Scars

"Scars are not injuries, Tanner Sack. A scar is a healing. After injury, a scar is what makes you whole."

China Miéville, The Scar

The Year That Never Was leaves scars. Martha has always known that it would. You don't walk the Earth for a whole year, trying to go unnoticed whilst simultaneously making sure every living soul knows who the Doctor is, and expect to make it out without scars.

And yet somehow she does. Because the whole world is back to normal, that whole year never even happened. And that makes it almost too easy to pretend that everything is fine, that it had always been fine, that it hadn't happened for her either.

But it did for her, and it did for her family. The wounds there are obvious. Tish is far more subdued than she was before. The spontaneity that was second nature to her has all but disappeared. Her mother, whilst still a force to be reckoned with, can zone out for minutes at a time, off in a world and a time that technically never existed. Her father has broken things off with Annalise – thank God – and loses himself in his work. Martha hasn't seen him for weeks and she figures it's because he can't bear to talk about what happened. And then there's Leo, who doesn't have a clue why everyone is suddenly behaving so differently, who only remembers Martha's panicked phone call less than a day before the world went to hell. Except for him it never went to hell. There was just this really weird day when the president of the United States was assassinated and there apparently weren't any aliens after all. He still doesn't understand what it was all about. And Martha does not have the words to tell him. After a whole year of relying on her words to see it through, she's finally run out.

So she doesn't talk about what happened, not even to her family. At least they have shared memories; they all spent that awful year together. But there is no one who shares Martha's. There is no one alive who remembers the ruins of Russia, all of it converted into shipyards with no care for the people who used to live there. There is no one who remembers the complete and utter destruction of Japan, burning for days and days until every single person was dead. There is no one who remembers the fusion mills of China, the radiation pits of Europe, the fields of dead bodies in the Middle East; the Master's "brilliant" solution to the problems of an unstable region. No one remembers the fear and the hopelessness of it all. There is literally no one she can talk to.

Of course, there's always the Doctor. He hasn't been through it with her – but Martha's well aware he went through a hell of a different kind – but if anyone has seen tragedy, it's him. But he could be anywhere and anywhen. Martha knows she made the right choice in leaving him. Had she stayed around, she would have become bitter and she might have resented him in the end. And it was never meant to be like that.

Besides, there's enough on Earth to keep her occupied. There are exams and then there's UNIT and a few dates with that Tom Milligan that go really, really well. The first time is somewhat awkward. There's still a vivid memory of him dying at the forefront of her mind, and she can't explain any of that, so she doesn't mention it. He finds it hard enough to swallow that she deals with aliens on a weekly basis.

Of course there are little things, little habits that she can't quite shake. And they can be as simple and odd as constantly getting the date wrong. The day and the month are fine, but it's the year that keeps eluding her. In her head she can never quite remember that time went back. She remembers that year and without thinking about it, she keeps on counting from there. And it isn't until she's filled out the wrong date and people alert her to it that she remembers. And it's embarrassing every time, because she cannot tell them why she keeps getting confused.

But Martha Jones soldiers on and things get better. She doesn't wake up in cold sweat anymore, her first instinct just to run and run until she's out of reach of the Master's spheres. She doesn't always startle anymore when someone catches her unawares. The fact that people can finally catch her unawares at all speaks of healing wounds. A year ago, personal time, she would never have allowed to let her guard down for even a second.

And then, sometimes, when she thinks it's all starting to look up, a memory punches her right in the gut.

'There you go, miss.' The young man behind the counter pushes Martha's coffee in her direction. 'Anything else?'

Martha has been concentrating on her phone and a rather lovely text from Tom while she placed her order, but something about this voice suddenly sounds familiar. But she can't quite place it, so she looks up to check.

And staggers back in shock, bumping into the old man standing in line behind her.

She's seen that face before, sitting on the stairs in the slave quarters, eyes wide and so, so hopeful when he asked her to confirm who she was and if it was true that she could kill the Master. 'Tell us you can do it. Please!' He'd sounded so desperate and so relieved at the same time. It broke her heart.

It's the same person. She would have known those eyes anywhere. But the expression is so different. He's indifferent at best. The frown betrays that he thinks she's gone mental and Martha of course can't explain why she's looking at him like she's seen a ghost.

'Are you all right, love?' The kind old gentleman behind her takes her stumbling into him with more grace than she'd expected.

She conjures up an apologetic smile. 'Fine, thanks.' She's not, but she cannot tell him why. A lie is easier. 'Sorry, you just look like someone I used to know,' she adds to the young man who's still looking at her like he doesn't know what to make of her. It's as close to the truth as she can get without sounding like a complete lunatic. Is this what life is like for the Doctor? Martha wonders, sparing just a moment more to imagine what he's up to.

He shrugs. 'I'm sorry.' It's clear from his reaction that he believes the man Martha just referred to died. In a way he has, she supposes, except that version of that man never existed. The Doctor's clever scheme made sure of that. This man never even knew what danger he was in. And it's hard to look at him, remembering what she does. It's a bit like the difference between John Smith and the Doctor: essentially the same person, but just not quite right. The comparison is a bit rubbish, but it's the best she has.

'Don't be,' she says. After all, this is the better world, this timeline is the better timeline. It's just Martha who sometimes feels a little like an alien in her own bloody city. It's not like that is anyone's fault, not even the Doctor's. If anyone should be blamed, it's the Master, and he is conveniently dead.

With all that confusion she's causing around her, she could have given the Doctor himself a run for his money; he clearly doesn't understand her any better than she used to understand her time-travelling friend.

'Thanks for the coffee.' Suddenly she only wants to get out. 'Keep the change.' She snatches the coffee out of his hands and makes an escape the likes of which she hasn't pulled off since the end of the Master's reign. The fresh air clears her head a bit, but she still gets as much distance between herself and the shop as she possibly can.

She knows she won't go there again.

Of course, she realises she's being childish and irrational later. She is a doctor, for heaven's sake. She walked the whole Earth on a bloody suicide mission and she hasn't turned tail once. When she ran it was only in order not to get killed, so that she could carry on doing what she had to do. In the end, she had laughed in the Master's face. Martha Jones is no coward.

So she pulls herself together and returns to that shop time and again until she can look into those eyes without flinching.

It gets better again. But the road to recovery is full of ups and downs. Most of the time she can put a brave face on things and she knows that it's a good thing that she hasn't been in England for long during the Year. The chances of running into someone she knew during that time are so small that most of the time she doesn't feel the need to keep her guard up.

Of course, there's no accounting for tourists with a love of London.

'I thought we were supposed to turn right here.' A woman's annoyed voice catches Martha's attention when she's about to cross the street. The accent is American.

'No, no,' another woman says. 'We need to turn left here, then right over there.'

Martha forgets all about crossing the street. She knows those voices and knows who they belong to even before she turns around and gets a visual confirmation of her suspicions. Sisters Fiona and Beth Farnell, New York residents. They're standing right there, alive and healthy. It's such a sharp contrast with the last time Martha saw them that for just a moment there, she completely forgets how to breathe.

The sisters have noticed her looking and completely misinterpret Martha's expression.

'Don't mind us,' Fiona says, smiling widely. 'Beth here is a complete disaster when it comes to reading a map.' There's a memory of empty grey eyes in a too pale face overlaying the real face. Martha blinks furiously and it disappears.

Beth snorts. 'So are you.'

'Well, unlike you, I never claimed any different.' Fiona smiles again. In this timeline, it's all she seems to be doing. Martha remembers a time when all she did was coughing up blood and fighting for air because there was no medicine to treat her with. Even Martha had been powerless, even though Beth had begged and begged for her to do something, anything at all. All Martha had to offer was a story and when she left Beth with her sister's body, she had cursed her for not having been of more use.

'Are you okay there?' Beth is quicker on the uptake than her older sister. 'You don't look so well.'

Truth is, Martha is swaying on her feet. It's honestly starting to get a little pathetic how she reacts every time something like this happens.

She forces herself to smile. 'Fine, really.'

It's not the first time she's meeting someone who had died during the Year. After all, she's dating Tom Milligan and he had died too before the Doctor set the world to rights. But somehow this is different. Even in that now non-existent timeline she had known Tom liked her. Renewing the acquaintance had been awkward, a bit, but not that hard. Of course, she'd woken up a few times with a rapid beating heart, convinced that it has all been a dream and that he is dead after all, but not so much these days.

But this is the first time that she's met someone who literally died in her arms and it is the first time she's seen somebody who screamed in her face because of that. And standing here, seeing both of them alive, is setting the memories off again. All it takes is a quick blink – and really, her experience with the Weeping Angels ought to have taught her that – and she's right back in the past.

The slave quarters in New York had not even been among the worst Martha had been in, but they were the most hopeless she'd been in to date. There was absolutely nothing new anymore about the filth and human misery that fought for space with the far too many people squeezed inside living quarters that were too small to be worthy of the name. The people here had given up. They didn't have any hope, not anymore. They were mourning loved ones and even on the other side of what used to be the United States Martha had heard about the high suicide rates, folk who just couldn't take it anymore ending their own lives just so that it would be over.

'It's quicker than just waiting for Saxon to kill us off,' one man had said, trying to explain the situation to Martha. She had been trying to fight the nausea at the thought. And at the same time it made her so, so angry that they practically handed the Master his victory wrapped with a bow. He was doing a good enough job of killing the Earth's population without any help.

Hope was needed there and she had done her very best to bring it to them, talking until she had no voice left. Some had not wanted to hear it. They had been quiet while she told her stories, but quick to dismiss them once she had finished talking. It was just cruel of her to offer them hope. It would only hurt more when it was inevitably taken away from them. They did not believe that anyone could save them, not even this mysterious non-human Doctor. If he was the same species as the Master, then he was bad news.

'He's not,' Martha argued. She had seen them both and they could not be more different. The Doctor was not like the Master. 'I've travelled with the Doctor,' she continued. 'And I have seen him do so many wonderful things.'

'Will you tell us?' The voice was so soft that Martha almost didn't hear it. But people were quiet when she talked; becoming a legend – no matter how uncomfortable she felt with that – ensured that people everywhere treated her with reverence and respect.

She turned around and came face to face with a woman in her late twenties. No full examination was needed to determine that she was ill, very ill. Her face was pale, her eyes were gleaming with fever and even though she had the thickest blanket the house had to offer wrapped around her, she was shivering constantly.

Martha smiled at her. 'Of course I will.' She would never admit to it out loud, but there were days when she needed the stories just as much as anyone else. She needed to remember what she was doing it for, who she was doing it for. 'And who are you, then?'

The woman coughed. 'Fiona,' she replied when she had enough breath to speak. 'Fiona Farnell. This is my baby sister Beth.' She indicated the woman next to her, one who had been frowning from the moment Martha opened her mouth.

Being introduced clearly gave Beth the idea she could say her piece. 'My sister doesn't need stories,' she pointed out. 'She needs medical help. They say you're a doctor, or you were anyway, before Saxon. Can't you do anything for her?'

But Martha had nothing to offer but stories. She'd fled the Valiant with nothing but a temperamental vortex manipulator and the clothes on her back. And medical equipment was not easy to come by, especially since the Master didn't particularly care about the wellbeing of the people on the planet. Why would he? He intended to kill them all in due time, once they had outlived their usefulness.

'I can't,' she said and it killed her inside to let those words cross her lips. 'I wish I could.'

'But you're a doctor!' Beth did not understand. 'You could at least examine her, find out what's wrong with her. Please, there's no one else to ask and they won't let me find a doctor in any of the other camps.'

Martha told her the truth as gently as possible, that even if she could properly carry out an examination, there was nothing she could do in the way of treating her patient. There was no more medicine to be found, not where she could get her hands on it at any rate.

Beth's eyes were hard and unforgiving. 'Then what is the point of you? If you can't even help one person, how in God's name are you going to save the world?'

Fiona aimed a hit at Beth's arm, but she was weak and it missed. 'Don't mind her. It's not your fault.' She shivered and then coughed. 'Just tell us.'

And so Martha did. She told them all about the Doctor and their travels. She told them about Shakespeare and witches, about the traffic jam in the future New York and the Daleks in the sewers of the old one. She spoke about alien planets and stars and suns and supernovas, until she had effectively exhausted her well of stories about the Doctor. Somehow she ended up sitting next to Fiona, one arm around the sick woman's shoulder. She liked to think that her tales at least gave her some measure of peace in her final hours.

Beth didn't think so. When dawn broke and Fiona breathed her last and Martha had at last fallen silent, she glared at her. 'You might as well have killed her yourself,' she said, voice as icy as the air outside. 'You with your damn stories and your mysterious mission. What kind of doctor are you? You didn't even try. Go to hell!'

Martha had slipped away while Beth was still screaming.

'Are you okay?' A worried voice snaps Martha right out of it. While she's been zoned out – she gives herself a mental kick in the behind for getting dragged into a flashback in the middle of a crowded street – Beth has come closer, taking Martha by the right arm to keep her steady. 'You really don't look so well. Should I call for a doctor?'

And she can still see it. It's impossible to look at the Beth Farnell of this time without seeing the grieving one from the erased timeline. This Beth is a far cry from the one in the slave camp. Of course she would be; she's never been a slave and she's never lost everyone she loved to the Master's so-called Toclafane.

Martha almost snorts. Oh, how she wants the Doctor right now. Or anyone who understands.

'I'm fine,' she repeats. 'Really.'

Fiona is frowning. 'You looked like you were about to faint.'

It's clear that her answer isn't going to do. 'You look like someone I used to know,' she replies. She's used the same one on the bloke in the coffee shop, but it's the closest she's able to come without telling the truth that would get her a one-way ticket to the nearest mental asylum. And she's seen one of those up close once. For Martha that is more than enough, never mind that they have doubtlessly improved since Shakespeare's time. 'And she died,' she adds for good measure.

Fiona's face falls. 'Oh.' For a moment there she clearly doesn't know what to say. Martha wonders what she would say if she knew she had been the one to die. 'I'm sorry to hear that. Sorry for startling you.'

Martha shakes her head. 'Not your fault,' she says. The Master's fault, always the Master's fault.

Not for the first time Martha wishes they had never come to the end of the universe. They should have just taken Jack back inside – because Martha can't ever wish she had left him there – and have flown off, all the way back to a universe that made some sort of sense. But that's what life with the Doctor is like. Martha knows that now. She doesn't blame him and he is still one of the best men she knows, but he attracts trouble like no one else. And sometimes, when you're standing too close to him, his trouble burns you too. That's a lesson Martha Jones has learned the hard way.

Fiona and Beth look more than just a little uncomfortable now and they have that look about them, the look that says that they don't know how to deal with this and they want to get out of here as fast as they possibly can. Honestly, Martha wants them to go. This is one particular ghost that she doesn't think she's ready to face.

'I'll be fine,' she says. 'There's a bench over there, I'll just sit for a minute. You go on.' She conjures up an encouraging smile when Beth, ever the carer, looks doubtful. 'I won't drop,' she adds. 'And I won't blame you if I do.' She's really saying something else, but Beth would think she'd lost her mind if she did. Goodness knows Professor Docherty had been confused enough when she had shoved the flowers into her hands with the message that she didn't blame her.

Maybe Beth senses something of it, because she's out of there quick as she can, pulling Fiona along. Martha knows the sisters must think she's gone completely mad, but that's the way it is.

She's as good as her word and she sits down on the bench. Truth be told, she finds she needs it. Meeting the Farnell sisters has taken her completely by surprise and it's leaving her hands shaking. It shouldn't affect her this much anymore, but it does.

Almost without thinking her hands go to her phone and she's ringing Tish before she can talk herself out of it.

'Martha!' The surprise in her sister's voice tells Martha that they don't talk often enough these days and she's feeling guilty almost immediately. Tish has been through hell too. Cutting her out was never the right thing to do.

Then again, in the immediate aftermath she just couldn't handle the guilt, knowing that if she had never gotten involved with the Doctor, they would never have lived through all of that. And then she generally feels even guiltier than before, because she cannot ever bring herself to regret travelling with the Doctor. Even after everything she's seen and been through, she knows she's so much better now than she was then. But she knows that the same is not necessarily true for her family.

'Hi, Tish.' She probably sounds a bit sheepish.

Tish notices. 'Are you all right?' She's a lot more intuitive than she was before the Master wrecked their lives and not nearly as self-absorbed either.

Martha tells her before she can change her mind. 'I saw a dead woman today.'

It's not something people just say. It's not something most people would understand. But Tish does. 'I saw an amnesiac the other day,' she counters.

Martha almost smiles at the choice of words. Amnesiac. It both does and doesn't fit. After all, amnesia seems to suggest that someone has forgotten something and you can't forget something that never even happened in the first place.

'Tell me?' she asks. If she is going to make an effort to get closer to her family, she might as well start right now.

But Tish hasn't changed so much that she has lost that decisiveness that Martha's always admired about her. 'No, you called me. Tell me.' And unlike her sister, she doesn't ask. Tish demands. It's good to know that some things stay the same.

So Martha does. There is nobody else to hear her and so she gives Tish the full story, from her arrival in New York to her departure. Then she mentions just bumping into Fiona and Beth just now and the way it had just thrown her off balance. In a way it had been like being zapped back in time by the Weeping Angels; the way the whole world just shifted to come to a sudden and shocking standstill the very next moment.

'And she died?' Tish asks when Martha is done talking at last. She hasn't spoken at such length since the Year came to an end and it's both as natural as breathing and completely alien.

'I couldn't do anything,' Martha says. 'But she wanted to hear my stories. And today, she didn't even know who I was.' It's better that way. Rationally she knows this. Besides, it's not as if she was ever in it for the fame and the glory. 'Tell me about your amnesiac?' It's a good idea to change the subject. Dwelling on it won't change a thing. It's happened and not even if she had a TARDIS could she change it.

And then it's Tish's turn to talk. And Martha feels uneasy and guilty all over again, because she realises she's never even heard of most of the people featuring in the story. Apparently there was this young technician who had to come up to the Valiant to fix things every now and then. The Master didn't really trust him, but he trusted him not to endanger the life of his brother, whom he'd held hostage on board. Tish had seen him, even somewhat befriended him, as in so far the Master allowed interaction between them. Andy Tomlin he was called. He had been called up the day before everything went back, but had left only three hours later. He had been on Earth when the clock had reversed.

'I ran across him in the shops and he just walked right past me.' It's clear that on some level it frustrates the hell out of Tish. 'And it's good for him and all, but we used to be friends and now he doesn't even remember.'

'It's better like that, Tish,' Martha points out. On days like these it's the endless mantra she keeps up inside her own head, even when at the same time she desperately wishes for someone to talk to who does remember. 'Do you want him to remember you?' Not that wishing changes anything. Martha knows that better than most.

It's quiet for a few seconds. 'No, not really,' Tish says eventually. 'I just want someone to remember with me.'

Doesn't she just know the feeling? 'Don't you talk to mum and dad?' she asks. 'Or even Jack?' She can tell her sister's really taken a shine to Captain Jack Harkness, but then again, there are few people who are immune to his charm. The only ones she knows of are both Time Lords and one of them is dead.

'Sometimes,' Tish admits. 'Not much. They don't want to talk about it.' She thinks for a moment. 'I didn't even think you wanted to.'

'I didn't,' Martha agrees. But maybe she should.

And so she starts to make more of an effort. She has tea with her mother one day and tries to talk about it. It's hard, starting the conversation with some of her own stories. She'll never grow tired of talking about her adventures among the stars with the Doctor, but as much as she sometimes wants to talk about the Year, actually doing so is a lot harder. But it's her idea, so she has to make the first move. It doesn't help that her mother has recently begun to pretend that none of it ever happened. It didn't for the rest of the world, so logically it shouldn't have happened for her either. The problem is that logic doesn't really come into it when you're dealing with the Doctor's world. But Martha keeps probing gently and by the end of the day it still feels like pulling teeth, but she also thinks she may have gotten somewhere.

She tries to talk about it with her father too, but he has never been much of a talker. True enough, he's a lot more mature about things than he was before all their lives went to hell – fortunately Annalise is just a distant memory now – but Martha can see that he's also angry and tired at the same time. People don't just bounce back from the horrors the Master had inflicted on them. But he hugs her for quite some time and they both draw some comfort from it. It's a start.

And meanwhile her life goes on. She likes working with UNIT and to her surprise they look at her like she's someone with authority, as if having travelled with the Doctor is something that gives her status. 'You're a legend, ma'am,' one of the lads tell her one day and that too comes with its own flashback of the countless times people have told her that during the Year. Martha Jones doesn't really feel like a legend. She is just someone who travelled with the Doctor. From the excellent record-keeping at UNIT HQ she knows that there are a quite a number of people who've done the same.

Of course, it is a pleasant surprise that on occasion she knows more about aliens and the universe in general than the experts at UNIT. It's strange that the Doctor, by his own admission, ever worked with these people, given how fond they are of weapons. Once Martha would have agreed with their policy, but that was before she knew the Doctor. So, even though they keep insisting she should have a weapon of some sort when she goes out into the field, Martha always refuses. That's not how the Doctor would have done it. She's seen herself that words can be far more powerful than any weapon man can make. They are even more powerful than one psychotic Time Lord and that is saying a lot. She's fought a war of words and maybe, with time, she can make these UNIT people see it too.

But words can be fickle things, here one moment and then gone the next. And Martha's words have a way of failing her at times, mostly when something from her past comes right back to haunt her. It doesn't do it that often, not anymore, which is why she's wholly unprepared for it when it does happen.

'Oh, I am so very sorry! I wasn't watching where I was going. Bit of an idiot, me, clumsy idiot at that. I never did quite learn to get along with gravity. That's the bother of it, you know, everything insists on falling down and before you know it, there's coffee bloody everywhere. Oh, are you all right?'

Martha's still recovering from the fact that someone has actually managed to walk right into her, spilling her coffee to-go with questionable precision right on her white shirt whilst neatly avoiding the black jacket she's wearing over it. But the stranger is already talking a mile a minute and suddenly she just freezes. There are only two people she knows that can talk so much and say nothing at the same time. One of them is the Doctor and the other one she didn't think she'd ever meet again. This is not the Doctor.

She only has to glance up to know for certain. And there he is, looking sheepish and apologetic at the same time, his own coffee still in his hand and not a drop of it on his own immaculate white shirt.

'Fine.' The response slips out automatically, the result of countless times when she's said the same thing to deflect a question she could not truthfully answer without sounding like a madwoman. Of course she'll just have to go back home to change into another shirt, but it could have been worse.

It already sort of is. Because she knows him. Or rather, she did.

He's not listening. There's a handkerchief in his hand, though what good that's supposed to do, only heaven knows. It's not going to magically remove the stain from her shirt. 'Henry,' he introduces himself, waving the handkerchief around like it's a flag. 'Henry Morgan. So sorry. I was just looking at my phone and I could have sworn there wasn't anybody in my way, but here you are and here I am and we've obviously run into one another. Well, I ran into you, more likely. And oh, look, what am I thinking? That handkerchief isn't going to do a lot of good, is it? Oh, and you're out of coffee too. You can have mine. If you don't mind that it's just a bit sugary. Well, when I say a bit, I really mean it's so sweet your teeth will rot and fall out of your mouth where you stand, so there's that.' He catches himself, probably because at this point he has to stop for breath. 'And I'm rambling, aren't I?'

He is so unchanged, so very much the same that Martha can't help but smile. 'Martha Jones,' she says, holding out her hand for him to shake.

He doesn't. Instead he pushes his own foam cup into her hands and smiles when she doesn't drop it. 'Pleasure to meet you, Martha Jones.' Then he frowns. 'You don't even look angry about your shirt. Most people yell. Not that I mind that you don't. In fact, it's really rather a pleasant surprise. But even my girlfriend is annoyed when I do something stupid, which is all the time really, but you don't. That's odd. Not bad odd, but good odd. Don't want to give you the idea I'm insulting you. God knows it's bad enough that I've spilled coffee all over you. Sorry, rambling again.'

This time Martha actually laughs. 'You remind me of this friend of mine,' she says. She recalls saying the same thing once before. And just like that she's back in China in some hellish hovel that passes for a house.

The only reason this pitiful excuse for a hovel hadn't been torn down was because there wasn't an ounce of metal to be found in it, nothing at all that the Master could use for his rockets and weapons. It was made of wood, draughty and leaky and icy. And there were lots and lots of people squeezed into it, all of them Chinese and not a single one of them could speak English. And without the TARDIS to translate for her, Martha was lost. And she was so very, very tired. Recently the Master had gotten a rough idea of where she was, and she had been on the run ever since. In fact, she could barely even remember when she had a relatively decent night's sleep. It must have been sometime before the Master's latest witch hunt, back when she wasn't so highly strung that she couldn't find sleep no matter how much she wanted to. The realisation that she was being hunted was starting to sink in and now she was just so tired, so ready for it to be over. She knew the Doctor had a plan and she knew him well enough to know that his plans, while often sounding completely insane, had the habit of working out. She still believed that. Really, there hadn't been anyone she so fully trusted for years before she met him.

But exhaustion had at last caught up with her. She was miles away from home on a world that was no longer safe and she was surrounded by people she was supposed to tell a story, but none of them could understand her. Martha Jones had hit rock bottom and she could not see a way up anymore.

In hindsight, Henry Morgan was exactly what she needed. There had been some discussion among the locals and one man had disappeared for a bit. Part of Martha feared that he had gone out to report her, but she couldn't even summon up the energy to run anymore.

And then the man had returned, one human-shaped excited puppy dog following in his wake. From the moment she first met him, he had been a six foot tall skinny string of energy and enthusiasm, right there in that hole of misery.

'Martha Jones! I can't believe my eyes!' Even though he had to keep the volume down, he still managed to convey the message that he would have shouted his excitement from the rooftops if he'd had the chance. He had been marching over to her, his right hand held out as if he meant to shake it. But at the last moment he changed his mind and he saluted her instead. 'I can't believe I'm meeting you. You're a bloody legend, Miss Martha Jones, and I am so very, very honoured to make your acquaintance. So are these people, by the way. You've met them. We've been waiting for you, you know, oh, for months now. Martha Jones is coming, everyone is saying it. And Saxon just can't get his grubby little paws on you and you can bet that it is frustrating the hell out of him, which is good, because we need something to get excited about. And let me tell you, you being here is the height of everybody's social calendar. Not that we have much of a social calendar anymore, but you get my drift, don't you?'

Martha was quite frankly somewhat overwhelmed by so many words all strung together. She didn't think he had stopped for breath even once. At least, she hadn't heard him do it. And for just a moment there, the memory of the Doctor was so tangible that the tears formed in her eyes.

He noticed. 'Oh, I'm sorry! Was it something I said? Did I say something wrong? I mean, it's very easy for me to do that. Everyone always says that I talk too much, so I suppose that it's very easy to say the wrong things, since I really can't stop talking.'

'It's fine,' she said, cutting him off before that speech got even more out of hand. 'You remind me of this friend of mine.' If this was any other situation, she would have dragged him off to meet the Doctor and the Doctor would have been a bit put out about that, but only because he'd finally found someone who could out-talk him. Martha would bet that there weren't many of those lurking about the universe, because if there was one thing the Doctor was good at, it was talking. Well, talking and not saying much at the same time. Her new friend had mastered that art too.

'Hm, never heard that one before. Henry, by the way, Henry Morgan.' This time he did hold out his hand for her to shake, which she did. 'You're bloody lucky I got stuck here, or you'd be out of a translator. Go to China for a couple of months, my mum said. Learn the language, she said. It's going to be useful, she said. Well, of course I manage to end up here just when Saxon's gone off his rocker. So there I am, the only European in this little corner of the world. But on the bright side, you won't believe how good my Mandarin sounds. I'm particularly good at swear words, if you must know. Let me tell you, these people can come up with some great insults for our lord and Master on high. And I doubt he speaks Mandarin, so we're all good, because he won't know what we're saying anyway, even if he could be bothered to listen to us.'

Martha did not point out that the Master had a TARDIS that could translate for him and that he probably knew a million languages anyway. Didn't all Time Lords or was that just the Doctor? Well, she wouldn't know. It was not as if there were many left and Martha personally preferred it when there was just the one.

She cut the rambling short. 'I need to tell them something,' she said. 'Can you translate for me?'

He could.

She'd never seen him again after that. Martha had left the very next morning before dawn, but she'd felt lighter than she had in ages. She had still been tired and afraid, but his enthusiasm and the warm hug from the old woman in the hovel just before she had slipped away had given her just enough to keep going for a while longer.

Of course, this Henry doesn't know anything about that. He's just some guy who's just met someone he's never heard of. Oh, and he just spilled coffee on her shirt. Judging by the way he's carrying on, that's almost a regular thing for him.

'Must be a good friend,' Henry observes. 'If he keeps spilling coffee on your shirts and you still keep him around.'

Martha laughs and it's a surprise to herself as well. 'Not the coffee spilling,' she says. 'But the talking. You'd give him a run for his money.'

'Sounds like a good friend, man after my own heart.' Henry's still smiling. 'I would love to meet him, but I've got to dash. I'm already late for work as it is and my boss is going to kill me if I'm late again. Well, he's not literally going to kill me, so you won't have to go looking for a body, but he might just sack me this time and that would be most unfortunate.' He frowns. 'But well, I did ruin your shirt. Is there anything at all I can do for you? I mean, it is my fault, so I should clean up my own messes.'

Martha cuts him off. 'Really, it's fine,' she reassures him. 'I'll just pop back home and get another one. Don't worry about it. I'll be a bit late for work, but my boss won't mind.'

Henry looks vaguely worried. 'Are you sure? I mean, I could, oh, I don't know, call in and tell them that it was my fault?'

Martha has to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing. 'It's all right. My boss likes me. Besides, he wouldn't want me to work for his rival.' Because truth be told, Jack had been dropping some less than subtle hints about a move to Cardiff and a permanent place on his team, which, judging from her superiors' reactions, was and is just about their worst nightmare. Apparently former Doctor companions are a rare and valuable commodity.

He looks relieved. 'You must be good at your job then.'

Martha grins. 'I'm the stuff of legend.'

Well, she used to be once upon a time. But she's never even mentioned or properly acknowledged that before today, never mind that she actually joked about it. She ponders that when she continues on her way. Maybe it's just because of out of all the people she's met on her travels it was Henry she bumped into. There are no painful memories where he is concerned. Quite the contrary, he helped her when she didn't know how to carry on anymore. And there is something a bit endearing about the way he just keeps on talking, one word after the other in an endless waterfall of semi-coherent sentences.

It's the first time she realises, properly realises that is, that not all her memories of the Year are bad. Of course, she is not about to idealise that time, but she's finally gained enough distance from it to see that there were sparks of light in that darkness too.

She's healing, she knows. At last she is actually moving on with her life.

So when she sees the Doctor a few weeks later – and it's wonderful to see him again, this time without all the awkwardness that was between them before she left – and he asks how her family is, she answers: 'You know, not so bad. Recovering.' Martha finds the same is true for her.

It's a work in progress – not that she's telling him that; she's pulling a leaf out of his book by simply ignoring the question – but she's on her way.

And that's more than enough to get out of bed in the morning.

Thank you for reading. I hope you've enjoyed it. If you've got a moment, reviews would be much appreciated.