The Doctor

Prescott Lamb maneuvered the hoverlink along the coastline, scanning the cliffs for the wreckage Dr. McCrimmon had mentioned. As they skimmed through thin skeins of clouds that left cold drops of moisture on their goggles and in their hair, Prescott nudged the controls forward, pressing for speed.

He had never seen Dr. McCrimmon look so anxious, not during the Water Crisis, not even during the Locastalan Invasion of 2012. Whatever had crashed out there, it meant a great deal to Dr. McCrimmon, which made it a big deal to Prescott.

They had traveled nearly six kliks when Dr. McCrimmon leaned forward. He held his sonic screwdriver over the side of the hoverlink and sent a steady pulse ahead.

"There," Dr. McCrimmon said. He fed the new bearings back into the hoverlink's computer, and Prescott adjusted to the flight path. The craft banked right, cresting the cliffs and leaving the shore behind them.

"Sir," Prescott said, nodding at the clutch of storm clouds gathering over the sea.

"Yep," Dr. McCrimmon said. He twisted the screwdriver; the pulse intensified.

"But sir…" Prescott insisted.

Dr. McCrimmon's jaw tightened. "I know," he said.

Thunder ruptured from the storm, echoing around them. Prescott tightened his gloved fingers on the wheel. Below them, the hills rippled stark green against the graying sky.

The sonic screwdriver resonated a high-pitched chirp, and there it was, the strangest ship Prescott had ever seen: a bright blue box perched on the brow of a hill.

"That's it!" McCrimmon shouted. "Ha! All in one piece, yes she is! Who's a good TARDIS?"

Prescott brought the hoverlink in for a soft landing. Dr. McCrimmon climbed overboard and dropped the five feet to the earth. He pressed his earpiece and said, "Right, so once I'm inside, you know what to do."

"Aye, sir," Prescott said.

"Keep a weather eye," McCrimmon said. He removed his cap and goggles, tucked them in his pocket, and walked, carefully, deliberately toward the box.

XXX

James McCrimmon paused at the door of the TARDIS. He steadied his breathing and felt, suddenly, very, very small. He raised his hand to knock, but then splayed his palm to place it against the surface, gentle as a caress.

She was cold.

He closed his eyes and leaned against the TARDIS, listening for the hush of her systems, for the hum of her heart. Silence answered.

And then, with a soft click, the door creaked inward.

"Thanks," he whispered. He stepped inside, into darkness, and the door closed behind him.

"What in Gallifrey has he done to you?" he whispered, horrified as he rounded the central console of the TARDIS.

He ran his shaking hands over his face and was standing there on the bridge a la The Scream when a young, scruffy sort of man came up from below with a tea kettle in one hand and a spanner in the other.

"Wha –?" the man said upon seeing James. Then, "How? Who? I thought – Wha–? How'd you get in?"

"You must be Rory Williams," James said, extending his hand. Rory extended the spanner. James shook it.

"H-h-how'd you know my name?"

"I'm clever," James said. "Where is he?"

"He? He who?" Rory said. "Nobody here but good old Rory."

James' mouth quirked in a half-smile. "I'm here to help," he said. "Amy and River popped by this afternoon with a bit of psychic paper."

"Oh! Right," Rory said. He lowered the spanner.

"Now he's got it," James said, tapping Rory on the nose. "He's below, amIright?"

Rory's face crumbled. "It's bad," he said.

"I've seen bad," James said.

"It's worse."

"Show me."

"Who are you?"

"I'm an old friend – Well – I'm a friend – Well – We knew each other."

"You sound like him," Rory said.

"I do? Well, isn't that something. I'll just…" James tipped a salute and slipped past Rory, down the plasteel gangplank (Plasteel? he moaned inwardly. Made his shoes squeak. Honestly, what was wrong with metal?)

He slipped down the hallway, passed the bins, the laundry, the library, which was smaller, and, interestingly, fitted with a pool. He heard Rory gaining on him; His shoes squeaked, too. James vaulted the last handrail and slid around the corner, into the master suite.

And there he was. The Doctor.

"He's sleeping," Rory said over James' shoulder.

"Right. To work then." James took out his sonic screwdriver.

"Hey? Where did you get—?"

"I made it," he answered. He sidled up to the bed and stared down at the new face of the new man. He clicked his tongue. "Still not ginger."

He swept the sonic screwdriver over the Doctor's head, lifted his eyelids. "Green eyes this time. Hm. Normal dilation. Good… Bowtie?" He glanced at Rory, who shrugged. "Hearts, plural. Both pumping away. Taller this time. Bigger… hands. Interesting."

James switched off the screwdriver and stepped back, his chin in hand.

"Physically he's fine. Not poisoned. Not electrocuted. Not regenerating. Sartorially challenged, but otherwise…fine. He should be up and about, saving the universe. Wouldn't you say?"

"Well, uh. Yeah. I suppose."

"So why isn't he?"

"I don't know," Rory said.

"It was rhetorical," James said.

"Oh—"

"Right, well, let's ask him," James said. "And Rory—"

"Yeah?"

"Duck." James cranked the screwdriver up to eleven. Rory dropped to his knees and the tea kettle burst like a bomb just as James jabbed the screwdriver down into the middle of the Doctor's forehead.

The Doctor sat up, his eyes wide, and drawing an enormous breath, he said, "and then he said, 'the cosmos is within us.' ... Hello?"

James switched off his screwdriver. The Doctor clapped a hand to his forehead. "Ow."

"Yep," James said.

"He has a – sonic-y – thing," Rory said.

"So he has," the Doctor said. "Because he's me."

"Was," James corrected.

"What?" Rory said.

The Doctor swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "It was a meta-crisis, there were Daleks, my hand in a jar, mix in a little time vortex, add a pinch of Donna Noble – Bam – meta-crisis Doctor." He clasped James' hand in both of his.

"It's McCrimmon now."

"James McCrimmon," the Doctor said, puzzled. Then, "Hang on. We were in Paris."

"That we were," Rory said.

"And now we're not."

"No," James said. "Now you're in Scotland. My Scotland."

"Your Scotland. You can't own Scotland. Wait. Can you?"

"Different universe," James said. "Did you hit your head."

"No. Did I?" He stood up, arms wide. "Wait. Different universe! We fell out of the time vortex and wound up here, but how? And more interestingly, why?"

"All of that will have to wait, I'm afraid. A storm's brewing. We need to get indoors."

"We are indoors," Rory pointed out.

"Right you are," James said. "But with the TARDIS offline—"

"—We're completely vulnerable," the Doctor finished.

"It's more than that, I'm afraid," James said. "This planet has atmospheric control, which makes a storm like this impossible."

"Impossible storm can only mean one thing—"

"—Something is coming," James said. "And it's followed you."

At that moment, they felt a shudder rock the TARDIS. Rory held out his hands to steady his balance.

"It's all right," James said. He depressed the comlink on his screwdriver. "Good work, Prescott. Do us a favor, please. Have Gerard get the canister inside, one test will have to do, oh, and Prescott…"

"Aye, sir."

"Tell Rose we're coming in."

"Rose Tyler," the Doctor mused. He raked his hands through his hair. "Rose. Ha! Good old Rose, how is she, it's been… well, it's been forever."

"Yes, it has," James said.

"Oh," the Doctor said. Then, "Oh."

James swallowed hard. "So. Shall we?"

"Um. We crashed in a field," Rory said. "We were miles from anyplace—"

"Ah, but James moved us," the Doctor said. "Dirigible?"

"Hoverlink."

"Splendid!" The Doctor brought his hands together. "After you."