As soon as he knew his smaller self was alive, Andrew knew that being separated from himself for as long as he had would make recombination difficult. While his ability to resolve dissonant memories has improved since he first gained his power, he'd never been split for more than a few hours before now. Now, though...it had been a month between the time he'd been lost and when he regained contact with himself and was rescued from the Master's clutches. Andrew had been understandably ruffled about how long it had taken for someone to work out where he was and do something about it. Andrew, on the other hand, was simply relieved that the Master hadn't done anything worse to him than to treat him like an unusually chatty hamster.

He both agreed, despite the very strong urge to become whole as soon as possible, to make his way home before attempting to reabsorb himself. He was right to be cautious -- a month's worth of double memories was enough to literally lay him out on the couch for the rest of the afternoon, and for more than a week afterward he went around calling himself "we" and bickering with himself aloud in a way that had previously been reserved for when there were actually more than one of him. In short, he had not been well, and suddenly being walloped with morning sickness (and afternoon sickness, and evening sickness) really hadn't helped matters. There had been a lot of arguing back and forth -- could it be called back and forth when he provided both sides? -- about the impossibility of the pregnancy, Andrew growing more and more cross with Andrew over his refusal to accept what he'd been told by the TARDIS herself now via the Doctor. Andrew hadn't been there, of course; he'd been locked up in a hamster cage, blissfully ignorant of what Andrew was going through. Andrew contended that Andrew was just being dramatic and internalizing stress now that they were having trouble reintegrating, to Andrew's frustration.

Fortunately for Andrew (not to mention James, who has to live with him), the mental split wasn't permanent. Gradually the lines have blurred and the arguments have died down as it becomes harder to separate which of him thinks what, and then as it becomes less important to even try to remember in those terms. By now he's stopped referring to himself in the plural, but the sickness continues and he just feels bad in general, all bloated and tender. Finally, he gives in and contacts the rebels to ask what they've got in the way of medical professionals. The TARDIS could scan him and tell him if anything's wrong -- has done already -- but she apparently didn't see fit to tell him what was going on in his own body, and he's embarrassed to appeal to the Doctor for help. This is new to him, a process he only ever observed obliquely and with vague, detached curiosity when he saw it done by humans, and his body is already misbehaving badly enough to really worry him.

The rebels, it turns out, have one doctor qualified as an ob-gyn. There's no equipment to run an ultrasound, but Andrew dutifully turned up this morning to meet her and demand a scrip for something to deal with the nausea. The exam, brief as it was, was profoundly awkward and uncomfortable for both of them, and mainly confirmed what he'd already known: that there's no place for a baby to come out of him. No place for one to be put in him, either, but apparently that hasn't stopped James from somehow doing it anyway. That means surgery, which means a long string of other complications, which means a very moody Andrew as he takes advantage of a lull in his digestive woes to have a bit of lunch in the base cafeteria.