A/N: Nothing you recognize belongs to me!


Chapter Four: Ghost Stories

The Past

He squeezed her hand reassuringly. "We'll figure it out," he promised, sounding more confident than he actually felt. "You've got a great team, and one thing that you didn't have back then."

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "And what would that be?"

He puffed out his chest. "Me. I'm brilliant, you know."

She laughed and the tension dissolved. "Right. You certainly are."


Silence reigned in the second of Torchwood's compartments. Dominic was absorbed in some trashy paperback crime novel, Tosh was in the middle of her second Sudoku book, and Martha looked to be asleep. Greg sat next to the window, his arms crossed, and watched the countryside fly past. It felt like a dream sometimes, this job. Like a mad, wonderful, impossible dream and he caught himself regretfully thinking of what awaited him when he woke. He would be back in his hole-in-the-wall flat in a decidedly unpleasant part of London, waiting to head to his unsatisfying position on the police force.

Right, wasn't supposed to call it the 'force' anymore, too aggressive-sounding. He snorted at the memory of the whingeing-voiced consultant. The man had obviously never actually been on the force, or he would have known better.

"Something funny?" Dominic asked in the breezy way that Greg was learning concealed interest.

He floundered for a moment, trying to come up with something they'd believe. "Just—alien. Him. Really?" Him meaning Doctor Smith, of course, although everyone called him 'the Doctor, just the Doctor, thanks.' The man was definitely eccentric and obviously brilliant, but alien? He looked so, well, human.

"Really," Dominic confirmed as he stuffed the book in his briefcase. "Ask Martha if you've still got doubts; she's his doctor."

"And he and the Commander…" his voice trailed off. He detested gossip, personally, but he needed to get a feel for the dynamics of this group. He'd been the new guy before, but then he only had to acclimate to a different environment. Taking the position at Torchwood required assimilating an entirely new worldview. And as they were still understaffed, he had to do so on the fly.

"Listen to you two," Tosh commented as she evidently gave up on Sudoku. "You're chattering worse than the interns do."

"And they say women are gossips," Martha put in with a dry smile, her eyes still closed.

"How else am I supposed to find out the important stuff?" Greg protested, all smiles. Martha liked him so far. He was funny and clever and he hadn't yet lost the brash belief all of them started with—the idea that humans were highest on the food chain. As hard as orientation tried, they never quite beat it out of new recruits, not until their first encounter when everything went pear-shaped and they were running for their lives. "And not that shite they tell you when you get recruited; I mean the really important bits, like is it permissible to date your coworkers, or how do I get on the Commander's good side, or where do we go to unwind after a job?" He flashed them another smile.

Tosh sighed. "One, it used to be forbidden, but Pete's pretty flexible, just don't let it interfere with your work. It's not exactly great to date in your own team, but some people seem to be able to handle it."

"Two," Martha took over, "don't let her hear you calling her 'Commander.' She hates it. Even Ianto calls her 'Rose,' and he's about as strict with protocol as you can get. Play it straight with her and she'll play it straight with you."

"Three," it was Dominic's turn. "We go wherever we want." He glanced at his watch. "If you're going to catch a nap, I'd do it now. Thirty minutes until we reach Cork."

"I'm just," Greg paused, gathering his thoughts. "I'm just trying to wrap my head around this," he admitted. "Everything is happening so fast."

"You'd better get yourself sorted quick," Dominic replied, all traces of humor gone. "Whatever we're looking at, it's going to be bad."

The other man looked puzzled. "How do you mean?"

"She hasn't briefed us yet," Tosh explained quietly. "Usually it's the first thing she does, but not this time. Either no-one had told her the situation—which I don't believe for a second—or she's hoping they'll come up with different information by the time we get there."

Dominic leaned forward. "My sister is Commander of Torchwood Belfast, which is where we're heading. She and Rose were partners for a year before Rose was promoted, and during that time something happened in Cardiff—something that wiped out the entire team working Torchwood Three." Tosh nodded. She had heard whispers. Martha and Greg were looking at Dom with wide eyes. They were too new to know the office ghost stories. "Rose and Abby were assigned to the case."

"What was it?" Martha asked in a hushed voice.

Dom shrugged. "Don't know. Abby changes the subject whenever I ask, and Rose threatened to put me on desk duty for a week the last time I pestered her about it."

Martha grinned. "Torture."

"Truly," he agreed. "A fate worse than death." The playful smile drained from his face. "Whatever it was," he continued, "it gave her nightmares for months."

"You think they're connected?" Greg asked.

Dominic considered. "I think," he said slowly, "that whatever we're looking at, we should be prepared for the worst. They wouldn't send a whole team, especially a team including one of Torchwood's best agents and an alien super-genius, out for anything simple."


Amidst the chaos of Cork station four people stood like boulders on the beach. The tides of humanity swirled and crested around them but they remained unmoved. Well, they remained unmoved until they caught sight of their compatriots. Then a tall, dark haired woman embraced Rose and her team moved forward to greet their coworkers. Names and handshakes were exchanged and the group moved to continue their introductions in the comfort and privacy of the company car.

The Doctor sighed as he caught sight of their vehicle—a large, black SUV. Some things, apparently never changed. "At least it doesn't have 'Torchwood' written on it in large white letters," he muttered.

Rose blinked. "Seriously, Jack lets his team run around like that?"

"Oh yes," he replied dryly. "A master of subtlety, our Jack."

"Would that be Captain Jack Harkness?" Abigail asked. "Now him I would like to meet."

The Doctor rolled his eyes, but he considered her carefully. Abigail Cross was not what he expected. To be honest, when Rose talked about her he pictured someone more like her younger brother, who was a bit of a watered-down version of said Captain. Oh, he liked Dominic well enough; the man was competent and funny, even if his eyes wandered a bit more than strictly necessary, but he was relieved to see that someone in the family could see beyond the end of a skirt—figuratively speaking, of course. "Where are we headed?" he asked as they piled into the vehicle.

A muscle in Abby's jaw twitched. "Talamh Caillte first, that's the village. We're holed up in one of the local bed and breakfasts. The trouble, though, is centered around Blackthorn woods. It's located just outside the village, and it's old. There's been a forest on that site for ages." She glanced back at him. "On the old maps it's labeled 'Foraoise na Marbh'—Forest of the Dead."


The Present

Rose stumbled away from the Doctor. Disconnected images swirled through her mind's eye like shards of brightly colored glass. And they hurt—God, they hurt. It was like her head was stuffed, almost like after Cassandra had forced her way into Rose's mind. Faces she knew but had never seen swam before her eyes. Emotions that weren't her own thundered through her. It was like being on a tilta-whirl, drunk, surrounded by a slideshow of someone's life. Hands grasped her shoulders. She tried to pull away, her eyes closed tightly and her hands pressed against her temples in a futile effort to stop the pain. The hands pulled her closer to a warm body. A voice murmured soothing nonsense as the person cradled her and she waited for the pain in her head to stop. When she could breathe again she relaxed against the Doctor—without the haze of pain and panic she recognized his voice and the slightly scratchy fabric of his suit jacket.

"I'm sorry," he said softly as he stroked her hair. "I'm so sorry."

"What," she gasped, blinking away the last of the tears that dripped down her cheeks, "what was that?"

"Memories," he responded. "My memories."

"Why did they hurt?" She rested her cheek against his chest.

He tensed and his hold on her tightened. "I'm more than nine-hundred years old, Rose. I'm closer to twelve-hundred—it gets fuzzy after the first millennia. Most of those memories were locked away—hidden—and then you yanked them out into the open again." He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers. "The human mind isn't designed to handle that kind of contact, at least, yours isn't. I met this boy in 1913, Timothy Latimer. He was a low-level psychic, and he might have been able to cope with what you did, but your brain wasn't made that way, and you're inexperienced. You didn't sever the link in time and my memories don't belong in your head. The pain is your brain attempting to assimilate those memories—to protect itself."

"Are you going to take them away?" she asked tentatively.

He shook his head. "I think we've both had enough things mucking about with our brains for one day." He paused. "If you want me to, I'll remove them. If you don't, I won't." He stroked her hair again. "I won't do anything without your permission."

She let the breath she hadn't known she was holding out. "What are they, anyway?" she asked after a while.

"Thwrestle," he replied. "Telepathic predators." He flashed the sonic on her wrist where the tentacles had held her. Tiny punctures ran in a line around her arm. "They feed on psychic energy—pleasant emotions, and on their prey's fluids, like a lamprey." He buzzed the sonic at her and the wounds closed.

"That itches," she complained.

"Better than them getting infected," the Doctor replied. "We weren't out for more than a few hours, so we should be alright. If you feel off at all let me know."

"Hours?" Rose asked incredulously. "Felt like days." She rubbed the still-tender new skin on her arm. "We need to find Abby and the others."

"Yes," he agreed, "but if we pass out from dehydration and get caught we won't be any help to anyone." He finished closing up the Thwrestle's punctures. "How's your side?"

"I think it's stopped bleeding," she replied. Rose touched the rend in her shirt lightly and winced.

"Let me see," he ordered. Normally she would resent the tone he took with her, but they were lost in a network of unknown tunnels facing aliens that seemed to exist outside of time. The Doctor's natural tendency towards bossiness was really the leas of their problems. Obediently she lifted her shirt. Once again he used the sonic as a torch. He frowned and gently traced the outline of the long gash in her left side. She hissed in pain. "Still bleeding," he told her softly, "but slower now. Better patch it up—who knows what nasty germs are living down here."

"Cheery thought, that," she commented dryly.

"That's me," he agreed brightly. "I'm a barrel of laughs. Or is it a barrel of monkeys?" His tone shifted, becoming serious again. "Rose, I'm sorry, but this is going to tingle a bit. Try not to move. It'll go fast if you keep still."

'Tingle' was not the word. 'Burn' was more appropriate. She felt like her side was on fire, but she gritted her teeth and remained as still as she possibly could. After what felt like forever the sonic switched off and the Doctor straightened. "All done," he announced.

"Right." She pulled her shirt back down over the newly-healed flesh of her side. "Let's start looking."


At first they wandered. The Doctor tried scanning for life-forms with the sonic but gave up after his third attempt failed. Too much interference dampening the signal, he said. He would not tell her what could interfere with a sonic screwdriver, but his expression was grim.

"I get that those Thre—Thrwer—"

"Thwrestles," he supplied.

"Yeah," she nodded, although as he was in front of her she knew he couldn't see. "Thwrestles. They're like lampreys an' all, but do they have to be slimey?" She let disgust color her voice.

"Neurotoxin," he replied tersely. Oh, it was bad when he was closemouthed. "It makes you more susceptible to suggestion, easier to influence."

"So how'd I do it?" she asked after a moment. "They drugged me and locked me inside my head, neat trick that, so how'd I get out?"

"Humans." She could hear the smile in his voice. "You're not telepathic, not yet, and that makes it harder for them. They evolved on a planet where the dominant species—the human equivalent—was telepathic, like me. I've got shields up, mental shields, but I was expecting more of a frontal assault. Thwrestles aren't exactly brilliant, you know, not by human standards and definitely not by Time Lord standards. They're more along the lines of wolves or wild dogs."

"But then how," she began.

"Yes, how did they manage to slip past my defenses and lock me in my own head?" he continued. Rose nodded.

Know your enemy, she thought. The more they knew, the better prepared they would be.

"A whisper here, a suggestion there, a little bit of chemical warfare…" He shrugged. "Most of what we saw was our minds working against us."

She shivered. "That's frightening."

He shook his head. "We know what to look for now, and I'm much more alert, thanks to you." She frowned. He was tense, so tense that she could almost feel him vibrating like a violin string beneath her hand. "No, Rose," he replied to her unspoken question. It was eerie how well he read her. "I'm not worried about the Thwrestles. They're a nuisance, but worse, they're indicative of alien presence. They didn't get to Earth on their own—haven't got the technology or the brain power." He paused and once more checked the sonic. Nothing. "There's something else here, something old, something powerful." He turned to her, his face stony in the faint light of the screwdriver. "Something out of Time. And I haven't the faintest idea what it is."