Based on the song "Bleed (I Must Be Dreaming)" by Evanescence. Loose follow-up to "Tear It Apart", which in turn is a follow-up to "Lipstick Lies".
Trigger warnings: blood, death.
Do I even have to say that this is Dark Doctor? Specifically DarkTen? (DarkTen is my favorite Ten. I have no shame.)
And please, don't review as a guest. If you do, I can't reply. So if you have an account, sign in to leave a review.
That being said . . .
Response to Skyler's review: No. The Doctor's a touch-telepath. He's a Time Lord, not a vampire. And I left the ending open to interpretation.
"Bleed"
The night air felt warm on Martha Jones' skin as she walked down the London street searching for the Doctor. He'd taken her back home in order to go out to a big fancy social gathering with her sister Tish, her brother Leo, and some of their friends, but he'd slipped away soon after the introductions and nibbles and she hadn't seen him since. The party wasn't quite over, but some guests had started to trickle outside by the time she'd left.
A sudden noise coming from a nearby alley had Martha cautiously approaching in that direction. She poked her head around the corner carefully to see what was going on, then relaxed as she recognized the familiar lanky form of the Doctor. Martha stepped into the alleyway's entrance but stopped cold when she heard a pleading female voice.
Only then did she realize that the Doctor was angled so he couldn't see her, and that he had a young woman—blonde, maybe, it was hard for Martha to tell exactly—cornered, trapped between him and the brick wall.
Martha crept forward silently; then stopped dead in her tracks when her eyes caught the brief metallic gleam in the Doctor's hand. At first she thought it was the sonic screwdriver—but no, it was never that bright when light reflected off it. Another possibility—grim as it was—suddenly occurred to her.
. . . No. He wouldn't. He wouldn't. . . .
Dark red blood—it looked almost black in the dim light—trickled then flowed down the woman's neck, soaking her clothes before dripping and pooling onto the gritty asphalt.
Martha drew in a sharp, shocked breath. The Doctor's head whipped in her direction, eyes narrowed, and he stepped away from his prey. His victim crumpled gracelessly to the ground, her life force slowly seeping away in rivulets of red. He stepped toward his traveling companion; Martha's insides froze to ice and she turned away, her head whirling.
I must be dreaming. . . .
"Martha." He sounded so calm, so normal . . . Like he hadn't just slit an innocent woman's throat and left her to die . . .
Oh, he really was alien . . .
Terrified of him, she stepped back, out of his reach.
We all live and we all die, but that does not begin to justify you. . . .
"Martha, wait." The Doctor held out a long-fingered hand, reached for her. "I can explain—"
She didn't wait for him to finish: she was already running in the opposite direction as fast as she could in heels.
Martha didn't look back to see if he was following.
-oOo-
Several blocks later, Martha finally slowed to a fast walk. Taking deep lungfuls of air to help slow her rapid heartbeat and to regulate her breathing, she finally took in her surroundings. To her surprise, the route she'd taken had led her to where the Doctor had parked his TARDIS. The police box shape of the timeship almost looked like it was glowing in the dark, though that may be her impression because the lettering on top actually was glowing. Somehow, the sight of the sturdy blue box calmed Martha down, reassured her that she would be okay—however terrified she might currently be of its owner.
She couldn't push the sight of that poor woman out of her head. . . .
Dammit, she was a doctor—well, almost. She should have done something . . . But no, there was nothing she could have done.
"That woman was dead before she hit the ground."
Martha stiffened at the familiar voice behind her, shuddered when cool hands rested on her shoulders. Suddenly she wished she hadn't worn a strapless dress.
"It's not what it seems. Martha, it's not what you think." His voice wrapped around her, the words sweet and honeyed, his tone soft as velvet.
Words had always been his preferred weapon. And right now, none would come to her.
No, I must be dreaming. It's only in my mind, not in real life. No, I must be dreaming . . .
But how could she pretend that she didn't see the side of him he hid so carelessly?
Martha shook her head slightly, slipped out of his grasp and turned to face him. "I saw her bleed, Doctor. And you—you . . ." You heard me breathe, and I froze inside myself and turned away.
Dark eyes bored into hers, and Martha found she couldn't look away. "Yes?" he said evenly.
She swallowed hard, briefly averted her gaze. "Are you going to kill me, too?"
"Do you want me to?"
Martha felt as if ice water had been dumped over her head. "No!"
She couldn't see his hands now, and the realization set her even more on edge. He was skilled at sleight-of-hand; she knew that. It would be so easy for him to slip a knife between her ribs . . .
Stomach acid burned a hole through her insides, shot up into her throat. She had to tell someone, tell them what she knew he'd done . . .
There was no way he'd allow her to do that.
"Okay, then."
Had she heard him right? Martha blinked. "Sorry?"
"I'm not going to kill you." He eased forward; she stepped back.
She still couldn't see his hands. But standing this close to him, she could smell the iron tang of blood, the stench of death.
Her mum had been right about him all along.
"Why'd you kill her then?" Martha heard herself say. "What did she do to you?" And why, oh why, was she expecting a coherent answer from him—an answer that would give some reasoning behind what he'd done?
Something that might have been a smirk flickered on his lips; his expression darkened. Every nerve and muscle fiber in Martha's body was screaming at her to turn and run, but she ignored the signals and stayed put. Besides, he'd caught up to her easily when she'd run from him before, and bolting into the TARDIS was a bad idea too: He knew his ship better than she did, and if she ended up trapping herself . . .
"What makes you think I'm going to spill all my secrets to you?" There was a sneer embedded in the Doctor's voice. Vaguely, she realized his black suit and white shirt were splattered with dark red—a red that was slowly on its way to turning a rusty brown. "I don't kiss and tell, Martha."
Her heart leapt into her throat even as she swallowed down bile. "You said you would explain, that it wasn't what it seemed—that I didn't see what I thought I saw."
His jaw tightened. "I know what I said."
(He'd also said he wasn't going to kill her, but Martha didn't entirely trust him on that.)
I fear you, she realized, but spoken fears can come true.
Oh, she had to be dreaming. This had to be a nightmare.
Except for the fact she couldn't wake up.
It's only in my mind, not in real life. No, I must be dreaming. . . .
"Let me guess," Martha said sarcastically," she was an alien in disguise."
"Well, actually . . . No."
Horror mingled with dread. She'd saved his life, had blindly put her faith and trust in him, but now . . . He'd told her about his planet, the Time War; had shown her so much of the universe; and Martha realized she still didn't know him, not really. Her eyes met his, glanced away. She said softly, "We all live and we all die, but that does not begin to justify you."
"I told you, it's not what it seems, not what you think."
"And you still won't give me a reason why!" Martha flashed back at him.
His hands were suddenly sliding up and down her bare arms, over her shoulders. She hadn't even seen them leave his pockets; that's how fast he could move, how skilled he was at sleight-of-hand.
"That's for me to know and for you"—that half-smile, half-smirk again—"not to find out." If he had his way, she never would.
Too late, Martha realized her mistake. As her world faded to black, she was aware of the fact he wore the scent of blood and death, of dark eyes burning out of a pale face.
Not what it seems. Not what you think. I must be dreaming. Just in my mind. Not in real life. I must be dreaming. . . .