The road now leads onward and I know not where [arrival]

[ceilear]

For a moment, Jamie McCrimmon had no idea how he got here. He knew where here was, certainly. Here was just outside of Iverness. They fled here. Himself, Laird MacLaren, and his two children. They fled here after there was nothing on the field of Culloden but blood and death and terror, the acrid smoke of gunpowder and the screams of the dying

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[magic_in_genius]

Shakespeare is working in the rift room because it really is a beautiful source of inspiration. Not as beautiful as Martha, but beggars can't be choosers, or something like that. He types away frantically, trying to get a section out of his head that just won't leave... and then there's a very bloody man, right through the rift.

Now, blood is a lovely source of inspiration as well, but Shakespeare's not an idiot enough to just leave a bleeding man be for a bit so he can muse over it. He pushes his laptop onto the sofa, standing up and going over to Jamie, looking very concerned.

"Good sir?" He kneels, reaching out to touch Jamie's shoulder. "Are you still with us?"

[ceilear]

It takes Jamie a moment to work out the fact that there is someone talking to him. And a few seconds more to realise yes, that is in fact English. He's working with limited faculties, here.

However, as soon as he's touched, he reacts like a wounded animal, jerking away and trying to get at the basket hilt sword that came through with him. Mercifully, it's out of reach, and he bites back a gasped oath when he moves so suddenly. Not good, not good, not good. The pain lets him know he's alive, at least. The fresh river of blood spilling down his arm, however, alerts him to the fact that he might not be for long.

"Don't! Get your hands off of me!" Jamie says sharply, his brogue blurring consonants broadly, but there's no questioning the look in his eyes: all white-ringed panic, like a horse about to bolt. "Where's the Doctor, where is he, I need him!"

[magic_in_genius]

The Doctor? Now that was a name Shakespeare hadn't expected to hear. "Do you mean a Doctor or the Doctor?" he asks. Because the man's acting quite delirious. He might have just assumed that he meant the Doctor when he meant nothing of the sort. He is kind of bleeding horridly.

"Stay still," Shakespeare says, a bit of his persuasion leaking into his voice. "Apparently blood letting is no longer considered medicine." He needed to get some pressure on the wound. He unbuttoned his shirt, ripping it up. "Let me help."

[ceilear]

It's enough to get Jamie to still, even if his good hand strays close to his sock. The dirk's still there. It's comforting. (Even if Shakespeare might not find it a comfort at all.)

"I don't...I don't know, I just...I have to find him, I..." Jamie tries to explain, and he shakes his head, as if to clear it. It doesn't help. Really, he just feels woozy. Too much adrenaline and confusion. And really, getting sent all through space and time, twice in one day, it does things to a body. "He'll fix it, he always fixes things."

It's not much of an answer, and he blinks blearily up at the man tending to him. "You're not a redcoat," he said. He has a knack for stating the obvious.

[magic_in_genius]

Shakespeare's starting to think the man's definitely talking about the Doctor in that case, but he doesn't want to jump to conclusions. He reaches out slowly, holding the ripped shirt in his hand. "No, I'm not a redcoat," he says, not even sure what a redcoat is. "The name's William Shakespeare."

He needs to slow the bleeding, at least. He's no doctor, but Martha is, and he's sure there are others who can help much more than he can.

"You are safe," he adds. Well, as safe as one can be in Chicago. But he doesn't want to explain everything to a man obviously mad with pain and so disjointed. That can come after he's tended to.

[ceilear]

Jamie nods, trying to wrap his mind around being...wherever he is. Not Iverness. It feels familiar, this process. He doesn't know for sure. But he's trying.

He also feels like he should know the name Shakespeare. It's not coming to him. But it will eventually.

"I don't...I don't know what happened. They're coming for me, they were just behind me, did...did you take me in? Give me shelter?" he asks, dazed still, but he's hopeful, all the same. "They're not going to let anyone get from the battlefield, they're not, it was luck the last time..."