What ho, I bring fic

[quokkadream.livejournal.com]

Hi! I read a few Jeeves and Wooster/Doctor who crossovers recently, and  they inspired me to have a go myself. I hope you enjoy it :)

Title: Jeeves and the Extra-terrestrial Invasion
Pairing: none
Summary: A Jeeves and Wooster & Doctor Who crossover.
Rating: PG, for a bit of violence
Words: 3409
Disclaimer:I don't own any of these characters.

“Aargh!” I yelped, my feet swinging out of the way so fast they might have been pursued by Lady Florence Cray, Madeline Basset and my Aunt Agatha all at the same time. But the threat to our hero in this particular circ, you will be distressed (or relieved) to discover, was merely Tuppy Glossop. Granted, the man had been possessed by an extra terrestrial from the planet thingamajig, according to that Doctor chappie, but in light of all that had transpired so far -

 

Well, blast. It seems I have plunged you, my gentle reader, straight into the soup without first presenting you the menu, as it were. Let me at least throw you a rope of exposition before you rightly send a message demanding what extra terrestrial stop why Tuppy possessed stop who doctor chappie perhaps you need one quick smart stop.

 

Well, this dark tale began on a mildly clement afternoon in London. I was strolling through the bustling populace, well, around and amongst the b. p. rather than through the corpus of the people themselves, I should clarify, as this is a story of the supernatural (Jeeves has pointed out that the average reader is perceptive enough to work this out for themselves, but as I like to point out, heigh ho).

 

I'd bumped into Oofy Prosser at the Drones the previous day. He had been sporting silken lilac gloves with aubergine stripes that were spiffy enough to bring a tear to my eye, and after interrogating the fellow for the natural habitat of said gloves, for the young blighter was reluctant at first to divulge his secret supplier's name, I promised myself I'd nip down to the shop early the next morning.

 

I don't know if you've noticed, but often in a cracker novel of suspense, the prose will flow something like this, “but our hero did not notice the man in the dark suit lurking in the shadows.' Well, there was no man lurking in the shadows in this tale, at least not yet, but that style could easily be stamped onto me not noticing Oofy's expression that day. So enchanted by his gloves was I that only looking back our hero's latest adventure did I see anything amiss in his vacant stare and forced, halting speech.

 

I could not see anything through the smoky glass shop front door. Pressing my hand against the door and giving a hearty shove, the door remained heartily closed. There was no sign to indicate whether the shopkeeper was inside serving customers, out to lunch early or on holiday in southern Belgium. I craned back to blink at the display in the window. Elegant ties, cravats and gloves in all shades of spiff were crowded against the window, reminding me rather of schoolchildren pressing their noses against the window of a train carriage.

 

“Excuse me, are you the shopkeeper?” A man about my own height with oddly spiky brown hair bounced into my field of vision. I could have sworn he had not been there a moment ago.

 

“No, no. Just looking. Wooster is my name, Bertie Wooster, don't you know.”

 

“I'm the Doctor.”

 

“Doctor who?”

 

The man winced, as if recalling the pain of an old injury. “Just the Doctor. Have you noticed anything strange about this place? Almost as if...” The Doctor wrinkled his nose, and inhaled sharply. “Hmmm.. just a smidge of iron...” now muttering to himself, he pressed his face against the shop window.

 

I averted my gaze, but too late, for the corners of my eyes treacherously observed him licking the glass with his tongue.

 

Thoroughly rattled, all thoughts of gloves had been expunged from my mind. A restorative spot of lunch was what I needed, I decided. Obviously it was unhealthy to pursue garments on an empty stomach. Perhaps if I returned in the afternoon, the loony 'Doctor' would have gone, and the door could be persuaded to open.

 

But my restorative lunch was not to be. The fates had conspired against me in a similar fashion as they had against Macbeth, for a telegram was waiting in ambush at my flat.

 

I had hardly hung up my hat when Jeeves shimmered into view.

 

“A telegram for you, sir.”

 

“Read it, Jeeves,” I replied, with stout tone but quivering stomach.

 

Jeeves cleared his throat in a manner that even the hardiest of goats could be proud of.

 

“Come at once to Brinkley quick smart. Your Uncle Tom and Tuppy fallen in urgent trouble. Bring Jeeves. Love. Travers.”

 

I hmmed and haahed, then added another hmmm for good measure. “This is sinister, Jeeves,” I said.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Are you sure the telegram doesn't say what kind of trouble they're in? Have you checked around the sides?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“When did the telegram arrive?”

 

“Half an hour ago, sir. Not long after you left for your... shopping.” Jeeves' eyebrows quirked slightly, as if they had caught a scent of what they deemed to be inappropriate clothing on the wind.

 

A lesser man might have said “Urgent trouble be dammed” and proceeded with his investigation of the metrop's latest fashions. But when one shares the battle-hardened blood of the Woosters, one is accustomed to sacrificing silk ties and gloves for the cause of ones family and friends.

 

“Well, if it were done, tis well it were done whatsit,” I said, manfully suppressing a sigh of regret at leaving the promise of gloves behind in London. “Prepare the bags, we shall depart for Brinkley within the hour.”

 

“Very good, sir,” said Jeeves. And that was that.

 

 

“I say, Jeeves,” I said, as the old two seater chugged up the drive at Brinkley Court not two hours later, “it's awfully quiet around here.”

 

“The countryside does provide more solitude than the metropolis of London or New York, sir.”

 

“No, it's not that.” I shivered, unable to express my feeling of unease. “More like -”

 

A scream tore through the air.

 

“Get down!” Somebody barked from a way off, and before I could say “What?” Jeeves shoved me down by my shoulders. A gunshot rang out, so loud the world seemed to go wobbly on it's kneecaps for a second.

 

Branches crunched and rustled in the shrubbery alongside the drive, then faded. “Drive on. Hurry!” commanded the voice. It dawned on me that the voice belonged to my Aunt Dahlia, in full hunting bellow.

 

“You may drive on now, sir,” Jeeves said, and suddenly I found that I could, like I was a frozen statue that had come to life again at the sound of his voice.

 

Aunt Dahlia, her face grim and pale, met us at the end of the drive.

 

“Now look here, Aunt Dahlia,” I began in a somewhat weaker tone than I had intended, for in her hands rested Uncle Tom's revolver. Although 'rested' is hardly the word, it seemed to quiver blackly in her hands like some sort of irate stick insect. Even if it had got up and performed a tap-dance from the latest Broadway musical, I could not have been more disturbed.

 

“Quiet,” she snapped. “Get inside. I'll explain once we're under cover. Oh, and Jeeves, don't use the servant's entrance. I had to board it up when... oh, just get inside.”

 

I shared an uneasy look with Jeeves, then followed my favourite Aunt into the cooler and hopefully saner hall of Brinkley Court.

 

“This way,” she said, leading us into the sitting room. “You too, Jeeves.”

 

“What the devil were you shooting at?” I demanded, unable to contain myself any longer. “I know you yearn for the hunting glory of your youth, Aunt, but -”

 

“Perhaps if Mrs Travers tells us the circumstances from the beginning, it will shed more light on her recent actions,” Jeeves put in smoothly.

 

“Right,” I agreed, somewhat abashed. It was probable that Aunt Dahlia had undergone a troubling experience and was not in a rational frame of mind. Gussie Fink-Nottle, a man who drank nothing stronger than orange juice, was wont to swear with the best of the sailors if someone disturbed one of his newts. Psychology of the individual, you know, as Jeeves puts it.

 

“Well, it all began when that blasted Glossop arrived yesterday,” began the Aunt.

 

Now I'm a pretty good reader of faces, and I can say without fear of contradiction that while her words were solid as a brick, her expression and voice were leaning towards the trembling leaf end of the spectrum.

 

I glanced meaningfully at Jeeves as the Aunt paused and sniffed loudly, and he shimmered off to procure a restorative drink. After chugging it down, life fizzed in her cheeks once more as she picked up the thread of her narrative.

 

“All was fine at first. Larder stores disappeared at twice their usual rate but even that seemed normal. But yesterday evening, he started acting very strangely. I put it down to indigestion.” She let out a bitter laugh.

 

“He managed to convince Tom to wear some ghastly new tie he'd bought at some dreadful place in London. It was lilac. With maroon spots. Tom managed to persuade him to help catalogue his silvers this morning as a thank you for the tie. I went over there with the thought of rescuing him.”

 

“Go on, Aunt of my blood,” I pressed her, when it appeared she had been gripped by the power of her recollection. Also, I wasn't awfully keen on revealing my prior knowledge of the Drone's new fashion trend with Jeeves in the room.

 

“I went into his collection room, but Glossop had vanished, and Tom was in a dead faint on the floor.”

 

I blinked. “But where did Tuppy go?”

 

She shot me a baleful look. “Oh, it was easy enough to find him. One merely had to trace the path of the bodies.”

 

There comes a time in every man's life when the world seems to shudder on its axis, and circs which appear to be a solid as day or night turn out to be as flimsy as a handkerchief. Take Bingo Little, or rather take the example of him, I mean. Once it was certain that every time the wind changed he'd be worshipping a different girl as his new 'tender goddess.' We used to have bets at the Drones as to the number of days each fancy would last. But up popped Rosy M Banks and Bingo Little's heart was forever cemented with hers.

 

So when my Aunt Dahlia, resident of a peaceful country house whose only excitement lay in the contents of bookshelves and in the occasional presence of Spodes, spoke of not one body but bodies, plural, I was shocked to my roots.

 

“You said 'bodies,' Aunt,” I managed to bleat after a small silence.

 

“I did.”

 

“Will they be alright?”

 

She looked coldly at me, as if I were at fault. “I don't know.”

 

Then came the next, awful question. “Who were they?”

 

“Three of the servants,” she said blankly. “Molly, Flora and Sedleigh.” She turned a pleading face to wards Jeeves. “He just went mad. One moment he was dumbly passing a 18^th century silver gravy boat to Tom, the next …” she shuddered. “He hardly seemed human.”

 

“What happened?” I asked, and my face must have paled during her recounting, for suddenly Jeeves was pressing a glass into my hand. I nodded my thanks.

 

“When Tom came round, he told me. Apparently Tuppy's eyes rolled inwards like he was having some sort of fit, then he roared something about being hungry, grabbed the gravy boat, smashed it onto Tom's head and pushed off.” She gave a shudder. “We found Molly and Sedleigh unconscious in the kitchen. Angela was almost in hysterics, so I sent her off to find a doctor. But it's been two hours and she still hasn't returned.”

 

I frowned. “And the gunshot when we arrived?”

 

“We knew Glossop wasn't in the house, after searching everywhere, so I was keeping watch on the driveway in case he tried to attack Angela when she returned. When I saw your car pulling up I spotted him making towards you. Mad as a hatter or not, I could hardly allow him to set teeth upon my favourite nephew, could I?”

 

I shuddered. “Much appreciated.”

 

“So,” Aunt Dahlia finished. “With any luck Angela will arrive with a doctor soon, but I thought it was best to have Jeeves on hand just in case. Poor Tom's taken a hell of a shock, especially since Anatole upped and left.”

 

“No!” I cried.

 

“Yes,” she agreed sombrely. “He swears he won't come back until Tuppy's cured or dead, and I don't blame him. Wish I could do the same myself.”

 

There was a pause while I chewed this over. It's not every day that a chum you went to Oxford with goes round the bend and attacks the staff. Well, attacks the staff, anyway.

 

Jeeves gave a polite cough.

 

“Yes, Jeeves?” Aunt Dahlia said, and there was hope in her tone for the first time since I'd arrived. “Have you had one of your ideas?”

 

“No, Mrs Travers, I merely perceived a motor vehicle arriving outside.”

 

“Yoicks! At last!” cried Aunt Dahlia, and popped off, presumably to protect the incoming party from the ravenous Glossop.

 

A memory bounced to the surface of the grey stuff. “You know what, Jeeves?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“London's practically crawling with mad people this week.”

 

“Indeed, sir?”

 

“Why, just this morning I bumped into a chap who called himself 'The Doctor.' No surname or other appellation, just the front title.”

 

“Indeed, sir?”

 

“Yes, indeed, Jeeves. And what's more, he went about licking shop windows with his tongue.”

 

“Indeed, sir?”

 

I was beginning to see, if not red, an increasingly angry shade of pink at his lacklustre 'indeed sir,' in reply to a perfectly stimulating string of observations. “Indeed,” I said, a trifle coldly. “I mean, would you go around by the name 'Valet,' and no other?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“Should Lord Sidcup rename himself as merely 'Lord'? If everybody started doing it, it'd be awfully confusing at parliamentary meetings.”

 

“What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet?” said Jeeves.

 

“Very nice. Your own?”

 

“No, sir, it originates from the play Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare.”

 

“Now there's a nice man,” exclaimed a voice. “Makes brilliant cheese sandwiches.” A man in a brown suit wearing a completely manic smile swanned into the room. “I'm the Doctor. Hello!”

 

My stomach wrapped around itself in fear. “It's him! The loony!” I hissed, but nobody seemed to be paying attention to me, apart from Aunt Dahlia, who told me abruptly to shut my gob before oiling back to the Doctor.

 

Unfortunately, the Doctor's attention was occupied elsewhere. To be precise, as an accomplished darts player such as myself always strives to be, he was cooing at some sort of thingamajig contraption that was buzzing and frothing in his hand.

 

“Ahem,” Aunt Dahlia said, a little too loudly for it to have been considered an accident.

 

From the sotto voce mutterings of the Doctor to his machine, it was possible to discern “pick up,” “sub-dimensional,” “wavelength” and “work for daddy,” none of which Aunt Dahlia seemed to deem a suitable reply.

 

“Ahem!” she growled.

 

A little red light bleeped on the thingummy. “Bah,” the Doctor muttered.

 

Just as Aunt Dahlia drew a lungful to bellow for a third time, his head snapped up.

 

“Nasty cough, that,” he said sympathetically. “You really should get it looked at.”

 

My cousin Angela, who I've always considered to be made of the finest stuff, stepped into the room, fortunately averting my old ancestor's impending explosion. “I'm sorry it took me so long, mother. I was trying to find a … a different Doctor, but he reassured me that there was...”

 

“An intergalactical medical conference,” supplied the Doctor. “Everyone else was out of town. I was heading this way, she was heading this way, so I came this way and bob's your Uncle.” He gave a manic grin.

 

“A pity,” said Aunt Dahlia, after there was what I have heard called a pregnant pause. “But I suppose you'll have to do. Lord knows we need one.”

 

For the first time, the Doctor looked at her fully. No doubt he was absorbing her general appearance, for even though it had improved dramatically after she had imbibed Jeeves' pick me up, it still gave the impression that she was a bird going through a very rough patch.

 

The Doctor tucked his contraption into some hidden corner of his coat. In a gentle tone, like what you'd use to soothe a spooked horse, he said, “Let me help you. Tell me everything from the beginning.”

 

I won't bore you with the details. In short, Aunt Dahlia recounted the same story she'd told Jeeves and me, while the Doctor pulled a serious face and seemed to be listening closely. I could only hope that for Aunt Dahlia's and Tuppy's sake, he was a capable doctor, albeit one strongly in need of a padded cell.

 

“And last time I saw him, he was scampering away through the grounds,” Aunt Dahlia finished.

 

There was a pause. I could see that the man was chewing it over, no doubt about to make some dashed clever diagnosis that would clear everything up.

 

“Tell me,” said the Doctor. “Did Mr. Glossop buy any new clothes recently?”

 

There was an unpleasant silence.

 

“How the hell should I know?” Aunt Dahlia demanded. “What the devil does that have to do with anything?”

 

When I glanced at Jeeves, however, his face, as much as I could tell, anyway, was speculative.

 

“It's important!” The Doctor insisted.

 

“I don't know,” Aunt Dahlia said, a trifle stiffly.

 

“Haven't the foggiest,” I added apologetically.

 

“Well, I guess there's only one thing for it!” The Doctor bounced up and grinned. “We'll have to ask the man himself. In the grounds, you said?”

 

“Yes,” said the Aunt, and smiled. “Bertie will show you.”

 

I started, feeling rather like a rabbit who was settling down to his evening greens only to discover that a fox had invited itself to dinner, with no moral scruples about eating the host.

 

“Now look here,” I said hotly. “I have no intention of waltzing out there to find a raving loony -”

 

“An old school chum,” Aunt Dahlia interjected -

 

“Alone -”

 

“The Doctor will go with you!”

 

“Completely vulnerable -”

 

“You can take Tom's gun,” the old ancestor offered.

 

“No.” I opened my mouth to speak only to realise that the Doctor had spoken for me. Loony or not, I could have embraced him at that moment. Finally, a kindred spirit who took Bertram's safety to his heart.

 

“We won't need that,” the man said firmly, almost vehemently.

 

“Exactly,” I said triumphantly. “You can take... Jeeves, what was it that you can't make a horse do?”

 

“You may be referring to the old saying, 'You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink,' sir.”

 

“Exactly, Jeeves,” I said, now in my victory stride. “You see Aunt Dahlia, you simply cannot make me drink. Unpleasant for you, but there it is, and all that.”

 

I could see that the Aunt was going to make another futile protestation, when the Doctor butted in. “We don't need a gun.” He held aloft a silver and blue metal rod. “We have this. So! Lead the way. Allon-zy!” And without another word, he grabbed my arm and whizzed me out of the room. My last glimpse was of Jeeves' face staring past me, inscrutable as ever.

 

 Part 2 coming soon!

Comments

[georgeodowd.livejournal.com]

Oh! OH! This was... divine! Simply hilarious and absolutely spot-on, and so chock full of wonderment I couldn't possibly list my favourite line because, I'm afraid, I liked them all!
You got Ten spot on, as well as dearest B. I was reading through the entire thing with one hand pressed against the mouth, so as not to disturb co-workers. Just... genius. I cannot wait for more!

[beatrice_otter]

Hysterically funny! Thank you!

[dessieoctavia.livejournal.com]

Hee, very amusing. I especially liked the second paragraph.