A/N:-Hey, just to let you people know, I've re-written/re-done the prologue for this story, so I'd like it if you checked it out and tell me what you think, but you don'thave to read it! HEHE!

Hope you like!

=D =D =D =D =D

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Chapter Six - Waking Up the Dead

Climbing out of the car after Private Investigator, Emerson Cod, and childhood sweetheart, Ned, Chuck quickly wrapped the pink shawl around her hair and slid on a pair of tinted black sunglasses. This precaution was to conceal her true identity of the once, deceased and murdered 'Lonely Tourist Charlotte Charles', who was, in reality, due to one magic finger – alive again. But only few could know of this of this fact, the few being the money-loving, Emerson Cod, and the kind-hearted, Ned. The exclusions of this treaty included the likes of one broken hearted Olive Snook and one morgue-warden Coroner.

Each individual was deep in thought – Emerson thinking of the day when his daughter, Penny, would find him, Ned thinking of the many secrets he held and the many hidden from him, Chuck thinking of the day when her 'Aunt' Lily and Aunt Vivian would discover her existence – as they walked.

"Maybe it's just me, but my gut instinct is telling me that there's something else in the air, a storm coming – a metaphorical storm. It's like when you see a play in a theatre, you get that gut instinct feeling when you know something is going to happen, but you don't know what it is and when it hits you – you're not prepared for the impact."

"You know what I think? I think that it may- be, Ned, that your gut is telling you that you shouldn't have skipped breakfast," Emerson quipped. "And lunch."

"Three British tourists, who don't look or seem like tourists at all, come into my Pie Hole and a man-who-will-not-tell-anybody-his-name makes Olive faint. Then when Olive wakes up, he orders banana pie and asks if he can help us with our investigation. Not long after that, a strangely unfamiliar blue box disappears from the Pie Hole's back alley.

It wasn't really an 'eat breakfast and lunch' day, for me," Ned sighed, "Besides that man in the trench coat kept giving me funny looks."

"It was for me," contradicted Emerson genially.

"And me!" Chuck agreed, but her smile drooped into a concerned frown. "What d'you mean 'funny looks'?"

The Pie Maker explained.

The facts were these: unknown to the mysterious Time Lord and his company, whilst quietly listening to the conversations discussed between tourists and Pie Holers, Ned noticed that he was being watched, by the dubbed 'tourist' and 'doctor' in the tan-brown trench coat. Being watched was not a very comfortable feeling for the Pie Maker. So when discovered that a sideward glance was stolen each time the Pie Maker sought comfort from the girl named Chuck, by an affectionate gaze, 'air touching' or simple body language, Ned grew cautious…

"So he knows that you can do 'it' with the finger?" Emerson checked.

"No."

"So he doesn't know?" Chuck offered.

"No."

"This ain't making any sense," grunted Emerson.

Ned sighed and took a deep breath, "I don't know - I mean… I'm not sure. Maybe, I'm just overreacting."

"You better well, 'cos I don't want no sniffy meddlesome British tourists knocking on my door," Emerson muttered.

The hot sun beat down on their backs as the three Private Investigators walked up the hard grey steps, as they made their way into the City Morgue.

Half a mile west and precisely two point one-seven seconds later, the ancient drumming of the ancient Time Machine sounded and the stylish blue 'Police' box materialised onto the freshly cut 'Do Not Trespass' grass of the city park – angering one irritated and exasperated park-keeper.

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"Which door is it?" Ned mumbled to himself, switching his gaze from the grey door to the left to the grey door on the right.

"Is it through that door?" Emerson asked the Coroner impatiently, pointing at the door on the Coroner's left.

"Perhaps…" the Coroner said dully and gently inclined his head to one side, as he stood behind his desk – stony faced.

"How 'bout that one?" Emerson jabbed another impatient finger at the door to the Coroner's right.

"Maybe…"

"Just tell me which door that teenager's in, will you?!"

"Shh - the dead are resting."

Chuck quickly stepped in and beamed brightly at the pokerfaced Coroner, "Hi! It's a nice place you've got here, you know!"

"Mmm-hmmm," the Coroner said suspiciously, narrowing his beetle black eyes.

"No, really! The yellow walls bring out the colour of, err, your white coat!"

"Mmm-hmmm."

"Would you mind telling us which is the right door?" Chuck asked sweetly.

The Coroner lifted an arm and jerked it back to face the door on his right.

"Thank you," she replied gratefully and muttered back to the boys smugly, "See, all you needed was a bit of sweet talk!"

Emerson mumbled something and marched proudly towards the door on his left, but the Coroner's right, but a long white-clad arm blocked his way and a hand opened up. The Coroner coughed. Grunting, Emerson Cod dug deep into his pockets, produced some dollar bills and slapped them reluctantly into the man's outstretched hand. The Private Investigator was used to receiving money, not the other way around. The Coroner immediately withdrew and allowed them to pass.

"Hang on a minute…" Emerson cooed disbelievingly, as he opened the door and came face to face with a cupboard full of cleaning utensils. "This ain't no morgue room."

"You ain't gonna find any dead bodies in a storage cupboard," the Coroner stated and popped the cash into a pocket.

"You lied to us!" Ned said, shocked.

"..."

"No he didn't," Chuck exclaimed. "He meant as in direction right! So, technically speaking, he was right."

Emerson, Ned and Chuck headed for the other door, but were stopped once more by a parallel-outstretched arm.

"Will ten bucks be enough?" growled Emerson disdainfully and handed over the forcibly given money.

"Mmm-hmmm."

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"Why exactly are we going to a morgue?" Rose asked curiously, stepping out of the TARDIS and jumping onto the grass. "It's a bit… morbid."

"Clues!" the Doctor chirped.

"Clues…" Donna repeated deprecatingly. "How are we gonna do that? Unless, we're going to wake up the dead and ask this Paris bloke who killed 'im."

"Doctor," Rose chimed in, "I don't think we should've landed here."

"What makes you say that?"

"Him." Donna concluded.

"Can't you read?" the park keeper yelled suddenly, squinting his eyes in the sunlight and pointing a porky finger at the signpost in the grass, as he waddled towards them. He had a strong American accent.

"Me?" the Doctor exclaimed and beamed brightly, glancing at the sign painted on in large red sloppily written words. "'Course I can! And that – that signs says… do not trespass. Do nor trespass… Do… Not… Trespass… Aah. Aah." The Doctor grimaced. "You're going to ask me if this is my blue box, aren't you?"

"I sure am."

"And then, you're gonna arrest me and my friends?"

"Nope, just you."

"Just to clarify – will you be escorting the blue box anywhere any time soon?" the Doctor asked nonchalantly.

"Nah," the park keeper explained, obviously oblivious to the Doctor's motive. "I'll get the Traffic Police to haul it away in the evening - around six. So if you'd just come forward sir, then I can take you in to the police?"

"Sure. Right. I think that'll be enough time."

"Enough time for what?"

He craned his back round to his companions. "Donna? Rose?"

"Yes?!" they cooed simultaneously.

"RUN!"

And so, the Time Lord, the shop girl and the temp ran.

Grinning like a Cheshire cat that'd just got the cream, the man called the Doctor sprinted dexterously across the green grassy forbidden plains of the park, followed closely by the girls called Rose and Donna, all pursued by one porky park keeper by the name of Ronald Reagan.

"How big is this park?" Rose groaned, grabbing the stitch in her side and wishing that she hadn't had all that delicious pie.

"By my estimation," the Doctor panted, "Excluding the pond, the forest and the skateboard park – ooh, about one and a half miles in area!"

"You're joking?!" Rose gasped, slowing down a little. Well, on the bright side, at least, Percy the park keeper's not too athletic, she thought to herself as she noticed the park keeper was struggling to keep up with them..

"WHERE'RE WE GOING?" Donna yelled breathlessly to the Doctor, exactly one metre, thirty-seven centimetres and six millimetres behind him.

The Doctor solely whooped and shot her a manic grin, "We're following the wind!"

"WHAT WIND?!"

The girl with the name of a flower was just a couple of metres behind Donna, when she noticed the offending article blocking their path. "Doctor, Donna, STOP!"

"WHAT?!"

"STOP RUNNIN'! YOU'RE GONNA HIT A WALL!"

"What?"

Glaring at the huge red brick wall in front of their faces, the Time Lord quickly skidded to a halt and dragged Donna to one side and they collided into a red-faced Rose. Ronald Reagan was thirty-two years, seventeen weeks, five days, three-hundred and thirty six minutes, twelve seconds old, when he rammed face-forward into one red brick wall and thirty-two years, seventeen weeks, five days, three-hundred and thirty six minutes, twelve seconds old, when his face screwed up in shock and Ronald Reagan fell to the floor with a heavy bump.

"Ouch…" Donna hissed, conclusively.

"That has gotta hurt," Rose agreed, grimacing. "Will he be alright?"

The Doctor cringed and gingerly knelt beside the unconscious figure. He whipped out the Sonic Screwdriver, buzzed it around his body and came to a conclusion – standing up.

"He'll live."

"Doctor, you still looking for that morgue?" Donna asked.

"Yep."

"I think we've found it."

She pointed up at the huge towering grey building with the huge stone steps that loomed down on the park below. Six boldly engraved letters stood out: MORGUE.

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Flinching slightly, Ned pulled back the sheets and revealed a young man whom had barely left his teens.

"Are those lace marks?" Chuck asked quizzically, at the skinny red throttle marks around dead Paris's pale neck.

"You bet they are," Emerson muttered and quickly turned to Ned, "Do your stuff."

Ned stuck left arm out, set his stopwatch and quickly tapped the young boy's cheek – causing pale yellow light to ripple across his flesh to awaken him.

"Who're you?" the young boy exclaimed suddenly, shooting into a sitting position.

"I'm Chuck," Chuck stated professionally and gestured Ned, who smiled weakly and Emerson, who grunted. "That's Ned and that's Emerson. We're Private Investigators."

"Hey! I know you," Paris cried out to Chuck with a grin. "You're that famous Lonely Tourist from TV!" he frowned, "Wait… If you're dead, that must mean I'm dead."

"Forty-five seconds left!" Ned warned.

"I've got forty-five seconds to live?!"

"I'm sorry," Chuck said sadly. "Any last requests?"

"Tell my mum I loved her – even though she didn't love me."

"Don't' say that…"

"Can we get back to the point already?" Emerson said flatly and strode forward, looking at Paris sternly. "D'you know who killed you?"

"Yeah, of course, I do. It was— Aaaaaaargh!" Paris du Elisabeth yelped madly, staring at his naked self and most importantly, his shoeless feet. "My sneakers! They're gone! My Deflectors: where are they?"

"Thirty." Ned put in.

"I'm afraid Mr Murderer did a runner with 'em," Emerson informed and prompted forth, "Now, you were saying, 'bout your killer…"

Paris only ignored him and grasped his soft brown curls madly, "I CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT MY DEFLECTORS! IF I SEE THAT MAN AGAIN, I'LL… I'LL…"

"Calm down, honey," motioned Chuck. "The sooner you tell us who did this to you, the sooner we can get your sneakers back."

"Fifteen seconds!"

"It was…" he panted, "It was one of my mother's butlers!" Paris's attention drifted for a moment. "Oh, and hello newcomers!"

Chuck and Emerson shared a glance, both frowning.

"Excuse me, hi, I'm Ned," Ned intruded quickly, "But didn't your mother have one-hundred and twenty butlers?"

"One hundred and twenty-one actually. His name was Ro--" Ned reached out and touched the boy's skin, releasing the eerie blue light as Ned re-deadened him for the final time.

Ned's finger was suspended in the air as he watched the body of Paris du Elisabeth fall back onto the metal autopsy table. The Pie Maker furrowed his brow and he felt an array of goosebumps appear on the surface of his skin…

"Damn it, we didn't even get to hear his name!" Emerson growled indignantly. "How're we s'posed to narrow down the killer if there's a hundred and twenty-one suspects?"

"A hundred and twenty-one," Ned intercepted.

"Yeah, yeah."

Chuck frowned, "Poor kid. But what did he mean by 'hello newcomers'? It didn't even look like he was talking to us!"

"What d'you think, Pie Man?"

"You know how when you're a child and you feel peckish, and then you find that your hand is somewhere where it shouldn't be, like inside the cookie jar and trying to reach for the last cookie," Ned rambled nervously. "And you know that all your hopes are over
'cos get the feeling that somebody's behind you and you know you've been caught in the act?"

"Yeah," Chuck concurred.

"What in the name of rhubarb pie are you getting at?" Emerson muttered.

"I think my hand's just been caught in the cookie jar," Ned concluded, taking a deep breath.

At that very moment, one Pie Maker, one Private Investigator and one girl named Chuck, turned around and faced the door, and discovered the most shocking discovery of their lives – their hands had indeed been caught in the cookie jar. By two stunned and one awed Time Travellers.

As if on cue…

"OH MY WORD!"

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A/N:- Thanks for reading people!

Message to reviewers:

Praisers: Keep 'em coming. Loving it all the way!

Constructive criticisers: I'd love MORE feedback. Thanks a million!

Flamers: Bring it on! Where are you guys? You know who you are!

Others: Heya! How's Pluto for ya? Throw them reviews at me!

Hiiiiii! Next chapter SHOULD be up on Sunday or Tuesday, at the VERY latest.

*Goes off to hunt for Norwegian vampires and write the next chapter/episode for 'Series Four in Red, Yellow and Brown' in a cave*