..." He shrugged helplessly. "It would explain his lack of charm. You're a positive balm in comparison."

"It's the price I pay for being right all the time."

"Hah. You put the 'Lord' back in 'Time Lord,' you big Dandy."

"Not all of us has the luxury of sitting in the background and manipulating events to solve themselves. What's going to happen when you go back to them?" The Doctor tried desperately to get some sort of perspective out of the mess.

"I don't know. We'd barely gotten back to the TARDIS before I received a communication. I have to clean up the mess the—they left behind at the space station. If I don't the Time Lords will be blamed for it and I have a lot of mixed feelings about that!"

"No wonder." The Doctor rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. His blue eyes were sharp and thoughtful. "The Time Lord who sent you the communication...can they be trusted?"

"Huh." His otherself rolled his eyes in a way that would have been comical in another situation.

"Delightful." The Doctor frowned. "Wouldn't happen to be a scrawny, overly formal, smug bony fellow with a bowler hat, would he?"

"Ah...no...?" His otherself blinked. "I'm sure I'd remember someone like that."

"Pity."

"In the beginning I always returned to them...not knowing if each Mission was my last. Now I'm starting to think it will never happen. There are a few of them...they'd like nothing better than to see me get killed while on assignment."

"We tend to have that effect on people."

"Especially our own."

"Quite."

Another silence fell, shorter and calmer. Once in a while, the hands trembled on the recorder, then with an act of will, stilled.

"I can't think my way out of this one." The little man said at last. His deadened, hopeless tone made the Doctor's hearts sink to the bottom of his chest. "They tricked me so many times. Even when they're telling the truth they're lying. And when I meet our future selves, it's all I can do to not tell them. I did all I could to keep them from...from remembering all this."

"You did the right thing." The Doctor assured him. "We can't bollix up the Timelines completely...and giving one's future self a foreshadowing because you jumped ahead of your own future self's future self is as paradoxical as they come."

"I wonder if that wasn't their game all along?" The mop of grey hair bowed low, head leaning into a palm. "Their schemes and plots for the Great War to come...they always had some sort of trick to pull out of their cupboards. Perhaps I'm just one of them?"

"They already created a few paradoxes on that score." The Doctor reminded them both. The Great War had been rumbled about for centuries upon centuries. Now that it looked like it was finally going to happen, the Doctor was almost relieved that that aspect of the fussing was over. "At least they won't surface for a few more of our lives to come."

"Believe me, I'm grateful. Sorry for the lads who are going to face this, but there's only so much a fellow can take." He made an odd half-laugh sound. "If I told you half the things I've seen the Time Lords do...oh, you just wouldn't believe it! They even...our twelfth self...I wish I could tell you but I can't go that far."

The Doctor saw another tremor pass through the smaller figure and picked up his cloak and smoking-jacket, holding it out in a peace offering. "Here, put it on. It's freezing in here."

The little man eyed them distrustfully. "What about you?"

"The Brigadier made me drink some of his clan's version of ethylene-glycol just now. I couldn't be cold if I was taking a nap in Nepal."

"He did?" The little man slowly pulled on the coat, and gradually began to relax. The Doctor loved smoking jackets for a reason: they not only looked excellent, they were soft as cat's fur and held heat in. He almost smiled to see how his bigger size wrapped around the smaller body—just the way the little hobo liked it. The cape was large but not too heavy. It was a comforting sensation that reminded him in a way of getting a touch from someone he cared about.

"I just realized something." The Doctor confessed. "Tonight is Halloween. Is that how you got here?"

"It could be possible. I know I'm still in the Zero Room—I can feel it. I can feel Jamie's hand on mine. But here I am too."

"Odd, isn't it?" The Doctor settled back in his chair, a little closer this time. "What is it about this planet? Of all the worlds we've been on, this strange little ball is about as predictable as our TARDIS."

"Maybe that's why she keeps coming here?" The little man mused.

"Time isn't very fixed here, is it? Not like most of the other places we've been."

"You have a point. If so, the walls between the dimensions were thinned enough that this happened."

"Let's just hope we don't fall into another part of Elfland. One battle with the fairies was enough."

"Don't...!" The little fellow glanced about nervously. "You know they hate being called that."

"They can't get within a hundred time-miles of the TARDIS, and I made sure the Brigadier set wards all over the base. It was surprisingly easy to convince him the "no-Good Neighbors" really existed." He scowled at a sudden thought. "Come to think of it, he looked rather...delighted to set up those wards."

"Still...provoking them?"

"Yes, well, I haven't been on speaking terms since they tried to steal Susan. Pretentious posers."

"That's what happens when you let yourself get inbred."

"Hah. That's something we Gallifreyans will never know." He frowned, for the other's face had just changed. "What is it?"

"Something Dastari said...one of the last times I...met him." The eyes slid away, evasive. "'Doctor, our races have become tired and effete. Our seed is thin. We must hand the baton of progress to others."

"Oh, that sounds just like him. Typical Minyan portentousness mixed with Third Zone moralizing. We've withdrawn into ourselves, stopped being a part of the Universes. That's what the problem is. If only we'd get involved again!"

"You mean openly involved." His younger self corrected.

The Doctor swore lightly. "Yes. Openly. Instead of skulking about in the dark."

"It's worked for them so far." He was reminded with no little bitterness. "How many assignments have they made you go through?"

"A few, nothing like what's happening with you."

"Typical."

"I suppose it could change any moment. As long as I have the cobra tattoo and the marking bracelet they can legally get me to do what they want."

"They took mine away for this last mission." The little fellow said quietly. "I suppose it was too embarrassing to send an overt parolee to speak for them...expect they'll put them back when we get to headquarters."

The Doctor grimaced. "Ouch."

"Or maybe they'll let me regenerate this time." That was said so quietly, with such a thread of hope against hope.

"It's not like you to give up." The Doctor protested as gently as he knew how. "You've never given up. I remember when they changed my face. I remember protesting to the very end, I wouldn't give them that satisfaction! I—" He stopped. His other self was holding his head in his hands, the recorder tumbling to the floor, his small shoulders trembling.

"Oh, Rassilon." The Doctor breathed. Everything kept going wrong in this conversation. Couldn't it ever turn right and stay right? All he knew was that infuriatingly mercurial, hard-headed, clownish incarnation of himself was no longer clowning. The joke was over and the Universe was a much darker place with that impish, rebellious smile broken into a thousand pieces.

The Doctor got out of his chair and bowed on one knee, grasping the shoulders swimming inside his coat and cape. It was a gesture he would have given almost anyone in similar straits, but he half expected the gasp of shock and the attempt of rejection. The little fellow tried to twist out of his grip but the Doctor did remember being this Doctor better than the otherselves did, and he knew how strong he could be when he wanted, how desperate he could be when he wanted to get away.

The little man drew in upon himself, crablike, trying to breathe. The Doctor projected balm as well as he could, forceful and calm. They'd made physical contact with each other before; the little fellow practically lifting him up the ravine wall as Omega's "blobs of grape jelly" fired at them. Or pushing him away from the Eye of Rassilon in casual confidence. This wasn't like those times. This was a very sick Time Lord in his hands, and the Time Lord was himself.

This Doctor hated to be confined more than anything. It bordered on psychosis, a reaction to his TARDIS-guided change from their first form to the second. It had, he recalled too well, been all hell and dank horror, an obsolete emergency procedure to save his life. It had not been neat or clean, with reality cutting out of his mind and giving him nightmares upon nightmares upon nightmares, until they all shrank and shrank and shrank until he felt every cell in his body gasping for air as they shrank and shrank; cell by cell he felt himself strangling for eternity, until at last the TARDIS nudged him through the death and he found himself breathing, finally breathing, in clothes too big for his body but he didn't care; they were loose and he couldn't feel them choking his cells any longer.

The Doctor was taking a risk in touching this himself against his will, but he had always been an excellent risk-taker. This younger/aged version had endured far too much to smooth the way for his future selves to completely lash out now. He hoped.

---

In the Zero Room, Jamie had fallen asleep from a combination of raw exhaustion and the soothing influence of the Room itself. At a cry from the Doctor he jumped awake and alert, reaching for his dagger before he caught himself.

The Doctor was still asleep, or whatever that strange state was that Time Lords seemed to do. His eyes were still closed but his body had grown stiff again. Nightmare? Jamie would believe this if he were human.

"Oh..." The Doctor barely whispered, as if he was afraid to make any noise even here. "Oh, no..."

Jamie hissed through his teeth, and lowered his aching body back to the floor. It looked like a nightmare; he ought to treat it as such. Minding the leg that Shockeye had nearly ruined, he drew himself close to the little Time Lord, wrapping him in his arms. He wasn't a telepath, not like the Doctor, but he understood the principles and he knew how to concentrate on one thing at a time. Cautiously, hoping he was doing this correctly, he filled his mind with something that he knew the Doctor liked: The sound and sensation of the eternal rise and fall of the ocean tides.

---

The Doctor held on to his shaking self with all his strength. It wasn't easy. They were physically night and day but equally matched; both knew the Venusian arts even if only one cared to use them. This close, he could smell the honey and heather that differentiated his second self from the self he was now.

There was a folklore that a Time Lord's scent marked their personality more than even their wardrobe. The Doctor had always snorted at that notion, but now he was rethinking. His old self smelled like the old, wild places of the Earth, where sky and earth and water met and blended with the ancient fossilized magmas. Wild, old, and never tameable. Those were the places he'd loved the most when he was this little man. This solemn little clown.

The Doctor held that image in his mind, the surf and stone and high-tossed clouds...the temporally frozen lava, old fires locked in monuments of their own making. He thought of beaches and sand castles, built for the joy of it and the thrill of the rising sea to take it back, wiping the slate smooth for tomorrow's architects. Stones tossed and flung into the waves until they bounced like balls. Children making kites that danced in the air like birds.

Jamie was nearby. The Doctor could sense the young man's mind in the bleedover of their two psychic forms. Like peering through a telescope made of fog, he could make out the Zero Room where his second self's physical form rested. The young piper (a man now—how many years had passed for him?), back in his old Highlander kilt and shirt, lying on his side, holding the tranced-out little Doctor in his arms.

He thought of how the spray tossed against the old stones, and a giant bank of creamy white foam. A foam fight on a beach, laughing and shrieking with Jamie and Victoria, making foam-balls and playing for the sheer joy of it.

Sitting on a skerry and watching curious little puffins dive down and nip shimmering minnows into colorful, clumsy-looking beaks. The Doctor smiled at this old memory; the little puffins reminded him of this older model of himself. Seemingly awkward and comical, but so very very good at what they did. Sad-faced little sea clowns.

This wasn't the best method of healing a wounded Time Lord. The best way was by Contact, but his old self was resisting that very strongly, shielding his latest version from whatever was lurking in his mind. The Doctor didn't like being protected; he far preferred to be the protector, but even though the little man's mind was fracturing at the seams, it was still the more powerful.

This particular version had a very strong mind and with the wisdom that comes from being on the outside and looking in, the Doctor had reason to believe this very power was also the key to his fey, irrepressible energy and nonstop childishness. One can't have that much vitality flowing through them without consequence. Holding it in would be like speeding up a timed detonation. Better to siphon it off, let it out than bottle it up.

The Old Man would be the best for this, he caught himself thinking—and then was ashamed. His last self was exceedingly wary of their original and that was unusual. Traditionally the first and second incarnations were personality-blended, the second life being a firmer expression of what the first one wanted to achieve. Well, the old fellow was a crank and a half...physically ill and tired out and frail. They'd both been delighted to see him and the first thing he'd done was attack their capabilities, scold them for being thick, and basically ran the show. Not a grand day for pride, but he'd been freed from his sentence and all that...

Oh. Oh, no. The Doctor was shocked at himself. Why hadn't he seen this before? It was right in front of his nose the whole time. The Time Lords had forgiven him and lifted his exile from Earth, restored his memory and allowed him to use the TARDIS again... ...but they hadn't forgiven his last self. They'd kept him under sentence..that was rather an awkward temporal thorn. Having their cake and eating it too...they had managed to abide by their own agreement by giving him partial freedom, and freeing his future selves...but no such luck for his predecessor. They still had a man to do their dirty work for them as long as his Second Self was alive.

The Doctor thought of their second meeting, the one with Borusa's idiotic quest. The memories melted when he wasn't with one of his other selves, but he was remembering now. His last self had been brittle and defensive, almost putting on a show. Hiding his Individuality. Now he knew what the problem was. He'd missed something here, a clue that he couldn't quite remember, but there was no time to solve all the riddles. The walls of Time were thin now, but they would thicken the closer the axis turned to dawn.

You smell like roses, his old self sent the thought to him in utter bafflement. And burnt circuits.

The Doctor laughed a little. You smell like Earth, not a bit like a Gallifreyan at all.

Can't say I'm surprised. The TARDIS seems to enjoy sticking me on Earth more than any other place. When it isn't a base under siege...

Yes, you did have more than your fair share of them... She's such a flighty old thing, isn't she?

On your own head be it if she hears that!

I don't remember her being that bad.

She had her moments back then. Not as bad now that the Agency put those wretched repairs inside her...tasteless modern bits.

And surveillance bugs...don't forget those.

The joy of my life.

We'll be picking them out of the TARDIS for the next ten lives, see if we won't.

I suppose there's room for another hobby...

The smaller Doctor was relaxing, the confused haze of his mind just beginning to clear at the edges. The banter mixed with the two-way soothing was definitely helping. The Doctor hoped this lasted. He was still frightened at the implications aired in this room—they both were. And his younger self was right. There wasn't a better explanation for what was happening to him.

The Doctor wanted to give in to the sick wave of nausea that wanted to take over, but that would undo all the hard work he and Jamie had done to help himself. If only our first self could be here. He could say anything, some scrap of a compliment, some remark...it would mean the world.

The Doctor bickered at his Second self easily and naturally, but they were so much alike under the skin, and they shared the trauma of damaged memory. They knew each other, and yet they didn't. The little one had barely changed over his body with his memory (sort of) intact and the man the Doctor was now had reason to believe the Time Lords had "adjusted" a lot of his memories to something more Time Lord Palatable.

Call him shallow and vain, but it was why The Doctor couldn't stop aching for the lost friendship between himself and the Master. The Master was a killer, and insane, and his priorities were warped, but he was still the one and only Time Lord that never challenged or taunted his enemy's reduced mental faculties.

He sighed, defeated into accepting the problem for himself. And held his breath for a long moment, thinking. He could sense his old self growing away of his mental wrestling, and begin to shy away in protective instinct.

No, don't pull away, he urged, digging his fingers into the smoking-jacket. I doubt we have much time left. We need to make these moments count...

For all the good it will do, the little man voiced the niggling fears of his newer self.

Listen to me. The Doctor poured all his strength into what he was about to say, and concentrated on that instead of fear. There was no time for fear. Even if you become one of the Sundered, you'll still be me. He felt the small body shudder at the foul word but pressed on. They can kill you, they can Rend you out of the fabric of Time, (another shudder and a word even fouler than Sunder), they can even Scorch you. (the worst word of all). But that won't change the fact that you are still me. That you lived on, through all the lives and timelines. What is happening to you...I don't know any more than you know. He tightened his grip. I've seen all of our selves up to twelve, you know.

No, I didn't know. His old self was provoked into curiosity. How did you manage that?

I cheated. The Daleks were silly enough to leave their computer banks unprotected when they were hacking into the Matrix. I jumped into the Dalek's side and wound up—much to my surprise—in the Matrix with all sorts of temporal ghosts shouting at me.

Hah! The old Doctor actually laughed. The Doctor felt a grin come over his face, because he was still rather proud of that. You did cheat! The cheek of you!

I came by it honest, didn't I? The Doctor saw his opening and pressed his advantage. Listen, I know it was bad of me, but I wasn't feeling very rule-ish and the Time Lords got up my nose good. But what I mean in all of this is...all of us, from me all the way to the ending where the Daleks finally end for real...I can see you in all of them. We're your legacy, you daft little hobo. You were the first of us to have the courage to actually participate in things. Before that...well, we weren't very good at it. We were no better than any of the other Time Lords that chose to meddle. Bureaucrats make terrible meddlers and you got us out of that mindset.

The emotion coming off the little man was puzzlement.

You may not be the first of us, but in many ways, you really were the first of us. Our first self...lost his joy in the Universe and helped reluctantly, out of a sense of duty more than anything else. You brought back the joy. You brought back why we named ourselves The Doctor in the first place. And you brought it back so strongly, that even in our worst, we can't forget the joy. That's what keeps us going, even when we know we're going to die or lose the battle, it's what keeps us trying again and again to make things better. Even the Time Lords can't take that away from us. I'm sure some of them would like to, but it seems to be our lot in life to disappoint their Baroque schemes.

The smaller Doctor was finally exhausted of protest. His head leaned into the Doctor's shoulder, a heavy weight against the frilly shirt. The Doctor wondered if he'd accomplished anything in this long-winded speech. Disappointment from others must be our lot in life.

Well we are good at it. Our problem with the first time 'round was we spent too much time trying not to disappoint the wrong people. Now that we've got our priorities sorted...it's all bells and flowers.

That got another laugh, even if it was a small one. The Doctor prided himself on a victory.

And not a moment too soon. The walls of Time were thickening, growing callus over the soft pliability of reality.

Watch out for Jamie, his younger self warned. I don't know how much longer we'll be traveling together. If they're really angry at me over this last mess...they'll take him from me again. I couldn't bear it. I...need to believe he'll return to me someday, even if it's not in that body.

I'll set a memory trap into the TARDIS, the Doctor promised. You don't have to explain. Jamie is...well, there never was a person like Jamie. Or Zoe, for that matter.

Zoe doesn't have the enemies Jamie does, his older self said sadly.

Oh, dear.

The Time was fading. Outside of the TARDIS, the bells were ringing, marking time and thus bending it to its will. The Doctor felt the moment, the Crucial Hour and permitted himself one last squeeze about the shoulder, one last projection of warmth. On the other side of Reality, he could hear a low, tuneful crooning: Jamie was singing something under his breath, an old song that he couldn't quite place but suddenly wanted to, very badly.

He watched, as a quiet calm slipped over his smaller being. The elfin green eyes closed and the tired face smoothed out. He took a deep breath, once, and as he exhaled, his projection returned to the Zero Room.

The Doctor stayed where he was for quite some time, sitting in the dark and thinking. Finally, he picked up his smoking jacket and walked out of the room. A memory-trap needed to be set, and it would have to be clever indeed if he was to trick his future selves...

...that tune Jamie was singing...that ought to do the trick...

---

Part Four: Conclusion: The Second Doctor does his best when under siege. The Third Doctor learns a connection between a Piper and a Brigadier.

In the Zero Room:

The Doctor returned to himself with a tiny spasm of his muscles. The piper propped himself up on one elbow, testing the other's cool skin for change. His eyes fluttered a bit, opening slowly...he took a deep breath and shuddered as he let it out.

"Ey," Jamie could not hide his relief. "Ye were gone a long time, Doctor. A long ways off. Was it a hard journey?"

"Journey?" The Doctor repeated faintly. "I suppose it was."

"Are ye feeling any better?"

"One way to find out. Help me up."

"I'll help ye sit up." Jamie correct. "Then we'll move to the next step." He put his hand behind the Doctor's back and pressed slowly. Between the two of them, the Doctor finished sitting crosslegged on the floor with his hands resting loose upon his knees.

"I don't think I should leave the Zero Room just yet." The Doctor said carefully.

"Och I agree. My leg's almost healed, but not quite. What about the Time Lords?" Jamie hated to bring them up. "We've been gone for weeks."

"They know what's happening." The Doctor answered with words as heavy as stones. "I managed to tell them the gist of things. They're...arranging a cleanup of Chimera."

"What about the Sontarans?" Jamie grimaced. "They're the ones who did the butchering."

"They share equal responsibility with Chessene and Shockeye and Dastari...that poor, deluded fool." The Doctor's face changed, one that Jamie recognized.

"At least he became your friend again...before he died." Jamie didn't like the man, but he understood madness for more than most, and Dastari had been pulled into the undertow of his own desperation.

"Some people will do the most...desperate things in order to survive." The Doctor rubbed at the bridge of his nose, an increasingly common mannerism as his thoughts seemed to lead to headaches. "Dastari actually thought he was doing the right thing for the Universe...he...was a desperate man, Jamie. He...he wasn't completely wrong about our races." The Doctor dropped his hands into his lap, staring at them. "We are growing thin. Certainly tired. The infighting and squabbling is proof that we're turning in on each other instead of moving forward. Nothing lasts forever. It's just that...Time Lords seem to think they're beyond anything as primitive as a finite lifespan."

"As long as the Time Lords have people like you in it, I have hope for the Universe." Jamie said simply.

"That's just it, Jamie." The Doctor's head was bowed, hiding his face. "I'm the only one. There are other renegades and exiles out there, but most of them are terrible people—killers, madmen, the worst of our society. I haven't yet found another one like me...yet."

"You're enough hope for me."

"I wish I had your optimism."

"Doctor...back when you were teaching me to read, you had me reading those books about the worlds...one of 'em told me that an oyster might not look much, but it will lay over a million eggs. And of that million, only one of that million will survive to grow up."

"So I'm an oyster, am I?"

"Not so much as a pearl o' great price." Jamie shot back. "I believe in ye, Doctor. I always have. 'tisnae yer fault that we were given a problem bigger than ourselves."

"Oh, it is bigger than ourselves, you are right about that." The Doctor assured him, looking up for the first time. His green eyes were clearing, focusing on something only he could see. "The Sontarans tried very hard to frame the Time Lords for the murders on the station. There needs to be an accounting." He suddenly leaned forward, brow creasing into a point as he pressed his chin into his fingertips. "The most brilliant minds in this Galaxy have been slaughtered just when we need them the most! The War is coming, Jamie. I can feel it. We needed them! This...this is a disaster, and there are so many questions...more than there are answers." He stopped, silent for nearly a minute while Jamie waited, before he suddenly breathed out and slowly climbed to his feet.

"This," he declared softly, "is going to be a dreadful mess."

Jamie nodded. "Do we have time to get ourselves in order before we leave the Vortex?"

"Hmn? Oh. Oh, yes. We should. And we should." The Doctor looked down at himself ruefully, wrinkling his nose. "I keep thinking I smell the Sontarans and Androgums. Phah!"

"Aye, not to mention that dungeon." Jamie agreed. "Let's clean up a wee bit and get some real food in us."

"And change clothes." The Doctor warned. "From now on, Jamie, it would be best if you wore the style you kept when we were first roaming the Universe."

Meaning the eclectic mixture of old and new. The Doctor's message was clear: it was time to ready for battle. Jamie felt himself smiling. The Doctor was still frightened out of his wits about the future, but he was past his panic and ready to plan. The Piper suddenly felt hopeful, as if the Future had opened up again and displayed new possibilities for their fate. The more the merrier, he thought. The darkness clouding them yesterday was fading. Time to start doing something...and most importantly, to make sure the Doctor never forgot himself.

---

UNIT, 1974:

Dawn slipped over UNIT with, as Sgt. Benton once said, "great awkwardness." Benton was quite skilled at comments like that. The Brigadier definitely blamed the man's family, having met them. But Benton had a point. UNIT was different in the light of day compared to night, and with All Hallow's upon the world, the building looked almost too-brightly lit against the pale northern sun. The vegetable heads had extinguished their flames long since, and they rested, dead and dormant in the icy gray world. Mist staggered in from the warmer pockets of the estate, and the Brigadier smiled to see that Benton's coconut-Yeti creations were white with a thick coat of hoarfrost.

The Brigadier was tired to the bone, but exhilarated from a successful night's work. He needed sleep badly but if he stuck to duty only a few more hours he could go home and spend the remainder of the week with his family. The choice was a simple one. He could meet with them in Chapel and they'd all go home for tea. He'd nap and they'd all catch up on things before he had to return to UNIT.

Click-thud. The UNIT's population of rooks and ravens complained as they took flight from the gunshot-like slam of the door to the outer lab; the human blinked in the silvery world to see a familiar, tall figure with fine white hair in an umber velvet suit. His cloak hung about his broad shoulders like absent wings as he looked back and forth, hands on his hips as he surveyed the empty spectacles of old lanterns.

"I always thought they looked more eerie the morning after Halloween myself," The Brigadier raised his voice to be heard.

The white head lifted, and those blue-green eyes twinkled a bit at him. Funny how those eyes were. They reminded him of the Doctor when he was a funny little hobo; they were so much alike under the skin. This Doctor's merry wit was damn near crushed by his own people, but the longer time passed, the better the Brigadier could see that wit and warmth returning. He was certainly less bitter than he had been before. At one time the Brigadier had flatly refused to believe this tall, angry acrobat was the clownish, deadly little genius he knew, but now he wondered at how he couldn't see the obvious at the time.

"You've been up all night, Brigadier?"

"So it would seem. Yourself?"

"I have no idea. Time is relative when the walls are thin between the worlds."

"You keep saying that."

"I'll never understand how you humans persist in thinking a calendar is a time machine."

"Yet another statement, Doctor, in which I agree I cannot fathom the workings of your mind."

"Oh, good."

They stood together in the frosty day, with only the Brigadier steaming from the cold.

"You look a bit muddled, Doctor. Did something happen last night?"

"Yes...well..." The Doctor stared deep at the Brigadier, but didn't explain himself at first. "I'm trying to work out a puzzle. An old song. It was important to me at one time, but I can't...remember more than a snatch of it." He rubbed at his chin.

"If it's a human song?" The Brig queried. A decent question; the Doctor sang often and beautifully, but only half the time in a language from this planet.

"Yes, yes I believe so. Jamie used to sing it when he was troubled."

The Brigadier actually flinched.

"What is it?"

"Doctor...Mr. McCrimmon's music has been lost to Time."

The Doctor stared, not understanding.

The Brigadier took a deep breath. "When the Protestants flattened Scotland they banned our music. They hung the bards, tortured them to death, murdered them in the public squares with the women and children and threw their corpses into the rubbish pits. They broke our fiddles, our chaunters, our children's flutes and drums and made bonfires with them, saying it was better to burn a little now than forever in hell. Children were taught to mock the elders who knew all the stories and songs and thousands—thousands of years of oral history. They taught the women to feel fear and stop singing even the childhood rhymes, whipped babies for speaking our Gaelic, and scattered us across the planet, and most of us are still finding our way back home even now."

The Doctor was stunned. The Brig had seen many expressions from the Doctor directed at himself: anger, contempt, impatience, open fury, condescending amusement, mockery and disgust... but never before this blend of horror, sorrow, and...pity. The soldier looked away, ashamed.

"Brigadier...I didn't know." The Doctor's large, elegant hands twisted at the ring about his finger in a sudden attack of nerves.

"It's...not as bad as you think, Doctor. So long as Jamie McCrimmon is out there somewhere, I feel as though Scotland herself can sleep easy. It's enough." He wished for his uniform; the heavy belt was good for occupying his hands. "Some of the poems are left...the runes. Carmichael saved a fraction of what was lost. But most of the music's gone." He muttered. "I could probably tell you where to look...if you remembered any of it..."

The Doctor swallowed. "Yes...well...as far as I remember, it went like this..." He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "I remember, Gaol De, Gradh De, Gair De...something something."

"Oh." The Brig's face cleared in relief. "I know that one. It doesn't have a musical form, Doctor. You're supposed to sing-chant it, in a way. It's the Rune Before Prayer, the Rann Romh Urnuigh."

"Do you know it?"

"Of course I do!" The human puffed. "That's the most important one of all! The old-timers refused to make a single prayer or hymn until they made this one first. And they always did it in absolute private. In a closet if they couldn't leave the house, or in their own room in isolation... Doing it within the sound of the ocean was the best because you make the words rise and fall with the waves."

"The ocean? Really, how interesting."

That almost sounded like the old Doctor. The Brigadier paused and let his eyes half-shut. "This isn't the same as saying it with the ocean, but here's the gist of it."

And as the Doctor watched, the Brigadier self-consciously began to murmur in Gaelic, his eyes closed and mouth open, a soft half-blend of music, meter, and spoken word braiding together into a unique pattern.

"To do on the world of the Three,

As angels and saints

Do in heaven;

Each shade and light,

Each day and night,

Each time in kindness,

Give Thou us Thy Spirit."

The lilting chant faded with the slow-rising wind. The Brigadier opened his eyes. The Doctor was studying him as though he had never seen him before in his life...looking through him like X-rays.

"I wonder," he said strangely, "how long ago did your people leave Skye?"

"Skye?" The Brigadier repeated. "I don't understand."

"No...so, getting ahead of myself." The Doctor was already turning, his mind casting outward to moorings only he could see. "Threads..." the commander heard him mutter. "Never saw the forest for the trees. Shape of the eyes.., he was a piper in support of the Stewarts...didn't see..."

He had already forgotten the Brigadier.

The human watched, quietly mesmerized by the eternally unusual and fascinating alien that was the Doctor, write notes to himself under his breath as he returned to his lab to do...whatever else God knew he was going to do.

Just another day at UNIT with their unpaid consultant.