Author's Notes: I don't own Doctor Who or the Doctor or Donna or Martha, the BBC does. Clearly, things would be different if I did.

Donna Noble's eyes fluttered as she stirred awake. She was in a hospital room. What the hell had happened?

"Mrs. Smith?"

Donna looked up. A pretty young woman in a doctor's coat was at her bedside with her clipboard. She smiled warmly.

"We were wondering when you might wake up. I'm Doctor Jones. How are you feeling, Mrs. Smith?"

Donna swallowed, trying to regain the capacity to speak. "I think you must have the wrong chart. I'm not Mrs. Smith."

Doctor Jones looked down at the chart. "Donna Smith? Born February 3, 1970?"

"Yeah, that's me, but my last name's not Smith."

Doctor Jones gave another reassuring smile. "I very much doubt that. Your husband's been relentless about your care. He just popped out for a cup of tea, he'll be back directly."

"My what?", Donna screeched.

Doctor Jones looked at her curiously. "Your husband. Mrs. Smith, don't you remember your husband?"

Donna shook her head.

"You had an accident and hit your head. We were afraid there might have been some memory loss. Tell me, what day is it?"

Donna struggled. "I don't know. Friday?"

"Okay, what year is it?"

"Two thousand and six."

Donna could tell by the look on the young woman's face that she'd gotten it wrong.

"What year is it?", Donna asked in alarm.

"Now, Mrs. Smith, please don't stress yourself. I'm sure your memory will come back eventually, but don't force it by any means."

"Just tell me what year it is!"

Doctor Jones took a moment. "It's two thousand and eight."

"That can't be right," said Donna as she shook her head.

"Shall I get you the newspaper?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Donna sat up and looked around the room. There were no discernable clues as to what was going on. No hidden cameras for a prank show at any rate. She got up and looked out the window, wondering what that would prove and looked across to see some sort of massive clean up going on, buildings were damaged, by what she had no idea. And it was bloody freezing through the window, what month was it?

Donna was pondering all of this when she felt her stomach flip. No, not quite her stomach. She let her hand graze down her belly and found a bump that she knew hadn't been there, last she remembered. She wasn't quite that fat, thank you very much. Then she suddenly felt ill and went running to the toilet, puking her guts out.

"Mrs. Smith?" She heard Doctor Jones enter the room and the woman's hurried footsteps as she ran into the bathroom. "Mrs. Smith, are you alright?"

Donna looked up from the toilet long enough to glare. "I have my head in a toilet and I'm in hospital! Do I seem alright?"

Doctor Jones helped Donna up and got a cup of water from the sink for her. Donna rinsed out her mouth.

"What is..." Donna was having a hard time formulating the question. There was the obvious conclusion, but Donna was never one to go straight to the obvious. She had chosen a route that led her to some all encompassing cancer or mutated virus. "My stomach, there's something moving inside it and I just puked my guts out."

"Why don't you come back to your bed?"

Donna quietly obeyed as Doctor Jones helped her back to her bed. Donna pulled the blankets back up around her and sat back.

"I know this is a lot to take in at one time, but you're pregnant." Doctor Jones handed her the newspaper.

Donna looked at it. It was only the sports section but it was 18 July 2008. "So, it's two thousand and eight. I've had an accident. I'm married and I'm pregnant."

Donna wondered who she could have possibly married. Oh, God, she hadn't agreed to be Daniel's beard, had she? Wait, maybe it was Lance! Nice Lance with the coffee, head of HR, what a great story. She wondered if they had a house. She could go around telling everyone about the cup of coffee and make Nerys look ill.

Donna's fantasies of making her sort of friends extremely jealous were interrupted when a ridiculously skinny man burst through the door wearing jeans, trainers and a t-shirt. He was holding a cup.

"Yep, nice cuppa. Not bad. You're awake!"

Donna looked him up and down. Big eyes, ridiculous hair, tall. He had on a t-shirt from a 1972 Rolling Stones concert that she would have sworn was original if he didn't seem so young, a pair of jeans and Chuck Taylor trainers. He noticed her thorough exam and met her eyes.

"Something wrong, sweetheart?"

"Don't sweetheart me!", she snapped. "You can't just burst into people's rooms like that! Get out!"

Donna watched as his face dropped. He seemed genuinely hurt.

"Mrs. Smith," Doctor Jones began softly, "this is Mr. Smith."

Donna looked at him again, then back at Doctor Jones.

"Are you serious?"

"Mr. Smith, I'm sorry, but it's as I suspected. Your wife has experienced some serious memory loss."

They talked, rattling on about brain damage, recovery time, therapies. Donna couldn't listen, she was too busy looking Mr. Smith up and down. Were they for real? She was really married to a skinny streak of nothing? God, people would think she was starving him. They didn't even have the coffee story. He was so not her type.

"I'm going to leave you two. Is that alright, Mrs. Smith?"

Donna looked back at 'Mr. Smith.' He had such a sad look on his face. She sighed, feeling sorry for him.

"Yeah, it's fine I guess."

"I'll be back to check on you later."

Donna watched as Doctor Jones left. She looked back at skinny boy, who watched her every move with rapt interest.

"Do you need anything?," he asked.

"What?"

"I don't know. You've been unconscious. Do you want some tea or something? Banana?"

"Why would I want a banana?"

"I don't know. It's just a thing. It's some-thing."

"Sorry. What's your name?"

"John."

"John, right." Donna paused. "Wait. Your name is John Smith?"

"Yeah."

"Your name is actually John Smith? People actually get named John Smith?"

He looked sort of sheepish and Donna immediately felt bad. Some day he must have been having, wife couldn't remember him and now she was mocking him.

"Do you have any questions or anything?", he asked.

"Oh, loads of questions." Like who the hell are you, how did we get together, do I even like you and how in God's name am I pregnant?