Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC and others. Highlander: The Series belongs to Gaumont Télévision, Rysher Entertainment and Davis/Panzer Productions. Any copyright infringements were not intended. This story was written for entertainment and not for profit.

Spoilers and Timing: General and more specific spoilers are for the Highlander: The Series episodes "Brothers in Arms," "Methos," "Finale, Part 1," "Glory Days" and "Band of Brothers." There are also general spoilers for Doctor Who. The story takes place at various points in Joe's life and with various Doctors. It includes a cameo by an original character, Ron Calais, who first appeared in my story "An Immortal Life, Trials Past: Seacouver and Sunnydale, 1999, A Day in the Life" (though this isn't a Buffy or an Angel crossover).

Chicago, 1967 - Pick a Doctor, any Doctor
Vietnam, 1968 - Tenth Doctor
London, 1970 - Third Doctor era
Paris, 1988 - Sixth Doctor
Virginia, 1989 - Tenth Doctor
France, 1993 - Tenth Doctor

Summary: Highlander/Doctor Who, multiple Doctors. An odd sound filled the air, a cross between a car engine turning over and a piece of serrated concrete dragged across a slab of marble. It was unlike any sound Joe Dawson had ever heard, and it was a sound he would never forget.

Author's Note: This was going to be a drabble series. Really, it was.

Author's Note #2: I read somewhere, years ago, that actor Jim Byrnes, who plays Joe Dawson on Highlander, drives a car with customized accelerator and brake pedals adapted for use by hand. If anyone has any information on this kind of car, such as whether or not it exists and what the interior looks like, please let me know. I'd really appreciate it, thanks.

Author's Note #3: (Contains Spoilers for a scene in this story; you have been warned). I have mixed feelings about the likelihood of the scene in the hospital in Vietnam where Joe contemplates suicide. I keep thinking about the Highlander episode "Glory Days." In it, Joe finally admits to his high school sweetheart, Betsy, that he lost his legs decades ago in Vietnam. It takes him some time to admit it; at first, he doesn't want her to know. He still feels strongly about the loss of his legs even after all those years. Joe's prosthetics are mentioned only a handful of times throughout the series, but when they are, Joe strongly wishes he still had his legs and he sometimes feels ashamed of his prosthetics. At the same time, Joe is often portrayed as being stubborn and prideful. Perhaps he did entertain the thought of suicide. Perhaps he didn't. I think it could have gone either way, based on what I've seen on the show. I don't mean to belittle this sort of thing in real life or offend people in any way. I do not condone suicide in any circumstances.

*****

Joe's hands wrapped around the back of Betsy's prom dress as he gently pushed her against a blue wooden wall. Her breath held a hint of the strawberries she'd eaten earlier. They kissed, and he could taste the strawberries on her tongue, too. It had never been his favorite flavor, but on her, it was the perfect touch.

An odd sound filled the air, a cross between a car engine turning over and a piece of serrated concrete dragged across a slab of marble. It was so close that they pulled their lips apart.

"What is that?" she asked.

"I don't-"

His reply turned into a surprised yelp as Betsy tumbled backward with a scream. He landed on top of her.

He scrambled off of her and asked her if she was all right. He helped her get to her feet and he glanced behind her.

An empty sidewalk marked the place where a wall had been just a moment ago.

*****

A light was on at the nurse's station, but it was nearly pitch dark at the opposite end of the tent. Joe lay on his cot, staring up at the deep shadows in the tent's folds. It hurt to move too much. His legs ached, too, except they didn't. Phantom pains, the doctors had called them. They had said it would be best just to keep still as much as possible.

That was easy for them to say. They could walk freely about. They could run, fog, jump, stand on their tiptoes and cross their legs. Joe couldn't do any of that. He never would ever again.

His parents didn't know yet. He didn't know how he'd break it to them that their son was a damn cripple. He could just imagine the horror on Betsy's face.

He reached under the mattress near his head. His hand wrapped around the barrel of a ___. He slowly pulled it out. He couldn't even see it in the darkness, but he could feel it easily enough.

"Is that it, then? You're just going to give up?"

Joe jumped and had to bite down heard to stifle a yell of pain. "Jesus!" he hissed. He looked to the left. A black silhouette, outlined by a light somewhere outside the tent, stood under the awning of an open tent flap. Two cots filled with sleeping marines lay between Joe and the stranger. The man's voice had carried easily, but it didn't appear to have woken anyone else.

"Who're you?" asked Joe.

The stranger crossed his arms and leaned against a support pole. "Isn't that a question you should be asking yourself?" He sounded British, which only puzzled Joe further. As far as he'd known, there weren't any British troops at the MASH unit/camp. "Who are you, Joseph Dawson? Are you someone who gives up, or are you a survivor?"

"How the hell do you know my name?"

He could practically feel the man's grin. "I know more about you than you realize. Of course, if you pull that trigger and end your life tonight, I won't ever have met you, and this little conversation of ours would never have happened. Either that or the resulting paradox would cause the universe to be ripped apart, but never mind about that. So. You've got a gun. You're hurting, and you want the pain to end. I can understand that, easily."

There was grief in his voice. Joe had heard that tone more times than he'd ever wanted to, both here and back home.

"But that's just it. It's easy to give in. It's easy not to face tomorrow. Life isn't easy, my friend. Things happen, horrible, unbearable things, and it's up to those of us who are left behind to move past it, to find a reason to keep going."

"And what reason is that?" Joe bit back angrily. "Don't know if you noticed, pal, but half of me has been blown to bits!"

The stranger was silent for a long while. "You can go on," he finally said, quietly. "If you give yourself half the chance. This isn't the end for you, Joseph Dawson. There is so much more in store for you."

Joe's hand tightened around the barrel of the gun. His finger stayed off the trigger. "What are you, my fucking fairy godmother?"

He chuckled. "Something along those lines, I guess you could say." He paused. "Give it a day."

Joe frowned. "What?"

"Just a day. If you don't find a reason to live on by tomorrow night, then do it. Kill yourself. A mere 24 hours. Think you could manage that?"

"Doctor!"

A woman screamed the word from somewhere else in the camp. The stranger's head whipped to the left.

"24 hours!" he called into the tent. He turned and rushed away, disappearing from view.

Joe stared at the spot vacated by the British man, apparently a doctor. He caught a hint of something bright blue on the edge of his vision, and his eyes slid past the empty spot and settled a little way to the right. Peaking out behind the far corner of another tent, half within a field of light, was a tall, rectangular blue box.

He wasn't sure why he put the gun back in its hiding place. He lay awake for most of the night, replaying the conversation over and over again in his mind.

He dozed off, and when he woke again, the sky was considerably lighter. A noise he hadn't heard in a year, one so unique he'd never forgotten it, grated through the air.

He lifted his head and glanced out the tent flap. The blue box was gone.

*****

Even as he stepped off the plane at Heathrow, Joe still had trouble believing he was actually there. He'd been the envy of everyone back home; he was the first Dawson to seek civilian employment outside the United States in three generations. He was even walking, if hobbling on a couple of prosthetic legs could be considered walking, which he'd take over being stuck in a wheelchair any day. Here he was, on his way to the Watcher Academy in Geneva with a brief two-day layover in London.

James Harkins, head of the UK branch of the Watchers, was waiting for him outside the airport. He shook Joe's hand enthusiastically, and Joe returned it. Harkins promised to show him around London, including the Central Watcher Headquarters of the United Kingdom, located within the city.

It was after lunch when they were walking to the closest Tube entrance that Joe nearly had a heart attack. Sitting on a street corner was a very familiar blue box.

The longer he stared at it, though, the more he realized this box didn't completely resemble the one he remembered. This box was a little thinner, was painted a lighter shade of blue and had a larger light on the top. The similarities, however, were uncanny.

"You all right, Dawson?" Harkins asked.

"Yeah…yeah, I'm all right." He nodded in the box's direction. "What's that box thing over there, sir?"

The Watcher turned to look. "Oh, that? It's just a Police Box."

"A what?"

Harkins explained the functions of the Police Box as he led the way into the Tube station.

Joe saw a number of Police Boxes of varying sizes over the next two days. Most weren't in use anymore, though some were. None of them completely matched the box he'd seen that night in Vietnam or that other night in Chicago. He kept on the lookout, though. Just in case.