Since not all of you have me on AA, I should probably mention that I've got a Christmas story in this verse that I'm working on posting. I should have it all up by New Years. You can find it on my profile, it's called A Christmas Star and it's based off The Runaway Bride.

I hope you all had a very nice Christmas and for those of you who got hit with the same snow we did, have fun in it and drive safely! And remember: If your city/local news has said emergency travel only - AN AFTER CHRISTMAS BLOWOUT SALE IS NOT AN EMERGENCY. Unless you're going sledding, then get your hinies out there!

And for those of you wondering what the hell is going on with Rose (which is like all of you), you're going to start getting your answers.

Martha was already exploring when the Doctor and Rose arrived, searching the cabinet on the far wall with a candle for light. The room was less furnished than Shakespeare's. At least there were two beds, though, because she doubted the three of them could cram into one. Which begged the question: where did they sleep on the TARDIS? She'd have to ask later, especially if she stayed.

"Not exactly five-star, is it?"

"Oh, it'll do," the Doctor said dismissively. Rose slipped out from under his arm and headed for the beds. "We've stayed in worse."

"I guess these would be the nightgowns." Rose held up two long, frumpy white garments that had been laid out across the bed when Martha walked in. "They look the same size, so I guess it doesn't matter. Do you know how to get out of that?" She nodded at the dress.

"Um, not really, no."

"Thought not. I'll help."

"What about…?" Martha nodded at the Doctor.

"Oh, right." He held up a hand and backed towards the door. "I'll just be outside."

When he was gone, Martha laughed quietly. "You two seem to have this whole thing down."

"We've been travelling for a while," Rose said simply. "He left for your sake. Normally he just looks away if I have to change. Now, hold still so I can do this."

Martha held still while Rose's fingers expertly unlaced the bodice, then she turned right around and did hers on her own. Martha was impressed, especially since Rose's wrist was broken. The Doctor must've done something to speed the healing process or Rose wouldn't be able to move her hand that well this early on.

"You're from London, right?" she asked as Rose worked.

She nodded. "Of course."

"Well, I had to check. The Doctor sounds like he's a Londoner, too."

"He used to sound like he was from the North," Rose said as she slipped the bodice off.

Martha's brow furrowed in confusion, but she decided to let that go, filing it away for later with a multitude of other questions, and asked another one that had been bugging her. "So…when are you from? I mean…from the past? Future?"

"Well…" Rose said slowly. "That depends on how you want to look at things. From right now where we're standin', I'm from the future. But from when we picked you up, I'm from the past."

"Oh." Martha frowned. "Well, what year?"

"Again, depends on how you look at things." Rose said. "But if it helps, I joined the Doctor in the beginning of 2005."

"So, you're from the present?"

She was fiddling with her hair, pulling the pins out of it and untwisting the braid. She shook her hair out, combing through the wavy strands with her fingers. When she was done, she stared at Martha with her arms folded, frowning like she was trying to work out something complex. "If you wanna think of it that way," she finally conceded.

Rose opened the door once they were dressed and the Doctor sauntered back in, looking completely at ease. Before Martha could open her mouth to ask who would be going where, he flopped down onto one of the beds, leaning against the headboard. Rose sat down on the bed with the Doctor and he scooted over to make room for her without hesitating. She stretched out next to him and he put his arm around her. The gesture seemed almost automatic, as did the way Rose leaned closer.

Martha felt something within her soften at the sight. She hadn't known them for more than a day but already she could tell how they felt about each other, even if they weren't saying it out loud. You'd have to be blind not to notice. Though she wondered how Rose could love someone who wasn't even her species and was (apparently) hundreds of years older than her.

Then again, love is blind, she thought.

"So, Doctor, witchcraft?" Rose asked.

He didn't seem to be in his usual chatty mood because he simply nodded.

"That's a surprise. I wasn't expecting magic and stuff," Martha laughed. "It's a little bit Harry Potter, don't you think?"

The Doctor grinned. "Wait 'til you read book seven. Oooh…I cried." He shook his head fondly.

"He did." Rose laughed. "It was funny. I walked into the library one day, found him sittin' on the couch an' he looked up at me an' he had tears just rollin' down his cheeks! Him!"

"So did you!" he protested. "You were practically bawling!"

"Yeah, but which one of us is the almighty Time Lord? Besides, that thing with Snape and Lily was just—"

"Oi! Shut up!" Martha put her hands over her ears. "Don't. Say. Anything. I mean it! Not a word!"

"Sorry," Rose apologized, but she didn't look very sorry at all.

Martha glowered at them for a moment then lowered her hands. "But…is it real, though? I mean—witches, black magic, and all that. It's real?"

The Doctor made a face. "'Course it isn't!" he said patronizingly.

"Well how am I supposed to know? I only just started believing in time travel. Give me a break."

"Looks like witchcraft, but it isn't. Can't be. Are you gonna stand there all night?"

"Sorry," she muttered and walked over to the empty bed. She sat down, crossing her legs, and stared at the floor.

"There's such a thing as psychic energy, but a human couldn't channel it like that. Not without a generator the size of Taunton, and I would've spotted that."

"Just like a human child can't harness ionic energy?" Rose asked.

The Doctor's eyes widened and he sat up, pulling her into a hug. "Oh! Rose Tyler, you are brilliant!"

She blinked and didn't hug him back. "What, you think an Isolus is doing this?" That was not a comforting thought. She'd already dealt with one of those brats once and she did not fancy another round.

"No, no," he assured her. "An Isolus couldn't do this, but there are several alien species that could. They must be somewhere nearby…possibly possessing or controlling humans, or they just look human."

"I know who it is," Rose said softly.

The Doctor's expression darkened. "About that, Rose—"

"Not now, Doctor, please." She leaned forward, crossing her legs in front of her.

"Rose. Whatever caused Lynley to die, you shouldn't have been able to feel it. I couldn't feel it, Martha couldn't feel it—no one else could feel it." He leaned around to look her right in the eyes. "Except you. And I think you know why, but you're just not telling me."

Rose flinched.

Martha was holding very still. She'd felt lost the moment they started talking about an 'Isolus,' whatever the hell that was, but now she felt like she was witnessing something private. There was something…off about Rose. It was her eyes that gave her away. As she'd stared down the Judoon, there had been something old and fearless within them. When she'd tried to reach the plasmavore, Martha was sure she'd seen yellow-gold glinting in their depths. She had no idea what it was–and evidently the Doctor didn't either–but whatever it may be, it frightened her.

"Doctor. Just leave it alone for now," Rose said after a moment, her voice hard. "And focus on what's important. It's that servant girl, the one who was in the room with Shakespeare earlier. She was at the Theatre, too, dressed like a proper noble lady. The whole place felt off an' it only got worse when she arrived. I felt it again when I looked at her, only stronger. Like she was the source. Not long after she left the room, Lynley started…drowning."

The Time Lord's face was serious, his brow wrinkled and lips pressed firmly together.

"Can you feel anything now?"

"No, 's all normal."

He said nothing for a long minute. Rose didn't speak and neither did Martha. He broke the silence with a heavy sigh and leaned backwards against the pillow. "There's so many things it could be…if you'd tell me how you knew all this, it would help."

"I don't know how I know, I just do," she evaded.

He was not impressed.

"Um…" Martha cleared her throat awkwardly. "If you want me to ask for another room so you two can talk, I can—"

"No," Rose said quickly. "You can stay. We'll talk later, Doctor." Her tone left no room for argument, and neither did the firm look she gave him as she crawled under the blanket. He looked mutinous, and though he didn't press the issue, he didn't get under the blankets, either.

"Don't you sleep?" Martha asked as she pulled the blanket over herself.

"Sometimes," he said. "Not as much or as often as you humans, though."

"How do you mean?"

"I slept for a few hours before we picked you up," he said. "I'll be fine for another week or so, depending on how things go."

"Mad."

"Time Lord."

Martha rolled her eyes. "Blow out that candle, will you, Rose?"

Rose propped herself up on her forearm and extinguished the candle, plunging the room into darkness except for the moonlight filtering through the windows. The three of them were silent and still for a moment as they all contemplated what had happened in the last twelve to twenty-four hours. Rose swallowed and lowered herself back down onto the pillow. A moment later, she felt the Doctor's fingers ghost across her temple. She tensed, thinking for an awful moment that he was trying to read her mind and find out what she was hiding—he could do it if he wanted, she knew he could—but then she realized he was simply brushing a few locks of hair out of her face. She was glad he couldn't see her face because it was burning with shame. He'd never do that to her and she felt horrible for thinking even for a second that he would.

It took her about two minutes before she realized sleep wasn't going to come any time soon, even with the soothing presence of the Doctor and his hand drifting through her hair. She hadn't been awake more than a few hours and her mind was racing; wondering how much was changing inside her…and wondering how she would tell him. She was on borrowed time now. He'd wait until they were alone and in the TARDIS, if she was lucky; he'd wait until they were simply alone if she wasn't. He might wait until Martha was unconscious, which made her want to fall asleep even more, but, of course, only served to keep her awake.

She felt the TARDIS nudge her comfortingly in the back of her mind and the tension in her body dissipated. She snuggled down into the lumpy mattress, enjoying the soothing sensation the ship caused. Then something occurred to her and Rose inhaled sharply. The way she felt the reassurance and the way she felt the wrongness of the witchcraft—they were the same.

Whenever the TARDIS tried to sooth her, her heart rate would automatically slow and her muscles would relax in response to the ships presence in her mind. She thought it was just the witchcraft making her nauseous, but what if she was really feeling nauseous because of her body's reaction to what the TARDIS was projecting?

She wasn't really sensing anything, it was their ship that felt the disturbances of the witchcraft! But why could she feel it and not the Doctor? She knew she had a unique tie to the ship, but he was telepathic and he'd been with the TARDIS for so much longer than she had. Surely his bond was stronger. Shouldn't he be the one feeling all this?

Unless…

"Rose," the Doctor breathed in her ear. "What is it?"

She cursed inwardly.

"Your heart is racing," he whispered. "Is something happening again?"

"No, but," Rose swallowed. "Is Martha…?"

"She's already asleep," he assured her. "She's had a longer day than you. You can tell me. Please, Rose—I need to know."

She swallowed again and closed her eyes as a shiver raced through her body. She could stay silent, she could, and he'd let it go for the night. She could have more time to think, to prepare. To get him away from the poor medical student who shouldn't have to see him properly angry and afraid so early on.

"Rose," he pleaded softly, moving his hand to her arm, and she gave in.

"Bad Wolf," she breathed.

She felt his entire body stiffen: every single muscle tensed at the name as his hand tightened on her arm. Rose pressed her face into the pillow and waited. Now he would become afraid…afraid and angry and rash. He'd haul her back to the TARDIS and demand things and run every test he could. Probably abandon Martha and go back for Donna to find out what she'd seen when Rose lost consciousness….

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice level, but the hand gripping her arm betrayed his stress.

"Bad Wolf. I think that's how I know."

"What do you mean? I took it out of you, Rose."

"You got the Time Vortex out of my head but there's still somethin' linking me and the TARDIS together—and I mean more than just her being in there to translate and whatnot."

"What makes you think that?"

"Remember when you made Donna glow down in the lab? Well, I heard someone singing. Then later, when the Empress tried to pull all the particles out of Donna and Lance—well…I don't know what happened, exactly. I saw this golden light leave their bodies, and then I just started hurting. It felt like…like I was burning. I heard the singing again, too, before I passed out." She took a deep breath and let it out. "When I woke up on the TARDIS, Donna told me…she told me my eyes had glowed."

"And why you didn't tell me this then?" the Doctor asked through his teeth, struggling to keep his voice down. This was not a conversation Martha needed to overhear. Suddenly her earlier offer to ask for a separate room sounded brilliant.

"I…I was…afraid." She whispered, tears starting to leak out of her eyes. "I didn't know what was happening…I was scared you'd be angry at me…and I just wanted to go off and have a good cry about my mum an' I knew if I told you that you wouldn't let me."

"Oh, Rose," he murmured. "Turn over, would you?" She did so, carefully, and he was able to see the tears shining in her eyes. He put his hand on her cheek. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to ever be afraid of me. Ever. But why, why didn't you tell me sooner? This could be bad, Rose, very bad. They're deadly."

"I know."

"They could be killing you right now…" He faltered and shook his head. "I can't…"

"I know," she whispered. "I'm sorry. But it doesn't hurt, really, only when she tried to take them out of me. I can't hear the singing, either."

"We need to get back to the TARDIS now. I need to see what happening inside you. If it really is huon particles, or at least something similar, then I'll know how to look for them. Most scanners can't detect them since they're virtually obsolete, but I still have a few somewhere. We'll wake Martha and—"

"We can't. There's something goin' on here, Doctor. Something very, very bad. I can feel it. …I can feel it…" she whispered, her eyes widening as her stomach clenched. "Happenin', right now. Witchcraft, or whatever it is."

"Where?" he asked. "Can you tell?"

She shook her head. "No, but I think—an' this is just an idea—but I reckon it's something to do with Shakespeare. All of it's happened around him." She shuddered, pulling her knees up to her stomach. "And it's somethin' to do with that girl. It's like…like she doesn't belong…or shouldn't exist. It feels so wrong and it makes me almost sick."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Rose shook her head. "I don't know. God, I just don't know."

"I'll go check on him," he said, starting to pull away.

"No!" she gasped. She should let him go. She should, but whole body was shaking; her stomach was doing somersaults and she didn't want to be alone. "Stay. Please?"

The Doctor stared down at her for a moment, then nodded and put his arms around her waist, pulling her close, and she buried her face in the familiar fabric of his suit. They remained this way for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of their hearts, as her stomach settled and the energy dispersed, and Rose was left with only memories to prove it had happened.

"It's gone," she murmured finally.

A scream of pure, unadulterated terror tore through the night air and The Doctor shot up like a bullet before the scream had even reached its peak. Rose was just a split second behind him, leaping out of the bed and flying towards the door. Startled awake, Martha looked around wildly in time to see the two of them race out of the room, and followed.

The Doctor practically flew down the hall towards Shakespeare's room, his long legs propelling him, and Rose only barely managed to keep up without tripping over her nightgown. The Doctor hit the door to stop himself and Shakespeare jerked awake, somehow having slept through the sound of a terrified scream three feet from him. The source of the scream was lying flat on her back in front of the door.

"Dolly," Rose gasped as the Doctor knelt down. One of the windows banged against the wall outside, the wind rushing in. Martha and Rose ran over to it, expecting to see someone trying to climb down. Instead they saw, silhouetted against the full moon, a cloaked figure flying off on a broom, cackling wickedly. The two of them exchanged a shocked look then stared at the retreating figure.

"Her heart gave out," the Doctor reported behind them, disbelief coloring his tone. "She died of fright."

"Doctor," Martha called.

He sprang up, leaping around the desk to look out the window behind them. "What did you see?"

"A witch."

The Doctor stared at her, open mouthed.

Throughout the hours that followed, Rose Tyler didn't utter a single word.

Martha demanded the Doctor let her give Dolly a once over and finally agreed that, having found no other apparent causes, that Dolly Bailey had, indeed, died of fright. Shakespeare seemed stunned, demanding to know how he could have slept through her death, and the Doctor demanding the same thing of him. A constable was called to take her body away and a messenger was sent to locate Dolly's brother so the inn could be dealt with. There was no sign of the servant girl, whom they learned was called Lilith. She'd simply vanished...or hopped on a broom and flew off into the night.

Martha suggested they go get dressed because it was clear no one was getting back to sleep. Rose only nodded, dressing and helping Martha with her bodice in silence, ignoring the other woman's attempts to get her to talk. She didn't touch her hair except to brush it out with a strangely shaped hairbrush that the Doctor produced from his pocket and watched in silence as Martha fixed the updo hers was in.

At dawn they were seated in Shakespeare's room around the table, waiting. The man himself was still talking to the constable downstairs. Rose had her broken arm on the table, her fingers idly tracing each name, her expression melancholy.

"Earlier," Martha said quietly. "Those names on your cast, I couldn't read some of them. Now I can. Why's that?" She waited for a response, but Rose didn't even glance at her, just continued tracing the names.

But now the Doctor's attention was on Rose. Having been busy with affairs regarding the murder, he hadn't really had a moment to focus on the wellbeing of his companions, other than pausing to produce a hairbrush, but now he realized just how quiet she'd been. He hadn't heard her say a word since they'd found Dolly's body and that worried him. Rose was usually so animated and full of life, always waiting with a word or a laugh for any situation. Concern was merited when she was silent.

"Rose," he said softly, leaning close to her. "Are you alright?"

She stopped tracing names and sat there, still as a statue, barely breathing.

"Rose." He gently reached out, clasping her good hand in both of his and slowly, Rose looked up at him. She wasn't crying, but her eyes were deep and filled with sadness. "Say something, please."

"I killed her, Doctor," she whispered hoarsely.

"No," he murmured.

"I did, though," she said, her voice stronger, but still quiet. "You were gonna go look around, but I stopped you. If you had been there you could've saved her." She gritted her teeth, self-loathing written on every inch of her face. "But I made you stay an' now she's dead because I'm a coward."

"Rose Marion Tyler, you are not a coward," the Doctor said firmly. "You are one of the bravest people I have ever met in all of time and space." He put his hand on her cheek. "There's not many that could stare into the eyestalk of a Dalek and live to tell the tale, never mind change one like you did. Or stand up to a Sycoraxian general alone. Or order me to launch a missile right at them. Or," he lowered his voice, "completely ignore Emergency Programme One, rip open the heart of the TARDIS, and journey back into a warzone just to save my life."

Rose ducked her head and said nothing.

Martha cleared her throat. "I hate to intrude—and mind you, it feels like that's all I'm doing with you two—but Rose, I don't think you should be beating yourself up like this."

She looked up, eyebrows arched, waiting.

"It's just like my professors said, back when I started med school: You can't save everyone. You just can't. Some patients can be saved, but some are going to die—and you have to accept that. Sometimes it'll be because of something you did or didn't do, but you can't second-guess yourself and bother with the what ifs; 'cause no matter how you feel about it, you can't change anything, and there's always gonna be someone else who's still alive that you can save."

Rose swallowed and stared at the medical student: while she was older than her physically, Martha Jones was younger in so many ways; but still Rose realized why the Doctor had accepted her. He had a way of seeing that spark in people even when no one else did and it took being around him to bring it out. Well, it was out now, and Martha was starting to shine, understanding on her own something that was fundamental to their lifestyle, even though it was cruel.

"Martha," she said slowly. "I think you're gonna be a great companion."

"That's exactly what I was thinking." The Doctor said with a sort of paternal pride, like a father watching his daughter riding her bike without training wheels for the first time.

It was Martha's turn to duck her head, embarrassed by what felt like high praise. It really wasn't that big of a deal, was it? It was just the bare truth of things. Rose had needed a reminder. She wasn't smiling yet, but the self-hatred had faded and her sadness wasn't as profound. It would do for now.

Rose held up the cast. "Not all of these are in English," she answered Martha's earlier question. "In fact, most of them aren't. I've been gettin' signatures every time I've had to wear one of these. Like a bunch of souvenirs. Oh, I should get Shakespeare to sign…"

"Shakespeare's autograph. That'd be worth a mint," Martha said conspiratorially.

"Don't get a brain door," Rose chastised, almost smiling.

"Alright, what is all this about a 'brain door'? You're going to have to explain that to me if you—"

"Later," the Doctor held up his hand to quiet them, watching the door.

Shakespeare entered, his head down, and he seemed to have aged years in the span of a few hours. He crossed to the window, staring out at the dawn, and the room waited in silence. The weight of Dolly's death pressed down on them all again. Rose's mild amusement faded and she returned to tracing the names on her cast. The Doctor put his face in his hands and Martha sat there, feeling oddly small. Finally, William sighed and turned from the window.

"Oh, sweet Dolly Bailey. She sat out three bouts of the plague in this place. We all ran like rats." He sat down at his desk. "But what could have scared her so? She had such enormous spirit."

"'Rage, rage against the dying of the light,'" the Doctor quoted.

"I might use that."

"You can't. It's someone else's."

"I'll tell you what it was," Rose spoke up. "It was Lilith, that servant."

"Come now, Dame Rose. Lilith has been here for near as long as I have and in all this time, she has never struck me as anything but a harmless young maid. No mere girl could've frightened Dolly to death."

"An' you're probably right, but Lilith wasn't a mere girl. I've been feelin' all weird ever since we first set foot in the Globe and that's when it all began. That's when I first saw Lilith an' you, and I saw her again here with you. It's you, Shakespeare. It's all to do with you. Whatever she's doing, it's because of you. She's a witch."

"Even if you are right—and I'm not saying you are—what would a witch want with me?" Shakespeare asked.

"Well, you're a genius," the Doctor said. "One of the best there ever was. That's something."

"But...for God's sake man, I can understand other writers or poets wanting me for something, but witches? It's absurd!"

"Think what you want, Mr. Shakespeare, but I saw a witch; we both did." Martha added, gesturing between herself and Rose. "Big as you like, flying, cackling away, and you've written about witches."

"I have?" Shakespeare frowned. "When was that?"

"Not, not quite yet," the Doctor said quietly to Martha, who mentally slapped herself.

"It doesn't matter why they want you," she said. "They just do."

"Actually, it does matter," the Doctor corrected. "Discovering the motive is half the victory. With someone's motive you can understand why they do the things they do. And if we find out what they want and why, I may be able to figure out what they are. Because right now, I haven't the foggiest."

"You don't even have an idea?" Rose asked, startled.

"No," he shook his head. "I've got about three thousand ideas and not enough time to test them all. I'm missing something important." He put his hands in his hair. "If I could just figure it out…"

"Peter Streete spoke of witches," Shakespeare said suddenly.

"Who's Peter Streete?" Martha asked.

"Our builder. He sketched the plans to the Globe."

The Doctor sat straight up. "The architect," he murmured. "Rose, didn't you say the—oh! Oh yes! The architect!" He slammed his fist on the table. "The Globe!"

He grabbed his coat and rushed out the door. Martha and Shakespeare looked at each other incredulously, neither of them used to the Doctor when he got like this—but thankfully Rose was, and she grabbed Martha's arm and hauled her out of her chair. "Come on or he'll leave us behind!"

Shakespeare grabbed the script and followed them.

Ahead of them, the Doctor was yelling, "The Globe might be the key! Come on!" He loped across the landing, down the stairs, out of the Inn, and headed for the Globe Theatre. Martha, Rose, and Shakespeare could do nothing but try and keep up, throwing apologies to the people that had nearly been trampled by the Time Lord in his mad dash.

"Rose," Shakespeare puffed, "I do believe your man may be a bit mad."

"Oh, he is," she replied. "Just go with it, 's all you can do."

When they arrived at the Globe, the Doctor was already pacing around in the pit where the audience could stand, counting and muttering to himself, but his mania had calmed. Rose watched him for a moment, and then mounted the stage and sat down on the edge, her legs dangling over the front of it, leaning on her good hand to wait. Taking their cues from her, Martha and William waited on the stage, out of the Doctor's way, but close enough to offer input when it was needed.

Martha sat down next to Rose, noting the patience on her face as she watched the brainstorming Time Lord pace. This must be a common occurrence. She wondered how it must have been for Rose when she first joined the Doctor. Had she had someone else to take her cues from or had she been on her own trying to work out the way he worked?

"I've always wondered but I never asked…" the Doctor said loudly enough that it got their attention. "Tell me, Will, why fourteen sides?"

"It was the shape Peter Streete thought best, that's all." He explained. "Said it carried the sound well."

"Why does that ring a bell? Fourteen…"

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

"So there is. Good point," the Doctor nodded and resumed pacing. "Words and shapes following the same design. Fourteen lines, fourteen sides, fourteen facets…Oh, my head. Tetradecagon… Think, think, think!" He hit his head along with each word. "Words, letters, numbers, lines!"

"This is just a theatre!" Shakespeare said, unable to see why the Doctor was making such a fuss about the building.

"Oh, but a theatre's magic, isn't it? You should know." He walked over to the stage, putting his arms in the space between Rose and Martha, and looked up at them. "Stand on this stage, say the right words with the right emphasis at the right time…Oh, you can make men weep, or cry with joy, change them." His eyes widened as something dawned on him. "You can change people's minds just with words in this place… And if you exaggerate that…" he looked at Rose. "You said this place feels funny?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Something about it's just wrong. But it's sort of quiet, more like an undercurrent right now. It was like this last night, too, 'til Lilith showed up; then it got worse. Their magic, it's in the whole place…" she trailed off, looking up at the box where Lilith had sat the night beforehand.

"It's like the TARDIS," Martha said. "Small wooden box with all that power inside." She gestured with her hands.

The Doctor grinned. "Oh, Martha Jones, I like you. Absolutely brilliant, you are, both of you. Tell you what, though. Peter Streete would know. Can I talk to him?"

"You won't get an answer. A month after finishing this place—" Shakespeare gestured around them. "Lost his mind."

"Why?" Martha asked. "What happened?"

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

"Where is he now?" the Doctor asked.

"Bedlam," Shakespeare said grimly.

Martha didn't like the sound of that. "What's Bedlam?"

"Bethlem Hospital. The madhouse."

"We're gonna go there. Right now. Come on."

His two companions exchanged glances then slid down from the stage and followed him towards the exit. Shakespeare announced he was coming, pausing to hand over the script to one of his arriving actors to be copied and memorized by tonight, then followed the three mysterious travelers out.

Rose noted with ire, however, that he didn't seem to be taking things too seriously. Or at least not as seriously as he should have been. If the man was smart enough to make the deep observations he had last night within a few minutes, surely he could see that she and the Doctor were not joking about this? But what did she know about the way the minds of geniuses worked? Well, human geniuses, anyway. For all she knew they were all as scatterbrained as the Doctor, hopping from one subject to the next and hiding their fear behind humor and/or flirting.

If he was afraid, then Shakespeare had chosen both. "So, tell me of Freedonia, where women can be doctors, writers, actors."

"This country's ruled by a woman," Martha pointed out.

"Ah, she's royal. That's God's business. Though you are a royal beauty."

Martha stopped walking and laughed, holding up her hand. "Whoa, Nelly! I know for a fact you've got a wife in the country."

"But Martha, this is Town," he argued smoothly.

With a laugh, Rose stopped, turning on her heel, and put her hands on her hips. Sometimes it seemed like the Doctor shared that mindset. Not that she was his wife or anything, but he'd seemed ready to forget her existence when presented with a pretty French aristocrat with a big skirt and bigger—

"Come on!" the Doctor called impatiently from behind her. "We can all have a good flirt later!"

"Is that a promise, Doctor?" William Shakespeare looked the Time Lord up and down.

The Doctor inhaled slowly. "Oooh…fifty-seven academics just punched the air," he murmured. "Now, move!"

A few minutes later, Rose suddenly stumbled, her momentum sending her careening into a passing merchant who shouted a curse as they both toppled to the ground.

"Rose!" Martha cried and the Doctor's body went rigid and he turned mid-stride, loping back to them. The Doctor was by Rose's side almost instantly, grasping her arms and helping her to her feet before the merchant could offer.

She looked up, her eyes wide and afraid, and Martha could see she was shaking.

"What is it?" he demanded quietly and there was something in his expression, something dark and ancient and possessive that caused Martha to take an automatic step back.

"Something's happening," she gasped, her shoulders hunched and her arms crossed across her stomach. "Feels like the Globe, only worse…Oh, God," she moaned, clutching at her chest like she was in pain.

"Should we go back?" Martha asked.

"I should. Ralph, Dick, and Kempe are there now, possibly others." Shakespeare said worriedly. "If something's amiss, I—"

"No," Rose said suddenly, lowering her hands. She straightened up and swallowed. "It's gone. Whatever was happening, it's over. It didn't feel the same as the other times. It felt like something was ripping or…or tearing…"

"I should return." Shakespeare turned to go.

"No," the Doctor barked, his gaze never leaving Rose. "We're almost to Bedlam now and, hopefully, the truth. Going back won't do any good—especially since you have no way of explaining how you knew something was wrong."

"Actually, I do."

"No," the Doctor growled. "You tell anyone about what Rose is detecting then they'll assume she's a witch herself."

"And how do you know she's not?" he challenged, taking a step towards them. "How do you know like is not sensing like? Because that's exactly what it appears to be. I know she's your wife, Sir Doctor, but there are some things—"

The Doctor's head snapped up, his expression darker and colder than the deepest reaches of space, and Shakespeare's voice died in his throat.

"Rose Tyler is many, many things—but she is not a witch." He said coldly, silently daring the man to challenge him.

This was not the first time she'd been accused of witchery, nor would it be the last, but the Doctor would let the entire city burn before he'd let them burn her.

Timelines be damned.

We've still got our stockings hanging on the wall (we have no fireplace) so if anyone wants to drop a review in it on their way out, it's the second one from the right. Plenty of room in there. :)