Alba watched the Doctor curiously as he spun around the console, pressing buttons and pulling levers. "You never did say though...why does it look like a police box?" she questioned.

"The chameleon circuit is broken, and I just haven't gotten around to repairing it. The TARDIS is meant to disguise itself, blend in with wherever it lands. It's stuck as a police box for now. I don't know though, I kind of like it this way," he said casually.

"So why were you in 1950 or 60s London?" she asked.

"Just observing history," he said, smiling broadly back at her.

"Sure you were," she replied, her tongue poking between her teeth.

"I was," he insisted. "I went to see the Beatles perform. It was brilliant. In fact, I might like another go at that sometime in the future. Different year, of course. Wouldn't want to cross my own timeline."

"I think I understood at least half of that," Alba said, laughing.

Around them, the ship shuddered. "Well, we've landed. Let's have a look," the Doctor said, taking Alba by the hand and leading her back to the doors. "Right out there, brave new world."

"Where are we then?" she asked.

"Have a look," the Doctor said, pushing the door open.

Alba stepped out the doors into what looked like an alley. Straw crunched beneath her feet as she gaped in wonder at the sights around her. People in old-fashioned dress bustled around the noisy alley. The Doctor stepped out beside her, closing the doors of the TARDIS behind him.

"Oh my God, we really did it. We traveled in time," she said breathlessly.

"London, England, Earth. The year is 1599," he said, taking her hand and leading her down the alley.

"Well hold on. I mean are we safe? Can we move about and all that?" she quizzed.

"Course we can. Why wouldn't we be able to?" he replied, shooting a curious glance her way.

"Well it's like in films. You step on a butterfly, you change the history of the human race," she said.

"Tell you what then, don't step on any butterflies. What did butterflies ever do to you?" he asked.

"Nothing. This is all just so new to me. I've only just started believing in time travel, you know," she said, still absorbing everything around her.

"If I'm not mistaken, we're right down the river by Southwark. Come on!" the Doctor exclaimed, tugging Alba along with him.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"There," he said, pointing at a building off in the distance. "The Globe Theatre. Brand new, it's only just opened. Technically speaking though, it's not a globe, it's a tetradecagon. Fourteen sides. Containing the man himself."

"You don't mean…?" Alba questioned, raising her eyebrows.

"Oh, yes. The bard himself, William Shakespeare. So what say you, Mrs. McCrimmon? Would you accompany me to the theatre?" he asked, grinning.

"Mr. McCrimmon, I'd love to," she replied, linking arms with him. They strolled down the street to the Globe, slipping inside behind a throng of people. They drifted with the pulsing crowd, finding a spot not too far from the stage. Alba was transfixed, watching the movements of the actors in front of them.

"And those are men dressed as women, yeah?" she asked, turning to look at him.

"Yep. Women weren't permitted to act in these times," the Doctor answered.

"I want to see Shakespeare. Do you think he'll come out?" she questioned.

"Hang tight. This play is almost over, he'll probably come out to take a bow with the actors," the Doctor replied, squeezing her hand.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, the play concluded and all the actors came out onto the stage to take a bow. With them was a bearded man who vaguely resembled the pictures she had seen in history books growing up. Around them, the crowd went wild with applause.

"A total genius. The genius, really. And we're going to get to hear him speak. He always chooses the best words. Bright, brilliant, beautiful words, the finest poet who ever lived," the Doctor said almost reverently.

"Ah, shut your big fat mouths!" the bearded man shouted. The audience laughed uproariously, as if this were the funniest thing they'd ever heard.

The Doctor frowned. "Right. Not quite what I was expecting."

"You should never meet your heroes," Alba quipped..

"I know what you're all thinking. Love's Labours Lost, that's a strange ending, isn't it? Will the boys get the girls? Well, don't go and get your hose in a knot, you'll find out soon enough. All in good time. You can't rush a genius," Shakespeare said haughtily.

"A bit full of himself, isn't he?" Alba said, looking at the Doctor.

"Well, with good reason," the Doctor shrugged.

On the stage, Shakespeare suddenly stiffened up. "When you want to know? I'll tell you when. Tomorrow night, the premiere of my brand new play, a sequel no less. I call it Love's Labours Won!"

The audience went wild, whooping and shouting. Alba cringed. It was a bit loud. Around them, people began shuffling out of their spots, making their way to the exit. The Doctor stood, pulling her up with him. They followed the crowd to the exit and back out onto the street.

"I'm not exactly a literature buff, but I've never heard of Love's Labours Won," Alba commented offhandedly as they walked down the street.

"Exactly. The lost play. Scholars have argued about it for years. Many thought it was just an alternate title to one of Shakespeare's known works, but nobody ever really came to any concrete conclusions," the Doctor responded.

"Well we're already here. We might as well stick around, maybe find out what Love's Labours Won is really about," Alba said. "You know, observe history and all that."

The Doctor smiled. "Let's go find Shakespeare. We can ask him ourselves."

"Hello! Hope we aren't interrupting anything. It's Mister Shakespeare, isn't it?" the Doctor said, strolling into the room.

"No. No, no, no. No autographs, no you can't have yourself sketched with me, and don't ask me where my ideas come from. There's a good boy now, shove off," Shakespeare said, irritated. He looked up and caught a glance at Alba, who was standing behind the Doctor. "Hey nonny nonny, sit right down here next to me. You two, off you go. Get sewing on those costumes."

Shakespeare's companions got up from the table and made their way to the door, glancing curiously at Alba and the Doctor as they sat themselves down at the table.

"Come on then, lads. I think our William has found his new muse," the barmaid said, ushering the other two gentlemen out the door.

"Sweet lady, such unusual clothes. So...fitted," Shakespeare said, his eyes roving across Alba's body.

The Doctor cleared his throat loudly and fixed his gaze on Shakespeare. "I'm the Doctor, and this is my wife, Rose. Pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine," Shakespeare said, his eyes still fixed on Alba. "You're not from London then, are you?"

"Rose and I are from a far off land. Freedonia," the Doctor answered.

A well-dressed man with a sour look on his face came pelting into the room. "Excuse me! Hold hard a moment. This is completely unacceptable. A new play, with no warning? I demand to see the script, Mister Shakespeare. As Master of the Revels, all new plays must be registered at my office and examined before they can be performed!" the man exclaimed.

"First thing tomorrow morning, I'll send it round," Shakespeare assured the angry man.

"I beg your pardon, but I don't work to your schedule, iyou/i work to mine. The script. Now!" the man demanded, slamming his fist down on the table.

"I'm sorry, Mister Lynley, it's not ready. I can't," Shakespeare said helplessly.

"Than tomorrow's performance will be cancelled. I'm returning to my office, for a banning order. If it's the last thing I do, Love's Labours Won will never be played," the man said, glowering balefully as he exited the room.

"Well then," Alba said after Lynley had pounded his way back downstairs. "That's Love's Labours Won, over and done with. I kind of expected it be something a bit more mysterious, you know?"

Screams rang out from the courtyard. "Help me!" a woman's voice cried out.

The three of them stood up abruptly from the table and ran outside to see what the commotion was about. The Master of Revels, Mister Lynley, was staggering about, spewing water from his open mouth.

"What's wrong with him? Leave it to me, I'm a doctor," the Doctor said, rushing to Lynley's side. The Master of Revels spewed more water before falling to his knees and collapsing to the ground. Alba rushed to the Doctor's side and kneeled beside him, next to the fallen form of Lynley.

"Mister Lynley, we've got you. You're going to be alright," Alba said. Lynley spewed more water and went still, and she leaned back. "What the hell is that then?"

"I've never seen a death like it. His lungs are full of water. And the heart is stopped, as though there were some invisible blow…" the Doctor said, standing up. "Good lady, this poor man has died of a sudden imbalance of the humours. Call for the constable, have him taken away."

"Yes, sir. Right away," the barmaid said, running back to the inn.

A younger woman, presumably a maid, stopped the barmaid. "I'll do it," she said with a sweet smile. The barmaid nodded, and went back upstairs to the inn.

The Doctor got back down next to the body and began examining it. He shook his head, trying to make sense of it all.

"So why'd you tell them that, then? That he died of a sudden imbalance of the humours?" Alba whispered.

"This lot still has one foot in the Dark Ages. It's an age of religion and superstition. If I tell them the truth, they'll panic and think it was witchcraft," the Doctor replied, passing his hand over Lynley's face to close his eyes.

"Okay. What was it then, if not a sudden imbalance of the humours?" Alba asked.

"Witchcraft," the Doctor replied quietly, getting to his feet.

Back upstairs in Shakespeare's room, the three of them sad huddled around the table. A somber mood permeated the space in the wake of the Master of Revels strange death.

The barmaid sashayed into the room. "I got you a room, Doctor. You and your wife are right across the landing."

"Thank you very much…" the Doctor said, his voice trailing off. He didn't know the woman's name.

"Dolly," the barmaid supplied.

"Thank you very much, Dolly," the Doctor replied, nodding at the barmaid as she took her leave.

"That poor bastard Lynley," Shakespeare remarked. "So many strange happenings. Least of all, this land of Freedonia, where a woman can dress so provocatively."

"Where a woman can do as she pleases," Alba said, bristling slightly.

"And you, Doctor," Shakespeare continued. "How can a man so young have eyes so old?"

"I do a lot of reading," the Doctor replied stiffly.

"A trite reply. Yeah, that's what I'd do. And you, Rose. You look at him as though you're surprised he even exists. He's as much a puzzle to you as he is to me."

Alba looked down uncomfortably. "I think perhaps we should go to bed. It's been a long and very strange day," she said, getting up from the table.

"Go on then. Sleep. I have a play to write. But tomorrow, I shall get answers. Why this constant performance of yours, Doctor," Shakespeare said.

"All the world's a stage," the Doctor replied, trailing to the doorway.

"Hmm, I might have to use that one. Goodnight, Doctor," Shakespeare responded.

"Goodnight, Will," the Doctor said softly, taking Alba's hand.

Together they walked across the landing and to their room. Cautiously, the Doctor pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"Well, it's not exactly posh, is it?" Alba remarked idly.

"We'll manage," the Doctor said, flopping down onto the tiny bed. He patted the space next to him, indicating Alba should join him. She took the cue and laid down next to him.

"So. Witchcraft. Magic and stuff. Is it real then?" she asked.

"Of course not," the Doctor scoffed. "Looks like magic, but it isn't. Can't be. There's such a thing as psychic energy, but a human wouldn't be able to harness it. Not without a generator the size of Taunton, and I think we would've noticed that. There's just something I'm missing, Rose. Something right in front of my face, but I can't see it."

"It'll come to you," she replied softly, stroking his cheek. "Sleep on it."

"I suppose so," he said, blowing out the burning candle on the nightstand. He drew his arm around Alba and pulled her closer to him. Before long, the two of them were sound asleep.

A shrill scream woke the Doctor and Alba from their peaceful slumber. Glancing at each other, they hopped up from the bed and rushed out the door, towards the source of the sound. They found the barmaid, Dolly, on the floor and a confused looking Shakespeare sitting at the table, still holding his quill.

"What happened? What was that?" Shakespeare asked, sounding slightly dazed.

The Doctor kneeled on the floor next to Dolly and took her pulse. He found nothing. "Her heart gave out. It's almost as though she died of fright."

"Doctor," Alba called from the window.

"What is it? What did you see?" he asked, coming to stand beside her at the window.

"A witch," she replied shakily.

After the constable had come and removed the poor barmaid's body, the three of them sat once more around the table.

"Sweet Dolly Bailey. She sat out three bouts of plague at this place while the rest of us scattered like rats. But what could've frightened her so? She had such enormous...spirit," Shakespeare finished lamely.

"Rage, rage, against the dying of the light," the Doctor said softly.

"I might use that," Shakespeare said.

"You can't. It's someone else's," the Doctor replied shortly.

"But here's the thing. Lynley died on dry land and Dolly died of fright, and both of them were connected to you. That's got to mean something," Alba said, leaning forward.

"Are you implying I somehow had something to do with this?" Shakespeare asked, affronted.

"No, but I saw a witch, big as you like, flying away and cackling as she went. And you've written about witches," Alba said.

"Have I? When was that?" Shakespeare questioned, obviously confused.

The Doctor leaned over to whisper in Alba's ear. "Not quite yet, he hasn't."

"Oddly enough though, Peter Streete spoke of witches," Shakespeare mused, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

"Who's Peter Streete?" the Doctor asked.

"Our builder," Shakespeare replied. "The architect of the Globe."

"The architect. Hold on. The architect! The Globe! Come on!" the Doctor shouted excitedly, jumping to his feet.

Bemused, Alba and Shakespeare followed after him.

"Fourteen sides. I've always wondered, but I never asked. Why fourteen sides, Will?" the Doctor asked, standing in the pit of the Globe.

"It was just the shape Peter Streete thought best. He said it carried the sound well," Shakespeare replied with a shrug.

"Fourteen? Why does that ring a bell? Fourteen…" the Doctor said, running his fingers through his hair and causing it stand up on end.

"There's fourteen lines in a sonnet," Alba suggested.

"Excellent point, Rose. Words and shapes following the same pattern. Fourteen lines, fourteen sides, fourteen facets. Tetradecagon. Think, think, think! Words, letters, numbers, lines…" the Doctor said, trailing off.

"But this is just a theatre," Shakespeare insisted.

"Oh yeah, but the theatre's magic. And you should know. Say the right words in the right place and time, you can make men weep, or cry with joy, or even change them. In this place, you can change people's minds with just the right words. Exaggerate that though…" the Doctor said, tapping his finger against his chin.

"It's like your police box. Little wooden box with all that power crammed inside," Alba said.

The Doctor stopped pacing and shot a sunny grin at Alba. "Oh, my dear. I knew there was a reason I liked you. Tell you what though, I bet Peter Streete would know. Can I speak with him?"

"You could try, but I doubt you'd get an answer. A month after building this place, he lost his mind," Shakespeare said.

"Why? What happened?" Alba asked curiously.

"Started raving about witches, hearing voices, babbling. His mind was addled," Shakespeare answered.

"Well where is he now?" the Doctor asked.

"Bedlam," Shakespeare replied.

"Bedlam?" Alba and the Doctor questioned in unison.

"Bethlem Hospital. The mad house," Shakespeare clarified.

"Right, then that's where we're going. Right now. Come on!" the Doctor clamored.

Shakespeare jumped down from where he was standing on the stage and reached out to help Alba down. "Wait! I'm going with you. I want to witness this first hand," he said.

As they were leaving the theatre, they passed two of the actors. Shakespeare stopped, and handed one of the men a sheaf of paper. "Ralph, the last scene, as promised. Copy it, hand it round, learn it, speak it. I'll be back before curtain's up tonight. And remember kid, project. Eyes and teeth. You never know who might be watching."

While the Doctor plowed on with determination, Alba hung back, waiting for Shakespeare.

"So," he said, walking up beside Alba. "Tell me of this land of Freedonia, where you say a woman can do as she likes."

"This country's ruled by a woman," Alba teased, her tongue poking between her teeth.

"Ah, she's royalty. That's God's business. But you my lady, are a royal beauty," Shakespeare said, smiling roguishly.

"Hold on there, mate," Alba said, holding her hand up to stop him. "I know for a fact that you've got a wife in the country."

"But Rose, this is town," Shakespeare pleaded.

The Doctor turned around, either irritated by the slow progress they were making or by a certain bard hitting on his wife. "Come on then," he chastised. "We can all have a good flirt later."

"Is that a promise, Doctor?" Shakespeare asked, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

The Doctor pulled a face. "Fifty-seven academics just punched the air. Now get a move on!"

Hospital was a loose term for Bedlam. The broken down building looked more like a prison, with the patients confined to barren cells. The whole place stank of urine, excrement, and stale sweat. It was also extremely loud, as it seemed the entire populace of the building was screaming or crying out in desperation.

"Does my Lord Doctor wish some entertainment while he waits? I could whip these madmen. They'll put on a good show for you," the hospital aid said.

"No, I don't want any entertainment!" the Doctor growled in response.

"Well then. Please wait here my lords, while I make him decent for the lady," the aide said, leaving them to stand in a cluster in the hallway.

"You call this a hospital?" Alba said scornfully, turning to look at Shakespeare. "Where the patients are whipped to amuse the gentry. And you let them put your friend in here?"

"Oh, it's all so different in Freedonia," Shakespeare replied, flapping his hand dismissively.

"But you're smart. You can't honestly believe this place is any good," Alba persisted.

"I've been mad. I've lost my mind before. The fear of this place set me right. It serves its purpose," Shakespeare replied.

"Mad in what way?" Alba asked.

"You lost your son," the Doctor interjected.

"My only boy. The Black Death took him, and I wasn't even there," Shakespeare said despondently.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know," Alba said softly, laying her hand on Shakespeare's shoulder in an effort to comfort him.

"It made me question everything. The futility of this fleeting existence. To be, or not to be… Hold on, that's quite good," Shakespeare mused.

"You should write that down," the Doctor said helpfully.

"This way, my lords," the aid beckoned from down the hall. They wound their way down the hall to the open cell. "Be careful, my lords. They can be dangerous. Don't know their own strength."

"I think it helps if you don't whip them. Now get the hell out!" the Doctor roared at the aid. The aid shrank back and exited the cell, closing the door behind him.

Shakespeare and Alba hung back as the Doctor approached Peter. He crouched down on his heels next to the shaking mad man.

"Peter, I'm the Doctor. I'm here to help," he said gently, placing his hands on the other man's shoulders. Peter stared back at him, uncomprehending. "You've got to go back, into the past. Go back one year. Everything that happened to you, that happened to someone else. It's just a story, a winter's tale. That's it, just let go. Let go."

The Doctor coaxed Peter to lay back onto his cot, and then continued talking quietly to him. "Tell me the story, Peter. Tell me about the witches."

"Witches spoke to Peter. Whispering, in the night. Got Peter to build the Globe, to their design. The fourteen walls, always fourteen. When the work was done, they broke poor Peter's wits," the mad man croaked.

"Peter, now listen to me, this is important. Where did you see the witches? Where in the city?" the Doctor prodded.

"All Hallows Street," Peter wheezed.

Just then, the air in the cell shifted. All of them except for Peter looked up in shock as a lank-haired old woman with serpentine eyes and a large, hawkish nose appeared in the cell.

"Too many words," she hissed sibilant.

"Oh my God, what the hell is ithat/i?" Alba shrieked, pointing at the old woman.

"Just one touch," the old woman said triumphantly, leaning forward and pressing her finger against Peter's chest. Peter gasped and grew still.

"No!" the Doctor cried. "You didn't have to kill him!"

"Witch! I'm seeing a witch!" Shakespeare exclaimed.

"Now who would be next? Just...one...touch. Oh, I'll stop your frantic hearts, poor, fragile mortals," she rasped, holding her finger up.

"Let us out! Oh my God, let us out!" Alba shouted.

"Well that's no good, Rose. The whole building is shouting that," the Doctor admonished.

"Which of you will be the first to die?" the old woman cackled.

"Well, if you're looking for volunteers…" the Doctor offered.

"Jamie! Don't!" Alba squealed.

"Doctor, can you stop her?" Shakespeare asked.

"No mortal has power over me," the old woman declared haughtily.

"No, but there's power in words. If I can find the right one, if I could just name you," the Doctor muttered.

"No one on Earth has knowledge of us," the old woman hissed.

"Well lucky then that I'm here," the Doctor professed. "So, humanoid female. uses words and shapes to channel energy. Ah yes! Fourteen! The fourteen stars of the Rexel planetary configuration! Creature, I name thee Carrionite!"

The old woman shrieked, the air shifted once more, and she disappeared.

"What did you do?" Alba asked, disbelief evident on her face.

"I named her. The power of a name. That's old magic. Well, not really magic. Just a different sort of science, really. You lot use mathematics to split the atom, Carrionites use words," he answered.

"What for?" Shakespeare asked.

"The end of the world," the Doctor intoned grimly.

Once again, the three of them gathered around the table in Shakespeare's room at the Elephant. Shakespeare and Alba were rapt as the Doctor explained.

"The Carrionites disappeared way back at the dawn of the universe. No one was sure if they were truth or legend," he confessed.

"Well, my bet is on real," Shakespeare declared, spreading his palms over the table.

"And what does a Carrionite want?" Alba asked curiously.

"A new empire on Earth An empire of blood, and bones, and magic," the Doctor exhaled. "And I'm looking at the man with the words."

"Me? But I've done nothing," Shakespeare huffed.

"Well, last night. What were you doing when that Carrionite was in the room?" Alba asked.

"Finishing the play," he replied.

"Will, what happens on the last page?" the Doctor inquired urgently.

"The boys get the girls. They have a bit of a dance. It's all as funny and thought provoking as usual. Except for those last few lines, though. Strange thing is, I don't really recall writing them," Shakespeare stammered.

"The Carrionites used you," the Doctor blurted out, his eyes lighting up. "They gave you the final words, like a spell. Love's Labours Won, it's a weapon. The right words spoken at the right place, using the shape of the Globe as an energy converter! The play's the thing! And yes, you can have that. Now tell me Will, do you have a map of the city?"

"Yeah, of course. On the bookshelf. I'll get it for you," Shakespeare said, getting up to cross the room. He plucked the map from its spot on the shelf, and thrust it down on the table in front of the Doctor.

The Doctor examined the map closely. "This is us, here. And over there is All Hallows Street. Rose, you come with me. We'll find them. Will, you get to the Globe and stop that play," he instructed.

"I will do it. I've always been the cleverest man around, but next to you Doctor, I know nothing," Shakespeare admitted.

"Good luck, Will. Once more unto the breach!" the Doctor shouted enthusiastically as he grabbed Alba's hand and made for the landing.

"Oh, I like that. Wait a minute...that's one of mine!" Shakespeare exclaimed.

"Oh, get on with it!" the Doctor admonished.

"Well, this is All Hallows Street. Now the question is, which house?" the Doctor mused, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers. Directly ahead of them, a door creaked open.

"Make that iwitch/i house," the Doctor breathed, taking Alba's hand and heading for the door. They stepped inside and through a curtain. On the other side of the room, by the window, a pretty young woman stood waiting.

"I take it we're expected?" the Doctor said wryly.

"Oh, I think death has been waiting for you a long time," she purred.

"Right," Alba said confidently, stepping forward. She pointed her finger at the other woman. "I name thee Carrionite!"

The young witch mocked a gasp, and clutched dramatically at her heart. "The power of a name only works once. Observe. As certain as a man will lie, Alba Prentice will surely die!"

Alba collapsed bonelessly into the Doctor's arms. "What have you done to her?" he demanded angrily.

"Alas, she is only sleeping. It's strange, the name has less impact. She is somehow out of her time," the witch said, puzzled. "But you, Sir Doctor...there is the false name, John Smith. Why would a man hide his true name in such despair? Oh, but look, there's one word with the power that aches."

"Don't," the Doctor warned threateningly. "That won't work on me."

"Your heart grows cold, the North wind blows. And carries down the distant...Rose," she whispered.

"Oh, big mistake. Because that name keeps me fighting," the Doctor growled. "The Carrionites vanished. Where did you go?"

"The Eternals found the right words to banish us down to deep darkness," the young witch answered.

"And how did you escape?" the Doctor prompted.

"New words. Brilliant, glittering words. From a mind like no other," she crowed.

"Shakespeare," the Doctor supplied.

"His son perished. The grief of a genius. Grief without measure. Madness enough to allow us entrance," the witch cackled.

"How many are you?" the Doctor ground out through his clenched teeth.

"Just the three. But the play tonight shall restore the rest. Then the human race will be purged as pestilence. And we will lead the universe back to the old ways, of blood and magic," she purred.

"Oh yeah? Well, you'll have to get through me first," the Doctor said, stepping closer to the witch.

"Well it shall be a pleasure," she whispered, caressing his face. "Seeing as my enemy has such a...handsome shape."

"Now that definitely won't work on me," the Doctor said, narrowing his eyes.

"No matter," the witch said, flying backwards. The windows burst open behind her and she floated in the air outside. "I have what I need."

"What did you take?" he growled.

"A souvenir," she cackled, waving a clipping of his hair triumphantly.

"Well give it back!" the Doctor demanded.

"Behold, Doctor. Men to Carrionites are merely puppets," she said, wrapping the strand of hair around a voodoo doll she produced from her gown.

"You might call that magic, but I call it a DNA replication module," the Doctor stated. He was vaguely aware of the sounds of Alba stirring behind him.

"What use is your science now?" the witch replied, viciously stabbing the doll and disappearing across the sky.

The Doctor gasped and fell to his knees before pitching backwards onto the floor. Alba gasped and crawled over to him.

"Oh my God, Jamie," she choked. "Please, no. Please, you can't do this to me."

Frantically, she began giving him CPR, finally grateful that she had taken first aid as a course before she'd dropped out of school. She leaned back, breathing in harsh gasps, as his chest finally heaved up and down.

"She...missed...my heart," he panted.

"Oh, thank God!" she choked, leaning down to kiss him firmly on the mouth. "Don't ever do that to me again!"

He sat up and got to his feet, pulling Alba up with him. "Well, I can't spend all day lying about here, can I? Come on, we've got to get to the Globe."

They fled the house back onto All Hallows Street. Pounding down the street, they ran hand in hand, weaving through the people. They came to the end of the street and looked towards the Globe. The sky above it was swirling with red energy.

"The stage door!" the Doctor cried breathlessly, tugging Alba along with him. They ran through the door, into the backstage of the theatre. Shakespeare was sitting slumped against the wall.

"Stop the play, yeah? I thought I was pretty clear on that, I said stop the play!" the Doctor growled furiously.

"I hit my head," Shakespeare replied, sounding dazed.

"Don't rub it, you'll go bald," the Doctor advised. "I think that's my cue!"

Out in the theatre, the Carrionites shrieked in giddy glee. Terrifying, wraith-like creatures were flying from a red globed clasped in the youngest witch's hands. "Now begins the millenium of blood!"

The Doctor rushed onto the stage, Shakespeare and Alba close behind him. He grasped the poet by the shoulders. "Will, history needs you. You've got to stop this, reverse the spell."

"But how?" Will shouted, struggling to be heard over the din of the panicking audience and the shrieking creatures filling the theatre.

"Words, Will. You're the wordsmith. The shape of the Globe gives the words power, and you're the one man genius enough to do it," the Doctor encouraged.

"But what words? I have none ready!" Shakespeare cried in response.

"You're William Shakespeare!" the Doctor shouted back.

"But these Carrionite phrases, they require such precision," Shakespeare protested.

"Trust yourself, Will. When you're locked away in your room, the words just come like magic, don't they? The right words, the right shapes, the right rhythm. Do it. Improvise," the Doctor said firmly.

Shakespeare steeled himself, and began to speak. "Close up this din of hateful, dire decay, decomposition of your witches' plot. You thieve my brains, consider me your toy. My doting Doctor tells me I am not! Foul Carrionite spectres, cease your show. Between the points…"

"Seven six one three nine oh!" the Doctor supplied.

"Seven six one three nine oh! Banished like a tinker's cuss, I say to thee...disappear without fuss!" Shakespeare trumpeted.

"The deep darkness! They are consumed!" the Carrionites cried, disappearing into the maelstrom. The doors of the set flew open and the pages of the play were torn up and into the churning storm.

"Love's Labours Won, there it goes," the Doctor said sadly, watching it disappear into the whirlwind. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The theatre was silent for a moment before a slow applause began sweeping through the audience. It gradually picked up, becoming louder and louder.

Alba turned towards Shakespeare and the Doctor. "They think it was all just special effects?"

"Your effect is special indeed," Shakespeare said, leering back at her.

"That's not your best line," she retorted.

The next morning, Alba said with Shakespeare on the edge of the stage. He was smiling widely at her.

"And I say I heart for a hart and a dear for a deer," he chuckled, staring into her eyes.

"I don't get it," Alba said, squirming uncomfortably under his gaze.

"Alright then. Tell me a joke from Freedonia," he implores.

Alba chews her lip, thinking about before she finally speaks. "Shakespeare walks into a pub. The bartender says 'Oi mate, you're bard'."

Shakespeare laughed heartily at this. "That's brilliant. Doesn't make sense, but nevermind that."

Just then, the Doctor came strolling in, wearing a small, crimped ruff around his neck. "How's your head, Will?"

"Still aching," the other man admitted.

"Brought you this. Neck brace. Wear it for a few days. Mind you, might want to keep it. It suits you," the Doctor said, fastening it around Shakespeare's neck.

"What about the play?" Alba asked.

"Gone. I looked all over. Every last copy of Love's Labour's Won went up in the sky," the Doctor answered. "Rose and I should be off, though, back to Freedonia. Let you get back to it. Lots of new inspiration for you."

"You mean travel on through time and space?" Shakespeare replied coyly. "It's not hard to work out, Doctor. Rose is from the future, and you are from another world."

"Will, you really are a genius," the Doctor said, beaming.

"Before you go, let me give you a new verse. A sonnet for my sweet lady. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day, thou art more lovely and more temperate…" Shakespeare began. The Doctor and Alba shared a shocked look as he went on to recite the rest of sonnet eighteen. When he had finished, he took Alba's hand and brought it briefly to his lips.

"Wow," Alba said, at loss for words.

Shakespeare preened. "I do my best."

"Alright then, we'll be off. Good luck, Will," the Doctor said, taking Alba's hand.

"Goodbye, Doctor, Rose," the other man said, waving.

They departed the theatre and headed back down the street, towards where the TARDIS was parked. The Doctor reached into his pocket, withdrew the key, and unlocked the door in one smooth motion. The two of them slipped inside and collapsed onto the jump seat.

"So you are the inspiration for one of the most famous love poems of all time," he chuckled, drawing Alba into his embrace. "It turns out the curves of your lips really ido/i rewrite history."