"REGENERATE," the Doctor roared, spittle flying as his temper soared. A vein throbbed dangerously at his temple, prime to burst if his twin heart rates shot any higher. His pulse pounded like a beating drum and kept his throat in its locked grip. The drums seemed to pass from one Time Lord to the other as it threatened to choke his last breath from him. "REGENERATE!" He shrieked, clutching the frail body to his chest, hugging it close, as he rocked uselessly back and forth.
No sounds came from the surrounding party as they held and knelt with each other, thankful to be back in the arms of family and safe. Even as the Doctor tried to clutch the last remnant of family, he only held on to that shell, the man already slipped into the permanence that was a final death. He jostled the limp body in his arms and screamed into the shoulder, the fine suit damp with congealing blood soaked through the fabric of his own and stained his stomach a deep burgundy. The two sons of Gallifrey were brought back to one. The Doctor himself clawing at the lead weight of the dead as he tried, so vainly, to piece together the last of his kind. He was so tired, he was so tired of the enemies and the monsters, and the endless nights with no one to share it with. He was tired of being homeless and tired of having no one. He was so tired of being the last; at the finish line, at the end of the rope, and of his kind. The last token of home slipped between mottled fingers like dust.
Jack stood with a hand covering the scalding tip of the steel weapon, lowering it and using his palm as a protective cap. The woman holding the gun looked on with a bruised face and dead eyes, watching but not seeing. Her husband lay with another man, as foreign to her as the gun she held. Lucy stared blankly as Jack tossed the gun aside. She had no purpose now, no orders. The man who had once given them to her, had once been so commanding, demanded nothing anymore. His blood spoke the whispers she couldn't bear to hear. Harold's words could no longer sting, just like his cruel bite could no longer touch her. It was odd, though; seeing that other man, the enemy – the Doctor, as Harold would say with such spite – holding him like a child, like a little baby rather than the cruel, deceitful, and sadistic man he was. The man older than time. That man who was of time. The man as ageless as war and as vile as humanity, to be held like something so small and so helpless.
Perhaps it wasn't Harry who was the one needing to be held. Her head turned, studying with mechanical movements and glassy eyes.
The man in the brown stripes continued to shriek, his voice high and keening as he choked on muffled wails, shaking with the effort it caused him. It wasn't fair, It wasn't fair! He screamed in wordless cries, pounding his fists into the carcass of his brother. Why should he continue to suffer, had he not atoned enough for his sins? This was yet another mark of the feudless battle the Doctor fought against himself, against a fate that continued to slam him with further pains and insults, continued to deliver anguish unto a body so wrecked with the carnage of hatred.
Why, why, WHY? He screamed in soundless agony, his fists carrying out the rhythm lost.
And a new rhythm gained.
The Doctor choked, choked on the pulse that strengthened, that beat against his own chest. It was thread at first, but the beating pounded into his head, pounding and growing stronger. It reached a climaxing volume inside his head, the twin hearts beating anew, faster and faster and faster until suddenly they stopped all together, a crescendo of life dropping. The Doctor's eyes widened, his breath held, his fingers aching and his lungs screaming. As he blinked a new sound picked up once again.
The Master gasped, his neck strained as his body was lifted from the Doctor's arms, rigid with shock. No sound came from his lips as he clawed at his heaving chest, his eyes open to all vulnerability, pouring with fear. He suffocated on the toxins of life, breathing in the air he left behind, his eyes stinging and his throat hoarse. He hacked and sputtered and choked on nothing, and drowned in everything. He heaved and gulped, shaking hard enough to fall from the Doctor's limp hands, skittering away. He convulsed, curling in on himself then arching out as the pain of resuscitation hit him. The force of life beat at him until he lay as a quivering mass upon the tiles of the Valiant.
The Doctor's own hearts raced within his chest, beating with a rapid clamor. He felt them rush up and down, in a race against the other, pulsing so fast he could almost feel his entire body buzzing with the adrenaline. A woman scream and a few more cries rose to join it but the man could simply stare at the weak Time Lord that shook by his feet. The Master rolled into himself, clutching the fabric of his shorn suit as the Doctor watched, his breath held once again. His face was sore from holding it in its place, in the mask of confusion and horror and wonder and anguish. Streaks of tears and sweat tracked his face in lines, tracing patterns into his weary flesh. He gulped and crawled closer to the fallen man, his hands throbbing, his body pounding, and his head aching. The Doctor was sore all over, trembling on his hands and knees above his old companion.
The Master shivered and shrunk away, his face tight with pain as his body was drenched in perspiration. His fingers clutched at his arms as he made small strangled noises low in his throat. He swallowed heavily, his hair matted to his forehead. The Doctor bent low, hearing a muttering over and over again. From his trembling lips, the Doctor lowered himself to listen, his ear pressed close to the Master's face.
Over and over, the Master spoke, "Numbing…numbing….numbing, Doctor, numbing, so numb. Colder and colder and cold; so dead, so gone, so alive, so here, so cold, so dead, so alive so here. Away, dead, alive, not. Numbing, numbing, numbing," until finally, his eyes shot wide, wider than they had been when he had risen – the Doctor reared back in shock - and he screamed, "ALIVE!"
He jerked upright and sat staring. His neck cracked as he turned to face the Doctor who stared back with a mix of emotion raging across his face. An army of anger, a platoon of sadness, and a militia of confusion marched across the jagged planes of his face to wage an emotional war against all the Doctor's sensibilities.
"H-how-?" the Doctor tried before his voice broke. A crazed smile grew upon the Master's features as he cocked his head from one side to another, crackling pops following making the Doctor wince as the Master realigned each vertebrae.
"Can you hear them now, Doctor?" he asked in a voice just above a whisper, the smile plastered fakely to his spread lips as, slowly, two fingers rose up to touch his temple in the lightest of grazes. "Can you? Can you hear them now, Doctor?"
"Hear what?" he asked, his throat constricted as he tried to gulp down his words.
The smile became maniacal as his grin stretched from ear to ear. "The drums."
The Master leapt from his position and attacked the Doctor, his hands eagerly digging into the soft skin at his throat. His head bounced off the floor as he gagged, asphyxiating on betrayal and lack of oxygen. The Master chortled and dug his fingers deeper, pressing his body close to the Doctor's, he whispered in his ear, "You did this, Doctor. You did this to me. You brought me back. You did!"
"N-no, I didn't do…anything!" the Doctor felt his pulse in his throat, felt the accelerated tempo beat in his mouth, against his words and made it harder to speak them. Without air, his mind felt fuzzy and hot. He couldn't think, couldn't speak, could barely feel.
"DOCTOR!" he heard someone shout, a shrill call of worry.
"YOU DID THIS – YOU BROUGHT ME BACK!"
"GET OFF HIM!"
"DOCTOR!"
The Doctor cried out as his head connected with the ground again, his lungs worked harder and harder still in vain to collect as much air as they could, but they burned with deprivation and each pull of his chest felt like salt against an open sore. He tried to toss and throw the Master off of him, but no sooner had black encroached upon his vision, hazing the edges of his squinted eyes, did he feel a blissful, if painful, release.
A man roared and yanked, throwing all his might into extracting the crazed Time Lord off the other. The Doctor gasped and fell to his side, everything aching as each breath seared him like acid. Martha ran over to him, holding his head in her dirty lap and stroking his hair back as he continued to gasp and writhe, air a blessing and curse as each suck felt like razor blades down his throat. He swallowed air as she continued to chant his name, a prayer on her lips as tears fell on his cheek. She pushed them back as he struggled for oxygen.
The Master snarled and bit like a rabid dog at the air, held back by Jack who locked him in his arms tightly by the elbows, a harness of steel-flesh. Jack gripped him with all his might, his muscles bulged and his face strained, but he kept good hold over him. The Master threw his head back in an attempt to break free, but failed as Jack bashed his face against his in full, stunning the raving lunatic into submission, his head bowed and body limp. Jack let him drop into a pile of red, black, and white as he sprinted over to the Doctor.
"Doctor, Doctor!" he skid on his knee in front of his friend, pushing his shoulder so he lay off Martha and on his back. "Doctor, listen to me, you just have to breathe now; breathe!"
The Doctor continued to pant, lunging for air as fast as he could. Jack sighed, dropping his head and raising his arm behind him. Striking hard and fast, his fist hit the Doctor in the center of his chest. His body heaved for a moment, both hearts picking up at rates faster than could be counted, stopped, and picked up again. He wheezed, his face flushed and the color of burgundy, the veins in his neck throbbing, but he was settled, staring up at his companions. His hands fluttered in the air a moment, before resting against his heaving chest. He closed his airs and sucked in a steadying breath. It stabilized him for the moment, before slowly ascending to a seated position. He glanced at the mess of limbs that resembled a man and sighed wearily. Thousands of thoughts chased through the labyrinth of his expansive mind, but only one logical conclusion remained. He was right. Nothing changed. He still had to do it. There was nothing more to it than that. No matter what the consequences were, it would be done.
He ran a hand through his hair and shook it out, his exhale long and shaking. His hand came back wet as he placed it back on the ground. With that, the Doctor stood and prepared himself for what was to come.
-:-:-:-:-
"Mrs…" he cleared his throat. "Mrs. Saxon, you will be brought down to earth and charged for your crimes against humanity. This past year was one that never would have been had it not been for you. It's best that it was reversed, but there are those who are aware of what had transpired. People outside us on the Valiant. You will have to pay for it. I'm sorry."
The Doctor felt it only right to inform her of her fate, than to simply leave her at its door. A part of him could just so easily fault her for the mess, but she had not been the first to be tricked by the Master's misdeeds. She wasn't the only one to be coerced and misguided by his countless faces and facades. It had been her choice to see things through by the Master's side, but he still felt her partly blameless for the whole ordeal. Even if she had, he still would not deny her the right to foresight, not when there was so little left for her.
He had made it an imperative to drop the Jones family off first. They had all been put through more than any person should have. Four times the guilt had been placed upon his shoulders like lead weights as he saw them off, each one battered, broken, and bruised beyond repair; but even so, he could see the beginnings of healing taking place as they reached out for each other's hands, walking to their door. Clive wrapped one arm around his daughter's shoulders, the other outstretched to wife as she stalled by the TARDIS door. Martha stood behind the Doctor as he clung to one side of the doorframe. She had already hugged each member as tight as she could, melding into her abused family, trying her hardest to squeeze out and absolve them of all that had transpired in the past year. She gripped her forearm awkwardly, averting her eyes until finally her mother reached out to lace her fingers with her youngest daughter's, slipping into her husband's warm hold. Francine continued to glance back until the TARDIS dematerialized out of sight.
Martha sighed shakily and the Doctor placed his hand on her shoulder, his tired eyes looking deeply into hers with the weight of worlds and races pressing into him, marring his body with worry and woe as always. Gently, she placed her hand above his and gave a soft squeeze. The Doctor went about his work on the TARDIS with much slower movements. Not the usual reckless abandon he had with the machine normally, just setting about his work efficiently. Even in times of danger, he still had fun with his console and all its wild and odd-sorted bits. But this wasn't a dangerous time. The only thing dangerous about was how fatally hot the air was with the high amounts of explosive tension and which nerve-mine would be set to explode with one stray foot step. Martha couldn't stand to watch the dead progression the Doctor was going about with. She left and went to the last place she thought she would go.
The Master had woken up thirteen minutes earlier and upon finding himself locked in a holding cell in the last place he had wanted to be, had not since stopped scrambling around his room bellowing blood murder. Martha stopped a few inches short of his door and heard his screams stop. He huffed heavily as he rested his head against the padded door. He breathed a laugh.
"Well if it isn't Ms. Martha Jones," his voice was ragged, but smooth as cream. She could nearly hear him licking his dry lips, tasting the salty sweat that beaded his upper lip.
His voice sickened her. She felt bile rise in her throat and his very presence made her blood simmer in her veins. She wanted to scream, wanted to make him scream, wanted to scream until both his and her life ended, suffocated out of existence. Snuffed. Her thoughts went wild. She wanted to open his door, let him out and wreak chaos in the TARDIS. She wanted to watch him run aground, run them all aground so there would be nothing left. But most of all she wanted him to pay, so Martha did what she nkew would handle the situation best.
She left.
His breathless chuckling chased her down the hall as she calmly strut away, her head purposefully held high.
"Hahahaha, leaving so soon, Martha Jones?" he kept laughing, growing stronger and stronger until his laughs became screams once again that then haunted her as she jogged past.
A second door greeted her, but Martha walked past that one as well and back to the console room. She had visited one Saxon, she wasn't willing to see another just yet.
Lucy Saxon stood with strength in her frailty, however. She had been transported down by the TARDIS, handcuffed and placed in a specialized holding cell, far away from the one her husband had been placed in. Fortunately, her room was located far enough away that she was not able to hear the screams that raged through his room as he awoke to find himself on the timeship. Mrs. Saxon had quietly waited through the journey and stood hollowly with empty eyes as the Doctor went to retrieve her. She remained quiet still as he walked her through one of UNIT's many quarters, this one being the underground prison cell just beneath London, the city she and her husband had sought to rule from. She was so quiet, there were moments where the Doctor made sure to check that she was still beside him. But now, Lucy Saxon spoke to him.
Picking her eyes from their view off the ground, she rolled her shoulders back and stared at the Doctor, her face devoid of any emotion. "Don't be, Doctor, there's no need for you to be sad, after all. You did what had to be done," she addressed him plainly. She looked off as she finished, "we all did."
His brow furrowed but he left it at that. He faced forward, his hands clasped behind him as he waited confirmation of entry. They were running his credentials through and were already pre-processing their prisoner, a routine that took a few minutes. In this room they also took the liberty of doing bio-scans and rudimentary weapons checks. The gateway beyond was left to a more thorough inspection. Beyond that, he wasn't allowed now did he want to be. That was left for the interstellar criminals and their newly assigned wardens.
"What are you going to do with him now?" the Doctor slid his eyes back to hers. She moved her arms a bit, the cuffs, though much more advanced than the contemporary , Earth restraints still chaffed her wrists uncomfortably. He adjusted them higher up her arms so they still held her, but with less discomfort. "Harold. What are you going to do with him?"
He remained silent, fiddling with her handcuffs in order to fake occupation. She saw through it and waited patiently.
"Doctor."
"I don't know, alright?" his eyes bore into hers, the thick rims of his glasses shining. He wore those on special occasion. This was not only special, but difficult. "I don't know."
"You can't just keep him." Lucy peered closer. "You can't seriously think to just keep him, Doctor."
"And if I am?"
Lucy stared into his eyes, stared into the bottomless depths she saw that mirrored Harry's. Only Harold's were darker, were vile and impure. What she saw in the Doctor's were kind; she saw a little boy as ancient as forever lost and alone. She saw an orphaned child looking for his home. She saw broken toys and lost friendship and hardships no man should ever face. But most of all she saw guilty and guiltless hope.
"And if I do intend to keep him, what then? Where else could I keep him – put him. Even, even if I wanted to, there would be no other place but the TARDIS. No other place could hold him."
"Doctor." Her words touched him in ways her hands could not. They reached out and caressed his face as he sighed, his breath depleting and sagging his body as it left him. "I won't ever understand this pain, but he can't be the one to help you through it, it isn't in him."
"But it could be," he sounded as if he didn't believe his own words. They were just a false hope to offer up to a false god that had never been there for him and never would. So he would take matters into his own hand and sort out the Master for himself.
A shadow of a smile ghosted across her thin features. "You see the good in people that do not have it, Doctor.'
"I—"
"Lucy Cole Saxon."
A deep-throated, man's voice rumbled as the door before them opened with an airy, automated sound. It slid into the opposite wall to reveal a middle aged man, sharply dressed in his suit and stern mask with a clipboard. There was a gun at his hip and stripes of his ranking upon his shoulder. A beret clung nicely to his otherwise bald head. He glimpsed the Doctor with shrewd appraisal and looked directly past his objective to a target on the wall.
"With me," he commanded solidly, turning on his heel with acute precision.
Lucy sighed then straightened.
"Goodbye, Doctor," she said, and without so much as one look his way, she walked forward after her escort into the uncertainty of law that awaited her.
The Doctor watched until the screen closed between them, and all that was left was a bleak, gray wall and a surprising loneliness. He thought on what Lucy had said as he strode out. The sunlight was harsh on his eyes as he exited the holding area but he ignored the brief sting, his thoughts carrying himself further than his feet.
In no way did he expect the Master to change. Not at first, anyway. But, the Doctor thought, with time and the proper encouragement and nourishment – namely himself and certain learning methods picked up through the ages – he could make the Master see reason.
The Doctor not only wanted to redeem the Master, he wanted to get his friend back. They were the very last sons of Gallifrey and, coming so far and so close to losing him, having felt the harsh cold of depressing loneliness – after losing his home, his people; after losing Rose – he just wanted somebody to understand him like she had. The Doctor knew he would never again see Gallifrey again. Never again walk through grasses so high they swayed against his hips like a sea drowned in red. He knew he would never hear the mountains sing and the ranges whistle. He would never look at a sky that was always the color of deep sunset.
He even knew that the Master was not the same boy he had played with through fields and fields of ruby-red and crimson grass that smelled of apple and cinnamon and the special herbal tea brews of his father's kitchens. The Doctor also knew that deep down, even he was not that same boy. And he even knew that neither of them would ever go back to that. But he also knew that nothing was permanent.
He knew that given time, and given the right tools to show the Master, to remind him of those youthful days on Gallifrey, they could move past and forge a new path together. He knew it. It would be done. He would just have to rehabilitate the Master. Evil was the Master's drug of choice, and the Doctor would detox him of it, would cleanse it right from his system. There was good in the Master, just as there was good in many opponent the Doctor had changed for the better.
He just hopped he wouldn't make things worse.
He swatted the thought away with clear agitation, pushing the doors open to his TARDIS with a face of one who had just eaten a sour lemon. The warm hum of his machine greeted him and melted away his doubts. His work, what could be done for the moment, was finished. He felt his muscles give, relaxing slightly as some of the burdensome load was taken off. He walked over to the console and flicked a few switches, pushing and wiggling his thumb in one specific button that he had no clue what it signified. It was a comfort.
"So what then," the Doctor peered up, looking through the ominous teal glow of the central column and saw the distorted figure of his recent companion, resting against one of the metal rails. She shrugged, shoving her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket, tramping over. The heels of her shoes clacked against the steel grating of the TARDIS grille. "What are you going to do now?"
She didn't say 'what are we going to do now,' she was purposefully leaving him to make the decisions. She was forcing his hand, twisting him so that he had to answer and that the burden of his answer rested on him.
He felt a familiar pressure settling on his shoulders. They almost ached without that force put on him. Just because it was familiar, didn't mean it was painless. She faced him with her arms crossed, her true feelings barred to him, and her opposition the only open thing about her stance. He breathed heavily out his nose, rubbing his brow. He felt an impending headache coming on and was not ready to welcome it just yet.
"I dunno, what should we do?" he asked her, a fake round of cheeriness in his tone. It was strained at best and he scrunched his nose at his own attitude. He tried again. "Fancy a trip to London, circa 1857? I dunno what there's to do then, but we could pop in for a visit and find out."
Martha's expression dropped, her brow popping up of its own accord. "What, with him with us?" she gestured vaguely behind her. "How is that going to work exactly?"
Martha pressed her lips together and graced him with an angry glare. "Your shrug isn't an answer."
He exhaled softly, at a loss for words for once. "I…Martha, I don't know what else to do."
"You leave him off on a planet somewhere all on his own. You feed him to the dogs. You shoot him out a canon somewhere, I don't care! But why does he have to stay here? After all he's done, how come he gets to have that privilege, huh? Answer me that, then," she tapped her foot, her fingers gripping her upper arms as she waited with apprehension. Her face was drawn like drapes, heavy with hurt and thick with betrayal, another show of his infidelity and this time it hurt too much for her to bear in silence as she had all the times before. "Well?"
"Martha I cannot just leave him somewhere. For one, who knows what he would do on that place, and for another, I would not even if it was a plausible and applicable choice." His voice lost its stern edge as he continued, "Martha you've got to understand, I can't just –"
"Oh I understand alright."
Martha felt herself flushed with a sudden heat. Her blood seemed to boil inside her. All this time, fighting for a man who didn't even care about her and her feelings. Who would toss her aside like garbage. Who had! Who had made her feel so insignifact, and had compared her to a girl she had never even known. Martha had confidence in herself and knew enough about herself that she didn't need this. That the path she was on was far too self-destructive for her to stay on it. The bricks were crumbling all around her, and Martha was getting off this road, even if the Doctor wouldn't. Fine, then. He could have his jolly Master, destroyer of whole worlds. But she wouldn't have any part of it, not anymore. She was strong, confident, and assured in herself and yet somehow along the line, her infatuation got the better of her and threw her for a loop around the coaster of self-consciousness and self-vigilance. Well no more.
The gears in Martha's head had been smoking, and she had been thinking long enough that with her words, she had accidentally lured the Doctor into a false sense of security. Her next words caught him off guard and looked as if they physically wounded him; as if they had slashed him in places that had already been cut before. Her words had been the unknowing pliers, and his feelings had been the wire.
"I understand that you would chose him over somebody who's actually been there for you. I understand that you would rather hurt me, somebody who would never hurt you, for somebody who would. I understand that you would chose a monster over me, over my family, and expect me to be ok with it. Well you know what Doctor, I'm not. I am not ok with it.
"Don't get me wrong, Doctor, I do understand. I understand what he means to you, what this could mean to you. I understand on some level what you are going through; maybe not completely, but I can understand it. But I just want you to understand that I can't be here to understand through it all. I don't want to understand why it's never me. I don't think even you know or understand that. I don't think you ever will.
"I have to get out, Doctor. I can't be here when things fall through, because I know they will. They always do and I'm just so tired of it. I'm tired of just being that wall you lean against and then rub your dirty trainers on. I'm so tired of getting nothing back when I give everything, and I've given my all this past year. I've done everything and I get nothing, while he gets what I deserve. It sounds selfish I'm sure, but," Martha took a deep breath and it felt good and clean in her lungs. It felt free. She looked at him and felt only the slightest bit remorseful at having caused that barely hidden pain he was trying so hard to conceal. "This is something that I have to do, Doctor. I'm sorry."
He gulped and after a quick minute to collect himself, said, "No. No. Don't be. Don't be sorry," his smile was weak, but his conviction was still as strong as it always was. Though it pained him, he meant every word of what he said now. "It's not selfish and you've no need to feel sorry for it. I was the selfish one and I took you for granted, Martha Jones, and for that – I'm sorry."
Martha swallowed past a lump that had formed like a clot in her throat. "Nah," she wrinkled her nose, her tone light as she tried to force herself to speak through the tears she fought to keep at bay. She swung her arm out nonchalantly. "Don't you go feeling sorry now. I mean, I want you to, but just not now." She smiled to show she was kidding.
The Doctor knew she didn't mean it, but once she left, he would take her up on that seriously. He was sorry, it was only just hitting him now to realize it. Always too little, too late for the Lord of Time. How ironic. How clichéd. He smiled ruefully, his eyes wistful.
"You are a star, Martha Jones."
She smirked, licking her glossy lips. She nodded approvingly. "I am good," she confirmed.
He inhaled and exhaled at the same tempo, heavily. Popping his eyes, he clapped loudly once.
"Right then!" he exclaimed, vaulting himself towards the console and launching into a sequence of coordinates. "Guess I know where to go from here."
Martha stumbled slightly as the TARDIS jostled from impact, coming into contact with the vortex. She spinned faster and faster until the echoing cloister bell sounded their landing. She gave an impressed pout.
"You landed and I hardly got a scratch on me."
"Ha, ha," the Doctor intoned sarcastically, as he stretched to open the TARDIS door.
It swung open and a bright, crisp English day greeted them. A wayward bird chirped happily in his nest a meter away. Martha glanced out and saw her mother's house. She chewed her lip as she studied the architecture for a moment. She thought of all the things she had done, everything she had seen, and all that there was left to do out there. She traveled to the stars and back, but she didn't know if she could ever truly come back – from such an experience as that.
"It's only been an hour since we dropped them off," the Doctor's voice filtered into her ear from behind her.
She turned back to face him, he in the TARDIS blue suit he changed back into the second moment he got aboard the ship, the first being to take care of the various situations on board. Namely the raving lunatic and his would-have-been killer and then her family. Jack had walked about the TARDIS like he owned the place, and from what she gathered, for a time – he had. It was a second home to him and he felt comfortable in it, like it was a second skin. Things had changed a bit, he had told her, but no more so than their Doctor. He told her about how he had appeared the last time. It was odd to imagine him looking that way, so different.
And here he was now, that massive amounts of hair falling above his forehead, the thick sideburns and patchy stubble. The boggle-eyes that were light brown in harsh light, and dark in dim. And that suit made of cloth, not leather. He rested his forearm against the frame of the door, staring out into her yard. She couldn't decipher the emotion playing in his eyes. He glanced down at her and suddenly the emotions in those brown eyes were guarded, bottled up and exported somewhere else for the time. He would sort it out on his own, though Martha knew better. He would just pile more on top of it. She sighed, and followed his eyes back to where they stared.
She really didn't know if she could do it or not. Could she really leave? All her talk, and all her valid reasons, and she still wanted to travel with him. The love she bore him was all but gone, a dried up reserve that she was afraid, if watered, would be restored. But despite that, all the wonders of the galaxy and galaxies beyond, could she really give that up? She didn't know if she could. She didn't know if she wanted to.
Then Martha saw what pushed her over the edge and into conviction.
The shades of the window pulled back to reveal her sister, Tish, peering through. Surprise drew her face back and she saw her call other people. A flash of wild curls appeared and Martha smile became watery as she saw the relief on her mother's face. Her father's bulky frame next filled the window frame and after that she even saw Leo, a few lines of worry cleared from his face. He grinned back at her and waved her in. Her dad followed suit, his eagerness building. Tish smiled, not sure whether Martha would come in or not and happy with either decision. It was her mother that was the pushing factor, however. The relief, that complete and lack of worry and fright that fled her mother's face the moment she saw Martha was what made her chose. It was in that moment, that Martha was willing to give up everything, to regain everything again.
She turned around and clapped her hands to her sides. "So this is it then, I guess."
He ran a finger beneath his nose and sniffed. He puckered his lips and looked away, back at her and then a little to the side of her, not quite making eye contact. "Suppose it is, then, yeah."
Martha smiled, a genuine and warm smile, for all the good times they had and pulling through the bad. She wasn't going to leave him on a bad note, not this man, not ever. Things ended, they all have their time. Martha now just had a reason to end things early. Or maybe it was always made to end this way. Maybe she was just that big of an idiot to need this large of a push. Either way, she wanted him to know that despite the bad, she did recognize the good. There was so much of that in him, if only he could see it too.
"Goodbye, Doctor."
Ever since seeing Sarah Jane again, the Doctor knew he had to make a point of doing it more often. Or at least when he needed to. So he said it.
"Goodbye, Martha Jones."
Martha's smile grew. She rose up on her toes, steadied herself against his arms, and kissed his cheek. It felt rough beneath her soft lips, but every bit as she imagined it. Soft, warm, kind, and rough all at once, much like his hands. It was a nice way to part for her.
"And don't worry, I'll be seeing you again, Mister."
The Doctor smiled that indecipherable smile of his. Martha could swear she saw just a tiny, tiny bit of hope mixed in there too.
Tipping her imaginary hat, Martha took her final step out of the TARDIS and back into the real world. A world she hoped she could venture into and try to make sense of again. And again, when Martha took another deep breath, the air felt good and clean and refreshingly free.
The TARDIS whined, a sound of protest as the Doctor slumped slightly against the console. He moved and took a seat on another level, one that didn't groan as much. After a few moments passed, he finally took a breath. It was shallow and tasted different, sullied and dirty. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. Using the butt of his hands, he rubbed deep furrows into his eyes. They were wrung red by the time he was through. He blamed the stinging sensation on that.
He had just lost his companion, a faithful woman who was braver than many he knew. The blame fell on him, solely on him. He had been a right pain and a monster to her for their entire journey and only when it was too late did he wish he could take it all back. What use was a time machine if he couldn't help save the things that meant most to him. He patted the TARDIS lovingly.
"Don't worry, girl, there's always a point to you, always."
Sighing again, he stood with creaking limbs and heavy hearts. A part of him didn't want to go on. A part of him just wanted to stand still and let the timelessness of the TARDIS flow around him. This past day felt like a century and he knew that it would take its toll. He almost felt like he needed to lie down and sleep it off.
Sleep.
As if it were a time for such nonsense. No. He had more pressing matters to attend to. One that continued to scream and try clawing at his telepathic wall-block.
"Right," the Doctor spoke to no one and anyone who would listen. "Onwards, then." And he began his trek towards the room where the Master lay and wait for him.
A/N: A LOTTTT of Martha angst. Basically a gist of all my feels surmised in a few paragraphs at how Ten treated Martha in series 3. But yeah, anyway, now we're getting to the real nitty gritty. The Doctor and the Master discuss the current logistics next time.