James Robert McCrimmon

((Look what I had just lying around...This picks up after The War Games ends for Jamie.))

It was a strange feeling, but something told Jamie he no longer belonged here. This land, this world, was not his destiny--whether the alternative was death or something else entirely Jamie could not know. It was liberating, whatever else it was.

Just as his instincts pricked up, indicating he had stayed too long, he heard movement outside, and ducked as a bullet whizzed over his head. He scrambled against the wall and loaded the musket he’d stolen from the redcoat, and once the soldiers started pouring in he let the first fellow have it. There was no time to reload, but he had his sword and there were only two more: he slew them each savagely, but then he looked around nervously, suddenly horribly, inexplicably guilty, and it was a moment before he realized why he should feel guilty:

The Doctor would be cross with him. The Doctor? How would--who was he to--?

Doctor?

Then the memories surfaced, washing over him so hard and suddenly that he staggered.

Daleks Victoria Zoë Cybermen moonbases spacesuits alien rayguns Ice Warriors Polly and Ben flying beasties Time Lords--

Jamie remembered having had his memory wiped, but that thought made his head hurt with the implications: he could actually remember not remembering.

Transmat ionizers radios astronauts vaporizors Krotons auto-fire machine guns Brigadier America volcanoes cameras germs UNIT--

Redcoats were overrunning the cottage, but he could no longer fight back, his head pounding so loud and heavily that he could not see or hear or think anything but the memories that flooded through his mind like the cinema helicopters service issue revolvers wristwatches hooded sweatshirts Cybermats the War Chief grenades Dominators unicorns the Phantom Piper white robots the Emperor Dalek trenches space pirates--

The soldiers seemed uncertain with themselves when faced with this cringing Highlander, who seemed to be seeing ghosts, kneeling before them, clutching his head and muttering about things they did not understand. It was much easier to kill them when they fought back--and Jamie did fight, but only defensively, only half-way, desperately clutching his targe close to his chest. The English soldiers hesitated only a moment, not much more than in puzzlement, before raising their swords.

Heedless of his impending doom, Jamie continued to reel. He wanted to curl up into a ball so he would already be lying down when his head exploded. Reversed polarity flightsuit Varga sonic screwdriver transistors missiles aeronauts time zones rocketships jumpsuits Gulliver seed pods the War Lords daleks rocket fuel the Master London Skaro mini-skirts the human factor wheels in space G-forces Vortis Salamander electricity Corporal Benton nuclear power Macra stun guns TARDIS time travel DOCTOR--

But now another instinct kicked up in him: the need to survive; and as quickly as it had begun, the information dump in his brain was complete. He knew who he was now, he was Jamie McCrimmon, the Doctor’s companion, and it was his job to fight, his job to protect, to survive. So what that his last stand was alone, without the Doctor to defend? So what if the Time Lords had captured the Doctor and there was no hope of him rescuing Jamie, or Jamie rescuing him? The important thing now was that he remembered: he would die a whole person, and he would take a good deal of these Sassenach bastards with him.

He dove for his sword, forgotten on the floor, causing raised swords to miss their mark and some men even to jump back in surprise. This, and their initial hesitation gave him enough of an edge to force a man down, pierce him with the spike on his shield, and, as he fell, to draw the dead man’s saber from its scabbard. Now, with dirk and targe, sword in hand, he fought. The tiny room was in shambles in seconds, and Jamie was wounded in many places but seemed not to notice.

It was an epic fight, but clearly one-sided; if it had been a movie, he thought ironically, it would have gone into slow-motion with some heartbreaking musical score played on a lone bagpipe in the background as we waited for our hero to die. But it was not a movie, it was real, and bloody, and painful, and intense, and quick, and angry, and dirty. The Doctor would not have been proud, but somehow Jamie could live with that. Remembering the Doctor but making that memory shake its head disappointedly at him was better than not remembering at all.

Jamie did not know that he had killed all the soldiers until the last one was skewered on his sword. He had survived. Just. The mutilated bodies of ten redcoats lay scattered around what used to be his cottage home. He surveyed his work briefly before collapsing in a prone heap right before the door, knowing that he couldn’t ever get up again but that if he had to he would probably find the strength. And though the room had begun to stink of death, when he looked out the door Jamie could see that the rain had cleared and the TARDIS-blue sky gleamed through.

((Soooo emo...sigh...A momentary lapse. It will never happen again.))

The Doctor had been searching for days. As soon as the Time Lords gave him the permission--he had proved to them that his companions had a brief life expectancy when he didn’t care much for their presence (see case in point: Time Lady Serena), so they’d let him pick his own companion this time—he’d gone straight to Culloden Moor, mere hours after he had left the first time, so long ago.

He had initially been afraid that making Jamie remember him would be the hard part, but had assumed that physically finding him would be unproblematic. This was to prove inversely true. Now that the TARDIS was easily programmable, he had no trouble making short jumps to any precise location he wanted. So began a series of short jumps, an hour or so of searching the area, and scrambling back into the TARDIS at the first sign of English soldiers. They had been more than rude on his last visit to Scotland, and he wasn’t about to give them another chance.

His search was tireless, and he eventually found Jamie, of course, though it took longer than he had anticipated. The cottage, though innocent-looking enough, was strewn with so many red-coated bodies lying before the front door that the Doctor immediately became suspicious: this looked just like the work of an unchecked Jamie: a frightened, angry, confused, and heavily-armed Jamie.

It was nighttime now, and very dark, and peacefully silent. The Doctor was wearing his favorite albeit tacky fur coat and he brought with him a lantern as he stepped out of the TARDIS. He approached the cottage gingerly, but nothing sprang out to attack him except an offensive stench of death. The Doctor hadn’t expected anyone inside to still be alive, but he had hoped for some clues, so when he heard the cock of a pistol he froze.

Nothing happened for a long moment. He was painfully conscious that he himself was clearly illuminated while this potential attacker remained shrouded in darkness. There was no immediate “hold it” or “put your hands up,” not even a “who goes there?”

The Doctor, after waiting politely for a few moments, was just about to say something, anything to fill that dreadful awkward silence, but another voice spoke first:

“No,” was all it said.

“I…ah, I beg your pardon?” the Doctor tried, and shifted his arm so that the lantern light was cast into the room. A hideous scene of death in many fantastic and different ways greeted him, but one thing in particular was important, and that thing was moving. It was Jamie McCrimmon.

Jamie was lying propped against the wall, holding in his right hand a broadsword and in the left a pistol. “No,” he said again, and blinked hard, and swallowed hard.

“Jamie…” the Doctor began, stepping forward. He had prepared himself for a Jamie that wouldn’t remember him, and that had been hard enough to think about, but seeing a Jamie so perilously near death was infinitely worse. Jamie had been hurt before, shot, injured, infected with alien diseases, but never actually ever in danger of really dying: somehow the Doctor always knew Jamie would be all right. Now he feared he might be too late, as he looked on with anxious concern and a kind of helplessness. Jamie was covered in blood and dirt, his breathing was ragged, his brow and teeth clenched in pain, and his eyes were glassy.

Jamie raised the gun warningly, though not remotely in his direction. “Ye cannae be…” The Doctor waited, but nothing was forthcoming, and the gun lowered almost immediately.

The Doctor had begun edging forward, until he realized another horrible thing: that tears were standing out on Jamie’s cheeks, carving pale white streaks through the dirt and blood like lightning on his face. “Jamie, do you remember? It’s me, the Doctor.”

The young man suddenly came to life and took in a deep, hideously labored breath that was half a cough and half a sob, but other than this he did not move. “The…Time Lords. Doctor, how?” Speaking clearly took a great deal of effort, and his leg twitched as if a distant part of him was trying to get him to his feet.

With a quick movement that Jamie did not expect, the Doctor knelt beside him, and he flinched away, though whether in fear, disbelief, pain, or something else the Doctor could not tell. The Doctor forced the gun from his hand, and Jamie did not fight him, nor attempt to raise the arm which held the sword, if he even could. “Jamie, it’s me, I assure you. The Time Lords--well, it’s complicated, I’ll tell you later. Right now we need to get you looked after. What’s the damage, Jamie?” He set about checking the boy's pulse and temperature and searching the wounds and breaks to determine their seriousness.

A pained, weary half-grin spread over Jamie’s face as realization dawned and peace settled over him. He gave a short laugh of disbelief. He was staring at the Doctor as though they had been separated for hundreds of years (which was more accurate according to the Doctor’s reckoning) instead of the very few hours that was according to Jamie’s reckoning. The Doctor realized that this concept would take some explaining, when the time came to explain things. “It’s--really you,” Jamie said after a moment, as though he had found nothing else to say, or that nothing else could be said.

“Yes, Jamie, shush,” the Doctor said, giving his hair a gentle tousle. “I’m…I’m very glad to see you again.”

“I thought I’d ne’er…” Jamie’s eyes fluttered.

“Steady, Jamie--can you stand? The TARDIS isn’t far.”

Jamie forced his eyes open. “Aye,” he blurted out. “Ah can stand.” His eyes were out of focus and he had the strength of an anemic kitten, but Jamie managed a cheeky grin, the grin that characteristically said ‘I can do anything,’ right before it got itself into trouble. “I can stand,” he said again, with firmness.

Using the wall for support--the Doctor forced the sword from his hand with some difficulty, as it was carved with the McLaren emblem and he didn’t want to let it go--Jamie stood shakily, and before he could be stopped, tried straightening without the Doctor’s help. Instantly the color drained from his face and he fell over. The Doctor hastily set down the lantern and grabbed Jamie around the middle in order to hold him up, but was quickly obliged to deposit him gently on the floor again.

“Jamie!” the Doctor snapped, but stopped himself. “Gently, Jamie,” he said again, still forcefully, but sighing this time. “Slowly, my boy, you’ve got to let me help you.” Jamie, now in a more-or less sitting position, nodded faintly. The Doctor chuckled. “I don’t know why the redcoats even bother about trying to kill you, I think you do a bang-up job left to your own devices.”

Jamie smiled, unoffended.

The Doctor shook his head at him. Then he had an idea. “You know, Jamie, I have better control of the TARDIS now. Maybe I’d better just go get her, park her right here so you only have to move a few feet…”

Jamie’s eyes lighted with primitive fear, though he did his best to cover this up with bravado. “Nay, Doctor, dinna, I’m alright,” he said, but gripped the Doctor’s sleeve urgently.

“It will only take a moment, Jamie…”

Jamie shook his head stubbornly, struggling not to tremble or whine. “No. I’m alright. Alright.” His eyes fluttered again, though he tried to keep them open. “Please, Doctor, dinna leave me by ma lone, no’ again… I’m alright. I can stand.”

The Doctor paused, licked his lips. “All right,” he said. Then he sighed, feeling guilty. “Very well, come along. Let’s get you to the TARDIS, it really isn’t all that far.”

“Aye,” Jamie nodded, and he let the Doctor support most of his weight this time. He’d had enough of fighting. Now the Doctor would look after him: the Doctor who he thought he’d never see again, the Doctor who he thought had left him for good but who was once again taking up abode in the customary space reserved for him in Jamie’s heart. The great loyalties he once felt for land and laird were returning their attentions to the Doctor, the best-placed and strongest loyalties anyone ever had. The TARDIS was just down the hill, so he only had to move a few hundred feet, but cold lightning shot up his spine to burst before his eyes every time he moved.

Stepping inside the TARDIS doors was about where Jamie’s strength gave out, but there was a bed in the console room, and here the Doctor deposited the near-unconscious Jamie. At least, he thought he was nearly unconscious:

“Doctor…” Jamie murmured, forcing himself awake as he recognized himself horizontal and consciousness began to ebb back to him. “The Time Lords? How--”

“I said I’d tell you later, Jamie.”

“…’s later, is it no’?” he replied, with a cheeky grin and a shiver.

“Hush, Jamie, quiet.”

“Och, fine.” Jamie tutted, but closed his eyes obligingly.