it's them aliens- open to the_5thdoc

[out_of_my_time]

'Bloody hell.'

The words are Gene's, spoken with a sort of hushed, sickened awe, and behind them, Sam hears Chris retch and stumble away to be sick somewhere.  Sam doesn't blame him, and he swallows, closing his eyes for a moment and pressing fingertips to his eyelids, as if that might make the sight before them more manageable.  It doesn't.  Still

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[out_of_my_time]

Sam can't believe what he's seeing. He can't, and it is not- not- what he needs right now. 'Oh, this is not the time,' he mutters furiously, and at Llewellen's sideways look, he clears his throat awkwardly. 'Ah, you can clear off, PC Llewellen; help them with the body.' He nods to the forensics lads, who are gathering up the victim in all his bits and pieces, and though the constable looks none too pleased about it, he does as he's told.

Leaving Sam alone with his hallucination.

Because of course it's a hallucination, never mind the fact that Llewellen could see him too; he'd call it someone mucking about in costume, playing the fool, were it not for the fact that the Fifth Doctor wouldn't show up for another eight years. And given Sam's childhood fascination with the man- oh, bloody brilliant time to make an appearance, Freud.

'The Doctor,' he scoffs, and then repeats himself, laughing mirthlessly. 'The Doctor? Seriously.'

The abuse of the Doctor's coat hasn't ended, because it's right about now that Sam seizes both of the lapels and pushes him against a wall, out of sight of the people attending the crime scene. 'I do not have time to entertain hallucinations, alright?' he growls, shoving just a little, as if for emphasis. 'Just bloody leave me alone, I've got enough to deal with right now without chucking madness into the bargain.'

[the_5thdoc]

The Doctor was doing a good job of maintaining his cheerful smile, but it falters as the impact against the wall forces the air out of his lungs. He gives Sam a look that suggests he has been in situations like this more than once before -- and enjoyed them rather less with each iteration.

But the smile quickly returns and his voice stays calm, with a cheerful note to it.

"Yes, my name is the Doctor. Just the Doctor. It has been rather a long time since I was last in Manchester, but hadn't been aware that this," with his body fairly well pinned, the Doctor gestures with his eyes to indicate his current predicament, "was considered a polite way to greet strangers."

As Sam doesn't seem to be backing down, the Doctor's cheer falters again and he gives the man a hard stare. His voice quickly looses all trace of cheer.

"And I equally do not have the time to play games with you. There is something here that oughtn't be -- and whatever it is, I assure you the local constabulary is in no way equipped to deal with it. You mentioned a body. Something unusual, I imagine? Something you've never seen before? If it's an ordinary homicide, feel free to send me on my way. But if not... let me help."

[out_of_my_time]

'No, nononono- you're not real.'

He says it as though it ought to be obvious, irate and impatient. 'The Doctor doesn't exist. Clearly, my subconscious has decided that now is an opportune time to torture me with new and inventive delusions, but I have a murderer to catch, and that poor man's widow to speak with, and I will not allow my own bloody brain impede my ability to do my job!'

Sam hadn't quite planned on letting loose with such a vehement speech, but weeks of strain will out, and when he finally falls silent, he clenches his jaw, looking down for a moment. His fingers tighten in the Doctor's lapels; he feels real enough, and Sam suppresses the man urge to feel for two heartbeats.

Absently, he recalls his words to Annie however many weeks ago- I went to see Doctor Who, he prescribed me some pills... As if. Shaking his head, he releases the Doctor and steps back, watching him warily.

'Not that I wouldn't love to hallucinate the Fifth Doctor,' he adds absently, 'but you could have picked a better time.'

[the_5thdoc]

The Doctor is quite prepared to make an exceedingly convincing response to this mad tirade when something Sam says throws him off his game. He hesitates, no longer certain what he's dealing with. No ordinary lunatic, certainly.

"Excuse me... but did you just call me the 'Fifth Doctor?'"

He keeps his voice calm and even, though that particular piece of knowledge is something no one, certainly no one on Earth, should have. To hear it casually blurted from the lips of a stranger makes him the slightest bit nervous. Had they met before? But even then... Even if they'd traveled together at some point... The fact that the Doctor was presently in his fifth body was not something that tended to come out in casual conversation.

[out_of_my_time]

Sam is currently experiencing the very strong desire to simply clap his hands over his ears and squeeze his eyes shut and hope that the Doctor goes away. It's a bit of a struggle not to give into that desire, as it happens, but Sam is possessed of nothing if not an iron will, and so he doesn't. The Doctor isn't acting like one of his hallucinations, no voices from the future or predictions of disaster or news of Sam's condition, and just possibly, that's what keeps Sam standing here, rather than storming off to do what he's supposed to be doing.

'Yes,' he prompts, slowly, as he occasionally might speak to Chris about filing. 'Fifth incarnation, Pharos Project, Castrovalva, etc etc, nasty regeneration, one of my favourite Doctors- but then, you know all that.'

Because he really does have things to do here, and he's damned if the Doctor, hallucinatory or not, is going to waylay him. (It's clear that he still thinks him a hallucination- if he didn't, he'd be much much excited.) He heaves a sigh. 'Oh, come on, come with me, then, if you must, I have to talk to the former Mrs. MacIntosh.

And that'll be Sam off, striding back towards the main thoroughfare.

[the_5thdoc]

The Doctor stands in stunned silence for a moment as Sam walks off.

This is wrong. Very, very wrong. He runs to catch up with him.

"Pharos Project? Castrovalva? Regeneration? There's no reason for anyone to know all of those things. How...? We haven't met before... or later... have we?"

[out_of_my_time]

'I told you, you don't exist.'

He's moving again, which helps keep him calm. Always move, always fight, always forward, forward, keep going because if he stays still, he doesn't know what'll happen to him. And he can't risk that. Sam glances back, a bit chagrined to see the Doctor rushing to his side, cream-coloured coattails flapping. He looks... well, he looks like the real thing. Sam could very well imagine himself as Turlough or Tegan (though he'd prefer Turlough) if he was less sensible.

'The Doctor is a fictional character; I grew up watching you on telly.' And then, as if to drive home how really totally cool with this situation he is, he fishes his radio from a coat pocket, clicking it on and holding it to his mouth. 'Phyllis, I need an address.'

[the_5thdoc]

"A fictional character? A fictional character?"

It's not just every day that someone denies the Doctor's existence quite so readily and he's more than a little flummoxed. And, really, this is a new one on him... and it's rather rare that he has the opportunity to say so.

"I'm not sure where you're coming up with this, but I'm as real as anyone."

[out_of_my_time]

Sam shoots him a sideways look that almost manages to be amused as Phyllis's voice crackles over the two-way, giving him the address of the deceased. 'Wrong man to be talking to about real, Doctor,' he mutters, barely audible. 'It's a regular Strawberry Fields here.'

Which is to say, he's going to require some pretty intensive proof if he's ever going to believe the Doctor isn't just a figment of his imagination.

[the_5thdoc]

He gives Sam a skeptical look. His behavior is a bit odd, even by the Doctor's definitions. But there's an unknown alien force roaming 1973 Manchester and at least one person is dead. He came here in search of it and he's certainly not going to be dissuaded from his task by a little strangeness.

Well then, on to business. He walks along-side Sam and asks, matter-of-factly, as though he has every right to know -- which, of course, in the Doctor's mind, he does.

"So there has been a death? Tell me about it."

[out_of_my_time]

Well, they're just going to have to sit here and doubt each other until the end of time, aren't they? For now, though, Sam'll play along. If only because he knows he won't get anywhere if he stands in an alley all day insisting that the Doctor isn't real. So whatever he is, well... Sam plays along with this world every day, he can do this.

He turns to look at the Doctor, quite serious, now, before relaying clinically, as he might do for a file, 'Caucasian male, 36, Peter MacIntosh, found a couple of hours ago back there-' he jerks his head in the direction they'd come from- 'disemboweled. Literally. Back broken, torn in half, all the visceral organs removed, as well as the lungs.' But even that professional tone can't save him a twist of the stomach, and he grimaces. 'I've never seen anything like it.'

'And I suppose,' he says after a pause, and this time, there's the tiniest bit of challenge, of mockery in his voice, 'it's aliens, is it? Some kind of supernatural force you've been tracking?'

[the_5thdoc]

The Doctor is quiet, staring off into middle-distance with a frown as he listens to the description. His brow furrows as he files pieces of information, attempting to connect them to a single specific culprit.

"I was tracking something. But I'm not sure what, exactly. Something... unpleasant... it should seem."

He pulls the strange, light-covered device from his coat pocket once more. Its colored lights are rather muted now, hardly flashing at all. Whatever he was tracking was far away now... he'd have to go back to the TARDIS to see if he could get a clearer signal. He drops it back in his pocket with another frown and looks up at Sam again.

"No other forensic traces? I'll need to look at the crime scene... perhaps I can pick up on something you haven't."

The Doctor is quite certain he can pick up on a good many things the local authorities would miss, but may as well be polite.

[out_of_my_time]

Good lord, he's got a Time Lord doohickie. Sam blinks at it for a moment, before looking back up at the man's face. 'Besides the blood sprayed all over the place, I take it you mean.' There's so much of it, though, that not that even that means anything to him, despite his smarmy recommendations to Gene of Blood Pattern Analysis by D.H. Cromby. He crosses his arms, thinking. 'We've taken the body back to the lab for analysis, the scene's cordoned off, you can take a look later if you-'

Wait, what is he talking about? He's not real.

Sam shakes his head. He can't think too hard about this, or he'll end up even madder than he is already. 'Come on,' he sighs, 'and put that away, you'll attract attention.' Not, of course, that he won't anyway, dressed in cricketers' whites, if anybody else can see him at all (Llewellen could), but there's not much Sam can do about that.

The MacIntosh house isn't too far away, brick-faced with a blue-painted front door, set in a row of nearly identical houses, each with their brick walls and meagre gardens, and when Sam knocks, a woman whom he presumes to be Mrs. MacIntosh opens the door. Youngish, prettyish, and hassled looking, and Sam always, always hates this part of the job.

'Mrs. MacIntosh? DI Sam Tyler, and... this is Dr. John Smith, from UNIT. Could we have a word inside?'

[the_5thdoc]

His mind stops working at the question of what, exactly, is running loose in Manchester for long enough to realize that if they're walking, they must be walking somewhere. Another street, another neat row of middle-class housing, and now a blue painted door.

"Where are we..."

He trails off as Sam knocks on the door and a woman answers.

Oh. Mrs. MacIntosh. Of course.

He hates this part... and not infrequently makes a point of leaving before events reach this stage.

He pulls off his hat and tucks it away in a pocket, offering a weak smile to the rather confused young woman at the door.

He is nearly -- but not quite -- distracted enough to miss Sam's introductions. He gives the man a sharp look, but now hardly seems the time or place to delve into how or why this stranger seems to know everything about him.

[out_of_my_time]

The Doctor's sharp glance doesn't go entirely unnoticed, but there are more important things to focus on right now. Namely, the sudden pinched look of confusion that Mrs. MacIntosh's face has taken on. Sam's good at this, it's no accident, that he's always the one relegated to break the news to the next of kin, but he still hates it.

Gently, he lets himself and the Doctor into the house. 'You are Irena MacIntosh, yeah?'

'Yes...'

'I have some bad news, I'm afraid.'

She reacts the way people do, the way Sam's seen far too many times, denial that quickly turns into anger, and then to tears, and Sam grips her shoulder gently as she shudders with tiny, gasping little sobs. Next to him, the Doctor is utterly unhelpful, and Sam shifts slightly. He's going to stand here for as long as the woman needs him to, because that's what he does, but it doesn't mean he feels any more comfortable about it.

Finally, though, she manages to mostly contain herself, and dashes the tears from her eyes. 'Will you need me to- to identify the- or anything?'

He squeezes her shoulder gently, nodding in an unspoken equivalent of the Doctor's 'Brave heart.' 'No, that won't be necessary.' Mostly because it would be more traumatic than anything else, and the chances of her actually being able to identify the body slim to none, in the state it's in. 'We'll be in touch, Mrs. MacIntosh. If you need anything, anything at all.'

But she seems like she can't wait to retreat, and, sharing the sentiment, Sam lets her. When they're out the door once again, he lets out a long sigh. 'Christ.'

[the_5thdoc]

The Doctor is silent for a long moment as they stand outside the MacIntosh home. He's studying Sam intently, as though mentally attempting to judge the weight of his heart against that of a feather. He doesn't say anything, but his eyes convey, perhaps... respect?

At length, he bows his head and his voice comes softly, when he speaks. Were there a breeze, it might be carried away by it entirely.

"'Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me. The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.'"

This brief elegy recited, he raises his head. His mouth is set in a harsh line and his eyes have the foreboding look of the sky before a thunderstorm.

He glances over at Sam.

"So, Sam, are you going to help me find who or what has done this?"