Happy For Deep People

Chapter 5

 

Martha walked briskly, the clip-clop of her heels echoing through the corridor as she made her way back to the infirmary. She wondered whether someone had raised the heating in the base? Or was it just her?

She felt guilty for leaving Sally in her cell, but right now there was nothing she could do; she had thought about insisting to Colonel Oduya that Sally be moved to the infirmary for tests, but her condition had improved significantly, and there was little to no reason to justify moving her on medical grounds. Not without lying to him outright, which she had been reluctant to do, although she now considered that it had probably been a mistake to put her own ethics ahead of Sally's emotional well-being. After all, which was worse; telling a white lie to her superior or allowing a friend to be confined to a horrible dank cell for no good reason?

A friend.

Martha couldn't help but smile. For in the midst of all this... mess... she felt as if she had made a new friend, assuming Sally could bear to be around her in future given the circumstances of their bonding; she would likely want to shut out all possible reminders of these events and get on with her life. Martha would understand that, naturally, but a part of her hoped that she would still be able to call Sally Sparrow a friend a year or two from now.

She owed her a significant debt, after all, for the prospect of living out the rest of her life from 1969 onwards was not one that she had relished at the time. Oh, it was fun for a while of course – getting to watch the moon landing live, seeing Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid on the big screen – if not without its ups and downs. She hadn't enjoyed having to work in a shop to support the Doctor's experiments as he constructed his “timey-wimey detector” out of what had looked like a load of old junk – which had of course meant having to get to grips with the pre-decimal currency of the time. “How am I supposed to know how many shillings are in a pound?” she had protested to the Doctor. He had given her a crash course, and luckily she prided herself on being a fast learner.

Then there had been Billy.

His face still haunted her. She recalled his arrival in 1969, confused and disorientated at the sudden change in his surroundings. The Doctor had surmised that he had arrived there by the touch of the same Angel that had displaced Martha and him. The Time Lord had then explained the situation to Billy, telling the young police officer that he was needed for a very important task; to take a message to Sally Sparrow. “And I'm sorry, Billy. I am very, very sorry...” the Doctor had told him, “but it's going to take you a while.”

Martha had felt for him, and to this day it still pained her to think of the look on Billy Shipton's face, the moment it truly dawned on him that he would never see his family and friends again; that he would live out the rest of his existence in the past, having to make a new life for himself. Billy had moved in with them, to the flat she and the Doctor had shared – the Doctor had called upon some contacts in the time period to secure them accommodation; Ben someone, and... Polly, was it? Eventually, when it became apparent that she and the Doctor would not be joining him on his 38-year sojourn, he had broken down and lashed out at the Doctor. “Why me?!” Billy had screamed. “Why does it have to be me?!”

“Because it can't be anyone else,” the Doctor had replied calmly before repeating, “I'm sorry, Billy.”

“Sorry?!” Billy had cried, fighting back tears, his strong accent detectable in the single word. “How is that supposed to make me feel?! You're asking me to give up everything! I'm never going to see my family again!”

Martha had winced, and fought back her own tears, struggling to retain her composure and remain resolute for her own sake as much as Billy's, but the Doctor had simply stared, coldly and dispassionately. If he had felt anything for Billy's plight, he had done a damn good job of hiding it. Billy had held his gaze for a long moment, as if awaiting some response from the Doctor, some acknowledgement of the gravity of what the man was asking of him. When none came, Billy had turned around quickly, picked up a china ornament from the mantelpiece and launched it across the room, making Martha jump, and letting out an unearthly howl like a wounded animal, no longer able to hold back his emotions. The ornament had smashed against the wall and shattered into a hundred pieces, and still the Doctor had stood, coldly, wearing the same expression she had seen on his face in the days after leaving 1913. Martha had gone over to Billy, who had collapsed to his knees in the middle of the room, and wrapped her arms around him tentatively. He had buried his face in her shoulder and sobbed uncontrollably. Yet even as she had whispered soothingly in his ear, “Shh... it's alright... it's OK....”, Martha had looked squarely at the Doctor, seeing a side of him that she didn't much care for and which, frankly, frightened her.

They had known even before arriving in '69 that Billy would live a relatively long and happy life, eventually adjusting to his new life and settling down, ironically, with a woman named Sally. Martha had told Billy that he would be alright, but the Doctor had forbidden her to divulge too much detail. He had explained to her that those displaced in time by the Weeping Angels were suffused with the residue of temporal energy from the displacement, which would eventually expire upon reaching the point in time that the victim originally left. This would also drain away all other energy in the person's body, effectively draining their life force; a person sent back in time by the Angels could of course die of natural causes or other means before that point, but they would not survive beyond it. The Doctor and Martha had known from Sally's written account of her experience that Billy would survive long enough to give her the Doctor's message – to look at the list of 17 DVDs in her possession – but that he would pass away peacefully in his sleep within an hour of her arrival at his hospital bedside.

Billy had asked the Doctor what would happen to him in the future, and much to Martha's dismay, the Doctor had told him; the day Billy would see Sally again would be the day he would die. “You've got until the rain stops,” the Doctor had said cryptically. She had been unable to believe his callousness sometimes – those moments were often painful reminders of his inhumanity. She had fallen in love with an alien.

It still sounded completely mad.

When the TARDIS had arrived in 1969 – thanks to Sally and Larry – Martha and the Doctor had departed, but not before allowing Billy to take up residence in their flat which, although a two-bedroom accommodation, was much better suited to only one tenant. Martha had also put in a word to her boss at the shop, recommending Billy to take over her old job. It wasn't much but it would get him on his feet. Sadly, one of the most difficult things to endure during her time in '69 had been the degree of casual racism she had experienced in dealing with members of the public, particularly from the older generation, and she really hoped that Billy would not have to endure much in the way of similar prejudice.

What had been harder still had been living in such close quarters with the Doctor, especially so soon after their experience in 1913. The Doctor had been forced to hide from the fearsome Family of Blood, and had been forced to use a device called a Chameleon Arch to alter his biology into that of a human. He had become the schoolteacher Mr. John Smith, his true consciousness having been stored within a device that looked to be an ordinary fob watch, however he had retained some residual awareness of his real life – enough to allow Martha into his new life as his maid. When the situation had become grave and she had needed the Doctor, “John Smith” had been reluctant to “die.” Martha had fought desperately to get him to open the watch and become the Doctor again, and in pleading with him to do so, had revealed the true extent of her feelings for him.

When the Doctor returned, he had retained all memory of his time as Mr. Smith, including her heartfelt declaration of love. She had, naturally, been mortified and had attempted to backtrack desperately, telling him that she would have said anything to get him to change. The Doctor, no doubt wishing to spare her any further embarrassment, had accepted her explanation. Things were nevertheless strained for a time after that; it had been the elephant in the TARDIS, and Martha had been awkwardly conscious of his eyes burrowing into her soul whenever he looked at her, no doubt wondering whether she was thinking about him in that way. He had gone from genuinely not having noticed her attraction to him, to pretending not to notice.

1969 had therefore been a painful experience; having to live together in a grotty flat without the sanctity of the TARDIS and its infinite internal space – before, she could run to some distant corner of the ship and pine away for him; in the flat, she had been self-conscious of peeing too loudly. She had also had to return from work every evening to find him tinkering with his contraption – sadly not a euphemism, she mused cheekily – acknowledging her with a perfunctory greeting and barely even looking at her all night. That had been the most painful thing of all; living together in that flat had not only made it harder for him not to notice her, but it had made it harder for her to bear not being noticed. So much for the Summer of '69.

Seeing Sally again had brought all those painful memories back to the surface. She thought again of the woman sitting alone in her cell, and how her face had fallen when Martha had announced that she was leaving her again. She had seemed to brighten a little during their conversation, which had pleased Martha greatly. Sally had seemed so impressed that Martha had helped save the world that Martha hadn't wanted to reveal that she had also been prepared to end it.

The nightmares had stopped, that was at least a good thing. She often thought of the woman who had fed the UNIT soldiers at the German Osterhagen station, before they had gone home to die. She thought of her face as she had pulled her pistol on Martha, threatening her with a quick death unless she surrendered the Osterhagen Key. Martha had called her bluff and told her to shoot. While a part of her hadn't believed the woman capable of murder, another had harboured doubts that she would actually lower the weapon. She hadn't feared death, in fact a part of her had longed for it; to be cut down in her prime, relieved of the horrendous burden of choosing the fate of the entire world.

“Martha,” the woman had said in her native tongue, “you're going straight to hell!”

Martha had looked at her solemnly as the elevator doors had closed between them, and replied simply, “I know.”

She still wasn't entirely certain that she wasn't in hell. She reflected on her relationship with Tom and how she had hurt him. She had genuinely thought herself to be in love with him. At the height of her feelings for the Time Lord, she would have thought it inconceivable that she could put anyone through the same emotional pain that she herself had gone through, yet she had done exactly that. In her own defence, she considered that she and Tom had drifted apart due to their respective career paths – with Martha having little choice but to take up her position with UNIT and Tom remaining in the “real world,” they had found that they had had less in common than they had thought. This had been compounded by spending most of their time on separate continents, not to mention the nature of her work with UNIT making it extremely difficult to maintain a relationship. Yet, she still felt guilty. In this timeline, she had pursued Tom, and she had been the one to call it off at the end of the day; she felt as if she had used him.

Then there had been Mickey. Sweet, lovely, gorgeous Mickey. She grinned in spite of herself. He made her go weak at the knees just thinking about his smile, and she knew he was interested. Yet, she had made her excuses and pushed him away repeatedly, fearful of putting her heart on the line again, but also fearful of hurting him. She didn't know much about what had gone on between him and Rose, but it didn't take a psychologist to see that he had been hurt by his experience with her, and she was reluctant to engage in any sort of relationship with someone else who was still haunted by a past love. Or was that just another excuse?

As she approached the infirmary, she mused rather sadly on her self-imposed lack of a love life, despite knowing that she should have been thinking about the situation at hand. She rounded a corner and jumped a mile, letting out a startled breath as she came face to face with Private Packer.

This was getting ridiculous.

“What the–?” she began without thinking. Did he ever do anything else but sneak around and lie in wait for her? When he didn't reply she continued, “you frightened the life out of me!” She caught her breath, placing her hand on her chest.

“Sorry,” he said finally. “Didn't mean to.”

Martha exhaled sharply. “OK, what's this all about? Were you waiting here for me?”

He nodded. “Yeah,” he said simply.

She eyed him quizzically. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk,” he replied.

She looked him up and down. “OK,” she replied, warily. “I really should be getting back to work though, so make it quick.” She walked past him and opened the door to the infirmary, beckoning him inside with a simple nod.

He followed her into the office area, taking a look around as she sat at her desk. “So,” she began, “what's this “connection” you think we've got?”

He stared at her admiringly; she was sitting down, and he towered over her, yet she still exuded a strong confidence that actually put him on the back foot. Not many women could do that, especially not women of her less-than-imposing physical stature. The higher status was undoubtedly hers, and he deferred it to her unquestioningly. “You don't remember me,” he stated.

She seemed taken aback. “Should I? Have we met before?”

He nodded. “Yes. Briefly.” He paused, seeming to give the question further thought. “Well, not so much “met,” properly...”

She laughed nervously. “Well, we either have or we haven't?”

“You laughed,” he said.

“Pardon?” Martha said, beginning to feel a little uneasy.

“You laughed at him...”

Packer's words were beginning to grow strained, as if he were fighting for them.

“Who?”

“I escorted you to him,” Packer continued. “He towered over you, but you were so strong...”

Oh my God... Martha's expression fell as the blood drained from her face.

“He made you kneel.”

Martha gasped. She had seen him before.

“He made you bow your head... He talked of thousands of ships and a new order of...” he appeared to struggle for a moment, before completing the sentence; “Time Lords.”

A shiver ran down Martha's spine. She stared, open-mouthed.

“You just laughed at him.” He looked at her with what appeared to be a mixture of admiration and disbelief.

“You were on the Valiant,” Martha stated.

He nodded purposefully. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I was there. I remember all of it.” He fixed her with an almost mesmerising stare. “I know who you are.”

She was frightened, yet she didn't know why.

“You told a story... all across the continents, all on your own,” he began, paraphrasing her own words to the Master.

“Stop it,” Martha said, her voice tiny.

“No weapons, just words...”

“I said, stop it!” she cried with surprising force.

He did. The silence was deafening, and the seconds ticked by like minutes. Finally, Martha spoke. “Why didn't you tell me before?”

He shrugged. “I don't know,” he said. “I guess I didn't want you to judge me by it; I wanted you to get to know me for who I am, not just because I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Martha wasn't sure that made much sense but she accepted it. “You know,” she said nonetheless, “I might have had a bit more sympathy for you if you'd been upfront right away.”

He shrugged again. “Maybe,” he said.

“Are you...” she began, asking the obvious question that came to mind as her “doctor” persona asserted itself, “OK?”

He cocked his head, as if unsure of her meaning.

“I mean, after what happened?” she clarified. “It's not easy, adjusting to normal life again after something like that. Believe me, I know.” She also considered that he had been right in his earlier assertion; they did have a connection. Was he really interested in her romantically, though? Or even sexually? Was he just drawn to her given the nature of what had happened, and given that she was practically the only person who could understand what he'd been through.

He considered her question. “I'm not really sure, to tell you the truth,” he admitted. “I still have nightmares,” he confessed, opening up to her, “but not so much now.”

“Have you talked to someone?” she asked. “A counsellor?”

He looked at her as if she were mad. “What, and get sectioned? Have you?”

Martha nodded in understanding, feeling silly for voicing such a daft suggestion. It occurred to her that he may have suffered a form of Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, and if so probably should not have been allowed to return to duty, yet what doctor could understand what he'd been through?

Except me, she thought.

“No,” she replied, “but I've had my family for support. Who've you had who you can talk to who understands?” She scrutinised him for a moment. “Is that why you're so interested in me?”

“Ah... yeah,” he replied, a lecherous smirk creeping across his face as he avoided her questions. “Your family. I spent a year with them, remember. Your sister's cute,” he said, “and your mum looks hot in a French maid's outfit...”

“Hey!” Martha snapped, her tolerance and empathy only extending so far. “Don't you dare make light of what happened to them!” Why was he doing this? Why was he lashing out at someone who was only trying to help?

“What about me?!” he snapped back suddenly. “Do you know how it felt to have to serve the Master? How many times I watched him kill that bastard over and over again?!”

Jack... She really wished he were here right now. Packer's words silenced her momentarily. She really wasn't without sympathy, but she had far more sympathy for her family. Finding her voice, she berated him. “I don't care!” she lied, rising to her feet quickly and literally standing up to him. “You don't talk about my family like that!” She paused for a moment, inhaling sharply. “Do you know what I went through during that year? 'Cause let me tell you, you can't even imagine!”

He puffed up his shoulders, like a lion about to pounce on its prey. Gritting his teeth, he shook with rage, and for a moment she actually thought he was going to strike her.

She flinched almost imperceptibly, yet retained her composure and held his gaze. He was right; she had faced down the Master and laughed in his face – this was a stroll in the park.

He seemed to physically shrink as he backed down.

“Get out,” Martha said sternly, without raising her voice again. She motioned toward the door with her eyes.

He hesitated for just a moment, before retreating and storming out of the room, leaving the door open behind him.

Martha let out a long sigh of relief, one she hadn't even realised she'd been holding in. She moved to close the door, then returned to her chair. She sat in silence for a few minutes, shaking, her elbows resting on the desk and her head in her hands.

She felt hot and bothered, her clothes sticky against her skin. While adrenaline was coursing through her, she hadn't exerted herself and it wasn't that hot, surely? There was something else; she was tense, and felt... A chilling thought struck her, almost providing a physical relief from the heat. It certainly put all thoughts of Private Scott Packer out of her mind.

She rose to her feet swiftly, and made her way to the ward, adjacent to which was a lab where she had been running various tests on her patients' bodily fluids; blood tests, urinalysis, examination of saliva. The thought had occurred to her that any one of these could contain vectors for the infectious agent, possibly leading to a spread of infection, yet she had believed herself to have taken all possible precautions when collecting the samples to ensure her own safety. Perhaps not, given how she was feeling.

* * * *

Half an hour later, Martha ran to the phone adjacent to her desk. She pressed for an inside line and dialled #01 to be put through to Colonel Oduya's office. After a moment, the line connected, but all she heard was a dialling tone, indicating that her superior was likely engaged on another line.

She didn't have time to wait. Slamming the phone back onto its hook, she ran to speak to the Colonel in person.

* * * *

Colonel Oduya placed the phone back on its hook and sighed.

He had been speaking to his superiors at UNIT HQ. The situation seemed to be worsening by the minute; the medical experts that he had requested as support for Doctor Jones had been delayed by a traffic accident on the M4, and he had reluctantly requested that a contingent of regular medical officers be dispatched immediately in their stead.

Having re-read the dispiriting accounts of the earlier incident involving the virus, he hoped that Dr. Jones' efforts had not proved fruitless thus far. He sighed, and rose from his seat to fetch some water from the cooler on the other side of his office. As he got to his feet, there was an urgent knock on the door.

“Come in,” he called, warily. If this were Dr. Jones, as he suspected, somehow he had a feeling she wouldn't be bringing good news. Sure enough, the door opened to reveal the young doctor in its frame, and she entered the room quickly, a grave expression on her face.

“Doctor Jones,” he began. “What can I do for you?”

The young woman was breathless. She inhaled deeply and appeared to steel herself to reply. “Colonel, you have to quarantine the base,” she said quickly.

“I'm sorry?” Oduya replied, caught off balance by her urgent appeal. Sadly, his suspicion had been correct – she had not brought good news.

Martha spoke quickly and energetically. “The virus, it's spreading. It's mutated. It's become some kind of micro-organism that's carried in...”

“Slow down,” the Colonel said calmly, urging her to take a breath and start again. He employed all the equanimity at his disposal to keep from reacting to the doctor's revelation. “Now, start from the beginning. You say it's mutated?”

Martha breathed deeply and began again. “The virus is spreading. It's being carried from person to person by perspiration.”

Oduya scowled, his shoulders dropping.

Having begun to experience symptoms, she had racked her brains for any possible method of transmission based on her interaction with her patients. She had noted upon her initial examination that they had been sweating profusely, and recalled feeling Hannah Sparrow's forehead for a temperature. Viral transmission by sweat was rare and unlikely – most viruses were transferred in the blood stream – but not impossible, and she had decided to check all possible methods of transmission.

“Damn,” the Colonel replied after a moment, turning away from her and placing his clenched fists on his desk.

“Colonel,” Martha said, “have you interacted with anyone involved with the capture of Sally or the patients? Physically interacted, I mean. Have you touched any of them; like a handshake?”

“Uh...” Oduya began. His eyes closed, he pinched the bridge of his nose, apparently struggling to recall.

“Think, please, it's important,” Martha pressed.

“No,” he said finally. “I don't think so.”

Martha sighed. “Can you be sure?”

“Definitely,” Oduya confirmed, suddenly certain.

“Then we need to quarantine all those who have or may have been infected,” Martha stated. “That includes me.”

He turned to her then. “You?” he asked, before adding; “Of course.” How else would she have determined the spread of infection? He thought for a moment. “I'll order all those who may have come into contact with our guests to report to the lower level. We'll go from there. Anyone up here who starts showing symptoms will be sent down to join you. Can you work in your present condition?” He noted the sheen of perspiration on her skin.

Martha nodded. “I'll have to,” she said resolutely. “Any word on the medical staff?”

Oduya closed his eyes once again and sighed. He explained to her about the motorway accident. “I'm afraid you're on your own for now.”

Martha shuddered. She composed herself quickly, and nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

He offered her a reassuring smile. “Report to the infirmary, Dr. Jones,” he said, his voice soft. “You'll be joined by a few others shortly.”

She nodded again. “Yes, Sir.” Returning his smile, albeit a very forced one, she turned and placed her hand on the door handle. She paused before opening it as another chilling thought struck her. “Colonel,” she said, her hand gripping the handle.

“Yes?” he replied.

Martha pulled her hand away from the handle, leaving a visible sticky imprint. She looked at the Colonel, who had been following her gaze and clearly understood her thinking.

“It could be everywhere,” Martha said, her tone despairing.

“The entire base will have to be quarantined,” he said. “We're off-limits until an answer can be found.”

She held his gaze for a long moment, then turned and opened the door, and walked out of the office. It seemed that she would be “on her own” for a great long while.

Unless... It suddenly occurred to her that there was one option left.

* * * *

“Attention, all personnel; this is an alert. All personnel who have come into direct physical contact with the medical patients in the infirmary, report to the lower level of the base immediately. All those who may have subsequently come into contact with those officers are instructed to join them. This base is now officially under quarantine; we are locked down. Repeat, this is a lockdown.”

As the Colonel's voice left the airwaves, Martha strode out of the lift onto the lower level. She had made a decision; she was going to call the Doctor. She had resisted the temptation so far, believing deep down that she could find an answer without having to resort to enlisting his help, even if some part of her had doubted it, but now the situation was getting out of hand.

If anyone could sort this out, it was him.

Her phone was in her holdall in the infirmary, and she walked as far as her legs would take her. Her legs felt weak, and she felt like she was running a fever.

No, more than that. It felt... Shit, she thought. She felt aroused. The feeling was just like what Sally had described in Hannah; she felt like an insatiable horny teenager.

If the situation were less serious, she would have felt embarrassed. There was no time for that, however. The priority now was to find some way of combating this feeling, and to do so would necessitate putting her own desires on hold. She would fight; she had fought before and won, albeit not without a price, and she would do it again. She wondered what the price might be this time?

Her sanity?

She was frightened. Absolutely terrified. But that would not hold her back; she'd been through far worse than this.

She reached the infirmary, and reached for her holdall. She rummaged around inside it for her phone, finding it in an inside zip-up compartment. The Doctor had jury-rigged her phone back when she had travelled with him, making it capable of phoning vast distances across space and even time. Martha didn't understand how it worked, but it had proved invaluable in the past. When she had left the TARDIS, she had left the phone with him in the event that she might need to contact him in the future. She had been forced to utilise his services twice before, once during the ATMOS incident and again when the Daleks had moved the Earth across space. In theory, the phone could receive calls from anywhere and anywhen in the universe, from any ordinary phone.

She switched on her phone and looked up the Doctor's number in the address book – 07700 900461 – and waited for a connection.

There wasn't one. The signal was dead.

A chill passed through her. The number should have patched her through to the TARDIS, wherever and whenever it was in the universe, without fail. The only time it had failed before was when the Daleks had blocked the signal, but Sarah-Jane Smith's alien supercomputer Mr. Smith had boosted the signal through the Cardiff time rift with Torchwood's help.

Once again it seemed that something was blocking the signal, but what? Or should that be who?

Martha wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. This should not be happening, she thought.

She was shaking, alone and afraid. She stood silently for several moments until a knock at the door startled her.

She gasped. “Who is it?” she called, trying not to betray her fear in her voice.

“Private Harris, ma'am,” came the reply from outside. “Colonel Oduya said...”

“Wait there,” Martha called urgently. “Don't touch anything!”

She moved over to the door and opened it to see Harris standing there with three other officers she hadn't encountered before.

Harris looked vaguely startled by the force of her reply, and he looked at her worriedly.

“What's going on?” he asked. “We were ordered down here and...”

“Just stay on this level,” Martha cut in, holding up a hand to stop him talking. “Try not to interact physically.”

“You what?” Harris asked as his fellow officers exchanged curious glances.

“Just...” Martha began tersely, than caught herself and started again. “Stay down here. We have a virus on the loose that I need to try and contain. It's being spread be perspiration and so you need to try and avoid contact as much as possible – to try and minimise the spread of infection as much as possible.”

“Right,” Harris replied, worriedly.

“Be careful though,” Martha continued. “It could be on anything, any surface.” She decided to level with them. “I'll be honest, the chances of avoiding contracting this thing aren't good, but you all have to try. The symptoms aren't pretty, but I'm working on an antidote.”

“What sort of symptoms?” one of the officers asked.

Martha looked at them, staring at her expectantly. “You might start to experience headaches or dizziness to begin with, followed by perspiration and...” she trailed off as she realised that her own symptoms were no doubt fully visible to the men, and it probably wouldn't do to give away that she herself was suffering from the virus for which she was working to find a cure; to do so likely wouldn't instil much confidence. The officers' worried looks seemed to confirm that they did indeed suspect the truth of her condition.

“Are you alright?” Harris asked her.

Martha forced a smile. “I'm fine,” she replied, lying through her teeth, “You'll also start to experience certain...” she paused to search for the right word, and she winced slightly as she settled on, “urges.”

“Urges?” Harris repeated. “What kind of urges?”

Martha's mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. She exhaled sharply. “You're going to want to nail everything in sight.” What the hell... she thought. She had no time to dance around the issue.

The officers recoiled in surprise. “Oh,” was all Harris could say.

Martha forced another smile. “Yeah...”

“Right,” Harris said. “Well, we'd better let you get on with it then.” He forced a nervous chuckle.

Martha nodded. “If you'll excuse me...” She took a step back inside the infirmary and started to close the door. “Hold on,” she said suddenly as a thought struck her, causing the officers to look back at her. “Who exactly was responsible for capturing the patients, and Sally... the woman in the cell?”

One of the officers spoke up. “We were on the team that picked up your patients,” he said, indicating himself and a colleague standing next to him.

“And we brought in the other one. Sally,” Harris added, indicating himself and the remaining officer.

“Who else?” Martha wanted to know.

“A couple of others,” Harris answered her. “Scott Packer, the Private who was with me earlier when we met you in the bay.”

Martha sighed. As if I need reminding who he is, she thought. What she really wanted to know was the answer to her next question. “Was Private Packer the one who injured Sally?”

Harris and his colleague looked at each other, while Martha waited patiently for an answer.

Harris looked back at her. “Yeah,” he replied, noting that Martha didn't look a bit surprised. “I told him he shouldn't have...”

“I see,” Martha said flatly. “Thanks. That'll be all, Private.”

Harris hesitated a moment, then beckoned to his fellow officers to leave the doctor to work. The quartet then turned and walked away.

Martha stood for a moment, seething quietly.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She should have known.

It occurred to her that if all who had come into contact with the patients were now confined to this level of the base, Packer would be down here as well. She resolved to find him later and have another strong word with him.

For now though, she had bigger fish to fry. She reached for the telephone once again, regretting that she had not been issued with a walkie talkie. She should have been able to get through to the Doctor, and her lack of success worried her; either something was blocking the signal or something had happened to the Doctor, and neither possibility bore thinking about. In the event of the former being the case, she would have to inform Colonel Oduya.

Holding the phone to her ear, she was surprised to hear nothing on the end of the line, not even a dialling tone.

That meant the base phones were out too.

Now she was seriously beginning to panic. What could possibly be blocking all communications? Martha wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer. She was under orders to stay on this level, but she reasoned that it could be in the best interest of all to warn the Colonel. Once more, she set off for his office.

* * * *

Packer slammed his outstretched palms into the glass. The action had been accompanied by a wild howl of frustration, and he immediately felt the strain on his vocal chords, not to mention the painful sting in his hands.

What the hell is wrong with me? He shut his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply.

The rage and pain had been building since his conversation with Martha Jones, giving rise to a violent and uncontrollable outburst that shocked even him. He had felt as if he were about to burst like a balloon, until the pain caught up with him and found expression.

He stared at his reflection, seeing it stare back at him with undisguised contempt. He drew a long, deep breath and looked at his hands, still stinging and red. He washed and dried them, and then cast one last glance at his odious visage before leaving the Gents' toilets that had been his refuge for the last ten minutes.

As he emerged into the corridor there was an eerie sense of calm. No one was around, and not a sound could be heard bar the thrum of the nearby cooling vent. He leaned back against the door and closed his eyes, retreating into the darkness. Hearing footsteps in the distance, he listened carefully and smiled.

Heels.

There were very few women on the base, and even fewer who wore heels. It was her, he'd wager, and she seemed very eager to get to her destination. Opening his eyes, he inclined his head in the direction of the sound and started to make his way towards it. The footsteps grew louder until, sure enough, Dr. Jones rounded the corridor. She gave a startled look as she saw him, then a slight roll of the eyes before continuing in her stride, apparently intent on ignoring him. Her demeanour told him in no uncertain terms that she just didn't have time for him right now.

“We should stop meeting like this,” he said in the most bored voice he could affect.

“Go away,” she said tersely, and carried on walking.

“That's a bit harsh,” he stated.

Martha huffed. She had actually thought it quite tame. “I don't think so,” she said flatly, then vowed not to respond to him further, to not even say another word. She could tell that that resolution was about to be sorely tested as he caught up and fell into line with her.

“I'm sorry if I was rude earlier,” he said, unexpectedly. “About your family.”

Martha gave a slight chortle. If?

“Sometimes I open my mouth and words come out,” he said flippantly as he matched the rhythm of her footsteps. “It's always been a weakness.”

Somehow, Martha doubted that words were his greatest weapon.

“Stupid, really,” he continued, undaunted by the silent treatment. “You'd think I'd be able to keep my mouth in check. I'm a soldier, I'm supposed to be disciplined.” He chuckled.

“Yeah, well I'm guessing you were behind the lines when intelligence and charm were dished out?” Damn.

“Ouch,” he replied, then looked at her with a faint smile. “At least you're still talking to me.”

What the hell was wrong with him?! Martha stopped mid-stride and turned to face him. “You are stalking me! I've had it up to here!” She held her palm vertically at forehead level.

“You're saluting me now?” he said cheekily.

“And another thing,” she began, her voice raising, “I want a word with you about the way you hurt a friend of mine!”

Shit, he thought.

“You should be in that cell, not her!” Martha exclaimed, pointing her finger at him. She caught her temper and lowered her voice just a little. “Right now though, I have got a job to do, and you do not come very high on my list of priorities, but make no mistake; we will talk!”

He smirked at her. “You are beautiful when you're angry.”

Martha didn't see it coming, didn't even feel it. Before she knew what had happened, she had slapped him hard across the face.

Packer looked stunned for a moment, but then an expression of pure rage stretched across his face. Martha looked deep into his eyes, and for a moment it was as if all humanity were extinguished from his being. She recoiled in fear.

He held her gaze for a few seconds, then seemed to retreat. She breathed a faint sigh of relief, one she hoped he hadn't perceived.

“Not bad,” he said as he rubbed his sore cheek. The compliment seemed genuine.

Martha's anger subsided, displaced by the shock of what she had done, yet she still felt intensely anxious, and the heat was building inside her like a forest fire. Her detonative arousal threatening to overwhelm her. She turned from him abruptly and moved away. Again, he followed her.

“What do you want from me?” she said finally, continuing her stride.

“I want to fuck you,” he said without missing a beat.

Martha's heart skipped a beat. “Why?” she asked, coming to another swift halt.

Stupid question, she thought. There was a virus going around that was no doubt making him feel this way. Also, he was a man.

“Because you're hot,” he said, “and because you're a legend.”

She eyed him curiously. “Is that what this is about? Doing a legend?” She emphasised her words, simultaneously giving them deeper meaning and making them seem ridiculous.

He didn't respond, preferring to stare her down. He moved around her slowly, coming to a stop in front of her, this time obstructing her path. Did he just enjoy playing games with her? There was a look of pure, undiluted lust in his eyes, barely contained and directed at her like a starving man eyeing a plate of food.

He was a Neanderthal, plain and simple. She wanted to hit him; to spit in his face and scream at him to leave her alone. Yet, she now found herself rooted to the spot, unable to tear herself away from his penetrating gaze.

“Stop it,” she said, her voice tiny.

“What?” he replied. “You fucking hate me so much, why don't you fuck off back to your patients?”

“I...” she began, “I have to see the Colonel. Let me pass.” She spoke with confident authority, yet still he blocked her way.

“Didn't know he was your type. You could always just forget about him and let me...”

“You could always go to Hell...” she threw back, momentarily finding her voice.

He grinned. “Oh, I'm already there, love,” he said, “but I could bring you down with me.”

A chill ran down her spine. Yet she was getting hotter, and her palms were sweating as the effects of this... whatever it was... began to get to her. He was a bastard, she didn't fancy him, didn't even like him, but right now there was something about him – something she couldn't begin to rationalise...

She thought of Tom. Poor Tom. She hated herself for what she'd done to him, for what she had become. Once, she had been a woman of medicine; she had wanted to mend hearts, not break them, and to save lives, not take them. Now, she was a human weapon of war. She had seen death on a large scale, had seen almost the end of the world, and upon her return from the brink of Armageddon she had poured all her pain and rage into an innocent man. She had taken a good person and broken him.

Now, she was scarred. Scarred and part of the beast.

He had done this to her.

The Doctor.

She had loved him, and this is where it had gotten her.

She wanted to scream, or else break down and cry. Instead, she looked into the eyes of the man staring into her soul, and replied; “Maybe I'm already there?”

He regarded her with surprise for a moment, not entirely understanding. Nevertheless, he reached out and stroked her cheek with a surprising lightness of touch. Then, he leaned in to kiss her.

She recoiled instinctively, and registered a momentary look of annoyance from him. Then, she felt overtaken by a feeling of intense desire – desire to vent her feelings. Without further preamble, she grabbed his head with both hands and kissed him. It wasn't a slow, sensual kiss, but a sexually charged affront to love and respect, devoid of all passion.

Yes! he thought. This was it. He had her.

He pushed her back up against the wall, pinning her slight frame with all his strength. He kissed her roughly, biting her lower lip and almost drawing blood.

She didn't resist. He broke off the kiss suddenly, motioning to the Ladies' toilets further back down the corridor; he had thought about going back into the Gents' but this would be much more appropriate. Martha followed him in with a sense of urgency. The room appeared to be empty – there were no closed cubicle doors. The kissing resumed and, tearing away at each other's clothes, they fumbled their way into a toilet cubicle. Letting go of her for just a moment, Scott locked the door.

The female compliment of officers on the base was significantly lower than the male, but Martha was nevertheless vaguely conscious of the fact that someone could walk in at any time.

After a moment, she stopped caring even remotely.

Once he had divested her of her white coat and thrown it to the floor, she grasped the fastener of his trousers and began to undo them. Simultaneously he did the same to her, rushing to undo the top button of her trousers before unzipping them. He pulled open the fly to reveal the silk red knickers she had slipped on that morning.

Quickly, she pulled down his trousers part way, while he was seemingly mesmerised simply by the sight of her underwear. She shoved her hand down his boxer shorts and grabbed his cock tightly, and he groaned as she pulled it out into the open air, savouring the moment.

He wasn't exactly huge, but had nothing to be ashamed of. Steeling herself, her heart beating rapidly, Martha sank to her knees and, closing her eyes, took him into her mouth.

He closed his eyes, not entirely certain whether she was going to suck him or bite it off. Fortunately, she seemed to be interested only in the former as she took to alternately licking the head of his penis, taking time to pull back the foreskin slowly, and pumping him rapidly in fits and starts. Then, she almost swallowed him, making murmuring and sucking noises as she devoured him, knowing exactly where to apply just the right amount of pressure to drive him wild.

He'd done it. Doctor Martha Jones, on her knees in supplication.

​He ​was the master now.

It was a fantastic feeling, and if he wasn't careful he wasn't going to last very long, like some inexperienced teenager. He couldn't have that; he had to take back control.

He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, still with his manhood in her mouth. He pulled away, and she allowed him to slowly pull out of her mouth, giving him up with minimal reluctance.

He beckoned her to stand and she slowly, shakily complied. He grabbed his cock, and let his hand slide up the shaft, which was now well-lubricated by Martha's saliva and his own pre-cum. He placed his fingers into the waistband of her trousers and pulled them down to her knees without fanfare. Glancing down at her red lace and satin briefs, which in their damp state betrayed signs of her arousal, he took a deep breath; this was the part he'd really been looking forward to.

Martha's heart pulsated quickly, and her hands were shaking with nerves in a way she hadn't felt since her first time.

She didn't react as he hooked his index fingers into the elastic waistband of her briefs, at the front, and pulled it away from her skin as if pulling her towards him. Then he ran each finger around the band in separate directions until they reached each side of her body, pausing for a second to look her in the eye. She appeared to stare right through him for a second before looking away, neither objecting to or encouraging his advances.

Counting to three in his head, he pulled them down, and his eyes nearly popped out.

Instinctively, he reached out and brushed his knuckles against the dark, soft skin of her beautifully smooth mound, before running his finger up and down along her cute little slit and into her soft folds until he reached her clitoris, which poked out from under its hood. He brushed over it lightly, eliciting a slight gasp from her.

Well done, Martha thought, most men can't even find it.

With surprising tenderness, he stroked his knuckles softly up and down her inner thigh teasingly. Without thinking, she began to stroke her clit with the middle finger of her right hand, tickling it lightly and rubbing it a little the way she always liked to. He followed her lead by going down and diving in with his tongue. She began to feel a familiar tingle as he spent a minute licking her clit, making the same mistake as every other guy she had been with; concentrating solely on the clit instead of nuzzling her whole pussy.

Still, it was nice, and just as her legs began to twitch he stopped and got to his feet, leaving her wanting more. Martha let out a disappointed moan in spite of herself.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, he pushed her back against the wall, causing her to let out a slight yelp. He pressed up against her, his face just a few inches from hers. She closed her eyes and felt his breath on her skin.

“You taste...” he began, but couldn't find the words. He planted a few small kisses on her cheek, and then on her lips, lightly. He didn't press his lips against hers, just touched them enough for her to lick her lips and taste herself on them.

“Spread your legs a bit more,” he commanded.

“Hold on,” she said, and as fast as she could she pulled off her boots, followed swiftly by her trousers and underwear – which had been hanging around her ankles – giving herself more freedom to acquiesce to his request.

When she was ready he grabbed his cock and, spreading his legs apart for balance, made to manoeuvre himself into her. She swallowed, and took a deep breath as he entered her slowly, sliding in with ease. She was hot as a furnace, inside and out.

“You're so wet...” he said, taking in her musky scent. Before she could articulate any sort of reply, he began to thrust into her.

She wrapped her arms around him in an embrace, resting her head on his shoulder resignedly. She moaned and gasped repeatedly as he pounded in and out of her in earnest, making a conscious effort to keep her voice low in case someone heard them, as she found herself beginning to care again.

“Yes!” he gasped, clearly ecstatic to be fulfilling a fantasy.

She couldn't quite believe this was happening; it was as if she were being controlled by some malevolent force intent on destroying her from within.

He began pounding harder, thrusting his whole body weight into her with such force that she was repeatedly slammed against the wall of the cubicle, each impact hurting her back. Holding onto him tightly, she lifted her feet off the floor and wrapped her legs around his waist. He supported her with all his strength, even as he continued to bang her senseless against the wall, sliding in and out of her effortlessly.

Scott was lost in ecstasy, but Martha was in the gutter. The experience was exciting and moderately enjoyable physically, but it was emotional torture, and she wasn't even close to an orgasm. She felt lost, and in pain, and this was her penance – her self-imposed punishment for all the hurt she had caused others.

Suddenly he stopped, breathing heavily. Had he come? It didn't feel like it.

As she let go of him, lowering her feet to the floor, he pulled out, leaving her breathless. “What's wrong?” she asked without any real concern.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Just fancied a change.” He smirked – a god-awful, lecherous smirk that was enough to churn her stomach – still panting with apparent exhaustion.

She wondered what was coming next – certainly not her, she shouldn't wonder.

“Strip,” he commanded, “let me see everything.”

Last of the great romantics, Martha thought. Still, she took off her red V-neck jumper and the T-Shirt underneath, before reaching behind her back and undoing her push-up bra – which matched her knickers – then removing it and dropping it down beside her.

He stared at her breasts for a moment, taking in the sight of her erect nipples, before running his hands over them and cupping them from below. They weren't as big as he'd thought, disappointingly, but there was something alluring about them nonetheless. He moved his head down to take her left nipple in his mouth and suckled on it like a newborn, then kissed his way down her toned stomach until he reached her navel. He circled his finger around her belly button, and along to the small tattoo on her abdomen. Standing up, he glanced at the more obvious tattoo on her upper right arm – something else he hadn't been expecting. It appeared to be of a butterfly, and something else below it that he couldn't make out.

“Nice ink,” he commented, sincerely.

Martha's grandparents on her mum's side were Iranian. She had acquired the tattoo in her teens as a way of acknowledging and commemorating a heritage that was perhaps not immediately obvious. Beneath the butterfly was a Farsi script; the word raha, meaning “free”. Free... she considered; how ironic.

“Thanks,” she said simply.

He nodded, then took a step back. “Turn around,” he said, “let me see it all.”

She rolled her eyes, and despite the confined space, managed to do a little twirl. She gave him a little nod, and a raise of her eyebrows. “Like what you see?” she asked drolly.

“Oh, yeah,” he replied breathlessly. She had the most gorgeous pussy, and an arse to die for. He wanted it now.

He ran his hand up and down his cock, slicking his hand with his own pre-cum. He noticed with relish the trail of clear juices running down her inner thigh.

She watched him intently, wondering what he was going to do.

“Turn right around,” he said. “Against the toilet.”

Shakily, she did as he commanded, turning and placing her hands on the cistern.

“Bend over,” he said, grinning.

For a moment she expected him to merely enter her from behind, but Martha shivered as she felt his cold, clammy hands on her buttocks pulling her cheeks apart. It dawned on her that what he was about to do – something she had never let anyone do to her before.

He almost came. Just looking at her tight little hole was almost enough to drive him over the edge. Resisting – just – he moved in close behind her and placed a hand, fingers outstretched, on her fleshy buttocks.

“I don't know about...” she began, her voice shaky, but her words trailed off as he positioned his middle finger between her cheeks, working it into the cleft. Then, he ran the finger downwards, forcing her buttocks apart as he went, encountering friction against the beads of sweat running down her skin. Arriving underneath between her legs, he reached his target, and began swirling his finger around her small opening.

Oh God... Martha thought, her breathing growing heavier.

Pulling away his hand, which was already well-lubed with Martha's own sweat and juices, he ran it along his cock, once again slicking it even more with his own pre-cum. He returned to her hole and with his middle finger began to push slowly into her, just a little, before pulling back out.

Martha bit her lower lip to stifle a moan – an expression of something halfway between pleasure and pain.

Scott pushed in again, this time going in a little further and encountering resistance as Martha instinctively tightened her sphincter. He persisted, massaging the lube into her body as he went. Eventually she began to relax, if only slightly, and he managed to push his finger almost all the way in, past his knuckle.

Martha let out an involuntary gasp and a slight moan as he extracted his finger from her body. She exhaled quickly, an irrational sigh of relief, given that she knew what was going to happen next. Sure enough, she felt the tip of his cock against her skin, poised, and before she could issue any word of protest he began to push his way in, pulling her cheeks further apart with his hands as he did so. Once again she tightened her muscles in defence of his incursion. He started to push further in spite of her physical objection, forcing her to acquiesce or suffer a great deal of pain. She consciously forced herself to relax, and in any case it was getting harder to fight both him and the tears in her eyes.

He felt her give way. Seizing the opportunity he thrust his way in quickly, causing her to yelp and wince in surprise and pain. Grabbing her hips tightly, he held her in place and began to thrust in and out of her repeatedly, establishing a quick but steady rhythm.

“Fuck, you're tight,” he breathed. Her passage constricted around him. Her pussy had been fairly tight but this was something else.

A single tear ran down Martha's face as she planted her trembling hands firmly against the cistern. He continued to thrust and grind into her tight back passage, assailing her with relish. She wanted to be silent, to not give him the satisfaction by betraying any feelings either way, but she felt weak. The sensation was too much to bear, and she let out a loud, breathy, pained moan for every thrust. Soon each moan began to grow louder until it became almost a scream, tears streaming down her face.

“I'm gonna cum!” he breathed.

“Pull out...” she found herself pleading, breathlessly through her tears. “Just stop it... please.” Her voice was pained and breaking, but low now and surprisingly level.

He did so, pulling out quickly before he climaxed. He pushed up against her ass, ejaculating hard, mostly over her lower back and buttocks, but some semen even hitting her upper back. She felt the warm, sticky discharge begin to ooze slowly down her back as he moaned loudly, still coming.

Nowhere near an orgasm, Martha screwed her eyes shut tightly, denying the reality of everything that had just happened. Crying softly, she held her position.

After half a minute, Scott broke the silence. “That was fucking fantastic...” he grinned.

Martha said nothing.

“You OK?” he asked, seemingly with genuine concern, oblivious to her pain.

“Get out,” she commanded, her voice tiny.

She didn't look at him. She couldn't. Yet she felt his gaze burning into her back. She heard him tear off several strips of toilet paper and clean himself up before zipping up and leaving her entirely alone.

* * * *