How does one find the Doctor? Some try to trace the levels of background chronon radiation emitted by his TARDIS. But the thing about a time machine is that it can appear to weeks before or after the effects of its arrival manifest, playing merry hell on the sensors of determined time traveller seekers. Others use known information to deduce what little they can about his likely movements and actions. Again, the Doctor is still a conundrum – one moment he may mercifully offer to transplant a desperate invader to a far-off but comfortable world to start again, the next he will lay entire fleets to waste in his wrath. There are very good reasons why many of the universe's most feared races call him the Oncoming Storm.
Mostly, the best way to find the Doctor is to follow the screams.
The Doctor ran, coat billowing out behind him and sonic screwdriver in hand, as he followed the sound of people, pushing through the throng of panicked citizens running panicked in the other way. The crush of people was overwhelming, or it would have been if they hadn't parted before what was evidently a mad foreigner. He had to be – such strange dress, the odd object he held in his hands, and the fact that he was heading towards…it. And that look in his eyes…
There was still a small mob at the scene when he arrived, outside a tavern. A few of them were a little unsteady on their feet, drunks too inebriated to realise the danger. A couple of them were women, probably barmaids, and as the Doctor neared the place he could see what they were standing around – a pair of bodies. Smoke had started to rise out of the thatched roof.
"Stand back!" he shouted, pointing his sonic screwdriver at the two. "All of you, stand back! I'm the Doctor."
One of them muttered, "A physician? 'Tis too late for them. Better to fetch an undertaker."
"No, I said the Doctor. Why does nobody catch that?"
He activated his sonic screwdriver, running the sonic sensor field over the two bodies – a young woman and an older man, both dragged out of the building. Not dead, yet. But on their way. The Doctor plunged his hand into a coat pocket, pulling out a device that looked like a doctor's stethoscope. In fact, it was a stethoscope, but to the people who were now looking at him with a little more than concern, it might as well have been an alien assault rifle.
He knelt, pressing the stethoscope to the man's chest – heartbeat high, but irregular. Flabby, probably pretty well off. Cholesterol – very well off. What was he doing in a lower-class pub? He checked the girl, carefully avoiding the chest area – humans had their funny little ways – and noted that, despite the dress, she too was far from the usual clientele. Skin too clean. Eyes clear. Teeth…well, okay, still not brilliant, but better than average.
"They're coated in void matter and chronon radiation, both of them. That's impossible! Who are they?"
A few people looked at each other, evidently confused why he should care. Others looked at the pub as more smoke continued to billow out of it. One of the drunk men shrugged.
"Don't know. They ain't regulars, I give ye that."
"Our Jamie's still in there!" sobbed one of the older women, supported by another, probably a daughter.
That name. There had been a Jamie, so very long ago for the Doctor, but still to come for this world and these people. He smiled ruefully to himself, remembering the Scottish man in a kilt who had travelled with him all those centuries ago. Well, relative centuries.
The Doctor put the stethoscope away, frowning to himself. "Okay. Burning pub, odd clients, wrong time zone, and all this as I step out the door. Bit of a coincidence. Never believed in coincidence. Right!"
He stood abruptly, wielding his screwdriver like a weapon. There were gasps – it had been sudden, and they were mostly drunk of terrified. He turned to them, face serious.
"You two," he said pointing to a pair of young but strong-looking ladies, "drag them a bit further down the street. If this place catches fire, I don't want them too close. You," he pointed at a young girl, "fetch the City Watch. Form a bucket chain. Are we near the river? Never mind, water molecules about five minutes that-a-way. And you," he said, turning finally to the drunk pub patrons, "stay out of my way. In fact, clear off home. What'll your wives think?"
"Why?" asked one of the girls. "What are you going to do?"
The Doctor flashed a confident grin. "Me? I'm going in!"
Shakespeare stared at the smoke rising from nearby. This had to be a coincidence – a major fire, near the palace, on the same day the Queen tasked him with finding an elusive time traveller? Definitely a coincidence.
Will never believed in coincidences.
He set off at a run.
The fire was…hot. Well, it sounded a bit anticlimactic when you put it like that, but watching a fire and being near one are two very different things. Right now, the Doctor was cursing his tendency toward impulsive but grand gestures. The smoke wasn't as thick as he had expected it to be, but it was hardly comfortable.
"Jamie? Jamie, where are you?" he called out. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, using it to filter some of the smoke from his breathing – even Time Lords could choke to death. How embarrassing would that be? Last of the Time Lords, burnt to death in a pub fire in Tudor London?
There was a shout, followed by coughing. The Doctor squinted through the smoke, making out the form of a child. He hurried over, tripping over furniture that had been knocked aside in the patrons' desperate hurry to get out. The Doctor swore to himself, reached into his pockets yet again, pulling out a pair of 3D glass that he put on. Despite all appearances, he seemed to navigate clearer as he stood up and made his way to the child.
It was a Jamie – a girl. Well, nothing wrong with that. He'd known a Jamie who wore a skirt before – well, a kilt – a long time ago. He knelt down, running the sonic screwdriver over her as he scanned her for injury. She stared at him, wide-eyed.
"You're Jamie?"
The girl shook her head. "Martha"
"Good name, Martha. Knew a Martha once. Brilliant girl. I was hopeless. I'm the Doctor, by the way. Where's Jamie?"
"Falstaff!"
The Doctor frowned. "Come again?"
"Falstaff! I need Falstaff!"
"Who's Falstaff? A cat? A dog? A doll?"
"My brother!"
"Ah. Right. Well then, I'll find Jamie and Falstaff, and you run for your life!" he handed her the screwdriver. "Hold this in front of you, keep this button pressed. Sonic waves should displace the smoke in front of you. And hang around, 'cause I'll want that back!"
The girl ran, doing as she had been told. The Doctor squinted – stairs. Great. Another level to search. And from the amount of smoke now filling the air, it was probably the one the fire had started in. And yet he couldn't see any flames. He could feel the heat, but no orange glow…
"Allons-y!"
The crowd was even smaller now. Smoke continued to billow out of the pub, but the flames were taking longer to erupt than anyone had thought. In Tudor London, wood and thatch were the only real building materials most could afford. And the funny thing about wood and dry straw is that they burn extremely easily.
There were, however, still some stragglers – the relatives of Jamie still stood outside, worried, waiting for the strange man. A child had stumbled out, coughing, now wrapped in a warm blanket by a bystander. A single drunk, possibly Jamie's father, swayed uncertainly, a puzzled look on his face as though he had forgotten something or someone important.
The small crowd was distracted momentarily by the arrival of a man, very smartly dressed with a ruff around his neck, panting a little as he caught his breath.
"What happened here?" he gasped.
"Fire," said one man, as though that was all there was to it.
Will rolled his eyes. "I can see that, thank you. I meant, why is it on fire?"
The man frowned. "There was a…well, it was…it just caught fire, didn't it?"
Will looked around at the rest of the small gathering outside the building with smoke pouring out of it but no flames. They looked equally confused, as if trying to remember something from long ago and failing.
"Does no-one remember?"
The first man frowned. "Funny, the other bloke didn't even ask."
Ah. He'd been right. "He does that. Tall, thin, strange clothes? Pointing something?"
"Yeah, that's him! How did you-"
"Worry not. Where did he go?"
"The D-Doctor…"
The little girl stirred, a corner of the blanket falling away, and Will stared. Clutched in her hand tightly was a long, thin, metal object that he knew was not of this time or this world. He knelt down, still looking at the sonic screwdriver.
"Did he give you this?" he asked. "I'm a friend of the Doctor. Did he give you this?"
The girl nodded, still shaken. Will held out an open hand. "I'll give it back to him. I promise."
The girl hesitated, looking troubled, but nodded and handed over the small object.
Will stood, looking at the strange device, thoroughly alien to him in more ways than even he knew. "Where did he go?"
"Inside! Went to pull our Jamie out, didn't he?"
"I don't know. Did he?" Will was growing impatient. "I don't have time for this."
The crowd watched as a second man entered a burning building. This day was full of impossible things – pubs that simply burst into flame, strange men who rushed to meet certain death with grim determination and, in the case of the first man, outright glee. And monsters not of this world.
Slowly, it dawned on a few of them that this last piece of information was probably something the two men should have been told before going in.
The smoke was a little thicker now, and even with his impossible glassed the Doctor had to squint. He reached into one of his many pickets, pulling out a handkerchief to keep over his mouth as he inhaled – even Time Lords could choke.
"Jamie? Falstaff? Anyone?"
The Doctor bounded up the stairs, his long legs taking them in their stride, and he skidded to a halt at the top of them, clutching the banister. Two bodies lay curled in the corner of the room. He sighed in relief as he saw one of the children stir, then the other, coughing and looking around in alarm.
And then his eyes registered the other occupant of the room.
The phrase "not of this Earth" is applied far too loosely, and is almost always entirely wrong. In this case, however, it was perfectly right. The thing was about two meters long from head to tail, or it would have been if it had a head. Instead, what looked like a neck terminated in a misshapen lump from which a few fleshy tendrils sprouted. Stubby but thick wings were hung on its back, and its midsection sported four sets of clawed arms. The entire creature was resting on powerful legs that terminated in sharply curved talons, and a tail resting behind it, gently twitching.
It was currently standing on the top of a table, balanced precariously, "neck" stretched up to thrust its "head" into the glowing red fire that was burning through the nearest beam of wood. And only that beam.
The nonexistent head turned nonexistent eyes to the all-too-real man.
"Oh. Hello! Sorry about this, just have to get the kids to safety. Kids, you know how it is. I'll just get them out, and-"
The wings stretched out, rumbled with a sound like a jet engine, and the Doctor threw himself back as the creature hurled itself at him, claws and talons outstretched and grabbing at where he had been, crashing through the wood panelling. He planted its claws on the walls as it tried to extract itself, letting out an unearthly shriek.
The Doctor teetered on the top step, felt himself begin to fall-
Hands caught him. He sighed in relief, and turned to face-
"Doctor?"
"Will?" he asked incredulously. "Will Shakespeare?"
Will grinned. "Is it you? You were gone so suddenly, I thought-"
"It's me, in the flesh, older and wiser. Well, I say wiser… and older…"
"To me, fair friend, you never can look old."
"Thank you! Now, before I topple down the stairs and regenerate a bit early, RUN!"
Will and the Doctor ducked beneath the flailing tail and talons into the room as the creature fell back, caught itself in mid air, and shrieked again. The two kids screamed, scooting back on all fours to the far wall, away from the creature. It hovered, looking without eyes between Will and the Doctor, looking like it was coiling itself up like a spring for another attack.
"By Convention Fifteen of the Shadow Proclamation, I have the right to parley with my attacker. Who are you? What do you want?"
The creature seemed to pause, as though surprised. There was a buzzing noise, if noise was the right word. The creature spoke a harsh, grating language, but behind the offensive noise was a high note of clarity, almost of song. A song that arrived directly into the mind, translating the thoroughly alien words into understandable text.
The Doctor grimaced. "Okay, right. Sorry, should have recognised you. Smoke inhalation must be going to my head."
"Doctor, what does it say?"
"It's introducing itself. Catharg-Jocoshtu-Fezhezh. Nice to meet you. Can I call you Catharg for short?"
Another buzzed-song.
"Right. Now that we've got introductions out of the way, what do think you're doing here? This is a Level Two developing planet still in its pre-industrial stages! The Shadow Proclamation isn't going to like this at all!"
Will frowned. The buzzing was still there, as were the words, but there was…meaning where there had been none before. The Doctor simply listened, absent-mindedly wiping his 3D glasses of the soot.
{We are not invading. We break no law.}
"Well obviously it's not an invasion. And believe me, I'd know if it was. But aggressive infiltrations are still covered by the conventions, article two, subsection four hundred and seven.
{We wish no harm to this planet.}
"Didn't look like that to me, you nearly took my head off!"
{We acted in self-defence.}
"Defending against what? I'm not even carrying my sonic screwdriver! Do I look armed?"
{We did not know.}
"Okay, so there was a mix-up. That's okay. But what's not is you being here at all. You're interfering with the future of this planet, completely mucking up history! This pub was meant to be bombed by Hitler in 1941, not burned down in 1599!
{Was it important?}
"Of course it's important! Ripple effects and whatnot! A butterfly flaps its wings in China, suddenly America vanishes in a puff of smoke. This pub was supposed to be the meeting place of a small group of authors, who now have to go somewhere else to bring humanity some of the greatest novels ever written. What kind of effect is that going to have? How did you even get here? You have no ship, no temporal displacer, nothing or the TARDIS would have detected it!"
{We fell through the cracks in time. We fell through eternity and darkness and starved. We hungered. And now we feed.}
"Doctor," asked Will, "When it says feed, does it mean-"
"Oh no. Mi-go feed on energy, and what's a fire but a great big source of thermal energy? Which explains why there's so much smoke but no fire."
"You mean…they eat fire?"
"Of course. Basic energy absorption. You get it from eating and drinking. They just cut out the middle man. Literally. Listen, I'm sorry you're trapped here, I really am. But you're an alien in a time and a place that is vitally important to human history."
{We cannot go back}
"I have a ship. I can take you back."
{We cannot go back}
"Why? What's wrong?"
{Our home was consumed by the fires of the end of the universe. The cracks widened and our world was consumed.}
"I can find you another world, one where you can begin again."
{We tire of running. We tire of starving. This world is rich in energy, this city dry and brittle. We must feed. We shall feed.}
The Doctor's face hardened. "Don't make me do this. Don't make me stop you."
{What can you do little man?}
"THIS! Will, do it now!"
Will held up the long, silvery object the child had given him, finger fumbling for the button where he had seen the Doctor press a thumb onto it so long ago, and was rewarded with a deafening sonic pulse. The Mi-go keened in pain, thrashing in the air and dropping as its wings clamped over what might have been ears.
"Up you get kids!" the Doctor said, pulling the children, two boys, to their feet. He lifted one in his arms, handing him to a nonplussed Will, and carried the other himself. The Mi-go blocked the stairs, wings still clamped over its auditory sensory organs, but now facing the two men, talons out, hissing menacingly.
"Do it again, Will! Bring the roof down!" he winced. "Not something I ever thought I'd have to say in an English pub. Again. Nice man, John Lennon. Remind me to introduce you."
"And how can I do such a thing?" Will demanded.
"Use the sonic again!"
Will used his free hand to press the button again. The same noise pierced the air, and the Mi-go writhed in agony, pawing the ground.
"How?"
"Extend the sonic wave emitter for its maximum setting, press the button closest to the end, point and hold!"
Will shifted the weight of the terrified child to his other arm, using his free arm to hodl the device up above his head, pointed at the roof, slid a knob along its length and was rewarded by the tip of the sonic screwdriver extending. He pressed the button.
The creature positively screamed, and hurled itself at them.
And then the floor collapsed.
Somewhere, a man jerks awake in a darkened room.
The room was vast, circular, and vaulted. Tiers of galleries ringed the walls, ascending in an ever-tightening spiral towards the roof, tapering into a thin wooden spire. And looking up at this, the man in the hooded robes gasped for breath, eyes wide in horror. His fellows, cloaked in similar garb, stood passively, watching, expectant.
"He is here," the man gasped. "The dark one is here. The bringer of death."
One voice asked, "Does he know of the plan?"
Another voice said, "What matter if he does? He is but one man."
And another voice, possibly the same as the first, said, "But one man in the wrong and at the wrong time can make all the difference."
A voice asked, "Can he perish?"
A voice answered, "He is not immortal, but the threads of time are…confused. So many faces, but always one soul."
"But he is mortal."
"Is that enough? If he knows, then do others?"
"We must wait. Patience is a virtue, one we have perfected. We can wait."
"He has no need of waiting. He has all the time in the universe."
"But there are rules, ones which even he cannot break. He is the last of those who created and enforced them, and it is he who they affect most strongly."
"An agreement must be come to. Do we intervene? Or do we wait?"
"A vote will be taken."
No hands were raised. No lots were taken, no numbers were guessed. And yet the crowd had reached its consensus in only a few minutes. A unanimous consensus.
"We will wait, and observe further. More variables must be taken into account, ones which are not available."
The man in the centre of the crowd had remained silent through all of this, eyes still wide, staring unseeingly up at the spiralled tower above them. He stood as still as stone, his face as still as if it had been chiselled from rock. His eyes darted, as if watching events invisible to the others. His nostrils flared and his eyes widened and, almost under his breath, he whispered, "The mad Dalek seer, gibbering in the darkness…the war fought in time…Gallifrey falling…the cracks from the end of the universe…the chaos god's great prison…the fall of Arcadia…all of this has happened, and is happening, and will happen in days to come…"
Will groaned as he opened his eyes, feeling a weight on his chest. For one panicked moment, he thought a wooden beam had pinned him. He shifted, and realised that it was the unconscious form of the child he had been holding. He checked the child, finding a few shallow cuts and bruises, but no major harm. Thank the lord.
He sat up, slowly, his joints aching after the fall.
"What in the name of all the saints happened?"
"Sonic reverberations vibrating every nail in the floor simultaneously, weakening the structural integrity of the floor. Floorboards snap, we fell through, presto! Instant escape!"
The Doctor wasn't far, clambering over the wreckage, carrying the other child who was clutching him by his coat. He extended a hand which Will took, feeling himself hauled to his feet, child and all.
Will shook dust and wood chips from his hair, using his free hand to brush some off his shoulders. "I thought you asked me to collapse the roof?"
The Doctor shrugged. "I did. You were holding the sonic the wrong way."
"What? I thought the black end was the-"
"No, the extending crystal tip is the end. Honestly, it's as if you've never used a screwdriver before."
A shriek rang out from above, and the creature looked down through the hole at the two men, each carrying a child in their arms, looking back with a mix of surprise. Wordlessly, Will handed the sonic screwdriver to the Doctor, who equally wordlessly raised it, pointed at the creature, but silent.
The thing halted, and Will had the strange but unmistakable impression that it was glaring at them, even without eyes. And then it vanished with a flash of light, his eyes shutting out the glare, and opening to find it gone.
"Haha!" Will shouted, grinning in exultation. "Run and hide, demon! Back into hell!"
He turned, smiling at the Doctor, who did not share his joy. Instead, he was frowning in concern at the spot where the creature had been.
"Do you know something, Will?" he asked, meeting his glance. "I don't believe in coincidences. Not at my age. Good fortune's one thing, but this? I land in Tudor London, only to hear screaming and find an alien terrorising an English pub, then I run into you of all people, and then I see the alien use a technology it can't possibly have. But do you know what the biggest coincidence of all is?"
Will frowned, suddenly concerned. "And what would that be?"
The Doctor's face broke out into a sudden grin. "One of these kids is called Falstaff! Imagine that! You might be holding a child named after one of your most beloved characters! Hah!"
Will chuckled, shaking his head in relief. "You are a constant paradox, Doctor. Serious one moment, joyous the next. It is little wonder she finds you intolerable."
The Doctor looked confused for a moment. "She? Who…oh, right, the Queen. I'm still not even sure what I did. Ah well, something to look forward to." He nodded toward the door. "Come on then! There's some anxious parents out there."
There was a collective gasp from the crowd outside as the two men they had let go to their death emerged, covered in soot and smoke still billowing out behind them. One of the women cried out, rushing forward and taking the child from the Doctor's arms with a cry of "Jamie!" and ecstatic sobs. He grinned, seeing mother reunited with son. The drunk wobbled forward, looking a little bemused but relieved, and ruffled his son's hair.
Shakespeare looked down at the young boy unconscious in his arms, concerned. He looked so young, seven years old…about the time Henry IV Part One had been first performed. He had made modifications, alterations, rewrites, as any playwright should, adjusting to the moods and attitudes of the audience to better the performance, but the character of Falstaff had been a constant…
Nine years old. Born when his son, Hamnet, had still…
He blinked smoke out of his eyes as another woman rushed forward, crying, and swept the boy out of his arms. He smiled. Three children alive and safe in the world because of the actions of him and the Doctor, and a monster banished from this world…
And as he thought that, the rest of the building simply imploded, sending out a cloud of smoke and dust. The last of the crowd dispersed in a frantic scramble to get out of the debris field, leaving only the Doctor and William Shakespeare staring at the still crumbling wreck that had once stood in that spot.
"Which setting did you put it onto, Will?" the Doctor asked, a little subdued.
"You said maximum."
"Right. Sorry, might have overdone it a bit." He shook his head. "Well, at least it's put the fire out."
The rubble shifted again as it settled, as though to punctuate the Doctor's sentence.
The Bard and the Doctor looked at each other, back at the rubble, back to each other. And simultaneously, they burst out laughing. They were so busy laughing that they didn't notice the second creature take off into the night.
True prophets are rare, and those who exist are not often known for their altruism or their clarity. The one who pulled a curtain away from her window, a single eye peering out into the sky as smoke continued to billow up in a slow trickle. It narrowed in fear, and the voice it belonged to muttered darkly to itself.
"The lonely god wanders 'cross distant shores, and soon his travels will bring him to my door."
The curtains close again, the window returning to total darkness. Sometime later, the neighbouring household noticed that one of their brooms had gone missing. Their cat had also gone missing. They would have missed it, too – they had bought it to catch the rats – except that there were never any rats in this part of town. Never.
Even later that night, a few people, obviously drunks, or harlots, or mad, swore that they saw a figure on a broomstick flying through the night.
