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"Wait," Rory said. "Just wait. Before you say anything that makes us want to throw you back into the hole, let's make sure these angels won't be able to kill you. You said we had to make them face each other, so Amy and I should push this one down there. Right?"
"Unless you'd rather bring the one down there up here," the Doctor replied.
"I like Rory's idea better," Amy said.
Since the Doctor was in no shape to move statues anywhere, he took up the task of making sure the angel in the basement stayed still while Amy and Rory pushed its frozen friend to the lip of the hole. Even immobilized the angel proved to be a challenge; it was so heavy and unwieldy that moving it was as challenging as steering an elephant in a direction it did not want to go.
Once the angel was precariously balanced on the edge of the hole, the Doctor stopped the Ponds before they could give their stone nemesis a final push. He needed to make sure they got it right the first time, as they had no means to enable a reset or a second go. The Doctor checked the angels' alignment, ran a quick calculation in his head, and decided the chances of success surpassed the chances of failure. Green-lighted, the Ponds tipped the angel forward and it fell with all the grace of a crippled plane.
With one now lying atop the other, and each of them snarling into the other's face, the pair of angels looked like the universe's most unpleasant, terrifying lovers. The Doctor congratulated the Ponds on their excellent pushing. Rory and Amy gladly accepted the praise, but wondered if it wasn't a ploy the Doctor was using to blunt their anger when they heard his real scheme.
"Now that they're taken care of, what's the plan?" Amy asked.
"They're taken care of, but he's not. We can't just let him lay there, bleeding," Rory said.
"You, Mr. Pond, are getting very good at stalling," the Doctor said.
"And you're getting very good at losing blood."
"If you insist on playing nurse, I've got something in my pocket for you."
"Is that some sort of dirty joke?"
"No! Just reach in there and you'll know it when you find it."
Rory tentatively inserted his hand into the Doctor's pocket. His fingers met nothing but air, so he stuck his hand in a little farther. He encountered something soft and silky, closed his hand around it, and brought it out.
"Uh, how is your spare bowtie supposed to help me? Maybe if your finger was bleeding I could use it as a tourniquet but I don't see what use it'll be now." Rory dangled the white bowtie between his fingers.
"That's not it. You've got to keep digging. You're looking for a plastic box. Ignore anything else I might have in there," the Doctor said. "And if you feel something moist, that is definitely not for you."
Not enjoying it any better the second time around, Rory again went spelunking in the Doctor's pocket. His arm was swallowed nearly to the elbow before he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a box made of translucent plastic that was stamped on the top with a many-sided red figure.
"First aid kit courtesy of the Red Dodecahedron. They felt a red cross didn't have quite enough sides. Dodecahedron is much more inclusive. Friendlier shape, too, or so I've been told," the Doctor said.
Rory opened the box and examined its contents. Superficially, the box's innards looked like the expected contents of a well-stocked first aid kit; it contained sterile gauze pads and bandages, scissors, a variety of medications and disposable gloves. Once Rory got a better look, though, he wondered if the kit was meant for human use.
"These gloves have four fingers and no thumb," Rory said. "And what are these pills supposed to be? Space aspirin? I don't recognize any of the names."
"Doubt it. Aspirin, from space or otherwise, isn't included in most pan-species first aid kits. It tends to have nasty side effects on certain species. Take Time Lords, for example. Deathly allergic to aspirin. I don't think you're supposed to give it to cats, either."
"I'm not a veterinarian! I don't care what cats are allergic to! Please, Doctor, just tell me what medicine you need so I won't accidentally kill you," Rory begged.
"From the top left compartment, take the plastic vial and the packet underneath it. Combine them and give them a good shake."
Rory did as instructed, pouring the packet's crystalline contents into the vial and then shaking it like a margarita. The formerly clear fluid in the vial turned a sour shade of green. To Rory it looked less medicinal and more Herbert West—Reanimator.
"Is this going to cure you or raise the dead?" Rory asked.
"If you did it right, the former. Now help me take off my jacket and shirt."
"Is there a medically legitimate reason for that?"
"Actually, no, I've just decided to stop wearing clothes because partial nudity is cool. Come on, Rory Pond! Of course there's a medically legitimate reason! You're going to pour that directly on my injuries and it would help if there was nothing in the way."
Rory helped the Doctor sit up and then, as gently as possible to avoid exacerbating his injuries, eased the Time Lord's jacket off. The Doctor had taken to leaving his jacket unbuttoned because the angels couldn't seem to keep their grubby paws off it. Though one angel had exhibited a predilection for the Doctor's shirt, he'd been considerate of his companions and had, despite the safety risks, kept his shirt buttoned. Before Rory could ask if the Doctor needed help, the Time Lord's nimble fingers had undone the row of buttons and the front of his shirt hung open.
Removing the shirt was harder than removing the jacket because the Doctor's blood had begun to coagulate, gluing the fabric to his skin. Rory peeled the garment off, wincing every time the cloth stuck to the Doctor. It had to be agony, having anything touch the deep furrows the angel had carved into the Doctor's back, yet the Doctor remained quiet and stoic.
"Alright, Doctor?" Rory asked once the shirt had been removed and laid on the floor.
"Been better. 'Course, I've also been worse."
Rory didn't want to know how much worse, or when. While he'd been undressing the Doctor, he'd come to a realization: he enjoyed watching coma patients sleep infinitely more than he liked acting as a battlefield triage medic. People who did little but breathe—and certainly didn't bleed and make you concoct strange alien medicines you were uncomfortable and unfamiliar with—were easy. Time Lords were the exact opposite.
"Are you one-hundred percent sure about this?" Rory said.
"See the things I have and you'll never be completely certain about anything. But I am confident this will work. Now. Stop. Stalling!"
Rory uncapped the vial, tried to convince himself the trail of expelled vapor was normal and not toxic, and poured a single drop of the liquid into the deepest of the Doctor's cuts. There was a sudden hiss like rapidly boiling water that was accompanied by a simultaneous hiss of air through the Doctor's clenched teeth.
"Is it supposed to be doing that to him? Rory? Doctor?" Amy had been content to leave the boys to their medicine until the Doctor started making noise. Now she needed reassurance.
"It's fine, Amy! Go and watch the angels," the Doctor snapped.
"But they're frozen."
"Yes, but there are three more that aren't. They're wary, not useless, and if they think they can set those two free, they will try."
It was a legitimate concern, one Amy wished she'd realized from the beginning, but it was by no means the Doctor's only reason for sending her away. He wanted to save her the trauma of watching her Raggedy Doctor treated with what seemed like terribly barbaric means. As she sat down at the edge of the hole, Amy found herself wiping away errant tears.
"This stuff, it's some sort of…chemical cauterization. Doctor—"
The Doctor cut Rory off. "Do it. As quickly as possible."
Rory wished he could avert his eyes and cover his ears as he drained the vial's caustic formula. As the chemicals sizzled and sputtered, the Doctor jerked and whimpered like a dog so tormented by parasites it was reduced to snapping at its own skin. The pain was unending, maddening, and no wonder! The Doctor had practically cooked himself alive! Whether it was done with a superheated object or with highly reactive chemicals, cauterizing a wound was hell in the flesh.
"Doctor…" Rory had no idea what he wanted to say, so he shut his mouth and let his gestures do the talking. He reached out and touched the Doctor's hand. The Doctor responded by first squeezing Rory's offered hand, and then crushing it. Rory remained quiet while the Doctor mashed his hand like a stress-relief ball.
The chemical reaction burned itself out after what seemed like years. Rory had lost most of the sensation in his fingers by the time the Doctor released his hand. While Rory massaged life back into his digits, the Doctor tried to get his body to stop hating him. Considering the way he'd been treating it lately, he couldn't blame it for rebelling and purposely failing him. He needed to rest and heal, or at least wait until the pain in his back receded a little, and his exhausted body was screaming this at him. It wasn't like the Doctor didn't want to do as his biology demanded and collapse in a snoring heap; he just didn't have the time. Without any other options he ignored the internal alarms, pushed back the pain and the fatigue, and forced himself onto his feet.
"That is not a good idea. Doctor, sit back down," Rory ordered.
"I'm the Doctor, so I outrank you. I say it's time to finish this. Give me my shirt," the Doctor replied.
"At least let me bandage you so you're not putting cloth directly on your injuries."
"If you can do it quickly, be my guest."
The first aid kit provided plenty of ordinary sterile bandages that, as far as Rory could tell, could have come from any Earth hospital. He did his best to cover the Doctor's extensive injuries and, once satisfied (and out of bandages), he handed the Doctor his torn shirt and jacket.
"Now do we hear about the plan?" Amy asked. Even though she hadn't seen so much a talon despite all the blinking she'd been doing, she wouldn't feel safe until the three free angels in the basement were contained.
"Nope. We need one more thing," the Doctor replied.
"What?"
"George. Will one of you call him? My voice isn't up to the task."
"Why do we need George?"
"Because I'm only telling the plan once, and he needs to be here to hear it. I can't shout it halfway across the house."
By their powers combined, Amy and Rory managed to shout loudly enough for George to hear them, for them to convince him the Doctor was alive and nobody's voice had been stolen by weeping angels, and for George to find his way through the maze of Wester Drumlins and arrive after making only a few wrong turns. He stepped into the room, noted the hole in the floor, the ragged, bloody tears in the Doctor's clothes, and the darkening bruises around the Time Lord's throat, and decided not to comment on any of it.
"What'd you need me for?" George asked.
"A lookout. Insurance. A bearer of bad news if worst comes to worst," the Doctor said.
"That's a lot of responsibility."
"The third job's only important if my plan fails."
"And what is the plan already?" Amy was getting antsy, as she couldn't even turn away from the hole and watch the proceedings.
"We're going into the basement. Three of us, anyway."
There would not have been more of an uproar if the Doctor had suggested they put a bow on one of the angels and ship it off to the queen for a birthday gift. George didn't even know how many angels were in the basement, only that the number would probably be enough to kill him and he wanted no part in it. Rory and Amy called the Doctor insane, as well as several more colorful, less polite terms.
"We just pulled you out of there and now you want us to go back? With the angels that almost murdered you?" Rory demanded.
"If you want to die, there've got to be cleaner ways to do it," George said.
"Ways that don't take your friends with you," Amy added.
The Doctor listened to the protests, the jabs, the threats to put him in a straitjacket until he stopped being crazy and started thinking sanely again. He'd been expecting this and he sympathized with what everyone was shouting. What he had proposed was utterly and completely mad.
Utterly and completely mad enough to work.
He only needed to convince George and the Ponds.
"I know what it sounds like, but that's what makes it a good plan. The angels won't expect it."
"The angels won't expect us to throw ourselves out the window, either, but that still sounds almost as bad as what you're proposing," George said.
"Then what do you propose, George? We sit here, twiddling our thumbs or bickering like Parliament, until nightfall? We have a deadline, you know. If the angels aren't dealt with by the time the sun goes down, we get to all die in the dark."
"We'll still die in the dark if we go along with your plan, only we'll do it five hours earlier!"
"I'd rather die trying to stop creatures that are more than capable of destroying the world."
"And I'd rather not die needlessly. What good will we be if we're all dead?"
"Doctor, I hate to do this to you, but I agree with George. I like being alive," Rory said.
"Please, can't you think of something better?" Amy asked.
The Doctor closed his mouth and surveyed his friends. They were not going to help him. He'd finally done it, finally concocted a plan so foolish and assuredly lethal that his companions all put their foot down and refused him.
"Who has my sonic screwdriver?" the Doctor asked.
Amy held the screwdriver up and whistled to get the Doctor's attention. He walked over to her, plucked the screwdriver from her hand, and then sat down beside her, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the hole.
"What are you doing?" Amy's voice rose in panic. "Doctor? Don't you dare!"
Before Amy could grab him and wrestle him away, the Doctor dropped into the basement. By some miracle he landed on the facedown angel's wings and managed to keep his balance. His less-than-healed injuries didn't approve of the Time Lord's acrobatics and the Doctor had to hide a wince as he hopped off the angel and onto the floor.
"Get back here!" Amy shouted.
Rory and George rushed to the hole to find the Doctor fiddling with his screwdriver and paying no attention to his friends. It was almost like…almost like he was blatantly ignoring them despite all the noise they were making.
"You're going to get killed!" Rory said.
Keeping his eyes firmly on his sonic screwdriver, the Doctor responded, "Only if I try to do this alone. I haven't got a chance then."
"Don't think you can guilt us into playing along! It isn't going to work," Amy said.
The Doctor flicked on the sonic screwdriver and the device bathed him in a green glow that was far stronger than usual. Satisfied, he held it out like a torch and took a single step towards the darkness of the basement.
Three simultaneous cries of "No!" were not quite powerful enough to keep the Doctor from taking a second, albeit smaller, step.
"You're behaving like a child!" Amy accused, and it was true. Threatening to deliver yourself to the weeping angels was quite a bit worse than threatening to hold your breath until you passed out or run away unless you got your sweets, but the tactics were the same.
The Doctor took a single long stride that bought him to the limits of the light shining down through the hole. Amy clenched her hands so hard her painted nails bit into her palms. As the Doctor had done minutes before, she scooted forward and let her feet dangle over the edge. Shaking her head, unable to believe what she was doing, Amy held her breath, bent her knees, and fell.
Amy was not lucky enough to emulate the Doctor's smooth landing. One of her feet found the angel's wing; the other skidded off. Unbalanced, Amy shrieked, flailed her arms, and fell backwards.
Instead of meeting the floor, Amy found her fall suspended by a pair of strong hands at her back. The Doctor grunted and pushed Amy upright.
"Thanks, Doctor," Amy squeaked.
"No, Pond, thank you."
"This doesn't mean I forgive you for manipulating me." Amy dismounted the angel, her feet knocking up miniature clouds of dust as she landed.
"I don't forgive you, either!"
Amy and the Doctor looked up. Rory was perched on the lip of the hole. He took a deep breath, stared directly at the Doctor and said, "Geronimo."
TBC
And with this chapter, Angels in the Garden becomes my second fic to reach 100,000 words.