He was not aware of falling, but when sense returned, he was slumped on the floor, awkwardly positioned between the two beds.

"Michael?" Fiona asked. From the worry in her voice, it clearly had not been the first time.

He groaned, struggling to sit up. "What the hell happened?"

"Some sort of electrical shock, I think."

Michael shook his right hand; it stung fiercely. Looking at it, he saw that his first two fingertips and thumb were reddened with mild burns. "The Doctor. How is he?"

Fiona got up from where she crouched beside him, and sat down on the bed. Wrinkling her nose, she said, "It's angry looking, red. Looks... cauterized, really."

"Still out?"

"Yes."

Flexing his burned hand gingerly, Michael located the tweezers on the floor.

"I wouldn't," Fiona cautioned, afraid he was going to make a second attempt.

"Not going to," he assured her.

"Here, let me see," she added, reaching for his hand.

"It's not serious," he said, even as he let her look.

"That's not," she said, nodding at his fingers, "but whatever he's carrying..." Fiona sat down next to the Doctor, and began to clean away the blood on his back.

"I know." Michael paced as he thought. "RFID and GPS both have miniature circuitry, the technology's been around for awhile, now. But even the most powerful shouldn't have been able to deliver a shock like that."

"Do you think they're tracking him?"

"No. They would have found us by now, if they were."

"Unless they have," Fiona pointed out. "They can't afford the same kind of confrontation, here."

"True-but with you and Sam going in and out, they could have made a move if they'd wanted to. No; wherever they are, I think they're waiting for something."

"Do you think they know how sick he's gotten? Maybe they think that we'll turn to them for help."

"Or they're waiting for him to die, so they can retrieve the body," Michael said grimly.

"He's not going to die," Fiona said sharply.

Michael didn't answer. What little they knew about Time Lord physiology had come from the Doctor himself, and he was in no shape to give them answers now. The only other hope was to hack into UNIT's databases and search for information there. He just hoped that they weren't expecting him to try it.

"Michael?"

The voice was faint, little more than a whisper-and yet it got Michael's attention more easily than a shout. He put his laptop aside, and moved over to sit on the other bed.

"How long?" the Doctor asked, before he could say anything.

"Most of a day," Michael answered. Without thinking about it, he reached out and touched the Doctor's forehead with the back of his hand. "You've still got a fever. Think you could drink something?"

"Please," the Doctor replied, and as soon as Michael turned away, began the difficult process of sitting up.

Michael nodded and ducked into the bathroom, deliberately stalling for time. When he came back out, he casually snagged a couple of pillows and dropped them into place. Without saying anything, he held the glass of water until the Doctor could take it.

The Time Lord's hand shook slightly, but he didn't drop it. He forced himself to drink only a small amount, and then handed it back. He eased himself into the pillows, grimacing against the pain in his back, and shut his eyes.

"Stay with me," Michael cautioned. "There's something you need to know."

Obediently, the Doctor opened his eyes. "What's that, then?"

"We found out what's causing the infection. The dart was armed with a propulsion system that caused a small chip to break away and imbed more deeply than the shaft could reach, between muscle fibres."

"That's why you couldn't find it before; they would have closed over."

"Exactly. But there's still a problem. The chip seems to be armed; defended against removal."

The look on the Doctor's face changed to one of concern, rather than mere curiosity. "'Defended, you say. Are you quite all right?"

"Burned fingers; no big deal," Michael answered, with an indifferent flex of the same. "No, the real problem is that I couldn't get the chip out. Do you know what it does?"

"Wish I could say I did," the Doctor said almost apologetically. "I know what I think it's doing, but that's not the same thing, is it? Any case, I wouldn't have expected it to react like that! No matter, though."

"No?"

"Well, now I'm awake, we can get it out."

"How's that, then?" Michael asked, unconsciously adopting the Doctor's accent and dialect.

"I know how to disarm it. Well, one of a few ways. But even if they don't work, there's no worry of you coming to harm. That's something, any rate."

"And what about you?"

"Still rather have it out."

"Okay. What do I do?"

"I'll need my sonic," the Doctor began.

"Sonic... oh, right." Michael retrieved it from the top of the dresser where Fiona had laid out the Doctor's things.

"Set it to- no, wait, sorry; that won't do. Give over." The Doctor held out a hand expectantly, and nodded when Michael placed the sonic screwdriver in it. He twisted the end a few times, frowning. Every now and then, the device would make a peculiar noise, almost like a whistle. "There!" He said, after a few moments had passed. "That should do. Now what you need to do, is line this up with the chip, and press that button there. Might be a bit of smoke; maybe a smallish sort of explosion-"

"Explosion?" Michael cut in.

"It'd be small; nothing, really," the Doctor said dismissively. "Tiny. Almost insignificant, really, if you don't count the flash. Or was that the burn?" He frowned faintly, then shook his head "Anyway, you want to see something, as that's how you'll know it's been done! If you don't get that, give the ol' sonic back to me and I'll have another go; fiddle with the setting, something like that. But once you've gotten that reaction-well, here's a bit of risk; sorry 'bout that. You'll need to go back in, you see. And if I'm right, this time the chip should come right out, safe as houses. If I'm wrong, well, like I said. Sorry."

"I'm willing if you are."

"Good. Let's be about it then, shall we?" The Doctor twisted with some effort, and pushed away a couple of the pillows that were holding him up. He lay down on his stomach with a grimace, and gripped the remaining pillow tightly. He felt Michael's hand on his back, carefully easing the wound open. When he heard the familiar noise of the sonic screwdriver, he clenched his teeth as best he could. A moment later there was a sound that best resembled the distinctive pop! of a light bulb going-not to mention a muffled yell from the Doctor-and the faint smell of char.

"Going in now," Michael told him, and now he pressed downward with the hand that was on the Doctor's back, holding him in place. He forced himself not to hear the pained noises the Time Lord was so clearly not trying to make, and focused on the task at hand.

A moment later he withdrew the tweezers, a tiny chip held in their tips. "Got it!" But he couldn't even savour the moment; he quickly dropped the chip into a bowl he'd grabbed for the purpose, and set about re-bandaging the wound. The Doctor was breathing more easily already; whether that was an effect of the chip being gone, or simple relief, Michael couldn't tell.

"Done," he said, said, smoothing the bandage into place.

The Doctor sighed audibly. "I think," he said, easing himself back over, "that's done it."

"You look the same," Michael said hesitantly.

The Time Lord smiled broadly. "Oh, yes. Nothing visible would happen so quickly as that. Or shouldn't, anyway, not without regeneration. So maybe I owe these blokes somewhat after all; they've saved me going on my eleventh life."

"Eleventh?"

The Doctor nodded. "A Time Lord is meant to be able to regenerate a total of twelve times; which essentially gives us thirteen lives. Most of the time," he added cryptically. "There are those who've cheated."

"You said before that regeneration changes you. How?"

"Everything," the Doctor said simply. "DNA, RNA, everything-all re-written. I retain my memories; most of them, sometimes eventually, but my appearance is entirely changed, right down to the teeth. Feels a bit odd, that. And do you know, I've never been ginger."

"So you don't get a say in the process?"

"Not the least. But here's an odd bit for you; we come back younger, each and every time. Yes, really," the Doctor added, seeing Michael's disbelieving look. "Not children, mind, but even so. How old do you think I am?"

"I would have said around twenty-seven, but if you're asking, you must be older." Michael scrutinized him for a moment. "So probably over thirty, even. Thirty-two?"

The Doctor laughed. "Hardly."

"What; a well-preserved forty?"

"Not even close."

"I'm not going to believe fifty."

"Well, you're right-I'm not."

"Give," Michael said.

"Nine hundred, give or take a few years. All rather blurs together, after the first few centuries. Of course, I could be wrong; all this back and forth in the timeline makes it a bit difficult to say. Never mind that a year on Gallifrey is not the same as it would be here on Earth, and so on."

"That's impossible," Michael said-but even as the words escaped him, he realized that he did in fact believe what the Time Lord had told him. And after everything else, why not? So with all the resilience of his training, he seized upon the other piece of information that had been offered. "Is Gallifrey where you're from?" He asked, taking care to pronounce the name properly.

"It was," the Doctor said steadily... but there was something in his voice, in his eyes, that hinted at a terrible pain.

Michael remembered that he'd said that he was the last of the Time Lords, and a picture started to form. "What happened?" He asked.

"We called it the Shining World of the Seven Systems," the Doctor answered in a voice thick with nostalgia. "Home of the Time Lords; their citadel, and within that, the Academy. "It was beautiful, Michael." He looked away. "And it burned."

"The whole planet? How?"

"There was a war. A terrible war, the like of which your race has never seen. It threatened more than the Time Lords, more than the Daleks. Had it gone on, it would have torn the universe apart."

"The Daleks," Michael repeated. "What are they?"

The Doctor considered in silence for a moment. "The Daleks regard themselves as the supreme beings in the universe. And yes, others have felt the same-but the Daleks believe that this so-called 'fact' gives them the right to exterminate all other life. The only emotion they know is hatred, and they are bent on conquest or destruction at all costs."

"And the Cyber Men?"

"They're- Wait. How'd you know about them?"

"You've been sick," Michael said by way of explanation. "Delirious. And, there was a point when you seemed to think that Fi was Rose."

The Doctor opened his mouth to say something, and then shut it again. He looked away, down, and finally glanced back at Michael. "Ah. I see," he said carefully. "Well. Do hope I didn't embarrass her too badly, then." He didn't say anything further, but in his eyes there seemed to be a silent plea for the subject to be changed.

"I know I've asked you this before," Michael began, "but do you know why UNIT's doing this?"

"Something to do with Torchwood, perhaps-which wouldn't surprise me, as happens. They're trouble, that lot."

"Torchwood. You mentioned them before, in the loft. Why are they after you?"

"In short? Because they think they can use me-or worse. They've got this notion anything alien belongs to them; even tried to take the TARDIS. 'Course, they justified that on account of me being listed in their charter as an enemy of the Crown."

Michael blinked, but decided to let that pass for the time being. "And when they took your ship, they took you."

"Oh, yes; me, too. Promised they'd keep me 'comfortably', wanted me to teach them! Which wasn't what they really wanted at all; the only thing they cared about was power. Anything that would let them scavenge more, exploit more, destroy-" The Doctor cut himself off and looked away, his jaw tightly clenched. "Sorry," he said.

"You got away," Michael said after a few moments had passed.

"I did. Thousands of others weren't so lucky. While the Daleks and Cybermen fought, it was the humans that suffered. Most died. When it was all over, and the enemy pulled into the Void... some of your people were lost through a rift, into a parallel world. None of them can ever come back; they're trapped there, forever. Maybe that's what this is all about; someone thinks I need to pay for that. I stopped the invasion, but all those people are still dead, still lost."

"And Rose was one of them," Michael said, understanding.

"Yes," the Doctor replied quietly. "One of the lost. But that's something, innit? She's alive. With her family, even. It's just that... we'll never see each other again. Can't. Which is nothing to Torchwood, right? Why should it be? Particularly if they've hung all those deaths on me. 'Course we're guessing here, laying this at the feet of Torchwood. After all, it was UNIT that I told you to call, and presumably UNIT who sent those soldiers here."

"Could there be a splinter movement within the organization-maybe working with Torchwood?" Michael suggested.

"If it's not officially recognized, I suppose anything's possible."

"And if they're not, it explains the covert nature of the operation. That could work for us."

"Us?" the Doctor asked cautiously.

"You came to me for help," Michael said simply. "I don't quit until the job's done."

"You mean to take on UNIT?"

"The entire organization, no. My hands are pretty much tied when it comes to anything outside of Miami. But the team they've sent after you? I'll do what I can. Getting that chip out was just the first step. Next thing is to find the TARDIS and take out the black ops unit-or the other way around, whatever."

"I... thank you," the Doctor said finally.