He had to do it. There was no other option. Who in their right mind would stand by, silently, as a young woman was beaten and abused—by, of all people, men whose job it is to protect innocent people like her? Not him. Not John Smith. He simply wouldn't allow it.

He thought of his conviction as he lay bleeding on the ground, his ears ringing with the angry voices of those crowded around him. He knew it was worth it. It wasn't like he had any family or loved ones to miss him, and he had never done anything with his life. He'd grown up in Bathgate, West Lothian, Scotland, just him and his parents. His mom had been a nurse, his father a postman. They both died in a car accident when he was twenty. He couldn't afford much of a funeral, working in a shop. He never left. He was only in America now because of chance; he'd won the lottery, just enough cash to move out of country, maybe start afresh.

But no, this was fine. John Smith could die content knowing that he had done so acting as a man worth being, a man with conviction. He'd seen the woman run away, so it was all worth it in the end, at least.

"Doctor! Oh God, Doctor!"

A dark shape appeared over him. If he squinted, he could tell it was a woman—a young woman, maybe in her early twenties, with beautiful black hair tied back in a pony tail, a black jacket and a silver necklace over smooth, chocolatey skin... oh, she was pretty. "Are you an angel?" he murmured thoughtlessly. Oh no, that was embarrassing. He didn't want his last words to be "are you an angel." Those were rubbish last words.

The woman didn't seem to have noticed. She waved away one of the police officers (was that the one who'd shot him?) and snapped something that sounded an awful lot like "I'm a doctor." Well, thank goodness. Maybe he'd live long enough now to pick better last words.

"...can you hear me? Doc-John, can you hear me?"

How did the pretty lady know his name? Maybe he was still wearing his tag from work. That would be even more embarrassing. John Smith was starting to feel less okay with dying right now.

"We need to get him to a hospital. I don't care if you're the police! This man is going to die if we don't get him to a hospital, and I refuse to let that happen. Car. Now."

Someone grabbed hold of John, just under the arms, and pulled up. He yelped. The pain jolted him into awareness as some strangers shoved him into the back of a police car. The area was surrounded with them—strangers that is. John caught sight of flashing lights and camera phones held high. Oh, now this was just brilliant; if he died like this, not only would his last moments be embarrassing, but they'd be all over the internet. Now he really would prefer not to d—ouch!

The ride to the hospital was pretty much the same as those few moments: Chaotic ramblings in his head, and then a burst of pain that took longer and longer to fade. One of the policemen he'd yelled at before sat next to him with some bandages pressed against his chest, but there was still blood everywhere. The stink of alcohol on the man's breath didn't help anything.

The driver, a woman from the sound of it, kept yelling things back at them, asking about his vitals and giving orders. At one point, she asked him directly about how he felt: "On a scale of one to ten, where one is fine and ten is unbearable, how much does it hurt?"

"Ten—AH! T-twelve."

And it just kept going, and going, and going—out of the car, into the hospital, into surgery, and then blackness.


When he woke up, the beautiful woman was there. She was dressed the same as before, only now she wore the white coat of a medical professional. A small bit of paper hung on her neck like an ID, but it wasn't laminated, which John thought odd. It read Martha Jones. Sitting on a chair at his bedside, she didn't seem to notice he was awake.

"Hello, Martha Jones," he murmured. The very act of speaking hurt his chest, but he refused to show it.

Martha started. The look of relief and joy on her face made the pain seem irrelevant. "D-John, thank goodness! How are you feeling?"

For a moment, John wondered again how this Martha Jones could possibly know his name, but the longer he looked at her, the more he recognized her. His memories began to bend and fold around this woman's identity. John was very happy now that he hadn't died. "Not too incredibly terrible," he finally replied. "It's a miracle I'm feeling anything at all, isn't it?"

Martha looked shocked at the response, though John wasn't sure why. "Y-yes. I mean, that's... what they're calling it." She laughed in a casual, conversational way, but John could tell she was shaken up. "A bullet to the heart. Should have killed you instantly."

"Hold on—to the heart?"

Martha nodded. She scanned John with her eyes, as if making sure he was alive, then sat up straight. "Right. John, I'm sorry but I have to ask, considering the traumatic nature of the injury... do you remember who I am?"

"Yees..." John nodded slowly. "Though I didn't at first. Makes sense, I suppose."

"And... who am I? To you?"

John laughed then winced. The lady gasped, but he dismissed her concern with a grin. "Why, Martha Jones, you're my lovely fiance of course."


A/N: So what do you think? Should I continue? Is this idea interesting enough for you? Don't worry, it's not going to be Martha/Doctor. I keep my romances canon, but John Smith can be whoever I—I mean the TARDIS—wants him to be.