Title: Lone
Summary: Set during Human Nature/The Family of Blood. "Anything resembling friendliness, at least beyond Jenny, was completely out of the question."
Rating: PG
Written as a response for the Livejournal auction help_haiti.
Lone
Martha liked Jenny as soon as she saw her smile at her; she was stuck ninety-four years away from home and in a way, guiltily, she hated the Doctor for landing them in this mess. Alright, so in theory it was the best way to hide, she knew that much, but it didn't exactly make it any less infuriating.
In fact, it was tougher – a hell of a lot tougher – than she'd expected because nothing quite prepared her for the reality of it, as she scrubbed and brushed under pair after pair of eyes, sniggers, deliberate footprints over the clean floor, aching back, rough hands, every little thing bringing her closer to the edge. Anything resembling friendliness, at least beyond Jenny, was completely out of the question, and would remain so for the next three months.
Three months... I can't do this.
Tears threatening to drop into her water-bucket...
... Keep it together, Jones. It all depends on you.
It was ironic, really, wasn't it? Martha had felt the hairs stand up at the back of her neck at her first sight of the Judoon. Sometimes she thought she saw the shape of a Dalek in the corner of her tiny bedroom. Sometimes she saw the Face of Boe lying dead in the reflection of the water in her bucket. And every morning, dragging herself out of bed at stupid o'clock in the morning, she glanced over her shoulders while getting ready for work because they were still out there somewhere in time... the Family, looking for them.
But then this... this was probably the worst thing, when she would look up into the faces of all these schoolboys, living in their present. She supposed she would be lying if she said she wasn't somewhat weirdly fascinated by them, but it didn't make what was going to happen any less terrible.
'Ordinary boys,' the Doctor would say, if he were right here with her, if things were different, if they weren't lying low, if they were to stroll through together, long coat fluttering in the autumn breeze, trainers crunching the ground, 'Normal products of their time. They don't know where they're headed, all they know is they're being trained to fight – and they accept it.' A glance at her maybe, sad, resigned.
He would treat them like teenagers. He would smile at them ('Oh, 'ello!') shake their hands ('Nice to meet you Jack, James or Harry; that's a nice name, isn't it?') He would see what she could see – their young smooth face becoming aged and muddied, would see their bodies decay eighty years in advance, even if they didn't die on the battlefield – but he would also see them in the here and now.
But how many of these, just here, just from this school would die? How many of them would vanish forever? How many would be buried nameless? They would wither, be forever symbolised as poppies, these boys, these every day boys who laughed and joked and made racist remarks at her expense.
'No getting mixed up in big historical events.'
I know, she said silently, looking up at him every time he walked past, the absent eyes of John Smith perhaps glancing down at her if she was quick enough to get his attention. I know. She couldn't tell them anymore than she could open the watch before the time was up – and then they would 'die like mayflies, Martha. It's their time to go.'
She saw their future, but she also saw a different kind of rank among them here, now, in the smirking and the pushing. The lows, the younger smaller ones, tried to get through un-noticed. The highs tried to stand on her hand. She could see all of it; bullying and peer pressure still – not still, had – existed.
...How the hell were they going to survive out there?
They won't.
'We will remember them,' Martha muttered very quietly into her water-bucket one day, as she listened to the faint sounds of gunfire outside, barked orders from teachers who acted like colonels and corporals in their robes.
The stark silence in the hallway, Jenny having been whisked off to clean the kitchen, was sudden broken by a sudden noise and Martha glanced up to see one of the smaller schoolboys darting down the stairs.
She found herself wondering just for a second if the Doctor had looked like this, so small and quick, even as she spotted the gang of bigger, older boys (bullies) that crowded after him in a mass run. Over the squeaks of polished shoes against the floor, she could hear the fray of their voices, calling for him to 'Get back here, you little toad!'
(Primary school, 1994. You've just dropped a full water bottle on Penny Thomas' toe after she called you a 'black snob' and now you're in the thick of it. You need to run, get out, go home before she and her mates catch up with you. Go. Now. RUN).
Thinking quickly, even as her eyes connected with the boy being chased, Martha let him run past her and before he was even gone, stretched right forward and deliberately knocked the pail of water right over, causing the chase to come to an abrupt halt as one of them – whom Martha had spied for herself demanding money from first years and then later spending it all on pies from the local bakery – slipped on the edge of the spreading puddle and onto his backside, the bottom of his trousers soaking up the water.
Martha, aware of their eyes burning dangerously into her, glanced around to check that the boy had gone before taking that one second of the calm before the storm to smirk to herself, gentle lips a shadow of a satisfied smile.
'What do you mean by this?' bellowed one of them – Baines, Jeremy Baines, she remembered vaguely, tall, dark hair, potential good looks blighted by the fact he was a complete and total prat – and she stared up slowly into piercing eyes, knowing full well that it had been stupid, it had been "wrong"... but only on their level.
Still, it didn't stop her taking a breath of air half an hour later, after a visit to the headmaster's office where she was told to clean up the water and then confined to polishing the school's entire trophy collection.
'I want it spick and span, Jones,' the headmaster strode around his desk, arms behind his back, 'and not a stain or a fingerprint to remain, or you will find your position at this school terminated, whether you are Mr. Smith's favourite servant or not.'
Put simply: she was on a warning and it made her feel more close to the edge than ever. And if she got sacked...
... But she hadn't been; even if she had to really tow the line from now on. But it was all worth it to see the young boy disappear into the background, unseen, off their radar for the time being. It felt satisfying somehow to be taking a punishment on his behalf, to do something for him, here and now, when she knew what was awaiting these boys on the horizon of the next twelve months.
Plus, she was pretty sure the Doctor would have done it too.
The one other thing – apart from seeing someone who looked like the Doctor but didn't act like him – that drove Martha mad was that she didn't have any type of music and it was even worse when she had Beatles songs (courtesy of her Mum's love for John Lennon) floating around her head. Her iPod was nine and a half decades away in her bedroom and she wanted nothing more than to plug it in and lose herself as she did when cleaning her flat. Singing – or rather, softly murmuring the words of 'The Long and Winding Road' to herself – didn't quite have the same effect, but it was still soothing.
'What are you singing?'
She glanced around, dropping the slight tunefulness, hand clasping the cloth and saw the young boy she had helped standing in the doorway, staring at her somewhat uncertainly. She tried not to envisage him as the car that trapped her in the headlights like a defenceless deer (60s music, Martha, that's 60s music, stick with the times! Don't do that).
'Oh, not much,' she replied quickly, giving him a smile, 'just a little tune, y'know?' She gestured to the trophies around them, only half polished. 'Just to keep me going, see?'
The boy raised his head slightly in a single nod and Martha felt relief when he didn't question her further.
'Everything okay, sir?' she asked, curious as he came slightly closer. She recognised him: a boy with a bowed head and averted eyes, someone who stood out when he was trying too hard to be ignored. And she had never heard him speak; all those other boys, but not him, not until now. It was like putting on a dusty CD – the one at the bottom of the rack – and being happy, after those first few awkward squeaks, to find out it still worked.
At the formal address that she had thrown so casually at him, the boy's face split into a sudden, embarrassed grin.
'You don't have to call me "sir," miss,' he rubbed the back of his neck, incredulous laughter puffing through his lips.
Martha rose her eyebrows, a light challenge.
'You don't have to call me "miss", sir. I mean,' she gave a chuckle, 'let's admit it, you're higher up in the pecking order than me.'
She indicated her cloth and polish before she took to another trophy as the boy came slightly closer, eyes darting over the collection before back to her.
'That's not true though, is it?' he asked suddenly.
Martha paused, blinked and completely disregarding both the trophies and the thought that they'd soon become medals that boys his age and younger would die for, turned back around to look at him. Looking into his face, she was immediately given the distinct impression of a goldfish; namely, their old childhood goldfish Benny before Leo had decided it would be a brilliant idea to bring home that "hungry lost kitten" which actually turned out to be next door's newly-acquired pet.
'I... what I meant to say was...' the boy's words were punched by a swallow, his eyes, large and outstanding on his face and pupils darting. 'No-one's ever helped me before. I suppose I... that's why you seem different to me. And thankyou,' he added, quickly 'Thankyou for helping me.'
He seemed hesitant, out of place in this empty room and Martha shrugged, throwing up the hand that held the cloth.
'Oh, no problem,' she told him.
'But you got into trouble,' the boy insisted intently, coming closer. 'And I'm really sorry that it's just because of me.'
His voice was fascinating to listen to; that 1910s 'posh kick' as her Dad would say, that formal edge that everyone carried at these school, no matter if the words were friendly or hostile. Martha sometimes felt as though she had walked straight into a Famous Five book. She shrugged, smiling, at the boy.
'Don't apologise, sir. And there's no need to thank me, honestly.'
She was genuine, but at the same time she knew she wouldn't tell him that deep down, she was grateful he had acknowledged her help, simply because it meant that someone else besides Jenny, and to an extent, the Doctor, Mr. Smith, when he actually took the trouble to glance at her, was returning her smile.
'I had to clean all of these once,' the boy said then with the slightest indication at the trophies, pupils wandering in memory before focusing back on her. 'They're really proud at this school.'
A skinny lad like you?
Too slow to stop the surprise that flickered across her eyes as she stared at him, Martha looked behind her again at the trophies. She kept losing count of how many there were and some of them – the ones she was leaving until last, it was going to be a seriously looooong afternoon – were massive.
'Don't I know it,' she said slowly, turning back to him.
'Would you like some help?' he asked, eyebrows rising, expectantly, genuine. Like he really wanted to help her; like the friend who stayed behind after a party to help clear up while everyone else made a dash for it because they'd either pulled or they were going to be sick in the street. Treating her as somebody that nobody else treated her as, in this time.
'No,' she shook her head, the word pushing through her lips. No, it's my job. No, it's Saturday. No, you've done it before. No, you shouldn't have to do it again.
No, because you're not gonna get a break in anything this time next year.
'Do you know what I think?' she asked, looking him in the eye, 'I think you ought to go and relax, enjoy the rest of your afternoon (what time you have left) and leave this to me. I can manage.'
He stared at her, face hesitant. 'I don't want to just leave you here.'
She shook her head, more firmly. 'No, seriously, I'm fine. Go on.'
He looked behind him, then back at her. She gestured to the door, slightly bold in the face of his shyness.
'Go on,' she repeated.
He stared at her, his struggled highlighted by his eyes.
'Thankyou,' he said finally and then turned and left. Martha stared after him and then glanced around back at the trophy collection; giving a sigh, she got back to work.
The next day, Martha paid a visit to the TARDIS, keeping her head down as she cycled away from the grounds on Jenny's bike (museum curators would kill for this) and glancing around,
She always had mixed feelings about coming back to the TARDIS – in one way, she actually looked forward to it because it was a reminder that they would soon be gone and because it was a break from everything outside. She felt less alone.
But it was still nothing if she couldn't hear the heart of the motors pumping with every mile through time and space. It was still nothing without the Doctor jumping around inside.
'We didn't start this, did we?' she said into the emptiness of the TARDIS, 'We never asked for them to follow us.'
No reply. Obviously.
When she got back to school, she put the bicycle away and walked through the grounds, pulling off her gloves when a figure in uniform caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. As she got closer, she realised that it was the boy from yesterday sitting on the bench, cradling one hand in the other and completely alone.
Martha sped up the path, towards him, the crunching sound underneath her feet alerting him. She kneeled down in front of him, spotting the small drop of blood in the middle of the palm that he was wiping away only for a new swell of dark-red to dribble out.
'Here,' she said gently, coaxing the injured hand away to rest between her own, alarmed at how cold his fingers were, 'let me examine it. It's okay.'
The boy's hand was flecked with bits of gravel like stray ink-dots on paper. Inspecting the wound (not deep, very shallow, should heal up in no time... I think I know who did this) Martha then looked back up at him, taking in wet eyes and digging into her pocket, she drew out a crumpled-up tissue and offered it to him encouragingly.
'Thankyou,' he accepted, wiping his eyes and nose.
'Do you have any gloves?' she asked him, shivering slightly as a wind whipped around them.
He hesitated, shook his head. 'Not at the moment.'
He met her eyes and Martha simply nodded; she knew. She understood.
'What's your name?' she asked instead. The boy looked across at her and then back at the ground.
'Latimer.'
'Your first name.'
He glanced back up her, his whole face narrowing in surprise before his pupils drifted.
'Timothy.'
Timothy Latimer. Timothy LaTIMer. The Doctor would have a lot of fun with that, he was that geeky. Martha cocked her head to the side, smiling.
'Well, Timothy, I think that we ought to get you inside and treat that hand.' She nodded down at his cradled palm. 'Come on.'
She stood, watched him hesitate. Then he rose to his feet and followed her inside.
'How's that?' Martha asked, applying pressure to the wound with a clean cloth in a corner of the grey kitchen, empty at this time of day. The cook didn't seem to have any problem with her presence and it was one of the few places, other than the TARDIS, where Martha could feel completely safe. They could just hide in here for now.
'That's better. It feels nice and clean.' Tim offered her a smile, a small one but still a relief to see because it made Martha feel as though she had done something useful relating to her studies.
She patted his shoulder and he stared at her for a few seconds before suddenly adding, 'You've done this before.'
'I have,' Martha nodded proudly, glad to finally have somebody realise that, before it suddenly hit her like a ton of bricks, a single word crashing through her brain: Giveaway. Giveaway, giveaway, giveaway!
'I – er – just had a lot of practice,' she tried to backtrack, to remember the history she was supposed to stand by in this time, 'just, er, you know. Family stuff and, well, just workin' for Mr. Smith's lot. Just put your hand there for a minute.' She guided his free fingers to the cloth. 'That's it, just hold it down.'
She turned her back, needlessly, in the fast-gained habits of the maid, tidying things up around them at random, trying to dismiss the idea that she was more than she was making out to be.
Improvise. Improvise, improvise. You'll just have to improvise.
Here, she wasn't supposed to be the doctor.
Neither was John Smith.
Getting up early was slowly starting to kill her.
Even the boys didn't have to rise at this ungodly hour into a cold dark morning. Throwing a longing glance, back at her little bed, Martha joined Jenny in preparation for the morning, eyes crusted with sleep as they struggled down the stairs, the first ones to start the day.
The only difference was that Martha was now looking out for two people: John Smith, and Timothy Latimer.
John Smith passed her safely and she could relax for another day (they haven't found us) but there was no sign of Tim in the crowd, not that Martha had much of a chance to look in her morning's work. Then around about 10, at she entered the main hall to polish the banisters, she saw him, skidding down the stairs, throwing his blazer on over chaotic clothes and narrowly avoiding bumping into her.
'Sorry!'
'Woah, mate, you alright?' she called after him; he turned around, tucking his shirt in with one hand and flattening down his hair with the other.
'I – I overslept,' he puffed; his voice was as speedy as his legs, his voice a panicked tone that she had never heard before. 'I was – was up... till four...and I didn't get up in time and now I'm going to be in so much trouble.'
'Okay, Tim, slow down,' Martha said gently, taking in his catastrophic appearance; schoolboys might be able to get away with it in her time, but here, they weren't so lucky.
'Here,' she offered, approaching, 'let me help.' She immediately set about straightening his tie and collar.
'Amount of times I've done this before...' she muttered fondly, more to himself than to him, remembering the tardy whirlwind that was Leo in the mornings before school. As Tim tucked his shirt in properly, Martha paused before she raised her hands and squeezed the remaining sleep out of his eyes, something she wouldn't have been able to do for anyone else here.
'Thankyou,' Tim panted, slightly calmer now that he was considerably neater.
'Why didn't anyone wake you up?' Martha asked. Tim said nothing, his dark eyes darting to the floor and Martha blinked in realisation; dropping the question, she asked instead, 'Who've you got?'
'Mr. Smith.'
Martha felt a surge of relief; he'd be alright. 'Oh, that's not so bad. He won't mind you being late.'
'I'll get beaten,' Tim said quietly and Martha's smile fell away as she remembered. Of course... teachers would beat them in this time, if they put one foot out of line, but then again, she would have liked to introduce them to her Mum, just to see them run a mile.
But still, the idea of the Doctor beating a boy...
'Thankyou,' Tim panted then, stepping back, looking somewhat bashful as he ran his fingers through his hair again. 'There aren't many who would be so kind; your brother and sister are very lucky.'
He smiled up at her and Martha smiled back even as it struck her that there was something slightly weird about what he had just said; a feeling reinforced by the sudden speed in which Tim's pupils darted around his sockets before he cleared his throat.
'I really ought to go,' he told her, looking distinctly uncomfortable. 'I'm late enough. Thanks again, Miss Jones.'
And he scurried away, Martha watching his back as she narrowed her eyes, trying to place the problem, going back over the conversation – hurried as it had been – in her head. Could not remember mentioning Tish or Leo today, or in fact, ever.
... No, don't panic. Whatever you do, don't panic. Don't act like you feel, exposed and vulnerable because a boy from a whole different part of history knows about your brother and sister.
She blinked at the floor, feeling that huge weight fall back on her shoulders, nearly sending her crashing back down to the floor.
How does he know?
For all she knew, the Family could read minds; they could take on any disguise at any time, so what if...!
Have they found us?
Later on in the day, Martha shot outside for some air, feeling the cool wind whip her face and sighing with relief as she stretched her hands, cramped and worn, after another day on the work-shift. Wandering around the grounds, she was surprised to see Tim, sitting alone on the bench. She watched him for a moment from a distance; his hands were clasped as he leaned forwards, eyes on the ground, serious, it seemed, but not sad, looking almost settled in his isolation.
It was so familiar to Martha that she couldn't keep walking and anyway, for all her wariness (how did he know?) you had to get a pretty good idea of a situation before you could judge it.
'So...' she said finally, feet crunching against the path as she came across to sit down next to him, his head darting up at her approach, 'what was all that about this morning, then?'
'...When you helped me, you mean?' Tim asked, recovering quickly from her sudden presence and instead he gave a shrug. 'I had to do some work and I couldn't do theirs, so I had to stay up late to get it all finished.'
What...?
(1999, secondary school. You've been cornered by Marlon Hobbes because you're doing well in Biology and he wants you to tell him some crucial facts for that test you've got today that you've revised for over the past two weeks and that he hasn't done a thing for. He's a big bloke. Choose your exit and get out of there. Run to class. Go on, run. RUN).
'They weren't happy, about it, yeah?' Martha asked tenderly; Timothy nodded.
'You know that they stole my gloves – well, I'll get them back,' he said, tone sounding slightly more reassuring, '... or at least I'm hoping. I just have to do Hutchinson's Latin for him for the rest of the week.'
The worst thing about it, Martha thought, as she sat there goggling at the unfairness of it all, was that he just... he looked simply resigned to this, this existence at school. A hundred and one images of Leo pretending to cry, pretending to act, always trying to get his way, passed Martha's eyes and it looked nothing like Timothy Latimer did now. He knew this life, and he took it on.
'I must go to my dormitory,' Timothy said then, smiling dutifully at her as he stood. 'And I'm grateful for your help, Miss Jones.'
She raised her eyebrows at him; he faltered.
'... Martha.'
She smiled softly. 'That's better. Off you go then. And look after yourself, alright?' She raised an eyebrow meaningfully at him.
He gave a ghost of a smile and she watched him leave with curious eyes (I still can't make sense of you) before staring out at the horizon of the field and the ugly scarecrow, which reminded her too much of pumpkin heads, that had popped up there. She was still unsure exactly what she was looking for.
But if weird things could happen in New York – in the future, as well as the past – then they could happen here.
As the school marched into the third month, he began to tell her.
He was remembering; somewhere behind those empty eyes, there was an echo.
Under normal circumstances, Martha would have been relieved; the Doctor was close by, in his head. There was something inside him, telling him who he was, who she was, telling him to remember. Somewhere in there, there was the Doctor and she wanted to hug him.
But these weren't normal circumstances; in fact, they were very dangerous ones. And the Doctor wasn't there, not really, he was just a faint memory and it wasn't safe yet. They weren't ready, even though sometimes she longed to hear him. Not the calm voice of John Smith, the wild, almost psychotic octaves of the Doctor himself.
Soon, she told herself comfortingly. Soon.
And then when she saw the human idiot had actually made it all into a journal and was showing it to Matron, she wanted to scream at him (you don't write down something you're trying to keep secret, you can't DO that!)
She listened with lowered eyes as they left the school together, wrapped up to face the November chill and as they strode off, looking just like a team, a duo, she could only remember the time when that had been her, when John Smith and Matron had been The Doctor and Martha Jones. Her eyes burned into an unhappy spot on the floor as she swallowed down – really, really hard – on the lump in her throat.
She knew she didn't belong here – she already knew that, didn't she...
... So why did he have to really hammer it in, right back to the breaking point? Matron was nice enough, she was good to the boys. She deserved to be happy with someone.
Why does it have to be him...?
And the sight of Tim, walking alone and slowly into the main hall with his hand supporting the lower part of his back, could only add to her tense mood. Closing her eyes briefly, Martha threw her cloth down and went to meet him.
'What's wrong?' she asked, 'is everything okay?'
Tim didn't meet her eye, looking anywhere but at her. 'I need to get up to the Matron.'
'She's not here, Tim, she's off-duty,' Martha guided him over to sit on the stairs. 'What's up?'
'Just got a bit of a beating at shooting practice,' Tim mumbled.
Martha sighed. It was stuff like this bringing her down from her high over the fact that in just a few more weeks, she would be out of here. Not everyone could escape this place.
'Why'd you get beaten?' she asked.
Tim faltered; said nothing. Martha noticed his hesitation.
'Tim? What happened?'
The only sound in the hallway for a moment was Tim's breathing as he ducked his head, her eyes on the side of his face before he raised his head slowly to hers and she found herself realising how dark the brown of his eyes were as he stared straight into her face.
'Have you ever... do you ever see things in your head?' Tim asked then, his quiet voice filling the bleakness of the main hall. 'Things that distract you? Things that take you away from where you are, to an entirely different place altogether?'
The time-traveller in Martha wanted to say that she understood that last part even as the doctor-in-training within couldn't help wondering if he was suffering from a type of obsessive-compulsive disorder.
'What did you see?' she asked again and quickly coined the something – uncertainty? Worry? Fright? – that shadowed over his pale face.
'I don't think I can say,' he said finally, not looking directly at her, looking somewhere past her. '...You must be busy; I will leave you to get on.'
'You don't have to rush off,' she protested, standing with him. (Tell me, whatever it is, you can tell me, I'll understand).
'No, no, really,' Tim said, walking around her. 'Thankyou. For listening to me.'
And then he took off up the stairs, his desperation to get away obvious in his quick dash and she could only stare after him.
That afternoon, she lost a friend.
She stared into eyes that weren't Jenny's colour anymore and tried not to collapse, told herself it wasn't the first time she had seen someone die because it was the only way she could cope, by telling herself she had coped with the others.
She was all alone now, she had to handle this by herself. The teachers wouldn't listen (obviously) and she kept repeating the same thing – "You're the Doctor" – over and over, until she felt she was going blue in the face. The night air beat against her face as she ran towards the TARDIS and then ran into Tim.
'Martha?'
She had barely had time to think about him, barely had time to recognise that he had used her first name without even being told to, she just had to get the screwdriver...!
It was all going to pot, their false identities were being tugged, unravelled, pulled open and it wasn't time yet. They weren't ready.
Believe me.
Please believe me, you're the Doctor.
'They weren't supposed to find us,' she shot over her shoulder at a startled Joan as she turned Mr. Smith's office upside down, 'we were supposed to just hide. I know it sounds mad...'
Apparently, it did. Joan walked out on her and again, Martha felt like dropping to her knees. Someone – she needed someone to believe her, someone she could trust. The only person who would listen, who would believe her, was the Doctor himself and he was stashed away somewhere, inside that watch and because he was rubbish as a human, he'd lost it!
'Everything has to go wrong, doesn't it?' she snarled to herself, her only outlet, 'every single bloody thing...'
Things were getting worse around her and that was just it, wasn't it, because she and the Doctor were at the centre of this but instead, she had to watch from where she had been cast aside.
'They can't fight,' she told Joan as they watched from the window and Joan nodded sharply at her, the only thing that they agreed on right then.
'It's not fair,' Joan agreed, 'but I suppose the headmaster believes it must be done.'
Martha raised an eyebrow at her; they were ninety-four years apart in thinking, after all. 'Should it?' She stared back through the window. 'Anyway, it's not just 'cause their young. This isn't their fight.'
Joan raised her eyebrows right back at Martha's logic; she and John still couldn't quite see or just simply wouldn't see what was right in front of their noses.
'This has nothing to do with them,' Martha insisted, coining the look on her face. These boys weren't supposed to go into war for another year; it wasn't fair to make them do this, now.
They watched as the door was forced open and watched the scarecrows fall under the guns, the sound of shots piercing her ears (they're just boys...). She saw what they do, what they were capable of and she could feel her heart bulleting against her ribcage as she thought about her own brother and how he had grown up simply as a menace with a water-gun.
When the little girl appeared, Martha took one look and then ran outside, her pace as fast as her heart. She wasn't meant to stop them fighting in trenches in 1914, but there was no way they were about to fight an alien in 1913; it was way, way outside their territory. The headmaster was a strict, sharp bloke, but he didn't deserve to die at her hands; none of them did, not here, not now.
But she saw the Doctor in John Smith's eyes (he knows) as he put his gun down (merciful) and told them to retreat, to run.
Then he ran, with her, with Joan, the wind on their faces and even though they were fleeing for their lives, it was a relief, to feel the familiar pace of the Doctor himself on her heels and the wind against her face (he must believe me, there's no way he can't, not now).
When they heard that knock on the cottage-door, she wasn't sure what to expect, her heart was in her mouth so she was startled when she opened up the door and saw Tim standing there and then her eyes dropped to the watch in his hands.
He knew.
He'd brought it to her.
And suddenly, as he placed it into her hands, the cold tips of his fingers pressing into her palm, she didn't feel so alone anymore.
Tim stood behind her, paced around her, spoke alongside her, tone gentle and persuasive with every word. He could see what she had seen and he knew, just like Martha, how wonderful the Doctor truly was. She poured out her heart just as Tim poured out his mind.
... But it was only when Joan saw it, finally realised that what they were saying was true, that John believed it, finally, finally believed it.
Watching him break, collapse into tears, was perhaps the worst thing, because it hadn't occurred to her, it truly hadn't, that he might cry when he realised he wasn't real. It hurt, more than anything else; more than Jenny's death, more than watching the boys act like soldiers a year before they had to, even more than the fact that Joan could make him see the truth with just a few words while she had been telling him the same thing all night.
She and Tim sat outside together, watching the English countryside falter and fall to the Family's flames of wrath and she held him in her arms, her fingers enclosing around each other on the left sleeve of the stiff constraints of that uniform he wore, wrapping him inside a fragile circle because he wasn't the only one who needed comfort right now.
'Thankyou,' she told him. 'For backing me up. That telepathy of yours is dead handy.'
Tim glanced at her as she straightened up and pushed some fringe from his face.
'You used to do that for your brother,' Tim said, staring at her, 'every time he was sad and he needed someone to hold him, you held him, just like this.'
A dozen and a half trips earlier, hell, even two weeks earlier, Martha would have boggled at the possibility of a boy who possessed a sixth sense living in the early 20th century. But now, she just smiled at him.
'That's right, I did.' This didn't frighten her anymore. Tim could spout off her whole history – her mate Sarah kissing her cousin Adeola right in front of her boyfriend Gareth; the phone-call from Leo telling her was going to be a dad; the moment when a lost bra had tipped her Mum off about her Dad's girlfriend – and she wouldn't bat an eye, because she knew she could trust him.
They watched the explosion of the Family's spaceship from afar, the shockwaves of fire rocking the night, rising into the atmosphere and Tim grabbed Martha's arm tightly.
'He's got them,' he turned to her, eyes intent. 'He's beaten them. Hasn't he?'
She simply nodded. 'You're a good guesser, Tim.'
Because she wasn't scared. She really wasn't, not even when she knew he had gone to that ship. He was the Doctor, so she knew he would survive; or maybe she chose to believe it, because a little more faith, after holding out for him for over two months, could not hurt.
He didn't come back straight away. Martha knew he wouldn't. He had to finish what the Family had started when they'd chased them back into the TARDIS. He'd come back; he had once already, so he'd do it again.
Tim stayed with her, right through the night; what her Mum would have called a 'true gentleman' and Martha had to wonder a couple of times if it was more about him looking after her, rather than the other way around. Either way, she wasn't alone – neither of them were. They just sat close together and didn't, or couldn't sleep.
As the Doctor approached with the dawn of the new morning, Tim left, maybe because he could find his way back to the school in the light or maybe he could guess, with that telepathy of his, or maybe because he just being tactful, that he needed to leave them alone.
'Go and get your things,' the Doctor told Martha and she didn't argue. Somewhere deep down, she thought she might have cheered but there was too much other stuff layered across it. Exhaustion, not just from staying up all night, but from everything. Grief for the ones who hadn't made it. Simple, quiet relief that it was over; finally, finally over.
But even as she looked into his eyes, he shifted his gaze away and she found herself wondering if it was maybe just a slow process, the transition from human back to alien, or if he was truly going to follow his hearts no matter who or what he was.
She took off her maid's clothes for the last time, holding it out before and wrinkling her nose as an odd feeling hit her; a kind of stale nostalgia, paired with relief that she would never have to wear it – or that horrid hair-piece – ever again. Throwing it aside, she pulled on her civvies, good, wonderful 21st century, casting herself out from a place where she had never quite belonged but had, all the same, been a kind of home for her over the last two and a half months.
When they told Tim goodbye, she hugged him once more, for the final time, hoping this body would fight and survive on the battlefield. Inside the TARDIS, as the Doctor flicked the switches, busying himself a little too much with the controls, she sat there and glanced back at the doors, imagining Tim's face as the police-box disappeared into nothing.
'Here we go,' the Doctor said quietly. His eyes were focused, hard, on the controls and when he looked up, she could see the name Joan stamped across his eyes.
She didn't do jealousy when the women in question had lost two loves in a row, and experienced things that she couldn't understand, things that Martha had become used to a long time ago, things that were way outside 1913's ability of understanding. Instead, Martha felt sorry for her, for both of them and she watched as he walked slowly around the console, busying himself with buttons and switches. Martha waited patiently, hands clasped in her lap as she crossed one leg over the other. She knew he would prefer it if she let him speak first and so sat comfortably in the silence.
'You know, sometimes,' his voice was hushed, slightly hoarse, as he walked slowly around towards her, coming close, left hand light on the console, 'I wonder if I made a mistake.' He stared down at her, his breath warm on his face, 'taking you to 1913 of all places. Maybe it's the one place in history we should have left alone.'
He inhaled deeply, shoulders swelling with the effort before they deflated, eyes dark and perhaps just the slightest bit tired.
'People died, Martha,' he continued and she watched, sub-consciously knowing what was coming next. 'All those people that they killed...' he shifted, as though challenging, almost daring, her with his gaze, almost, 'all because of me.'
Martha put a hand on the Doctor's shoulder because in one way, what he said was true... and then again, it wasn't.
'This wasn't down to us, in the end,' she told him, quietly absolving him. 'They had a choice, Doctor, and they decided to kill. That wasn't your fault.'
You can't control everything.
'Anyway,' she added, voice unwavering and feeling kind of proud of that because she'd been awake for so long, 'Was it really such a waste of time?' She raised her eyebrows up at him, because she believed it. 'We saved Tim, didn't we?'
His gaze softened in the instant before his face split into a huge smile; that insatiable, incorrigible grin that she still loved.
'Yeah. Yeah, suppose we did.' He rose his eyebrows to the ceiling, tone thick with the size of his grin as he gave her a wink. 'That's my good old Martha Jones.'
She smiled up at him as he stared down at her and then without warning, swiftly put his arms around her, wrapping them around her shoulders as she felt her hair brush his cheek.
'Maybe,' the Doctor murmured then, voice approaching a certain hoarseness, 'it wasn't just me who needed looking after. He needed you,' his voice was closed to her ear and Martha stared hard into his jacket, hiding her blush against it.
'I think he needed you too,' she muttered, eyes on the stitching on his coat's shoulder, but the Doctor didn't reply. With anyone else, Martha might have felt extremely uncomfortable, but it was the Doctor, so she didn't.
'You were brilliant, Martha,' he told her instead. 'You were absolutely, 100%, brilliant.'
Martha grinned into his shoulder. She knew.
'It'll be alright,' she said as she pulled away, telling him with her face that she wasn't just talking about Tim, about what those boys had to face.
'Course it will,' he gave her a big grin and deep down, although she sensed that he was always hiding all of it, she gave a sigh of relief.
'Right, Martha. Hang on, I'm taking you,' he glanced up, head cocked innocently, a slight pout featured (he's back), 'to Ocratia,' a tug of a lever, 'Home of the Lizards!'
1913
After Martha and the Doctor left, Timothy walked back to school only to be told that his mother had not arrived yet and so took to strolling through the quiet of the school grounds, the last time for a few weeks. As the wet leaves withered beneath his feet, he looked across at a bench, the bench where Martha had sat and comforted him, that was now dripping and dark-brown with damp.
'Latimer.'
Turning around, Tim saw Hutchinson, alone, walking towards him and he turned around to face him, not sure what to expect. The old boy stopped a few feet away and an awkward momentary silence prevailed, during which the tuneful patter of the rain was all that Timothy could hear, before Hutchinson slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of gloves.
'I... thought you might want these back,' he said quietly as he held them out. Seeing Tim stare unblinkingly at them, he added, 'I took them again, when you weren't looking.'
Tim reached out and Hutchinson released the gloves back into his grip.
'I suppose... I thought it would be amusing... to watch you looking for them,' he said, staring at the ground, the rain that fell around them reminding Timothy of the tears that he had seen on Hutchinson's cheeks the night before (was it really only last night? When the whole world looked like it was...)
'I sort of knew where they were,' he told Hutchinson, who looked down at the wet ground. 'I just knew they were somewhere in the room. A little like looking at something, not seeing it the first time and then remembering later, I suppose. So I wasn't worried.'
He pulled the gloves on, their warmth welcoming in the cold wet air. 'I suppose I had more pressing matters to attend to.'
'I still don't understand,' Hutchinson's voice had the smallest element of its old boisterous fire and Timothy had to smile because in a strange sort of way, he had missed it, but then again, he knew, he genuinely knew, he didn't even have to guess, that Hutchinson would eventually come back to himself in time.
'What don't you understand?'
'What you were doing,' Hutchinson stared at him, 'with that peculiar watch and running off into the night...'
There was something else in his voice and this time, Timothy was guessing, correctly, that it was envy. But he could still see what Hutchinson had seen; men, made of straw, but still walking, moving matter, falling to the ground under the shots of his classmates.
Soon, it would be real men. You didn't even need to guess that one.
'Just trust me,' he told Hutchinson now, 'I did my duty, Hutchinson.' Not a promise, not a reassurance, but a statement.
'Now excuse me,' he nodded politely, 'I must go and pack my things. Thankyou for returning these.' He held up a gloved hand and Hutchinson nodded. Smiling courteously, Timothy made to go inside before remembering something and turning back around.
'Oh and by the way,' he added, 'I know that you're going to miss Baines.'
Hutchinson's pupils drifted to the ground and he folded his arms, looking thoroughly miserable. 'Not really, after what he did.'
Timothy looked at him evenly. 'It wasn't his fault, Hutchinson. He was already gone. Already dead.' His parents will be mourning a son a year in advance. But there was one thing Tim wanted people to understand and that was not to blame Baines, but the creature that had taken him and killed him.
'Mourn him,' he advised Hutchinson now, 'it'll hurt less then.'
'Please don't,' Hutchinson's arms folded tighter around himself, defensively. Timothy nodded.
'I'll see you soon, Hutchinson. Good luck.'
And without another word, leaving Hutchinson staring after him, he strode out of the rain, back into the school and up into their dormitories to pack his suitcase. On the way, he pulled out the watch that the Doctor had given him, remembering the pair of slim, worn hands that he had placed it into, the kind eyes that had crinkled at the corners every time she smiled at him.
Martha.