Chapter Seven, Part Three: The Cake is a Lie; Long Live the Jammie DodgerMature

Soon, someone is talking, but not to him, thank the stars, and other hands are feeling around in places... his neck, his wrist, looking for and finding the double pulse. Then they find the baby. A hesitation, then, a solid pressing of palm against his stomach, followed by a gentle pat. Must be Jack. Could be Mickey? But there seem to be wrinkles… wait! There were slightly longer nails, the scent of perfume… was it… no! Grace? Grace Holloway! Nooo, couldn’t be. 

“Georgie, go get a juice bottle. Martha! Mickey, a little help here!” 

“No no, it’s a vision, I’m feeling someone else’s… it’s not the baby! Something’s happened and I have to get back, I have to…” 

Francine’s voice now, cutting through the fog. “Be quiet and do as you’re told.” 

“Yes, mam!” he croaks, evoking a tiny snort from at least one of the owners of the pairs of hands palpating his body for bruises or injury. 

 Oh well, he thinks, as his hair shortens itself a little and his face cleans up of stubble and his body becomes like an anchor somewhere beneath him due to the lapsing control over his conscious, at least he’s arrived at all. Or has he? Since when has the TARDIS used semi-tangible capable of weight-bearing four-dimensional interactive incomplete-quantum-state multi-function diagnostic holograms? The naughty thing! He’s been inside her the whole time! Ha HA!

The End

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