F/O: Bit longer than the last, thankfully! Here it is, thanks to my betas weirdoldme and dokodemohoney
Chapter Two
When Rose awoke, it was to find herself in the medical bay, with the stranger's worried face over her. Her head ached magnificently, and she had to blink a few times before his messy brown hair came into focus properly. Oh, he actually did have sideburns.
"Rose, how do you feel?"
"Like somebody whacked me over the head with a mallet," she replied pointedly, angrily.
"You hit your head on the console; I tried to stop you," he replied earnestly, almost apologetically.
"If you hadn't grabbed me round the waist, I wouldn't have hit my head at all," she replied sarcastically, and she watched through narrowed eyes as anger flashed over his expression.
"Why don't you trust me, Rose?"
"Because you are not the Doctor," she replied flatly. "And don't call me Rose."
"I am the Doctor!" he replied, heatedly, "I think I should know!"
"An' I've lived with the Doctor for months - you're not him."
"I regenerated – to save my own life I had to regrow every cell in my body," he explained, and she raised an eyebrow.
"Bully for you. That still doesn't make you the Doctor. My Doctor," she replied defiantly, swinging her legs over the side.
"What can I do to persuade you?" he asked despairingly.
"Nothin'." Rose replied, glaring at him. The Doctor gave her one last, sad look, before stepping back.
"Fine. I'll take you home."
"Good. As long as you know how to use the TARDIS," she replied humourlessly as he left. Hugging herself, she cast her eyes around the familiar room, before something lit up on the edge of her consciousness. A warm, mellow feeling that seemed to emanate from the walls around her, full of safety and reassurance.
He's starting up the engines. He does not know how to fly me.
The voice was smug, and wise, and achingly familiar, and she knew it instantly though she had never heard it. The TARDIS.
Can you stop him?
We can stop him, she replied, and Rose frowned as the TARDIS seemed to carefully guide her along a mental journey past things she didn't understand.
Where is the Doctor? Rose asked, hoping she would know the answer.
The reply was tinged with sadness. I do not know. I cannot see into this mind. But he is not the Doctor.
Rose's satisfied grin was smug. She was right.
Is he tryin' to fly you?
Trying. The image of a grin, matching hers. Failing also. He cannot understand why I will not turn on – he has no knowledge of me.
But he knows how to fly you! Rose replied, confused as the mental image they shared showed her the impostor flicking switches with a carefree attitude.
Yes, she replied, But he does not know of me. I am the one you call TARDIS. I am time, and space, and all things beyond your true comprehension. But, she added, I like you. You show promise.
Thanks. Rose replied, uncertain, but grateful for the reassuring comfort the ship sent to her telepathically.
Be wary! She announced suddenly. He comes this way – he knows now he cannot move this ship. I must go, or he might sense me. He seems to have some meagre mental skill.
With that, the sense disappeared to a low hum in the back of her mind, and the doors opened. 'The Doctor' snarled impatiently at her, and suddenly, Rose felt fear. He stalked up to her seat and lifted her up.
"You! I don't know how you're doing it, but it's your fault!" he spat, tossing her back down. "Well," he smirked, "you'll get a taste of your own medicine now."
Pinning her to the bed with one arm, he grabbed an already prepared needle from the side. Rose struggled, but the impostor clearly wasn't human, and was a great deal stronger than he looked. She could only watch in horror as he quickly pushed up her sleeve and injected the unknown substance, feeling it trickle up her arm like ice. Then, as her entire body went numb under the effects of the drug, she felt herself slip away again; holding vainly onto the mental rope the TARDIS threw her.
Somewhere else, a million miles and a thousand years away, he was alone. He felt it before he saw it, knowing without doubt that he was in an unfamiliar place. Moving aching limbs, he sat up in semi-darkness, panic crowding his mind even as he tried to clear it. He was in strange pyjama-type clothes - harsh white cotton - and he glared at it distastefully for a second, before glancing around his cell, using long-trained methods to figure out a way of escape.