Fanfic - Doctor Who/Downton Abbey - "Second Chances part 2"

[rapfic]

It was strange, the Doctor thought, how happy he was to see Harriet Jones and yet how angry he still was with her. Deliciously clever as always, she had shown up that morning at Downton Abbey with an invitation to take Sir Smithton and his secretary on a tour of the local churches. It was a shockingly clever way to be alone with him. Not even alone, truly, since they were chaperoned by a servant. It was all so perfectly upper class. He wondered if Harriet ever considered where a career in acting, and not politics, would have taken her.

Not to 1921, of course. And not the target of a Sycorax blood hunt. As they quietly stepped into the small church, he said, “Are we going to drop the game playing, Harriet?”

She glared at him as she looked in the corners of the church. “My name is Isobel Crawley, now.”

“Yes, yes, I know who you are. What are you doing here?” That was certainly the first question on his mind.

She looked at him, seemingly surprised, and then sighed. “If you don’t know then I can’t tell you.”

“What?”

Donna smirked and raised her hand. “Because it’s a *spoiler*. Sometime in your future and her past, the event where Harriet is sent back in time occurs and you’re a part of it, so it’s a fixed point in time that you as a Time Lord, should know that you can’t change. Telling you about it would tempt you to change the time line, and at last check, you have scruples about that because it would create a paradox.” She sniffed and looked at her nails, amused. “I do more than look pretty, you know.”

He resisted the urge to say something amusing back, because he had a bigger problem than Donna’s sarcastic mouth. “How long have you been here, Harriet?” Her presence created a paradox as well and he should have sensed it.

She smiled suddenly. “Twenty eight years, Doctor. Long enough to find the name Harriet a surprise. Why are you here? I somehow doubt you came here merely to tease me about my son’s death. That *is*a fairly low blow and I hope you realize that your story last night was hurtful and upsetting to more than just me. Be angry with me all you want, Doctor,” and her voice took on that edge he knew all too well. “Whether I deserve it or not, I can bear it, but those people are Matthew’s family, and they might be arrogant, stubborn, upper class snobs, but they loved him like a brother, a son, and a husband, and they do not deserve to have their grief increased.”

“Why do you think it was a story? When have you ever known me to lie?” He felt rather offended.

She rolled her eyes and for just a second the veneer of Isobel Crawley was shorn away and he was looking at Harriet Jones, ex-Prime Minister of Great Britain. “When we last met, you destroyed my career by lying about my health. “

“It wasn’t a lie, it was a suggestion. It’s not my fault the press ran with it.” He had to admit, it had surprised him how far it had gone. “I’m not lying to you now. You murdered the Sycorax and they’ve somehow found out that you had a child. That display in the cemetery last night was to let you know that they have your son. Your live son.”

~*~
Donna saw the tears well up in the older woman’s eyes and shot the Doctor a warning look. She had no love for the Liberal Party, or the MP from Flydale North that had seemingly risen out of nowhere to become prime minister but there were lines that shouldn’t be crossed. Telling a grieving mother that her dead son was possibly alive and being tortured by angry space aliens was surprisingly mean spirited.

Isobel, or Jones, Donna wasn’t sure which was more acceptable, shook off the tears in an instant. “Why are you telling me this? What purpose does it serve? What do you think I can do, if I believe you? It’s 1921… even if I knew how to contact Torchwood now, there’s nothing they could do. If it’s true, I’d give my own life in sacrifice to know Matthew was alive and safe….He’s been my son since his father lifted him into my arms and told him I was his mother. But I saw the body. I pinned his war medals on his chest and kissed him goodbye while his wife cried….”

The Doctor nodded. His expression was softer, whatever nasty mood he’d been in had left. “I am sorry, Harriett. I am so sorry… but they have him. That’s what the displays are about. Bodies can be cloned, you know that. The Sycorax left a false body as… essentially a nasty prank.”

“Ahem.” They all spun around at the sound of a new voice. It was the Dowager Countess, and she was glaring furiously at the Doctor. No surprise, really, according to the Doctor, she’d spent the entire evening glaring at him. It meant something but what, she wasn’t quite sure and the Doctor professed to not know. She’d already gotten the impression that the Dowager Countess was exactly the sort of stuffy overblown titled aristocrat that wouldn’t appreciate hearing how much she looked liked Professor McGonagall in the Harry Potter movies.

The elderly woman stepped into the light from the church windows. “I was sent, by Robert, Isobel, in hopes of catching you before you went to the cemetery. He’s on his way. Mosely was helping his father tend the grounds this morning and found something… unsettling and Robert wanted to make sure you didn’t see the damage.”

“The damage?” Donna could see Isobel, or Harriett, turn pale.

For an instant, Violet looked kind. A brief instant. “Some silliness with the stones. Robert intends to put it right so that you and Mary don’t have to see it. Come with me to my home. Robert will join us when things are put to right. “The scowl returned as she looked at the Doctor. “Lord Grantham was hoping you could assist him with the difficulty, Sir Smithton.”
In other words, Donna thought with amusement, the old bat didn’t like the Doctor and didn’t intend to have him in her home. What did you say at dinner last night, she wondered. It had to have been good.

The Doctor nodded. “Of course. I appreciate Lord Grantham’s hospitality and I would be happy to assist him.” His tone had a polite bite to it, to indicate he knew that the Countess was slighting him in some way.

The countess grabbed a shocked looking Isobel and dragged her out of the church. The Doctor looked up at the stained glass windows. “You know, they make stained glass from sand and metallic salts. An interesting process. Taking something insignificant and turning it into beauty.”

“We are going to help her, aren’t we?” Donna asked. It would be difficult, she got that from the way he stood, but she couldn’t believe he wouldn’t help.

“That would be a second chance, Donna, and I don’t give them.” His voice took on a cold edge. “That’s not the kind of man I am and if anyone knows that, it’s Harriet Jones. What’s the saying? She’s made her bed and now she’ll have to lie in it.” His eyes lit up in that furious way they could. He did have a temper, she’d seen it before, and she felt very sorry for Isobel Crawley/Harriet Jones. He waved his hands dramatically. “They were retreating, Donna! They were leaving with their tails and tentacles tucked between their legs, and she decided to kill them all. Not because she had to, but because she could. Those aliens had families, maybe even beloved sons. I told her not to do it and she did it anyway. The Sycorax believe in blood for blood. She took their blood children and now they’ve taken hers. What right do I have to interfere? I don’t like it either but I need a reason that isn’t about Harriet.”

He waited. Donna thought fast. Time travel and paradoxes almost always ended up a numbers game, she realized, and the numbers were on her side. “Because,” she said, glad to give him the excuse to help that he so obviously missed, “because Matthew Crawley can’t possibly be her biological child.”

The Doctor smiled. His eyes lit up with pleasure. “How do you know that?”

“I’m glad you asked,” Donna said. “Because Harriett Jones said she had been Isobel Crawley for 28 years, but Matthew Crawley died three months ago, after just turning thirty. Plus, the way she spoke of it, her husband placing his son in her arms. That’s not how a woman who gave birth talks about the first time she holds her baby. And while we’re at it, my god, she wasn’t exactly in prime child bearing years when she was elected. Whatever brought her here, it was after she was voted out and she was about forty six then. Maybe older. I always thought she lied about her age.” She paused. “If he’s not her blood son, then the Sycorax are punishing an innocent. As I recall, that’s not something you like.”

He grabbed her and hugged her. “Donna, that’s brilliant! Now let’s go look at what the Sycorax have left on the grave!”

~*~
Sometimes, Harriet Jones thought, the silly social rules that stopped everyone from discussing exactly what they knew had their place. Violet obviously knew that something terrible had happened to Matthew’s grave and was compelled by courtesy to not mention it. Which was good, because she was certain that any mention of Matthew’s name was going to make her burst into tears. She wasn’t so certain it wouldn’t happen anyway, because in her heart, she knew the Doctor wasn’t lying. Matthew was alive, somewhere, and paying the price for what she had done.

And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Violet led her to the small park and then turned to face her. “I must apologize, Isobel. I overheard some of your conversation with Sir Smithton.”

That was a problem. “How… how much did you overhear?”

Violet smiled primly. “Well, all of it, really. That was rather my intent.” Then she frowned. “Isobel, is it true? Is it possible that Matthew is alive?”

“Yes…” and then she did sob and Violet held her as she shook from the force of it. “He’s alive and he’s being made to pay for what I did…”

Violent shook her, to calm her. “Isobel, listen to me. We must not speak of this to Robert or Mary, or any of the family… But Torchwood is at your disposal. Why did the Sycorax take Matthew? All of our monitoring indicates they take no interest in Earth.”

For an instant, it was reassuring to hear the Dowager speak with such power and concern. Then it sunk in what the older aristocrat was saying. “You…. You know about Torchwood? You?”

Violet gave her a stern, knowing look. “Isobel, I am one of the founding members of Torchwood. I was there at Torchwood House the night the Queen was attacked. Sir Robert sacrificed himself for us and we decided to make sure it never happened again. I know who that man calling himself Sir John Smithton is, the Doctor. And he is a very dangerous man. Now, what business do the Sycorax have with you and Matthew? And what business have you had with the Doctor?”

Isobel slumped over to an empty park bench. “I don’t… I don’t quite believe this. I’m in Downton Village, in 1921, discussing Torchwood and the Doctor and the Sycorax with… with you.”

Violet took a seat beside her. “Yes, I am equally astonished. I assumed when that… man showed up at the Abbey that he was looking for me, not you of all people.” She took Isobel’s hand. “Now what did you do to the Sycorax?”

Isobel took a deep breath. Violet had to know the truth, at least some of it. “As the Prime Minister of Great Britain, in the year 2006, I ordered Torchwood to blow a retreating Sycorax invasion ship out of the sky on Christmas Day.” She looked at Violet, and for the first time in a long time, she felt like Harriet Jones and not Isobel Crawley. She wasn’t sure how that happened. “I didn’t regret then, even when I was forced out of office due to the Doctor’s accusations. I can’t regret it now, even if Matthew is paying the price. It happened, it can’t be taken back and I saved England and our planet.” She wiped her face. “I would trade places with Matthew if I could. I would take a gun and blow my own brains out if it made Matthew safe.”

Violet made a face. “There is no need to be unpleasantly dramatic, Isobel. I will notify Torchwood of what is happening.” She squeezed Isobel’s hand reassuring. “The Doctor will not destroy this family. And I realize now where Matthew gets his admirable but irritating sense of justice and duty. He is his mother’s son.”

~*~
Grantham ushered them both into the library and shut the door. He spun on his heels in a way that the Doctor found almost amusing. Grantham was, he realized, a man who would have been much happier if he’d been born a little earlier, or later. Too young for England’s glory years, too old to have gone to war for queen and country, he was doomed by circumstance and birth to devoting himself to a home and a way of life that even he had doubts about. It hadn’t taken much asking to hear how Grantham was something of a saint to his tenants, open handed and generous to a fault. Open minded too, which was a rarity in 1921. Grantham pointed at both of them, his face red. “You are not to speak of what we saw today. I will not have my daughter or Mrs. Crawley hear of this.” He smacked the ornate box he was holding down on the desk. “I must have your word.”

“You have it,” the Doctor said, nudging Donna to say the same. He had no intention of discussing the opened grave, or the empty casket. Empty save for a thin viscous goo that he knew was the clone residue from the Sycorax body manufacture, and the ornate box Grantham was holding. The Sycorax had taken a sample of Matthew’s blood no doubt, and created a clone to taunt the target that wouldn’t have passed muster in a more scientific world. But it had passed muster in 1921, and so the Sycorax, realizing they hadn’t gotten the attention of their chosen victim, had upped the ante. Inside the ornate box were two small human toes. Matthew Crawley’s small toes, he had no doubt of that, and things would only get more unpleasant as more time passed. As Grantham poured them both hearty sized glasses of whisky, he gestured to the box. “You might want to put that somewhere a little more secure.”

“Yes, quite”. Grantham dropped it into a desk drawer and locked it, and then handed the Doctor the second glass of whiskey. “I appreciate your discretion and apologize for forcing you into such a ghastly business.” He took a long drink. “For god’s sake, I don’t even know where Matthew’s body is, and what in the name of god did we bury?”

“Maybe he’s not dead,” the Doctor offered. If he knew the Sycorax, Matthew was probably very unhappy but not dead in the slightest, and if he and Donna were able to find Matthew Crawley alive, they would be bringing him back to Downton Abbey. It was time to give a plausible work around. “I don’t mean to unsettle you, but you said he died in a car accident. That token, “and he gestured to the desk drawer, “is the sort of gesture that kidnappers make. To get a relative to pay more money for the return of their loved one. Perhaps Matthew was forced off the road and one of the kidnappers was killed, a kidnapper that superficially resembled Matthew. You all must have been distraught, a new child born and his father ripped away tragically... and forgive me but I can’t imagine anyone took a close look at the body.”

The sudden gleam of hope in Grantham’s eyes told him he had scored a direct hit. Add some denial and it was even a plausible theory for 1921. Kidnapping had been more of an American crime but ransoming the heir to an earldom had the right feel, like the plot of an Agatha Christie novel. Grantham twitched, contemplating the idea, hope rising on his face. “Please say nothing of this to Mary. I don’t want to give her false hope, especially with the Christmas holidays upon us.” He gulped down his drink as Isobel Crawley and the Dowager Countess entered the library. “Ladies, I had no idea it was so close to the dinner hour. I must get dressed.”

“We’re a little early,” Isobel said as Grantham rushed out. She waited for the door to close behind him before she continued, “and Cousin Violet has a…. proposal.”

That was interesting, but what the elderly woman said next truly surprised him.

“On behalf of Torchwood,” the Dowager Countess said carefully, “we are willing to request a truce in the hostilities between us. We are willing to provide all knowledge we have of the location of Sycorax ships in the local areas of space. In return, you will rescue Matthew Crawley from the Sycorax that are holding him hostage.”

“On behalf of Torchwood?” It made him want to yell, but he held it in check. “First, I haven’t declared war against Torchwood.”

“Torchwood, and the Queen, have declared war against you,” Violet said carefully. “We are willing to not enforce the orders that call for your capture if you are willing to assist us in the recovery of Matthew Crawley. “

“Has Harriet,” and he was careful to emphasize it, “explained to you why the Sycorax took Matthew?”

Violet nodded. “As horrified as I am at knowing that a mere 84 years from now, England actually entertains the notion of a female prime minister, those of us in the high council concur with her efforts to prevent the Earth from being overtaken by giant insect warlords and slave masters. Frankly I don’t understand why you had objections.”

Donna snorted. To Harriett she said, “I take it you didn’t mention you weren’t the first female prime minister? No mention of The Iron Lady?”

It was funny, but the Doctor frowned to make the point. “*I* take it that you didn’t mention that they had already been defeated when you decided to destroy them, Harriet?”

“Isobel,” Violet corrected, her tone firm and angry. “In this home you will refer to this woman as Isobel Crawley.”

He sighed. “So let me explain the reality, *Isobel*. For every waking moment that your son has been held by the Sycorax, they have told him why he is there and why they are torturing him. They will have explained to him, in their not very charming ways, what you did, and who you are. And… to bring him back and stop it from happening again, I have to explain to the Sycorax the mistake they’ve made, and the truth about who you really are.”

He thought it was the verbal equivalent of slapping her across the face, made worse that it was truly the only way. Instead, she smiled sadly.

“I’ve already made peace with the fact that Matthew may not forgive me for any of this. I would rather have him alive and cursing my name. If that is my punishment, I accept it gladly.” She blinked back tears. “If you hadn’t thought of it already, and I assumed you would, once you described it as a blood taunt, I was going to suggest it. Because it saves his life.” She turned to Violet, and the Doctor was struck suddenly how eerie it was to see her slip from Isobel to Harriet with just a tensing of her body. “Cousin Violet, as it is required, you must know the truth as well. The Doctor is going to tell the Sycorax that their revenge is directed at an innocent. And it is, because Matthew is not my natural son. I met Reginald in India. He… saw me arrive and he took me to his home, as an act of kindness. I fell in love, possibly for the first time in my life, with both Reginald and Matthew and Reginald felt that Matthew was young enough that he’d never remember his birth mother…. He had met Isobel Turnbull in India, she was the orphaned daughter of a British officer. She had never been to England so I was able to slip into her identity. There will be no way to keep this from Matthew.” The sternness fell away and she slipped back into the Isobel persona. “I told you the price I was willing to pay.”

“And I believe I mentioned how overly dramatic that was,” Violet said curtly. “And you judge yourself far too harshly. Matthew has forgiven Mary of far greater indiscretions.”

“Like the Turkish diplomat that she slept with, who then died in her bed, and that she and her mother had to move to conceal it?” Donna smirked. “That one gets passed down for generations. Trust me.”

“Yes,” Violet said, looking as though she’d eaten a lemon, “that and others.” She looked at the Doctor. “This one is better dressed than the last, but has the same lack of manners. Now, Torchwood does insist that one of our members goes with you on this mission.” She turned. “Tom… come in.” The Doctor watched in amusement as the son in law he’d been introduced to the night before stepped out of a hidden alcove, wearing a set of tails. Tom Branson, the Irish widower, married to the younger daughter that had died in childbirth.

Harriet openly gaped. “What? Tom is in Torchwood? Is there anyone in this family who isn’t in Torchwood?”

“Well, you. Obviously.” Violet offered.

“Matthew,” Tom said, after a moment. “He’s an heir. That’s why Robert isn’t a member. Younger sons and daughters only, not heirs. Sybil, my Sybil, was chosen during the war.” He turned to Violet. “Matthew will know, after this. He should be…”

“Tom,” Violet chided, her expression dark, “we don’t discuss recruitment in front of the enemy.” To the Doctor, she said “Mr. Branson will go with you.”

“To spy,” the Doctor noted easily.

“To get Matthew back from those monsters,” Tom hissed. He sounded like he meant it, although the Doctor had no intention of trusting him.

And he doubted that anyone of them realized how artlessly they had revealed that Harriet wasn’t in Torchwood. He turned to Tom, curious about one potential problem. “You’re not blood related to Matthew, are you? I know the peerage likes its cousin marriage.”

Tom looked puzzled and then shook his head. “No. I was born in Ireland. Why is that important?”

He hesitated. Yes, he decided, they needed to know what sort of dynamite they had all been playing with like it was a toy. “Somehow, they found out that Harriet Jones had a son. They didn’t do a lot of fact checking,” And he was suddenly curious who put them on the scent, “But do you really think they wouldn’t be happy to include cousins, wives… grandchildren?” He waited. And wasn’t disappointed.

“George,” Harriet gasped, “and if they ran DNA, little Sybbie, Mary… all of you.”

“Nothing would please them more than to have more victims to taunt you with,” the Doctor said, pleased it was sinking in. “And the only link, the only blood they have is Matthew’s, which means you all owe your lives to him since you can be certain the Sycorax have expended a great deal of energy asking him. He’s clearly been lying to them, because all the Crawleys and Granthams are still alive. If I brought someone who shared his blood, they would discover he had been lying…”

“And that would start the problem fresh, wouldn’t it?” Tom said. “I’m not related. I consider him a brother and family, and I will gladly do anything to save him, but we’re family by choice, not blood.”

The problem was that he was beginning to like Tom, despite the Torchwood affiliation. “All right then. There are things we need to do.”

A gong sounded. Violet frowned at him. “We will have dinner. At dinner, you will tell Robert that you are leaving tomorrow morning. Tom will offer to take you to the train station as he has errands in Manchester. That will account for him being away.”

She was good, he had to admit. He pointed at Harriet. “I’ll need a blood sample from you, and we’ll need to record it so the Sycorax will know we’re telling the truth.”

“Of course,” Harriet said. “And… thank you, Doctor.”

The gong sounded again. “Well,” Donna said, with a touch of pique. “Don’t mind me. I have to head down to the servant hall lest I sully your meal with my lowly presence. At least the food is better down there.” She stomped off.

Tom shrugged. “She has a point. The food is better in the servants hall.”

~*~
The sun, the first sun, was starting to rise and as much as Matthew had learned to dread the terrible noon that lasted for what felt like an entire day, when all three suns blazed down from the portholes in the ceiling and the metal walls burned to the touch, the rising of the first sun was as pleasant as it got on the ship. The icy cold eased off, and for a little while at least, he wouldn’t be shaking with cold or burning up.

He lifted his manacled wrist and scratched the wall. The ship’s days were insanely long. Before his pocket watch had been stripped from him by a Sycorax underling, he’d figured out that the days on the ship were three days in England. Thirty marks meant he’d been held by the Sycorax for 90 days. He could hear the cell doors starting to clang. He dragged himself to his feet. It was time for food rations to be thrown into the cell, and he knew there were cellmates. They had been hauled in during the endless night, and as the sunlight increased, he could see he had a chance at least of getting something to eat. It was easier when he was alone. The guards would throw the ration bar on the floor and be done. He’d get something to eat, as rancid as the rations were. With other creatures in the cell, there would be a fight. If they were big, or fast, he would go hungry. If ninety days on a Sycorax slave ship had taught him anything, it was that humans were not big. He could be fast though.

Except when his feet were swollen bleeding lumps of pain. The last interrogation had been bad, even before the shears. It hurt to stand. Be glad of that, he told himself, always be glad that you can stand, even if it hurts. Pain meant he could still feel and move and there worse things than pain. There was letting the Sycorax know about George. Or anyone else in the family, but George and Mary especially.

As he braced himself against the wall, he assessed his chances. He was stiff and bruised, but he could stand and the raw flesh where his two small toes had been was no longer bleeding. The new prisoners were huddled together. Ugly, with tentacles and giant eyes, holding little piles of goo in their hands. Of course, he mused, not for the first time, he probably looked just as ugly to them. Worse, with no shoes and no jacket, the ragged remains of what he’d been wearing the night George was born, and his hair long enough to fall into his eyes, he was likely to be driven off the steps of Downton if he ever made it back as some sort of scary vagrant. He almost laughed at that. There was no way back. He wasn’t even certain where he was.

Along as they’re safe, he thought as he tensed against the sound of doors rattling, I can bear it. And it’s only one jump, the new prisoners looked small and slow as they hummed tonelessly, they didn’t realize that food was coming.

The door opened and the ration bar was thrown in. He regretted the jump even as he dove for it. It was too close to the wrong side of the cell, he couldn’t even touch it. Worse, he wrenched his chained wrist against the manacle. He crawled back to the wall in defeat, only to see the other prisoners also fail. The one that was closest was half the size of the other and it simply couldn’t reach the food. None of them would eat. It drove him to tears of frustration. The creepy tentacled aliens huddled closer, their humming lower and almost frenzied.

Oh to hell with it, he thought as he stood shakily. They could be a family, if aliens had families, and god knew what the Sycorax would do to them. He knew it was a slave ship of some sort, and they considered him a slave, but not one for sale. He was part of a blood taunt, and he wasn’t there to be sold, he was being tortured for the crimes one Harriet Jones had committed. The aliens across from him would be sold, and no doubt into worse circumstances. I’ll die here, he told himself, and I will never see my family again, but I can at least be kind. Mother would want that. He leapt at the ration bar, feet first, and kicked it to the other side of the cell. Then he blacked out.

When he came to, it was lighter in the cell and warmer, and the creatures were still humming but at least it wasn’t as upset sounding. He crawled back to the wall and hugged his knees to his chest. I’m not hungry, he told himself, and I’m not starving. I’m not starving, or hurting, or desperately lonely and this is a just a nightmare that I can’t wake up from.

The humming stopped. He didn’t look up from his crossed arms until the chains rattled and he heard a small thump. One of the aliens was standing and pointing. Then he saw it. They had broken off a chunk of the ration bar and thrown it to him, almost as if they had sensed his despair and wanted to repay his kindness to them.

“Thank you,” he said to it, hoping it understood. “You’re very kind to share.” It nodded, and then all four resumed their tuneless humming. He hoped things didn’t go as badly for them as he feared it would.