Torchwood/Doctor Who: An Appointment With Death (Jack/Doctor, PG-13 // 2/3)
An Appointment With Death
Full header in MASTER POST.
part one
The Doctor roped an arm across Jack’s shoulders and dragged him, more or less, to his feet. “So,” he said, as he led Jack, half-conscious, through a door and into a cosy, windowless chamber that the TARDIS had kindly made a bedroom, “what’s the plan?”
“Torchwood,” Jack choked out, stumbling onto the duvet. White-faced, curled up, and looking so young, he seemed to vanish into his great blue coat. He tried vainly to shrug himself out of it, and the Doctor hurried to help as Jack groaned and clutched at his stomach.
The Doctor shook his head. “We can’t. You know that. You’d be putting Earth at risk-”
“P-please,” Jack begged around a hand pressed against his mouth, as if that would calm his nausea.
The Doctor bit his lip, eyeing the purple mark that had appeared on Jack’s neck. “Jack, no. The last thing you want is to put your friends in danger-not to mention the whole world!” He turned towards the door, raking a hand through his hair worriedly. “We could head for a hospital, or the TARDIS could-”
“Torchwood,” Jack insisted weakly from the bed. “There could be something,” he coughed once, hard, and blood stained the sheets, “from the R-Rift. Something that would help.” He paused, riding out another wave of sickness, and when he spoke again, his voice was fraught with pain and fright. “I want to see them. Please, Doc, I just want to-”
The Doctor scrubbed a hand across his face. Through parted fingers, he glimpsed Jack’s pale, drawn face, and knew he had lost. “Fine,” the Doctor said, leaning in and gently prying the greatcoat from Jack’s clenched fingers. “But only for a little while. When things get bad, we’re going to find a place to take care of you that isn’t Earth or anywhere nearby. All right?”
Jack just nodded, and the Doctor squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll be right there,” he promised. “Just hold on.”
Jack’s only response was a low moan, and the Doctor spun on his heel and returned to the control room. He doubled his efforts and they were off in a matter of moments. The trip through the Vortex was unsteady enough that the Doctor hoped that, in the other room, Jack had managed to remain on the cot.
When they touched down in Cardiff, it was with an unsteady lurch that threw the Doctor to the ground; and when he returned to the bedroom, it took a moment to find Jack on the floor on the far side of the bed, head buried in a wastepaper basket.
The Doctor attempted an encouraging smile as he forced Jack upright. It was hard, though, when most of the contents of the bin consisted of Jack’s last meal and a healthy heaping of dark red.
“Damn you, Doctor,” Jack slurred as he was dragged from the TARDIS and towards the tourist office. “I’ll never learn. Next time, I’m not coming with you.”
The Doctor flinched, saying nothing as he kicked open the door. He had Jack draped across the front desk in a matter of moments. Ianto sat behind it, same as before, but leapt to his feet at the sight of Jack. When Jack didn’t acknowledge a touch to one cheek, no less Ianto’s presence, Ianto looked up at the Doctor with a mix of fury and fear brightening his eyes and demanded, “What’ve you done to him?”
The Doctor scratched his head. “That’s a long story,” he said, and thought about it. “Well, not really. But now’s hardly the time for stories, long or short. Jack told me about the, uh-the Hub. Is this it?”
Ianto swallowed hard and glanced between Jack and the Doctor. Then he reached below the desk, and a panel in the wall slid back. “Down here,” he said faintly, and led the way.
The Doctor was sure that, had it been any other situation, he might have taken a moment or two to look around and inspect the wealth of high-tech machinery that Jack’s faithful team had at their grubby little fingertips, then take it away before they could go about destroying the Earth with it. But that would have to wait, because right now Jack was a dead weight in his arms, and-immortal or not-he was about to take one hell of a bruising.
Ianto was still a few steps ahead, quieting two women and a very pale man with dark hair and darker eyes, so still despite all the action around him. The Doctor stopped for a moment and stared at him, a frown twisting his mouth as he realised what was wrong. Shaking his head and clucking to himself, he turned and ambled over to the couch, still lugging Jack behind him. The Doctor deposited Jack amongst the cushions as gently as he was able, then turned back to those who he presumed were Jack’s team.
“Hello,” he said brightly, striding over with a grin. With his head cocked to one side, he examined each human in turn. Identification was easy, now that he’d gotten Ianto out of the way. The Doctor pointed at a pretty, petite Japanese woman. “Toshiko.” He turned to the confused- and familiar-looking brunette beside her. “Gwen, I presume?” Which left the walking dead. “And you must be Owen.” He extended a hand; when no one made a move to take it, he dropped it and just chose to keep smiling, instead. “Nice to meet you.”
“Ianto?” Gwen glanced at the Doctor worriedly, then at Jack lying, motionless, on the couch. “I thought you said Jack was going away for a while.” She made a rather pathetic attempt at a smile as she backed over to the sofa. “What’s wrong with him?”
The Doctor stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Bit of a pestilence,” he said.
Owen glowered at him. “Is it contagious?”
“Oh, I don’t think you need to worry about that,” the Doctor said dismissively, and turned back to Jack. “But no. Despite that I’m sure you know all about me already,” he called over his shoulder, “I’m the Doctor. As lovely as it is to meet you all, proper introductions will have to wait, because right now we need to attend to much more important things. After all, Jack’s told me so much about you, and if we don’t do something, I won’t ever have the joy of hearing him rattling on about his friends ever again.”
Ianto was at Jack’s side at once, a tender hand on his face. “Jack’s immortal.” The concern breaking his voice betrayed his cool demeanour.
“Yeah…” The Doctor fiddled with his spectacles. “That’s the thing.”
Ianto’s head whipped around so fast that the Doctor bit back a comment on whiplash. Beside him, Gwen’s eyes were wide, and he could feel Toshiko’s gaze burning into the back of his head. He even saw worry in the tilt of Owen’s scowl.
“What do you mean?” Ianto demanded, rising.
“That’s the thing about this disease…” The Doctor shrugged and moved to the couch. He pushed past Ianto, who stepped back as if stung, and knelt beside Jack. “I was right,” the Doctor whispered in a low voice, one hand hovering by Jack’s face. He was struck with the sudden urge to push the hair out of his eyes. “I have seen this before. Forty-fifth century, planet of Caberous…” He shook his head. “They were wiped out. I couldn’t do anything.”
Gwen’s voice chimed in from behind him, halfway to hysterical already. “That doesn’t sound very good.”
The Doctor flapped a hand in the air and eyed her over his shoulder. “You don’t have to worry.”
She massaged her temples and took a deep, steadying breath. “It’s not me I’m worried about!” she snapped. Her pale hands fluttered in the air before settling on Ianto’s arm, as if to comfort him. Or maybe hold him back; he did look a bit like he was about to leap forwards and attack. All part of Jack’s charm, the Doctor supposed. “What about Jack? What’s so special about this disease?”
“Well, it doesn’t leave the body after death.” The Doctor ignored the team’s horrified glances, and quietly moved aside to let Ianto sit down beside Jack. He tried to give him a comforting smile, but Ianto refused to respond; he was too busy lifting Jack’s head into his lap, pushing the dark hair from his face. The Doctor still sort of wished he’d done that instead.
The sound of Owen clearing his throat jerked the Doctor out of his thoughts; he shook his head and got his mind back on track. “Ah, yes. Sorry. So, after death, the disease just… lingers there. For a while, anyway. It waits until a new carrier comes along, and then transfers itself by touch. Any touch.” The Doctor turned a grim eye on Ianto, who lurched back. “No worries! Well, unless he dies. Then we’ll really have something to worry about. Quarantining, we can do that easily enough. Unfortunately, that won’t be the end of it; the disease isn’t that easily destroyed. No new carriers? It just uses the old one to find another.”
Owen frowned. “So, wait-are we in danger right now? Thanks to his inability to keep his hands off Jack, is tea boy,” he jerked his head at Ianto, who whirled around to scowl at him, “now infected?”
The Doctor shook his head. “It doesn’t spread until the carrier dies,” he repeated, slower. “And it’s at that point that things gets a lot more dangerous. Jack here is a very unique specimen-I believe the disease will suspend his ability to revive properly, and instead, he’ll get back up as a reanimated corpse, bent on finding new hosts.”
“A zombie?” Toshiko asked, a hand over her mouth.
Ianto spoke up before the Doctor could confirm this. “We have to keep him alive.”
“Yes, I’ve figured out that bit,” the Doctor said, and stood. He could feel Ianto glaring at the back of his head, but didn’t have time to feel guilty. “We need to find out more about this disease.”
Gwen crossed her arms over her chest. “I thought you said you knew what it was.”
The Doctor looked sheepish. “I do, yeah,” he mumbled into his collar. “I know what it’s called, but that’s about it. I don’t know how it works, but I can still make a guess at how much time we have.” He eyed Jack for a moment and fell silent. It was only the sound of footsteps as Toshiko backed into a chair that reminded him of where he was. “Twenty-four hours,” he said quickly, giving himself a shake and turning back to the team. “At most. Which is why I need you to run some tests. Do we have any doctors here?”
Owen raised his hand, then promptly lowered it and mumbled something about looking like an idiot.
“Great. Take some blood; there should be traces of alien DNA in it, which will help us-or me, really-figure out what needs to be done.” He glanced back at Jack, who was still not moving. The only indication that he was even slightly conscious was the low moan that issued from the couch as soon as the Doctor turned back to Owen. “And treat the symptoms. Keep him comfortable as possible. Keep him alive.” Owen nodded and started forwards, but was stopped by a palm flat against his chest. “Ah, but don’t move him. Really, don’t move him. I think he’d upend all the food still in his stomach all over you if you even tried that.”
Owen frowned, but took a step back. As he turned to leave, he caught Gwen’s arm and spoke to her, his voice hushed. When he walked away, she followed him reluctantly with a last look at Jack. They disappeared past a partition and the Doctor clapped his hands. “Okay!” he said. “Halfway there.” He smiled encouragingly at Toshiko, who was too busy biting her lip and staring at Jack and Ianto to respond. “I assume you have archives,” the Doctor went on, dragging a hand through his hair. “This disease might not exist on this planet until twenty centuries from now, give or take a few, but you still might have something that could help.”
“I can show you,” Toshiko said uncertainly, and threw a glance at Ianto. “But it’s not really my area of expertise…”
The Doctor followed her gaze and reached down to grab Ianto’s arm. He jerked violently at the touch, but allowed himself to be tugged off of the couch. “That’s your job,” the Doctor said. “Jack told me. I need to see everything you’ve got.”
Ianto pulled out of the Doctor’s hold. “I’m staying with Jack,” he bit out. “He needs me.”
The Doctor smiled grimly. “You’re right,” he said softly, turning and just watching Jack for a moment. He felt Ianto’s gaze burning into him, and the Doctor looked up and met his gaze, his expression shuttered. “Right now, he needs you to help me. He needs you to save him.”
Ianto hesitated, and Toshiko stepped forwards. “I’ll stay with him, Ianto,” she offered, her large eyes wide and earnest. “You don’t have to worry.”
The Doctor didn’t have the heart to tell her no, so he just nodded. Pacified, Ianto moved towards a nearby door without a word. The Doctor followed, shrugging off his coat and hanging it over a chair as he went.
He was halfway to where Ianto had stopped to wait when he heard Jack’s voice.
He whirled around and started back at double the pace; behind him, Ianto clattered over the metal floors to get back to the couch first. There, Toshiko was bent over Jack and shushing him gently, cradling his head in her arms. Ianto got there first and knelt beside Jack, reaching forwards to stroke the hair from his feverish face. From where he stood, the Doctor could see Jack’s eyes rolling in his head, could see his lips mouthing Doctor.
“Jack?” Ianto whispered. “Jack, it’s me; it’s Ianto…”
Jack shook his head and nearly fell off the couch in doing so. Weakly, he croaked, “Doctor-I need the-”
The Doctor winced as Ianto lurched to his feet as if he’d been slapped. “He wants you,” Ianto said shortly, and stepped back a few feet, letting the Doctor cross to where Jack lay. Only when he passed did the Doctor notice that Ianto was shaking.
“Shh,” the Doctor said, kneeling beside Jack and brushing one hand across his cheek. “I’m here, Jack. It’s me.”
Jack went still at the touch and tried at a lopsided smile. “It-it’s bad,” he whispered. “Really bad. I can’t… I just can’t-can’t take it anymore. I need-”
The Doctor bit his lip. “I know. I’m sorry. We’re working on it. I promise it won’t be too much longer. We’ll find an antidote.”
Jack shook his head and groaned. “But I-antidote-”
“Soon, Jack.” The Doctor smiled sadly and squeezed Jack’s clammy hands. “I swear to you. I’m not-” He looked down and scrubbed a hand over his face, then leaned in and whispered, too soft for anyone but Jack to hear, “I won’t lose you.”
With one last touch to Jack’s pale, drawn face, the Doctor stood. Ianto didn’t say a word as he led the way down to the archives, and over their footsteps, the Doctor could hear Jack calling for him, endlessly crying out.
Like he’d been abandoned.
-
The Doctor sighed and sagged against the row of shelves rising up to the ceiling before him. “Nothing,” he sighed, exasperated. “There’s nothing.” He ran one hand through his hair. “I find it hard to believe that not a single artefact that would be helpful in this situation has fallen through the Rift since you started cataloguing it all.” He returned to the files. “No encyclopaedia of forty-fifth century diseases? No antidote almanacs?”
Ianto glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and set down the file he had been rifling through. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said blankly. “I can check again, but perhaps we should go upstairs and check if Owen has had any luck with the blood work.”
The Doctor shoved a folder back in its rightful place and turned to him, nodding. For a moment, Ianto just stared back at him, and the Doctor guessed that he must have looked quite a sight: covered in a fine layer of dust from the records he’d been unearthing, his dark hair a mess of wild spikes, spectacles lodged crookedly on the end of his nose. He pushed them up distractedly and gestured to the door. “Lead the way. And don’t call me sir.”
Ianto ducked his head in the smallest of nods and moved towards the Doctor. For a moment, they stood side by side in a silence broken only by the howl of some creature far below them, and then Ianto said, “Will he be all right?”
The Doctor hesitated. Eventually, he answered, “I don’t know.”
It wasn’t what Ianto wanted to hear. Without a word, he strode to the door and left the Doctor standing in the dust. Ianto’s steps were heavy, and though his back was ramrod straight, there was a subtle shake to his shoulders that was only noticeable if it was looked for.
The Doctor scratched his head and resolved to work on his bedside manner before jogging up the stairs after Ianto.
The Hub was the same as he’d left it a few hours before. Jack lay on the couch, his head in Toshiko’s lap. She was humming to him softly, her gentle hands soothing his warm skin, but as soon as she saw the Doctor and Ianto surfacing from the archives she carefully manoeuvred Jack’s heads onto the cushions and stood. He groaned in protest. “Did you find anything?” she asked.
Ianto shook his head and glanced back at the plastic partition through which Owen and Gwen had disappeared. As the Doctor crossed the room towards it, Ianto sighed and turned back to Toshiko, asking, “Any luck with the tests?”
The Doctor pushed under the clear sheet and found Gwen sitting on an autopsy table in the middle of a small, circular room down a flight of winding stairs. She was swinging her legs back and forth over the edge and clutching the side of the table as she watched Owen putter around with two beakers full of blood. After watching for a moment in silence, the Doctor cleared his throat. Owen nearly dropped the vials in surprise and whirled around. Gwen just gave him a half-hearted smile.
“How is the blood work going?” the Doctor asked, drumming his fingers on the railing.
Owen grimaced and bent to pick up a fallen scalpel. “Not so great,” he grumbled. “It’s pretty hard to isolate the alien DNA when Jack’s DNA is already pretty damn alien.” He picked up a syringe and handed it to Gwen. “I’m swamped here; can you handle this?” he said to her, before noticing the Doctor’s curious gaze. “It’s to control Jack’s nausea,” he added. “Knock him out for a while.”
The Doctor leaned over the rail and stretched out a hand. “I’ll do it,” he said, and after a moment’s hesitation, Gwen handed it over. With a grateful smile, he turned and strode back to the couch; Toshiko obediently moved aside to give him room, and he sat down beside Jack, grabbed one arm, and rolled up the sleeve. “Hello,” he said softly.
Jack blinked up at him blearily. “Antidote,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.
The Doctor shook his head. “Not yet,” he said, slipping the needle in as gently as he could. “Won’t be long now.” He smiled encouragingly, but Jack shook his head and fought to move his arm, nearly jarring the syringe. The Doctor held him still. “Relax. It’ll help you sleep.”
Jack groaned, half-delirious. “Stop,” he whispered, trying to bat the Doctor’s hands away. “It’s here! Stop, stop-stop it!” Suddenly, Jack’s large hands were fisting in the Doctor’s collar, pushing him back. “Listen!” Jack said urgently, and tried to lift his head. Seeming to find it too heavy, he sagged against the couch with a defeated moan. “You… listen-in my office-”
The Doctor shushed him as he carefully removed the needle. “This will make things a little easier,” he said gently, not understanding. “Now, tell me. What’s in your office? Do you want a blanket?”
Jack batted the empty syringe out of the Doctor’s hands and grabbed his wrists, this time to pull him in close. “You told me,” he said haltingly. “Months ago. A letter. Had a little vial, green stuff.” Jack shook his head, trying to gather his thoughts. His eyes rolled in his head and finally focussed on the Doctor, only centimetres away. “Your handwriting. ‘Antidote,’ it said. ‘Need-later.’”
The Doctor frowned. “Jack, I don’t… I can’t have sent you a letter with the antidote in it if it was months ago, like you said. How would I have even-” With a start, he jerked out of Jack’s hold and shot to his feet, slapping his forehead. “Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey,” he exclaimed, and grinned down at Jack. “You’re brilliant! You’re absolutely brilliant!” Beaming, he spun on his heel and called, “Everybody! Come here.”
Within seconds, all four of Jack’s faithful companions were gathered before him.
“This better be good,” Owen grumbled, exchanging a sour glance with Gwen. “I think I might’ve been on the verge of actually finding something.”
The Doctor smiled toothily. “You don’t need to!” he all but sang. The quartet gaped at him. “It all makes sense now,” he continued excitedly, beginning to pace back and forth. His hands automatically flew to his hair, tugging it into wild shapes as he thought his plan over. “It’s here,” he said, softly, “but it would be safer to properly fetch it first, because the paradox would be compounded-and that’d be a disaster-”
He noticed the blank stares he was getting from all gathered before him, and hastened to explain. “Caberous was decimated in the forty-fifth century. After that, they finally gave the disease a name-Caber’s Syndrome. And it was-oh, must have been the forty-eighth century, at least-on Caberous’ twin planet that they found the cure! After centuries and centuries of studying, they were finally able to create a vaccine.”
Owen crossed his arms over his chest. “So? That’s twenty centuries from now, and on a different planet, to boot.”
The Doctor pointed at himself, beaming. “But me, I’ve got the TARDIS. I can go and fetch it, bring it back here, and voila!”
“The what?” asked Ianto softly.
The Doctor shook his head. “My ship, it’s called the TARDIS. That’s Time and Relative Dimension in Space. T-A-R-D-I-S. Remember that. Anyway-do you understand? Jack’s as good as cured!” He scratched an ear. “Well, it may take a bit of recuperation, but the point is that he’ll be okay! Might sleep for a day or so. But soon he’ll be back on his feet. Isn’t that great, team?” He frowned. “Oh, no, not team. Gang. No. Comrades. Um, Jack’s friends.”
Ianto smiled properly and moved past the Doctor. He knelt beside Jack; his fingers slid across Jack’s cheekbones in a caress that was intimate enough for the Doctor to be uncomfortable watching it. “You’re going to be okay, Jack,” Ianto whispered. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
The Doctor rocked on the balls of his feet and laughed. “Don’t tell me you expected anything less!” Four heads whipped towards him, and he gave a little wave and flashed a smile. “Hello, I’m the Doctor, and I can do anything.” For a moment, the happiness on his face flickered. “Well. Almost anything. But I’ve done good here, haven’t I?”
Owen rolled his eyes and turned back to the autopsy bay, but the Doctor caught him peering over his shoulder at Jack, obviously relieved. Gwen had joined Ianto by Jack’s side and they spoke together, voices hushed. Toshiko floundered by her desk, looking a little lost for what to do in the wake of the good news. Eventually, she offered the Doctor a shy smile and followed Owen.
The Doctor watched her go, then turned back to Jack. He wormed himself between Ianto and Gwen and crouched beside him, grinning. One hand rose, hovering in the air by Jack’s face, and this time the Doctor worked up the courage to brush his fingers lightly across Jack’s jaw. He stopped, a little too late, when his thumb dragged across Jack’s bottom lip. Beside him, Ianto went still, and the Doctor watched Jack’s eyelids flutter. He pulled his hand away. “Hello,” he said cheerfully, as Jack blinked a greeting. “I’m going to go get that antidote now, okay? I’ll be back soon, I promise.”
Jack nodded weakly. “You better,” he whispered. A clammy hand found one of the Doctor’s and held on like a lifeline. “Hurry the hell up.”
The Doctor laughed and squeezed Jack’s hand before sitting back on his heels. “Will do,” he promised, standing and clapping Ianto briskly on the shoulder. “Keep him comfy,” he said, and left before anything more could be said. He could still feel Ianto and Gwen’s eyes burning into his back long after he’d found his way back up to the office and out the door, into the evening.
The TARDIS was waiting obediently outside, and in no time at all he was standing beside the console, staring around at the array of technology spreading out before him. Feeling instantly at home, the Doctor flipped a switch here and there, pulled down a few levers, spun a couple of dials, and whacked away at a red button with his hammer. With a quick adjustment to the coordinates-Kystor, sister planet of Caberous, forty-eighth century-he took off through the Vortex.
It was a less turbulent trip than most; the Doctor managed to stay standing without the help of something to grab onto, if only just. Once he’d touched down on what he could only pray was actually Kystor in the forty-eighth century, and not somewhere disastrous (like, for instance, Caberous in the forty-fifth), the Doctor tugged on his coat and crossed to the door. He flung it open and stepped out with a flourish.
Rising before him-endless, needle-like-was a single tower. Behind it, the ruins of Caberous glowed red-black, like a sun, making the minaret’s edges sharp; it stood jaggedly against the horizon-an ancient relief. The light revealed the green crescent moon carved into one wall, and the Doctor beamed. He’d been right on target this time. With a pleased whistle, he jammed his hands in his pockets and started towards the hospital.
No sooner had he spotted the front door than two armed guards stepped up and blocked his way. Human, dressed all in black, with red caps strongly reminiscent of UNIT. The Doctor gave a little wave. “Hello.”
The first guard lowered his gun. “Unless you are here on official business, I’m afraid we cannot permit you to enter the building.” At the Doctor’s disappointed face, the man shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir. A top-secret study is underway, and we’ve been told to stop any visitors at the door.”
The Doctor peered over the guard’s shoulder at the building ahead, all the while discreetly digging into his pocket for the psychic paper. “The Caber’s Syndrome experiment, am I correct?” He just smiled at the men’s shocked faces and held up the little leather-lined pad so they could see. “As you can see, I’m part of it. My name is John Smith; I lived in Caberous for a long time, and they’ve called me in to oversee the results.”
The guards fumbled with their weapons in their haste to step aside. “Yes, sir,” one of them said apologetically. “We did not recognise you, Mr. Smith. Very sorry, sir. Go right ahead.”
The Doctor smiled and flapped a hand in the air. “As you were,” he said breezily, and continued into the hospital. Once he was well out of earshot, he turned back to the guards, now standing perfectly straight with their backs to the door, and chuckled. “Always wanted to say that,” he said to himself, and made his way up to the front desk. Grinning, he dangled himself over the counter and wagged his psychic paper in the air in front of the bewildered clerk. “Hello,” he said, “I’m John Smith, and I’m working on the Caber’s Syndrome vaccine. I’m sorry; I’m new here, and I’ve forgotten which one my ward is.”
The clerk shuffled the papers on the desk and adjusted her tortoiseshell glasses. If it wasn’t for the feelers on her forehead, she could’ve been as human as the guards standing outside. “Yes, of course,” she said, using her antennas to press a few keys on the near-transparent computer screen hanging in the air before her. “What exactly do you do?”
The Doctor paused and scratched his head. The clerk raised an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged, brushing invisible lint from the front of his suit. “Um, I, you know.” He flashed a grin. “I’m that guy who is dragged in at the last minute to oversee the final product. Test it out, all that.”
“Right…” Despite her obvious suspicion, she summed up an overly polite smile and pushed another button on the monitor. “You’ll want Ward Twenty-three, Mr. Smith. It was Mr. Smith, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right.” The Doctor grinned and eyed his surroundings. Upon discovering a nearby elevator, he nodded at the clerk and moved on. “Ward Twenty-three,” he called over his shoulder, giving her a two-fingered salute and a wink. “Thank you!”
Any response the clerk made was lost in the rapid sound of clicking from the computer suspended in front of her.
He clambered into the elevator with Ward Twenty-three in mind, and smiled at the other creatures crowding the small space. Once the lift had screeched to a halt at the correct floor, he disentangled himself as painlessly as possible, but nevertheless nearly walked right into a short, red man with a veritable conker for a head that reminded him, a little too much, of the cyborg Bannakaffalatta. He dismissed that thought and made sure he had his psychic paper at the ready as he walked towards the entrance of the ward.
Beside the door was a tiny speaker. After clearing his throat nervously, the Doctor leaned in, pressed the button, and said, “Uh, hello. My name is John Smith, and I-”
Before he could go on, the door next to the speaker slid open and a man dressed in a white decontamination suit stepped out. With a groan, he removed his glass-plated helmet and shoved it under his arm, revealing himself to be a pale young fellow with a shaggy mop of dark hair. He scarcely looked old enough to be working, but his smile was kind and wise beyond his years as he used his free hand to shake the Doctor’s. “Greetings,” he said, stepping away from the door. It shut automatically behind him. “What brings you to Ward Twenty-three? I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before. And yet you got past security, so you must be of reasonable importance.” The young man smiled and mopped at his brow with a cloth he produced from a pocket on his calf. “I’m James Horne, head researcher and scientist here at Kystoria Hospice. Welcome. What did you say your name was?”
The Doctor grinned and fished out his psychic paper. “John Smith, at your service,” he said, holding it up. “I’m here to borrow a sample of the Caber’s Syndrome vaccine. I believe I talked to one of your assistants a few weeks ago about coming here to get it. It was a long way for me, so…” He bit off a laugh and nodded gratefully as James pressed a button on the wrist of his suit. The door into Ward Twenty-three obediently slid back open.
“Where’s that accent from, then?” asked James as they made their way through the ward. “Did you just pitch up from Earth?”
The Doctor scratched his ear. “I did, yeah,” he said, then added, “My great-great-grandmother was born on Caberous. She and her parents managed to get out before, well, you know.”
James shook his head and sighed. “Only a lucky few escaped.” He offered a quick smile, reaching over with a gloved hand to clap the Doctor on the back. “We’ll never suffer a tragedy like that again, thanks to our scientists.” Still beaming, he turned left, and the Doctor followed him down yet another white-walled corridor. There wasn’t a single other person to be seen, and the Doctor fidgeted, feeling uncomfortable.
“So,” he said. “Where is everybody?”
“Oh, they’re all scattered about the labs,” said James dismissively. “We keep our finished samples in a safer place. Surely you talked to one of my secretaries about that, didn’t you? Which was it? Probably Charice.”
The Doctor shot a wary glance down an adjacent hallway. Empty. “Yes, I do believe it was her,” he mumbled. “Nice girl.”
James grimaced. “If you say so,” he said, half-jokingly, stopping in front of a door with a golden nameplate-‘Icehouse,’ the Doctor read-and fishing a ring of keys from his pocket. “Here we are,” he said, and led the way in.
The first thing the Doctor noticed was that it was blisteringly cold. The second was the sight of rows and rows of shelves, stretching up to a ceiling that vanished into darkness. Each was lined with beaker after beaker of colourful liquid. “Quite a collection you have,” he said, whipping on his spectacles to examine one of the nearer tubes before turning back to James and eyeing his protective suit. “Should I be wearing one of those?”
“Only if you’re planning on going to the lab.” James smiled and gestured to a whole shelf full of green beakers. “This is the new supply of the vaccine you’re looking for. What do you want it for again?”
The Doctor took the nearest vial and stuffed it in his pocket. “Oh, you know,” he said. “This and that. The company I work for is planning on running an excavation of Caberous. Thought we might need a sample of this stuff, just in case.”
James whistled, impressed. “Daring,” he said. “I didn’t realise any human corporation had any plans like that. Where do you work? I’m surprised I haven’t heard.” He ran a hand through his thick hair and laughed. “Maybe I’ve been cooped up in this boring place too long, eh?”
The Doctor chuckled. “It’s possible,” he agreed, and fell silent. His plan to not answer was foiled by James’ expectant gaze. “Um, well. It’s the-”
A loud beeping saved him from answering, and a woman’s voice-the clerk, from the front desk, the Doctor realised-began to talk over an intercom system somewhere high overhead.
“Building is going into lockdown,” she droned. “Repeat. Building is going into lockdown. We have been infiltrated. There is an intruder calling himself John Smith; he will claim to work here. He is approximately six feet tall, wearing a blue suit, and has brown hair. Repeat. Intruder alert! Intruder alert!”
The Doctor grimaced, then met James’ eyes one final time and mouthed, ‘I’m sorry,’ at the young man’s shocked face. Then, without another word, the Doctor pivoted on his heel and streaked out the door. He was already halfway down the hallway by the time he heard James footsteps clattering on the tiled floor behind him.
Unfortunately, as he ran, the Doctor rediscovered that all the hallways in Ward Twenty-three of the Kystoria Hospice looked exactly the same. He sprinted at top speed, careening around corners and taking stairs two at a time, and nearly crashed into a confused group of scientists who had wandered out of one of the labs at the interruption. Without stopping to apologise, he pushed past them and took a running leap over a cart stopped in the middle of the corridor. He hadn’t seen that on his way in, which was faintly worrying, but the Doctor knew there had to be a back exit somewhere.
So he kept running. Down a spiral staircase and through a door into another set of hallways, then past a few more men dressed in white lab coats. They were too stunned to try and stop him, though the Doctor heard them start up after him as they were rallied by James, who was still faithfully giving chase.
The Doctor didn’t look back, but he didn’t pay all that much attention to where he was going, either, so it came as a total surprise when he knocked the tiny red Bannakaffalatta look-alike that he’d seen in the lift earlier clean to the floor. He was so busy apologising that he ran face-first into a door. “I’m sorry!” he called a final time, and twisted the knob viciously. It was locked, so as quickly as he could, he whipped out the sonic screwdriver and put it to use.
He could hear James and the other scientists’ footsteps coming closer and closer. Groaning, the Doctor pressed the screwdriver closer, mumbling varied curses and demands to hurry up under his breath. Behind him, he heard the small red man sit up, just at the same time as the door gave a beautiful click and came free.
Just at that moment, James and his cronies came whirling around the corner.
The Doctor let out a hiss of exasperated breath and wrenched the door open. He looked back just in time to see the group of scientists fall to the floor with a loud cry; having not seen the Bannakaffalatta look-alike sitting on the floor, James had tripped right over him, and seconds later, the others had tumbled over him. A grin pulled at the corners of the Doctor’s mouth, and he laughed and gave a whoop of triumph as he slammed the door behind him and skittered down the steps.
The outside steps. Wide-eyed with surprised elation, the Doctor spun around, grinning, and gazed up at the minaret rising into the sky before him. His triumph was cut short when the door he’d just gone through was kicked open and James appeared, chest heaving, eyes alight.
With a last wave, the Doctor turned and ran. As fast as he could, he rounded the building-and there was the TARDIS. He tore towards it as fast as his legs would take him. The rapid doublebeat of his hearts didn’t quite drown out the shouts of the guards on his tail and the droning of the woman still babbling from the intercom. But it was too late; the TARDIS was already at his fingertips-
Just for a second, the Doctor turned and took one last look at Kystor, thriving in the forty-eighth century, and the ruins of Caberous burning alongside it.
Then he slammed the door and raced up to the console. Quick as he could, he fumbled to set the coordinates back to Earth. No sooner had he heard a clattering from outside than the TARDIS was swept up into the Vortex.
Laughing with relief, the Doctor collapsed into his seat and leaned back, chest heaving as he fought to regain his breath. His eyes slipped shut. “Won’t be able to come back here again,” he half-grumbled, half-wheezed. “And this is all Jack’s fault.”
But then he pictured Jack, pale and feverish all the way back on Earth. He thought of Jack how he should be, vibrant and constant in a way that was no longer jarring: how he would be. And the Doctor thought, It’s worth it.
part three
Full header in MASTER POST.
part one
The Doctor roped an arm across Jack’s shoulders and dragged him, more or less, to his feet. “So,” he said, as he led Jack, half-conscious, through a door and into a cosy, windowless chamber that the TARDIS had kindly made a bedroom, “what’s the plan?”
“Torchwood,” Jack choked out, stumbling onto the duvet. White-faced, curled up, and looking so young, he seemed to vanish into his great blue coat. He tried vainly to shrug himself out of it, and the Doctor hurried to help as Jack groaned and clutched at his stomach.
The Doctor shook his head. “We can’t. You know that. You’d be putting Earth at risk-”
“P-please,” Jack begged around a hand pressed against his mouth, as if that would calm his nausea.
The Doctor bit his lip, eyeing the purple mark that had appeared on Jack’s neck. “Jack, no. The last thing you want is to put your friends in danger-not to mention the whole world!” He turned towards the door, raking a hand through his hair worriedly. “We could head for a hospital, or the TARDIS could-”
“Torchwood,” Jack insisted weakly from the bed. “There could be something,” he coughed once, hard, and blood stained the sheets, “from the R-Rift. Something that would help.” He paused, riding out another wave of sickness, and when he spoke again, his voice was fraught with pain and fright. “I want to see them. Please, Doc, I just want to-”
The Doctor scrubbed a hand across his face. Through parted fingers, he glimpsed Jack’s pale, drawn face, and knew he had lost. “Fine,” the Doctor said, leaning in and gently prying the greatcoat from Jack’s clenched fingers. “But only for a little while. When things get bad, we’re going to find a place to take care of you that isn’t Earth or anywhere nearby. All right?”
Jack just nodded, and the Doctor squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll be right there,” he promised. “Just hold on.”
Jack’s only response was a low moan, and the Doctor spun on his heel and returned to the control room. He doubled his efforts and they were off in a matter of moments. The trip through the Vortex was unsteady enough that the Doctor hoped that, in the other room, Jack had managed to remain on the cot.
When they touched down in Cardiff, it was with an unsteady lurch that threw the Doctor to the ground; and when he returned to the bedroom, it took a moment to find Jack on the floor on the far side of the bed, head buried in a wastepaper basket.
The Doctor attempted an encouraging smile as he forced Jack upright. It was hard, though, when most of the contents of the bin consisted of Jack’s last meal and a healthy heaping of dark red.
“Damn you, Doctor,” Jack slurred as he was dragged from the TARDIS and towards the tourist office. “I’ll never learn. Next time, I’m not coming with you.”
The Doctor flinched, saying nothing as he kicked open the door. He had Jack draped across the front desk in a matter of moments. Ianto sat behind it, same as before, but leapt to his feet at the sight of Jack. When Jack didn’t acknowledge a touch to one cheek, no less Ianto’s presence, Ianto looked up at the Doctor with a mix of fury and fear brightening his eyes and demanded, “What’ve you done to him?”
The Doctor scratched his head. “That’s a long story,” he said, and thought about it. “Well, not really. But now’s hardly the time for stories, long or short. Jack told me about the, uh-the Hub. Is this it?”
Ianto swallowed hard and glanced between Jack and the Doctor. Then he reached below the desk, and a panel in the wall slid back. “Down here,” he said faintly, and led the way.
The Doctor was sure that, had it been any other situation, he might have taken a moment or two to look around and inspect the wealth of high-tech machinery that Jack’s faithful team had at their grubby little fingertips, then take it away before they could go about destroying the Earth with it. But that would have to wait, because right now Jack was a dead weight in his arms, and-immortal or not-he was about to take one hell of a bruising.
Ianto was still a few steps ahead, quieting two women and a very pale man with dark hair and darker eyes, so still despite all the action around him. The Doctor stopped for a moment and stared at him, a frown twisting his mouth as he realised what was wrong. Shaking his head and clucking to himself, he turned and ambled over to the couch, still lugging Jack behind him. The Doctor deposited Jack amongst the cushions as gently as he was able, then turned back to those who he presumed were Jack’s team.
“Hello,” he said brightly, striding over with a grin. With his head cocked to one side, he examined each human in turn. Identification was easy, now that he’d gotten Ianto out of the way. The Doctor pointed at a pretty, petite Japanese woman. “Toshiko.” He turned to the confused- and familiar-looking brunette beside her. “Gwen, I presume?” Which left the walking dead. “And you must be Owen.” He extended a hand; when no one made a move to take it, he dropped it and just chose to keep smiling, instead. “Nice to meet you.”
“Ianto?” Gwen glanced at the Doctor worriedly, then at Jack lying, motionless, on the couch. “I thought you said Jack was going away for a while.” She made a rather pathetic attempt at a smile as she backed over to the sofa. “What’s wrong with him?”
The Doctor stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Bit of a pestilence,” he said.
Owen glowered at him. “Is it contagious?”
“Oh, I don’t think you need to worry about that,” the Doctor said dismissively, and turned back to Jack. “But no. Despite that I’m sure you know all about me already,” he called over his shoulder, “I’m the Doctor. As lovely as it is to meet you all, proper introductions will have to wait, because right now we need to attend to much more important things. After all, Jack’s told me so much about you, and if we don’t do something, I won’t ever have the joy of hearing him rattling on about his friends ever again.”
Ianto was at Jack’s side at once, a tender hand on his face. “Jack’s immortal.” The concern breaking his voice betrayed his cool demeanour.
“Yeah…” The Doctor fiddled with his spectacles. “That’s the thing.”
Ianto’s head whipped around so fast that the Doctor bit back a comment on whiplash. Beside him, Gwen’s eyes were wide, and he could feel Toshiko’s gaze burning into the back of his head. He even saw worry in the tilt of Owen’s scowl.
“What do you mean?” Ianto demanded, rising.
“That’s the thing about this disease…” The Doctor shrugged and moved to the couch. He pushed past Ianto, who stepped back as if stung, and knelt beside Jack. “I was right,” the Doctor whispered in a low voice, one hand hovering by Jack’s face. He was struck with the sudden urge to push the hair out of his eyes. “I have seen this before. Forty-fifth century, planet of Caberous…” He shook his head. “They were wiped out. I couldn’t do anything.”
Gwen’s voice chimed in from behind him, halfway to hysterical already. “That doesn’t sound very good.”
The Doctor flapped a hand in the air and eyed her over his shoulder. “You don’t have to worry.”
She massaged her temples and took a deep, steadying breath. “It’s not me I’m worried about!” she snapped. Her pale hands fluttered in the air before settling on Ianto’s arm, as if to comfort him. Or maybe hold him back; he did look a bit like he was about to leap forwards and attack. All part of Jack’s charm, the Doctor supposed. “What about Jack? What’s so special about this disease?”
“Well, it doesn’t leave the body after death.” The Doctor ignored the team’s horrified glances, and quietly moved aside to let Ianto sit down beside Jack. He tried to give him a comforting smile, but Ianto refused to respond; he was too busy lifting Jack’s head into his lap, pushing the dark hair from his face. The Doctor still sort of wished he’d done that instead.
The sound of Owen clearing his throat jerked the Doctor out of his thoughts; he shook his head and got his mind back on track. “Ah, yes. Sorry. So, after death, the disease just… lingers there. For a while, anyway. It waits until a new carrier comes along, and then transfers itself by touch. Any touch.” The Doctor turned a grim eye on Ianto, who lurched back. “No worries! Well, unless he dies. Then we’ll really have something to worry about. Quarantining, we can do that easily enough. Unfortunately, that won’t be the end of it; the disease isn’t that easily destroyed. No new carriers? It just uses the old one to find another.”
Owen frowned. “So, wait-are we in danger right now? Thanks to his inability to keep his hands off Jack, is tea boy,” he jerked his head at Ianto, who whirled around to scowl at him, “now infected?”
The Doctor shook his head. “It doesn’t spread until the carrier dies,” he repeated, slower. “And it’s at that point that things gets a lot more dangerous. Jack here is a very unique specimen-I believe the disease will suspend his ability to revive properly, and instead, he’ll get back up as a reanimated corpse, bent on finding new hosts.”
“A zombie?” Toshiko asked, a hand over her mouth.
Ianto spoke up before the Doctor could confirm this. “We have to keep him alive.”
“Yes, I’ve figured out that bit,” the Doctor said, and stood. He could feel Ianto glaring at the back of his head, but didn’t have time to feel guilty. “We need to find out more about this disease.”
Gwen crossed her arms over her chest. “I thought you said you knew what it was.”
The Doctor looked sheepish. “I do, yeah,” he mumbled into his collar. “I know what it’s called, but that’s about it. I don’t know how it works, but I can still make a guess at how much time we have.” He eyed Jack for a moment and fell silent. It was only the sound of footsteps as Toshiko backed into a chair that reminded him of where he was. “Twenty-four hours,” he said quickly, giving himself a shake and turning back to the team. “At most. Which is why I need you to run some tests. Do we have any doctors here?”
Owen raised his hand, then promptly lowered it and mumbled something about looking like an idiot.
“Great. Take some blood; there should be traces of alien DNA in it, which will help us-or me, really-figure out what needs to be done.” He glanced back at Jack, who was still not moving. The only indication that he was even slightly conscious was the low moan that issued from the couch as soon as the Doctor turned back to Owen. “And treat the symptoms. Keep him comfortable as possible. Keep him alive.” Owen nodded and started forwards, but was stopped by a palm flat against his chest. “Ah, but don’t move him. Really, don’t move him. I think he’d upend all the food still in his stomach all over you if you even tried that.”
Owen frowned, but took a step back. As he turned to leave, he caught Gwen’s arm and spoke to her, his voice hushed. When he walked away, she followed him reluctantly with a last look at Jack. They disappeared past a partition and the Doctor clapped his hands. “Okay!” he said. “Halfway there.” He smiled encouragingly at Toshiko, who was too busy biting her lip and staring at Jack and Ianto to respond. “I assume you have archives,” the Doctor went on, dragging a hand through his hair. “This disease might not exist on this planet until twenty centuries from now, give or take a few, but you still might have something that could help.”
“I can show you,” Toshiko said uncertainly, and threw a glance at Ianto. “But it’s not really my area of expertise…”
The Doctor followed her gaze and reached down to grab Ianto’s arm. He jerked violently at the touch, but allowed himself to be tugged off of the couch. “That’s your job,” the Doctor said. “Jack told me. I need to see everything you’ve got.”
Ianto pulled out of the Doctor’s hold. “I’m staying with Jack,” he bit out. “He needs me.”
The Doctor smiled grimly. “You’re right,” he said softly, turning and just watching Jack for a moment. He felt Ianto’s gaze burning into him, and the Doctor looked up and met his gaze, his expression shuttered. “Right now, he needs you to help me. He needs you to save him.”
Ianto hesitated, and Toshiko stepped forwards. “I’ll stay with him, Ianto,” she offered, her large eyes wide and earnest. “You don’t have to worry.”
The Doctor didn’t have the heart to tell her no, so he just nodded. Pacified, Ianto moved towards a nearby door without a word. The Doctor followed, shrugging off his coat and hanging it over a chair as he went.
He was halfway to where Ianto had stopped to wait when he heard Jack’s voice.
He whirled around and started back at double the pace; behind him, Ianto clattered over the metal floors to get back to the couch first. There, Toshiko was bent over Jack and shushing him gently, cradling his head in her arms. Ianto got there first and knelt beside Jack, reaching forwards to stroke the hair from his feverish face. From where he stood, the Doctor could see Jack’s eyes rolling in his head, could see his lips mouthing Doctor.
“Jack?” Ianto whispered. “Jack, it’s me; it’s Ianto…”
Jack shook his head and nearly fell off the couch in doing so. Weakly, he croaked, “Doctor-I need the-”
The Doctor winced as Ianto lurched to his feet as if he’d been slapped. “He wants you,” Ianto said shortly, and stepped back a few feet, letting the Doctor cross to where Jack lay. Only when he passed did the Doctor notice that Ianto was shaking.
“Shh,” the Doctor said, kneeling beside Jack and brushing one hand across his cheek. “I’m here, Jack. It’s me.”
Jack went still at the touch and tried at a lopsided smile. “It-it’s bad,” he whispered. “Really bad. I can’t… I just can’t-can’t take it anymore. I need-”
The Doctor bit his lip. “I know. I’m sorry. We’re working on it. I promise it won’t be too much longer. We’ll find an antidote.”
Jack shook his head and groaned. “But I-antidote-”
“Soon, Jack.” The Doctor smiled sadly and squeezed Jack’s clammy hands. “I swear to you. I’m not-” He looked down and scrubbed a hand over his face, then leaned in and whispered, too soft for anyone but Jack to hear, “I won’t lose you.”
With one last touch to Jack’s pale, drawn face, the Doctor stood. Ianto didn’t say a word as he led the way down to the archives, and over their footsteps, the Doctor could hear Jack calling for him, endlessly crying out.
Like he’d been abandoned.
-
The Doctor sighed and sagged against the row of shelves rising up to the ceiling before him. “Nothing,” he sighed, exasperated. “There’s nothing.” He ran one hand through his hair. “I find it hard to believe that not a single artefact that would be helpful in this situation has fallen through the Rift since you started cataloguing it all.” He returned to the files. “No encyclopaedia of forty-fifth century diseases? No antidote almanacs?”
Ianto glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and set down the file he had been rifling through. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said blankly. “I can check again, but perhaps we should go upstairs and check if Owen has had any luck with the blood work.”
The Doctor shoved a folder back in its rightful place and turned to him, nodding. For a moment, Ianto just stared back at him, and the Doctor guessed that he must have looked quite a sight: covered in a fine layer of dust from the records he’d been unearthing, his dark hair a mess of wild spikes, spectacles lodged crookedly on the end of his nose. He pushed them up distractedly and gestured to the door. “Lead the way. And don’t call me sir.”
Ianto ducked his head in the smallest of nods and moved towards the Doctor. For a moment, they stood side by side in a silence broken only by the howl of some creature far below them, and then Ianto said, “Will he be all right?”
The Doctor hesitated. Eventually, he answered, “I don’t know.”
It wasn’t what Ianto wanted to hear. Without a word, he strode to the door and left the Doctor standing in the dust. Ianto’s steps were heavy, and though his back was ramrod straight, there was a subtle shake to his shoulders that was only noticeable if it was looked for.
The Doctor scratched his head and resolved to work on his bedside manner before jogging up the stairs after Ianto.
The Hub was the same as he’d left it a few hours before. Jack lay on the couch, his head in Toshiko’s lap. She was humming to him softly, her gentle hands soothing his warm skin, but as soon as she saw the Doctor and Ianto surfacing from the archives she carefully manoeuvred Jack’s heads onto the cushions and stood. He groaned in protest. “Did you find anything?” she asked.
Ianto shook his head and glanced back at the plastic partition through which Owen and Gwen had disappeared. As the Doctor crossed the room towards it, Ianto sighed and turned back to Toshiko, asking, “Any luck with the tests?”
The Doctor pushed under the clear sheet and found Gwen sitting on an autopsy table in the middle of a small, circular room down a flight of winding stairs. She was swinging her legs back and forth over the edge and clutching the side of the table as she watched Owen putter around with two beakers full of blood. After watching for a moment in silence, the Doctor cleared his throat. Owen nearly dropped the vials in surprise and whirled around. Gwen just gave him a half-hearted smile.
“How is the blood work going?” the Doctor asked, drumming his fingers on the railing.
Owen grimaced and bent to pick up a fallen scalpel. “Not so great,” he grumbled. “It’s pretty hard to isolate the alien DNA when Jack’s DNA is already pretty damn alien.” He picked up a syringe and handed it to Gwen. “I’m swamped here; can you handle this?” he said to her, before noticing the Doctor’s curious gaze. “It’s to control Jack’s nausea,” he added. “Knock him out for a while.”
The Doctor leaned over the rail and stretched out a hand. “I’ll do it,” he said, and after a moment’s hesitation, Gwen handed it over. With a grateful smile, he turned and strode back to the couch; Toshiko obediently moved aside to give him room, and he sat down beside Jack, grabbed one arm, and rolled up the sleeve. “Hello,” he said softly.
Jack blinked up at him blearily. “Antidote,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.
The Doctor shook his head. “Not yet,” he said, slipping the needle in as gently as he could. “Won’t be long now.” He smiled encouragingly, but Jack shook his head and fought to move his arm, nearly jarring the syringe. The Doctor held him still. “Relax. It’ll help you sleep.”
Jack groaned, half-delirious. “Stop,” he whispered, trying to bat the Doctor’s hands away. “It’s here! Stop, stop-stop it!” Suddenly, Jack’s large hands were fisting in the Doctor’s collar, pushing him back. “Listen!” Jack said urgently, and tried to lift his head. Seeming to find it too heavy, he sagged against the couch with a defeated moan. “You… listen-in my office-”
The Doctor shushed him as he carefully removed the needle. “This will make things a little easier,” he said gently, not understanding. “Now, tell me. What’s in your office? Do you want a blanket?”
Jack batted the empty syringe out of the Doctor’s hands and grabbed his wrists, this time to pull him in close. “You told me,” he said haltingly. “Months ago. A letter. Had a little vial, green stuff.” Jack shook his head, trying to gather his thoughts. His eyes rolled in his head and finally focussed on the Doctor, only centimetres away. “Your handwriting. ‘Antidote,’ it said. ‘Need-later.’”
The Doctor frowned. “Jack, I don’t… I can’t have sent you a letter with the antidote in it if it was months ago, like you said. How would I have even-” With a start, he jerked out of Jack’s hold and shot to his feet, slapping his forehead. “Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey,” he exclaimed, and grinned down at Jack. “You’re brilliant! You’re absolutely brilliant!” Beaming, he spun on his heel and called, “Everybody! Come here.”
Within seconds, all four of Jack’s faithful companions were gathered before him.
“This better be good,” Owen grumbled, exchanging a sour glance with Gwen. “I think I might’ve been on the verge of actually finding something.”
The Doctor smiled toothily. “You don’t need to!” he all but sang. The quartet gaped at him. “It all makes sense now,” he continued excitedly, beginning to pace back and forth. His hands automatically flew to his hair, tugging it into wild shapes as he thought his plan over. “It’s here,” he said, softly, “but it would be safer to properly fetch it first, because the paradox would be compounded-and that’d be a disaster-”
He noticed the blank stares he was getting from all gathered before him, and hastened to explain. “Caberous was decimated in the forty-fifth century. After that, they finally gave the disease a name-Caber’s Syndrome. And it was-oh, must have been the forty-eighth century, at least-on Caberous’ twin planet that they found the cure! After centuries and centuries of studying, they were finally able to create a vaccine.”
Owen crossed his arms over his chest. “So? That’s twenty centuries from now, and on a different planet, to boot.”
The Doctor pointed at himself, beaming. “But me, I’ve got the TARDIS. I can go and fetch it, bring it back here, and voila!”
“The what?” asked Ianto softly.
The Doctor shook his head. “My ship, it’s called the TARDIS. That’s Time and Relative Dimension in Space. T-A-R-D-I-S. Remember that. Anyway-do you understand? Jack’s as good as cured!” He scratched an ear. “Well, it may take a bit of recuperation, but the point is that he’ll be okay! Might sleep for a day or so. But soon he’ll be back on his feet. Isn’t that great, team?” He frowned. “Oh, no, not team. Gang. No. Comrades. Um, Jack’s friends.”
Ianto smiled properly and moved past the Doctor. He knelt beside Jack; his fingers slid across Jack’s cheekbones in a caress that was intimate enough for the Doctor to be uncomfortable watching it. “You’re going to be okay, Jack,” Ianto whispered. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
The Doctor rocked on the balls of his feet and laughed. “Don’t tell me you expected anything less!” Four heads whipped towards him, and he gave a little wave and flashed a smile. “Hello, I’m the Doctor, and I can do anything.” For a moment, the happiness on his face flickered. “Well. Almost anything. But I’ve done good here, haven’t I?”
Owen rolled his eyes and turned back to the autopsy bay, but the Doctor caught him peering over his shoulder at Jack, obviously relieved. Gwen had joined Ianto by Jack’s side and they spoke together, voices hushed. Toshiko floundered by her desk, looking a little lost for what to do in the wake of the good news. Eventually, she offered the Doctor a shy smile and followed Owen.
The Doctor watched her go, then turned back to Jack. He wormed himself between Ianto and Gwen and crouched beside him, grinning. One hand rose, hovering in the air by Jack’s face, and this time the Doctor worked up the courage to brush his fingers lightly across Jack’s jaw. He stopped, a little too late, when his thumb dragged across Jack’s bottom lip. Beside him, Ianto went still, and the Doctor watched Jack’s eyelids flutter. He pulled his hand away. “Hello,” he said cheerfully, as Jack blinked a greeting. “I’m going to go get that antidote now, okay? I’ll be back soon, I promise.”
Jack nodded weakly. “You better,” he whispered. A clammy hand found one of the Doctor’s and held on like a lifeline. “Hurry the hell up.”
The Doctor laughed and squeezed Jack’s hand before sitting back on his heels. “Will do,” he promised, standing and clapping Ianto briskly on the shoulder. “Keep him comfy,” he said, and left before anything more could be said. He could still feel Ianto and Gwen’s eyes burning into his back long after he’d found his way back up to the office and out the door, into the evening.
The TARDIS was waiting obediently outside, and in no time at all he was standing beside the console, staring around at the array of technology spreading out before him. Feeling instantly at home, the Doctor flipped a switch here and there, pulled down a few levers, spun a couple of dials, and whacked away at a red button with his hammer. With a quick adjustment to the coordinates-Kystor, sister planet of Caberous, forty-eighth century-he took off through the Vortex.
It was a less turbulent trip than most; the Doctor managed to stay standing without the help of something to grab onto, if only just. Once he’d touched down on what he could only pray was actually Kystor in the forty-eighth century, and not somewhere disastrous (like, for instance, Caberous in the forty-fifth), the Doctor tugged on his coat and crossed to the door. He flung it open and stepped out with a flourish.
Rising before him-endless, needle-like-was a single tower. Behind it, the ruins of Caberous glowed red-black, like a sun, making the minaret’s edges sharp; it stood jaggedly against the horizon-an ancient relief. The light revealed the green crescent moon carved into one wall, and the Doctor beamed. He’d been right on target this time. With a pleased whistle, he jammed his hands in his pockets and started towards the hospital.
No sooner had he spotted the front door than two armed guards stepped up and blocked his way. Human, dressed all in black, with red caps strongly reminiscent of UNIT. The Doctor gave a little wave. “Hello.”
The first guard lowered his gun. “Unless you are here on official business, I’m afraid we cannot permit you to enter the building.” At the Doctor’s disappointed face, the man shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir. A top-secret study is underway, and we’ve been told to stop any visitors at the door.”
The Doctor peered over the guard’s shoulder at the building ahead, all the while discreetly digging into his pocket for the psychic paper. “The Caber’s Syndrome experiment, am I correct?” He just smiled at the men’s shocked faces and held up the little leather-lined pad so they could see. “As you can see, I’m part of it. My name is John Smith; I lived in Caberous for a long time, and they’ve called me in to oversee the results.”
The guards fumbled with their weapons in their haste to step aside. “Yes, sir,” one of them said apologetically. “We did not recognise you, Mr. Smith. Very sorry, sir. Go right ahead.”
The Doctor smiled and flapped a hand in the air. “As you were,” he said breezily, and continued into the hospital. Once he was well out of earshot, he turned back to the guards, now standing perfectly straight with their backs to the door, and chuckled. “Always wanted to say that,” he said to himself, and made his way up to the front desk. Grinning, he dangled himself over the counter and wagged his psychic paper in the air in front of the bewildered clerk. “Hello,” he said, “I’m John Smith, and I’m working on the Caber’s Syndrome vaccine. I’m sorry; I’m new here, and I’ve forgotten which one my ward is.”
The clerk shuffled the papers on the desk and adjusted her tortoiseshell glasses. If it wasn’t for the feelers on her forehead, she could’ve been as human as the guards standing outside. “Yes, of course,” she said, using her antennas to press a few keys on the near-transparent computer screen hanging in the air before her. “What exactly do you do?”
The Doctor paused and scratched his head. The clerk raised an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged, brushing invisible lint from the front of his suit. “Um, I, you know.” He flashed a grin. “I’m that guy who is dragged in at the last minute to oversee the final product. Test it out, all that.”
“Right…” Despite her obvious suspicion, she summed up an overly polite smile and pushed another button on the monitor. “You’ll want Ward Twenty-three, Mr. Smith. It was Mr. Smith, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right.” The Doctor grinned and eyed his surroundings. Upon discovering a nearby elevator, he nodded at the clerk and moved on. “Ward Twenty-three,” he called over his shoulder, giving her a two-fingered salute and a wink. “Thank you!”
Any response the clerk made was lost in the rapid sound of clicking from the computer suspended in front of her.
He clambered into the elevator with Ward Twenty-three in mind, and smiled at the other creatures crowding the small space. Once the lift had screeched to a halt at the correct floor, he disentangled himself as painlessly as possible, but nevertheless nearly walked right into a short, red man with a veritable conker for a head that reminded him, a little too much, of the cyborg Bannakaffalatta. He dismissed that thought and made sure he had his psychic paper at the ready as he walked towards the entrance of the ward.
Beside the door was a tiny speaker. After clearing his throat nervously, the Doctor leaned in, pressed the button, and said, “Uh, hello. My name is John Smith, and I-”
Before he could go on, the door next to the speaker slid open and a man dressed in a white decontamination suit stepped out. With a groan, he removed his glass-plated helmet and shoved it under his arm, revealing himself to be a pale young fellow with a shaggy mop of dark hair. He scarcely looked old enough to be working, but his smile was kind and wise beyond his years as he used his free hand to shake the Doctor’s. “Greetings,” he said, stepping away from the door. It shut automatically behind him. “What brings you to Ward Twenty-three? I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before. And yet you got past security, so you must be of reasonable importance.” The young man smiled and mopped at his brow with a cloth he produced from a pocket on his calf. “I’m James Horne, head researcher and scientist here at Kystoria Hospice. Welcome. What did you say your name was?”
The Doctor grinned and fished out his psychic paper. “John Smith, at your service,” he said, holding it up. “I’m here to borrow a sample of the Caber’s Syndrome vaccine. I believe I talked to one of your assistants a few weeks ago about coming here to get it. It was a long way for me, so…” He bit off a laugh and nodded gratefully as James pressed a button on the wrist of his suit. The door into Ward Twenty-three obediently slid back open.
“Where’s that accent from, then?” asked James as they made their way through the ward. “Did you just pitch up from Earth?”
The Doctor scratched his ear. “I did, yeah,” he said, then added, “My great-great-grandmother was born on Caberous. She and her parents managed to get out before, well, you know.”
James shook his head and sighed. “Only a lucky few escaped.” He offered a quick smile, reaching over with a gloved hand to clap the Doctor on the back. “We’ll never suffer a tragedy like that again, thanks to our scientists.” Still beaming, he turned left, and the Doctor followed him down yet another white-walled corridor. There wasn’t a single other person to be seen, and the Doctor fidgeted, feeling uncomfortable.
“So,” he said. “Where is everybody?”
“Oh, they’re all scattered about the labs,” said James dismissively. “We keep our finished samples in a safer place. Surely you talked to one of my secretaries about that, didn’t you? Which was it? Probably Charice.”
The Doctor shot a wary glance down an adjacent hallway. Empty. “Yes, I do believe it was her,” he mumbled. “Nice girl.”
James grimaced. “If you say so,” he said, half-jokingly, stopping in front of a door with a golden nameplate-‘Icehouse,’ the Doctor read-and fishing a ring of keys from his pocket. “Here we are,” he said, and led the way in.
The first thing the Doctor noticed was that it was blisteringly cold. The second was the sight of rows and rows of shelves, stretching up to a ceiling that vanished into darkness. Each was lined with beaker after beaker of colourful liquid. “Quite a collection you have,” he said, whipping on his spectacles to examine one of the nearer tubes before turning back to James and eyeing his protective suit. “Should I be wearing one of those?”
“Only if you’re planning on going to the lab.” James smiled and gestured to a whole shelf full of green beakers. “This is the new supply of the vaccine you’re looking for. What do you want it for again?”
The Doctor took the nearest vial and stuffed it in his pocket. “Oh, you know,” he said. “This and that. The company I work for is planning on running an excavation of Caberous. Thought we might need a sample of this stuff, just in case.”
James whistled, impressed. “Daring,” he said. “I didn’t realise any human corporation had any plans like that. Where do you work? I’m surprised I haven’t heard.” He ran a hand through his thick hair and laughed. “Maybe I’ve been cooped up in this boring place too long, eh?”
The Doctor chuckled. “It’s possible,” he agreed, and fell silent. His plan to not answer was foiled by James’ expectant gaze. “Um, well. It’s the-”
A loud beeping saved him from answering, and a woman’s voice-the clerk, from the front desk, the Doctor realised-began to talk over an intercom system somewhere high overhead.
“Building is going into lockdown,” she droned. “Repeat. Building is going into lockdown. We have been infiltrated. There is an intruder calling himself John Smith; he will claim to work here. He is approximately six feet tall, wearing a blue suit, and has brown hair. Repeat. Intruder alert! Intruder alert!”
The Doctor grimaced, then met James’ eyes one final time and mouthed, ‘I’m sorry,’ at the young man’s shocked face. Then, without another word, the Doctor pivoted on his heel and streaked out the door. He was already halfway down the hallway by the time he heard James footsteps clattering on the tiled floor behind him.
Unfortunately, as he ran, the Doctor rediscovered that all the hallways in Ward Twenty-three of the Kystoria Hospice looked exactly the same. He sprinted at top speed, careening around corners and taking stairs two at a time, and nearly crashed into a confused group of scientists who had wandered out of one of the labs at the interruption. Without stopping to apologise, he pushed past them and took a running leap over a cart stopped in the middle of the corridor. He hadn’t seen that on his way in, which was faintly worrying, but the Doctor knew there had to be a back exit somewhere.
So he kept running. Down a spiral staircase and through a door into another set of hallways, then past a few more men dressed in white lab coats. They were too stunned to try and stop him, though the Doctor heard them start up after him as they were rallied by James, who was still faithfully giving chase.
The Doctor didn’t look back, but he didn’t pay all that much attention to where he was going, either, so it came as a total surprise when he knocked the tiny red Bannakaffalatta look-alike that he’d seen in the lift earlier clean to the floor. He was so busy apologising that he ran face-first into a door. “I’m sorry!” he called a final time, and twisted the knob viciously. It was locked, so as quickly as he could, he whipped out the sonic screwdriver and put it to use.
He could hear James and the other scientists’ footsteps coming closer and closer. Groaning, the Doctor pressed the screwdriver closer, mumbling varied curses and demands to hurry up under his breath. Behind him, he heard the small red man sit up, just at the same time as the door gave a beautiful click and came free.
Just at that moment, James and his cronies came whirling around the corner.
The Doctor let out a hiss of exasperated breath and wrenched the door open. He looked back just in time to see the group of scientists fall to the floor with a loud cry; having not seen the Bannakaffalatta look-alike sitting on the floor, James had tripped right over him, and seconds later, the others had tumbled over him. A grin pulled at the corners of the Doctor’s mouth, and he laughed and gave a whoop of triumph as he slammed the door behind him and skittered down the steps.
The outside steps. Wide-eyed with surprised elation, the Doctor spun around, grinning, and gazed up at the minaret rising into the sky before him. His triumph was cut short when the door he’d just gone through was kicked open and James appeared, chest heaving, eyes alight.
With a last wave, the Doctor turned and ran. As fast as he could, he rounded the building-and there was the TARDIS. He tore towards it as fast as his legs would take him. The rapid doublebeat of his hearts didn’t quite drown out the shouts of the guards on his tail and the droning of the woman still babbling from the intercom. But it was too late; the TARDIS was already at his fingertips-
Just for a second, the Doctor turned and took one last look at Kystor, thriving in the forty-eighth century, and the ruins of Caberous burning alongside it.
Then he slammed the door and raced up to the console. Quick as he could, he fumbled to set the coordinates back to Earth. No sooner had he heard a clattering from outside than the TARDIS was swept up into the Vortex.
Laughing with relief, the Doctor collapsed into his seat and leaned back, chest heaving as he fought to regain his breath. His eyes slipped shut. “Won’t be able to come back here again,” he half-grumbled, half-wheezed. “And this is all Jack’s fault.”
But then he pictured Jack, pale and feverish all the way back on Earth. He thought of Jack how he should be, vibrant and constant in a way that was no longer jarring: how he would be. And the Doctor thought, It’s worth it.
part three