Fandoms: The Professionals/Doctor Who crossover

Disclaimer: If I owned either of these shows then Tommy McKay would be still alive, and Doyle would probably get captured more.

Characters: Bodie, Doyle, the 11th Doctor and an OC

Set: Somewhere between Dead Reckoning and The Madness of Mickey Hamilton for the Professionals.

Somewhere between A Christmas Carol and The Impossible Astronaut for Doctor Who.

Summery: After a political bigwig is murdered in an alleyway outside Alban Industries, Bodie and Doyle are sent undercover to find out what exactly is going on. Things take a turn for the worse after a mysterious man calling himself 'The Doctor' turns up. Who or what is 'The Darkness'?

Author's Note: The Loki Paradox is 'Non-Canon' to this story. Please enjoy.

1935

The disused mine was as black as tar; the boy stumbled along in the darkness, hot wet tears streaming down his face. In his hand he carried the remains of a flashlight, the bulb shattered into tiny jagged shards, useless, broken. His left hand still wept blood. Every so often he staggered against the wall, as if to remind himself that it was still there.

He was lost.

He was scared.

Suddenly he stumbled, the floor sloped abruptly and he wasn't prepared. Falling, he had enough presence of mind to try and roll with it; the flashlight bounced out of his slick fingers and disappeared into the shadows. Pain erupted around him and just for a moment the shadows darkened. He lay there on his side, breathing awkwardly, half sobs bubbling up from his throat. The darkness bent around him as he thought about the stupid, stupid bet and the laughs his so-called friends must be having right now…

Child…

The boy jerked his head around searching for the voice. Except it wasn't much like a real voice.

Why are you crying?

"Because I'm scared. I'm lost and alone and my hand hurts something horrid and my friends have left me –" his words were interrupted in a wet gulp.

I would help you. But I cannot.

"W – why?" it sounded more like a wailing hiccup than a word.

I cannot on my own. You must help me.

"How?"

Touch me.

Hesitantly, the boy reached blindly into the impenetrable darkness. His fingertips brushed something cold. "Will you be my friend?" the boy asked. There was the merest of pauses; the boy felt as if it was deliberating the word, trying it, tasting it.

I shall always be your friend. I shall never desert you.

1979

"Here," Cowley placed the two photographs on his desk face up. Doyle glanced at his boss before scooping them into his hand, careful not to crease them. The first one was a man in his late forties, blond hair, square jaw, muscular body running to fat; the second was a teenage girl. Doyle dully estimated that she couldn't have been more than fifteen; she had been skinny and small with soft, shoulder-length fair hair. Blood was dried around large slices cut into her stomach indicating she had been dead a while before the picture was taken. She looked very vulnerable. Bodie gently tugged the photos out of his grasp. He could sense the useless fury that was crackling up through his partner, but he had detached himself long ago so the dead teen didn't really bother him. There had been younger soldiers in Africa. But it was still a waste of a human life.

"What's this about, sir?" he asked. Cowley pointed at the man.

"Julius McIntosh, a big man in the halls of power, he was found dead in an alleyway." Bodie frowned at the picture he was holding. From what he could see the man bore no damage to his body. His face was a little puffy and his suit was ripped but there was nothing that suggested what had cut this life short.

"Cause of death?"

"Drowning, according to the coroner," Cowley answered. Frowning, Bodie tilted the picture into the light.

"That doesn't look like it's near the docks," Doyle remarked, voicing Bodie's thoughts, glancing over his partner's shoulder, "Or anywhere near the river."

"You're right," Cowley said, "they were found in Croydon, near Alban Offices." Bodie raised an eyebrow.

"The arms designer?" Cowley nodded.

"Too much of a coincidence," Doyle murmured, his gaze still on the photos, "Something's going on there."

"Murphy and Benny staked that place out for three weeks and David Alban didn't even get a parking ticket," Bodie reminded his partner imperiously, "He's clean as a whistle."

"Or looks like it."

"Yeah, yeah. That's brilliant deduction there, Sherlock." Cowley glared at his best agents as they began to fire first examples then experiences at each other.

"Nevertheless," he began, halting the heating repartee, "I want you two to check it out. I want to know exactly what is going on there." Bodie pulled a disgusted expression, Doyle mirrored him.

"Not more stakeouts!" Bodie moaned. Shaking his head, Cowley allowed a faint smile to cross his face.

"No, not more stakeouts," he agreed. Doyle frowned quizzically at his boss.

"Then what?"

"I want both of you inside Alban Industries itself. Undercover." The two agents took a moment to digest this information and Cowley continued, "You'll be working with Murphy and Jax, but I want neither of them within half a mile of the building. If Alban is up to something then I want him to have no clue that he is being watched. If he panics then we'll likely lose him."

Doyle glanced at Bodie. He was quite used to going undercover but he was already conditioned from his days as a detective constable to be another person. It was rare that both of them were sent inside. Cowley must really have an itch this time. But what he was saying made sense; Doyle had a prickly feeling in his gut that he couldn't quite ignore.

Alban Industries was too clean, too friendly, and too good, from what CI5 had experienced that usually meant that something was out of the ordinary. Especially if the deals were definitely too good to be true.

"Are we getting new jobs then, sir?" Bodie inquired. Cowley reached out a hand for the photos. He nodded.

"Alban Industries is very short-staffed at the moment, they are hiring at incredibly short notice," he indicated the door. "Your resumes have already been accepted. Bodie, you are working down in filing, and Doyle you are in the typing pool." He stared hard that the pair. "Why are you still here?"

Bodie led the way out of the office, his mind full of what they were taking on. Doyle however paused at the door.

"What about the kid?" he demanded coldly. Cowley shot him a sharp but sympathetic glance.

"Her name was Lizzie Jackson; she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Doyle slowed his bike down and took the last turn into the Alban car park. The building skulked four floors high in front of him; it was the same nondescript grey as the buildings around it, only the wrought black gate hinted at what was done within. He tooled his bike into an empty parking space and pulled off his helmet. The security guard eyed him suspiciously, luckily for Doyle there wasn't a uniform beyond 'neat' so he wasn't required the suit-tie combo, but the red donkey jacket over the top of his normal clothes, was probably not regulation. He ambled up to the man and grinned at him. "Hi."

"Identification please, sir," the guard regarded him steadily. He was a big man; the type who could handle himself in a fight. Doyle passed it over, leaning on the hatch.

"I'm Ray Doyle," he said, still grinning, "I work here now," the man didn't answer so he continued cheerily, "awful lot of security for a small design company isn't it?" The guard handed his ID back.

"If you were designing weapons wouldn't you keep them under lock and key?"

"Yeah, but three security cameras, a huge gate and a security guard? Do I have to go through this every day?" he asked pulling a face. The man gave a look that could only be described as old-fashioned.

"First of all son, most of what goes on inside here is above a typist and I wouldn't be acting like some hot-shot just because I'm inside and," he glanced pointedly at where Doyle was leaning, "I wouldn't annoy your protection."

"Why'd I need protection?" Doyle asked quizzically. The guard rolled his eyes.

"Terrorists an' that. I'm the first line of defence against anyone wanting in here for criminal reasons," he buzzed the door open, "get in, you're going to be late."

The layout of Alban Industries was very similar to CI5 headquarters but it still took Doyle a couple of minutes to find where he was supposed to be working. He finally walked into a large room filled with desks all in tidy rows and populated with both men and women, some typing furiously, and others leaning against the walls chatting. Doyle slipped in and found himself an empty desk and typewriter. As soon as he sat down one of the women walked in from another room and dumped a large, messy pile of paper beside him. He groaned. Alban wrote really, really small.

After about an hour of stabbing random keys in the hope that what he was writing made sense, Doyle was tapped on the shoulder by a young, angular-faced man. He paused in what he was doing and turned around. "Hello, do you work here?"

"Yeah, why?" he asked. The man extended his hand; Doyle noticed the slight trembling in the fingers.

"My name's Drake, James Drake. I'm – I'm a reporter," Doyle raised an eyebrow. The voice was loud; not quite a shout but not quite talking, with faint tinges of an accent he didn't recognise.

"Doyle," he answered, not taking the hand, "What newspaper?"

"Uh, none, I'm freelance."

"That can't be good for the bank," Drake smiled bemusedly.

"Pardon?" he said.

"Can't be good for the bank, you know, money an' that?" Doyle repeated slowly, flashing a lopsided grin.

"Oh, oh, right," Drake's smile became genuine, and he dropped his hand to his side, "I manage."

"Why are you here?" The young man ran a hand through his sandy hair.

"I'm doing a piece on 'Unsung Heroes,'" he said, "Mr Alban has been doing low-level weapon and chemical designs which have contributed to more widely used ones, he's never really taken the credit for it." Doyle pursed his lips and asked,

"Why are you talking to me about this? If it's Alban you're writing about then shouldn't you be talking to him?"

"I'm also getting a… view from the trenches, you know? A sort of complete picture of his operation here, so –"

"Excuse me, Mr Drake, the tea is ready," Both Doyle and Drake turned towards the soft, mellow voice. The man addressing the reporter was about his mid-fifties with a full head of grey hair, astute hazel eyes and a frame that once been skinny but had filled out with age. He smiled at Drake in an I've-been-waiting-and-the-tea-is-getting-cold way. "I'm sure that…" he glanced at Doyle's face, obviously not recognising him continued, "my staff needs to finish quite a lot of paperwork."

"Sorry Mr Alban," Drake stepped away from Doyle, the agent caught an air of annoyance coming from the man as he walked off with their suspect. He narrowed his eyes. Something didn't fit here.

It was another half an hour before Doyle had an opportunity to slip away to meet Bodie, his mind still puzzling over the strange jigsaw that had been throwing him new pieces that were all sky. He clattered down the steps, precariously balancing a stack of neatly typed paper (none of it his). Since he was the 'newbie' it was his job to try and totter down three flights of stairs down to the basement for filing. He'd just reached the first floor when a man crashed into him going at full tilt up the stairs. The paper flew everywhere and both men were knocked to the ground in a tangle of arms, legs and slightly torn reports. Doyle landed hard on his backside and swore. From the sounds of the other, more complicated, cursing he judged that the other man hadn't fared much better. He pulled himself to his feet and offered his hand. "You alright?" The young man took his hand and scrambled up, his arms and legs still flailed wildly so it looked more like a suspended collapse.

"Yes, yes, I'm ok, just a bit of overexciteness – is that a word? It should be a word – there," he spotted the devastation of paper and began scrabbling for it. Doing so meant the strange man nearly ended up in a heap again. "Sorry, sorry, sorry! I'll help…" Doyle held out his hand to signal that he stopped.

"No, it's fine," the man looked like a manic bunny rabbit, he was still fidgeting with his hands when he was bent over and still, "I can probably manage by myself," the man straightened up, brushing his floppy brown hair of out of his eyes. Doyle estimated that he was in his mid-twenties and just taller than Bodie. What struck the agent was that he was wearing a tweed suit and suspenders, even a bowtie! He didn't look like a clerk or typist, and definitely not a designer of weapons. He reminded Doyle of an absent-minded professor.

"Are you sure?" Professor asked. Doyle nodded, still on his hands and knees. Professor shrugged and helpfully gathered a few of the reports near him into an easily accessible pile. Then he hared off up the stairs, lesson evidently not learned. Doyle turned his attention back to the rest of the scattered paper. He sighed.

"What did you do to these? Throw them down the stairs?" Bodie exclaimed.

"Something like that," Doyle winced, Bodie raised his eyebrows and Doyle quickly recounted his encounter on the stairway and Bodie chuckled.

"Sounds like the bloke who was in here earlier, I didn't talk to him but I overheard him telling one of the girls that he was a Health Inspector." Doyle snorted.

"Yeah," he said, "really healthy." Bodie grinned back at him before becoming more serious.

"Listen, apparently some people think Alban acts a bit strangely, he is always the last out at night and the first in before anyone else," Doyle pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"Could just be dedicated," his tone of voice suggested otherwise. Bodie nodded slowly.

"Something strange is going on here," he grinned slowly, "up for a bit of B&E?"

Again, like the Loki Paradox this will be put up in chapters. Reviews please?