At precisely 7 a.m. Simon unlocked the door to John's flat. It was time for the workday to begin, and Simon was never late for work. His boss, on the other hand, was never quite that scrupulous about time; Simon generally started the day for both of them by making tea and sorting out breakfast. Today appeared to be no different.
As he walked toward the kitchen, he noticed a large stack of files placed on the coffee table. He was surprised; they didn't have any cases coming up, and these files looked a bit too official to be part of any project related to Mr. Smith. Simon read the note taped to the top of the stack: For Dr. Martha Jones, UNIT. Please secure until her arrival. His face broke into an uncharacteristically large grin. "I guess we're having a visitor today." He placed Mr. Smith's paper on the coffee table, moved the files to the dining area, and then walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
###
Jack had really outdone himself this time. One moment ago she'd been under threat of death from Prince, and now she was seated, on a couch, in a strange flat. She cast her eyes around the room, trying to get her bearings. She knew better than to try to stand right away; travel by manipulator wasn't always the most pleasant experience to begin with, and the fact that she was utterly exhausted wasn't going to make her recovery any quicker.
The couch was firm, but old and threadbare, the burgundy velvet fabric worn and soft. Directly opposite the couch and near one of the room's two windows was an old dark brown leather chair with a small footrest in front of it. A nearby table holding a book, a lamp, and a pair of reading glasses completed the tableau; Martha half-expected the chair's usual occupant to materialize before her eyes and resume reading. The long, low coffee table before her was sturdy, but worn from use. The room, while comfortably furnished, felt haphazardly arranged.
Where was she? Jack had promised her that she'd be safe, and she certainly didn't feel as though she was in danger. She could see a copy of the day's paper on the table, and was relieved to find that she was where and when she expected to be. "Good, London then," she thought, pleased that he had hidden her in the city. She might have to hide out here for a while; even if things worked perfectly, she wouldn't be safe until they'd found all perpetrators and victims of Prince's plan. She heard a noise coming from a room behind her and froze; did Jack know the flat was occupied? Who lived here?
She heard footsteps approaching the room, then a gasp and a timid voice spoke. "Um, sorry, didn't hear you come in. Thought the door was locked. How can I help you?"A hand appeared to her left; she grasped it as she turned.
The young man before her couldn't be older than 20 and he looked harmless enough.
"I'm Martha Jones. And you are?"
"Oh, Dr. Jones. I'm Simon. We're expecting you. I've put your files on the table."
"My files?" Martha asked, then saw the stack of UNIT documents on the dining table behind Simon.
"Mr. Smith doesn't appear to be in at the moment; I'm sure he'll be returning shortly. Can I offer you a cup of tea?"
"Tea would be lovely," Martha replied. Simon went to the kitchen. Mr. Smith? Simon—John had mentioned a Simon earlier. "This must be John's flat," Martha thought and then smiled. Jack thought this was the safest place for her to be. What did he know that she didn't?
Her eyes continued to survey the room. To her right was the door into the flat and to the right of that was the beginning of a series of bookcases that lined the remaining walls. The cases were filled with books, papers, and various pieces of machinery. Behind the couch was a dining table surrounded by several mismatched chairs. The table held her files, a laptop computer, and assorted bits of metal and tools. Beyond the table were two doors, one leading down a narrow hallway, the other leading to what appeared to be the kitchen.
She felt a bit more oriented, and when Simon returned with the tea tray, she asked to be shown to the bathroom. He led her down the dark hallway, past a room filled with more shelves, books, and projects, and to the bathroom. Martha wanted nothing more than a long soak in the tub, but was happy to settle for a splash of cool water from the tap. She patted her face dry with a towel, then closed the toilet cover, sat on it, and closed her eyes.
The conversation with Mace had been bad enough—he was not willing to listen to her accusations against Prince without gaining admittance from her that she was involved in the project. She couldn't entirely blame him; he'd really gone to bat for her when she'd insisted the project be shut down initially, and he took the evidence of her involvement as a breach of the trust he'd had in her. He'd dismissed the bombing of her apartment as coincidental at best; the evidence, he'd insisted, pointed to a problem in the boiler room, and the explosion had been deemed an accident.
When Prince arrived, Martha's anxiety had increased tenfold. She was doing her best to maintain her calm and to control her part of the conversation; she knew that John had made arrangements for a reporter to be in attendance. Prince's appearance made that job more difficult, and when he took her arm, she knew she'd have to use the escape valve Jack had given her. Almost immediately she'd felt Prince pushing at her mind. She tried to free her arm—she didn't want to teleport him along with her—while simultaneously blocking him from her thoughts.
Martha shuddered as she remembered the experience. His pushing felt like hard blows to her consciousness, and the walls she'd hastily constructed were beginning to buckle under the pressure. She remembered mentally screaming for him to let go while trying to break free of his grasp. She'd finally extricated her arm as the once-silent scream was heard throughout the café, and in that instant she'd pressed the button on the wrist strap she was holding under the table.
She heard a gentle knock on the door and looked up. "Yes?" she called, trying to sound normal. Her cheeks felt wet, and she realized that she'd been crying. She'd done far too much of that today.
"Just checking to see if you needed anything, Miss," came Simon's voice through the door. "Sorry to bother you."
"No, it's alright," Martha called. "I'll be out in a minute." She stood and splashed a bit more cool water on her face, and dried it off. When she stepped out of the bathroom, she realized that the hallway wasn't naturally dark; the walls were like a blackboard and were covered with mathematical formulas, maps, poetry, and charts. She imagined John in spectacles, scribbling on his walls; would his tongue peek out from the side of his mouth as he concentrated?
Martha returned to the living room. Simon had cleared a space on the table for the tea things. She noticed that in addition to tea, he'd set out toast, butter, and boiled eggs. "This looks lovely," she said, "and I'm sorry to have kept you waiting." She smiled at the young man before her. He offered her a chair, then pushed it toward the table. He reached for the teapot, but Martha put out a hand to stop him. "Really, it's alright. I can get it. Why don't you join me?" Compared to the events of the last few hours, this was such a normal exchange it was a bit surreal. Simon sat down, then immediately got up, picked up an item from the couch, and returned to his seat. He placed the wrist strap on the table next to her.
"You left this on the couch," he said, then set about pouring the tea. "I'm sure you're feeling a bit hungry and weak." He stopped pouring and handed Martha her mug. The liquid was clear.
"I'm not certain I'm familiar with this tea," Martha said. Simon looked at the liquid he was pouring into his own mug. A blush crept over his fair skin and he closed his eyes tightly. "Forgot the tea," he muttered, "I always forget the tea." He looked at her apologetically and went to the kitchen. He returned with a few tea bags and offered one to Martha. "I'm sorry," he said, "but sometimes I forget the order of things."
Martha felt a compassionate curiosity about this young man, but she was more concerned with what he knew about the wrist strap. She pointed to it and asked "do you know what this is?"
Simon nodded. "It's a Vortex Manipulator."
"So you're a Time Agent? You look a bit young to be one." Martha took a slice of toast and buttered it, then reached for an egg. It was cold to the touch, so she put it back on the plate. Toast would do for now; perhaps later she'd take the egg into the kitchen to cook it.
"No, Miss, not a Time Agent. They just aren't that unusual to see, where I'm from." She could tell that he was a bit uncomfortable discussing it, so she decided to change the subject.
"So, you work with Mr. Smith, yeah? What kinds of things do you do with him?"
"Oh, whatever needs doing. I build things, help him with his projects and investigations."
"Any interesting projects on the horizon?" Martha helped herself to another piece of toast. "What's this," she asked, pointing to a metal rod with wires protruding from the handle.
"That's his latest project—it's a prototype for a laser spanner. He's having trouble getting the parts for it, though—he's having to build them himself." Simon pointed toward a mess of tiny circuits and tubes, a soldering tool, and a pair of jeweler's glasses.
"Sounds like he's pretty smart," Martha said. "You must be pretty smart, too, then, if he's hired you." Martha liked this young man; he seemed very open and kind, if a bit overly formal and odd. She added, "and please, call me Martha."
"Thanks Miss—Martha," he corrected himself, blushing a bit. He wasn't used to being around anyone other than Mr. Smith and the only beautiful woman he was comfortable around was his mother. "Can I get you anything else? I don't know where Mr. Smith is; it's not like him to keep a client waiting." Simon's face clearly projected the nervousness he felt about John's whereabouts.
"Oh," Martha corrected him, "I'm not a client. I'm a friend; well, we met earlier this evening. He's off on a—" Martha thought of what to say that wouldn't worry the young man, "—an errand and I'm to wait for him to return here. Is that alright? Will I be in the way?"
Simon knew that she was keeping something from him—the wrist strap was ample evidence that more than a simple errand was involved—but he trusted that she had her reasons for keeping secrets. He was worried, though, about his boss; Mr. Smith had a habit of recklessness that always worried him, and Simon hoped that wherever he was, he was surrounded by allies who could help keep him from doing something fatal.
"No," he replied, "you won't be in the way at all. Do you mind if I go into the workshop, though? There are a few things I should get to there."
"Not at all. I think I'll look around for something to read." She prepared another cup of tea for herself, then rose and began to scan the shelves. Simon returned the tea items to the kitchen and then went into the workshop.
Twenty minutes later, Martha was feeling bleary-eyed; reading wasn't keeping her awake, and she wanted to be alert when John returned. She was also feeling a bit hungry. She walked to the workshop and knocked on the door. "Simon, could you show me where a few things are in the kitchen," she asked. "I'd like to make something for John; he's sure to be ravenous when he gets back."
###
John walked the three flights of stairs to his flat. He didn't think it was possible to be more exhausted, but the long walk home had done it; he couldn't imagine moving another inch. When he reached his door, he leaned against the frame for a moment. The light bulb in the hallway was on the fritz again and all was dark. He remembered opening the TARDIS door and how it glowed to welcome him, no matter where he'd been or what he'd been through. Never really alone, not like this. Less than 24 hours ago he'd been alone and had been fine; why did it hurt so much now?
He fished out his keys and put them in the lock. As he opened the door, he could hear the whistle of the kettle and could smell freshly baked pastries, which brought a small smile to his lips. Not entirely alone. Simon must be feeling particularly flush this morning, he thought, and he stepped inside, took off his coat, and hung it on the rack. At least he was going to get paid, with extra for the "combative nature" of this assignment. "You're in a right good mood today," he called out. "Hope you followed the recipe to the letter this time; would hate to be missing something vital, like the baking powder."
"If there's one thing I can do without a recipe," said a voice that was clearly not Simon's, "it's make a decent scone. You hungry?" Martha Jones was leaning against the door frame, a towel wrapped round her waist to serve as impromptu apron.
He stood there, slack-jawed for a moment, then regained his power to speak. "How did you get here?"
She pointed to the manipulator on the table. "Jack thought this was the safest place for me to be," she said, her tone tentative. "Was he right?"
John nodded, a lump forming in his throat as he considered the gift that Jack had given him.
"How is he? Where is he?"
"He's alright—he's not hurt. He's in Torchwood custody for a bit, but I believe Pete just wants to find out what he's been mucking about with, how much he knows, and then he'll let him go." She didn't look entirely convinced. "He went willingly; I think he's intrigued by the work they do." He looked down at his right hand which was plucking at a loose seam on the old couch. "He loves you."
"I know," Martha's voice was soft. "And he knows that I don't love him, not that way." John's eyes met hers. He opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head. "No. Not that. Not now." John nodded. "Tea, then? I think we've earned a cup, don't you? Besides, can't let these scones go to waste. You sit down and I'll bring it out."
John sat on the couch, removed his shoes, and sat cross-legged with his feet tucked under him. On the coffee table he could see several books; Martha must have explored his shelves while waiting. Only one was open—Homer's Odyssey—and he chuckled a bit at the thought of that ancient journey home. All of those adventures, but in the end, home was the place to be.
"Never really read it properly," she said as she realized what he was holding. She was carrying a tray with the tea things and indicated with her head that he should make room on the coffee table for it. John stacked the books and moved them to the floor. Martha put the tray on the table, then sat on the chair opposite John. They each prepared their tea. The scones were delicious; she'd found his secret stash of currants and used the last of the butter, but that was alright by him. If he needed that indulgence on any day…
"It's quite good," he said, then added when he read the question on her brow, "the book. And the scone. And the tea," he added nervously. Martha smiled at him. "They're all quite good. Thank you."
"You're welcome," she replied. "I've always wanted to read it, and I guess now, given my current situation, I sort of feel adrift."
"Where are you going to go?" he asked, knowing that she had family and friends to help her, but thrilled that the first home she'd entered, since hers had been destroyed, was his. Was that wrong?
"I don't know. Mum's, I suppose. She's on her own, so it's easier. I can sleep in my old room." Her breath caught, and John could see that the realization of her loss was threatening to overwhelm her. He patted the open spot on the couch, and she came over to sit with him. He put his arm around her shoulder, pulled her close to his side, and held her while she cried. After a few moments, she stopped, and wiped her eyes. "I'd rather not think about it right this moment," she said. "I'm sick of crying. Can we talk about something else? Tell me a story?"
In her eyes he could see that she'd reached her limit of reality for the moment, and he really couldn't blame her. In one day she'd had her entire life altered so dramatically that she was starting over again—back to her parental home, no employment on the horizon, and a need to rethink her life plans. He'd had more than his share of similar days, and he admired her ability to recognize the need for an escape. John thought about the soldiers he'd disabled, ashamed that he hadn't thought about them until now, and he hoped that they would be alright. He made a mental note to check with Ianto the next time they spoke.
He took the liberty of kissing the top of her head as he reached down to the stack of books on the floor. "I'd rather not think about my stories right now, either, I'm afraid. How about I read you one instead? I think these are far enough away from our lives to do us little harm." He opened the book, pulled her closer, and with Homer's help invoked the muse.
When Simon came out of the workshop for lunch, he found them on the couch. The book had fallen from John's hands onto the floor, and John and Martha were stretched out on the couch, sleeping in each other's arms. He went to John's bedroom, took the blanket from the bed, and covered them with it before letting himself out of the flat.
