The Alchemist's sense of smell comes back to give her a pain in the butt, Lilith says something very different to the Doctor, and the Doctor goes up against Shakespeare in a battle of words! Who's going to win? Why are they competing in the first place?

Enjoy "The Shakespeare Code!"

***

"But, how do you travel in time?" Martha asked as she held on for dear life. "What makes it go?"

"Oh, let's take the fun and mystery out of everything," the Doctor rolled his eyes. "Martha, you don't want to know. It just does. Hold on tight!"

"You're still rude!" the Alchemist shouted, wincing as the TARDIS jerked them back and forth.

"I'm still not ginger!"

The TARDIS suddenly stopped, and Martha was thrown to the floor. "Blimey!" she gasped, letting the Alchemist help her up. "Do you have to pass a test to fly this thing?"

"Yes," the Doctor nodded firmly. "And I failed it!"

"I passed," the Alchemist shrugged. "But, his TARDIS."

"Now, make the most of it," the Doctor told her. "We promised you one trip, and one trip only. Outside this door, brave new world."

"Where are we?" Martha asked, eyes wide.

The Alchemist toed the door open. "Why don't you take a look?"

Martha walked out, staring in shock around them at the messy street, washing hanging from lines. "Oh, you are kidding me!" she gasped as the Alchemist walked out next. She didn't notice the blonde's eyes bug before she started gagging and turning away. The Doctor quickly found a bouquet a flowers nearby and gave them to her, and she buried her nose into them, sniffing deeply. "You are so kidding me! Oh, my God, we did it! We traveled in time! When are we?" She held up her hands. "No, sorry, I got to get used to this whole new language. When are we?"

The Alchemist lifted her head to answer, before she sniffed again, and her eyes widened. "Mind out!" she choked, grabbing Martha with one hand and burying her face back into the flowers with another.

Martha was pulled back just before a slop bucket was emptied in front of them. "Somewhere before the invention of the toilet," the Doctor grimaced. "Sorry about that."

"I've seen worse," Martha shrugged. "I've worked the late night shift A and E." She frowned at the Alchemist. "Is it really that bad?"

"I have a, ah . . . very sensitive nose," the Alchemist said, waving her hand as she kept her nose in the flowers. "If you can imagine, slop does not smell nice."

"Oh," Martha cringed sympathetically. "I'm sorry." The Alchemist smiled at her, and she and the Doctor walked on. "But are we safe?" Martha asked. "I mean, can we move around and stuff?"

"Of course we can," the Doctor frowned in confusion. "Why do you ask?"

"It's like in the films. You step on a butterfly, you change the future of the human race."

"Then don't step on any butterflies," the Alchemist deadpanned.

"What have butterflies ever done to you?" the Doctor asked.

"What if . . . I don't know. What if I kill my grandfather?"

"Are you planning to?"

" . . . no."

"Well, then," the Doctor shrugged, wrapping an arm around the Alchemist's shoulders and leading them on.

"And this is London?" Martha continued, walking to catch up.

"I think so," the Doctor nodded. "Round about 1599."

"Oh, but hold on," Martha's eyes widened fearfully. "Am I all right? I'm not going to get carted off as a slave, am I?"

"Why would they do that?" the Doctor asked in confusion, before yelping when the Alchemist punched him in the shoulder. "Ow!"

"Bozo," she glared at him before shaking her head at Martha. "Just walk around like there's nothing to worry about."

"Besides, Elizabethan England isn't so different from your time," the Doctor continued, looking around.

"Recycling," the Alchemist pointed over to a man shoveling manure.

"Water cooler movement," the Doctor pointed to a water barrel.

"And a personal favorite . . . " the Alchemist trailed off.

"And the world will be consumed by flame!" the preacher they passed declared dramatically.

"Global warming," the Alchemist giggled.

"Oh, yes, and entertainment," the Doctor added, thinking. "Popular entertainment for the masses. If I'm right, we're just down the river by Southwark, right next to . . . " He took off running, the Alchemist and Martha following, to see him stop by the bridge. "Oh, yes," he grinned. "The Globe Theater! Brand new, just opened."

"It's not a globe, it's a tetradecagon," the Alchemist rolled her eyes. "Honestly, if you're going to name something, name it correctly!"

"Fourteen sides, containing the man himself," the Doctor grinned.

"Whoa!" Martha's eyes opened wide. "You don't mean . . . is Shakespeare in there?!"

"Oh, yes," the Doctor smirked, stepping between the two women. "Miss Morrow, Miss Jones, will you accompany me to the theater?"

"How could I resist theater?" the Alchemist smirked, taking his arm.

"Mr. Smith, I will," Martha nodded, doing the same with his other arm.

"And when you get home, you can tell everyone you've seen Shakespeare," the Alchemist grinned.

"Then I could get sectioned!" Martha laughed.

***

"That's amazing!" Martha gushed later after the performance of Love's Labor's Lost. "Just amazing!"

"Yeah, almost worth the smell," the Alchemist moaned, sticking her face into her third batch of flowers, her face tinged slightly green.

"And those men are dressed as women, yeah?" Martha asked, just to make sure, even as she rubbed the Alchemist's back supportively.

"London never changes," the Doctor chuckled.

"Where's Shakespeare?" Martha wondered, craning her neck. "I want to see Shakespeare! Author!" she started shouting. "Author!" She paused, sensing two pairs of eyes on her, and she blushed as the Doctor and the Alchemist stared at her. "Do people shout that? Do they shout author?"

"Author!" a man behind them cried. "Author!"

Soon, the whole crowd was chanting, and the Doctor shook his head in disbelief. "Well, they do now," he quipped.

A rather handsome man walked out on stage and waved, smirking at the audience. "He's a bit different from his portraits," Martha noted.

"Genius," the Doctor grinned. "He's a genius! The genius!" The Alchemist coughed, and he quickly caught himself. "The second genius!" Martha snickered at how obvious it was the Alchemist had him wrapped around her finger. "The most human human there's ever been, and now we're going to hear him speak. Always, he chooses the best words. New, beautiful, brilliant words."

"Ah, shut your big fat mouths!" Shakespeare suddenly shouted, to loud laughter.

The Doctor blinked comically, and the Alchemist burst out laughing. "Oh, well," he sighed.

"You should never meet your heroes," Martha advised with a grin.

The Alchemist was still laughing when she suddenly started gagging, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Moment," she managed to choke out before pushing through the crowd, the smell obviously getting to her.

"Will she be all right?" Martha asked in concern as Shakespeare joked around more.

"I don't know," the Doctor admitted, standing on his toes to see the Alchemist continue shoving people to the side. "She's never had a reaction this bad before . . . "

"I'll go after her," Martha decided before shoving her way through. "Excuse me!" she shouted.

The Doctor watched her go, a small smile on his face, happy that Martha cared about the Alchemist enough to leave Shakespeare's speech so she could find her.

Speaking of Shakespeare . . . "I know what you're all saying," Shakespeare was saying as he talked to the audience, the Doctor paying close attention. "Love's Labor's Lost. That's a funny ending, isn't it? It just stops. Will the boys get the girls? Well, don't get your hose in a tangle. You'll find out soon. Yeah, yah, all in good time. You don't rush a genius." He paused for a moment, going rigid, before he asked, "When?" He gave a grand pause. "Tomorrow night!" The crowd cheered as the actors looked surprised, the Doctor surprised on his own. "The premiere of my brand new play. A sequel, no less, and I call it . . . Love's Labor's Won!"

The Doctor blinked, surprised, as the crowd cheered even louder.

***

The Alchemist was bent over a spare bucket when Martha finally found her, her stance rigid, trying to hold her hair back with one hand while holding onto the wall for support in the process. Martha quickly rushed over and held the rest of her hair back, and the Alchemist emptied her stomach one last time before coughing and standing up straight. "All right?" Martha asked in concern.

"Yeah," the Alchemist answered thickly, coughing a bit more before going to a pump and filling her hands with water, washing her mouth out. "Just . . . smelled disgusting."

"I'm sorry," Martha apologized, looking around. Her eyes brightened, and she ran to a flower bed nearby, pulling out a few flowers. "Here," she said, walking back to the Alchemist, holding up the bunches she'd picked. "They smell much better."

The Alchemist sniffed the flowers she'd picked, and she immediately perked up, carefully winding the vine of flowers around her hand. "Lily of the valley," she nodded, keeping her hand close to her nose, inhaling slowly. "One of the best smelling flowers ever."

"Well, glad I know my flowers," Martha joked, patting the Alchemist on the shoulder. She already looked much better. "You really do have a sensitive nose, don't you?"

"I do," the Alchemist admitted as they walked back down the street, staying close to flower beds. "Some senses are move . . . sensitive than others."

"No pun intended?"

"Well, maybe a little bit."

"Why don't you use scented lotion for your hands, then?" Martha suggested. "Or something else like that?"

"Never had this bad of a problem," the Alchemist answered, looking around before smiling. "There you are!"

"Are you all right?" the Doctor asked as he walked over from the crowd pouring out of the Globe Theater, all of them chatting up a storm.

"Never better," she drawled sarcastically, holding up her hand. "Found a solution."

"Brilliant," he nodded, but he seemed off. "Good . . . "

"What's wrong?"

"Shakespeare is going to be putting on a play tomorrow. A premiere." The Alchemist nodded, waiting for him to continue, and he sighed. "It's called Love's Labor's Won."

The Alchemist frowned thoughtfully. "I'm not an expert, but I've never heard of Love's Labor's Won," Martha put in her opinion hesitantly.

"Exactly," the Doctor nodded to her. "The lost play. It doesn't exist, only in rumors. It's mentioned in lists of his plays, but never ever turns up, and no one knows why."

"Have you got a mini-disc or something?" Martha asked in excitement. "We can tape it. We can flog it. Sell it when we get home and make a mint!"

The Alchemist shook her head. "No."

Martha paused. "That would be bad."

"Yes."

Martha shrugged. "Well, how come it disappeared in the first place?"

The Doctor sighed. "Well, I was just going to give you a quick little trip in the TARDIS . . . but I suppose we could stay a bit longer."

***

" . . . got the final scene to go," Shakespeare was saying when the Doctor stepped in the doorway of his room. "You'll get it by morning."

"Hello!" the Doctor grinned, stepping into the room. "Excuse me, not interrupting, am I?" He ignored the incredulous looks of the actors and the maid in the room, only paying attention to Shakespeare. "Mr. Shakespeare, isn't it?"

"Oh, no," Shakespeare groaned as the Alchemist and Martha approached, a bunch of flowers in Martha's hands, the Alchemist keeping her nose buried in the flowers she had in her hands. They'd stopped by a garden on the way over, taking some of the best scented flowers they could find. "No, no, no, who let you in?" Shakespeare continued to whine. "No autographs, no, you can't have yourself sketched with me, and please don't ask where I get my ideas from. Thanks for the interest, now be a good boy and shove - " He cut off abruptly, his eyes sparkling with interest, and the Doctor looked by him to see the Alchemist and Martha had entered the room . . . and Shakespeare was openly staring at them. His eyes narrowed, and he folded his arms almost in a pout. Why did everyone think the Alchemist was available?! "Hey, nonny nonny," Shakespeare grinned. "Sit right down here next to me." He flapped the others away. "You two get sewing on them costumes. Off you go."

"Come on, lads," the head maid chuckled. "I think our William's found his new muses."

The Doctor cleared his throat as the Alchemist and Martha sat down in the chairs, the Alchemist risking taking her hand away from her nose for a moment. She inhaled, looking around at the candles around the room, then nodded. "Much better."

"Sweet ladies," Shakespeare grinned, looking them over. The Doctor quickly stood behind the Alchemist's chair, narrowing his eyes as he leaned over, his hands bracing on the chair arms. The Alchemist grinned at him, then casually draped her arms over the chair arms, her hands over his. Shakespeare looked at them, then turned his full attention to Martha. "Such unusual clothes," he continued. "So fitted."

"Er . . . " Martha appeared very flustered. "Verily! Forsooth! Egads!"

"No, no, don't do that," the Doctor shook his head, pulling out his psychic paper. "Don't." He showed Shakespeare the paper. "I'm Sir Doctor of TARDIS, my fiancée Dame Alchemist of TARDIS, and this is our companion, Miss Martha Jones."

Shakespeare tilted his head. "Interesting . . . that bit of paper? It's blank."

The Alchemist blinked, turning to look at it. "Is it really?"

"Oh, that's very clever," the Doctor grinned. "That proves it. Absolute genius."

"No, it says so right there," Martha pointed. "Sir Doctor, Dame Alchemist, Martha Jones. It says so."

"And I say it's blank," Shakespeare argued.

"And he'd be right," the Alchemist nodded.

"Psychic paper. Long story," the Doctor said before sighing. "Oh, I hate starting from scratch . . . "Psychic?" Shakespeare repeated. "Never hard that before, and words are my trade. Who are you exactly?" He eyed Martha. "More to the point . . . who is your delicious blackamoor lady?"

The Alchemist nearly choked on her laughter. Martha just stared at him. "What did you say?!"

"Oops," Shakespeare looked genuinely worried. "Isn't that a word we use nowadays? An Ethiop girl? A swarth? A Queen of Afric?"

Martha turned to the Alchemist, seeing the girl trying hard not to laugh. "I can't believe I'm hearing this!"

"It's political correctness gone mad," the Doctor agreed. "Er, Martha's from a far off land . . . Freedonia."

The Alchemist snorted then, turning red with the effort not to laugh. "Oh, shut it," Martha sighed, only succeeding in making the Alchemist giggle.

"Excuse me!" an authoritative voice shouted, and they turned as a man with a gold chain around his neck entered. "This is abominable behavior! A new play with no warning? I demand to see a script, Mr. Shakespeare! As Master of the Revels, every new script must be registered at my office and examined by me before it can be performed."

"Tomorrow morning, first thing, I'll send it round," Shakespeare promised.

"I don't work to your schedule, you work to mine! The script, now!"

"I can't," Shakespeare shook his head.

"Then tomorrow's performance is cancelled."

"It's all go around here, isn't it?" Martha asked quietly.

"I'm returning to my office for a banning order," the man continued, turning. "If it's the last thing I do, Love's Labor's Won will never be played!"

The three time travelers looked at each other as the man left. "Oh, Lynley," Shakespeare sighed. "He never did like me."

"Well, then, mystery solved," Martha said. "That's Love's Labor's Won over and done with. Thought it might be something more . . . you know . . . more mysterious."

A man screamed from the street, followed my more screams. The Doctor led the way outside, and the Alchemist nearly crashed into him when he stopped dead. Lynley was staggering around in the courtyard, water spewing from his mouth. "It's that Lynley bloke!" Martha gasped.

"What's wrong with him?" the Doctor wondered, trying to push past. "Leave it to me! I'm a doctor!"

"So am I, near enough!" Martha retorted, running to Lynley just as he collapsed. "Got to get the heart going, Mr. Lynley, come on," she said, starting CPR. "Can you hear me? You're going to be all right - " She gasped and jerked back when water gushed from his mouth. "What the hell is that?"

"Never seen a death like this!" the Alchemist's eyes widened, crouching down. "His lungs are full of water, like he was drowning. And then there was just a blow to the heart . . . an invisible blow?"

The Doctor stood and headed over to the head maid. "Good mistress, this poor fellow has died from a sudden imbalance of the humors," he told her. "A natural, if unfortunate, demise. Call a constable and have him taken away."

"Yes, sir," she bowed.

"I'll do it, ma'am," a young ginger maid said, heading back inside.

"And why are you telling them that?" Martha asked when he returned.

"This lot still have got one foot in the Dark Ages," the Doctor answered. "If I tell them the truth, they'll panic and think it was witchcraft."

"OK . . . what was it, then?"

"Witchcraft," the Alchemist deadpanned.

***

"I got your rooms, Sir Doctor," the head maid, Dolly, said as she approached. "You and Miss Morrow are just across the landing, and Miss Jones is right next door."

"Thank you," the Alchemist nodded to her.

"Poor Lynley," Shakespeare sighed. "So many strange events . . . not least of all this land of Freedonia where a woman can be a doctor?"

"Where a woman can do what she likes," Martha corrected.

"And you, Sir Doctor . . . how can a man so young have eyes so old?"

"I do a lot of reading," the Doctor deadpanned.

Shakespeare laughed. "A trite reply. Yeah, that's what I'd do. And what about your fiancée, Dame Alchemist?" The Alchemist tilted her head innocently as Shakespeare turned to her. "A woman so strong she can stand the sight of a man dying in front of her, yet with a nose so powerful she cannot walk the streets without finding flowers? A woman with such a strong brand in her mind . . . it is a wonder you do not tell others you are married."

Both Time Lords stiffened. "You have no idea," the Alchemist said shortly, even as Martha looked at them in confusion.

"And you?" Shakespeare turned to Martha. "You look at them like you're surprised they exist. They're as much of a puzzle to you as they are to me."

Martha frowned. "I think we should say goodnight," she said, heading out the door.

"I must work," Shakespeare sat up. "I have a play to complete, but I'll get my answers tomorrow, and I'll discover more about you and why this constant performance of yours."

"All the world's a stage," the Alchemist said in a sing-song voice.

"Hmm," Shakespeare hummed. "I might use that. Goodnight, Doctor. Goodnight, Alchemist."

"Nighty night, Shakespeare," the Doctor nodded, taking the Alchemist's hand and heading out the door.

***

"How does he know?" the Alchemist hissed when they were in their room that evening, she putting a vase of flowers by one end of the bed. "No human could know!"

"He's a genius," was the only answer the Doctor could think of as he shrugged helplessly. There was a knock on the door, and he turned to answer. "Come in."

Martha stepped into the room, holding a candle and looking around. "Not exactly five star, is it?" she asked.

"Oh, it'll do," the Doctor shrugged. "I've seen worse."

"And I've seen much better," the Alchemist said dryly, plopping down on the bed.

"I haven't even got a toothbrush," Martha said as an afterthought.

"Oh!" the Doctor blinked, rummaging through his pockets before he pulled one out. "Contains Venusian spearmint."

Martha looked at the Alchemist, who rolled her eyes fondly, before she took the toothbrush. "So . . . magic and stuff. That's a surprise. It's all a little bit Harry Potter."

"Wait till you read book seven," the Doctor said, eyes alight. "Oh, I cried."

"That was crying?" the Alchemist asked, raising an eyebrow. "So what's sobbing?"

"He was that bad?" Martha asked, nervous.

"Bad enough that Mickey complained the next morning that he could hear the Doctor from his room . . . and he was down a few halls."

Martha grinned at an embarrassed Doctor, patting his shoulder. "But is it really, though? I mean, witches, black magic, and all that . . . it's real?"

"'Course it isn't," the Doctor shook his head.

"Well, how am I supposed to know? I've only just started believing in time travel! Give me a break!"

"Looks like witchcraft, but it isn't," the Doctor said. "Can't be."

"Then what do you call me?" the Alchemist asked, raising an eyebrow. "What I did on the Game Station, that would be considered witchcraft."

"You're an enchantress," the Doctor answered, grinning innocently at her. "And you've got me tangled in a web the strength of a thousand men."

The Alchemist blushed, and the Doctor winked at her. Martha quickly turned her giggles into a cough. "So . . . it isn't witchcraft?"

"There's such a thing as psychic energy, but a human couldn't channel it like that," the Doctor answered, frowning. "Not without a generator the size of Taunton, and I think we'd have spotted that."

"So we're missing something," the Alchemist concluded. "And I bet it's staring us right in the face."

"Rose'd know," the Doctor said as an afterthought, and Martha gave the Alchemist a quick glance, seeing pain flare in her eyes. Or was that just the same gold glint she saw occasionally? "Alice's sister, Rose. Right now, she'd say exactly the right thing."

"Good to know you have such faith in my sister," the Alchemist told him, tilting her head. "But even Rose doesn't know everything. She'd probably be as stumped as we are."

"Still, can't be helped," the Doctor sighed.

"We'll take you back tomorrow, Martha," the Alchemist smiled at her.

"Great," Martha nodded, but there was a tightness to her as she closed the door.

As soon as the door was closed, the Alchemist turned to the Doctor. "We give her another trip."

"What?" the Doctor blinked.

"Come on, Kasterborous," she went into Gallifreyan. "You told me about the first trip you took Rose on. Martha's doing a much better job."

"I took Rose to the end of the world," the Doctor pointed out, sitting down on the bed next to her. "This is Shakespeare's time. Rose was barely rattled when we saw Charles Dickens."

"Why not do that, then? You took Rose to the future, then to the past. She saw the extreme first. We've got Martha started. Why not see how she handles some other place, some time in the future, and then we make our decision?"

The Doctor looked at her, then sighed. "Fine."

The Alchemist squealed and gave him a fierce hug, tackling the Doctor into laying down on the bed. "You're fantastic," she told him with a wide grin.

"Well," the Doctor grinned, kissing her. "Anything for you, Namara."

***

The Alchemist had fallen asleep - finally! - with her head buried in the Doctor's chest, the man himself still awake, unable to sleep despite his attempts to. He couldn't help it; he was worried for the Alchemist. Her sense of smell had been getting stronger, and it had all started when she'd regenerated -

He frowned. No, scratch that. He remembered: she'd done it before, shortly after . . . after -

A frightened scream interrupted his thoughts, and the Doctor scrambled out of bed, running for the door. He'd barely made it out before the Alchemist shot out after him, the two of them running a good few seconds ahead of Martha, who stumbled out soon afterwards.

"What?" Shakespeare was mumbling as the trio crashed into the room. "What was that?"

"Her heart gave out," the Doctor diagnosed, eyes wide as he looked down at the pale Dolly lying on the ground. "She died of fright."

"Doctor?" Martha asked nervously, looking out the window. "Alchemist?"

"What is it?" the Alchemist asked, going to the window to look, one hand at the waistband of her jeans behind her back. "What did you see?"

Martha swallowed. "A witch."

***

"Oh, sweet Dolly Bailey," Shakespeare mourned. "She sat out three bouts of the plague in this place when we all ran like rats. But what could have scared her so? She had such enormous spirit."

"Rage, rage, against the dying of the light," the Alchemist quoted loftily.

Shakespeare considered. "I might use that."

"You can't," the Doctor smirked. "It's someone else's."

"But the thing is, Lynley drowned on dry land, Dolly died of fright . . . " Martha turned to Shakespeare. "And they were both connected to you."

Shakespeare blinked. "You're accusing me?"

"No, but I saw a witch, big as you like, flying, cackling away, and you've written about witches."

"I have?" Shakespeare tried to think. "When was that?"

"Rumors are wrong, then," the Alchemist quickly said.

Shakespeare's eyes lit up. "Peter Streete spoke of witches!"

"Who's Peter Streete?" Martha asked.

"Our builder. He sketched the plans to the Globe."

"Nice architect, then," the Alchemist nodded. "That building's a . . . beauty . . . " She blinked, then turned to the Doctor, opening her mouth -

When he did as well, and they shouted at the same time, "The architect!"

"Come on!" the Doctor shouted, grabbing her hand and running off, Martha and Shakespeare scrambling to catch up.

***

"Do you know, I tried to study architecture in school?" the Alchemist asked as she looked around the Globe alongside the Doctor, Martha and Shakespeare standing up on the stage.

"Oh, really?" the Doctor asked curiously.

"Then I decided I didn't want to waste my life designing buildings and whatnot. The citadel was just fine the way it was."

Was.

The Doctor nodded, then turned back to Shakespeare. "The columns there, right? Fourteen sides. I've always wondered, but I never asked. Tell me, Will . . . why fourteen sides?"

"It was the shape Peter Streete thought best," Shakespeare shrugged. "That's all. Said it carried the sound well."

"He was right," the Alchemist admitted, looking around. "But why fourteen?"

"There's fourteen lines in a sonnet?" Martha suggested.

"So there is," the Doctor pointed at her. "Good point. Words and shapes following the same design. Fourteen lines, fourteen sides, fourteen facets . . . " He groaned. "Oh, my head! How do you think this much?"

"Because I'm smarter than you," the Alchemist patted him on the back. "Tetradecagon somehow connected to words, letters, numbers, and lines?"

"Thank you, Alice."

"This is just a theater," Shakespeare rolled his eyes.

"Oh, yeah, but a theater's magic, isn't it?" the Doctor countered. "You should know. Stand on this stage, say the right words with the right emphasis at the right time . . . oh, you can make men weep or cry with joy, change them! You can change people's minds with words in this place. But if you exaggerate that . . . "

"It's bigger on the inside!" the Alchemist shouted dramatically, throwing her arms in the air for emphasis.

"It's like your police box," Martha caught on. "Small wooden box with all that power inside."

"Oh," the Doctor grinned at her. "Oh, Martha Jones, I like you!"

"But Peter Streete would know more," the Alchemist said, turning. "Can we talk to him?"

"You won't get an answer," Shakespeare said bitterly. "A month after finishing this place, lost his mind."

The Alchemist blinked. "So did the Creators, and we turned out just fine."

The Doctor laughed as Shakespeare blinked at her. "The what?"

"Why?" Martha interrupted. "What happened?"

Shakespeare turned his attention back to her. "Started raving about witches, hearing voices, babbling. His mind was addled."

"Where is he now?" the Doctor asked.

"Bedlam," Shakespeare answered.

"What's Bedlam?" Martha asked.

"Bethlem Hospital," Shakespeare replied. "The madhouse."

"We're going to go there, right now," the Doctor decided, running for the exit, the Alchemist right on his heels as always, Martha jumping off the stage to follow. "Come on!"

"Wait!" Shakespeare shouted. "I'm coming with you!"

***

"Think Peter Streete was influenced by these witches to build the Globe?" the Alchemist asked as they walked, Martha and Shakespeare talking behind them.

"I see no other option," the Doctor nodded. "Witchcraft killed Lynley, a witch killed Dolly with fright, and Peter Streete went mad while babbling about witches."

"I'll have your mind turned into a Creator's yet."

The Doctor beamed at her compliment before going back to hurry up the humans. "Come on," he whined. "We can all have a good flirt later."

"Is that a promise, Doctor?" Shakespeare asked innocently.

Martha choked, she was so stunned. The Alchemist just burst out into hysterical laughter as the Doctor gawked. "Oh, fifty seven academics just punched the air!" the Alchemist whooped. "Come on!"

***

"Does my Lord Doctor wish some entertainment while he waits?" the keeper in the hospital asked as they walked through the madhouse, the Alchemist keeping her nose in the most recent batch of flowers she'd picked - roses. "I'd whip these madmen. They'll put on a god show for you. Mad dog in Bedlam - "

"No, I don't!" the Doctor glared at him.

The man hummed. "Well, wait here, my lords, while I make him decent for the ladies."

"So this is what you call a hospital, yeah?" Martha glared around them. "Where the patients are whipped to entertain the gentry? And you put your friend in here?"

"Oh, it's all so different in Freedonia," Shakespeare rolled his eyes.

"But you're clever. Do you honestly think this place is any good?"

"I've been mad. I've lost my mind. Fear of this place set me right again. It serves its purpose."

"Mad in what way?"

"You lost your son," the Alchemist whispered.

The Doctor put his arm around her, squeezing her as she took a deep breath. He knew why she felt that way. On Gallifrey, any family was sacred, no matter what kind. To think of the horror of losing a child . . .

Quite frankly, neither wanted to think that way.

"My only boy," Shakespeare sighed. "The Black Death took him. I wasn't even there."

"I didn't know," Martha shifted on her feet. "I'm sorry."

"It made me question everything. The futility of this fleeting existence. To be or not to be . . . oh," he blinked. "That's quite good."

"You should write that down," the Doctor smirked.

"Maybe not. A bit pretentious?"

"I like it," the Alchemist winked.

"This way, my lord!" the keeper called.

The Alchemist grimaced as they walked down the hall, seeing the madmen leering at them. When they arrived, the keeper was looking at him. "They can be dangerous, my lord," he warned the Doctor. "Don't know their own strength."

"I think it helps if you don't whip them," the Doctor glared. "Now get out!" He did, and the Doctor approached the hunched man. "Peter?" he asked quietly. "Peter Streete?"

"He's the same as he was," Shakespeare shook his head. "You'll get nothing out of him."

"You'd be surprised," the Alchemist shook her head.

"Peter?" the Doctor coaxed, putting his hand on the man's shoulder. Peter turned, eyes wide and unseeing. "Peter, I'm the Doctor," he introduced himself, putting his hands on the man's head. "Go into the past, one year ago. Let your mind go back, back to when everything was fine and shining. Everything that happened in this year since happened to somebody else. It was just a story. A Winter's Tale." Peter's eyes fluttered, and he seemed to relax. "Let go. That's it, that's it. Just let go." He laid Peter back on his cot. "Tell me the story, Peter. Tell me about the witches."

"Witches spoke to Peter," Peter mumbled. "In the night, they whispered. They whispered, got Peter to build the Globe to their design. Their design! The fourteen walls, always fourteen. When the work was done, they snapped poor Peter's wits."

"Where did Peter see the witches?" the Doctor asked. "Where in the city? Peter, tell me. You've got to tell me. Where were they?"

Peter swallowed. "All Hallows Street."

"Too many words!" a witch cackled as she appeared inside the cell.

"What the hell?" Martha gawked.

"Just one touch of the heart . . . " the witch smirked, reaching out.

"No!" the Doctor shouted.

The Alchemist quickly ran forward, dropping her flowers, and grabbed the witch's hand just centimeters from Peter's chest. The witch hissed and tried to throw her away, but the Alchemist wouldn't budge. "No one else is dying," the Alchemist warned.

"Oh, no one?" the witch looked around. "Who will die first?"

"Well, if you're looking for volunteers . . . " the Doctor hummed.

"No!" Martha snapped. "Don't!"

"Doctor, can you stop her?" Shakespeare asked.

"No mortal has power over me," the witch boasted.

"Oh, really?" the Alchemist smirked. "Because I should have known this a long time ago. Humanoid female using shapes and words to channel energy . . . do the fourteen stars of the Rexel planetary configuration sound familiar!" The witch turned to her, eyes wide. "Gotcha! Creature, I name you Carrionite!"

The witch screamed and vanished in a flash of light. "What did you do?" Martha asked.

"The best magic there is," the Alchemist smirked. "I named her."

"The power of a name," the Doctor grinned. "Have I told you you're brilliant yet today?"

"No."

"You're brilliant!" he cheered, spinning her around. Not only had she banished the Carrionite, she had also saved Peter Streete from dying. Granted, the man's wits were still gone . . . but she'd saved his life.

"But there's no such thing as magic," Martha frowned.

"Well, it's just a different sort of science," the Doctor said. "You lot, you choose mathematics. Given the right string of numbers, the right equation, you can split the atom. Carrionites use words instead."

"Use them for what?" Shakespeare asked.

The Doctor shrugged. "The end of the world."

***

"The Carrionites disappeared way back at the dawn of the universe," the Alchemist shared what she knew that evening. "Nobody was sure if they were real or legend."

"Well, I'm going for real," Shakespeare deadpanned.

"But what do they want?" Martha asked.

"A new empire on Earth," the Doctor answered from where he was skimming maps of the area. "A world of bones and blood and witchcraft."

"But how?"

The Doctor looked up for a moment to Shakespeare. "I'm looking at the man with the words."

"Me?" Shakespeare looked surprised. "But I've done nothing."

"What were you doing last night when that Carrionite was in the room?" the Alchemist asked, leaning forward.

"Finishing the play," Shakespeare recalled.

"What happens on the last page?"

"The boys get the girls, they have a bit of a dance," Shakespeare shrugged. "It's all as funny and thought provoking as usual." He frowned. "Except those last few lines . . . funny thing is, I don't actually remember writing them."

"That's it," the Doctor nodded. "They used you. They gave you the final words like a spell, like a code."

"Which means Love's Labor's Won is a weapon," the Alchemist concluded. "The right combination of words spoken at the right place with the shape of the Globe as an energy converter."

"The play's the thing!" the Doctor grinned, pleased with himself.

The Alchemist sighed. "You can have that one, too," she told Shakespeare.

The Doctor put one of the maps on the desk and pointed to it. "All Hallows Street," he said. "There it is. Martha, we'll track them down. Will, you get to the Globe. Whatever you do, stop that play."

"I'll do it," Shakespeare nodded. "All these years, I've been the cleverest man around. Next to you, I know nothing."

"Oh, don't complain," Martha grumbled.

"I'm not," Shakespeare grinned. "It's marvelous! Good luck, Doctor."

"Good luck, Shakespeare," the Doctor nodded.

"Once more, unto the breach!" the Alchemist declared, heading out the door.

"I like that," Shakespeare nodded . . . before he scowled. "Wait a minute! That's one of mine!"

"Oh, just shift!" the Doctor ordered, running after his Bonded.

***

"All Hallows Street," the Doctor mumbled when they arrived. "But which house?"

"The thing is, though, am I missing something here?" Martha asked. "The world didn't end in 1599. It just didn't. Look at me, I'm living proof."

"Back to the Future," the Alchemist said.

"The film?"

"No, the novelization," the Doctor drawled. "Yes, the fi - OW!"

Martha snorted when the Alchemist punched him in the arm . . . and not softly, either. "Marty McFly goes back and changes history," she explained.

"And he starts fading away," Martha realized, eyes wide. "Oh, my God, am I going to fade?"

"You and the entire future of the human race," the Doctor nodded, rubbing his arm. "It ends right now in 1599 if we don't stop it . . . but which house?"

A door creaked open from nearby, and the Alchemist raised an eyebrow. "How about witch house?"

"Keep an eye out?" the Doctor asked her. "Make sure nobody comes in."

"You got it," she nodded, taking her blaster out.

***

The Doctor raised an eyebrow when he saw the young Carrionite waiting for them. "I take it we're expected."

"Oh, I think Death has been waiting for you a very long time," Lilith smirked.

"Right, then," Martha stepped forward. "It's my turn. I know how to do this. I name thee . . . Carrionite!" Lilith gasped in surprise, then cackled when nothing happened. Martha frowned in confusion, looking back. "What did I do wrong? Was it the finger?"

"The power of a name works only once," Lilith smirked. "Observe . . . I gaze upon this bag of bones, and now I name thee . . . Martha Jones!"

The woman collapsed, and the Doctor quickly caught her before she fell to the ground. "What have you done?" he barked.

"Only sleeping, alas," Lilith frowned. "It's curious . . . the name has less impact. She's somehow out of her time. And as for you . . . Sir Doctor!" She pointed at him, but the Doctor's facial expression didn't change. She frowned. "Fascinating . . . there is no name. Why would a man hide his title in such despair?" She smiled suddenly. "Oh, but look . . . there's still one word with the power that aches."

"The naming won't work on me," the Doctor shook his head.

"But your heart grows cold," she smiled. "Now, you experience such bliss, but I think you shall forget your beloved . . . Alice."

It was as if someone had taken a hammer to his head. The Doctor staggered back, clutching his head, realizing that the Alchemist had to have been knocked out as well . . . and he growled and stalked towards Lilith angrily. "Oh, big mistake," he snarled. "Because that name keeps me fighting! The Carrionites vanished. Where did you go?"

"The Eternals found the right word to banish us into deep darkness."

"And how did you escape?"

"New words. New and glittering from a mind like no other."

"Shakespeare," the Doctor realized.

"His son perished. The grief of a genius, grief without measure, madness enough to allow us entrance."

"How many of you?"

"Just the three, but the play tonight shall restore the rest, then the human race will be purged as pestilence, and from this world, we will lead the universe back into the old ways of blood and magic."

"Hmm," the Doctor thought. "Busy schedule. But first, you've got to get past me."

"Oh, that should be a pleasure," Lilith purred, reaching up to stroke the side of his face. "Considering my enemy has such a handsome shape."

In a flash, the Doctor's hand caught her wrist. "Now, that's one form of magic that's definitely not going to work on me," he warned.

"Oh, we'll see," Lilith smirked, plucking a few hairs from his head.

The Doctor winced, pulling back. "What did you do?"

"Souvenir."

"Well, give it back!" He went forward, but Lilith flew into the air and backtracked out the window. He huffed in annoyance. "Well, that's just cheating!"

"Behold, Doctor," Lilith grinned, pulling a wooden doll from her robes and wrapping his hair around it. "Men to Carrionites are nothing but puppets."

"Now, you might call that magic," the Doctor frowned. "I'd call that a DNA replication module."

"What use is your science now?" Lilith asked sweetly before stabbing the doll with a needle.

The Doctor screamed in pain, falling to the ground when he felt the stab himself. "Oh, my God, Doctor!" Martha gasped, running to him. "Don't worry, I've got you . . . " She frowned. "Hang on, mister. Two hearts?"

"Ah! I've only got one heart working! How do you people cope?" the Doctor groaned, not seeing Martha roll her eyes at his attitude. "I've got to get the other one started. Hit me! Hit me on the chest!" Martha looked over her shoulder, but since the Alchemist wasn't there, she went on ahead and did it. "Dah! Other side!" She obeyed, doing what he said. "Now, on the back, on the back . . . left a bit!" She hit again. "Dah! Lovely!" He grinned, jumping to his feet when there were footsteps on the stairs. "Badda booma!"

"You are a complete bozo!" the Alchemist shouted, storming up, but she gave him a tight hug. "What did she do to you?"

"DNA replication module," he answered. "Well, what are we standing here for? The Globe!"

***

By the time they made it to Southwark, they could see the red glow above the Globe. "I told thee so!" the preacher was screaming. "I told thee!"

They ran in through the back and found Shakespeare stirring from where he was collapsed on the ground. "Stop the play," the Doctor glared. "I think that was it. Yeah, I said stop the play!"

"I hit my head," Shakespeare groaned.

"Yeah, don't rub it, you'll go bald."

The Alchemist looked out towards the stage, hearing people screaming. "That's your cue!"

The four of them ran out onto the stage as Carrionites swirled around the portal hanging over the Globe. "Come on, Will!" the Doctor shouted. "History needs you!"

"But what can I do?" Shakespeare asked, surprised.

"Reverse it!"

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"The shape of the Globe gives words power, but you're the wordsmith, the one true genius - " Cough. "Except for Alice!" the Doctor backtracked quickly. "But the only man clever enough to do it."

"But what words?" Shakespeare looked up. "I have none ready!"

"You're William Shakespeare!"

"But these Carrionite phrases, they need such precision!"

"You have to trust yourself," the Alchemist said, putting a hand on his arm. "Words just come to you like magic, yeah? The right sound, the right shape, the right rhythm, and they last forever. You've always chosen the perfect words. Improvise. But trust yourself. Trust. That's the price you have to pay."

Shakespeare swallowed, then stepped forward. "Close up this din of hateful, dire decay, decomposition of your witches' plot," he spoke, getting louder and more confident as he went. "You thieve my brains, consider me your toy. My doting Doctor and Alchemist tell me I am not! Foul Carrionite specters, cease your show, between the points - "

"Seven six one three nine oh!" the Alchemist supplied.

"Seven six one three nine oh!" Shakespeare repeated. "Banished like a tinker's cuss, I say to thee - "

He blinked, trying to think of a rhyme. The Alchemist thought as fast as shecould . . .

When Martha called out, "Expelliarmus!"

"Expelliarmus!" the Doctor grinned, nodding.

"Expelliarmus!" Shakespeare finished the rhyme.

"Good old JK!" the Alchemist laughed, hugging Martha, who hugged her back.

The witches screamed and were sucked into a magic tornado, the pages of the play whipping in as well. "Love's Labor's Won," the Doctor sighed. "There it goes."

The magic storm stopped, and hesitantly, the audience looked around. Someone began clapping, and soon, everyone did. "They think it was all special effects?" Martha gawked.

"Your effect is special indeed," Shakespeare smirked at her.

" . . . it's not your best line."

***

The next morning, as the Doctor and the Alchemist cleaned up, Shakespeare told Martha a joke as they sat on the stage. "And I say, a heart for a hart, and a dear for a deer."

Martha giggled, then shook her head. "I don't get it."

"Then give me a joke from Freedonia."

"OK," she grinned. "Shakespeare walks into a pub, and the landlord says, 'Oi, mate, you're Bard!'"

"That's brilliant," Shakespeare laughed. "Doesn't make sense, mind you, but never mind that. Now come here."

Martha quickly pulled away when he tried to kiss her. "I've only just met you!"

"The Doctor will never kiss you," he shook his head. "Why not entertain a man who will?"

"I don't know how to tell you this, oh great genius . . . " She wrinkled her nose. "But your breath doesn't half stink."

"Good props store back there," the Doctor said as he arrived, a ruff around his neck, the Alchemist behind him, curiously examining an animal skull.

"Still not fond of this, though," the Alchemist frowned, tapping it. "Reminds me of a Sycorax."

"Sycroax," Shakespeare mused. "Nice word. I'll have that off you as well."

"We should be on ten percent," the Doctor smirked.

"How's your head?" the Alchemist asked.

"Still aching," Shakespeare winced, rubbing his neck.

"Here, I got you this," the Doctor said, taking the ruff off and putting it on him. "Neck brace. Wear that for a few days till it's better."

"I'd keep it," the Alchemist winked. "It suits you."

"What about the play?" Martha asked.

"Gone," the Doctor shook his head. "We looked all over. Every single copy of Love's Labor's Won went up in the sky."

"My lost masterpiece," Shakespeare mourned.

"You could write it up again," Martha suggested.

"Better not," the Alchemist shook her head. "The power that was in those words should best stay forgotten."

"Oh, but I've got new ideas," Shakespeare smiled. "Perhaps it's time I wrote about fathers and sons in memory of my boy, my precious Hamnet."

Martha blinked. "Hamnet?"

"That's him."

" . . . Hamnet?"

"What's wrong with that?!"

"Anyway!" the Alchemist interrupted what could have been a fight. "We need to go. Still got this lot to lock away so they can scream for eternity." She set the skull on the stage and pulled a crystal ball from her jacket, showing three screaming Carrionites inside, hitting the ball with their fists.

"And we've got to take Martha back to Freedonia," the Doctor added.

"You mean travel on through time and space," Shakespeare said.

Both Time Lords stared at him. "What?"

"You're from another world like the Carrionites, and Martha is from the future. It's not hard to work out."

"That's . . . incredible," the Doctor grinned. "You're incredible!"

"We're alike in many ways, Doctor," Shakespeare smirked before turning to Martha. "Martha, let me say goodbye to you in a new verse. A sonnet for my Dark Lady - " The Doctor snorted and quickly tried to cover it up, the Alchemist rolling her eyes fondly, and while Martha gave him an exasperated look, Shakespeare glared at him in challenge. "I would like to see you woo your lady against me, Doctor."

The Doctor smirked instantly, accepting the challenge with a gleam in his eyes. He turned to the Alchemist, smiling softly as he tilted her head to the side. "Of all my loves this is the first and last," he began, recalling a Shakespeare favorite of hers, "That in the autumn of my years has grown, A secret fern, a violet in the grass, A final leaf where all the rest are gone. Would that I could give all and more, my life, My world, my thoughts, my arms, my breath, my future, My love eternal, endless, infinite, yet brief, As all loves are and hopes, though they endure." The Alchemist's eyes lit up, recognizing the piece, and she smiled so brightly, it lit up the theater more than the sun did. "You are my sun and stars, my night, my day," the Doctor continued, speaking honestly. The words just made it easier for him. "My seasons, summer, winter, my sweet spring, My autumn song, the church in which I pray, My land and ocean, all that the earth can bring, Of glory and of sustenance, all that might be divine, My alpha and my omega, and all that was ever mine."

Shakespeare actually pouted when the Alchemist leaped up to snog the Doctor senseless. The Doctor just kissed her back, then turned to Shakespeare, the Alchemist in his arms, smirking. "Your turn," he said smugly.

Martha laughed as Shakespeare straightened and turned to her. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" he began, and Martha stopped, eyes wide, the Time Lords snickering. "Thou art more lovey and more temperate - "

"Will!" Burbage shouted, running in from the street.

"Will, you'll never believe it," Kempe panted. "She's here! She's turned up!"

"We're the talk of the town! She heard about last night. She wants us to perform it again!"

"Who?" Martha asked.

"Her Majesty!" Burbage grinned as a fanfare went off. "She's here!"

"Queen Elizabeth the First!" the Doctor grinned in realization as the Queen entered with two pikemen.

She, however, stopped short and glared at him. "Doctor?"

The Doctor blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"My sworn enemy!"

"What?"

"What did you do to her?" the Alchemist couldn't help but giggle.

"Off with his head!" Elizabeth ordered, stopping the Alchemist's giggles short.

" . . . what?!" the Doctor whined.

"Never mind what, just run!" Martha shooed them. "See you, Will! And thanks!"

"Stop that pernicious Doctor!" Elizabeth screeched.

They could hear Shakespeare's laughter as the pikemen took chase to them all. "Stop in the name of the Queen!" one yelled.

"What have you done to upset her?" Martha asked curiously as they ran.

"How should I know?" he grinned. "Haven't met her yet! That's time travel for you. Still, can't wait to find out."

"That's something to look forward to," the Alchemist smirked as they let Martha into the TARDIS . . . then she casually raised a hand and caught the arrow that would have thudded into her shoulder.

The Doctor blinked, stunned, before looking back, and his eyes widened. "Ooo!"

He quickly pushed the Alchemist inside and pulled the door shut . . . just as more arrows thudded into the door.

***

Lol, I think the Doctor won. :) Of course, he would be able to recite a full Shakespeare sonnet by memory, especially one of the Alchemist's favorites. :) For those of you who want to know, the sonnet is "In Praise of Beauty" by, of course, William Shakespeare himself. :)

Oh, but . . . what Lilith said. We know how many "prophecies" have been wrong before. Let's hope this one is!

Anyway, it's very exciting. In every Doctor Who series, there's one more round of single episodes, and then they're two-parters, then back to single episodes again. That's curious.

Well, anyway, look out for "The Doctor's Wife" for The Bad Wolf Chronicles next!