Author's Note: Here is my post for The Shakespeare Code and, in honor of the great Bard, it shall be in pseudo-Shakespearian language and with Shakespeare quotes added in! Truly a genius of the English language. At the end, there will be two soliloquies and, yes, Martha will have her say, but only reflecting upon the Time Lord. Enjoy, please R & R!

Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who and Shakespeare...public domain, yay!

A Winter's Tale

For fun in mystery, for mystery in fun the Doctor in his chariot of a TARDIS carried away Martha Jones, with his foot pressing down on the controls to speed them off even as they tumbled down, but that was no matter to him as he turned to her, telling her that outside these doors was a brave new world. Though it might have been familiar ground in a…familiar time for him, 1599 by the banks of the Thames that he had already drained in the 21st century, it was still a brave new world because it was what he wanted it to be, for himself and for Martha, one where they would not have to worry about disasters or about being accepted. No, this was a brave new world where they could enjoy themselves, and so Doctor escorted her to that Globe and stood alongside her, watching the play Love's Labor Lost even as he felt the words come trippingly to him on the tongue, he could have recited that fresh new play as if it was an old catechism.

Soon, there was his hero, who Nature might stand up and say to all the world, this was a man that made Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend their ears to him so that his words could last…though the Doctor could not help feeling disappointed when William Shakespeare cried, "Shut your big fat mouth!"

Yet the Doctor would not debunk him then, not say that maybe Elizabeth the 1st had written the plays and sonnets, or Francis Bacon, or the Earl of Oxford, or Kit for that matter, Shakespeare's credibility could not be illegitimate construction! So, further intrigued by the announcement of Love's Labor Won to be performed tomorrow, the Doctor knew that he had to see that play while still drying in its ink, to read it before it was lost and know from its language that the full genius of this man was warranted. It could not hurt to stay a few more hours, Martha only had this one trip and he could not resist this chance, so they headed to the Elephant and the Doctor soon found himself in front of the Bard…though before he could barely say a thing, the man began to flirt with Martha, what fools these mortals be!

The Doctor handed over his psychic paper, confident that it would do the trick, but when William Shakespeare only saw it to be blank…this man could not be fooled by visions, his genius was all the more true! Ah, but here came the Master of the Revels, not so jolly as his title as he was passing fell and wrath in his demands for that script, but when denied, proclaimed in his departure that Love's Labor Won would not be performed, what a creeping venomed thing was he! Yet not long afterwards, the Doctor and the others heard a clamor and rushed out, to see master Lynley spewing such a tempest before he collapsed, poor key-cold figure shall not keep his revels here tonight no more, what sort of witchcraft was this?

Oh, dark night, the storms had returned in the hearts and mind of the Doctor, such an odd death for the Master of the Revels did not bode well for the script, there had not even been such trouble with the…'Scottish' play or with the 7th tome of Potter. Though Martha was good company and she was willing to help with her rational mind, yet this was not a problem for rationality, there was more to heaven and earth and beyond than was taught in her philosophy. The could not help believing that Rose might have come across something, by mere chance perhaps, but she was not here and praising what was lost made the remembrance dear. Suddenly, a scream echoed and he was back in the physical realm, rushing towards a room to find that he was too late, too late for the poor woman, whilst Martha did declare that out in the night, flying high, was a witch on a broom, there was no more rationality to be made!

With the morn's return, return to the Globe, to see that the theatre in the round had 14 sides, why such a number? And so on to Bedlam, to be or not to be in such a state of madness for poor Peter Streete, who had spoken of witches, who the Doctor lured out of his slumber to say that, despairing of his own arm's fortitude in building the Globe, he had to join with witches and the help of hell, which would reside at All Hallows Street. Oh, but there is the horrible form now, which deprived Peter of his sovereignty of reason and draw him into madness, the Doomfinger that now makes him a corpse to 'scape not the thunderbolt!

Yet even as such a witch threatened them, the Doctor saw through such a guise, to what would harry her away to nothingness when what is decreed must be, and so be Carrionite, for such would explain their purpose here, plaguing such a man as Shakespeare, who united the power of words with the force of his performances. The Doctor felt grimly jovial, to know that he had solved the problem with the play as the thing, and so he told his hero to halt the act and then he departed once more with Martha, onto the breach and to All Hallows Street, damn'd be the consequences when he be just and fear not! There was such a witch of sprite there, with such plans to open the portal between the realms, but Carrionite could not work now, Martha Jones was fallen with the failure of her rationality and he could do nothing as Lilith approached.

There had once been a lady, in whom sacred and sweet was all he saw despite her reputation, and she had also looked into his mind, to afterwards gaze upon him and murmur, "Doctor Who? It's more than just a secret, isn't it?"

Reinette, known to many as only Madame du Pompadour, understood him then and how, long ago, he had learned the importance of words, and perhaps she saw how anyone could take thee by a word, and not just by any word, but by a name. Lilith could not name him, could not rob him of that which not enriches her to make him poor indeed, for she did know how to tell him who he was and so destroy him. The Doctor always had more than he showest, speak less than he knowest, and lend less than he owest, and if he had his true name written, he would tear the word, a name that would have been an enemy to him. Yet he was new baptized and to his own self true, for his true name was no part of him, for what's in a name when the Doctor was himself and would retain that dear perfection which he owned with that title?

So Lilith tried to weaken him with the private wound that is deepest, by saying 'Rose', but such strength he gained to fight by the thought of she that which we call a rose, by any other name, would be as sweet and as strong on such a night as this and he would become the oncoming storm, the uncertain glory of an April day, for her name. Foul seductress became that witch then, stealing away a lock of his hair and a part of himself as she stabbed him in the heart, so that he had to remain still and as patient as a gentle stream until he was sure that she was gone and go to the trouble of restarting his heart again, such a bit of trouble then when there was so much that still had to be done. The Doctor and Martha hastened away, only to find that it would have been better to be three hours too soon than a minute too late, as the code of the incantation was spoken, "The light of Shadmock's hollow moon doth shine on to a point in space betwixt Dravidian Shores and Linear 5930167.02, and strikes the fulsome grove of Rexel 4; co-radiating crystal activate!"

How the Carrionites did fly, swarming into the Globe from the great beyond where they had been trapped by the Eternals, but his hero Shakespeare was there, perhaps the man could do no wrong so long as he strove to find the right words to seal the portal tight and he did well, as mightily well as he could, yet that final word! Oh, heaven and earth, what was needed to abjure this rough magic? Hold a moment, Martha speaks: O, speak again, for thou art as glorious as a gentle spring to this night, the rarest of all women, Expelliarmus! Now the Carrionites doth flee away, back to their cells, while one crystal ball doth contain the horrid trio that had caused all of this, which the Doctor decided to keep in a 'dark attic' on the TARDIS…kindness, nobler than revenge.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time for all…except the Doctor. In the morn, the mortals are at it again, Shakespeare reciting poetry for his Dark Lady, Your monument shall be my gentle verse, which eyes not yet created shall o'er read, but lo, the Bard reveals his genius once more, to so identify them as to whence they belonged, the Doctor beyond the stars and Martha beyond this time. Oh, Shakespeare, he was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again. Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, live register'd upon thy brazen tomb and then grace you in the disgrace of death, to make you heir of all eternity! Hark, what witch calls now? None other than Queen Elizabeth, declaring that the Doctor was her sworn enemy and that his head should be taken, yet he did not know why she could snap at him so like a shrew…though he felt now that he might actually go back and say a word or two to Thomas Howard, the 4th Duke of Norfolk…or maybe 6 words, to be exact.

The Doctor and Martha are forced to flee, Give me thy hand, Martha, 'tis late; farewell, good night and Shakespeare would say, The elements be kind to thee, and make thy spirits all of comfort: fare thee well! As the TARDIS dematerialized from that brave new world, 1599 by the Thames, he thought that mayhap they might find far more fun, and perhaps far less mystery, upon a distant star in a far-off time…Thus we play the fools with time. It could not hurt to extend Martha's trip a few hours more, this was her only trip and he could not resist the chance

Martha's Soliloquy: How poor are they that have not patience. 'Tis good to be sad and say nothing. I have a kind soul that would give you thanks, and knows not how to do it, but with tears. The course of true love never did run smooth. For where thou art, there is the world itself, and where though art not, desolation. All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder. A rarer spirit never did steer humanity. Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt. What is best, that best I wish in thee. I am not of that feather, to shake off my friend when he must need me. I'll note you in my book of memory. Oh, honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief, o more be grieved at that which thou hast doneLove sought is good, but given unsought is better. What wound did ever heal but by degrees? Who can control his fate? Have patience, and endure. Not Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn the living record of your memory. Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine, his honour and greatness of his name shall be: The Doctor.

The Doctor's Soliloquy: I hear, yet say not much, yet hear the more. When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. Courage and comfort, all shall yet go well. To expostulate why day is day, night night, and time is time, were nothing but to waste night, day, and time. If I lose mine honour, I lose myself. Though with the high wrongs of such humans like Queen Elizabeth, he was struck to the quick, yet with his nobler reason, with Martha at his side, against his own fury did he take part. The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power. They that thrive well take counsel of their friends.

There was such a sole drift to his purpose, when he shared with humans both a touch, a feeling of their afflictions, yet to relish all as sharply when passion should overcome him to be kindlier moved and to take the rarer action in virtue than in vengeance…so much the rarer indeed. Things must be as they may. The end crowns all, and that old common arbitrator, time, will one day end it. If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride, and hug it in mine arms. The endeavor of this present breath may buy that honour which shall bate his scythe's keen edge: How now, spirit, whither wonder you?