THIS STORY ATTEMPTS TO PICK UP WHERE "SHADES OF BLUE" LEFT OFF - YOU MAY NOTICE THAT THE LAST PARAGRAPH OF "SHADES" IS THE FIRST PARAGRAPH HERE. THIS IS SIMPLY TO ESTABLISH THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN MARTHA AND THE DOCTOR WITHOUT HAVING TO GO THROUGH ALL THE ANGSTY STUFF. HOWEVER, THIS STORY HAS REALLY NOTHING TO DO WITH "SHADES OF BLUE," AND WHILE I WOULD LOVE IF YOU READ THE PREVIOUS STORY, IT IS NOT AT ALL NECESSARY TO DO SO!
THIS STORY REQUIRES A BIT OF A CONTINUITY RE-WRITE (DO THEY CALL THA RETCON?), BUT IF I TOLD YOU WHERE OR HOW OR WHY, IT WOULDN'T BE SPORTING. SUFFICE IT TO SAY THAT AT SOME POINT IN THE STORY, YOU'LL HEAR A SOMEWHAT DIFFERENT TELLING OF THE FACTS AS WE KNOW THEM, AND IT HAS SOME PRETTY DIRE CONSEQUENCES. IF STUFF LIKE THAT BOTHERS YOU, THEN HIT THE 'BACK' BUTTON ON YOUR BROWSER NOW!
LET'S BE OFF AND ENJOY!
feral: \ˈfir-əl, ˈfer-; ˈfe-rəl\
1: of, relating to, or suggestive of a wild beast 2 a: not domesticated or cultivated; wild
ONE
The Doctor was suspended in the dark above the Earth. A new world lay waiting for him, her contours defined beneath a tan bedsheet. He soon shrouded himself in the dim, careless light and in that same tan bedsheet. He lost himself in her, and basked in his own newfound freedom.
Time had so much meaning in the TARDIS, and so little. He could not, he could never, calculate the length and breadth of his loneliness, and now, he reckoned, it mattered little. What mattered was this love, this moment, today. When he'd first made love to Martha a few days ago, it had truly been ages. Generations and regenerations had come and gone since last he had exerted his energies in such a full-bodied sense, and it had felt not just good, not just like a release, but like a lifeline. They had been driven together, quite literally, by an unseen force, but once ignited, they'd lost all control and needed no further urging. They grasped at each other as though dying of thirst in the desert. Before, he'd been oblivious to her feelings (and, if he was honest, his own), and it had taken a third party to show them the life and love they could make together.
And so they tangled the sheets once more, for the first time since fully acknowledging their mutual feelings. Those hours were wordless but not silent, urgent but never hurried. They wanted to enjoy each other, preface the rest of their lives with this bubble of perfection.
At long last, their bodies lay in stasis, calming. She rested her head on his shoulder near his ear. Between protracted exhalations, Martha whispered, "That was perfect."
"You were perfect," he whispered back. He smiled slightly and turned his head to give her a soft kiss. A long moment passed, and he added, "Perfect, but exhausting. I'm famished now."
"I am, too," she admitted.
"Shall we get up and have a perfect meal of some sort?"
"Can't we just call room service?" she joked, leaning over for another kiss, this one not-so-soft. His arms curled around her once more and for a beautiful interval, all too short, it felt as though their venturing out of bed might have to wait yet more hours.
And then a giant jolt ripped them from the moment. The TARDIS was moving at warp speed, and not smoothly. It jostled them to the left, then the right, then to the left again and tossed them out of bed and onto the floor.
Once the ground beneath them was stable, they got to their feet and scrambled to find their clothes. As they did, the Doctor cried out, "What the hell was that, eh?" He seemed to be scolding the TARDIS, but he received no answer.
Well, if this romp of theirs was to be the preface to their new life together, Martha supposed that being interrupted by some whiplash-inducing adventure was as appropriate a finish as any. This was, after all, life with the Doctor, and that meant very little calm.
She followed him out of the bedroom and down the corridor into the console room. The TARDIS seemed to be panting when they arrived, and rather than screaming at it as he had before, he approached the light field and stroked it. He said nothing, but Martha knew that he was, nonetheless, communicating with it.
"It's homed in on something," he said. "It's brought us where it feels we are needed."
"Where's that?" she asked.
"Don't know," he told her. "Only one way to find out."
They exited the TARDIS together and looked about. Martha could see the Tower of London, which answered the question of where, but that still left the when up in the air. Styles of dress suggested the 19th century, but she waited for the Doctor to say more.
They wandered forward down the street cautiously. "Do you see anything out-of-place?" asked Martha.
"Not yet," he told her. "But it's still early. We need to find out what year it is."
He pulled her into a tavern nearby. The Voyager's Repose was most likely an inn as well, or so the name suggested, and therefore promised a motley assortment of interesting personalities.
The pair of them caught eyes as they entered. "Hello everyone," the Doctor greeted with convivial friendliness. This was met with hello muttered from all sides. "I'm the Doctor, and this is Martha. Don't mind us – just in for a bit of grub. What's on the menu today?"
"Well, the usual gruel, or some brown bread. Or stew – we got some beef at a very good price, stewed it with turnips."
"We'll have two of those, thanks," the Doctor told him. "And some wine, if you have it."
"Sure thing, Doctor," the barman said. "You understand of course that the price includes the meal and a room for the night." He eyed Martha with concern. "I'll assume the lovely dark lady is your wife? I've got a reputable establishment, Doctor, you understand."
"Yes, yes, of course. How much do we owe?" the Doctor asked, evading the question.
The barman charged him a surprisingly small amount of money. "That's all, are you certain?" asked the Doctor.
"It's a special dispensation today, sir," the barman said with happy gusto. "In honour of Her Majesty."
"In honour of Her Majesty, you say?"
"Yes, sir," the man said, sounding a bit surprised. "It's the twentieth June."
"Oh right," the Doctor said, rocking back on his heels. "The anniversary of Queen Victoria's coronation. Gee, is it that time of year already? Wow, how long's she been reigning?"
"Why, it's fifteen years today," the barman said. "And a good, sturdy woman she is still. I predict a long, healthy reign."
"Yes, I think you might be right," the Doctor said. "Thank you."
He gestured to a table, and he and Martha sat across from each other. "So that makes it, what, 1852?" she asked.
"Very good," he said, smiling. "Remind me to give you your gold star later."
"You always say that, but I've never gotten one."
Phillip, age 8, sprinted across the street, jogged down three alleyways, skidded through a gate, plodded over a cluster of tombstones and traversed the cloisters into the St. Anthony's Convent. Under the hard gaze of a old nun who seemed to love whacking children with olive branches, he slowed his pace to a brisk walk, breathing hard and desperate to find Sister Micheline.
He found her in the infirmary, as usual, sitting on the floor near the hearth, her bony knees pressing painfully into the stone. She had her hands in a large basin and was washing clothes and blankets in hot water warmed over the fire.
"Sister! I've brought news!" Phillip cried out, breaking into a run once again as he entered the long room. He felt free now to be as emotive as he liked – he knew he was one of Sister Micheline's favourites of all the children in the convent. She was a nurse, not one of the childrens' caretakers, but she had made herself a friend to him.
"Hello, Phillip," she said, turning, but never stopping her washing. "What news?"
"I've just been at the Voyager's Repose," he told her, panting, resting his hands on his knees. "And I know that I'm not supposed to listen to the conversations of others but… a man came in and he spoke very loudly, to everyone."
"Yes?"
He took a deep breath. "There's a new doctor in town."
This news caused her to stop washing. She glared at Phillip. For a horrible moment, Phillip thought she was going to admonish him for overstepping his bounds. But he needn't have worried. "A new doctor? Where is he from?"
"He didn't say," Phillip said. "But he's with his wife, and they talk like us, but they didn't know what day it was."
"No matter," Micheline said. "If he's someone new, then I think we should make some effort to acquire him. Seems as though we've spoken to every other physician in London."
"Yes, Sister," Phillip murmured, unsure of what else to say.
"Do you suppose he's staying at the Voyager's Repose? If he is, that means he's a traveller and we'll have to employ his services tonight before he has a chance to move on. Can you get him here, Phillip?"
"I will do my best, Sister," he told her, backing out of the room. "What should I tell him?"
"Tell him that the Sisters of Saint Anthony request his services," she said haughtily. "That is all he ever need know. If he is a proper, God-fearing man, that is."
"And if he's not?"
Sister Micheline thought about it for a long moment. Before this, she would have said that she didn't want any man who was not God-fearing attending one of her patients, but these were desperate times. It had been eight months, and nothing had worked. Not comfort, not medicines, not prayer, not beatings, not exorcism. This patient appeared to be incurable.
"Tell him the truth," she said simply.