Hello all!

Weirdly, on the heels of the end of the most emotional fanfiction venture imaginable, I give you this: experimental, not at all gut-wrenching, somewhat clinical, but hopefully fun and clever. I'm not used to writing ensemble pieces - mostly it's All About The Time Lord, and I'm definitely better with science fiction than actual science, so we'll see how it goes! I'll tell you one thing: it will be freeing to write for American voices for once! ;-)

To tell you the truth, I'm not sure who my audience will be for this story. It is a Doctor Who/Bones crossover, and I'm the only person I know who loves them both! Though, even if you're only a fan of one or the other, I would encourage you to give it a shot, since both worlds, I hope, will be well-represented, and fans of each show will find something to love! I watch them for the way in which they solve problems in the most intelligent manner possible, and intermix humor with high tension, so it's fairly likely you'll wind up liking the other fandom too.

If you work out what's going on early in the game, please, no spoilers! That should go without saying.

So... context. This takes place sometime in the fall of 2009. That means that "Bones" is in early Season 5, so Booth and Brennan are still "just partners," at least as far as she's concerned, and Angela and Hodgins are still occasionally visiting the Land of Awkward. The Doctor is in his pouty year, sans Companion, and has been to San Helios through a portal on a London bus, but has not yet visited the Bowie Station on Mars.

And with that, let's proceed. :-D

Chapter 1

"This is weird," said Agent Booth, standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up.

Brennan frowned. "There's nothing weird about it. We've been called to a crime scene because a skeleton was found, and foul play is suspected. Given that you are an FBI Agent and I am a Forensic Anthropologist, I would say that it's, in fact, perfectly normal."

"No, I mean the building."

She looked around. "It is a middle-class, suburban building, likely built in the last five years, with the characteristic homogenous, and homogenizing, lack of décor. It is, if anything, the opposite of weird."

He frowned back. "Okay, you know what? You're right, it's not weird at all. Let's just go. Fourth floor."

"Yes, I think that would be best," Dr. Brennan said, as she began to climb the stairs, toting her crime-scene inspection kit in her right hand.

He shook his head and followed her, unable to rid himself of the feeling that something felt hinky (well, hinkier than usual). He looked at the clean, light-blue carpet and the whitewashed walls and staircase banisters. He looked at the strong track lighting and high, trendy, third-floor windows that gave the illusion of letting in sunlight, but in reality, most of the light was artificial.

He had been at just about every type of murder scene imaginable, and one thing they all had in common was that they generally had nothing in common. He had learned that all sorts of people kill, they do it in all sorts of places, and there is no such thing as a typical place for a body-find. But this one felt weird. It just didn't feel murder-y. He smiled to himself at the prospect of saying that to his partner. He filed it away for later, just for the entertainment value of seeing her reaction.

When they reached the fourth floor, they could immediately see which apartment must house the body. Men and women in FBI-issue gear were milling about, filing things, making calls, labeling evidence. When they saw Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth, everyone knew to disperse from the skeleton itself.

Brennan approached the human remains as she always did, with a scowl of scrutiny and all due reverence. It was sitting upright in an armchair in the corner of a bedroom. The right leg was bent at the knee, the ankle resting on the opposite knee. There was a book in its lap, its hands still holding onto it. The skeleton was wearing jeans, white socks and a burgundy tee-shirt, but all of the clothing, along with the book, were ripped to shreds. There was a half-full glass of beer on a side table within arm's reach that had gone flat and had gathered a bit of mold on the surface, and a reading lamp hanging from a sconce just overhead, still illuminated.

"The victim is male," Brennan announced. "Twenty-five to thirty-five years old. Caucasian."

Booth waited for more. "Yeah, what else?"

As if on cue, a junior agent appeared by his side. "Found this in the kitchen, sir," the young man said, handing Booth a light brown leather wallet encased in a clear plastic evidence bag. "Charles Michael Hasbrook, age thirty-one. His name is on the lease to this apartment."

"That doesn't mean that's who this is," Brennan pointed out sternly to the agent. "We'll have to pull dental records to be sure."

"Thanks, Green," Booth said, taking the wallet. He then took a moment to call in Hasbrook's name and address, and request dental records be sent to the Jeffersonian.

Meanwhile, Brennan moved closer and squinted hard at the skull. "This is weird."

"Gee, that's profound, Bones, wish I'd thought of it myself. Let me write that down."

She looked up at him, annoyed. "No, this is actually weird. Your earlier weirdness was just some... gut feeling thing that I don't understand."

"What's weird, then?"

"The bones are completely clean. Practically white. There's no sign at all of decomposition, or of any flesh ever having been attached."

"Wait... what?"

"Look at the upholstery, Booth," she said, gesturing to the seat under the victim. "Look at the clothing. Nothing has seeped in - no blood, no lipids, no sign of a post-mortem bowel release. In fact there are no discernible post-mortem or peri-mortem indicators whatsoever."

"Are you sure the skeleton is real?"

"Yes, of course," she confirmed. "I've worked with human bones for my entire adult life, Booth, I'm the best in my field. If the skeleton were a fake, I'd have noticed it right away."

He got close and inspected quickly. Even he knew that the chair's cushion, and the victim's clothes ought to be soaked with the ugly fluids of ravaging death. He said, "Yeah, you're right. What gives?"

"I have no idea. I also see no signs of scavengers having fed on the body. Hodgins will be able to tell us for sure about insect activity, and of course, I'll have to take the remains back to the lab and examine the bones with the clothing removed but..." she sighed, standing up straight, putting her hands on her hips. "This is weird."

"Is it possible he died a long time ago, and then... I don't know, someone dressed him in these torn-up clothes and put him here?"

"I suppose, but we'll have to get him back to the lab."

"Yeah, and check the building's surveillance," he muttered, making a note. "Time of death?"

"No idea."

"Agent Booth?" said a female voice.

He turned, and another junior agent stood nervously nearby. "Yep?"

"The landlord is here," she said. "He's the one who found the body and called it in."

"Okay, thanks," he said. Of his partner, he asked, "I'm going to go talk to the landlord, are you going to be okay, Bones?"

"That's a ridiculous question," she answered with an absent mutter, having gone back to inspecting the anomalous remains.

"Right," he said, clicking his pen closed.

Out in the hallway, at the top of the light-blue sterile staircase, a balding, stout, middle-aged man in a high-end Hawaiian shirt stood, chewing on his fingernail.

"Hi, are you the landlord?"

"Yes. Anthony Lind," the man said, holding out his non-chewed hand for Booth to shake.

Booth shook it. "Special Agent Seeley Booth. So, you're the one who found the body?"

"Yes, about an hour and a half ago."

"How?" Booth asked, clicking his pen open again, brandishing his short stack of index cards.

"I let myself in."

"Okay. Why?"

The man shifted nervously, not knowing quite what to do with his hands. "Well, I hadn't seen Charlie in about a week, so I got worried and started calling. He didn't answer his phone, even after fourteen hours, so I let myself in to check on him."

"Do you deliver this kind of concerned, personal service to all of your tenants?"

"No," said Lind. "I know it's creepy... and technically illegal. But Charlie doesn't have any family in town, and, you know... he reminds me of my own kid. Except my real kid's a deadbeat, and Charlie's not. So I took a liking to him - sue me."

"You say you hadn't seen him in a week?"

"Little over a week, actually. I live in the apartment downstairs, in the front - unit number one. I'm the landlord and I manage the place as well. Charlie gets a grocery drop-off every Tuesday afternoon. He works weekdays, so I always sign for it, and he comes to pick it up when he gets home. Last week's delivery didn't come, neither did yesterday's. I didn't want to meddle - I figured calling the market would be meddling, so I just called Charlie to see what was up."

Booth jotted down what the man was saying. "How many times did you call?"

"I started calling at five yesterday, when I was sure that the delivery wasn't going to come. Called at five, at eight, and at ten, finally left a message on that last call. I tried again this morning when I got up, but no luck. So I came up and let myself in. Saw him sitting there... all dead and whatnot."

"Do you know which grocery service he used?"

"Treeger's Market," said Lind. "They have their own delivery service - they don't contract out."

"Is there a regular delivery person?"

"There's a few people who rotate in and out. Usually it's a guy, once in a while a girl."

"Is it the same three or four people?"

"Usually, yeah."

"Would you know them if you saw them?"

"Yeah."

"Did Mr. Hasbrook have any close friends? A girlfriend?"

"I see him with people once in a while," the landlord shrugged. "He'll turn up with a couple of guys and a twelve-pack sometimes, usually when there's a game on. And, been seeing him with a blonde pretty regularly lately."

"Do you know her name?"

"Nah," said Lind. "She's attractive, though. She usually doesn't leave 'til morning."

"Mr. Hasbrook never introduced you?"

"Well, I liked the kid, but it's not like we were close. I only see people come and go because my apartment is out front, and I have my computer set up by the window. Does that make me nosy?"

"When was the last time you actually saw Mr. Hasbrook?"

"A week ago Monday. Ten days ago, or so, I guess. I was leaving to go have dinner with my mom, just as Charlie was coming home from work. We said hello to each other, made some quick small-talk... you know."

Booth made another note, then thought for a moment. "Let me ask you something: did you smell anything funny over the past week?"

"What, like a rotting body?"

"Yeah, like that."

"No," Lind said, shaking his head. Then, he stopped and scrunched his nose. "That's weird, isn't it?"

"What did Charles Hasbrook do for a living?"

"He worked in a meat-packing plant outside of town."

Bells went off in Booth's head. Meat packing. No flesh on the bones. Lots of very sharp instruments, and numerous people associated with the victim who are trained to use them. Suddenly, he felt very tired.

"Do you have contact information for his employer?" Booth asked.

"Of course. Come downstairs, I'll get it for you."

"Thanks." But before following Mr. Lind downstairs, he turned to a nearby junior agent, and said, "Ask Dr. Brennan to check out the fridge and freezer, see if there's stash of meat. If so, tell her we need to find out if any of it is human."

"Yes, sir."

"Thanks, Agent Paulson."

Booth made it his business to know the names and faces of the junior agents and forensic workers that tended to buzz around a crime scene along with him and Dr. Brennan in the first few minutes after a crime scene opened. Brennan didn't see the point, but he knew that it was good to treat "underlings" with respect because then it was easier to get better, more immediate work out of them. Also, his mother had raised him simply to treat everyone with respect, period.

But it also served another purpose. Knowing who belonged at the crime scene and who didn't could be a valuable investigative tool.

As he went down the stairs to unit number one to follow up with Anthony Lind, Booth spied a man in full FBI-issued gear, one whom he had never seen before. They met on the landing, and the man tipped the brim of his cap to Agent Booth, and smiled slightly, before proceeding up the stairs.

Booth made quick mental notes of the man, intending to find out his name later. The stranger was tall - just a hair shorter than Booth himself - and thin. He had sharp, distinctive features, but struck Booth as neither good-looking nor homely. He seemed to have dark hair, and the only way Booth could tell was by the sideburns that protruded from below the FBI cap. Not muttonchops exactly, but still noticeable, especially since the FBI personal deportment code forbade sideburns such as these. And, strangest of all, the man wore tennis shoes. More accurately, he wore red canvas Converse, which was definitely not standard-issue gear for a federal agent.