Quarantime: Part I

"Three days?"

"That's what it says on the scanner."

"Three days in quarantine with you?"

The eleventh incarnation of The Doctor rolled his eyes at his predecessor. "It's your fault for bringing that thing on board! What the hell were you thinking paying a visit to the paradox containment zone and leaving your TARDIS door wide open?"

"I didn't leave it wide open! It was just a bit…"

Eleven ground his teeth. "Unlocked?"

"Wellll…" Ten remarked with a good dollop of apathy, choosing to avoid a direct answer. "Anyway, how was I supposed to know that out of ten millennia of absolutely zilch-zot-blank on lifeforms, Yethro-Boo decides to have a sudden splurge of sentient evolution?"

"Yethro-Boo? You parked on Yethro-Boo?"

"You should remember. This is my first time materialising on the lower surface. Didn't turn out so bad. Found a stable patch of ground."

"Yeah. So you think."

Ten frowned. "What?"

"Nothing. Just make sure you prep two of the bathrooms before you climb out the top and have a new pair of shoes on standby."

"What? Why? And, sorry, did you just say 'climb out of the top'?"

"Well you're not going to get out the front way. It's seven foot in the marsh."

Gnashing his teeth, Ten threw up his arms. "Why didn't you say something earlier? I've got to go, right now." He started for the door.

"You can't," Eleven called after him. "The TARDIS won't let you."

"My TARDIS or your TARDIS?"

"Both. Quarantine procedures over cross-contamination of time and space have merged the two TARDISes, or more correctly just 'the TARDIS', and spread the containment zone to allow us access to the control room, which… is a bit of a stupid part of the protocol seeing as the TARDIS won't let us operate her except in the event our contamination status becomes less of a priority. An emergency."

"My TARDIS is sinking!" Ten clawed his hands emphatically.

"Yeah? And you're inside. You can demateralise any time you like and, at the rate you've been going letting any old thing in, it's probably safer where it is." Eleven paused. "You didn't leave the door open, did you?"

"You'd know about it if I had: merged TARDISes? Speaking of which, why does she look like yours?"

"Because I built the paradox containment zone. Mine takes preference."

Ten snorted. "Now you're telling porkies."

The TARDIS shuddered, causing them to stumble. Sparks fizzled from the wiring beneath the time rotor and she began to make a perturbing, squeaky, purring sound. *Vvvvwwrrpppvvvvvrrrrr*

"Oh, now look, you're giving 'er ideas!" Eleven cried, grabbing on to one of the console's under-rails.

Ten followed his lead, gawping at the surroundings. "She's changing the desktop theme back."

All around them pieces of the room began to shift or fade, allowing for thick, industrial, Gallifreyan support beams to shimmer into existence and the walls to take on a deeper bronze hue. The Doctors were thrown backward with the impact of a final support bursting through a section of the control level.

"Not exactly…" Eleven wheezed, picking himself up and dusting off a few glittering fragments. "More a sort of … hybrid." He perceived the damage and whined. "Ohhh, really? Perfectly good glass floor and now it's completely ruined. Thanks, dear. Love what you've done with the place, I THINK NOT."

"Oi, easy, easy, don't shout at her. She's doing her best to please the two of us and blimey that must be difficult. See, she's still left all that space, and the windows, and a bit of the loose wiring, and – ohhh what? You're keeping the console like that? It's like a jumble sale, a really boring one where you don't even get to lock elbows with old grannies. And the time rotor? What have you done to it?"

"Shut up, it's a fun rotor. I like my rotor. Yours was all plain and rubbish factory setting!"

"It was practical! Your TARDIS design is for someone too lazy to go out and see the universe. Or maybe you're just too old. I bet all your companions can outrun you."

Before Eleven could retort, a piercing shrieking noise burst out from speakers around the TARDIS control room. Lights pulsed on the walls with as much discretion as a disco. The Doctors yelled and clamped hands to their ears.

"What is she doing now?" Ten cried over the din.

"She's warning us!"

"A warning? Why all this noise? Why not the cloister bell?"

Eleven cringed at the ongoing screeching, his fingers scrabbling across the typewriter keys beneath the scanner. "It's not an impending doom warning. She's trying to get us to listen. Look." He pointed to a blueprint that had appeared on the screen. "The TARDIS is instructing us to go to this room," he explained, indicating a flashing box upon the map. "She's rearranged the access routes and wants us to go here, and, as you are currently experiencing, she's rather insistent."

Ten wrinkled his nose. "Since when have we taken orders from our own ship?"

Eleven shrugged. "Oh, I dunno, say about… seven hundred years?"

"Good point." Ten waved his arms at the flashing lights and noise in general. "All right, all right, we're going! Why are we going?"

The alarms lessened in volume but continued whilst the timelords remained in the control room.

"Because of the disease," Eleven replied, his attention fixed to the screen.

"What disease?" Ten stepped up to the console, hands steeped in his pockets.

"That disease." Columns of data began to scroll across the scanner. "The one we've both contracted."

"But that's -," Ten trailed off and tried again, "What is that?"

"I have absolutely no idea."

"It's not deadly though. That coding doesn't say anything about attacking major systems."

"Probably not deadly," Eleven corrected. "Should be fine affecting a healthy organism."

"Well I'm safe then," said Ten. "Not sure about you. You been taking your vitamins?"

Eleven scowled. "According to the analysis, we've got roundabout five minutes to get to the designated area before the symptoms start to show."

"Thankfully it doesn't appear to be gastric." Ten puffed his cheeks and let out a relieved sigh. "If it was, never mind the sirens, I'd hide in one of the deeper-levelled bathrooms and not come out until after quarantine elapsed."

"Ugh." Eleven grimaced at the not-dwelled-upon thought and hurried off along the TARDIS's suggested path, Ten catching up in seconds.

When they arrived at the quarantine sector, the Doctors were astonished to find the door sealing itself behind them. Their sonic screwdrivers were drawn in an instant, blue and green emitters buzzing in harmony.

"It's no good," Ten hissed. "She's deadlocked us inside."

Eleven swept his gaze about the room. It was a bit clinical for his liking and extremely lacking in aesthetic entertainment. His attention span or boredom threshold was such that he did not feel comfortable in a TARDIS room if it didn't have several dozen objects to poke, twiddle, bounce, bash or interact with in some way that involved not sitting still. It was a copper-coloured room, a studio apartment, comprising of a kitchen; two separate ensuite bathrooms (the TARDIS wasn't cruel); a central patch of floor with two sofas and a long coffee-table; an alcove of medical storage; and lastly a set of bunk-beds parked against one of the walls.

"I call top bunk," Eleven declared, and ran for the ladder. To his dismay, the wall revolved, taking the bedroom unit with it. In its place two separate single bedsteads slid into view. "Oh, well, great," he grumbled. "How very… ordin'ry. That's all I need. A health-and-safety-conscious vortex vehicle." There was a clatter behind him. He whirled to see an upset chair, its edges as smooth and rounded as every other furnishing in the room, and was swift to notice Ten hobbling around one of the settees, resting a hand on its back for support.

"I… I think the sofa will be fine for me," the younger incarnation stuttered, blinking with uncommon frequency. "Suddenly…feel a bit… not so good."

Brow creasing with worry, Eleven moved across to the living space. "How not good? That fast? I thought you were supposed to be healthy. What's your RDA like whatever timeline you're in?"

Ten flopped onto the sofa and grumbled, "RDA? We don't have an RDA. When did timelords ever bother with a recommended daily allowance?"

"Probably during a class we didn't listen to. Have you at least been following the human one?"

"Five-a-day? Easy. Well, when I had the time."

"Five bananas don't count," Eleven said flatly.

"Oh give over, will you?" Ten seized one of the cushions and wrapped his arms around it for comfort. "I feel rotten, and the only reason it's hit me and not you is that I came in contact with that thing first, all right?" He rubbed at his face, exhaustion consuming him. "Ugh, I'm burning up already. Why don't you go and make yourself useful and find us some medicine before you get knocked sideways? You call yourself a doctor!"

Eleven grunted irritably and stalked off toward the medical unit. "Of all my previous selves I could've started that stupid game with, what possessed me to pick you? Second would have been brilliant. We could've compared bowties and played a woodwind duet." He flicked open cupboards, slamming the unrequired, purposely paying no heed to Ten's tender state. "Or Four, I think our fourth and I would've got on swimmingly."

"You're not wrong," Ten said airily. "An hour with you, we'd've elbowed you into the pool."

Snatching out a cylindrical packet from the next cupboard, Eleven banged the door shut and turned in time to see Ten wince. "What is wrong with you? When I was you I don't remember ever being this obstreperous, not for any great length. We were fun, almost everyone loved us, and we were only really rude to the people…the people we didn't… like. Oh, I see. Well, see that's the point isn't it? If you don't like what you've become, why bother visiting?"

Ten rolled over and stared up at the ceiling, the sofa converting into what looked somewhat like a low-sided cradle as he shifted. "You've already lived this. Why don't you tell me?"

"I've told you why. Side effect of the containment field. Can remember the basics: we play sonic tag, this is where to find the containment field, blah-blah-blah, doesn't matter which side of our regeneration cycle we are, but the rest of the memories don't translate. We are experiencing this in the same relative time-stream. Each time we enter this place, it is and always will be the first time this has happened for both of us and when you reach my point, you won't remember either."

"Oh just pass me the medicine."

Eleven returned and offered the open packet. Ten took one of the crystalline pills.

"Hang on," he said. "These are fruit pastilles."

"Fruit Pastilles Plus. Anti-viral enzymes."

Cautiously, Ten took one and popped it in his mouth. He chewed it with a frown, expression soon turning to acceptance. Eleven took a seat on the sofa on the other side of the coffee table, arms folding petulantly.

"Look," he muttered. "You might as well talk to me. It's not as though you can run off anywhere."

Ten rolled his eyes. "Can't escape yourself."

"Come on, then. Out with it."

"You're really mean, you know that?" Ten scowled. "Picking on me when I'm sick."

"Why are you being so bristly? It's almost as bad as in our third life when we met our second and vice versa now I think on it. We hated our other selves then."

"Well, let's face it, you can't get on with every stage of your life. You grow out of things, discover new interests, new tastes, follow different fashions, and it's hardly going to be a picnic getting on with yourself all the time. Own worst critic and all that."

"Yeah, yeah, and what else?"

Ten gave a horse-raspberry sigh. "Isn't it obvious?" he whined. "You're the next me. You're my future. You know how it all ends, you're proof that it does end. How am I supposed to get along with a constant reminder of my impending metamorphosis?"

Eleven shrugged. "Look at it this way: I'm also proof that you, as an entity, survive." He paused and made a slight grimace. "Barring timeline alterations."

"Oh that's fantastic, that is. 'You're definitely gonna be all right, but ooh, did I mention, you might not?'"

"You need another fruit pastille."

"Yes, right, because fruit pastilles are the key to everything. Fruit pastilles can save your life," Ten grumbled.

"No, well, maybe. Jammie Dodgers certainly can. But my point is you're ill, you're not thinking straight and, quite frankly, you're being a royal pain in the -." Eleven gave a shuddering gasp and dropped the offered packet of medicinal sweets. He toppled forward off the sofa and lolled upon the fluffy rug that spread out from beneath the coffee table.

Ten blinked and shifted onto his side, trying to glimpse his other self. "Everything okay down there?"

A reply came in the form of a low groan. "I feel like I've been hit by the Space Orient Express."

"Yeah, that's about the size of it. Lie down for a bit, it helps."

"I am lying down."

"Somewhere sensible!"

"What's not sensible about being down here? I can't fall any further! Honestly, you think I'm so stup-." Eleven smacked his head on the underside of the coffee table in his effort to sit up. "Gnnhhh…" Groggily, he hauled himself back onto the sofa opposite Ten, face squashing unflatteringly into the cushions. Finding the strength to roll over, he flattened his palms over his eyes. "Oh god," he moaned. "It's like someone's trying to inflate a hot air balloon inside my brain. It's too cold, or too hot, one of those temperatures, can't tell which. Is the gravity still Gallifreyan Standard?"

"It's not the gravity, it's you. You've got what I've got."

"You mean what you brought in."

"Oi, you are me. You're as much to blame."

"This me wouldn't've let it get on board."

Ten glared. "Your me would've stepped right out into the swamp."

Eleven tried to sit up. "We need to stop rabbiting on at each other. It's not doing either of us any good. Where did the pastilles get to?"

"I think they rolled under the sofa."

"Right. Course they did." Eleven swung himself upright and planted his shoes on the floor. Scrunching his eyes against impending dizziness, he got up and made off toward the medical alcove once again. He got a yard before he collapsed.

"What are you doing?" Ten fussed.

"Trying… to get us some help," Eleven growled. "Or would you rather lie there feeling like hell?"

"Rather you crawling across the floor than me, and yes, before you start, I know it's going to be me eventually. Nothing wrong with laughing at your own expense."

With a cacophony of gruff yelps and strained groans, Eleven dragged his way back to the cabinets, hauling himself up with the aid of every available surface. His hands, operated by a befuddled mind, set pill-bottles and glass vials asunder. "Where is it?" he murmured. "Come on, come on, where are you?" He rummaged for several minutes, the constant noise bringing out complaints from his younger self. At last he seized hold of a wooden box, about the size of a brick, at the back of the lowest cupboard. It was engraved with circular Gallifreyan script and was pocked with air-holes. "Gotcha." The elation of finding it gave Eleven just enough adrenaline to stagger back to the sofa, where he flopped down and began fiddling with the box's latch.

"What's that?" Ten asked. "What've you got? I know that box. Didn't we keep a speckled betchik in there once?"

Eleven popped the latch and carefully opened the box's lid. He smiled and gently turned it toward Ten, lowering it onto the coffee table. Ten leaned across, mouth hanging open as he strained to see. "Oh," he said, surprised.

"Yeah."

"But that's -."

"A Panaketh 'Nightingale Leech'."

The creature stirred slowly, an amorphous slug-like blob covered in nodules one might find on a sea-urchin, bronze in colour. It made itself expand a little, rose a few inches higher in the box and morphed the uppermost part into a snail's head, which it used to look at the two timelords.

"Aren't those illegal?" Ten whispered, as if some authority could find them in the far reaches of deep space and beneath the surface of a swamp planet.

"Only everywhere it's ever been discovered," Eleven said with an offhand manner. "It's not exactly dangerous. They can just get a tad addictive for some patients. Civilizations toppled with infestations of these when millions of workers decided they'd be better off staying ill, doing everything they could to remain so. They'd stand outside in the rain to catch a chill, lick railings on public transport, get other species to breathe on them, all sorts of bonkers behaviour. The Nightingale Leech feeds on contagions and germs that are harmful to creatures around it. Even by being in the room it's absorbing some of the virus we've contracted and there's always something, however benign, that it can nibble to keep content. On skin contact, these gorgeous little slimies can help fight off infection, though that's the limit of its capabilities. It helps, it doesn't cure."

Ten's expression wavered between dubiousness at the squelchy creature's attraction and joy at the sight of it. "Doesn't sound so bad, but what's so amazing about this little fella that makes people want to stay sick?"

Eleven raised an eyebrow. "You don't know?"

Ten shook his head. "Nah, only heard of them. Saw a sketch of one in a book once and they wrote a short bit about it and then went on at some length about their long lost fiancé appearing the next morning. It got a bit soppy, wasn't so keen… and then I got chased out by the librarian, Aplan librarian, perhaps that should be librarians…?" He trailed off, catching Eleven's stare. "Anyway, my point is whatever you know and I don't, you must've learnt in your lifetime."

"Must've been sometime earlier in the centuries…" Eleven considered before bursting out with glee, "Oh I remember! No wonder I forgot. I remember now when I first got the leech. At least, I remember some of it. That was an interesting couple of days. Not had a disease as humiliating and debilitating as that for a very long time. Had even the Sisters baffled for a while. Was also the first time River -." Eleven cut himself off. "Never mind. Yeah, you don't know about these things yet."

"Do I want to?" Ten winced.

"Well, mind to the plusses, it'll stop us thinking so much about being ill. I don't know about you, but I'm beginning to feel like I've been stuffed inside a washing machine and someone just pressed the 'Start' button. In fact, the reason I'm talking your ear off is because I'm slightly concerned that stopping will make me realise how ill I actually am and go all floppy and fainty again."

"Right, we'd better get as much help as we can. You've sold me on curiosity."

Eleven gave a smile. "I'm a bad influence on myself." He pushed the box across the table toward Ten. "You first. You've been ill longest. Hold out your hand, and whatever you do, don't hurt it."

Ten frowned, doing as instructed. "Come off it. Me? Me of all people? Why would I hurt a defenceless little blobby -." The leech sprang onto his palm and sank in fangs he didn't know it owned. He screamed. "Ow! Ow-ow-ow-ow-OW!" Instinctively his other hand went to prise it off but Eleven interjected.

"No, no, no! Leave it! Don't touch it!"

"What is it doing?" Ten hissed.

"It's a leech! What do you think it's doing? It can't work without tapping in to your biological coding first. Then it can operate on the non-contact level."

Ten grimaced. "Couldn't it, I dunno, just absorb particles like it does when it eats?"

Eleven shook his head. "Not enough information. Well, I suppose if you put it in your mouth and rolled it around a bit -." He paused at the look of abhorrence on Ten's face. "No. Only option is the direct blood-suck."

The leech detached itself and bounced onto the table. Its snail-face formed again, ascending like a periscope to point its feelers toward Eleven. Its next victim clamped his eyes shut in anticipation, rolled up his sleeve and presented his arm. He gave a yelp of surprise and ground his teeth when the attack came. "Ah! Ah! Gnnnhnnaaah! 'Kay, that hurts a lot more than I expected. Agh!"

Still clutching his wounded hand, Ten's jaw hung open with disbelief. "You mean you've never done this before?"

"Not really, no! Agh!"

"Not really?"

Eleven gasped as the gorged leech retracted its fangs and leapt down to the carpet. From there it squirmed under the sofa.

"Where is it?" Ten jabbered. "Where's it gone?"

"I think it went underneath. Don't panic. It's processing the data on its patients. They're clever things, Nightingale Leeches. It's not going to transform under the living room furniture. I'm sure it'll show up in a minute."

"Hang on, roll back a bit, did you say transform?"

Eleven scratched his head. That was all the reply he was willing to make.

"Transform into what?" Ten glared.

"No idea," said Eleven. "It won't be anything horrible. It's meant to be a natural nurse."

"If we get a great buxom matron with a bottle of cod liver oil, I'll -." Ten broke off as someone standing behind Eleven cleared their throat. He gawped.

"Cor', don't know about the Oncoming Storm. More like the Lagging Drizzle, you two."

At the oh-so-familiar voice, Eleven whirled to see the figure that had appeared. Wearing a pink t-shirt under denim dungarees, her dyed blonde hair crinkled attractively, Rose Tyler smirked at the Doctors, arms folded. Eleven swallowed.

"Well," Ten remarked. "Hello, Nurse."