Chapter Three was so long that I've had to split it into two parts! So here is part one:

The Master Chronicles - Book One.
Chapter Three – Discovery (part one)

His ears are assaulted by a loud thumping beat and the babble of happy, drunken voices. The clink of glasses adds itself to the mix and as he as he sits dazedly upright a door opens and closes. The warm, yeasty air of a busy pub wafts over him. It's a sickly smell and he swallows, nauseated.

How did he come to be here? Where is here? He feels wretched – weak, disorientated and breathless, as if he's been running. What would he be running from? He leans against a nearby wall, trying to catch his breath. He shudders with cold and suddenly realises that he's thirsty, almost unbearably so.

The very idea of going into that ... place... with the noise, the press of people and the stink of beer and smoke makes him shudder and another wave of nausea hits him. But he's never been one to deny himself anything he wants or needs; so he steels himself, takes a deep breath and pushes away from the wall, heading into the entrance lobby. He's reaching for the door when suddenly it's flung open and his hand is smashed painfully against the lobby wall. His anger flares and he turns to the perpetrator with an incoherent snarl. Within seconds he's surrounded.

There are five of them - young males, all swagger and attitude and threat - belligerence fuelled by alcohol and testosterone. They're not in the mood to apologise and don't accept that his anger has any merit. As he glares at them they press closer, pushing him back out into the street and around the side of the building, their voices full of scorn and hatred. Spoiling for a fight. Dizzy and weak, he's unable to do anything except try to stay on his feet. As they push him backwards.

''Ere – don' you give me the eye, yer bloody tosser!' A face is thrust into his, beer-breath assaults him and then he's staggering backwards, off balance as a fist punches him in the shoulder, hard.

Despite his weakness, he's still angry and hasn't yet fully recognised the danger he's in. He tries to pull himself upright, looks down his nose at them. Not easy, given that at least three of them are taller than he is. Stupid fools – height notwithstanding, they'll be no match for... His thoughts stutter to a halt as he registers the blank in his mind where a name should be. He's pushed backwards again and stumbles. As he flails wildly to regain balance, he stumbles into someone standing behind him.

'Oi – thas' assult! I'll 'ave you now, you little shit –'

Too late, he finally realises that he's in trouble. A blow to his kidneys almost sends him to his knees but before he reaches the ground he's grabbed from behind, held upright, and another fist connects with his stomach. He doubles over, winded. Before he can draw breath he's yanked upright again and a fist slams into his face. Blood spurts and for a moment his vision goes dim. As it clears, he tries to speak, but all he manages is a gasp as his shoulder is roughly grabbed and he's spun, pushed from thug to another, blows raining from all directions. They surround him now, circling like wolves hungry for blood.

'Nice suit, Mister!' A punch to the solar plexus and he doubles over again, gagging.

' Wotcha doin' in our manor then?' He's hauled upright again and a fist connects with his jaw, snapping his head back. He swings wildly, hitting nothing but air. It's not supposed to be like this...it's not fair... he'll make them pay...

' Slummin' it are ya?'

Another fist connects with his stomach and he retches, falling to his knees. His palms sting as they slap against tarmac and his vision whirls. Blinking, he shakes his head in a vain effort to clear it. He senses rather than sees that his attackers are closing in for the kill and curls in on himself to protect his vital organs. A savage kick to the legs sends him to the ground, his cheek painfully grazing the tarmac. So far he's managed not one coherent word to them, recognises that words will have no power against their blood-lust. Still, he tries between blows to reason with them, buy time so that he can retaliate.

'No- please – I - don't -' shame and desperation as he hears himself beg heat his face. Before he can wonder at this, a boot connects to the side of his head and suddenly all he hears is a ringing, rushing sound, as if something inside him has irretrievably broken. For a moment his vision goes dark and when it returns he's on his back, groaning as the wolves stand over him, jeering and spitting.

'Bleedin' tosser – we don't want your sort in our boozer!' Spittle lands on his face and he flinches. Now – finally - he's afraid.

'Ere, go 'frough his pockets, Gaz – 'e's gotta be loaded, innit?' Hands scrabble roughly through his pockets, becoming more frenzied as each search reveals nothing of any value.

'Fuck it – 'e's already bin done over! Bleedin' waste of time that was!'

Another kick and suddenly they're all going for him in earnest, their anger fuelled by disappointment. He curls up, tries to roll onto his knees and covers his head with his arms for what seems like an eternity. He barely hears their jeering now, or feels the final parting kick which cracks a rib. Their voices recede and he realises they have grown tired of him. He manages to crawl forward, keeps crawling because perhaps they will come back. He doesn't know how far he gets before he blacks out.

*

He's so cold. He just wants to sleep – anything to get away from the relentless pain. But something nags at the back of his mind and won't let him rest. With a groan, he warily opens eyes which feel swollen and sees nothing but darkness. The ground beneath him is cold and damp, the air sharp with frost. It burns his throat as pain stabs suddenly through his head and he draws a ragged breath. Nausea uncoils itself and suddenly he's retching helplessly, rolling instinctively but unsuccessfully to avoid soiling his clothes, each movement making the pain and the nausea worse. When at last the vomiting subsides, he lays panting and shivering, exhausted.

He tries hard to remember what he'd been doing prior to passing out, and in response his mind supplies jumbled and disjointed images. He sees himself surrounded by a group of youths, being pushed from one to another as they taunt and jeer at him. Alcohol – they stank of it, he remembers. He recalls being pushed to the ground, winded, and then pain – so much pain - as they kicked him for what seemed like a very long time. Then they were gone, and an indeterminable time later, here he is.

But where is he? His memory supplies no answers, and another question follows hot on its heels – who is he? His heart hammers in his chest in violent palpitations as he tries to remember his name, and fails. The thought comes unbidden that perhaps he's dying. It hadn't been like this last time... Last time? The strangeness of that thought brings him upright from his prone position on the cold ground and sets off a fresh spasm of retching. He swallows bitter bile and groans miserably.

Moving slowly in an effort to avoid further nausea, he hugs himself in a vain effort to find warmth. He begins to think that he'll die if he stays where he is. The thought of moving is not at all appealing; but then neither is dying.

A raging thirst grips him, so intense that it's almost a physical pain. He has to find water, and fast. Gritting his teeth, he feels around him with outstretched arms in the darkness. His hand touches something solid behind him – a wall. It, like the ground beneath him, is cold and wet. Shuffling slowly backwards until he's finally sitting upright against it, he takes another slow, deep breath before drawing his legs under him and pushing upwards.

Muscles grown stiff with cold and bruising protest but at last he's on his feet. His head swims alarmingly, made worse by the pitch blackness, which makes orientating himself difficult. Thankfully the nausea remains in the background although his head throbs sickeningly, and he has no doubt that any sudden movement will incapacitate him again.

He holds a hand up in front of his face, opens his eyes wide – still nothing. Is it really this dark or is he blind? The thought sends terror coiling around his stomach and he gulps as bile rises up his throat.

A sudden sound startles him; he swallows and draws in another painful breath. There's the screech of a bolt being drawn back and a door is flung open. Blinding light sears his eyes, sending pain stabbing into his skull. He hears himself cry out as he clamps his eyelids shut, flinging up an arm up to protect his sight. He retches again and staggers forward, his balance gone.

'Bloody 'ell!' A rough voice shouts in surprise, booming against his eardrums. Rough hands grip his arms and shove him back against the wall. There's an explosion of pain as the back of his head connects with the brickwork – then merciful darkness.

*

'Kath! Call the filth!' Frank Barker, landlord of the 'Bird in Hand' public house, lets go of the intruder and steps backward, almost falling over the bin liner full of rubbish he'd dropped in surprise moments earlier. He pulls an expression of annoyance as the man crumples to the ground in front of him.

'Bleedin' junkies! Why'd they always 'ave to choose my backyard, that's what I wanna know?'

He eyes the unconscious young man lying awkwardly at his feet with disgust. He's well-dressed – or at least, he had been. The once smart black suit is now crumpled and stained with blood and what smells like vomit and the man's face is swollen and bloodied. Frank takes another step backwards, fearful he might catch something. Well, you never knew these days, did you? Mind you, this bloke looks like a city type; probably one of them stockbrokers; more money than sense. Probably had a skin full, got into a fight and couldn't handle it. Frank spits – barely missing the prone man – bloody kids can't hold their beer nowadays.

'What's up Frank?' Kath appears at the door. 'Blimey – what the hell happened to him?' Kath pushes past her husband, brow wrinkled in concern.

Frank rolls his eyes. ''Ow would I know, you daft bint? Just found 'im out 'ere. Reckon we should call the cops. 'E's gotta be a junkie, state of 'im.'

'I dunno about cops - I reckon we oughta ring for an ambulance. Look at him - he's been given a good goin' over - look at his poor face.'

She kneels down beside the unconscious man, wincing in sympathy as she takes in his injuries. She looks suspiciously at Frank.

'Frank - tell me you didn't thump him one?' Frank can be a bit handy – but surely he wouldn't have...?

'Nah – course I didn't! Looked like 'e'd been through the wars before I even touched 'im! Thought he was goin' for me. Might've shoved him against the wall, like, but I never thumped him. He's a light-weight; I don't know me own strength, that's the trouble...' Frank is uncomfortable now, realising he might have been a bit hasty. But for all he knew, the bloke could've had a knife, couldn't he?

'Bloody 'ell, Frank, you could've killed the poor sod. He'll have a nasty headache when he wakes up. Be lucky if he doesn't report you for GBH!'

'It were only a little shove, like – couldn't 'ave done any real 'arm...' Frank is suddenly worried - this could lose him his license if the little twat reports him.

'Maybe we could just leave' im 'ere, not bother the cops...'

Kath snorts. 'Don't be stupid all your life, Frank.' She pulls off her apron and bundles it carefully underneath the man's head, partly as a pillow and partly to staunch the blood, which while it isn't gushing, is flowing quite freely from the wound on the back of his head. She carefully turns him onto his back, noting the swelling and bruising against the paleness of his face, the sorry state of what she can see is a good quality and well-fitted suit. He's young; well manicured with short, neat hair and hardly more than a day or two's stubble. He also looks somehow familiar but it's hard to be sure, his face is such a mess.

'Well he's not your normal junkie, that's for sure. That's a quality suit he's got there and he hasn't been on the streets more'n a day or two, I reckon.'

Kath wrestles with her conscience as she debates the right thing to do. He doesn't look like a real down-and-out; that's a sharp suit, so he probably has a job in the city. Maybe he's the sort to press charges if he remembers Frank's rough treatment when he wakes up.

Feeling uneasy, she quickly searches through his suit pockets, which are empty.

'I reckon he's been mugged, Frank – he's got no wallet, no car keys, not even a mobile – not a thing on him. I don't remember seeing him in the bar...' and she'd remember him, she's sure. They don't get very many city types in their pub.

She makes her decision, and stands up.

'Come on. We'd better get him upstairs, put him one of the empty rooms – when he comes round, we can say we found him like that, tell him he must've been mugged. If he thinks he remembers you shovin' him against a wall, we can say that must've been the mugger ... I mean, he's not gonna report you if we've done the decent thing and looked after him, is 'e? I could give Maggie a call - she'll give him the once over, make sure he doesn't need to go to hospital. C'mon - give us a hand.'

Frank sighs – there's no budging Kath when she's made up her mind. With a sigh, he grabs the young man under the armpits while Kath takes his feet and they carry him indoors. The man groans at the movement, but doesn't regain consciousness.

*

'He did what?' Maggie splutters down the phone as Kath relays the story to her friend, who has a St John's Ambulance certificate in First Aid.

'Well, he reckons he only gave him a little shove, but the poor bloke's got a nasty bump on the back of his head. I've cleaned it up as best I can and we've put him in one of the empty rooms; but he hasn't woken up and I thought mebbe you could just check him over... make sure he's okay. I mean, see if he needs to go to hospital...'

'Ok. I'll be round in a tic. You haven't given him anything to eat or drink, have you?'

'Well he's not woken up yet, so 'course I haven't!' Kath is indignant.

'Okay, okay. But if he does come round before I get there, don't give him anything, alright?'

'Alright...anything else I should do?'

'Yeah – put him in the recovery position – face down, head to the right, in case he vomits and chokes.'

'I think he's already done that – thrown up, I mean.'

'Okay. But still move him, in case he does it again. And keep an eye on him. I won't be long.'

Maggie frowns as she eyes the unconscious man lying face down on the bed. 'He's been badly beaten about, poor sod. I'd say he's been out there a while, too – could be hypothermic. His clothes are in a bit of a state, aren't they? Nice suit, though. I'm sure I know him from somewhere... is he a regular?'

'Nah – but I know what you mean. I've seen him before tonight... I keep thinking I've seen him on the telly, mebbe. Frank reckons he's been mugged, 'cos he's got nothing on him - no wallet, phone, or car keys.' Kath hovers anxiously as Maggie takes the man's pulse, angles the bedside lamp so that it shines onto his face. She peels back an eyelid.

'He might have a minor concussion – his pupil reactions are very sluggish ... and his pulse is very erratic. Help me turn him over. Carefully...'

Maggie pulls the suit jacket aside and pulls a face at the state of the man's suit. She makes to unbutton the shirt and gasps.

'What's wrong?'

Maggie dispenses with the buttons, instead quickly pulling the man's shirt out of his waistband. 'Bloody hell, I think he's been shot! There's dry blood all over this shirt and that looks like a bullet hole...'

'Oh my God... I never thought to check...' Kath has gone pale. 'Is he going to die?'

Maggie stops short. 'Oh - that's weird.' She traces a hand over the man's abdomen in puzzlement. There's a small scar on the lower left side amongst the fresh bruising, but no open wound. She runs her hands carefully over his chest, wondering if any ribs are broken.

'What?' Kath peers over Maggie's shoulder.

'Well – looks like he's been shot – but it must've been a while back. Look, it's all healed up...but why's he still wearing the same shirt, especially with a nice suit like that? He doesn't look exactly poor, does he...? ' She sits back, considering. 'He might have broken ribs – he ought to have an x-ray. '

She puts her ear to the man's chest and frowns. Moving her head a little to the left, she listens again. Then moves back to the right.

'Here, you have a listen. Either I'm cracking up or this bloke has got two hearts!'

Kath listens to first one side, then the other. 'That's impossible... isn't it?'

Maggie eyes her friend for a second, decides the question had been genuine. 'Well... I've heard of people with organs in the wrong place, sometimes even an extra one. But I've never heard of anyone with two hearts.' She blinks, and resumes her examination. Gently probing the head wound, she pronounces Kath's first aid measures adequate. 'But he'll probably need antibiotics. How long has he been unconscious?'

''Bout an hour, I s'pose. I called you as soon as I'd cleaned him up a bit.'

'How was he before Frank gave him a headache?'

'I dunno, I didn't see him; but Frank says he was stood out in the alleyway, up against the wall by the bins. He yelled blue murder when Frank turned the light on and Frank thought he was going for him – so he pushed him and that's when he banged his head. And he'd been sick. Frank thought he was a junkie.'

'Well, it's possible...' Maggie rolls both shirt sleeves up. 'There's no track marks – he's just as likely plain drunk. Though I can't smell any alcohol on him... But I think you're right about the mugging, though. He needs to go to hospital.' She considers putting him back in the recovery position but now she's worried about broken ribs. She might already have moved him too much.

'Frank's worried he'll get done for GBH.' Kath chews her lip shamefacedly.

'But Kath - what if he dies? Ring for an ambulance. It's better to be safe than sorry. He's no doubt got family somewhere who are worried sick!'

*

Movement, pain, noise... Why won't they leave him alone? He groans and tries to roll away from the light. He hurts all over, his head is splitting and his stomach lurches ominously.

'Easy there now. Just lie still.' A hand presses him back down. Something is placed over his nose and mouth, smothering him. He gasps and tries to push it away, eyes flying open in alarm. He seems to be in a moving vehicle, and realises that he's being forcibly held down with something approaching terror.

'Steady, sir – it's just oxygen, to help you breathe. Calm down.' The owner of the voice looms over him, a blur. He can't focus properly.

'Get – OFF!' He tries to pull the mask away, but strong hands pull his down again. He begins to panic, thrashing wildly.

'Sir, calm down! Or I'll have to sedate you, and I'd rather not do that at this stage.'

But he continues to struggle and his captor is joined by another. He feels the sharp sting of a hypodermic in his arm and the world fades around him.

*

Beep * Beep * Beep*

He winces, swallows. The light is too bright. Noise and bustle around him. What's happening? Where is he? Everything hurts.

'Sir, can you hear me? Can you tell me your name?'

So many questions. What have they to do with him?

'Sir? Can you open your eyes for me?'

Oh, for Rassilon's sake, go away will you?

'Sorry sir, I didn't quite catch that?'

Carefully he opens his eyes to see the concerned face of a young man wearing a white coat. I'm not blind... white hot pain floods his head and he quickly closes his eyes. He's so thirsty...

'Water...'

Morgenstern quickly pours out a small amount of water and holds the beaker to the patient's lips; he gulps every last drop before letting his head fall back onto the pillow with a wince of pain. Morgenstern places the beaker back on the table and takes the patient's wrist, noting the far too rapid pulse. The initial admission report noted the racing heart rate and worryingly high blood pressure. He's been given drugs to bring the readings down to acceptable levels but his pulse is still too fast for Morgenstern's liking.

'Just a little for now, until all your results are back. Now, is there anyone we can contact for you?'

'Where am I? Should I know you?' His voice is hoarse, as if he's been screaming. Perhaps he has. He opens his eyes again, warily.

'No, you wouldn't know me, sir... I'm Oliver Morgenstern, Junior Doctor. You're at the Royal Hope Hospital in London - you were brought into the Emergency Department a few hours ago by a gentleman who found you collapsed outside his pub. You've had a nasty knock on the head. Can you remember what happened?'

He remembers the cold and the dark... anger... fear... blow after blow to his body, jeering voices... curling up to protect himself... Then nothing ... wait...the darkness, feeling so cold... then rough hands pulling him upright, his head hitting the wall. And there was a woman... his fingers absently reach for a ring that's no longer there.

'Lucy...? '

The name comes unbidden to his lips. There's something about her... but he can't bring the thought into focus. His head swims sickeningly and he swallows as saliva floods his mouth. He thinks he might be sick.

'Who's Lucy, sir?' When he the only response he gets is a frown, Morgenstern tries again.

'Is Lucy your wife?'

Wife... Yes. That's it. Lucy. There's something else... The memory slips away before he can grasp it. He nods and winces as pain stabs through his chest.

Morgenstern scribbles quickly on the notes, conscious that he has other patients waiting. Thanks to a virulent bug doing the rounds amongst staff and patients alike, they're massively understaffed tonight. He frowns, glances quickly up at the man as he writes. He's seen him somewhere before, hasn't he? It's hard to be certain; the face is so bruised and bloodied.

'Now we're getting somewhere. Can you tell us where we might contact her?' He looks up to see confusion on the man's face, which is grey with pain. Morgenstern frowns. Surely he's been given pain relief, hasn't he? He quickly scans the chart; it doesn't list any analgesics, and he makes a notation for the next drugs round. He'll see the sister on his way out, get that put right. Poor bastard – there's no need for him to be in that much pain.

'Sir? Where can we get in touch with Lucy – was she expecting you home tonight?'

'Lucy...? I don't ... know...' The pain in his chest is excruciating now and he can't think, can't make sense of what the man is asking him. His stomach rolls and he retches helplessly.

Morgenstern quickly thrusts a cardboard basin under the man's chin as his stomach rejects the water he's just gulped down. Morgenstern wipes the patient's face when he finally drops his head back onto the pillows, exhausted.

'Is there anyone else we can call?' Morgenstern quickly writes up the chart, one eye on the patient as he struggles to remember.

He tries to see past the relentless pain. Someone ... there is someone, but he can't... 'Doctor...?' His heart is pounding madly now and he gasps as pain suddenly rips through the right side of his chest, taking his breath away. The room goes black around him.

*Beep * Beep * Beeeeeeeeeep*

Morgenstern slams his hand on the alarm as the monitors squeal and show a flat line. He grabs the patient's wrist, feeling for a pulse. Nothing.

Quickly he whips the pillow from under the unconscious man's head and tilts it backwards to clear the airway. Where's that bloody crash team? He leans down, pinches the man's nose and leans in to begin manual resuscitation. He daren't risk putting any pressure on the rib cage until the patient has been x-rayed.

The man suddenly draws a huge, shuddering breath and grabs Morgenstern's wrists, wrenching his arms down painfully; he finds himself locking eyes with his patient – the whiskey-coloured eyes are wild. He looks terrified, Morgenstern thinks. He manages to tear his gaze away only when the man is distracted by the sound of the crash team arriving. As the curtain is swept aside by his colleagues, he pulls out of the surprisingly strong grip and staggers backwards, legs shaking with fright.

'What's going on? Oliver?'

Martha Jones is surprised to find her white–faced colleague backing away from the patient's bed, his expression one of shock. Morgenstern doesn't answer and Martha hurries to the patient's side. She looks down at he man gasping in pain with his hands clutched to his chest and stops, open-mouthed.

The features are battered, swollen and bloodied; but there's no mistaking that face.

'Saxon? What on earth? '

Her words go unheard by the Master, who continues to shake and groan in pain.

The crash team who have followed her into the ward sweep past the stunned Martha, swarming around the bed and going about their job. Briskly efficient, they slap an oxygen mask on the Master's face, pulling his hands away from his chest and attaching monitors to his skin. Another holds down an arm while her colleague slaps the skin to bring up a vein, sliding in a needle and swiftly withdrawing a phial of blood. Another medic attempts to hold his head steady while his colleague lifts an eyelid into which he shines a small penlight. The Master moans and thrashes wildly and the senior medic barks an order for a mild sedative, 'quickly, before he hurts himself.' Or one of us, she thinks, as she calls for an orderly to hold the patients' arms down. Another nurse fetches restraining straps and manages to secure his legs to the bed. The sedative is quickly administered and the Master's struggles eventually subside as it takes effect.

Martha gulps and swallows. Throwing another disbelieving look at the bed and its stricken occupant she goes to the shaken Morgenstern and takes him aside.

'Oliver, are you okay? What happened?' She can't quite get her head round this. What the hell is the Master doing here? How could he even be here? He's dead. Well, quite obviously he isn't - but how is that even possible? It seems like a lifetime ago but it is in fact only two days since she saw the Master die. For one second she thinks – hopes - she's hallucinating. The voice of her colleague confirms that it's all too real.

Morgenstern draws a shaking hand over his face and swallows. 'I - he flat-lined, I thought he was having a heart attack - I was clearing his airway in case I had to do CPR before the team got here – and he just grabbed my hands...' the registrar shakes his head as words fail him.

Martha's pulse is hammering, remembering the Master's insane behaviour during that missing year. Her mouth is dry with fear and she swallows painfully. Morgenstern gabbles on, not noticing Martha's consternation.

'I really thought he was going to kill me, you know? He just wouldn't let go and he looked... well, terrified. If I'd known he was going to react like that... '

'What did you do to upset him?' Martha keeps one eye on the team as they bustle around the Master, finally able to do their job now he's quiet.

'Nothing - I'd just been trying to find out who he is, if there was anyone we could contact. He seems to be suffering from amnesia, although he remembers a wife called Lucy. But not his own name or where we can get hold of the wife.' He pauses. 'The weird thing is, I feel as if I should know who he is – but I can't place him.'

Martha feels a surge of hope – if the Master can't even remember his own name then perhaps he won't pose any danger to them. But his unprovoked attack on Morgenstern doesn't bode well. Martha watches the medics as they take blood pressure, fix up an IV and adjust oxygen levels and considers her options. She should ring the Doctor... or Jack. Or perhaps she should call in UNIT? Calling anyone of those people would take the problem out of her hands; Martha isn't at all sure that she can stomach dealing with this monster again.

Finally the crash team seem to be satisfied with the Master's condition and are finishing up. One of the nurses nods to Martha. 'He's stable for now – but he'll need regular monitoring.' She leaves with a frown.

'Right...thanks.' Belatedly Martha realises that she hasn't offered any help to her colleagues or shown any interest in the reason for the Master's collapse. No wonder the Nurse gave her a sharp look as she left the ward. She takes a deep breath and tries to compose herself.

Morgenstern looks at her quizzically, finally noticing her discomfort and recalling her reaction to the patient. 'Do you know him then? What did you call him?'

Martha smiles grimly. 'Oh yeah – I know him.' She doesn't elucidate and Morgenstern frowns.

'Well – who is he, then?'

Saxon.' It's something of an effort for Martha even to say the name. As if vocalising it makes the threat real. 'His name is Harold Saxon.' She can't bring herself to use his chosen name – and it wouldn't mean anything to Morgenstern anyway.

Realisation dawns in Morgenstern's eyes.

'Bloody hell, of course! Didn't he...?'

'Yeah, he did.' Martha is abrupt. She really doesn't want to talk about it. 'Who bought him in, then?'

Morgenstern finally seems to have recovered his composure.

'Um... a Pub landlord found him lying out by the bins when he went to put the rubbish out. Reckoned he'd been mugged. Just as well he did find him; it looks like he'd already been there for a while. His core temperature was way down when they brought him in... It's all in the notes. I'll go and warn ICU we may need a bed, just in case he crashes again.'

Morgenstern hurries away, leaving Martha alone at the Master's bedside. The Time Lord is quiet now that he's been sedated and his breathing is slow but slightly irregular.

The night-time sounds of the ward around them fade into the background as she wrestles with her desire to put as much space between herself and this monster; he almost destroyed her family, and as for his plans for the rest of humanity... she shivers.

If she hadn't been on call tonight she might never have known he'd survived. It's down to her again, by the look of it. She draws a deep, shaky breath. I'd better get on with it, then. She has responsibilities and it won't look good on her record if she neglects a patient, regardless of his identity. How long before the news gets out?

Martha strides to the foot of the bed and grabs the medical chart. There's nothing in the 'Patient Name' box, or under 'Next Of Kin' (for one insane second Martha visualises 'The Doctor' listed there) and a note confirms what Morgenstern told her – the Master had been found injured in an alleyway outside a pub and admitted as the probable victim of a mugging. There's a note that he had no form of identification on him when found, not even a wallet.

She looks down at the unconscious Time Lord and tries hard to suppress a shudder of fear and revulsion. The Master looks dreadful – his face is a mass of bruises and the chart lists injuries consistent with being savagely beaten. Slow pupil dilation indicates concussion. There's also a terse note mentioning a healed bullet wound in the lower left abdomen.

Taking a deep breath, she places a hand on the Master's wrist, noting his far too rapid pulse and the irregular breathing which would seem to indicate bruised ribs at the very least. A tiny voice at the back of her mind whispers, it's no more than he deserves. Martha crushes it – that's not what she signed up for.

Morgenstern bustles back in.

'They don't have a bed at the moment but they've got a patient who's improving so we might be able to get him in there in a couple of hours if he doesn't pick up.'

'Have they done chest x-rays yet? There's no mention of it on the chart.'

Morgenstern shakes his head.

'No, not yet, Dr Jones. We were waiting for the porter to take him down. It's been busy tonight, as you know. And with that virus...' He looks at the Master and frowns. 'Shouldn't he be in the Private Wing? What about the Police... we should...'

'I'm on it, Oliver. We need to get those x-rays done as soon as possible, and then I'd like him moved to a side room. As for the rest – have security posted on the door, please. I need to make a phone call.'

She drops the Master's hand back onto the bed and strides out, resisting the urge to run.

*

Martha has been ringing the mobile phone she gave to the Doctor for fifteen minutes now but it just goes straight through to voicemail. She feels disappointment and no small amount of fear – she'd been so certain that the Doctor would pick up and come rushing back the minute he finds out that the Master is still alive. She hadn't even considered that she might not be able to make contact with him, and is momentarily undecided about what to do next. Something tells her that the Doctor wouldn't want her to call UNIT – he hasn't really said much about them to her but Martha gets the feeling that he doesn't rate them very highly – something to do with their propensity for weapons, she thinks. As for Torchwood... she'll call them if she can't raise the Doctor, she decides. Jack will know what to do.

Hurrying back to the ward, she overhears Morgenstern relating the tale of how he was attacked by Harold Saxon and realises it'll only be a matter of time before the Police are involved. They'll be woefully unable to deal with a recovered Master, Martha knows. It looks as if she'll have to call Jack sooner rather than later – but remembering his eagerness to permanently deal with the Master and the Doctor's insistence that the Master is his problem to deal with and no-one else's, Martha still feels a definite reluctance to involve Torchwood until she's had a chance to speak to the Doctor. But if she can't reach him soon, what else can she do? There's no guarantee that the Master won't regain his memory; if he does they'll all be in danger. Without the Doctor she knows Torchwood is the best option for dealing with the Timelord. Sudden fear that he might have escaped while she's been trying to contact the Doctor seizes Martha, and she all but runs the rest of the way back to the ward.

Two yards from her goal she's collared by an elderly patient who has wandered out to the shop and become lost. For the first time in her career she is almost rude to a patient - but she bites back her frustration and guides the old dear back to the nearest ward reception and eventually manages to find out the woman's name and where she belongs.

Flustered, she arrives back on the ward and almost screams with fright when she sees that the Master's bed is empty. She grabs a young nurse doing drug rounds.

'Where's the patient from bed three?'

Her colleague points wordlessly to a side room at the end of the ward. Martha laughs it off. 'Thought I'd lost him! Thanks!'