Disclaimer: I still don't own Doctor Who or House, M.D. or anything associated with them. This story and any new characters are mine, however, as well as a tiny TARDIS and a sonic screwdriver/pen. So it all sort of balances out in the end. ;-)

Author's Note: I have no excuses for the long period between updates. I'd blame Daleks or Cybermen or (insert villain/monster of choice here) but I can't. Drats. Hopefully this is worth the wait to at least a small degree . . . And a big thank you to SpaceAnJL for taking the time to offer feedback on yet another chapter! Oh, and thank you to all who have read & reviewed & given me a needed kick in the pants to update this story. :)

Chapter Three

In 30 seconds the Doctor would still have exactly three minutes to easily catch whoever was at the other end of the energy signature. After that a smidgen of trouble would be involved. Or a speck. Or a tiny spot. Tiny, that is, in comparison to, well, something really, really, really big. As was usually the case, though he did his best not to dwell on it. It was part of the adventure, after all!

But . . .

The Doctor repressed a sigh. But sometimes it would be nice to have all kinds of time to take care of the threat at hand. No frantic plans and running endlessly about. It was all rather ironic, really, how he relied upon the two considering he was a Time Lord with a ship capable of travel through time and space. Though he did love running and brilliantly making it up as he went along. There was a certain . . . je ne sais quois to it all. And he had been running for so many years now . . .

He finally let the sigh escape as timelines converged and split in his mind's eye. Tick-tock, tickety-tock, time was ticking away and the Doctor's feet literally itched to take off, for his head to just forget the man in front of him and to sort this out on his own. He could swipe an identification badge, keep to the maintenance lifts and lesser-used corridors and –

"Find someone," whispered a memory of a bedraggled bride from a Christmas past. A grin pulled at the corner of the Doctor's mouth. Two minutes and 29.1 seconds until there is quite possibly a Very Big Mess, and I think of Donna . . . The Doctor pushed the grin (but not the advice) away with an eyebrow arched in this galaxy's silent equivalent of 'Well?' as, at last, Dr. House met his gaze with a determined nod of his head.

"I'm in," the man said without a quiver of hesitation in his voice, his gaze not wavering even when the Doctor felt another grin take reign of the lower half of his face (though he did, wisely perhaps, manage to remain silent).

Eye-contact was broken by Dr. House as he turned around in order to settle himself into the wheelchair. "Use the main elevators," he instructed as the Doctor began to head towards the bank of maintenance lifts at the end of the hallway.

"Right," the Doctor said, deftly spinning the chair around to correct course. "We'll hide in plain sight. Excellent plan, Dr. House!" He allowed himself an internal 'ha!' in response to his companion's mumbled 'idiot'. Definitely not a stupid ape, this one. Brilliant!

"Just House is fine, by the way," Dr. House said as they neared the small cluster of people waiting for the next lift. "Not even my mother puts 'doctor' in front of it." He briefly looked over his shoulder at the Doctor. "And what should I really be calling you?"

"Just the Doctor is fine," the Doctor replied, "without the 'the' of course. And you couldn't pronounce what my mother put in front of or behind it."

Dr. — no, House — let out a derisive snort, tapping out a jazzy rhythm on the handle of his cane while inquiring what the Doctor was a doctor of, exactly.

"It depends on the situation, really," he replied, hoping to leave it at that as the lift doors opened and he wheeled House in, making sure they stayed close to the doors. The energy tracker had slowed down when they reached the lift, meaning whoever was at the other end had picked up the pace. And they were in what was most likely Very Big Mess territory as the three-minute mark had quite easily sauntered past.

"Third floor, please," the Doctor said to the man who was the unofficial button-pusher, grimacing inwardly at the man's intake of breath. Questions were sure to follow. Okay, questions usually followed. Either way, now really wasn't the place for them nor did they have the time. Perhaps if he could discreetly reach for his sonic screwdriver and get it to setting —

"Who is your friend, House?" the button-pusher asked, sliding his hands into his white lab coat. He spared the Doctor only a brief glance.

"Smith, John Smith," House replied, barely looking at the man — Dr. J. Wilson, Oncology according to his ID tag. The lift pinged as it stopped at the second floor. "Aw, too bad. It's your floor already, Wilson," House said with mock disappointment as three of the lift's occupants made their way out. "New, recently divorced pediatrician started today," House explained to the Doctor (and quite possibly to Wilson who was looking slightly chagrined). "If you see Cuddy or Nurse Brenda," House added with a pointed nod at Wilson, "you didn't see me or Mr. Smith here." Apparently used to such behaviour from House, Wilson just shrugged his shoulders as he, too, left.

"Whatever, House," the Doctor heard Wilson say as the doors began to slide shut. But a thought had apparently occurred to Wilson as rather than walk away he spun around and reached out his arm, triggering the doors to open again. The Doctor swallowed most of a frustrated growl. "You're not from Mayfield, are you?" Wilson said, looking at the Doctor as if seeing him for the first time.

"No," the Doctor replied, hoping his features were calm and relaxed. Any hostility on his end would not help right now. "I'm from England, actually. The accent sort of gives it away for most people. But," he continued, not even giving Wilson a chance to open his mouth, "I really do need to get Dr. House and myself to the third floor, and I'm sure all these other people have somewhere to be other than this fine metal box, so if you don't mind . . .?" He indicated Wilson needed to step back with a bob of his head.

Wilson put his hands up in surrender as he moved away from the lift, (with some help from House's cane) before the doors shut.

"Fantastic!" the Doctor said with a slight bounce on the balls of his feet as the energy tracker picked up speed, the lift resuming its ascent to the third floor. They were either 1) getting closer or b), er, 2) whoever was at the other end of the signature was slowing down, which meant he could still very possibly have plenty of time to do, well, something brilliant. The Doctor couldn't say what would happen next, honestly. Maybe this would actually be an easy matter to wrap up. That did happen. Occasionally.

The Doctor's smile grew wider as he could literally hear House roll his eyes with annoyance when he began to whistle an old English folk tune. Never mind Jack and House meeting up – House and Donna Noble would be a match for the ages.

But all thoughts of someone else's face becoming acquainted with Donna's palm left as the lift's doors slid open.

"Oooo." The Doctor grimaced. "That's just, not . . ." He scratched the nape of his neck. "Blimey."

~wh~

House was well-acquainted with the third floor of the hospital. It continued to offer some of the best hiding places when avoiding clinic duty. There was the psych ward (not much use for it, at least not as of late), maternity (involved in the odd case or two), admissions (he had minions to take care of such things) and some great staff lounges (with locks that were ridiculously easy to pick or jam).

But what he saw as the doors slid open left him rubbing his eyes and Smith relatively speechless. House wracked his brain for any snippets of conversation in the hospital, at the bar – anywhere, really – about some new, crazy hidden camera reality show that could explain the current state of the third floor of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Nothing came to mind. And House knew there was nothing in his system which would lead to him hallucinating. Again.

House muttered an expletive, barely noticing Smith as he made sure the people still on the elevator went straight back to the main floor. Oh, House knew there were other staff members and patients here, and probably even very close by. Yet he was becoming curiously transfixed by the numerous glistening white, blob-like strands hanging from the ceiling.

Putting his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair, House's initial puzzlement gave way to a strange sense of awe as he began to push himself up. He wanted to touch this, this stuff. And even as on the periphery of his mind he knew this to be a bad idea, he really didn't care. Couldn't care, wouldn't care . . . didn't have a care . . .

"No! Stay down!" Smith's command tugged House out of his reverie. Strong hands gripped his shoulders, pushing him back down onto the chair. "Don't let it touch you," Smith said, stepping in front of House and crouching down on his haunches. "Not yet." He smiled when House focused his attention on him. "Oh good – you're back!" he said with another toothy smile as he fished around the inside pocket of his long coat. Several items were pulled out – a banana, cardboard 3D glasses, some rope, and a couple of items House didn't recognize – before Smith yanked out a key ring with a couple of non-descript silver keys jangling away. Pulling off one key, Smith tied it to a piece of rope and placed it around House's neck before repeating the procedure on him self.

House shook his head, puzzled by the sudden clearing of his mind. He tugged at the key, moving his arm to pull the string it was on up over his head before being stopped by Smith.

"That is a perception filter – no one can see you unless they really want to – and we need to keep these on until we get out of here," Smith said, his voice low and steady as he stood. "We'll have to leave the chair and your cane– doesn't work too well on extraneous objects. And we have to be as quiet as possible so these Bobs will forget we're even here."

"Bobs?"

"Yes," Smith replied, "Bobs. Short for -" He scrunched up his face for a few seconds. "Well, that's not important now," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "They all took a vote as a species, and picked Bob as their new name as their original moniker was quite the mouthful. Personally, I would have gone for Barry, but that's just me." He shrugged his shoulders as if to say 'what can you do?' before pushing a button on what looked to be a fancy penlight, causing a pulsating sound and blue light to emit from its tip. "What matters now is they're about to start the delivery process and trust me, you don't want to be around for that. It's rather messy, but do they clean up afterwards, sooo ..." Smith inexplicably popped his left index finger in and out of his mouth, held it up for a few seconds with a frown and then, keeping the whirring penlight firmly pointed straight ahead in his right hand, jerked the thumb of his free hand over his shoulder. "You best get back to the lift."

For about the twelvth time in at least as many seconds, House again wondered how soon he could get a psych consult in for Smith. Running a hand down his face, he kept his attention focused on Smith, not moving towards the elevators until he saw him start to slowly back up in the same direction. What was the saying? In for a penny, in for a pound? Besides which, he half expected the man beside him to disappear if given half a second. No, best to keep Smith sight.

The duo had just stepped back into the elevator when something Smith said clicked into place in House's mind. "Wait," he said as Smith jabbed the button for the main floor, "these . . . Bobs are giving birth?"

Smith shoved his hands in his pant pockets, his gaze fixed on the flashing numbers above the door. "Oooo, you are a clever one," he said with a brief sideways glance at House. "And the Bobs are, too." He remained silent for a beat. "Really, it would be quite inconvenient to deliver offspring in, say, the radiology department. Not enough towels, I would reckon."

Even though he thought his eyes may actually roll out of his head in annoyance, House rolled them once more as he reached around Smith, pushing the 'stop' button just as the elevator passed the second floor. "Who are you?" he asked, maneuvering himself between Smith and the control panel, trying not to wince as pain skipped up his right thigh. Something was trying to push its way through to his prefrontal cortex, something relating to who Smith could be in addition to an interesting case study in potential psychosis.

"I told you," Smith said. "I'm the Doctor. And before you tell me I need to earn that title, I have. Many, many times over. Why I could even fix your leg," he said with nod at the thigh House was now massaging. "But . . ." Smith's voice trailed off as he looked at some point just past House's left ear with a frown. "I'm sorry – I'm so, so sorry," he continued after a few seconds, meeting House's gaze with eyes that suddenly seemed so weary, wise, and ancient. "Too many things would change. So many things. But," Smith flashed another grin which almost reached his eyes, " it will be worth it. Oh yes!"

"You're not making any sense – who are you? What did we leave behind? How did it get there?" House said, each question louder than the one previous as he tried to box Smith into a literal and figurative corner. He needed answers, damnit, and more time. There was something he couldn't remember and it was important ...

But before House could press Smith further into the elevator or push for actual answers from the madman in front of him (for Smith was the walking definition of the term), Smith aimed his penlight at the control panel, the elevator was on the main floor, and Smith has slipped out through its barely-open doors. By the time the doors opened enough for House to get out, the man was out of sight, and Cuddy was there demanding an explanation.

House didn't have time for Cuddys demands at the best of times, never mind when his only chance for getting any answers was literally getting away. He loudly threw out something about a clinic patient with an alarmingly contagious disease being on the loose, barely noticing the swath it cleared for him, focused as he was on tracking down Smith. He followed the route Smith would have most likely gone in if still keeping to his ruse as being a walk-in clinik patient.

He needed answers ... he needed to remember – what? Was this all some elaborate prank put together by Wilson? Did he somehow know Smith? But from where? When?

The doors of the main entry/exit point for Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital swooshed open, and House soon stumbled upon something unexpected – a 1960s era British police box, people moving it past it without a second glance. Odder still, House realized, he himself was not all that surprised to find a 1960s era British police box.

Deja vu, or bad takeout the night before?

But House had neither the time nor the inclination to wonder about any of it quite yet. His Cuddy-senses were tingling, and Smith was in that box (fresh footprints in the snow – duh). And House could never leave a puzzle alone, particularly not that was so intriguing. So he walked over the blue box, and was about to knock on the door when it shimmered in and out of focus. He blinked, taking a half-step back with a shake of his head before carefully reaching out once more with a hesitant tap on the door. Finding it to be solid, he giave it a firmer rap, and limped in, wishing he still had his cane, upon hearing Smith telling him to come in as the door was open.