Hi all! I have to say, I feel that the springtime is quite an à propos time of year for this story...

I have written stories before about the sex act as a ceremonial thing, but my inspiration for this story came from somewhere a bit unexpected. It was the book, "The Footprints of God," by Greg Iles. (Coincidentally, the hero of the novel is named Dr. David Tennant.) I suggest you pick it up someday, if you ever get the chance; the storytelling style is as compelling as "The DaVinci Code," only it's well-written. If nothing else, the resolution to the book's main conflict is a gorgeous one, and it spoke to me on quite a deep level.

Anyway, the novel gave me a jumping-off point for this story... but that's it. Other than one main theme, I don't think I've taken anything from it. I say this partly because my goal here is always the same: the smut. But don't get me wrong! This story is very different from the other one I've been working on, "Used." This one has atmosphere and (hopefully) some depth of thought from our two favorite characters, as far as their relationship goes...

So, I hope you find it enjoyable, and I hope you find some emotional truth in it! And of course... have fun!


PART 1

Alarms were blaring, the Cloister Bell was ringing, and a chaos of green could be seen, zipping along outside of the TARDIS' windows. The console room was filling with smoke, lights were flashing, crash seemed imminent.

And tempers inside the box were flaring as adrenaline ran high.

The vessel was flying sideways through a forest, which, for some reason, had become independent of the natural laws. Vines were now growing at an exponential rate, licking at the blue police box's wooden exterior, driving the Doctor and his Companion into panic.

"What the hell is happening, Doctor?" Martha Jones screamed out, gripping the console for dear life. "I thought you said we were a thousand feet above the surface of the planet!"

The Doctor, gripping similarly, pulled the computer screen to a more convenient viewing position, and insisted, "We are!"

"So how are we getting eaten by plants?"

"Martha, not now."

"Well, can't we dematerialise?"

"Not as long as we're moving this fast," he insisted.

"Then slow down!"

"Well, thanks for that… it never would have occurred to me!"

"Oh, sod off!" she hissed, gripping the Aspura Control bar tightly, with one arm flung over it.

"We can't slow down, Martha, because the vines will crush the exterior, and the TARDIS' interior will bleed all over the place, and trust me, you don't want that happening!"

In addition, the TARDIS could not teleport out of an environment with the readings this world was suddenly giving off. An hour ago, the ecosystems of this planet were in fine balance. Forests grew, deserts were desolate, the air was breathable to human and Time Lord alike. They had arrived the day before, in order to help Shaman Ablengo invoke the eight natural forces, in order to boost their agricultural turnout, which had fallen to desperate levels.

Actually, neither the Doctor nor Martha were the type to do any sort of fire dances to praise the spirits (or whatever), so they did something that they knew how to do: fixed things with science. The Doctor had come up with a powerful fertilizer for dusting the fields, and that's what they had been doing when all hell broke loose.

Suddenly, the jungles seemed to come alive and crawl out of their own skin, as it were, and began to target anything in the area that moved. Animals were crushed, and the TARDIS had to run, and run fast.

Over the next few minutes, the Doctor navigated at breakneck speeds, dodging flytraps, what looked like giant rhododendrons, and ivy. At last, he was able to pull up, and the TARDIS leapt out of reach of the tendrils below. From there, he took Martha's advice, and teleported safely away.

"Damn it," Martha spat, letting go of the console. She paced around it once, and then asked, "We did this, didn't we?"

"I'd say that, if we had made a super-powerful fertilizer and sprayed it all over the place, and then the vegetation of this planet just happened to pick today to become colossal and murderous, then it would be a remarkable coincidence," he told her, his tone hard and sardonic.

"Oi," she scolded. "No need to get snippy. A simple yes would suffice."

"Sorry, I don't have time to hedge my tone, love, I'm a bit busy trying to work out whether this planet is going to get bloody squeezed to death by its own vegetation!"

"And yet, you have time for impassioned, sarcastic responses."

He took his hands off the controls momentarily, and took two angry steps toward her. "All right, then, would you like something straightforward, and to the point, Martha? Eh?"

Just then, another notification sounded on the console, and it seemed to be some sort of communiqué, because the Doctor answered it as though he might do a telephone.

Which suited her fine. To have this type of interaction with him… well, it put her all over the map. On the one hand, she rarely liked doing anything to displease him, and the idea that he had anything venomous on his tongue intended for her, made her feel cold all over, and a bit nauseated, no matter how "right" she was about anything. On the other hand, when fury flies, there is passion and heat. Going nose-to-nose with him, however briefly, could put her right on the edge of desire, even if fear and/or rage boiled just beneath the surface.

She mentally slapped herself into focusing on the subject at-hand.

Which was, as it happened, the Doctor on the comm, listening with a mixture of regret, surprise, and annoyance, but not saying much.

After a few beats, he said, "All right, Shaman, I understand. We will see you in a few minutes."

"Uh-oh," Martha said, as the Doctor cut off the communication.

"Yep," he said. "We're being called to the Temple Server."

"The Temple Server?"

"Yeah. Temple, implying religion. Server, implying computer," he said. "This is both."

"Thanks… kind of beautiful, in a weird way."

"I don't know how it works, exactly… it runs the planet somehow. I suppose I'm about to learn, aren't I? It's sitting on one of the adjacent moons. Shaman Ablengo will be there."

"Great. For what?" she asked, though she already knew the answer, and risked another sarcastic lash-out from the Doctor.

"I expect, to give us a good bollocking," he sighed. "Ready?"

"Are you kidding?"

"Here we go," he sighed.


In the middle of the room, there was an orb. It was, Martha estimated, about three stories high, and just as wide. It glimmered like onyx. Dark blue and contrasting silverish tints oscillated within, like oil in water, and it shone with light from the inside, and seemed to give a hum.

"Whoa," Martha said, with a big, awe-filled sigh.

"I know," the Doctor responded, with a bit of the same tone.

She laughed. "It's not often I get to hear you, in the throes of wonderment."

"It's not often something throws me into the throes of wonderment."

She laughed again, absently, at the pun.

"Is this the Temple Server?" she asked, still staring at the sphere.

"Yeah," the Doctor responded, also still staring.

"This thing runs the planet?"

"Yeah," he repeated, except now, his tone seemed more present… and deflated. "Listen, Martha…"

The sudden seriousness grabbed her notice, and her head swiveled in his direction, almost involuntarily.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry for the way I spoke to you. Before, in the TARDIS."

"It's all right. I wasn't exactly hedging my words either."

"I should know not to get wound up like that, when the pressure is on."

She had an involuntary sense-memory of him, just about to get right in her face, only a few minutes before. And, her body responded with the same somewhat shameful, adrenaline-inducing, rush of desire she'd felt in those moments. Heat flaring, ardor building…

"No, you shouldn't," she said, gulping. "Heat of the moment is heat of the moment. You're human. Or, near enough…"

"Doctor, Miss Jones," a voice said. "Good of you to come."

Looking to their right, they saw Shaman Ablengo approaching with a cadre of officers.

"Least we could do," the Doctor said, sheepishly, and Martha could see that he was forcing himself to make eye-contact.

"I should say so," said the Shaman. "After what you've done."

"It was an accident, Shaman," Martha insisted. "We didn't know that…"

"We are well aware it was an accident, Miss Jones," one of the officers said. "Nevertheless, the wrong needs to be righted."

"How do you propose?" the Doctor asked.

"Ordinarily, should outsiders come in to 'help,' and so royally foul things up, we would bid the outsiders leave us, and we would attempt to solve the problem in our own way," said Ablengo. "But we are now dealing with an imbalance of the forces."

"I see," said the Doctor.

"Some of those imbalances we may remedy ourselves, but as you know, there are certain qualities that our people lack, that are needed to restore order here."

"I see," repeated the Doctor, stealing a glance at Martha.

"Doctor, Miss Jones," an officer said, stepping forward, offering them two pieces of white cloth. "We'll need you to don these garments."

The Doctor and Martha each took hold of one white cloth, and held them up. They turned out to be the bright white tunics that the Shaman, and all of the officers, wore.

"Okay," said the Doctor. "What for?"

"For the ceremonial interface."

"Okay. Right. Thanks. Is there somewhere we can go, and change?" he asked.

"Right this way," said the officer.

They followed the officer down a set of stairs, that seem to take them beneath the orb. The first set of doors led into a small room, with a primitive folding partition down the middle.

"You may change in here," the officer told them. "No garments of your own should be left on your person. You may store them here – they will be returned to you as you leave. When you have changed into the tunic, go through that door there. I will meet you, and we will proceed."

"Thanks," said the Doctor, and the officer left.

"What the hell is going on?" Martha asked, as soon as the door was shut.

"You heard the officer. Change into the tunic, don't leave on any underwear."

She chuckled. "Yeah, that part I got. But what's this ceremonial interface? I mean, I get that we threw the planet out-of-whack somehow, and we're being asked to fix it, but…"

"Again, ceremony, implying spirituality. Interface, implying computer…ishness. This will be a bit of both."

"Okay. That doesn't help me," she said, going to one side of the partition, and pulling her shirt off over her head. She folded it nicely and placed it on the floor.

"I don't know much, Martha," he said, unbuttoning his own dress shirt.

"But what do they mean, when they say that they can restore some types of balance themselves, but there are qualities that they lack? Is that where we come in?"

"Yeah," he told her, continuing to pull at his own clothes, remove and fold them. "Their eight forces are four sets of contradictions: death/rebirth, hunger/famine, sacred/profane, and masculine/feminine."

"Oh, I get it."

Upon arrival a few days before, Martha had noticed that Shaman Ablengo, the officers, and indeed, everyone they met, seemed to be androgynous. At least to her way of seeing the universe. They all had voices that varied from high to deep, from supple to gravelly. They had facial structures that varied widely – high cheek bones, long eyelashes, prominent brow-ridges, square jaws, thick necks, Adam's apples. They had body-types that varied from v-shaped to curvaceous, from short to tall – just like humans. But for Martha, none of it jibed. What she perceived as "typical" gender traits did not seem to go together, in any one individual.

Shaman Ablengo, for example, looked like a tall black man when dressed in the white tunic, but the accompanying voice was soft, and reminded Martha of her mother. And when the shaman had changed out of the tunic on their first night, the proper fitted "shirt" and "trousers" designated for the evening meal appeared to reveal the curve of breasts, but narrow, vertical hips.

The Doctor had explained that the planet did not have gender identity, nor any biological gender at all. All reproduction was done cerebrally, with incubation occurring in laboratories, and the experience of it was not bodily nor visceral in the least.

"So," Martha continued. "They can manage death and rebirth, they can manage hunger, famine, sacred, and profane, but they can't manage masculine nor feminine."

"Right. So they need us."

"Why does their planet require masculine and feminine forces for balance, when their primary species cannot provide it?" she asked, pulling the tunic over her head, and zipping it up. From there, she kicked off her shoes, unbuttoned her jeans, and removed all of her clothing from the waist down.

"Dunno," he answered, also now removing shoes, trousers and everything underneath. "Evolution, maybe. Or maybe it's an aspect of the sacred/profane thing… this terrible irony of the unattainable, something profane that's needed in order to feed the sacred."

"Wow. That's a bit rough."

"Well, I could be wrong."

"Okay. So what do we do?"

"It'll probably be some sort of meditative exercise," he said. "They'll… I don't know, extract energies from us as masculine and feminine beings, and it will all become a part of the orb."

"The orb."

"Yep."

"Do I really want my consciousness floating around in an orb?"

"It's totally abstract, Martha. After a while, it ceases to be anything to do with you, and just becomes part of… the collective, for lack of a better word. Besides, I don't know that we have a choice. Are you ready?"

"Yeah," she sighed.

When they stepped the through the door, they found themselves in a square room, panelled on all surfaces with chrome. About twenty officers in white tunics were standing about, most of them staring at the newcomers. The orb sat on a pedestal in the centre, and there seemed to be a "bridge" of sorts that spanned across, from one end of the room to the other, via the pedestal. About seven steps on each side led up to the bridge. The middle of the bridge was unseen, and Martha and the Doctor both wondered independently if it led into the orb.

The orb loomed over them, large and imposing – they were now almost underneath it. It hummed, glowed, and churned away. There was definitely something mechanical about it, and also something organic. It was, as the Doctor said, part computer, part spirit (perhaps a bit like the TARDIS). The thing commanded their attention so much that they did not notice the officers on either side of them. Each of them found themselves guided in a different direction; Martha to the right, the Doctor to the left.

Instinctively, they reached out for one another's hand, but were only able to touch for a second or two.

"See you on the other side," he said. "Don't worry."

She nodded, gulped hard, then went where she was being led.

The officer took her to the foot of the stairs, and said, with a voice that was deep and soothing, "I am Undershaman Protha, I will be guiding you through this process.

"Okay, she said. Then, "Erm, nice to meet you."

Protha smiled indulgently, then walked up the steps, turning around at the top to face Martha. "Come," the Undershaman said.

She walked up the stairs, and when she reached the sixth step, Protha took her hands. As she took the last step and walked forward, she felt something probing at her mind. It felt, somehow, soft, comfortable, inviting, yet totally cerebral. She let it in without hesitation, then almost immediately had second thoughts… but then, she could not shake it off.

"Don't be alarmed," said Protha. "The Temple Server is inside your mind now. It is tapping into your energies, in anticipation of the rebalancing process. It will not hurt you."

This was mildly reassuring to Martha, though her qualms were already slipping away. She'd gone into a kind of trance, though she was, weirdly, still aware of her surroundings.

"Wow, that's… that's powerful," Martha mused, feeling a little drunk.

Protha led her forward, toward the orb. Now, she was in the crook of space between the great sphere and the bridge, where if she stretched straight up high enough, she could touch it. Although, at some point, they had stepped into a fog, of sorts, which meant that Martha could see neither what was behind her, nor in front of her. Everything simply glowed white. There were no walls, no doors, no matter, and yet she felt isolated.

"Please sit," said Protha, indicating a shell-like chair, in front of her. "And we'd prefer that you sit… I believe humans call it 'lotus-style,' if you please."

She did as Protha had asked, settling herself onto the pad, and crossing her legs accordingly.

Protha seemed to sit down somewhere nearby, and after that, for several minutes, it seemed, everything was still. Martha did not have to be asked not to speak – she simply knew not to. And she did not wish to. Her breathing became regulated, her thoughts became simple, silence reigned, except for the soft buzz of the mighty orb above. She wondered what was next.

"Shaman Ablengo," said Protha's voice from nearby. "I don't think it's working."


On the other side of the orb, the Doctor went through very much the same process, with Undershaman Conshi. Up the stairs, led forward, sitting in a shell-shaped chair, attempting to meditate…

Except, the moment when the Doctor hit the top of the steps, he knew that simple meditation was not going to be enough.

When a voice came through the incidental comms, saying it didn't think the process was working, he spoke, ethereally. "That's because there's already the presence of my TARDIS in my mind. And in Martha's. Although, with her, it was easier for the Temple Server to overwhelm it. In my case, it's battling eight centuries' worth of communion in my brain."

He heard Conshi's voice say, "The Doctor is saying, he's got some interference from his TARDIS."

After a beat, Shaman Ablengo's voice came through. "Go to phase two."

"Doctor, do you feel some presence of the Temple Server in your consciousness?"

"Oh, yes," he said. "But it can't push out everything that's already there."

Another few minutes went by, and then Conshi said, "Okay, then. Doctor, tell me about your life."

"I'm a traveller…" the Time Lord reported, rather absently.

"No, Doctor. Your life as a man."

"Life as a man?"

"Yes," he said. "There are two genders amongst humanoids who indeed have gender. What's it like to know only one side of that particular coin?"

"It can be limiting. Especially since Time Lords are capable of…"

"But what's good about it?"

It took the Doctor a few moments, then, "There's a kind of assuredness to it. A certainty. There are certain markers that let me, and others, know that I'm a man. At least, at present."

"What are those markers?"

Another few moments. Then, he answered, "I have a deeper voice than I would, were I a woman. I'm tall, a bit more solid, more broad than most women. My body is straight, rather than curvy. I'm harder about the chest…"

"Good. And how should you act and dress?"

"I act, assured of being, basically, one thing and not the other."

"That you are male."

"Yes."

"Males are protectors."

"Well, I'm a protector, but that's me. My personality. My lot in life. It's not about my gender."

"I see."

"I'm plenty vulnerable as well. And I've known numerous women who are protectors, just as much as I am. Martha included."

"Do you act, knowing that you can protect?"

"In certain arenas, perhaps. But again, that's my personality. I'm a protector, and a risk-taker."

"You swagger like a male."

"I do, I suppose," the Doctor sighed. "It's all wrapped up in regeneration… this life, this time, this face…"

"Tell me about this face."

"It is… shall we say, well-liked? I've never had one similar… probably never will again."

"Does this face give you power?"

"In a way."

"A power that is different from that which you have experienced in the past?"

"Yes," he admitted, rather reluctantly.

"As a man?"

"I suppose so, but it's all quite superficial."

"As a sexual being?"

"Perhaps. Probably. But I have no way of knowing for sure."

"Humanoid males feel a formidable imperative to engage in reproductive practises, yes?"

"A high sex drive, you mean? Sure, in a manner of speaking."

"Tell me about that."

"It's meant to be empowering, and it is. But it can be exhausting."

"How so?"

"Keeping desires at bay, keeping one's body in check. Knowing what I want, knowing I could have it, feeling entitled, like I should have it, and knowing… this is wrong."

"How is it wrong?"

The Doctor sighed. "I'm a man of action and initiative. The universe stays intact, often, because I don't mince words. I don't hedge my intentions. I do what needs to be done, I take what I need, to save the day."

"And?"

"These are qualities that, in tandem with being aware of my sexuality, and my desires, could be harmful."

"Is this part of being a man?"

"Definitely. Though, I suppose it could just be part of having a gender."

"Do you feel sexually weak?"

"No."

"So, you feel sexually powerful."

"No."

"Are you frightened of your own sexuality, Doctor?"

After a long pause, the Doctor replied, "No. But I'm somewhat wary of it. Especially lately."

Conshi sighed with exasperation, looked the Doctor with a measure of disdain. The Undershaman wondered why it was so hard for a man to say he was a man, what it was to be a man, what it was to act like one, to have power over the fairer gender, to rule most parts of the known universe…

From Conshi's point of view, being a man, and not any other gender, must be incredibly simple. What unfortunate luck, getting a Time Lord, a being bound to overthink everything.


Martha was several minutes into talking about the uncertainty, the dichotomy, the fettered quality of life as a woman, added to which, was the complicated layer of being a woman of colour. She found it hard to explain… she did not feel weak because of being a woman, at least not as a rule, unless she was walking down a dark alley at night, "Which I would never do, because it's daft. Who does that, anyway?"

She just felt weak sometimes… and also strong, sometimes. From the questions she was being asked, it seemed to her that the Undershaman Protha was looking for a black-and-white that simply did not exist.

Soon, a voice came over the comm. "I don't think this is working either. The Doctor is too… conflicted."

Protha reported, "As is Miss Jones."

"Perhaps they are not the right pair for this exercise."

Ablengo's voice boomed, "They are the only pair we have!"

"I'm sorry Shaman," Protha said. "If his masculinity is not distilled enough to manifest, and her femininity is not distilled enough to manifest, then the orb won't recognise the forces, and…"

Shaman Ablengo's voice, rather irritated, interruped, "I know what will happen! Let's try level three. Perhaps they will distill if we have them go inverse."

"Inverse?" asked the voice of Undershaman Conshi, on the other side of the orb.

"If they cannot define pure masculinity or femininity in themselves, can they do so in each other?"


"Doctor, tell me about Miss Jones," said Conshi.

"What about her?"

"Is she…" Conshi seemed to contemplate the right words. "…attractive to you, as a woman?"

"Of course."

"Why do you say of course?"

"Well, she's beautiful," the Doctor responded easily. "I mean, properly beautiful. Mind you, I've been around pretty women in my life, but…"

"But?"

"Martha's a whole different thing."

"So, she's beautiful," Conshi echoed. "And feminine."

"Yes," the Doctor agreed.

"Is it her femininity that makes her attractive to you?"

"Partly," the Doctor said, still in a trance, but with a shrug. "In this regeneration, those of the feminine persuasion are definitely more attractive to me than those of the masculine."

"Good. Tell me more. What is attractive about Miss Jones?"

"What isn't?" the Doctor asked, with an absent chuckle. "Perfectly-formed lips, and a smile that lights up a galaxy. Wide eyes that practically spark with intelligence and wonder. And when you combine the two, it's like… a supernova."

"A supernova in the cosmos, or inside you."

The Doctor seemed to think about this. "Both," he said. "It hits me right where I live, right in the gut."

"Why so?"

Again, the Doctor thought about his words. "Maybe it's her innocence… places she's never been, things she's never seen nor done, and I have something she wants. Although, perhaps it's a certain… well, lack of innocence, that hides behind that amazing, inquisitive face."

Conshi gave the Doctor space to continue, but he did not. So, Conshi prompted him. "What do you mean, a lack of innocence, that hides?"

"When she looks at me, smiles at me, fires both barrels at me, as it were, there is always the tantalising question of what's behind those fireworks in her eyes. Is it curiosity? Or is it more of a hunger? A voracity for… knowledge? Power? Experience?"

"Let's talk about voracity for experience," said Conshi, sensing a direction in which he could lead the Doctor. "Do you desire to give her those experiences?"

"I do," the Doctor answered.

"What if those experiences are… shall we say, not necessarily accessible via your TARDIS? What if they are something that you could give her, without any knowledge of time, space, or travel?"

The Doctor was quiet, contemplative.

So Conshi probed further. "Do you understand what I'm asking?"

"Yes. Do you?"

For the first time since this began, the Undershaman smiled. "Not from experience, as I am a spiritual being, and my species lacks gender. But I know that the reproductive act, as we discussed a little while ago, is a major imperative in the lives of some humanoids. Not just for reproduction, either."

"That's right."

"It is a recreational imperative. A psychological one, as well, yes?"

"Yes."

"To Time Lords… and especially to humans. Have you ever thought about this act, as it pertains to Miss Jones?"

"Yes," answered the Doctor, dreamily.

"Why?"

"Because I'm a man, she's an extraordinarily beautiful and complex woman, and I'm not made of stone."

"All right. Give in to the side of you that is, as you say, not made of stone. If you think of having pyshical experiences with Miss Jones, how does it shape in your mind? What is in your mind's eye?"

The Doctor was silent for a long while, and Conshi just let him be.

"I can't," he eventually said.

"Yes, you can," Conshi told him. "I know that your imagination holds images of Miss Jones in all of her feminine glory – you've just told me as much. Immerse yourself in your imagination, Doctor. Let yourself be with her. What do you see?"

"It's too much. Too private."

"No-one will ever know what you have said here, except for me," Conshi said earnestly, and truthfully. "Least of all, Miss Jones."

"You asked me earlier if I'm afraid of my sexuality," the Doctor argued.

"You said you are not."

"I said I was wary of it…"

"So, be wary. Control is still yours. I'm not asking you to throw caution to the wind, I'm just asking you to talk. Just talk about what you see, inside of your mind, when you are imagining the experience of Miss Jones."

"Be wary, and also disclose?"

The Undershaman sighed. "Just breathe, Doctor. Go deeper. Explore."

Another pause, then, "Warmth. Curves."

"Beg pardon?"

"Martha. Warmth. Curves."

"Wonderful," said Conshi. "Keep going."

"Golden brown, glimmering skin, stretched taut over miles and miles of perfect curves," the Doctor said, sounding as though he were light years away. "Like a landscape of flowing caramel… rising and falling with her breath."

"Soft? Rigid?" asked Conshi, liking this portion of the Doctor's narrative.

"Variations," said the Doctor. His voice fell to a whisper. "Soft breasts. Firmer bottom. And moving upwards, her back curves like a large bow, culminating in bony scapulae and skull. All of it, though, is oscillating, pulsing, flexible, and still yielding."

"Tell me about yielding, Doctor."

After another long pause, he said "The outward bow of her back becomes her bottom, and this becomes her thighs. They are strong – they run and they pump and they are practically tireless. Except… sometimes they quiver. And they yield."

"Good."

"They separate, and this makes an inverted V-shape," he said, still whispering. "And there is a proper V-shape just above. And her body becomes like an X, and at the cross, the midpoint…"

The Doctor had trailed off, and his breathing had grown ragged. "This is where you want to be," Undershaman Conshi said, finishing his thought.

"Yes," the Doctor whispered, harshly, desperately. "This is the most yielding of all. It is warm, and supple, and slick. And her voice is high, when it says my name. Higher, even, than usual, and sharp and full and desperate, as though it's spilling over. Everything about her, in fact, is distended and poignant. Her landscape has changed, her textures have changed, and it all continues to shift… the curves change quality. No, they change shape and composition. The bow-shape becomes a proper arch, while she stretches and channels sensation throughout. Her voice climbs even higher… it becomes louder, and even sharper and tighter. Though she's no longer saying my name, nor any words – just sounds. And now, it's not just her voice, not just her back and her breasts… nothing in the shape of her is holding true. Not even the X. It falls apart. It melts into a puddle, and flies into a million shards at the same time. And this… this is what she's been looking for. It's what I've been looking for."

"All of this is fantastic, Doctor," Conshi said, with some resignation and exhaustion in his voice.

"I hope so," the Doctor said. "Because it's really bloody painful."


Not exactly a mystery as to where this is going, is it? But remember, the enjoyment is in the journey!

Annnnd please leave a review! XOXO