Coda

Sheila Willis

The Doctor lay perfectly still, difficult feat in such a small bed. A feat made even more difficult by the fact that his arm was beginning to cramp, but he willed his muscles still. She was asleep….finally.

She lay in the crook of his arm, her head resting on his shoulder and one arm draped protectively over his chest. A slender, and calloused palm with tapering fingers, and short clean nails, lay over his hearts – a shield across his soul.

A Healer's a hand.

A Doctor's hand.

His doctor. Dr. Martha Jones.

She cried out, a soft whimper; but a gentle caress across her cheek lulled her back into unquiet slumber.

She would not stay asleep. No, the nightmare was not over yet. Nor had the sedative she'd been given worked its way through her system. It would be a while before she slept through the night undisturbed. Not that his presence been particularly conducive to sleep.

Martha had needed to be held and if he were truthful with himself, he had needed to hold her; to know that she was alive, to have physical proof that one of the few certainties in his life had not slipped away, lost from his universe. He held her while she slept, woke her when she screamed, assured her that she was safe, assured her that he was safe. In Martha's mind, if he was safe, then she was safe.

He frowned at the dark head on his shoulder. She could have died, she nearly did. How dare she! How dare she blithely endanger her very important life.

And he knew the answer to that as well. Because of him. She gave no thought to her own life because of him. Yes, he knew his Martha well.

Or did he?

"Run!! Leave me! Run, please, please, please get away! Run!" She catapulted out of his arms, nearly sending them both crashing to the floor. But he caught her crushing her to his chest, silently rocking her as her tears splashed down his shoulder.

What level of hell was she in now? Was this some new agony or still the terrors of that year?

Would the nightmares ever end? Would she ever forget the year that never was? 'Never was' to everyone on the Earth except the handful who were on the Valiant. But for Martha and her family it did happened and for Martha it continued to happen, when she was too tired, and too weary to maintain the protective walls she kept around the memories of that year. On nights when she had pushed herself past her limits. When some stray sound, or a scent, or a hungry child's cry threw her thoughts back to that time and that place. When she had hunted, and stalked like some rabid animal. When she could have given up, given in, quit or just hidden away. But not his Martha, she kept at, kept on.

Shame pooled in his mind. He had waited far too long to ask her about that time. Far too long to wonder just what she had done, and how she had coped. "There's so many things I want to say to you that you don't want to hear." He didn't realize that he had spoken those remembered words aloud.

"I didn't think you were listening when I said that." Martha's words were a groggy whisper at his neck. He moved her head back to his shoulder pulled them both back against the pillows.

"I always listen to you. You should know that." He was quiet for a moment. "What else have you decided I don't want to hear?" He could not quite extinguish the flame of anger in his tone.

He felt her lips form a slow smile against his shoulder. "Things that sound silly when you say them aloud." She shifted her weight and raised her head. Coal black eyes gazed down at him, their depths drifting off into some secret place he could not or dare not follow. "Things that would cause you pain. Things you have never cared enough to ask."

It was not an accusation but an unvarnished statement of fact.