AN: Hello.
Chapter 3: Strings Attached
There were few places in the whole of reality (which includes the whole space-time continuum and each parallel universe) quite like parallel Sarah Jane's workplace. It was positively enormous, and it had a careful climate control, a bit like a museum. In fact, the only thing that made that place different to a museum was that you were allowed to touch things and buy them. It was a guitar shop, although the word "warehouse" might suit it more.
Each vertical surface (and there were a lot of vertical surfaces) was wallpapered with band posters – Led Zeppelin, the Beatles – and currently, Eric Clapton's heavily distorted, bluesy guitar was pumping quietly out of fancy surround-sound speakers. The air smelt clean and crisp, like fresh linen, and tasted slightly woody, and skylights projected the sun's glow onto hundreds upon hundreds of guitars. There were all sorts – acoustic and electric, and also basses, ukuleles, banjos, mandolins – and they hung in their masses along walls and down forever aisles. Down one aisle resided Gibsons; another was dedicated to Ibanez. There were stairs leading to "CDs and Vinyls". Towards the back was various bits of guitarist paraphernalia, and in the front was Sarah Jane.
Idealistically, she would have been alone, minding her own business behind the cluttered counter, but she wasn't alone in three senses. The first sense was that she wasn't the only person working there – there were obviously lots of other people working there as it was such a huge place. The second sense was that she wasn't in an empty, quiet (with the exception of Eric Clapton) sort of haven – there were lots of customers as well, and they were trying out guitars. Sometimes plugged in. And the third sense was that she was actually with someone. A skinny teenage boy with curly blond hair wearing a psychedelic paisley shirt. They were both standing cross-armed, staring at a Fender.
The Doctor shuffled in, feeling slightly out-of-place, which was a strange sensation to him.
How ironic, he thought wryly. I can fit like a chameleon in the middle of a crowd of Hath, but not a guitar shop.
Keeping a sideways eye on Sarah Jane, he sidled up to the unmanned counter and feigned interest in the thousands of different types of plectra (for some reason, they weren't sitting at the back with the rest of the paraphernalia). However, the interest did not stay feigned for much longer – there were plain ones, ones with people's autographs, ones with band logos, ones with pictures of mushrooms, ones made out of credit cards and old vinyl records and ones with funny slogans on them. He took one of the latter out. Love is in the air? False. Nitrogen, oxygen, argon and carbon dioxide are in the air.
The Doctor couldn't see how on Earth the presence of nitrogen, oxygen, argon and carbon dioxide being in the air instead of love had anything to do with music other than John Paul Young, but it was kind of funny.
Within five minutes he had become completely absorbed by plectra and was wondering if he should start a plectrum collection, even if he didn't play the guitar.
'D'you need help?' came a projected voice.
He whirled around, dropping the plec which hit the lino with a faint tap. He looked around and saw Sarah Jane and the teenage boy with curly blond hair wearing the psychedelic paisley shirt frowning in his direction. He gave them a winning smile.
'Just having a look,' he said through his grinning teeth.
The teenage boy with curly blond hair wearing the psychedelic paisley shirt focused his attention back onto the Fender, but Sarah Jane didn't.
'Hang on a mo'...' she murmured, and suddenly she had grabbed the front of the Doctor's shirt, and despite her severely lacking height, managed to yank it up to his chin and constrict his windpipe.
'What the hell is this?' she yelled, bits of spit hitting his face. The Doctor saw with his periphery the teenage boy with curly blond hair wearing the psychedelic paisley shirt turn around to stare, and he wasn't the only one.
'Um?' choked the Doctor.
'You're that hippy, arencha? You've been stalking me! That's – that's against the law, you know! Ohhh, I knew it! Torchwood! Torchwood's sent you! Just – just oh...'
The parallel Sarah Jane shouted something unprintable.
'Mmgf!'
'Um, Ms Smith?' came a very innocent sounding voice.
Sarah Jane snapped her head around, and the Doctor slid his fiercely bulging eyes down. It was the teenage boy with curly blond hair wearing the psychedelic paisley shirt.
'Yes, Teenage-Boy-with-Curly-Blond-Hair-Wearing-the-Psychedelic-Paisley-Shirt?' Sarah Jane smiled sweetly, subconsciously loosening her grip on the Doctor's shirt.
The Doctor gasped for air, clutching his heart, and blurted, 'What – is that really his name?'
The two gave him an extremely sarcastic look.
'No,' said Sarah Jane with a "duh" sort of tone. 'Who the hell calls their children weird names like that? He's Fred.'
'Anyway, Ms Smith,' Fred continued very seriously, suddenly focusing all his attention onto Sarah Jane and making the Doctor feel very left-out, 'I'd like to ask about the Fender pickups. Do you think that they are better on a Stratocaster or a Telecaster?'
'Look, Fred,' Sarah Jane sighed, patting his blond curls (she had to reach up – she was shorter than him by a quite a bit). 'I haven't got the time for this now; I need to deal with this git.'
And she marched off, dragging the unfortunate Doctor by the tie, and leaving a slightly bemused Fred behind.
The Doctor found himself in a cramped and dark room full of cardboard boxes. Sarah Jane flicked on the fluorescent overhead strip lights; they cast down a lacklustre white glow.
Nervously, he started to settle down onto a box, but as if she had a sixth sense, Sarah Jane whirled around with a frown.
'Oi! Get off the box!'
As if his bottom had been branded, the Doctor jumped back up quickly. His mind was a blur.
'So,' Sarah Jane said, turning around to bolt the door.
Damn it, thought the Doctor. I'm locked in a room with an angry woman. I'm going to get raped! No – shut up! Aaargh!
'I'm going to ask a few questions, and you are going to answer them. Or else...'
With a manic grin, she reached inside her jacket and pulled out the lightsaber, which she calmly flicked on.
Damn it, thought the Doctor. I'm locked in a room with an angry woman holding a light sabre. I'm going to die! No – shut up! Aaargh!
'First. Who are you?'
'I – ' The word caught in his dry throat and he swallowed. 'I'm the Doctor.'
'Doctor who?'
'Just the Doctor.'
'And you expect me to believe that, doncha?' Sarah Jane waved the light sabre in his face.
'Y-yes...'
'Do you think I'm stupid?'
'N-no...'
'Then WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS YOUR NAME?' she shrieked, half-deranged.
'The Doctor!'
She brought the lightsaber alarmingly close to his hand; he could feel the sheer power and doom it held.
'John Smith,' he whimpered.
Sarah Jane snorted derisively, and then with a carefully placed nudge, poked the Doctor's finger. White hot pain seared through his nerves, exploding his mind.
'Fine!' he gasped. 'I'm the Doctor.'
'So that's your final answer?' asked the parallel Sarah Jane, like some mental game show host.
He nodded, the pain too great for him to speak.
'Right. Second question. Who sent you?'
The pain was ebbing away slowly, and after a while the Doctor regained his senses.
'What?' he choked.
'Who sent you?'