Martha would have fallen to the ground if the Doctor's sure yet gentle hands hadn't caught her. He lifted her carefully into his arms. Taya hurried over.

"Bed's are all full, and then some," the medic said apologetically. "But you can take her to the captain's tent—he won't be needing it now." His glance shot to a man whose head was thickly swathed in bandages.

"Thank you," the Time Lord replied hastily. "Where is it?"

"Third one on your left."

"I'll need some supplies," the Doctor said, already walking toward the large flap that served as a doorway.

"I'll be in as soon as I can. I need to make sure one of the patients is stable first."

"No, you stay here. I'll take care of her."

Martha looked up at him. His facial muscles were tight, but when he felt her gaze he glanced down and gave her a reassuring smile.

"If you could just gather some bandages, antiseptic, suture supplies," he said quickly, nearly at the doorway now, "I'll come back for them soon."

"Of course. Send for me if you need me."

The Doctor gave a curt nod in response then carried her outside. Martha was very tired, so she closed her eyes for just a moment, just to escape the glare of the sunlight. Her head lolled against his chest.

Suddenly she was shifted around, and something touched her backside. She opened her eyes to find that the Time Lord was setting her upon a cot. This must be the captain's tent. The Doctor lowered her head to a rough pillow then slowly stretched out her legs. She watched him with morbid interest; she could see him moving her limbs, but she could barely feel it.

He removed her shoes and lifted her left foot a few inches. "Wiggle your toes," he said.

She complied, or at least she thought she did, but her toes remained motionless against his hand. He ran his thumb over the bottom of her foot.

"Martha?"

"Trying," she rasped.

He set her foot upon the bed then took her hand in his. "Try your fingers," he said.

Martha was alarmed to find the same unsatisfactory result. The Doctor's expression was oddly implacable as he observed her efforts. He placed his hand on her shoulder and gently rolled her onto her side.

She felt him sliding up her shirt then heard the rip of fabric. In a moment he had pulled the garment away from her. For just an instant she was glad that she'd chosen a pretty burgundy lace bra countless hours ago.

His cool fingers touched her back, just above her shoulder blades. Her thoughts were fuzzy, but she still knew that his hand was over her spine. Was he nearer the C7 or T1 vertebra? In her peripheral vision, she saw him remove the sonic screwdriver from his pocket and hold it over her.

"Martha," his voice sounded overly calm to her, "there's a small piece of shrapnel just here," she felt a soft press against her back.

"C7?" she asked, fighting back the panic building in her gut.

"Yes. It's putting pressure on your spinal cord. That's why you can't move your fingers and toes."

She nodded in understanding.

"It's very small, and I don't think it's done any permanent damage," he continued, "but it's caused some swelling. So I'm going to remove it, and we'll see about getting you some steroids."

"Nothing permanent?" she repeated, because that was a very important point and she needed to be sure.

"No." He rubbed her shoulder reassuringly. "I'm just going to pop over to the hospital tent for a moment. Be right back." He leaned over so that she could see his face and offered her a small smile.

"Try to stay still," he added as he hurried from the tent.

She didn't have much choice, really, because her arms and legs had clearly rebelled against her. She still felt fuzzy, but she tried hard to recall what she knew about spinal cord injury. Sometimes paralysis was temporary; she was certain about that. But often it wasn't. And this probably wasn't the best place to receive high-tech treatment, either. The panic welled up in her again; tears prickled at her eyes.

By the time the Doctor returned, her cheeks were wet. Martha wished she were able to wipe them, but the best she could do was rub her face against the coarse pillow case. She hesitated to do even that for fear the movements would exacerbate the injury.

The Time Lord's arms were full, and she heard him setting various items out on the small table beside the bed. He leaned over again to ask how she was, frowning at the tears leaking from her eyes.

But his expression softened as he said, "It's going to be all right, Martha," then he brushed his fingers over her wet cheek.

She whispered, "Yeah."

He shifted around behind her again, and she heard more shuffling and clinking. She wished she could see what he was doing; somehow she thought that would provide her with some confidence, or at least some small measure of comfort. He was quiet as he prepared the supplies, and she found the absence of his usual chatter oddly disconcerting.

He commented briefly and dispassionately that he was going to remove the rest of her clothing then proceeded to divest her of her bra. She thought that he did a good job of keeping his eyes focused only upon her back. He pulled a clean sheet over her hip and chest, leaving the injury site exposed.

Finally, after the sounds of splashing, he came around the bed to stand before her. He'd removed his jacket and neatly rolled up his sleeves; his glasses were firmly in place. His hands looked a little pink, ostensibly from a thorough scrubbing.

"We're all set," he said with what she thought was forced optimism. "You need to remain very still."

"I know," she whispered.

He gave a curt nod then moved around to sit behind her hips, saying, "I'm going to give you an injection to numb the area. I think this has the same chemical formula as lidocaine, because it metabolizes as monoethylglycinexylidide and glycinexylidide, but they call it 'perculiase'. Anyway, it should do the trick nicely."

She was almost comforted by the brief return of his prattle. She felt only a very tiny pinch as he injected the anaesthetic, and she made a mental note to compliment him on his light touch. Now, however, was not the time for talking. The numbness set in quickly, and then she saw him bend slightly, hands moving to the top of her back.

Martha waited anxiously, holding her breath while he worked, because even one tiny movement could cause him to falter, and it was such a delicate task to begin with…

She was growing light-headed, and the pressure in her chest was very uncomfortable.

"Got it," the Doctor said. There was no hint of triumph or smugness in his voice, just an exhalation of relief. "Now you need to breathe."

Martha inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. He was still working on her, probably irrigating the wound.

"I'm going to give you a steroid injection," he told her. "It should relieve most of the inflammation, but it's going to take a little time."

"Yeah," she replied softly. Of course she knew that, but she thought it was kind of him to tell her anyway.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him preparing another syringe, then a few moments later taking bandaging supplies from the table. When he'd finished, he carefully arranged the sheet to cover her back, leaving her lying partially on her belly, partly on her side.

He slid a pillow under her thigh for support then turned his attention to the deep gash on her arm.

"You lost a lot of blood," he said, almost conversationally as he prepared a third syringe. He rubbed a bit of alcohol over her skin then delivered the injection, once again with barely a pinch.

Her arm grew numb quickly. As he wiped an antiseptic-soaked gauze pad over the wound, the Doctor continued, "Hard to believe you didn't feel this or notice the blood, but then I suppose it just mixed with all the other..."

She took a sharp breath, keeping her eyes on his hands as he bathed the wound with saline then held another piece of gauze over it.

"Must've been the adrenalin," he continued. "Amazing stuff, that. It can have anaesthetic effects in large quantities. Still, I wish you'd felt this a bit sooner, because you're going to be weak for a little while now. But I'll see about getting you some fluids, maybe some electrolytes too, and you'll be feeling better in no time."

Martha watched him prepare a suture needle then begin closing the gash with motions that she could only describe as comfortably adept; his fingers guided the needle through her skin as though he were sewing silk. The sutures were fine and delicate, slightly looping, and she thought she'd have to ask him to show her exactly what his technique was, because she'd never seen work quite like it before. She wondered for a moment whether his skills might truly have been better employed in the hospital tent rather than in the negotiation room.

He wrapped a bandage around her arm then began tidying up the supplies. She lay quietly, eyes half-closed. She was so tired, but she doubted that she'd be able to sleep. Maybe she wasn't quite a full-fledged physician yet, but she knew enough to understand that, despite the Doctor's efforts, the paralysis might not resolve. The damage could well be permanent.

She drew a shaky breath and tried to ignore the rapid fluttering of her heart.