Chapter 2

Third person POV

Martha's phone rang, interrupting her music, and she lifted it up to her ear. "You're up early. What's happening?"

"It's a nightmare, because Dad won't listen, and I'm telling you, Mum is going mental. Swear to God, Martha, this is epic. You've got to get in there and stop him," Tish replied, sounding annoyed.

"How do I do that?" Martha asked, frowning.

"Tell him he can't bring her," Tish insisted.

Martha's phone beeped, signaling a new call. "Hold on, that's Leo. I'll call you back."

"Martha, If Mum and Dad start to kick off, tell them I don't even want a party. I didn't even ask for one. They can always give me the money instead," Leo said, a smirk dancing in his voice.

"Yeah, but why do I have to tell them? Why can't you?" Martha's phone beeped again, again signaling another new call. "Hold on, that's Mum. I'll call you back."

"I don't mind your father making a fool of himself in private, but this is Leo's 21st, everyone is going to be there, and the entire family is going to look ridiculous," Francine said, a sneer leaking into her voice.

"Mum, it's a party. I can't stop Dad from bringing his girlfriend," Martha said, only to have her phone beep again. "Hold on, that's Dad, I'll call you back."

"Martha? Now, tell your mother, Leo is my son, and I'm paying for half that party. I'm entitled to bring who I like," Clive instructed.

"I know, but think what it's going to look like for Mum, if you're standing there with Annalise," Martha pointed out.

"What's wrong with Annalise?" Clive asked, a sneer saturating his voice, the same as his ex-wife.

Another voice joined Clive's, Annalise's; a bit too bright, though. "Is that Martha? Say hi. Hi, Martha, hi!"

"Hi, Annalise," Martha said, her tone saturated with fake happiness.

"Big kiss, lots of love, see you at the party, babe." Annalise leaned away from the phone, demonstrated by her suddenly quieter, yet still ridiculously bright, voice. "Now, take me shopping, big boy."

Martha rolled her eyes and snapped her phone shut.

The Doctor walked up to her at random, a girl at his side. "Like so," he said before yanking his tie off.

"See?" the girl said with a grin.

The two ran off, disappearing into the crowd. Martha blinked in surprise, but shrugged it off. She began to walk into the hospital where she worked, only to have a man clad in leather with a motorcycle helmet over his head shove past her.

"Oi! Watch it, mate," Martha snapped, anger flashing in her eyes.

The man turned around to look at her, but turned back and walked into the hospital. Martha shrugged and followed.

Once inside and at her locker, she pulled her coat off and slipped on her lab coat. She went to close her locker, only to be shocked by static electricity. She jerked her hand away, and tapped the metal cautiously. When she wasn't shocked, she closed the locker with a slight shrug.

"I was all right till this morning, and then, I don't know, I woke up and I felt all dizzy again. It was worse than when I came in," Florence said.

"Pulse is slightly thready. Well, let's see what Britain's finest might suggest. Any ideas, Morgenstern?" Mr. Stoker turned to the nervous, fidgeting young man.

"Dizziness can be a sign of early onset diabetes," Morgenstern suggested hesitantly.

"Hardly early onset, if you'll forgive me, Miss Finnegan," Mr. Stoker said with a slight sneer. "Any more ideas? Swales?" He turned to a young woman.

"Er, could recommend a CT scan," Swales said, blinking.

"And spend all our money?" Mr. Stoker asked incredulously, sneering at the thought. "Jones?"

"We could take bloods and check for Meniere's disease," Martha suggested calmly.

"Or we could simply ask the patient." Mr. Stoker sneered, turning to Florence. "What did you have for dinner last night?"

"I had salad," Florence replied, blinking innocently.

"And the night before?" Mr. Stoker continued in a patronizing way.

"Salad again," Florence shot back, seeming to be feeling a bit threatened by Mr. Stoker's cruel tone.

"And salad every night for the past week, contrary to my instructions," Mr. Stoker said in a lord-y tone. "Salt deficiency, that's all. Simple, honest salt."

"Hippocrates himself expounded on the virtues of salt. Recommended the inhalation of steam from sea water," Mr. Stoker said, leading his students to another ward.

"Though no doubt if he'd been afflicted with my students, results might have been rather more colorful."

They all walked past the lifts, Martha rolling her eyes, and two men clad in leather with motorcycle helmets on walked out of the lifts. Martha looked at them oddly, but continued to follow her colleagues.

Mr. Stoker pulled the curtain back from a bed, revealing the Doctor, with Gwyn sitting next to him, her long black hair pulled back into a braid. "Now then, Mr. Smith, a very good morning to you. How are you today?"

"Oh, not so bad. Still a bit, you know, blah," the Doctor remarked, rambling a bit.

"John Smith, admitted yesterday with severe abdominal pains, being visited by his wife, Gwyn Smith," Mr. Stoker informed his students before turning to Martha. "Jones, why don't you see what you can find? Amaze me."

Martha walked around the Doctor's bed with a stethoscope in hand after smiling at Gwyn. "That wasn't very clever, running around outside, was it?" she remarked.

"Sorry?" the Doctor asked her, frowning.

"On Chancellor Street this morning? You came up to me and took your tie off. Your wife was there, too, next to you," Martha replied, freezing in her place.

"Really? What did I do that for?" the Doctor asked, scrunching his face up with confusion.

"I don't know, you just did," Martha shot back, sounding frustrated he would ask her.

"Not me. I was here, in bed. Ask the nurses, ask my wife," the Doctor said, leaning back on the pillows.

"Well, that's weird, 'cause it looked like you. Have you got a brother?" Martha suggested, trying to explain the odd phenomenon.

"No, not any more. Just me," the Doctor said, suddenly growing sad, and Gwyn patted his hand, knowing better than to ask.

"As time passes and I grow ever more infirm and weary, Miss Jones," Mr. Stoker said with a sneer.

"Sorry. Right," Martha said like a child who had been caught with their hand in a cookie jar, checking the Doctor's heartbeat.

When she heard the Doctor's second heart beating, she frowned. She checked that one as well, and the Doctor gave her a wink, Gwyn smiling warmly at her.

"I weep for future generations. Are you having trouble locating the heart, Miss Jones?" Mr. Stoker stood there, his sneer growing in size.

The Doctor seemed to roll his eyes, and Gwyn shot the snotty man a fierce glare.

"Er, I don't know. Stomach cramps?" Martha suggested hesitantly, a bit taken aback by her discovery.

"That is a symptom, not a diagnosis," Mr. Stoker said patronizingly. "And you rather failed basic techniques by not consulting first with the patient's chart."

Mr. Stoker went to pick up the Doctor's chart, only to have it shock him. He dropped it on the bed.

"That happened to me this morning," Martha said.

"I had the same thing on the door handle," Morgenstern said, frowning.

"And me, on the lift," Swales added.

"That's only to be expected. There's a thunderstorm moving in and lightning is a form of static electricity, as was first proven by . . . Anyone?" Mr. Stoker asked, looking around.

"Benjamin Franklin," the Doctor and Gwyn said with identical, giant grins.

"Correct," Mr. Stoker said, a bit surprised the Doctor and Gwyn had chosen to answer.

"My mate, Ben. That was a day and a half. I got rope burns off that kite, and then I got soaked," the Doctor rambled.

"Quite," Mr. Stoker said, confused as to what the Doctor was talking about.

"And then I got electrocuted," the Doctor finished with a huge grin, shooting glances at Gwyn when he thought she wasn't paying attention to him.

"Moving on." Mr. Stoker walked off, whispering to one of the students, "I think perhaps a visit from psychiatric."

When he spoke again, his voice was at a normal volume. "And next we have . . ."

Martha and the Doctor exchanged grins before she had left, Gwyn grinning at the two for an equal amount of time.