Truth, Justice and Time: Chapter One
Title: Truth, Justice, and Time
Characters: Ten/Rose, Martha, Brigadier, Sarah Jane, the Master
Category: Humor/Romance
Rating: PG Warnings: Mid-Series Three, just a touch cracktastic.
Summary: One morning, he woke a superhero. Jeopardy-prone blonde partners, spandex tights, and a dastardly plot all conspire to keep him having a very strange day.
Chapter One: John Smith, Newspaperman?
At least the specs were still in the non-transcendental coat pocket, and the Doctor slipped them on to better inspect the building rising before him, oblivious to the furious honking of cars having to swerve around the rumpled idiot standing smack in the middle of the road. London, as it turned out, seemed just as shaky on reality as the impossible flat and his equally impossible neighbor.
"They've got it all wrong, though!" he muttered to himself, craning his neck back at an extremely uncomfortable angle to inspect the sign. High above his head loomed a building topped by a giant (very inaccurate) steel representation of the Milky Way and the words "DAILY GALAXY" emblazoned in shiny metal on the roof. Within four seconds (Three point eight six one two, his time sense informed him smugly as he missed being run down by a Toyota by inches) he had identified eighteen incorrectly placed stars, seven missing planetoids, and a severely deformed Jupiter in the engraved star chart. Not to mention the fact that the galaxy was not, in fact, held up by giant steel cables, but that was less important.
That was humans for you, right there. Artistic and ambitious, but not too bright. With a few notable exceptions. He smiled fondly. Hard not to love 'em, really.
Still, the fact remained that the Doctor was at least 97% certain that this building should not exist in this particular dimension's London, in this particular time period. It might, of course, have existed in other time periods or dimensions, he acknowledged, but as he was something of an expert on this specific London, he thought he knew pretty well what he was talking about. Nearly causing a three-car pileup as he crossed the street--blithely ignoring the existence of a crossing--he strolled casually into the building, wondering vaguely what he'd do for identification without the psychic paper.
As it turned out, no one seemed too concerned about checking it at all. The doorman running the security scanner waved him through with the casual indifference of someone he met every day, and the receptionist at the desk called out a sunny, "Morning, Mr. Smith!" as he passed. Though, come to think of it…the Doctor pulled up short mid-stride, backtracked to the reception desk, and gave the man his best "harmless idiot" grin. "Good morning!" he chirped brightly, bringing a slightly puzzled smile in return to the man's face. "Could you tell me-I had a bit of an accident last night, hit my head on the pavement, terrible tragedy-what floor is Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart on?"
It probably said something that the pronouncement of an amnesiac head injury garnered nothing from the receptionist but a slight shake of the head and a resigned, "Eighth floor." Still, no time to wonder about that, there were real mysteries here to solve.
The Doctor found himself unnerved by the familiar calls of greeting and good morning to "Mr. John Smith," from the paper vendor he passed on his way through the lobby to the gaggle of paper-laden interns in the elevator to the vaguely familiar faces buzzing about a sunny newsroom like bees in a hive. It was eerie, frankly. They all seemed to know him. It was as if someone else's life had taken over his body.
On the eighth floor, he stepped out of the elevator and into a sprawling newsroom. Well, he'd expected that, being at a newspaper building and all…but…a newsroom! Bizarrely inexplicable alternate life though he might have found himself in, this was just brilliant. This was the beating heart of the city, the essence of the will of the people! Human men and women, ordinary humans raking up the mud, stirring up controversy, bringing to light the deep issues of society, politics…
"Geoff, where're my poodle shots? How can I hand in the dog show piece without my damn poodle shots?!"
….er, more or less.
"SMITH!"
Now THAT stern disapproval he knew! Whipping around, the Doctor saw none other than the Brigadier himself at the open door of an office marked "EDITOR," scowling so that his mustache twitched just as it had oh, so many centuries ago, when the Doctor was young and the Earth was his home in exile. "In my office now, if you please."
Beaming to break his face in half, the Doctor practically bounded after his old friend, slamming the office door behind him against the collected stares of the newsroom. (Although he nearly tripped over his own feet on the way there-was that Jack Harkness pushing a mail trolley?) "Alistair Gordon Lethbridge Stewart," he crowed. In his delight, the Doctor nearly danced from foot to foot as he faced the formidable Brig across a vast expanse of desk. The man looked much younger than the last time he'd seen him. But then, the Doctor himself was much younger (at least physically) than when last they’d met, not to mention a great deal more pinstriped.
As it had been such a very long time, it was very much to his surprise when the Brigadier, rather than greeting him in return or at the very least, offering a cup of tea, slapped a newspaper down on the desk and pointed to it briskly. "What is this, Smith?" he asked crisply, a tiny, controlled bite to his voice.
Thrown back into the confusion that was this entire bizarre day, but being an obliging sort, the Doctor picked up the newspaper and inspected it, peering first through the lenses of his spectacles, then lowering them to spy over the frame. Lethbridge-Stewart's name under the heading of "Editor" was not entirely surprising, just intensely strange, and he noticed that the Daily Galaxy was much better rendered on the letterhead than on the sign outside. He sniffed it, inhaling the scent of fresh ink and thin paper. He just stopped himself from licking it as well, mostly because the Doctor hated having a newsprint-black tongue. "A newspaper," he guessed confidently. "Today's, by the smell."
Lethbridge-Stewart was Not Amused. "It's today's newspaper…with not a single mention of yesterday's robbery to be found! Now, I thought that you and Tyler were on this."
"Robbery…right," the Doctor mused, tugging lightly at his ear in thought. For the moment, he set aside "you and Tyler," though wholly one of his hearts and a good portion of the other ached to grill his old friend about it. However, something extremely odd was happening here, and priority one had to be getting to the bottom of it. "Brigadier…have you noticed anything new here? About me, maybe? Something different from the last time you'd seen me?"
"Brigadier?" Lethbridge-Stewart's forehead creased in puzzlement at the title. "Why would you-no, John. I don't see anything new. If you've changed your haircut or somesuch, you may as well come out and say directly."
Considering the last time the last time the Brigadier had seen him, it had been well before this regeneration, and the last time the human had been this young, the Doctor had been giant grin and wild curls, it seemed that the Brigadier was under the same mysterious spell that held the rest of his world in thrall. "No?" he squeaked in dismay, just to be sure. "Not even a little?"
Lethbridge-Stewart frowned confusedly, but had no opportunity to reply as the door to his office flew open with a mighty "bang!" against the wall, and in flew a slender young woman in the most atrociously candy-pink suit the Doctor had ever seen. Rumpled and smeared with dirt, she looked like she'd spent the night sleeping in someone's vegetable patch, but it was neither the retina-blazing color nor the filth that captured the Time Lord's unqualified attention. No, that honor went to the bottle-blonde hair slumping precariously out of its chignon, wide chocolate eyes snapping fire at the hapless Brigadier, and generous mouth curved, not in the joyous, tongue-caught smile he remembered, but a fierce scowl of displeasure. The Doctor thought he might never have seen anything more beautiful in all his long lives.
"Rose," he breathed in awe.
Neither the woman (not girl, he realized, devouring her with his eyes. Not anymore.) herself nor Alistair seemed to notice his shock, however. They immediately launched into an argument about being in to work on time, deadlines and other semi-domestic concerns that the Doctor couldn't be bothered to pay the least attention to. This isn't right, he tried so hard to remind himself. This was not his life. Something was very, very wrong here, but oh it was so hard to remember that when he saw his beautiful lost girl and his old friend and…damn it, Doctor, focus!
"Ah, 'scuse me Alistair, Rose?" the Doctor interrupted, physically poking his head into the space between them. "Yes, hello. I need to borrow Rose here for just a tic, be right back then." And without waiting for a response, he banded a tight arm around her waist, tugging her, speechless and struggling across the newsroom, up the stairs, into an open supply closet and shut the door.
"Wh-what are you doing?" Rose finally spluttered in astonishment, watching as he jury-rigged a temporary lock with several rulers balanced between the door handle and a stack of toner boxes. For a few moments, he was still and quiet, back to his captive, and the slump of his shoulders made her reach out to him, fingers brushing against his back in uncertain comfort. "What's wr-oof!"
Rose had to go up on tiptoe as she was seized in his arms once more, this time in a hug that felt so desperate, so frantic, that she feared someone must have died. His cool cheek buried itself in her shoulder, fingers tightening compulsively at her ribs. And then, so suddenly she nearly leapt away, he spun them around, seizing her shoulders in an iron grip as he bent slightly to peer into her eyes. "Rose," he asked gently, keeping his voice steady with an effort that impressed even him, "Do you know who I am?"
"Of course I do," she said hesitantly, staring up into his eyes as if searching for madness. "You're my best mate, why wouldn't I know who you are?"
"Good." He nodded slowly. Well, one step at a time, and this was the right direction at least. "And what's my name?"
"What are you--?"
He pressed his fingers to her lips, shaking his head sharply. "Just…humor me. Please."
"You're John." His hearts sank nearly to his feet. She looked so puzzled to be asked that it was clear that to her, at least, the answer was and always had been… "John Smith. We're partners, we've worked together for three years now. Now what's wrong?"
Her gentle concern made him feel sick with disappointment. Whoever this was, she wasn't his Rose. She looked like Rose, smelled like Rose and sounded so achingly like Rose…but she, like everyone else, thought he was John Smith, journalist. He just couldn't give it up, though. "What about, 'The Doctor?'" he asked, watching her eyes keenly for any spark of recognition. "And I don't mean the man you go to with the sniffles; what does that name mean to you? Anything? Anything at all?"
"The Doctor?" Her eyes widened with delight, and just for a moment hope flared in his chest, only to come crashing down as she continued, "Have you seen him? Is that why you were late today? Did you see the Doctor?"
….riiiiiiight. "Rose, something very strange is going on here, something that-"
"Smith! Tyler! Get out here, we've got another robbery breaking!"
Rose glanced up at him, still worried for his mental health. "You okay, John?" Mind spinning with theories of alternate universes, transmats and too much Arcturian super-brandy, he could only nod silently. "Well, come on then!" she encouraged, giving his chest a playful little smack. He frowned. Ow. There was something metal under his shirt, and she'd just accidentally shoved it almost painfully into his flesh.
The Doctor's completely useless "lock" tumbled down with Rose's exit as he fumbled at his throat, finding a cord there and drawing it out to inspect whatever had just left a bruised imprint below his collarbone. Dangling from the loop of braided string was a key, a very familiar key, in fact, he realized as he brought it up to eye-level. He hadn't noticed it this morning while dressing, but then, if he had noticed the highly modified perception filter around his neck, it would have been pretty useless as a perception filter.
The amount of relief that flooded him as he inspected tangible evidence of his TARDIS's existence nearly staggered him. So long as the old girl was around somewhere, there was hope. And maybe, just maybe…oh, there was that hope! If he was wearing a perception filter, and one modified beyond his experience to boot, it might explain why everyone seemed to think he was John Smith! This was a theory that required testing, he thought with a wide grin.
Although…hello! Turning the key over and over in his fingers, he came across a tiny Seal of Rassilon engraved in the metal at the tip. Intrigued (he hadn't used the Seal since the Time War, and couldn't imagine why it would be on his key) he slid the pad of his thumb over the small symbol…
…and suddenly found himself nearly suffocated, every inch of his body uncomfortably compressed, as though he were being smothered, or squeezed by a giant python. Suddenly overwarm, he pulled at the buttons of his shirt, parting the edges, brushing the cotton away from the smooth spandex…wait.
Oh. Ooooooooooh. That wasn't good.
Slowly, with the sense of dawning horror that only a man finding himself unexpectedly in skintight briefs can know, the Doctor peeled open his shirt, pulled away his tie (he liked that tie; the curly patterns reminded him of being in the Vortex) and stared down at his torso, covered as it was in a slick coating of brilliant, TARDIS-blue spandex. Just to test its relative reality, he plucked a bit off his stomach, watched it snap back against his skin. And swirling on his chest, in a stiff pattern of red and orange embroidery, was the Seal of Rassilon.
Newspaper…attractive partner… blue. Spandex. Suit. The Doctor's genius mind was spinning with these clues, and not liking the conclusion it came to. Twentieth Century Earth pop culture was something he knew quite a bit about, and this life sounded eerily familiar.
A strange visitor from another planet…last survivor of a doomed world…powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men…
"Oh, BUGGER."