TW// Injuries, mentions of human waste... generally unpleasant aspects about a "hospital" for those with mental illnesses

—

The second we step through the gates of Bedlam, I know I have passed into the depths of Tartarus.

The entire place reeks of blood and excrement from hundreds of people forced to live in their own filth, wounded and harmed further with each passing day. With each cell that we pass I find myself staring into empty eyes. They lost their lives long ago. Now only husks remain. Hollow.

Their screams are the only lifelike things about them, now. Even those are more like the cries of wild animals than human beings.

A hand catches onto my wrist as I pass by. The arm it is attached to looks like nothing more than bone, fitting easily through the cell bars. I am struck by the icy touch of the person inside — just a girl, once dun-haired and young, now grey. All she has to cover her is a dirty tunic which she huddles into for what little warmth it provides, despite the hellish blazing of the torches.

She is slapped away by the warden, a burly man who has clearly not been so starved or abused like the people he is paid to mistreat. He shows no hesitance in producing a leather strap from his belt, lashing at her weakly retreating form.

In an instant, I have the strap grasped in one fist, his collar in the other. His back hits the stone wall and he makes an unbecoming squeak of surprise. It isn't hard for me to lift him until his feet dangle helplessly above the ground. His beady eyes pass through surprise and embarrassment, only to fill with anger.

Before he can try a thing, gentle hands pry me away, rubbing my back and hair. Soothing words brush against my ear. Still, I can only hear the screams around me and the whimpers of the girl. My stomach turns violently and I almost fail to keep it down, lungs burning with each gasp for air.

"Apologies, sir," Shakespeare's voice barely reaches my ears, strained and hurried. "We did warn her. This is no such place for a woman; their senses are so easily overcome, as I am sure you know."

"'Course," he roughly grunts. "'Course they are. Just you, uh, make sure she doesn't go upsetting the patients."

Just the use of that word sickens me again and I have an overwhelming urge to feel my fingers around his throat again. The others indeed warned me but I was so sure that I'd be able to manage it after everything else I have witnessed. This is just too far, though. Too evil.

Then he laughs, a grating sound, and it is so much worse. "Does my Lord Doctor wish some entertainment while he waits? I can whip these mad men, they'll put on a good show for you — mad dog in Bedlam!"

"No. I don't." His voice grows harsher than before but he keeps an arm around me, guiding me as I stumble through a haze of horror and nausea.

"Wait here, my lords, while I... make him decent for the ladies."

The second the warden is out of sight, his eyes shift back down to my stooped frame and his gaze immediately softens again. I have to steady myself against the wall, holding my breath until I am mostly sure that I won't be sick. Tears burn my eyes. "I'm sorry, darling. I'm so sorry. It's not too late if you want to go."

At that, I straighten up. My hand jumps up to wipe the corner of my mouth just in case and I shake my head. The smile I offer him is shaky at best. "I'll be all right. I'm a big girl."

Martha watches me closely with an understanding grimace before her frustration takes over again, focused on Shakespeare. "So, you call this a hospital? Where patients are whipped to entertain the gentry? And you put your friend in here?"

"Oh, it's all so different in Freedonia!" he scoffs.

"But you're clever! Do you honestly think this place does any good?"

Her criticisms do not faze him enough. A sad smile pulls at his lips, not strong enough to take over entirely. "I've been mad, I've lost my mind. The fear of this place set me right again. It serves its purpose."

It isn't enough. Rightly, she pushes on. "'Mad' in what way?"

"You lost your son," the Doctor answers for him in a tone I know far too well by now, a tone of understanding and unimaginable pain.

I have always longed to ask him about his life before, about his children, his siblings, and his past loves. Sometimes it feels like they surround him, weighing on his every breath, ensuring that even when it's just us, we are not truly alone. I know that I can't, though. He isn't ready. He may never be ready. I accepted that a long time ago.

It isn't hard for Shakespeare to recognise that. I suppose it must be easier, in a way, to recognise it when you have experienced it all. The tell-tale signs are clear as day. He, too, asks nothing. "My only boy. The Black Death took him. I wasn't even there."

"I didn't know, I'm sorry."

"It made me question everything. The futility of this fleeting existence. To be or not to be..." The over-activeness of his writer's brain easily shines through at the uttering of that phrase and he pauses. "Ooh, that's quite good."

Keeping an arm close around me, the Doctor attempts a joke, "You should write that down." His voice is still hollowed by the reminder of a lost life.

"Maybe not. Bit pretentious?"

He shrugs and hums noncommittally.

"This way, my lord," comes the warden's shout from down the tunnelled corridor.

For a second I think the Doctor might take the lead and lose his supportive hold on me and I fall back into panic, tightening my deathly grip on the edge of his sleeve. His eyes, frozen cold and impenetrable by memories, melt when they meet mine. He slows his steps and secures an arm around my shoulders. I thank him with an appreciative nudge of my head against his shoulder.

The barred door opens up, allowing us into the putrid, damp cage that contains Peter Streete. It is completely bare except for a soiled bed and the hasp that fixes his chains to the wall. All we can see of him is his hunched frame, trembling, twitching. A torn, grey cloth covers him but it is thin enough to see the sharp ridges of his back and shoulders. His blonde hair is mostly grey now and what hasn't fallen out to leave patches of scabbed skin, as if raked by claws, is matted with grease and blood.

The warden regards him with a look of disgust. "They can be dangerous. Don't know their own strength," he warns.

He is met by an unforgiving glare — a look that could certainly kill. "It helps if you don't whip them. Now, get out!"

The door creaks shut behind him.

We cautiously approach. The Doctor's apology is nothing but a wordless tap on my shoulder, filled with promises to return. Someone else steps in and I squeeze the hand offered to me, reciprocating Martha's awkward smile. We look back at him as he crouches in front of the man. "Peter? Peter Streete?"

Shakespeare visibly tenses as he takes a step closer, seeing his old friend better in the torchlight. His face drains of any colour and he sways a little, catching himself with haste. "He's the same as he was. You'll get nothing out of him."

This does not deter him. He has never been one to give up on people. "Peter?" The instant his hand touches Peter's shoulder, his face lifts. His green eyes are wide and sunken, his teeth rotten almost down to the gums. The Doctor gently places his fingertips against the man's temples. "Peter, I'm the Doctor. Go into the past. One year ago. Let your mind go back. Back, to when everything was fine and shining." We hear a small gasp but nothing else. He continues in little more than a whisper, "Everything that happened in this year since happened to somebody else. It was just a story, a winter's tale. Let go. That's it. That's it, just let go."

He keeps contact as he helps Peter to lower himself down onto the wooden bedframe that doesn't even have a proper mattress. Then he stands and becomes far sterner as he says, "Tell me the story, Peter. Tell me about the witches."

The green in his eyes starts to darken as his pupils grow, a sign of his travelling mind. He speaks shakily, broken by the tremors of his exhausted form, "The witches spoke to Peter. In the night, they whispered. Whispered..." A humourless grin breaks across his sallow face and his bloody fingers scratch at the air just by his ear. "Got Peter to build the Globe to their design. Their design. The fourteen walls. Always fourteen. When the work was done—" he laughs "—they snapped poor Peter's wits."

"But where did Peter see the witches? Where in the city?" All he receives in response are winces as another bout of twitches seizes the man's body. "Peter, tell me. You've got to tell me. Where were they?"

"Allhallows Street."

"Too many words."

We all flinch back. A wizened woman stands just behind the Doctor. She is stooped and cloaked in black, with a wild mane of curls and a pointed, grey face. Wrinkles crack across her complexion. "What the hell?" Martha gasps. Past fears forgotten, I reach to pull the Doctor away from the witch.

"Just one touch of the heart."

"No!"

It is too late. She leans down to touch Peter's chest and they both cry out as his life-force drains through her.

Stumbling back, Shakespeare marvels at the sight of the creature before us. "A witch. I'm seeing a witch!"

She stands again and raises both hands in threat. "Who would be next, hmm? Just one touch. Oh! Oh, I'll stop your frantic hearts! Poor, fragile mortals."

"Let us out!"

The rest of us do not join in with Martha's screams. "That's not going to work," the Doctor points out, not daring to take his eyes off of the crone, "the whole building's shouting that."

"Who would die first?"

"Well, if you're looking for volunteers..."

Before he can take another step, I drag him back. My strength is easily a match for his and he knows it. I would fight him before I let him do a thing like this. "Don't you dare."

"Doctor, can you stop her?" Shakespeare mumbles out of the corner of his mouth, rigid with fear.

The witch can sense it, too. She looks at him and her cracked lips break further into a cruel sneer. "No mortal has power over me."

My hold on him is eased away with a flicker of a glance. "No, but there's power in words. If I can find the right one, if I could just know you..."

She has been caught out. She tries to hide it but there is no use. "None on Earth has knowledge of us."

Her finger reaches out and he dodges back in time, his feet planted. "Then it's a good thing I'm here. Now, think, think, think. Humanoid, female, uses shapes and words to channel energy." Suddenly, he points at her with a triumphant yell, "Ah! Fourteen! That's it, fourteen! The fourteen stars of the Rexel Planetary Configuration. Creature, I name you... Carrionite!"

With an indignant shriek and a burst of fiery light, she disappears.

Still wary, Martha creeps closer. "What did you do?"

"I named her. The power of a name. That's old magic."

"But there's no such thing as magic!"

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

"Use them for what?"

"The end of the world."

——————

"The Carrionites disappeared way back at the dawn of the universe. Nobody was sure if they were real or legend," the Doctor explains, pacing the length of Shakespeare's room.

He stands from the wash basin, dabbing at his dampened face. "I'm going for 'real'."

Martha leans against a dresser laden with books and scrolls. She follows the Doctor's every movement with anxious curiosity. "But what do they want?"

"A new empire on Earth."

I can't help but laugh at that. Feeling the others' stares on me, I sink further into my chair and mutter, "What else is new? Seems like everyone wants their hands on this rock."

He easily catches onto my dry humour, nodding slowly. He perches on the edge of the table, just beside me. "Yes, well, this one will be different — a world of bones and blood and witchcraft."

"But how?"

"I'm looking at the man with the words."

The towel slips from his face. "Me? But I've done nothing."

"Hold on, though," Martha says. "What were you doing last night, when that Carrionite was in the room?"

"Finishing the play."

All our attention lands on him now, sparked by this new revelation. "What happens on the last page?"

At the Doctor's question, his eyes dart over to us, uncertain. "The boys get the girls, they have a bit of a dance, it's all as funny and thought-provoking as usual..." He pauses. "Except those last few lines. Funny thing is, I don't actually remember writing them."

"That's it. They used you. They gave you the final words, like a spell, like a code! Love's Labour's Won, it's a weapon! The right combination of words, spoken in the right place, with the shape of the Globe as an energy-converter! The play's the thing! And yes, you can have that. Map! I need a map!"

He rushes over to the dresser and brings down one of the scrolls, spreading it over the table. The Doctor puts on his glasses, tapping urgently on one of the many rows of scribbled buildings. "Allhallows Street, there it is. Inara and Martha, we'll track them down. Will, you get to the Globe. Whatever you do, stop that play!"

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

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

"I'm not, it's marvellous. Good luck, Doctor."

I don't miss the glimmer of excitement in the Doctor's eyes at the compliment. "Good luck, Shakespeare! Come on."

I stay put. Seeing his confusion, I chuckle. "Basic maths, isn't it? Go on. Give those witches a good talking to and we'll wreak a little havoc on our end."

He glances over to the man standing behind me. "All right, then. If you insist."

"I do."

It's enough for him, even after his initial jealousy, and he bounds off through the doorway. "Once more unto the breach!"

"I like that!" Hesitating, Shakespeare frowns up at me. "Wait a minute, that's one of mine."

"Oh, just shift!"

——————

It is already dark as we make our way up to the Globe Theatre. A part of me is still attempting to process the fact that William Shakespeare himself is right next to me. There are some things about time travel I will never completely get used to.

"Let's see," I muse, craning my neck to see the building that rises at the end of the street. "We go in from the back, then it's less likely we'll be stopped. You can go onto the stage to disrupt things. You're important here, it can't get too bad. I'll see if I can find the Carrionites."

He quirks a golden eyebrow at me. "And what will you do once you find them?"

"I'll figure it out."

It isn't exactly comforting. "You do remember that they can kill with a single touch, do you not? You won't make it that far," he warns.

I tilt my head to one side, then to the other, in a gesture of noncommittal disapproval. "Who's to say? Sometimes I surprise myself."

"And your husband allows you to get yourself into fights like this a lot?"

We come to a sudden halt in the middle of the quiet street. I can't help but laugh, bracing myself against bent knees. "My 'husband'?"

Despite his genius, the Bard seems particularly stunned by this. "Yes," he sceptically replies. "That is what I assumed, at least, seeing your noble titles and that ring you wear."

I realise that I have been fidgeting with it again and drop my hands to my sides. My response is quiet and dismissive, "We pretended to be married for a recent investigation. I just haven't taken it off yet."

"Such tiny things are often tokens of our deepest truths, I think."

I raise an eyebrow, amused. "Of course you come up with something ridiculously poetic."

"Then, of course, there's the matter of the way he looks at the both of us."

My eyes narrow slightly in confusion. "What do you mean, 'both'?"

"Granted, they are somewhat different looks. You are mysterious and mystical — a divine beauty — and I am a threat." He raises his hand before I can protest. "No need. I am quite used to such suspicions. That being said, every single one of them was fairly founded." That last part he delivers with a suggestive twinkle.

"Now, don't get distracted over little old me, Will. Something wicked this way comes."

He responds with a lopsided grin, rather like that of a puppy than the most famous playwright of the 16th-century. "I hope you asked Minerva for a little luck. We'll need it."

"You were listening," I note, more interested in his opinion than offended. After all, it would have been impossible not to with the lack of anything else to do at the time.

Nodding, Shakespeare bows a little — even though I'm already a good two inches taller than him — and shoots me a teasing smirk. "It isn't every day that I meet a true lady of Rome. But be wary. It is a dangerous man you hold affection for."

I scoff, "Come on, we both know such things are out of our control."

"That may be true. Still, tread carefully. His life is hardly suitable for a woman such as yourself."

A soft smile plays on my lips. "I'm no Juliet."

"Indeed, you are not."

—

A/n:

I swear, this episode was not meant to be this long. I'm really enjoying the vibes, though.

Also... DARLING.

I'm feeling weirdly good today. Have a painfully sore throat (cold + alto voice + high G = evil) but... I finished therapy today!!!

Thank you so much for reading this far. I love you and I hope you're enjoying this so far. ❤️