However Improbable
by ErtheChilde

'Always search for truth. My truth is in the stars and yours is here.'

AN: This chapter was soooo much fun to write, if only for all the tongue-in-cheek references and double meanings. Also, just an additional disclaimer, any of the extra-fandom characters mentioned in this chapter don't belong to me, but to the author who created them. Who you should easily recognize when you realize who they are.

TWO

'So how do we know what we're looking for?' Rose asked as they wandered in the general direction of Westminster. 'You gonna do a scan for alien tech, or something?'

'In the middle of the afternoon, in Victorian London? Don't be stupid – all we need to do is find a few broadsheets,' the Doctor responded matter-of-factly. 'Always bound to be something sensationalistic in them, and I'll be able to tell right off whether it has anything to do with what we're looking for or if it's just your garden variety ape melodrama.'

He waited for the inevitable complaint about the insult, but Rose wasn't even listening.

'Did you see that?' Rose asked, craning her neck around as they continued on. 'I swear that bloke looked exactly like Johnny Depp.'

The Doctor sighed. 'And the human attention span rears its ugly head…'

'Oi!' she smacked his shoulder. 'I'm serious though. He looked exactly like him, only, you know, before he went all pirate-y.'

The Doctor offered her a painfully tolerant look. 'Did he look like he was from your time?'

'No,' Rose said, trying to look around again but frowning when it seemed the object of her attention had long since disappeared.

'Then it's just a coincidence. Happens enough even in your time. Or possibly it's an ancestor,' the Doctor dismissed.

'I guess…bit weird, though,' Rose said. 'I think all your talk of reality going mad is messing with my imagination. Cos I could've sworn that bloke was him.'

'Spatial genetic multiplicity accounts for doubles across generations and time,' the Doctor shrugged. 'Haven't you ever heard that everyone in the world has a doppelganger? Or three?'

'Yeah, I guess so,' Rose mused, looking thoughtful. A moment later she beamed up at him, squeezing here arm around his. 'Does that mean you've got a double too? How weird would that be, running into someone who looks like you!'

'Oi, don't laugh, it's actually happened! Though, in every case it really was me running into myself and not just a double.'

'Well, that's no fun,' Rose pointed out. 'If you run into someone who looks like you, the whole point is you want to see how different you are. What they've done different with their lives. There was one girl who came into Henrik's once, looked exactly like me – only she was studying English Lit at uni and actually had the money to spend there.'

Rose's expression clouded for a moment, the way it usually did when she was thinking about her perceived educational and socioeconomic failings. And, as he'd gotten into the habit of at such times, the Doctor was quick to distract her.

'We travel through time and space and see things that girl could probably never imagine – why would you want to be anyone else?'

'Suppose it's sort of a human thing, I guess – unless, I dunno, do Time Lords ever want to be someone else?'

'Probably not – they all thought they were brilliant as they were,' he replied darkly. 'Me though, I wouldn't mind being John Lennon. Without the getting shot in the back part.'

Rose guffawed. 'Get out!'

'I'm serious! Smart man, brilliant musician – been told I look a bit like him, only with less hair. And I love playing music. Was once in a band with…' he trailed off, and then cleared his throat, slamming the door on the memories of long ago before they could b fully articulated. 'Anyhow, what about you?'

She gave him a sideways look, like she had noticed the abrupt subject change, but thankfully let it go.

'When I was a kid, I always wanted to be a princess or someone posh,' Rose mused. 'Mum would watch these period dramas, and I'd be dying to wear the pretty dresses.'

'You're wearing a pretty dress now,' he pointed out before he could stop himself.

He didn't have a chance to wince before he was rewarded with a smile and the slightest darkening of her cheeks.

She looked like the skies of Gallifrey at dawn, and coupled with her smile –

Rassilon, his eighth self was showing! He'd thought that version of him had been completely tamped down beneath years of mental and emotional scarring, but considering some of the thoughts he had been having recently…!

'Yeah, but now I don't want to be a princess anymore,' Rose laughed, distracting him from his thoughts. 'You've ruined me, I'll have you know. Princesses are boring, always having to get rescued. I'd want to be the one doing the rescuing. Like Indiana Jones or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Or I'd want to be brilliant, like Sherlock Holmes. Only, you know, a girl.' The smile became a teasing grin. 'Dunno if I'd do as well as you did if that suddenly changed.'

'You said we weren't going to talk about that,' the Doctor groused.

She mimed zipping her lips shut and throwing away the key.

'Yeah, cos that'll stop you,' he muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched.

Rose dissolved into laughter then, earning a few disapproving glances from passersby, but the Doctor didn't care. His companion was happy, and that was all that mattered.

Except…

He frowned, his brain taking a moment to catch up with what his eyes had just seen, and he paused in their strolling to actually turn around and confirm what he thought he had imagined.

Nope, not my imagination, he thought, eyeing the somber, looming townhouse on the corner of the street.

It looked like every other hard-worn terraced house in the area, dark bricked and cramped together, with grimy windows that ensured the privacy of the occupants within. In fact, it could have easily been any other office or place of business really, if it weren't for the innocuous looking wooden sign over the door.

Scrooge & Cratchit.

'Someone's being anachronistic as well as ironic,' he remarked when Rose finally noticed his silence, and nodded in the direction of the sign.

She frowned, not seeing it immediately, but when she did her expression changed to incredulity. 'Big Dickens fan, you think?'

'I certainly hope so,' he answered.

Either the owner had good taste in literature, or was attempting to be funny. Considering the Victorians didn't generally have much in the way of a sense of humour, and his lingering concerns over the odd reality quotient readings, it was obvious what had to be done.

'Come on,' he said, guiding Rose in the direction of the counting house.

'I know you're perpetually broke, Doctor, but I think going to a moneylender's a bit much,' she teased.

'Got to make sure I've got the collateral for when we go to tea,' he shot back as they made their way towards the counting house and entered.

The interior of the office was warm and well-kept, which was rather at odds with any description from the books. It wasn't just that it was warm for August, but that care had been taken to make this office an inviting one. The floors were sanded and polished, and the walls decorated with various still-life paintings. There was even a small black divan in the entrance hall.

That in itself caused him to relax a bit, taking it as an indication that it really was just the fanciful humour of a fellow Dickens fan.

'Good afternoon – sir, madam,' a short, bow-legged man seemed to materialize in front of them, inclining his head in greeting. He was middle-aged, with a genuine smile despite the stuffiness of the room. 'How may I help you? Or do you have an appointment?'

'Nope,' the Doctor said cheerfully, and then jokingly added, 'Just wondering if Mr. Scrooge is about.'

The young man's smile faded, and genuine sadness replaced it.

'I'm afraid Mr Scrooge hasn't worked in this place for near twenty years.'

'Wait – what?' Rose interjected, eyes wide.

'I take it you were misled by the sign,' the man sighed, shaking his head. 'I've been after father to take it down, but he always refuses…especially with Uncle Ebenezer passing on to his reward this month. One hundred and three years to the day, bless him.'

The Doctor found himself momentarily at a loss for words, a feat which was rare enough that Rose was staring at him now in surprise.

The man appeared to notice their distress, and asked kindly, 'I am quite sorry to be the one to tell you this. Were you a friend of his? He had many friends…'

The Doctor cleared his throat, deciding that acting like a stunned deer was not useful in the least.

'Not a friend, exactly, more of a distant admirer of his philanthropy,' the Doctor lied, hazarding a guess at what the last years of this supposed Scrooge person's life had been like. 'You said your father – that would be Mr Robert Cratchit, then?'

'Yes, sir.'

'He still works here?'

'Much as I tell him he shouldn't, sir, he is getting on in years,' the man said with a light chuckle. 'My brother Peter and I manage most of the work these days, but he still keeps his office.'

'Can I speak to him, then?'

'Sir, I assure you, if you are looking for trustworthiness and experience to handle your business, I can assure you that our clerks are more than capable,' the young man said quickly. 'And if none of them are to your satisfaction, Peter or myself would be more than happy to –'

'Oh, relax, I'm not here for a lone,' the Doctor scowled. 'But I need to speak to someone about this place. Someone who knows the history of the building and such.'

The man hesitated. 'Well, my father isn't…with anyone right now. If you would like to – ?'

'Fantastic,' the Doctor cut him off.

'Yes…well…if you'll give me a moment,' the flustered man said and bowed away. 'I'll ask if he will see you. Er…who am I to say is calling?'

'The Doctor and Rose Tyler,' the Doctor replied, and then something occurred to him. 'Oh, by the way – what's your name, then?'

'Timothy, sir. Timothy Cratchit.'

There was a spell of silence.

Rose was staring at the space that had just been occupied by the anxious man, and then turned to stare at the Doctor questioningly.

'Was that…?'

'Yep.'

'And he says his uncle was…'

'Seems so.'

'And we're about to meet…'

'Yep.'

She shook her head slowly, like she her entire world had just shifted. 'Alright then.'

· ΘΣ ·

They were led into a small office, where their eyes were immediately drawn to an impressive and somewhat gaudy painting of a positively ancient Victorian gentleman looking out at them sternly. He was so old that it took Rose a few seconds to recognize the face.

It was a perfect likeness of a much older Patrick Stewart.

'Is this that special genetic thing you were talking about?' Rose asked quietly, staring up at the familiar features.

'No.' The hardness in his tone made her glance at him, concerned. 'This is something else. And it's not good.'

'I always thought that was a terrible likeness, myself,' a voice remarked lightly from the corner of the room, and the Doctor and turned to face its owner. 'Mr Scrooge was a much more lighthearted individual in the second half of his life.'

Although she had subconsciously been expecting it this time, she still felt her eyes bugging out at the sight of a man who resembled a much older Richard E. Grant.

It seemed whatever was causing fictional characters to appear in the middle of nineteenth century London had a preference for the film version of them rather than the books.

Guess we should be relieved it wasn't the Muppet version, she thought irreverently and had to labor to keep her face straight at that thought.

The Doctor didn't seem to be as amused as she was at the entire situation. Indeed, he suddenly looked extremely intent, and without so much as an introduction, he shoved his finger at the portrait. 'That's Mr Scrooge, then?'

'Yes,' the old man who could only be Bob Cratchit replied. 'He was one of the founders of this company –'

'Along with Mr Jacob Marley?' the Doctor cut him off.

'Yes –'

'Good boss was he?'

'Mr – Mr Scrooge? Well, yes –'

'But not always, right? Probably not up until a Christmas morning over forty years ago,' the Doctor interjected.

Mr. Cratchit looked flustered, obviously caught off guard by the Doctor's manner. 'I…how did you…?'

'And you run the business now with your sons, yes? Peter and Tim?'

'Timothy –'

'Tiny Tim,' Rose realized.

Mr Cratchit blinked at her owlishly, like he had forgotten she was there in the wake of the Doctor's interrogation. 'We haven't called him that in years, but –'

'And your family – your wife's Emily and you had four other children,' the Doctor ploughed on, and Rose began to get annoyed with how he didn't bother letting the poor old man get a sentence finished. 'Martha, Belinda, Matthew and…Bettina, was it?'

'Yes, but –'

'Really, sir, I must protest!' an angry Tim Cratchit came marching into the office, glaring at the Doctor and no longer seeming so cheerful. 'You suggested to me earlier an interest in the history of the building, but had I known your intent was to interrogate my father –'

'Doesn't matter, I've heard what I needed,' the Doctor cut him off, and strode from the room. 'C'mon, Rose.'

She tried to offer the bewildered Cratchits an apologetic smile as she hurried out after the Doctor, half tempted to call him out for being so obscenely rude. But he was utterly ignorant of her for the moment, stalking distractedly out of the counting house, long strides making it hard to keep up with him, and he was muttering to himself.

'Clearly resemble actors from movies, but they've aged – even died,' he murmured, thinking out loud. 'So not the actors themselves, but their likeness…Carol was set in 1843, and it's 1889 now…obviously no longer fictional, if they were they'd be stuck in a static kind of immortality….no, they've become real.'

'But that's impossible,' Rose pointed out. 'Isn't it?'

'Clearly not,' he answered, sounding irritated. He tended to get moody when he was frustrated by a problem, so she didn't take it to heart.

Instead she tried to think up anything that might help him. For some reason, sometimes when she said the simplest things it seemed to jog his brain. Time Lords made connections from the oddest things sometimes…

'So how comes now one's said anything?' Rose asked after a bit of aimless wandering. 'I mean, wouldn't it be in the records somewhere that there was a real Ebenezer Scrooge? Some kind of interesting fact list or something?'

'I'd remember that if there was.'

He was scowling, though whether it was at himself or the situation, she wasn't entirely sure.

'What if…what if they don't know?' she asked after a moment's thought.

'Hm?'

'Maybe it's like the perception filter? I mean, here you are walking through nineteenth century London looking like a member of the The Smiths –'

'Oi!'

' – but everyone's mind is just telling them you're dressed in some kind of waist coat and top hat,' she concluded.

He opened his mouth, possibly to shoot down her idea, but then his mouth snapped closed again.

'Good point,' he told her warmly, and before she could enjoy the validation, he darted away from her and after a passing mustachioed gentleman.

'Sorry to bother you, mate – have you got the time?' she heard him ask as she followed him.

'It's no trouble – it's half past two,' the man said, briefly consulting a fobwatch from his coat.

'Cheers,' the Doctor said, and then asked, 'By the way, are you familiar with the works of Charles Dickens?'

Rose rolled her eyes. Subtle, the Doctor was not.

'Er…yes, of course. But what – ?'

'So have you noticed there's a counting house just there that's called Scrooge & Cratchit? As in Ebenezer and Bob?'

The gentlemen look bemused, possibly because he thought the Doctor was insane, but all the same he glanced over at the building in question.

'Oh. Well. Fancy that,' he said mildly.

'Interesting coincidence, don't you think?' the Doctor prompted.

'Quite,' the man said dimly, and then cleared his throat. 'Well then. I shall take my life now. Good day sir. Madam.'

As he was tipping his hat to Rose, she watched a glazed look appear in his eyes. As he wandered away, she had a sudden presentiment that he had just forgotten everything about the exchange.

'So it is like a perception filter?' she checked.

'Well it bloody well looks like it, doesn't it?' the Doctor grumbled, glaring at the unsuspecting man's back. 'Which means someone is mucking about with matters they shouldn't be, and if I'd have to hazard a guess, I'd say it was another one of your species –'

'That's a bit prejudiced, don't you think?' Rose argued, feeling a bit like she was being blamed for something. 'Could be something else.'

'Probability points to meddling apes.'

'Yeah, but as you keep reminding me, we're barely able to put one foot in front of the other,' she deadpanned. 'Last I checked, that'd make changing reality a bit difficult.'

He shot her an apologetic glance.

'Good point,' he said again, and this time it was more concession than validation. He took a deep breath, like he was trying to force himself to be calm.

'Go on then – tell me what you think it is,' Rose urged, knowing that the Doctor was better focussed when he had someone to talk his thoughts through with.

'Somehow, the fictional characters and settings are interacting with reality as if they're real,' he explained. 'But the rest of reality seems to have a blind spot for them. Which is bad, cos it weakens the quantum foam I was telling you about. All kinds of nasty things could happen – pocket universes or causal parasites. Get enough of those, and all of reality will split apart like a top that's been washed too much.'

'As if you've ever done laundry,' she muttered lightly, trying to pretend that what he was telling her didn't scare her at all.

She was rewarded with a tight smile, though he didn't banter back. Instead, he continued, 'We need to find a way to investigate the theory properly to make sure that's what it actually is, before we try to fix it. But without multiple data sets to compare, just to make sure –'

'Multiple what?'

He jerked his head back at the counting house. 'Could be that's just an isolated incident, in which case it could just be a major Dickens fan suddenly discovered block transfer computations and decided to bring their favorite story to life. Which is an easy fix once we track them down. But we have to be sure – it could be multiple incidents, maybe not just a Dickens fan but a…'

He trailed off, staring into the distance for several seconds, and then his eyes widened. He whirled around to grab her by the shoulders, the beginning of his usual keen grin there.

'You said something about seeing Johnny Depp?'

'Er, yeah, like an hour ago –'

'Maybe you did see him – or, well, a character he played. Something set in the 1800s,' he declared excitedly. 'We can investigate that, and if it turns out it's another fictional character, we'll have more proof!'

'Proof of what?'

'Proof that someone is filling nineteenth century London with facsimiles of celebrities from your time!'

Rose sighed. 'Suppose that means tea's off, then?'

'Sorry.'

He didn't look very sorry, though, but considering Rose's smile was fast rivalling his own, that didn't even matter.

'S'alright. At least I thought to wear my trainers.'