Chapter Twenty-Four: The Shakespeare Code
[TARDIS]
The TARDIS lurches violently as the Doctor spins a wheel on the console, his grip firm. Martha clings to the rounded edge, struggling to stay upright as the floor bucks beneath her.
Nearby, the Alchemist checks a readout, frowning slightly before scribbling something onto a sticky note and slapping it onto the monitor. The ship's shaking a little too much for her liking—looks like another round of repairs is in order.
"But how do you travel in time?" Martha asks, raising her voice over the din, "What makes it go?"
The Doctor rolls his eyes, "Oh, let's take the fun and mystery out of everything, shall we? Martha, you don't want to know. It just does."
"Hold on tight, Martha Jones!" the Alchemist shouts; she twists a few knobs while her husband yanks a lever, and with a final jolt, the TARDIS lands.
Martha and the Doctor tumble to the floor in an undignified heap.
"Blimey," Martha mutters as she scrambles upright with his help, "Do you have to pass a test to fly this thing?"
The Doctor shrugs, "Yes. And I failed it."
"Every time," the Alchemist corrects, retrieving an ultraviolet flashlight from beneath the grating and pocketing it, "He failed every time."
She's been steadily stocking her pockets with potentially useful items every trip, a habit born of experience—and, if she's honest, a healthy dose of paranoia. Today is no different.
Martha laughs, "How many times could you take it?"
The Time Lady smirks at her Bondmate as she drops the grate shut, "Sixty."
Martha dissolves into laughter while the Doctor huffs and pulls on his coat.
"Ally! The test was rigged," he insists.
"Which is why I passed on the first go, I suppose?" she teases.
He pointedly ignores Martha's renewed laughter, instead striding toward the doors.
"Now, make the most of it," he reminds Martha, "I promised you one trip, and one trip only," je pauses, one hand on the doorframe, "Outside this door—'Brave new world.'"
The Alchemist turns to him with a wild grin, then tosses Martha her jacket.
'You took us to Shakespeare!?' she practically shouts into his mind.
He winces at the volume but nods.
Beaming, she dashes over and presses a quick kiss to his cheek before slipping her air filters out of her pocket—she's going to need them.
"Where are we?" Martha asks, her curiosity bubbling over as she watches the pair.
The Doctor gestures grandly as he pulls open the doors, "Take a look. After you."
Martha hesitates for only a moment before stepping outside, while the Alchemist follows—practically skipping.
[Southwark]
Martha looks around in astonishment. They're standing on an Elizabethan street, bathed in the golden hues of early evening. The townsfolk bustle about, preparing for the night ahead—children dart between the legs of merchants, laughter trailing behind them, while washing lines are drawn in from the windows above.
"Oh, you are kidding me," Martha gasps, breaking into a laugh, "You are so kidding me. Oh, my God, we did it. We traveled in time!" she spins on the spot, overwhelmed, "Where are we? No, sorry, I have to get used to this whole new language—when are we?"
"Mind out!" the Alchemist laughs, grabbing Martha's arm and pulling her back just in time.
She's relieved she can't smell the streets around her—the era's questionable hygiene isn't something she misses.
A man leans out of an upstairs window, unceremoniously emptying his chamber pot, "Mind the loo!"
The Doctor grimaces as he sidesteps the splatter, "Somewhere before the invention of the toilet," he mutters with a shrug, "Sorry about that."
Martha waves it off, "I've seen worse. I worked the late-night shift in A ," her brow furrows, "But are we safe? I mean, can we move around and stuff?"
"Of course we can. Why do you ask?" the Doctor replies as they start walking.
"It's like in the films. You step on a butterfly, you change the future of the human race."
"Tell you what then, don't step on any butterflies," the Doctor smirks, "What have butterflies ever done to you?"
"What if, I don't know… what if I kill my grandfather?"
The Alchemist grins, "Are you planning to?"
"No!"
"Well… then I think you'll manage."
Martha glances around at the half-timbered buildings, the dirt roads, the sea of billowing cloaks, "And… this is London?"
The Doctor surveys the street and nods, "Looks like it. Round about 1599."
"Exactly 1599! Oh, good job, Doctor!" the Alchemist beams, patting his shoulder, "It's also September 9th at 6:12 PM!"
Martha chuckles at the enthusiastic praise, watching as the Doctor puffs up slightly.
"Oh, but hold on," Martha says, turning back to them, more serious now, "Am I all right? I'm not going to get carted off as a slave, am I?"
The Alchemist frowns, "Why in the world would they do that?"
Martha gives her a pointed look, "Not exactly white, in case you haven't noticed."
The Doctor shakes his head, "We're not even human. Just walk about like you own the place—works for us," he gestures to the lively street, "Besides, you'd be surprised. Elizabethan England? Not so different from your time. Look over there," he points at a man shoveling manure into a bucket, "They've got recycling."
"Water cooler moment," the Alchemist adds with a smirk, nodding toward two men deep in conversation by a water barrel.
Their chat is interrupted by a wild-eyed man standing atop a crate, proclaiming to the crowd: "…and the world will be consumed by flame!"
The Alchemist smirks as they pass, "Global warming."
"Oh yes, and—entertainment!" the Doctor cuts in, his enthusiasm kicking up a notch, "Popular entertainment for the masses. If I'm right—and I am—we're just down the river by Southwark, right next to…"
Before he can finish, the Alchemist grabs Martha's hand and takes off running.
"Come on!" she calls back, racing around the corner past Southwark Cathedral.
The Doctor groans, immediately giving chase. He wanted to do the big reveal.
They skid to a stop, breathless with excitement.
"Oh yes!" the Time Lords shout in unison.
"The Globe Theatre!" the Alchemist spins to face Martha and the Doctor, her eyes alight with excitement, "Brand new. Just opened."
"Though, strictly speaking, not a globe," the Doctor adds with a casual shrug, "It's a tetradecagon. Fourteen sides."
The Alchemist links her arm through his, practically vibrating with excitement, "Containing the man himself! Which is why I'm so exhilarated right now!"
"Whoa…" Martha stares at them, "You don't mean… Is Shakespeare in there!?"
"Oh yes," the Doctor grins, "Miss Jones, will you accompany us to the theatre?"
He offers her his free arm with a flourish.
Martha laughs and loops her arm through his, "Mr. Smith, Mrs. Smith, I will."
"When you get home, you can tell everyone you met Shakespeare," the Doctor adds, grinning.
Martha chuckles,"Then I could get sectioned!"
The Alchemist glances between the Globe and the direction they came from, biting her lip.
"I kinda want to put on a different dress," she admits, "We should check the performance times first, though."
Martha and the Doctor exchange a glance before breaking into laughter at the sheer delight on her face.
[Globe Theatre]
The performance has just concluded, and the packed audience erupts into applause as the actors take their final bows. The Doctor, the Alchemist, and Martha have been watching from the lower pit, caught up in the excitement of the crowd. The Alchemist, however, has attracted a few puzzled glances—her gown, resplendent and far too opulent for the setting, stands out among the simpler attire around her. She supposes she should have chosen something more understated, but it was simply too exquisite to resist.
Her gown is a masterpiece of deep midnight-blue velvet. Gold embroidery winds across the bodice and sleeves, intricate and delicate, catching the glow with every movement. The sleeves are lined with pearl-studded fabric, adding an extra touch of elegance, while the voluminous skirt parts at the front to reveal an ivory brocade panel, embroidered with dainty flowers and small birds.
"That's amazing! Just amazing," Martha sighs, still caught in the moment, "Worth putting up with the smell. And those are men dressed as women, yeah?"
"London never changes," the Doctor comments, watching as the actors bask in the adoration of the crowd.
"Where's Shakespeare? I want to see Shakespeare," Martha says eagerly before throwing a fist into the air and calling out, "Author! Author!" she turns to the Time Lords with a curious look, "Do people even shout that? Do they shout 'Author'?"
"Author! Author!" a man nearby joins in, and soon, the entire crowd takes up the chant.
The Doctor shrugs, "Well, they do now."
"Author!" the Alchemist cheers as well, throwing her fist into the air in mimicry of Martha.
In response to the fervent calls, Shakespeare himself saunters onto the stage, arms wide, blowing kisses and bowing with dramatic flair, clearly relishing the attention. The crowd roars its approval, their cheers ringing through the open-air theatre.
Martha tilts her head, scrutinizing the playwright, "He's a bit different from his portraits."
The Alchemist nods, her lips twitching, "Just a touch."
"Genius," the Doctor breathes, admiration in his eyes, "He's a genius. The genius. The most human human there's ever been. Now we get to hear him speak. He always chooses the best words—new, beautiful, brilliant words."
"Ah, shut your big fat mouths!" Shakespeare calls out, grinning wickedly.
The crowd bursts into laughter.
The Doctor sighs, his shoulders deflating, "Oh, well."
The Alchemist merely beams. She had expected this—after all, she knew the Brontës.
Martha shoots him a teasing grin, "You should never meet your heroes."
The Alchemist laughs, shaking her head, "I kinda figured this would happen."
"Why's that?"
"You've got excellent taste, I'll give you that," Shakespeare says, pointing out someone in the audience, "Oh, that's a wig!"
Leaning over the Doctor, the Alchemist stage-whispers, "I know the Brontë sisters. They've got mouths on them too."
Martha's jaw drops.
Onstage, Shakespeare continues with his signature bravado, "I know what you're all thinking—Love's Labor's Lost, funny ending, isn't it? It just stops. Will the boys get the girls? Well, don't get your hose in a tangle. You'll find out soon. Yeah, yeah, all in good time. You don't rush a genius."
He bows deeply—but as he straightens, his body snaps rigid, his face eerily blank. His entire demeanor shifts in an instant, the vibrancy drained from him.
"When?" he intones flatly. "Tomorrow night. The premiere of my brand new play. A sequel, no less. And I call it—Love's Labor's Won."
The Alchemist frowns. Something about the way he said that wasn't right. It was as if… as if he'd been forced to say it.
The crowd erupts into fresh applause, including Martha, but the Time Lords remain still, their confusion mirroring each other's.
"I'm no expert," Martha says as they weave through the dispersing crowd, "but I've never heard of Love's Labor's Won."
[Southwark]
"Exactly," the Doctor nods, "The lost play. It doesn't exist—only in rumors. It's mentioned in lists of his plays but never, ever turns up."
"No one knows why," the Time Lady adds with a shrug, "I've always wondered. Both of us have, actually."
"Have you got a mini-disc or something? We can tape it. We can flog it. Sell it when we get home and make a mint."
"No," the Time Lords reply in unison, their expressions instantly stern.
Martha blinks, "That would be bad."
"Yeah," the Doctor confirms.
"Yeah," the Alchemist echoes.
Martha crosses her arms, "Well, how come it disappeared in the first place?"
"Well..." the Doctor shrugs, rocking on his heels, "I was just going to give you a quick little trip in the TARDIS, but... I suppose we could stay a bit longer."
The Alchemist's grin widens in excitement.
[Shakespeare's room]
The Alchemist leads the way to the Elephant Inn, a name that brings her immense amusement after she discovered that's where Shakespeare stays and writes while in town.
The Doctor raps his knuckles against the open door, interrupting the group inside, "Hello! Excuse me, not interrupting, am I? Mister Shakespeare, isn't it?"
"Oh, no. No, no, no," Shakespeare groans, waving a hand dismissively, "Who let you in? No autographs. No, you can't have yourself sketched with me. And please don't ask where I get my ideas from. Thanks for the interest. Now be a good boy and shove…"
His words falter as he takes notice of Martha and the Alchemist standing behind the Doctor. A slow smirk curls his lips.
"Hey, nonny nonny. Sit right down here next to me," he purrs, gesturing to the chairs before turning to his actors, "You two—get sewing on them costumes. Off you go."
The innkeeper chuckles as she ushers the actors away, "Come on, lads. I think our William's found his new muses."
"Sweet ladies," Shakespeare grins, eyes flicking between them.
Martha, the Alchemist, and the Doctor take their seats as the previous occupants vacate them. Shakespeare studies them with keen interest, humming appreciatively.
"Such unusual clothes. So fitted. And you, dear beauty, have hair as bright as the setting sun."
"Uh... also happily married to my Lord husband, so... no," the Alchemist states flatly.
"That would be me," the Doctor interjects dryly, raising his hand.
Shakespeare gives an apologetic nod.
Martha, attempting to match the time period, tries, "Ah… verily, forsooth, egads…"
"No, no, don't do that. Don't," the Doctor mutters.
With a flourish, he pulls out his psychic paper and holds it out for Shakespeare to see, "I'm Sir Doctor of TARDIS, my wife Lady Ally, and this is our companion, Miss Martha Jones."
Shakespeare cocks an eyebrow, "Interesting, that bit of paper." he leans in, squinting, "It's blank."
The Doctor beams, "Oh, that's very clever. That proves it. Absolute genius."
"Most definitely," the Alchemist agrees, nodding, "I can't see it either."
Martha frowns, taking the paper and looking it over, "No, it says so right there. Sir Doctor, Lady Ally, Martha Jones. It says so."
"And I say it's blank," Shakespeare counters smoothly, "The Lady agrees, does she not?"
"She does in this matter, yes," the Alchemist confirms.
"Psychic paper," the Doctor explains, "Er... long story. Oh, I hate starting from scratch."
"Psychic?" Shakespeare repeats, intrigued, "Never heard that before, and words are my trade. Who are you, exactly?" his gaze shifts back to Martha, eyes alight with curiosity, "More's the point, who is your delicious blackamoor lady?"
Martha's expression freezes, "What did you just say?"
"Oops. Isn't that a word we use nowadays?" Shakespeare muses, unbothered, "An Ethiop girl? A swarth? A Queen of Afric?"
"I can't believe I'm hearing this," Martha says, outrage rising.
"Oh... goodness," the Time Lady mutters, eyes widening as a theory begins to form in her mind.
'You don't think she's…' the Alchemist starts in a low telepathic murmur.
'Can't be,' the Doctor replies just as quietly.
Meanwhile, the Doctor clears his throat and gives a tight nod, "It's political correctness gone mad," clapping his hands together, he swiftly moves the conversation along, "Um, Martha's from a far-off land..."
"Freedonia!" the Alchemist blurts out with confidence—only to earn a weary look from her husband.
They've long since concluded that she'll never be good at coming up with names.
Before anyone can react, the door swings open with a bang.
"Excuse me!" a man adorned with a gold chain of office stomps into the room, his face flushed, "Hold hard a moment. This is abominable behavior. A new play with no warning? I demand to see a script, Mister Shakespeare. As Master of the Revels, every new script must be registered at my office and examined by me before it can be performed."
Shakespeare offers an easy shrug, "Tomorrow morning, first thing, I'll send it 'round."
The man scowls, "I don't work to your schedule, you work to mine. The script. Now!"
"I can't."
His glare sharpens, "Then tomorrow's performance is canceled."
Martha exhales sharply, "It's all go 'round here, isn't it?"
"I'm returning to my office for a banning order," the Master of the Revels announces with dramatic flair, "If it's the last thing I do, Love's Labor's Won will never be played."
With that, he storms out.
"Well then, mystery solved," Martha nods, "That's Love's Labor's Won over and done with. Thought it might be something more, you know... more mysterious."
"Oh, Martha, did you have to?" the Time Lady groans.
Before they can dwell on it, a piercing scream splits the air outside—a man's, followed by a woman's.
In an instant, the group is on their feet, rushing to investigate the commotion.
[The Elephant Courtyard]
The Master of Revels staggers back, expelling copious amounts of water from his mouth.
"It's that bloke!" Martha realizes.
The Doctor's brow furrows, "What's wrong with him? Leave it to me. I'm a doctor!"
She nods, stepping forward, "So am I, near enough."
The Alchemist halts mid-step, her head snapping around at a phrase that catches her ear—something about stopping the heart. A flicker of unease runs through her. She sharpens her auditory senses, honing in on the female voice that spoke. It's irritating—she's never pushed her ability quite like this before—but anything that might help is worth the effort.
Meanwhile, the Doctor and Martha rush toward the collapsing man. As he crumples to the ground, the Doctor quickly scans the area for any potential attackers while Martha kneels beside him, immediately starting CPR.
"Got to get the heart going," she mutters under her breath before raising her voice, "Come on. Can you hear me? You're going to be alright."
She works to clear his airways, beginning mouth-to-mouth just as a torrent of water surges from his lungs.
The Alchemist hurries to Martha's side when the woman cries, "What the hell is that?"
The Doctor rushes back, dropping to his knees beside the man, while the Alchemist leans a wrist over his shoulder, extending her palm steadily.
She focuses, scanning for anything unusual, and nearly stumbles back as the results hit her. Alarmed, she meets the Doctor's gaze just as he turns to her with equal concern.
"He drowned," she murmurs, voice tight, "And there was a blow to the heart."
The Doctor nods grimly, "I've never seen a death like that."
Straightening, he turns sharply to the innkeeper, "Good mistress, this poor fellow has died from a sudden imbalance of the humors. A natural, if unfortunate, demise. Call a constable and have him taken away."
"Yes, sir," the woman replies, though her expression betrays unease.
Before she can move, a young woman with dark brown hair steps forward.
"I'll do it, ma'am," she offers, stepping in to assist.
The Alchemist's eyes narrow. That voice.
It was her voice she heard earlier.
She clenches her jaw but says nothing, knowing it would only cause panic.
Martha crouches beside the Doctor, lowering her voice, "And why are you telling them that?"
"This lot still have got one foot in the Dark Ages," he murmurs back, "If I tell them the truth, they'll panic and think it was witchcraft."
She exhales sharply, "Okay, what was it then?"
"Witchcraft," both the Doctor and the Alchemist reply in unison.
[Shakespeare's room]
"I got you a room, Sir Doctor. You, your lady wife, and Miss Jones are just across the landing," the innkeeper informs them as they converse with Shakespeare in his room.
Both Time Lords turn to her, nodding their thanks before returning to the discussion at hand.
"Poor Lynley. So many strange events," Shakespeare muses, brow furrowed, "Not least of all, this land of Freedonia where a woman can be a doctor?"
Martha presses her lips together, "Where a woman can do what she likes."
Shakespeare considers her words before turning his sharp gaze to the Doctor, "And you, Sir Doctor. How can a man so young have eyes so old?"
The Doctor shrugs, "I do a lot of reading."
"And your lady—eyes so unusual, yet with depths as ancient as his, bright and dark all the same," he adds, frowning toward the Alchemist.
She tilts her head slightly, "Luck and understanding."
"Trite replies. Yeah, that's what I'd do," Shakespeare notes before shifting his attention to Martha, "And you? You look at them like you're surprised they exist. They're as much of a puzzle to you as they are to me."
Martha exhales, glancing between them before deciding, "I think we should say goodnight," she turns to leave.
Shakespeare nods, his focus already drifting back to his work, "I must write. I have a play to complete. But I'll get my answers tomorrow, Doctor, Ally, and I'll uncover more about you—and why this constant performance of yours."
The Doctor lingers in the doorway, smirking, "'All the world's a stage.'"
'Knock it off,' the Alchemist hisses silently.
Shakespeare's eyes light up with intrigue, "Hmm. I might use that," he inclines his head, "Goodnight, Doctor. Lady Ally."
"Nighty night, Shakespeare."
"Goodnight," the Alchemist murmurs as the Doctor gently takes her hand, leading her away.
[The Time Lords and Martha's room]
Martha, candle in hand, surveys the dimly lit room just as the Time Lords step inside.
"It's not exactly five-star, is it?"
"Oh, it'll do," the Doctor grins, "I've seen worse."
"Oof, yes, we have. Caves are murder on the back," the Alchemist recalls, moving to the side table; she tugs open the drawer and finds a Bible.
'It's like a requirement, I swear,' she tells him through their bond.
The Doctor gives her a chastising look.
"I haven't even got a toothbrush," Martha realizes.
"Ooh. Uh…" the Doctor rummages through his deep pockets and triumphantly pulls out a yellow brush, handing it over, "Contains Venusian spearmint."
"Excellent for enamel," the Alchemist comments, then effortlessly leaps onto the bed.
Martha eyes the setup, "Small room for two beds."
"We'll manage," the Doctor says, bouncing onto the double bed and sprawling out with his hands behind his head. The Alchemist instinctively snuggles into his side.
"I'll take the smaller one, then, yeah?" Martha jokes.
"If you don't mind," the Alchemist grins from her comfortable spot on the larger bed.
"So... magic and stuff," Martha frowns, "That's a surprise. Feels a little bit Harry Potter."
"Wait till you read book seven," the Doctor muses, just as the Alchemist digs through his pockets, "Oh, I cried."
"We both did. Rough night. I needed chocolate," she quips, pulling out a small, neatly wrapped cube of the sweet and holding it up in triumph.
"You always want chocolate, Ally," the Doctor laughs.
Martha watches their interaction, unable to help smiling at the easy, affectionate way they move around each other.
"But is it real, though? Witches, black magic, all that—it's real?"
"'Course it isn't!" the Doctor scoffs.
"Well, how was I supposed to know? I've just started believing in time travel—cut me some slack!"
"Don't worry, Martha," the Alchemist reassures her gently, "It looks like witchcraft, but it isn't. Can't be."
"Are you going to stand there all night?" the Doctor asks, glancing at her.
"Right, right," she mutters, sitting on her bed, "God, this mattress is lumpy."
The Alchemist hums in agreement, eyes drifting shut as she lets the chocolate melt on her tongue.
"There is such a thing as psychic energy," the Doctor muses, "but a human couldn't channel it like that. Not without a generator the size of Taunton, and I think we'd have spotted that," he sighs, frustrated, "No, there's something I'm missing. Something really close, staring me right in the face, and I can't see it. Ally, do you see it?"
"Theorizing," she mumbles.
"Ah. Soon, then," he nods before turning to Martha, "Still, can't be helped. You're a novice. Never mind. I'll take you home tomorrow."
"Great," Martha mutters, lying back and blowing out the candle.
'That was beyond rude. You hurt her feelings, Theta. You don't know if she'll be helpful or not if you slice down her confidence,' the Alchemist scolds him through their bond.
The Doctor sighs mentally, 'I just… Rose hurt you so much.'
'But that was Rose. This is Martha. And you heard what she said, right? She'd never come between a married couple.'
'She also said I was asking her on a date. That upset you!'
'She was teasing—both of us. She even mentioned my dress. I could tell. I only asked her to stop because it reminded me of her,' the Alchemist hesitates, then adds, 'Martha knows what it's like when someone gets between a couple. She's lived it.'
'Right, right, her parents. I can't imagine how hard that is.'
'Neither can I.'
The Doctor shifts slightly, lowering his arms to pull her closer.
'Should we work on the patch?' he asks.
The Alchemist nods into his shoulder, 'Five hours lying here. Best chance we'll get.'
Two hours and fourteen minutes later, their work is interrupted by a piercing scream.
Instantly alert, the Time Lords leap out of bed, already awake, while Martha stumbles out after them. They bolt down the stairs toward Shakespeare's room, the Alchemist taking the steps two at a time.
[Shakespeare's room]
Shakespeare stirs drowsily as they burst into his room.
"Wha…? What was that?" he mumbles, blinking in confusion.
The Doctor and the Alchemist rush to the collapsed innkeeper. The Doctor kneels at her side, pressing two fingers to her neck, searching for a pulse. After a moment, he exhales sharply and shakes his head.
The Alchemist leans over his shoulder, scanning the body with her hand discreetly.
'Increased adrenaline,' she tells him through their bond.
Martha, still catching her breath, moves to the window. As she glances outside, her eyes widen in disbelief. Against the glow of the full moon, a dark figure soars through the sky—a cloaked woman on a broomstick, cackling into the night like something out of a fairy tale.
"Her heart gave out," the Doctor murmurs grimly, "She died of fright."
"Ally? …Doctor?" Martha calls out, concern threading her voice.
"What is it, Martha?" the Alchemist asks as she and the Doctor rise and move toward her.
"What did you see?" the Doctor prompts.
"A witch," Martha breathes.
A constable is summoned, and the innkeeper's body is taken away. The night settles once more, uneasy and thick with unanswered questions. Shakespeare, shaken, opts for another room.
As they leave, the Alchemist gently takes Martha's hand, guiding her back toward their quarters. She can feel the tremor in the young woman's fingers. Martha might not say it outright, but the fear lingers.
[The Time Lords and Martha's room]
"Are you feeling any better, Martha?" the Alchemist asks gently as she flicks on her sonic, igniting the candle with a soft glow.
The Doctor bounces back onto the bed, watching the exchange with quiet curiosity.
Martha offers a small smile and nods, settling on the edge of her own bed, "Yeah. I could use a cuppa, though."
"Oh!" the Alchemist perks up, quickly rummaging through her pocket before producing a self-heating mug and a box of tea.
"No milk, I'm afraid, but I do have honey," she adds with a grin as Martha stares, wide-eyed.
"Just… just how big are your pockets?"
The Time Lords exchange a glance before shrugging in perfect sync.
"Big enough," the Doctor replies.
With a flick of his wrist, he pulls out a small bottle of water and tosses it to his Bondmate. She catches it effortlessly and sets up the tea on the small table for Martha.
"It'll be ready in a bit," she assures her.
"Thank you, Ally."
The Alchemist blinks, momentarily caught off guard. Realization settles in as she lowers herself onto the bed beside the Doctor.
"You're… you're welcome."
'What is it?' the Doctor asks silently, sensing her shift in thought.
She glances at him, her expression unreadable, 'Rose only ever thanked me once… and that was for a very expensive dress.'
[Shakespeare's room]
At sunrise, the Alchemist, the Doctor, and Martha sit beside Shakespeare as he mourns the loss of his friend.
"Oh, sweet Dolly Bailey," Shakespeare sighs, voice thick with grief, "She sat out three bouts of the plague in this place while we all ran like rats. But what could have scared her so? She had such enormous spirit."
The Doctor nods solemnly, "'Rage, rage against the dying of the light.'"
The Alchemist pinches the bridge of her nose, barely resisting the urge to smack him.
"I might use that," Shakespeare muses, stroking his chin.
"You can't," the Alchemist deadpans. "It's someone else's."
She shoots her husband a pointed look, and he grins, entirely unrepentant.
Martha, deep in thought, frowns, "But the thing is, Lynley drowned on dry land, Dolly died of fright, and they were both connected to you."
Shakespeare gapes at her, "You're accusing me?"
Martha quickly shakes her head, "No, but I saw a witch—big as you like, flying, cackling away—and you've written about witches."
"I have? When was that?"
"Not quite yet," the Doctor mutters under his breath.
Shakespeare frowns, "Peter Streete spoke of witches."
"Who's Peter Streete?" Martha asks.
"The architect of the Globe," the Alchemist answers with a shrug.
Shakespeare nods, "Yes, that's right. He was our builder. He sketched the plans to the Globe."
"The architect," the Doctor murmurs, the gears in his mind turning, "Hold on. The architect! The architect!" he smacks his palm against the table, "The Globe! Come on!"
In an instant, he grabs his Bondmate's hand and dashes from the room, dragging her along. Martha and Shakespeare scramble after them, struggling to keep up.
[Globe stage]
The Time Lords pace around the pit, their minds racing, while the humans stand on the stage, shifting their gazes between the pair and the grand structure of the theater.
The Doctor gestures to the walls, "The columns there, right? Fourteen sides. I've always wondered but never asked," he turns to Shakespeare, "Tell me, Will. Why fourteen sides?"
"It was the shape Peter Streete thought best, that's all," Shakespeare replies with a shrug, "Said it carried the sound well."
"Fourteen… why does that ring a bell?" the Doctor furrows his brow, "Fourteen. Ally, why does that ring a bell?"
The Alchemist exhales sharply, deep in thought, "It's ringing more than a bell—more like a tolling one."
"There's fourteen lines in a sonnet," Martha suggests.
"So there is. Good point." the Doctor nods, intrigued, "Words and shapes following the same design."
The Alchemist hums, thinking aloud, "Fourteen lines, fourteen sides, fourteen facets…"
The Doctor gestures toward her, "Yes! Fourteen facets! Oh, my head. Tetradecagon. Think, think, think! Words, letters, numbers, lines!"
The Alchemist shakes her head, frustrated, "I should know this… It's so familiar. Numbers and letters of design..."
Shakespeare frowns. "This is just a theater."
The Doctor grins, eyes gleaming, "Oh yeah? But a theater's magic, isn't it? You should know. Stand on this stage, say the right words with the right emphasis at the right time—you can make men weep, or cry with joy!"
The Alchemist tilts her head, her expression shifting as realization dawns, "Change them… You change the words, you change people's minds. Just within this theater alone," she nods, "But if you exaggerate that…"
"It's like your police box," Martha interjects, "Small wooden box with all that power inside."
The Doctor's face lights up, "Oh! Oh, Martha Jones, I like you!"
The Alchemist grins, giving Martha two enthusiastic thumbs up, making her smile.
"Tell you what, though," the Doctor continues, turning to Shakespeare, "Peter Streete would know. Can we talk to him?"
Shakespeare sighs, "You won't get an answer. A month after finishing this place, he lost his mind."
"Why? What happened?" Martha frowns.
Shakespeare shrugs, "Started raving about witches, hearing voices, babbling. His mind was addled."
"Witches?" The Alchemist presses.
He nods.
The Doctor immediately spins to face him, "Where is he now?"
"Bedlam."
"What's Bedlam?" Martha asks.
The Alchemist murmurs, "...Bethlem Hospital."
Shakespeare nods, "They call it the madhouse."
The Alchemist swallows hard but gives a firm nod.
"We're going there. Right now. Come on!" the Doctor shouts, grabbing the Alchemist's hand and taking off in a run.
"Wait! I'm coming with you. I want to witness this firsthand!" Shakespeare calls after them; he quickly turns to two members of his cast and hands off the script, "Ralph, the last scene, as promised. Copy it, hand it round, learn it, speak it. Back before curtain up! And remember, kid—project. Eyes and teeth. You never know, the Queen might turn up!" He leaps off the stage and takes off after them.
"As if," he mutters, "She never does."
[Southwark]
The Alchemist swings the Doctor's arm as she leads them toward Bedlam, her steps steady despite the unease curling in her stomach. She doesn't want to go anywhere near the place, but if needs must, she'll go—to help, if nothing else.
The Doctor follows her natural sense of direction, glancing around curiously as they weave through the streets. It's instinctual for her, this ability to know time and place, an innate gift sharpened over years of study—just as her father had before her. A skill passed down through the long generations of her family line, Alphavera.
Behind them, Shakespeare and Martha walk side by side, engaged in conversation.
"So, tell me of Freedonia," Shakespeare muses, turning his gaze to Martha, "Where women can be doctors, writers, actors."
Martha raises an eyebrow, "This country's ruled by a woman."
"Ah, but she's royal. That's God's business," he counters with a charming smile, "Though you are a royal beauty."
Martha halts mid-step, "Whoa, Nelly! I know for a fact you've got a wife in the country."
"But Martha," he grins, undeterred, "this is Town."
The Doctor glances back over his shoulder, "Come on. We can all have a good flirt later."
Shakespeare smirks, "Is that a promise, Doctor?"
The Alchemist chuckles, "I think he'd prefer a flirt with me, but regardless of that…"
The Doctor laughs, picking up speed, "Fifty-seven academics just punched the air! Now move!"
[Bethlehem Hospital - Cell Block]
The Alchemist swallows hard, her throat tightening as the screams and cries echo through the dimly lit corridor. She keeps her gaze fixed ahead, resisting the urge to glance at the cell doors they pass—each one a cage of suffering.
The keeper grins as they walk, "Does my Lord Doctor wish some entertainment while he waits? I'd whip these madmen," he sneers, "They'll put on a good show for ya. Bandog in Bedlam."
The Doctor's expression darkens instantly, "No, I don't!" he snaps, his teeth bared in fury.
Sensing her distress, he gently turns the Alchemist into his chest, wrapping his arms around her waist. She's afraid. And she's never afraid.
'What is it?' he asks, voice a whisper in her mind.
She shakes her head, 'The screams. The cells...'
Understanding dawns, and he presses a soft kiss to the side of her head, grounding her.
The keeper smirks, "Well, wait here, my lords, while I make him decent for the ladies," with that, he disappears down the hall toward Peter Streete's cell.
Martha crosses her arms, fixing a sharp glare on Shakespeare, "This is what you call a hospital, yeah? Where the patients are whipped to entertain the gentry? And you put your friend in here?"
He scoffs, "Oh, it's all so different in Freedonia."
"But you're clever! Do you honestly think this place is any good?"
Shakespeare stiffens, "I've been mad. I've lost my mind. Fear of this place set me right again. It serves its purpose."
"Mad in what way?"
The Doctor's expression softens as a memory stirs, "You lost your son…"
The Alchemist shudders slightly, and his grip on her tightens. She's unnervingly quiet, and the weight of the memory—of loss—settles between them. Even knowing the truth now, that their son is alive, the ghost of that pain lingers.
"My only boy," Shakespeare murmurs, nodding, "The Black Death took him. I wasn't even there..."
Martha exhales, her anger giving way to sympathy, "I didn't know. I'm sorry."
"It made me question everything. The futility of this fleeting existence. To be or not to be..." he pauses, considering the words, "Oh, that's quite good."
"You should write that down," the Doctor suggests before dropping another kiss onto the Alchemist's ginger waves.
Shakespeare hums, mulling it over, "Maybe not. A bit pretentious?"
Before anyone can respond, the keeper calls out, "This way, m'lord!"
They move forward, but the Alchemist flinches at the sight of a cell ahead. It's not completely unlike how she was kept.
The Doctor immediately senses the shift in her, a deepening distress that coils like a shadow through their bond. He sends a wave of calm, a silent reassurance that he's here.
But he knows—she's in no state to search Peter's mind. That responsibility falls to him.
Lowering his arms, he gently guides her toward Martha.
"Watch over her," he murmurs to the young woman.
Martha's confusion flickers into concern the moment she sees the Alchemist's expression—anxious, pale, shaken. She takes her hand without hesitation, squeezing it gently. The Alchemist clutches it back as they walk past cell after cell.
[Streete's cell]
The man holds the cell door open, glancing between them warily, "They can be dangerous, m'lord. Don't know their own strength."
"I think it helps if you don't whip them!" the Doctor snaps, "Now get out!"
The keeper sneers but obeys, stepping back and locking the door with a harsh clang.
The Alchemist shuts her eyes tightly, her breath catching at the sound of metal slamming into place.
The Doctor glances at her, feeling the spike in her fear and anxiety, 'I'm here, remember?'
'I've never forgotten,' she replies, her tone dark.
The weight of her words settles deep in his chest—a reminder of everything she had once endured, everything she had shown him. He swallows hard before turning toward Peter.
"Peter? Peter Streete?"
Shakespeare frowns, "He's the same as he was. You'll get nothing out of him."
"Peter?" the Doctor calls again, placing a gentle hand on the man's shoulder.
Peter jerks at the touch, his head snapping up, eyes wide but unfocused, glassy with madness.
The Doctor kneels before him, pressing his fingertips to either side of Peter's head. Closing his eyes, he reaches out, feeling for the threads of the man's fractured mind, guiding him back to clarity.
"Peter, I'm the Doctor," he says softly, "Go into the past. One year ago. Let your mind go back. Back to when everything was fine and shining. Everything that happened in this year since happened to somebody else. It was just a story. A Winter's Tale. Let go."
Peter's body slackens as the Doctor eases him back onto his cot, "That's it. That's it… Just let go. Tell us the story, Peter. Tell us about the witches."
A shuddering breath, then: "Witches spoke to Peter… in the night, they whispered. They whispered. Got Peter to build the Globe to their design. Their design! The fourteen walls. Always fourteen," his voice rises, a thin, broken laugh escaping him, "When the work was done… they snapped poor Peter's wits!"
The Doctor leans closer, "Where did Peter see the witches? Where in the city? Peter, tell me. You've got to tell me—where were they?"
Peter's lips part, his voice thin and distant, "All Hallows Street."
The Alchemist's eyes snap open. A presence shifts in the air—something else is here. She turns sharply, her gaze locking onto an old woman standing behind the Doctor.
Her reaction is instant. She moves, blocking the woman's path, her stance braced, her expression a sharp, warning glare.
"Too many words!" the old woman screeches.
The Doctor spins at the sound, eyes widening at the sight of the crone standing inches from his Bondmate. He reaches for her, but the Alchemist beats him to it, shoving him back toward Martha.
Martha gasps, "What the hell?!"
"Witch!" Shakespeare gapes, "I'm seeing a witch!"
The Alchemist's mind races. Witches… words… fourteen…? Her conclusion solidifies.
"Just one touch of the heart," the witch hisses, stepping forward.
"No!" the Doctor shouts.
"Creature, I name thee Carrionite!" the Alchemist commands, spinning to face the witch just as she reaches toward Peter's chest.
A piercing scream tears through the air, and in a burst of white light, the witch vanishes.
Silence lingers for a breath before the Doctor exhales sharply, "The fourteen stars of the Rexel planetary configuration…"
He turns and pulls his wife close, crushing her against him.
'Never scare me like that again,' he orders through their bond.
She leans back slightly, meeting his gaze with a knowing look, 'I can't prevent it. It's ingrained, you know that.'
Martha steps forward, "What did you do?"
The Doctor, still studying his Bondmate as if reassuring himself she's unharmed, finally answers, "She named her. The power of a name. That's old magic."
"But there's no such thing as magic!" Martha protests.
The Alchemist presses a kiss to the Doctor's cheek before stepping away, kneeling beside Peter.
"Well, it's just a different sort of science," the Doctor explains, "You lot, you chose mathematics. Given the right string of numbers, the right equation, you can split the atom."
'Change begets change?' the Alchemist confirms with Teacher.
'Change begets change,' the Time Vortex answers.
"Carrionites use words instead," the Alchemist continues, lifting a hand.
She closes her eyes, power gathering at her fingertips as she gently presses them to Peter's forehead. A whisper of energy flows between them.
Shakespeare watches, frowning, "Use them for what?"
"The end of the world," the Doctor replies.
"Come home," the Alchemist whispers.
Peter gasps, his body jerking as if waking from a nightmare. His eyes clear.
Peter blinks in confusion before his gaze lands on the playwright.
"Will?" His voice wavers with disbelief.
Shakespeare gasps and rushes forward, pulling his old friend into a tight embrace.
As he pulls back, he wipes at his eyes before turning to the Alchemist.
"How?" he asks, wonder and disbelief tangled in his voice.
She shrugs, "There's power in words."
[Shakespeare's room]
After ensuring Peter Streete was safely admitted to a proper hospital, the Doctor, the Alchemist, Martha, and Shakespeare returned to the Elephant. The playwright promised to visit his old friend the following day.
"The Carrionites disappeared way back at the dawn of the universe," the Doctor recalls, pacing, "Nobody was sure if they were real or legend."
"Wrong."
"Well, I'm going for real," Shakespeare frowns.
The Doctor turns to his wife, startled, "The Elites knew?"
"Of course we knew; it was the Eternals," she shrugs.
He rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. The sheer amount of knowledge the Elites had access to, especially The Ten, was staggering. Most of them—his Bondmate included—read up on the history of the universe just for fun.
Martha shakes her head, "But what do they want?"
The Time Lady's gaze shifts to Shakespeare, "I'm looking at the man with the words."
"Me? But I've done nothing," he frowns.
"Hold on, though," Martha interjects, turning to him, "What were you doing last night when that Carrionite was in the room?"
He shrugs, "Finishing the play."
'She's good, Theta,' the Time Lady notes.
The Doctor's eyes narrow slightly, "What happens on the last page?"
'I'm not ready, Amara.'
Shakespeare rubs his chin, "The boys get the girls. They have a bit of a dance. It's all as funny and thought-provoking as usual. Except... those last few lines. Funny thing is... I don't actually remember writing them."
"That's it," the Alchemist nods, "They used you. They fed you the final words like a spell, like a code. Words have power, remember? Love's Labour's Won. It's a weapon."
"The right combination of words, spoken at the right place, with the shape of the Globe as an energy converter! 'The play's the thing!'" the Doctor says before turning to Shakespeare, "And yes, you can have that."
The Alchemist sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. Martha, catching the gesture, bites her lip in amusement—she's noticed by now that the Time Lady does this every time the Doctor manages to irritate her.
"Will, do you have a map?" the Doctor asks.
Shakespeare nods, retrieving a rolled-up parchment from a drawer.
The Alchemist frowns, dropping her hand, "We don't need a map, love."
He points at her, "I want a map."
She crosses her arms, "I'm practically a map."
The Doctor's mouth opens to retort, but she shakes her head, "Fine, look at your map. You'll go the wrong way anyhow."
"No, I won't!"
Shakespeare and Martha exchange knowing grins. They bicker like an old married couple—and neither of them realizes just how right they are.
The Doctor studies the map, his finger landing on a street, "All Hallows Street. There it is," he straightens, "Martha, Ally, and I will track them down. Will, you get to the Globe. Whatever you do, stop that play!"
"I'll do it," Shakespeare promises, shaking his hand firmly, "All these years, I've been the cleverest man around. Next to you and your lady wife, I know nothing."
Martha smirks, "Oh, don't complain"
"I'm not," he laughs, "It's marvelous. Good luck, Ally, Doctor."
"Good luck, Shakespeare," the Time Lord calls out as they run out the door, "'Once more unto the breach.'"
"I like that... Wait a minute, that's one of mine!"
The Doctor pops his head back in with a cheeky grin, "Oh, just shift!"
[All Hallows Street]
"All Hallows Street—but which house?" the Time Lord mutters, scanning their surroundings.
"The thing is, though, am I missing something here?" Martha frowns, "The world didn't end in 1599. It just didn't. Look at me. I'm living proof."
He sighs, exasperated, "Oh, how to explain the mechanics of the infinite temporal flux? I know! Back to the Future."
The Alchemist tilts her head in thought, "Yeah, actually, it is like Back to the Future, oddly enough."
Martha blinks, "The film?"
The Doctor gives her a pointed look, "No, the novelization. Yes, the film."
"Marty McFly goes back and changes history, remember?" the Time Lady explains.
"...And he starts fading away," Martha gasps, "Oh my God, am I going to fade?"
"You and the entire future of the human race," the Doctor warns, "It all ends right now in 1599—unless we stop it. But which house?"
As if in answer, a door just a few paces ahead creaks open.
"Ah," he smirks, "Make that witch house."
"Badum tch..." the Alchemist mutters.
The Doctor groans.
The Time Lady shoots him a glance, 'Not my fault you're full of dad jokes.'
'Well, I am a dad,' he reminds her with a grin.
She smiles back at him, and together, they step toward the open door.
[Witch's house]
"I take it we're expected," the Doctor comments as they step inside, spotting the maid from the inn.
"Oh, I think Death has been waiting for you a very long time," she smirks.
Martha steps forward confidently, "Right then, it's my turn. I know how to do this," she points at the woman, "I name thee Carrionite!"
Nothing happens.
Martha frowns, "What did I do wrong? Was it the finger?"
"The power of a name works only once," the woman replies smoothly before pointing at Martha, "Observe. I gaze upon this bag of bones, and now I name thee Martha Jones."
Martha stumbles back as if struck. The Alchemist rushes forward, catching her and gently lowering her to the ground.
"What have you done?" the Doctor demands, voice sharp.
"She's only asleep. I can hear her heart," the Time Lady assures him.
"Yes, only sleeping, alas. It's curious—the name has less impact. She's somehow out of her time," the Carrionite muses before turning her gaze toward him, "And as for you, Sir Doctor. Fascinating," her attention shifts to the Alchemist, eyes gleaming, "There is no name for either one of you. Why would you hide your titles in such despair?" she smirks, "Oh, but look. There's still one word with the power that is great."
The Doctor glares, "The naming won't work on me."
"But your heart shall grow cold. Battle's end calls with the fall of your closest Ally."
"Oh, big mistake," he retorts, his eyes darkening, "'Cause that name keeps me fighting."
The Alchemist rises to her feet, her presence commanding, "And she's right here to fight by his side," jer voice turns sharp, "The Carrionites vanished. What did the Eternals do to you?"
"They found the right word to banish us into deep darkness."
"And how did you escape?" the Doctor presses.
"New words. New and glittering, from a mind like no other."
"Shakespeare," the Doctor realizes.
"His son perished. The grief of a genius. Grief without measure. Madness enough to allow us entrance."
"You used the death of his child?" the Time Lady growls, rage crackling in her voice.
The Doctor grasps her hand tightly, grounding her.
"We did what we must!"
"How many of you?" he demands.
"Just the three. But the play tonight shall restore the rest. Then, the human race will be purged as pestilence. And from this world, we will lead the universe back into the old ways of blood and magic."
The Doctor tilts his head, unimpressed, "Hmm... Busy schedule. But first, you've got to get past us."
"Oh, that should be a pleasure," she purrs, eyes flicking over him, "Considering my enemy has such a handsome shape. It is a pity I can do little with the woman; her power is great," she reaches out to touch his face.
The Alchemist scoffs, catching the Carrionite's wrist in a bruising grip before dropping it again. The witch hisses, scowling.
"Now, that's one form of magic that's definitely not going to work on me," the Doctor quips, taking a step back, "I've already got my lady."
"Oh, we'll see," she smirks.
In a flash, her other hand darts forward, yanking out a strand of his hair before retreating.
The Doctor frowns, running his fingers through his hair, "What did you do?"
"Souvenir."
"Well, give it back!" he demands, lunging for it.
But with a dramatic sweep of her arms, the Carrionite soars out of the window, vanishing into the night.
The Doctor gapes after her, "Well... that's... that's just cheating."
"Behold, Doctor. Men to Carrionites are nothing but puppets."
Martha stirs, blinking as she wakes, her expression filled with confusion.
The Carrionite smirks, wrapping the Doctor's hair around a wooden doll with deliberate precision.
The Alchemist scoffs, arms crossed, "I'd call that a DNA replication module."
The witch sneers, "What use is your science now?" with a dramatic flourish, she plunges a sharp pin into the doll.
The Doctor cries out in agony, his body convulsing as pain rips through him. He collapses into the Alchemist's arms, and she lowers him carefully to his knees.
Cackling, the Carrionite turns and vanishes, flying off into the night.
"Doctor!" the Time Lady calls urgently, scanning him in a flash while he groans, pain flickering across his features.
Martha shakes off her daze, scrambling to her feet, "Oh my God, Doctor. Don't worry, we've got you."
The Alchemist frowns, frustration laced in her voice, "Ugh, he's only got one heart working."
The Doctor manages a weak smirk, glancing at Martha and his wife, "You're making a habit of this," he groans. "How do you people cope?"
The Alchemist cups his face, her voice soft but firm, "We've got to get the other one started, and I don't want to hurt you," she looks at Martha, "Martha, if you wouldn't mind?"
Martha nods quickly, stepping forward.
"Hit him on the chest, right side," the Alchemist instructs and Martha complies.
"Dah!" the Doctor winces, "Other side. Now, on the back, on the back. Left a bit…" je gasps sharply as his second heart kicks back in, "Dah, lovely."
He inhales deeply, steadying himself. The Alchemist helps him to his feet.
"There we go," he grins, shaking off the lingering pain, "Badda boom! Well, what are you standing there for? Come on! The Globe!"
Without hesitation, they bolt down the stairs and out into the streets, racing toward the theater.
[Streets]
"You're going the wrong way!" the Time Lady shouts as he turns a corner.
"No, I'm not!" he yells back before turning around and sprinting past the pair, "I'm going the wrong way!"
His Bondmate huffs and rolls her eyes before taking the lead in the chase again, Martha close behind the Doctor.
As they approach the Globe they hear screams of terror and see a red glow hanging around over the top of it.
[Southwark]
"I told thee so! I told thee!" a preacher cries, pointing towards it.
The Alchemist rolls her eyes, "Stage door!" she shouts.
They run towards it as thunder begins rolling above the theater, lighting cracking amidst the red storm.
[Backstage]
The trio burst in to find Shakespeare waking up, rubbing his head.
"'Stop the play,'" the Doctor snarks, "I think that was it. Yeah, I said, 'Stop the play!'"
"I hit my head," he moans.
"Yeah, don't rub it. You'll go bald."
The Alchemist looks over to him as the audience begins to scream louder, "I think that's our cue, love!"
"Now begins the millennium of blood!" the Carrionites cry out.
[Globe Theatre]
Following the Time Lords in their sprint, Martha and Shakespeare quickly join them on stage.
"The Doctor! He lives!" the maid Carrionite shouts, "Then watch this world become a blasted heath! They come. They come!"
Holding a crystal aloft in the red light, the Carrionite maid watches as bat-like creatures swoop into the theater, circle around, and then ascend into the sky.
'Those are the Carrionites,' the Alchemist tells her husband and he pauses in concern.
He glances her way, 'How the hell do we get rid of them?'
'There's power in words, and we have the most powerful Wordsmith in history right behind us.'
The Doctor turns to Shakespeare, "Come on, Will! History needs you!"
"But what can I do?" he asks, gaping.
"Reverse it!"
"How am I supposed to do that!?"
"The shape of the Globe gives words power," the Alchemist tells him strongly, "But you're the wordsmith, the one true genius. The only man clever enough to do it!"
He shakes his head, "But what words? I have none ready!"
"You're William Shakespeare!" the Doctor shouts.
"But these Carrionite phrases, they need such precision!"
"Will, you need to trust yourself. When you're locked away in your room, the words just come, don't they?" the Time Lady asks, "Like magic. Words of the right sound, the right shape, the right rhythm. Words that last forever. "
The Doctor nods and continues with a grin, "That's what you do, Will. You choose perfect words. Do it. Improvise."
Shakespeare nods, straightens his shoulders, and steps forward, "Close up this din of hateful, dire decay! Decomposition of your witches' plot! You thieve my brains, consider me your toy. My doting doctor and closest ally tell me I am not!"
"No!" the maid cries, "Words of power!"
"Foul Carrionite specters, cease your show! Between the points..." he pauses and turns to the Time Lords.
"Seven six one three nine oh!" the Alchemist tells him with a grin.
"Seven six one three nine oh! Banished like a tinker's cuss, I say to thee..." he freezes up and glances back again.
Martha offers, "Expelliarmus!"
"Expelliarmus!" the Bondmates shout as well.
Shakespeare turns back, calling out, "Expelliarmus!"
The Doctor grins, "Good old JK!"
"Eh," the Time Lady adds, and he also nods and grimaces.
"The deep darkness!" the maid cries, "They are consumed!"
The Carrionites screech and wail as they're pulled into the red light, along with all the pages of the play.
Sighing, the Doctor looks up, "Love's Labor's Won. There it goes."
"Ah well, we know the ending anyway," the Alchemist quips, and he laughs with her.
With a sudden flash and a clang, the sky clears of the swirling red hell, prompting one person to start clapping, soon joined by the rest of the audience. The Alchemist and the Doctor back off as the actors take their bows.
Martha laughs, "They think it was all special effects?"
Shakespeare turns to her, "Your effect is special indeed."
"It's not your best line," she smirks and they both bow to the audience.
[Carrionite Viewing Box]
Meanwhile, the Time Lords ascend to the Carrionites' box. The Doctor plucks the crystal from its place, turning it in his hands as the trapped witches claw and silently screech from within.
With a casual flick, he tosses it to the Alchemist, who catches it effortlessly. She smirks, sticking her tongue out at them before slipping the crystal into her pocket.
But then she feels a shift—a ripple—through the bond. Her gaze snaps to the Doctor, noting the frown creasing his face.
"What is it, Doctor?"
"You scared me again," he murmurs, his voice tight, "With Peter."
She exhales heavily, shoulders sagging, "We've discussed this... The programming is broken, but not what it did to my mind and cognitive ability. I'm... I'm just like this now," her voice softens, "I can pull back my auditory sense, control how I see for the most part, block my nose with ridiculous filters—but reacting to danger? I feel it. I sense when something is about to attack."
The Doctor's frown deepens, "I... I keep getting this odd emotion from the bond when it happens. I can't describe it beyond... a rise and drop."
She nods, gaze flickering downward before meeting his again, "It's from my temporal battle reaction; that... that's what he called it," her voice tightens, "They made it so my body initiates an autodynamic reflex movement without having to think about it first. I don't... I don't get a shock reaction. I don't freeze. I don't flee. It's either immediate defense or attack."
She pauses, swallowing, "It's why I don't use the Vortex that much beyond when that happens; I have to fight the desire to pull from the connection. You're feeling my reaction to my adrenal glands spiking."
The realization dawns in his eyes, a flicker of something between understanding and frustration, "...You get a high from it," he murmurs, running a hand through his hair, "It excites you."
She nods again, slowly, deliberately, "I pull back as much as I can, Doctor. I do. I'm not putting my life on the line, not yours, not anyone's. I know how far I can go now, what will attack me and what won't. Just using a bit of the Vortex triggers it, honestly, so I'm careful," she sighs, her voice growing quieter, "But the resulting chemical change...?"
The Time Lady hesitates, searching for the words.
The Doctor takes her hands, his grip warm, "You get more anxious," he murmurs, piecing it together, "Your mood drops. It's making it worse; you want it to stop," his eyes darken with understanding, "They changed every new self... that's what you meant. You'd do anything to get rid of that feeling after."
Her fingers tighten around his.
"...And I can't."
[The Globe Stage: Next Morning]
While the Doctor searches backstage, Shakespeare and the Alchemist engage in a playful battle of wits. Unbeknownst to him, she has one particular quip tucked away, a line she knows will send the playwright into hysterics—she just needs to deliver it without her husband overhearing.
Shakespeare grins, eyes gleaming with mischief, "And I say, a heart for a hart and a dear for a deer."
The Alchemist bursts into laughter, delighted by the clever wordplay.
"Your turn, Lady Ally," he prompts.
She smirks and winks before delivering her line: "It would cost me a groaning to take off my lord husband's edge."
Shakespeare erupts into a thunderous guffaw, slapping both thighs in sheer amusement.
"You are keen, my lady, keen!" he manages between peals of laughter.
She winks again, "You might want to write that one down."
Martha, watching their antics, shakes her head, "I don't get it."
"Then give me a joke from Freedonia," Shakespeare challenges, still grinning.
She shrugs, "Okay—Shakespeare walks into a pub, and the landlord says, 'Oi mate, you're Bard.'"
The playwright and the Alchemist laugh heartily.
"That's brilliant! Doesn't make a lick of sense, mind you, but never mind that," he grins and playfully pulls Martha toward him by the waist, "Now, come here."
Martha raises a brow, "I've only just met you."
"Why not entertain a man who will kiss you?" he teases.
She smirks, "I don't know how to tell you this, oh great genius, but your breath doesn't half stink."
The Alchemist giggles, but then her attention snaps to the entrance as the Doctor strides in, now adorned with a small ruff and carrying a large animal skull. With exaggerated grace, he bows.
"Oh, my darling lady wife. It is good to greet you this day," he proclaims.
The Alchemist barely contains a laugh as she stands and curtsies in return, "Dear lord husband, may time not separate us so long again."
'I do not miss having to say that to you in public,' she chimes through their bond.
The Doctor coughs, covering his chuckle at the memory.
He lifts the skull, eyeing it dubiously, "Good props store back there. Not sure about this though—reminds me of a Sycorax."
"A bit, yeah," the Alchemist nods thoughtfully.
"'Sycorax,'" Shakespeare repeats, testing the word on his tongue, "Nice word. I'll have that off you as well."
"I should be on ten percent," the Doctor quips before focusing on Shakespeare, "How's your head?"
"Still aching."
"Here, I got you this," the Doctor steps forward and places the ruff around Shakespeare's neck, "Neck brace. Wear that for a few days 'til it's better—although you might want to keep it."
The Alchemist tilts her head, assessing him, "He's right. It suits you."
Shakespeare raises a brow before rolling his eyes.
"What about the play?" Martha asks.
"Gone. I looked all over," the Doctor says with a nod, "Every single copy of Love's Labor's Won went up in the sky."
Shakespeare sighs, "My lost masterpiece."
"You could write it again," Martha suggests.
"Yeah, better not, Will," the Alchemist winces, "There's still power in those words. Maybe it's best left forgotten."
He nods, a thoughtful expression settling over his face, "Oh, but I've got new ideas. Perhaps it's time I wrote about fathers and sons, in memory of my boy—my precious Hamnet."
Martha frowns, "Hamnet?"
"That's him."
"Hamnet?"
"What's wrong with that?"
"Anyway," the Doctor cuts in, "Time we were off. Ally and I have a nice attic in the TARDIS where this lot can scream for all eternity."
The Alchemist pulls out the crystal, smirking as she shakes it up, jostling the trapped Carrionites before slipping it back into her pocket.
"...And we've got to take Martha back to Freedonia," the Doctor adds.
Shakespeare's grin widens, "You mean travel on through time and space?"
The Time Lords freeze, staring at him.
"You what?"
"You're both from another world, like the Carrionites," Shakespeare says matter-of-factly, "and Martha is from the future. It's not hard to work out."
The Doctor gapes, "That's... incredible. You are incredible."
"So incredible I want a competition," the Alchemist smirks.
"Oh?" Shakespeare perks up, "Competing in what way?"
"Sonnets," she declares, "Dedicated to one of our lovely companions here."
The Doctor raises his brows, "You sure about this, Ally?"
"Oh, yes."
"Then compete we shall," Shakespeare agrees, "I'll let the lady go first."
"Loser keeps the ruff," the Alchemist adds, smirking.
Shakespeare laughs.
The Time Lady turns to the Doctor, and he grimaces, already bracing himself. She merely rolls her eyes before snatching up the skull, kneeling before him, and speaking softly…
"In time's great tapestry, they found their light. Two souls entwined in destiny's sweet grace. Their bond created in the starry night… A love that time and space can only embrace…"
The Doctor's jaw drops. So does Martha's. Even Shakespeare is momentarily speechless.
"United by a thread of fate's design, their hearts beat as one in symphony rare. A love that burns with passion so divine, a flame that none can quench nor ever snare. Through trials and triumphs, they endure… Weathering the storms that life did cite. In each other, they always find a cure. Their love be a beacon, burning ever bright.?"
The Doctor grins widely, a mix of admiration and curiosity flashing in his eyes. Is she making this up on the spot? He honestly can't tell.
"So let the stars above their love ignite, The Fated Pair, bound by Time's grand might."
"Woohoo!" Martha cheers, and the trio applauds enthusiastically.
The Time Lady sets down the skull and rises, offering a deep, theatrical curtsy to the clapping. Before she can straighten up, the Doctor pulls her in by the waist, making her giggle as he spins her, guiding her effortlessly into a dance before holding her close from behind.
"Your turn, Will," she laughs.
Shakespeare smirks, "We're alike in many ways, Ally, but I will win this, most certainly," he turns to Martha with a flourish, "Now, let me bid thee farewell in a new verse… A sonnet for my Dark Lady."
The Time Lords' jaws drop in full realization, and Martha is left gaping.
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate..."
Before he can finish, the sound of hurried footsteps interrupts him.
"Will!" one of his actors comes sprinting towards the stage, breathless.
"Will, you'll never believe it!" another chimes in, barely able to contain his excitement, "She's here! She's turned up!"
Shakespeare frowns, "Who?"
The first actor nods fervently, "We're the talk of the town. She heard about last night—she wants us to perform it again!"
Martha furrows her brow, "Who?"
The answer comes with a grand fanfare as the crowd parts, revealing the regal figure of an elderly Queen Elizabeth I, flanked by two stern-faced pikemen.
"Her Majesty. She's here!"
The Doctor's face lights up with a boyish grin, "Queen Elizabeth the First!"
He glances at his wife knowingly.
The Alchemist gasps, barely containing her excitement, "Oh, I've always wanted to meet you!" she leans toward the Doctor, whispering, "I mean, you know I have a thing for famous redheads. Remember Lucille Ball? We literally went to a ball."
But the Queen's expression is anything but welcoming. Her sharp gaze narrows as she locks onto the two Time Lords.
"Alchemist? Doctor!?" she spits the words like venom.
The Doctor blinks in confusion. "What?"
"My sworn enemies!"
"What?" he repeats, his grin faltering.
"Off with their heads!"
The Alchemist bursts into laughter, "No way! This is such a Queen of Hearts moment!"
Martha's eyes widen in alarm, "Never mind what, just run!" she grabs both their hands and yanks them into a sprint, "See you, Will, and thanks!"
The Queen gestures furiously, "Stop that pernicious Doctor and his Alchemist lady!"
Shakespeare doubles over in laughter as the pikemen charge after the fleeing Time Lords and Martha, their chase spilling out into the winding streets of Southwark—straight toward the TARDIS.
[Southwark]
"Stop in the name of the Queen!" one of the guards shouts.
"What have you done to upset her?" Martha asks, looking between them.
"How should we know?" he shrugs, "Haven't even met her yet."
The Alchemist skips ahead, "That's time travel for you. Still, can't wait to find out!"
She unlocks the TARDIS and ushers Martha in, stopping at the door and looking back at her husband.
He laughs, "That's something to look forward to." he glances behind him to see the arrows aimed, "Ooh!"
The Time Lady ducks his head low as the Archers shoot their arrows toward them, she slams shut the door just as one embeds itself into the wood and the TARDIS dematerializes.
'You got me shot! Again!' the Alchemist hears a huff in her head and she laughs.
[TARDIS Console Room]
"Bluette's mad 'cause we got her shot again," the Alchemist remarks as she expertly maneuvers around the console, fingers flying over the controls.
"Well... Sorry, Old Girl?" the Doctor grins, giving the console a reassuring pat.
The TARDIS responds with an indignant shudder, lurching violently and sending both him and Martha sprawling to the floor.
The Alchemist, still perfectly balanced at the controls, bursts into laughter. With practiced ease, she pulls them into the Vortex, utterly unaffected by the chaos.
Martha groans as she pushes herself upright, "How come we always fall, and you don't?"
The Time Lady shrugs with an infuriatingly smug smile, "Cat-like reflexes."
The Doctor rolls his eyes, smirking. It's her normal response to the question now.
"Oi, Doctor," she mutters, adjusting a dial, "I'm going to go change."
She turns to Martha, who's still slumped on the jumpseat, watching her with mild exasperation.
"Watch and learn, Martha Jones," the Alchemist declares.
And then, with effortless grace, she launches into a dazzling display—cartwheeling, flipping, and twirling in her long gown, revealing the leggings underneath, before landing lightly at the corridor's entrance. Without missing a beat, she takes off sprinting.
Martha gapes after her, "How...?"
The Doctor chuckles, shaking his head fondly, "She's just a bit unlikely."