Inspired by the scene in Episode 3x8 Human Nature of the Doctor screaming in pain as the chameleon arch rewrites his biology, this fic is an exploration of that moment and of how he and Martha got from that moment to taking their place in 1913 society. Also - 10th Doctor whump. Mmmmmmm yummy! :D

All feedback and concrit gratefully received.

Completely Human

The screaming was horrible. She'd never heard anyone make a noise like that, such a wrenching, horrific wail of agony. He jerked and shuddered, his hands clasped to his head, wrapped around the metal cradle with a white-knuckled grip, his mouth stretched wide in an endless howl of pain. His eyes were pressed shut, his face contorted, the intense beam of light from above whiting out his skin until he looked like a corpse. She was amazed he was still standing, his entire body shaking and twitching as the machine ripped him apart and rebuilt him cell by cell.

It was horrific and terrifying and barbaric and all she could do was stand helplessly and watch. Every molecule of her being wanted to stop this, wanted to rip the damn machine from his head and make the screaming stop, make his pain stop, but she couldn't; he'd chosen this, knowing that it would hurt, insistent that it was their only choice. And even if she did it, even if she pulled him from the contraption that was causing him such agony, who knew what that would do to him? For all she knew, stopping it now might kill him.

And so she watched, her hands clasped to her face, tears welling in her eyes, flinching at the rawness of each piercing shriek.

Eventually, finally, it was over. After what felt like an eternity, the bright light suddenly shut off, the screaming abruptly ceased and he simply dropped. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut; one moment he was standing, jerking and shaking, the next he was crumpled on the floor, his legs folded under him, arms splayed limply across the metal grating. Her heart pounding in her chest, she rushed to him, dropping to her knees at his side.

He was pale, still, his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted. She fumbled at the open neck of his shirt, all the cool clinical detachment of her medical training forgotten, pulling his tie roughly aside so she could press shaking fingers to his neck, seeking the reassurance of a pulse. It was there, faint but regular. And it was a familiar rhythm; the slow, steady beat of a single heart. A human pulse. She bent over him, turning her head to listen. He was breathing. It was a little rapid, a little shallow, but he was breathing.

He didn't respond to her touch, his eyes firmly closed, his body relaxed and loose, sprawled on the control room floor.

"Doctor?" Her voice came out shaky, scared.

Nothing. He was unconscious. She looked around a little desperately, wondering what she should do now, and her eye fell on the chameleon arch. It swung overhead, an innocuous looking thing of metal and wire. A torture device. It twisted slowly, dangling from its connecting cables, and she saw the watch, still locked into place on the front of the arch.

"This watch… is me." The Doctor's words. His explanation had been hurried, almost garbled, but on that point he had been adamant.

She stood up slowly and reached out for the arch, grasping it with a shiver of distaste. Holding it still, she pulled the watch free, disconnecting it from the arch. The floor lurched under her feet then, sending her staggering, and the whine and groan of the engines changed in tone, building to a crescendo and then abruptly fading as the room shook again, a jolt that nearly threw her from her feet. And then silence. They had landed.

Something beeped, drawing her attention, and she looked round to see the screen on the console fill with information. She stepped closer, the watch still clasped in her hand. It was in English. The screen was normally a confusing mass of circular symbols, oddly beautiful in a kind of art deco way, showing information in a script that she assumed was Gallifreyan. And whatever the TARDIS did that allowed her to understand and read any language didn't seem to extend to its own workings, to the ancient writings of an almost extinct race. But now it showed information in English.

This was the Doctor's work, something he had programmed in. He'd been a flurry of activity, explaining things in a rush even as he darted about the console, flipping switches and levers, altering settings, prepping the chameleon arch. He'd recorded a whole list of instructions, trying to anticipate answers to as many questions as he could think of, even as he had answered her own confused questions.

The TARDIS would integrate him, he'd told her. It would invent a life story for him, find him a setting. And now the TARDIS screen filled with that information. Location: Earth, England, Surrey. Date: 1913, July 14, Monday. Name: Smith, John. Age: 34. Occupation: Schoolmaster. Born: Nottingham. Father: Smith, Sydney - Watchmaker. Mother: Lambert, Verity – Nurse. It filled the screen, the life and history of a man who never existed. A man who had only been born moments ago; who lay at her feet, his single human heart beating for the first time.

She looked at the watch in her hand. It was beautiful, the Gallifreyan script a delicate swirl of pattern on the closed cover. But it was cold and dead in her hands, a smooth metal casket… and locked inside, the essence of a Time Lord, all that made the Doctor who and what he was. She smoothed a finger across the cover, tracing the delicate engraving, before closing her hand around it decisively. With a sigh she slipped the watch into her pocket.

The lights in the TARDIS abruptly dimmed, making the room seem colder, emptier. She shivered, feeling suddenly horribly alone. There was a sudden stillness to the air, an unsettling quiet, and she realised that the constant low hum of the TARDIS, a soft whisper of background noise that was so constant that she had hardly been aware of it, was gone. The TARDIS had powered down.

"Don't worry about the TARDIS. I'll put it on emergency power so they can't detect it."

A low groan broke the silence and she spun around. The Doctor was waking, a frown on his face as he stirred sluggishly. "Doctor!" She knelt hurriedly beside him, reaching out a reassuring hand as he groggily blinked his eyes open. Eyes that held no recognition whatsoever. He looked up at her as though she were a complete stranger and her blood ran cold.

"Doctor?" The tremble in her voice was that of a lost and frightened child. He didn't react to the name. His gaze was blank, oddly unfocused.

"I should have just enough residual awareness to let you in."

She glanced over her shoulder at the console screen. "John?" she tried uncertainly. "John Smith?" That got a response. He was still woozy, a frown of confusion on his face, but he reacted to the name, a spark of awareness wakening in his eyes. "It's me, Martha," she told him gently.

He frowned distantly. "Martha?" his voice was cracked and shaky, his throat raw from screaming.

She nodded eagerly, flushed with relief. "Yes! It's Martha! Martha Jones. I'm…" She thought on her feet, running through the information she'd read on the console. England, 1913. He was a schoolteacher. And she… she was a young, single, black woman in pre-World War 1 England. "I'm your maid," she told him. "Do you remember?"

"Maid?" His vacant gaze focused on her face as he struggled to recall memories that he didn't have. For a moment she held her breath as he frowned, his expression uncertain, and then he just nodded vaguely, "Yes. Martha Jones," he murmured absently. "Housemaid. Been with me for years…" His words tailed off and he groaned in discomfort as he tried to sit up.

She got a hand under his back, helping to lift him up. He listed immediately to the side and she had to grab him and hold him upright. His head wobbled loosely on his neck, his movements uncoordinated.

"Are… are you alright?" she asked uncertainly.

He groaned, pressing a shaky hand to his head. "Head… hurts…" he mumbled. He was obviously still confused, unaware of his surroundings, but he'd let her in, accepted her into the life the TARDIS had fabricated for him, and that's what mattered. Now all they had to do was stay hidden for three months. That would be long enough, he'd told her. Long enough for the Family to die.

But first she had to get John Smith out of the TARDIS and find somewhere for them to spend those three months. She looked down at him, leaning weakly against her, at his slim, modern suit, his trainers. And her own clothes – trousers, fitted top and jacket. In 1913. That wasn't going to work at all. Okay then. That was the first order of business; get them ready for 1913.

There was a wardrobe room in the TARDIS. She'd never really had reason to go in there but he'd pointed it out on a perfunctory tour of the vessel's massive interior, talking a mile a minute as usual, jabbering something about it containing clothing appropriate to any time period. She'd wondered at the time why he bothered as he never wore anything other than his fitted suits, regardless of where or when he found himself. Right now though, it was just what they needed.

"Come on, Jo… Mr Smith," she corrected herself quickly, realising that a maid would never be so familiar. This was going to take some getting used to. She urged him to his feet, having to help lift him as he wobbled, struggling to get his feet under him. His muscles were trembling under her hands, his body still reeling from the effects of the transformation. She swallowed thickly. "Let's get you sorted." He was oddly placid, swaying on his feet, his expression still blank and confused. He let himself be guided by her, moved docilely as she steered him towards the wardrobe room, her hands at his waist correcting him as he swayed drunkenly. It was unnerving, seeing him so quiet and pliable; the Doctor was a force of nature, a constantly moving powerhouse of energy and enthusiasm, more fiercely alive than anyone she had ever known. It brought it home to her with a hollow ache that this wasn't the Doctor anymore. This was a human, a man named John Smith, a man she didn't know. The Doctor was gone.

She got them to the wardrobe room and for a moment was at a loss. She didn't fully understand how this process worked, how the TARDIS created his human identity, how it integrated him into the right time period with the right knowledge, the right instincts. She looked around vaguely; the room was huge, clothes of every description hanging from metal rails that spiralled around a central staircase. She had no idea where to even start looking to find clothes appropriate to 1913. She wasn't even sure she knew what clothes were appropriate to 1913.

Before she could decide what to do next, the Doctor… John Smith… took matters into his own hands. Moving almost dreamily, his gaze still oddly absent, he wandered unsteadily over to the rails of clothing and began methodically pulling out hangers. She watched as he gathered a collection of clothing – she saw a starched shirt, a gray tweed suit – and, moving jerkily, as though sleepwalking, shrugged out of his jacket. When he reached to unbutton his shirt it belatedly occurred to her where this was leading and she blushed and looked away, feeling oddly voyeuristic. Turning her back to him, she began her own exploration of the rails of clothing. The range of clothes was a complete jumble, women's clothing mixed in with men's, Roman togas side by side with Elizabethan ruffs and Japanese kimonos. And that was just the Earth fashions; there were also items and fabrics she had never seen before, some of which whose purpose she was at a loss to define. She had no idea where to find what she was looking for.

She moved amongst the rails, trailing her hand uncertainly across the wild mix of fabrics. And then something made her stop, drew her attention to a length of black material. Frowning, she reached for the hanger and pulled it out. It was a long black dress, long-sleeved, fitted at the waist, demure neckline. Perfect for 1913. Perfect for a maid in 1913. She shivered, feeling oddly uneasy. She looked around her, feeling again the sense of loneliness, the disturbing absence of the TARDIS's comforting background hum. She turned back to the rails of clothing. Holding the black dress in one hand, she let her fingers drift again over the jumble of fabrics… and there it was again, like a tickle in the back of her mind, pulling her attention to another hanger. She pulled out a long dark coat, its cut similar to that of the dress.

The TARDIS. It was guiding her, she realised, pushing her towards the garments she needed for this time period, the same way it was doing to the Doctor. He'd said it would integrate him but it couldn't do the same for her; it couldn't invent her a life story and a new set of memories… but it could guide her the way it was guiding him. With a quick look over her shoulder, she slipped off her jacket and pulled her top hurriedly over her head. The fabric of the dress was thick and heavy, stiff against her skin as she pulled it over her head and wormed her arms into the sleeves. She tugged it down into place; it fit surprisingly well, the bodice clinging snugly to her torso, the heavy skirts reaching almost to the floor. She lifted the skirts to shimmy out of her trousers and let the TARDIS guide her hands to a pair of black lace-up boots.

When she emerged from the railings, it was to find a stranger standing in front of a full-length mirror. He was dressed in a tweed suit, a starched shirt and an austere tie, his shoes brightly polished. Even his bearing was different; he stood stiffly, his entire manner reserved and distant. This was not the Doctor. This was John Smith, schoolmaster from Nottingham. He was gazing at himself in the mirror, his expression still somewhat vague, his brow furrowed in confusion, as though he wasn't entirely sure he recognised his own reflection.

"Mr Smith?" It took him a moment to turn when she called his name, his reactions still slow and uncertain.

He looked her up and down and for a moment she felt ridiculously self-conscious. In the mirror behind him she caught a glimpse of herself; long, heavy dress, sensible boots, her hair smoothed back. Every inch the demure, Edwardian housemaid.

"Martha?" He sounded lost and confused, his gaze still oddly vacant. She realised with a pang that even his voice was different, his accent become stiff and clipped.

"That's right, Mr Smith." She tried to project a confidence she didn't feel, tried to find the right tone of voice, competent yet deferential. She could do this. She had a part to play. He was relying on her. For three months she would play the maid, would look after and protect this human who looked so much like the alien, the Time Lord, who fascinated and enthralled her. And then they'd be free and he'd come back to her and they'd travel on through time and space. Three months. She could do this.

She took a deep breath and took him by the arm, steering him out of the wardrobe room. "Come on then, Mr Smith. Time to face the world." He looked at her in bemusement but went with her willingly enough, allowing her to guide his steps back to the control room. He was so different. Even his walk was different, stiffer, more formal, as with each passing moment his new human personality asserted itself and the memory of the Time Lord that was faded.

The control room was cool and still, the lights dimmed, the green glow of the central column absent, robbing the room of its warmth and life. It felt cold and dead and Martha shivered as she guided John Smith towards the doors. She hesitated for a moment at the doors, feeling a frisson of nerves at what the world outside would hold. John Smith stood placid, unmoving, as though waiting for input, waiting for his life to start, as she ran through a last paranoid check. The TARDIS was powered down, the key hung on its chain around her neck, hidden beneath her dress, and the watch was a comforting weight in the pocket of her coat.

She was ready. As ready as she was going to be. With a deliberate breath, she opened the doors and led John Smith out of the TARDIS.

Fin.