Once again, i hope you guys continue to enjoy the story. This installment is what happened when The Doctor is finally found, from Martha and John's POV. Also, it's a bit of me establishing a friendship between John and Martha.


IX.

Martha and Mister John set out into the woods in search of The Doctor.

He had somewhat of a stoic manner as they walked. Martha didn't mind admitting it to herself – he was a tad intimidating. At first they went in silence. Martha glanced up at the sky every now and then to check that it was still brightening; as if today would be the one day that the sun wouldn't rise, simply because she was waiting for it.

Mister John led the way, cautiously. He may dislike Deputy Morris, but Martha could tell he was wary of being caught in the woods again after the officer's warning.

She felt a surge of appreciation, and sighed. "Listen – cheers for this."

He turned to look back at her, his eyebrow raised.

Martha smiled. "I mean…thank you, Mister John. Really. I appreciate you coming with me. Your friend Charles is right – partially. You don't know The Doctor, and you have no reason to help me. So, it's really quite decent of you to do this."

He shrugged and spit at the ground. Martha grimaced. What was it with men from the past and spitting? When she and The Doctor found themselves in the Wild West, facing and defeating those horrible Clade things, the men (even the little boys) were constantly spitting everywhere, as well.

He spoke, drawing her out of her thoughts. "Your friend reminds me of someone I knew once."

"Who?" she stepped wide to keep up with him. He was as tall as The Doctor, though considerably more muscular. "A friend of yours, or…?"

Mister John shook his head. "He was just a man. A professor. He talked just like you and your friend."

"Oh, really? And he was a professor? Was he nice?"

He chuckled. "Well, he was dirty drunk most of the time, so I guess he was, in a way. He certainly didn't mind me when he got that way."

"How d'you mean?" She didn't know if she fancied him comparing The Doctor to an alcoholic.

They heard a noise in the brush, and he grabbed her. She gasped as he pulled her down to a crouching position in the grass. With no gun, Martha could tell he was on edge. He peered into the semi-darkness (the sky was bright enough now that they didn't need moonlight, for which Martha was getting more and more grateful). A fat little squirrel scampered by, and Martha breathed a sigh of relief.

They stood up slowly and moved on, both cautiously listening for signs of a bloodthirsty beast or angry coppers, or The Doctor.

"Mean he liked to talk to me; tell me wild stories about places he'd been; what he'd seen." John continued as if they had never paused.

"Bet that was pretty fascinating…" Martha continued to try to make conversation.

She didn't really know why; she just felt an urge to try to connect with this man. When he wasn't unintentionally being rude, The Doctor sometimes had this thing where he would speak to people as if they were old, dear friends. He wouldn't patronize them or lie to them, but he would be gentle; kind even; while telling them the plain, sometimes difficult truth. And they trusted him after that – completely. He just had a way about him.

Martha didn't think she was trying to emulate him, but it wasn't so bad talking to stoic Mister John all the same.

It passed the time, anyway – helped keep her mind off of worrying for The Doctor, or constantly checking to see if the sky had gotten brighter.

"For a young'un like me, sho it was." He told her. "'Specially cause he was one of the few white folk I ever really talked to. They give me orders; slap me around; say they usual 'boy' this and 'boy' that…but the professor really talked to me."

"How old were you?"

"'Bout thirteen. I remember cause that's the year I finally got into books. Taught myself to read…took me seven good years 'fore I could read and write good enough get my affairs in some kinda proper order. Got me a proper account at the bank, got me some property, fixed up the GYST House when my daddy died…"

"Good for you. It's a really lovely place; reminds me a bit of back home, at my grandmother's in the country. "

"What country got you talkin' like that, Miss?"

They were nearing the TARDIS again. Martha longed for a shower. She looked up at the sky. It was a possibility, though slim, that The Doctor had stopped there for some reason before coming to catch her up. "Um, England. London, to be exact. D'you mind if we pop over there really quickly?"

He frowned in the direction she was pointing. "That leads down towards the bridge. What you wanna go down there 'fore?"

"Um, well The Doctor and I left our…transportation…just beyond that cluster of trees, there. I just wanted to check to see if he stopped by; see if that's what's taking him so long."

He stared at the cluster of trees, wary for a moment, before nodding his approval. Martha led the way this time. It occurred to her that Mister John would definitely be confused and have lots of questions when he saw the out-of-place, blue police call box sitting in the middle of the forest.

But she would simply not let him inside. She could deal with his questions about the outside; but she would have to slip in quickly so that he wouldn't see the ship's hidden depths.

"So, in your country, they must let people like us well enough alone, then." He muttered as they walked.

"Sorry?"

"I mean, no offense Miss Martha, but you seem rather…loose with yaself. Not that their ain't plenty of head strong women in Mississippi – I dare any man to mess with Sweet Mama on a bad day. And I got this gal, Lucile who comes round the juke joint to sing sometimes – that woman could sing the breeches right off a man…"

Martha turned around to face him, stopping abruptly and crossing her arms. "What, d'you think I'm like your friend's cousin, is that it? That The Doctor is using me for his own personal gain?"

He shook his head. "No…I was merely commintin' on the fact that ya friend don't treat you like somethin' he owns. I thought that might be the case at first, but then I saw how he was with you, even in all that chaos. The way he protected you, like you was part of his family." He shrugged. "Just seems to me like in your country, Negroes might not have it so hard, that's all."

Martha frowned, not really knowing what to say to that. "Well…I can say this: in my country people like me are afforded a lot of opportunities – equal opportunities – and we live freely, like everyone else. And that's because other people fought really hard and sacrificed to provide that for us. Same as in your country."

She felt like she was in secondary school all over again, giving a speech about race relations in front of her History class. She suddenly became embarrassed.

"Em…anyway, it's a nice place, London. Bet you'd love it there."

They marched on. When they reached the TARDIS, Martha expected him to show the usual signs of confusion and skepticism that most people had when they saw it. He stared at it, but said nothing.

"So, I'll just pop in and see if he's inside. And I may as well freshen up while I'm at it, maybe grab some supplies."

"Strange…"

"Right, I know. There's actually more room inside than you think," though you certainly can't see it, it would literally blow your mind, she thought. "The Doctor and I are quite comfy when we travel."

"Hmph." That was it. He nodded for her to go ahead and began to peer into the trees vigilantly again.

Martha watched him quizzically for a moment, then shook her head and pulled out her key. She got the door unlocked and slipped inside, careful not to open it too wide and risking Mister John seeing a glimpse of the huge console room.

Once inside, Martha sort of instantly knew that The Doctor wasn't there. The ship was massive, with corridor upon corridor filled with rooms, all of which she certainly had not discovered, even in the five months she'd lived here. Sure, it was possible that he was bouncing about in one of them, but there was a certain absence of energy inside that told Martha this wasn't the case. She supposed it was because she spent so much time marveling at and cherishing that energy (that spark of excitement and urgency he exuded without even trying, no matter the situation) that made her so attuned to it.

She walked up the ramp towards the console and paused.

Martha knew that the TARDIS was a sentient vessel. She often caught the Doctor stroking her, or sitting as if deep in thought when Martha suspected he was really engaging in some kind of telepathic communion with her. Every now and then, she would feel calmer, or safer, or feel the like she wasn't alone in a room where she was the only person. Sometimes, before she could catch herself, she would speak out for no reason; an answer or greeting when no one had spoken. At least, not aloud. It was a strange feeling, talking to a ship, so she didn't do it often.

Except in 1913, when the TARDIS was literally her only friend who shared her memories and her worry for The Doctor. She could feel it, faintly like some kind of elusive sixth sense.

Now, she reached out and touched a few of the controls, running her fingers lightly along the odd shapes and knobs and dials. She sighed. "Where is he…?"

She felt the urge to move quickly all of a sudden, and knew in the back of her mind that it was the TARDIS telling her to hurry it up so she could go find their Doctor.

Martha obeyed the feeling, silently promising the ship (and herself) that she would do just that.

«∑Ω§» «∑Ω§» «∑Ω§»

Martha didn't have time to shower. She simply stripped off her filthy clothes, knickers and all, and gave herself a quick wash off over the basin in her bathroom.

She toweled off and hurried to find fresh clothes. Martha put her hair up in a messy bun atop her head, followed by another tank top (this one white) and a clean pair of jeans. She pulled on a pair of comfortable trainers, in lieu of putting her boots with the short heel back on. They were murdering her feet after trudging through the woods all night.

She stifled a massive yawn as she packed a few toiletries into a nap sack, a change of undies and a hairbrush. Then she paused, somewhat puzzled. You'll need it, she just kept feeling…and she knew it was the TARDIS. Why would she need these things? Were they going to be staying in 1940s Mississippi?

Martha swallowed hard at the thought. Instead of dwelling on it, she kept moving. Somehow found herself rushing down one of the corridors towards…The Doctor's room.

In all the time she'd been traveling with him, Martha had only ever glimpsed inside The Doctor's private sleeping quarters, usually when he was closing it on her after saying goodnight or emerging to say good morning.

She hesitated at the door now. Then she felt, with more urgency than before, she needed to get inside.

Martha opened the door and stepped in. She was momentarily transfixed, standing rigidly with the sack open in her hands, gazing around. The entire space smelled like him. It was sort of overwhelming, how much a room could smell like a person. There were strange looking parts scattered about, as if he was building something that was taking him forever, and tools; only few of which she recognized. There were books everywhere, stacked along side tall shelves that held rows upon rows of them, all along the far wall and even behind his bed.

His bed. It was messy, and a stack of three lumpy pillows lay on the far left side, as if he had punched them into submission to support his neck and back as he read in bed. She got a very vivid vision of him, shirtless, reading glasses perched atop his long nose, slowly turning the pages of some thick, dusty tome…

Move on, Martha. She wasn't sure if it was her or the TARDIS nudging her into action once again.

She quickly scanned the room and spotted his closet. Martha was annoyed with herself for getting so distracted by how cute it was that his dresser was all a'shambles, with little knick knacks and things spread everywhere. Ties, underwear, socks, and tee shirts were stuffed into the drawers, hanging out sloppily, or strung along the mirror. Inside the closet, Martha was astonished by just how many pairs of Converse he had, in a rainbow of colors. Some colors, even, that she swore weren't available in any shop she'd been to. Likewise for his trademark, fitted suits. Several shades of brown and blue pinstripe, from slightly faded to deep and rich were hung neatly (surprisingly, after the state of the dresser) before her. There was one burgundy one that she'd never seen him wear before. Quite right not to, she thought, making a face. He had two black suits as well, which were in the very back – reserved for special occasions, no doubt.

Martha wasn't sure what the hell she was doing. She just started grabbing things, vaguely making sure all the pieces were there – trainers, jacket, trousers, tie (she didn't care if that matched, frankly). She found herself blushing when it came time to pick out underwear.

She stuffed everything into the sack and zipped it up. Martha turned to leave the room, but stopped short as she passed the bed again. Reluctantly, she turned to it. Took a step closer. She stared at it. Trying to memorize it, perhaps. Trying to imagine how the sheets might feel against her skin…if The Doctor's body was as warm tucked in these sheets as it was whenever he hugged her close to him…if these sheets smelled of him the way this room did…images she would never tell any living soul about began to flash, on their own accord, through her brain. Images of entangled limbs and warm skin and hot breath and…

Cor blimey, she was pathetic.

Go Martha, before you start smelling his sheets or something, you crackpot.

That was definitely her, not the TARDIS.

«∑Ω§» «∑Ω§» «∑Ω§»

John stood staring at the large, wooden phone box.

As he had told Miss Martha earlier, he had indeed seen some strange things in the past few hours. Things he would not soon forget. This was one of them.

Part of him was full to the brim with questions about what he was looking at. In the stirring quiet of the small wood near his home, this odd structure sat emitting some kind of presence. It was odd enough that whenever he turned his head, the thing seemed to disappear from his peripheral vision completely. No, it was more that he could somehow…feel something. Like he was being watched. Assessed, somehow. He had studied every inch of the perimeter surrounding him, and was sure there was no danger near, so it fell somehow upon this big blue box, that feeling of being…not alone.

Police Call Box, it read.

Miss Martha said she'd just get some supplies. Said she was comfortable, traveling with her doctor friend inside this big, blue, police call box. Even if he wanted to make sense of that, he didn't think he should try to. Something told him it was far too complex and maybe just a little dangerous for him to put the pieces together. After all, he had other things to worry about. Like catching up somehow with the demon that killed his friends. He knew, as Earl and the others did, that the White law in West Point didn't give a damn about a bunch of Negroes from the GYST House getting killed by what they assumed was a local red wolf.

The Sheriff, if given half the chance, would probably let it keep happening as long as no decent, god-fearing white folk were attacked.

They probably wouldn't even make sure to inform John when they found Fletch. They'd probably let him, Lenny and Percy rot in the so-called ice box in the small coroner's office attached to the back of the jailhouse for a few days. And if John came callin' they'd go 'ohhh, Walter Fletcher, is that right? He's back there alright; smellin' up my jailhouse. You best get him underground quick, boy.'

The Sheriff was that cruel. And Morris was just as bad – he may not take part in his boss' cruelty outright, but by standing aside mutely, he was doing just as much damage.

Mister John felt himself getting heated, and hoped Miss Martha would get a move on.

As if he had summoned her with that thought, she appeared, stepping out of the blue box in totally different clothes. She was carrying a small bag that looked stuffed with whatever 'supplies' she'd gone in there for. Her hair was no longer hanging loosely down her shoulders, but pulled up in a disheveled bun that revealed the contours of her face rather finely.

And she was fine.

With the skyline rapidly brightening with each passing few minutes, Mister John couldn't help observing that Miss Martha Jones was one hell of a good looking woman. She was petit, but curvy in all the right places – especially her pert, apple-shaped rump.

The clothes she wore now looked in the same fashion as the ones she'd been in. The breeches were denim, like before, only dry and clean and…maybe a tad tighter than he was comfortable with. Not that he minded seeing her in them. And though the little white top she wore now was looser than the one before it, it somehow made her figure all the more attractive.

"All set! Sorry for the delay."

"No trouble at all, Miss Martha. Let's get a move on, though…"

"Right."

He wondered, dimly, as he watched her lock the doors to the box and make her way over to him hauling the bag over her shoulder…did that doctor friend of hers ever find his eye wandering? The way he looked at John last night seemed to suggest a certain level of protectiveness – or possessiveness. John made up his mind, thinking on it in the seconds it took for her to reach him and nod that she was ready to keep moving.

He meant what he had said – he had already made up us mind, seeing how the man looked after Miss Martha last night, that she meant more to him than just an indentured slave. The doctor was good, but he was still a man. And black or white, anyone who spent a lot of time sharing a 'comfy' space with a sexy woman with an ass like a candy apple was bound to be tempted at some point.

John wasn't no fool – plenty of the white men in town found themselves cruising by the juke joint some times, looking out for loose sistas to tangle with while their wives was at home oblivious.

John chuckle to himself. Good man or not, there was no way this doctor could resist at least looking. John himself was finding it hard not to, especially in the waning light of early morning, when he could see her more clearly.

"What's funny?" Martha asked, struggling to keep up with him on her shorter legs. He had a tendency to walk faster when he was deep in thought.

He looked down at her seriously. "This whole pot o'beans, that's what. I'd be happy to wake up and find myself sittin' in my bed, and it's all just a dream…"

"I know the feeling," she muttered.

As they walked, John asked her some of the questions that were on his mind. "Your doctor's papers said he was an expert. He deal with troubles like this all the time?"

"Sort of, yeah."

"Strange way of carryin' himself…"

Martha grinned. "He is a bit…off, I s'pose. But that's what I love about him." She caught herself, and glanced at him sideways. "I mean, that's what makes him so good at what he does." She supplied quickly – but it was too late, he already caught it. She carried on quickly. "He catches people off guard, you know? And before they know it, he's fixed everything – always in the nick of time, mind you."

"That right?"

"Yeah…" she sighed. "I know it may not seem like it now, Mister John. But The Doctor is brilliant. He's a genius, and he'll figure a way to get rid of those things. I promise you. They won't hurt anyone else."

"What about you?"

"What about me, what?"

"What is it you do for him, you don't mind me askin'?"

There was a long fit of silence as she seemed to think over her answer. John kept his eyes on the trees, wishing he had his gun. "I'm there to remind him to slow down." Martha said after a long while. "I'm there to keep him grounded, but also to keep him company. I help him when he needs me. I help others when he needs to work things out on his own. I…I'm his friend, because…with the life he leads, he gets…lonely."

She looked straight ahead, her eyes narrowed to a far off place, her jaw a little stiff like she was expecting him to say something negative about what she'd just explained. He wasn't really surprised. Professor Thornton's girl might've said those exact words once upon a time, if she could speak English.

He looked at her for a moment, then nodded to the trees before them. "Figured as much." He grunted after a moment. They were at the bank of the creek. John jumped down the steep hill to where the water lapped at the edges of the trees.

He turned and helped Martha down by lifting her up in his strong hands and assisting her as she hopped down.

"That professor I was tellin' you about – he had a companion, too. African gal. Didn't speak a word of English. She was his servant, but she was a little more than that if you follow me. Took me a while to understand it, but I do."

Martha bit her lip. "The Doctor and I aren't…em…we-we don't, we've never…we're just…mates. Just mates, so don't get the wrong idea."

Mister John looked her over, considering the way in which she nervously insisted that there was nothing inappropriate about their relationship. He also caught the glint of disappointment in her eyes when she said it. He decided not to comment.

They waded across the creek, Martha cursing under her breath the whole way. He guessed she hadn't remembered that they'd have to do this again before changing into fresh threads. He had taken the bag from her and was holding it atop his head as they waded across.

When they reached the other side, they immediately retraced their steps to the clearing where the horrible events of last night took place.

They didn't find Walter, or Lenny.

Mister John stared at the bloody and burnt (from the gunfire) patches of grass for a moment, wondering if his prediction that the Sheriff and Deputy Morris had found the bodies and dumped them in the ice box was true.

Or if…something else happened…

"Your friend said 'if they turn'…" he faced Martha, his eyes boring into hers. "If they turn into one of those things, he meant."

Martha nodded faintly. "Yeah."

"What are those things? How does he know so much about them?"

She shook her head slowly, seemingly at a loss for words for a moment. "I'm not really sure…werewolves, I think?" She looked at him quickly, to see if he would call her crazy for saying it. He simply waited to hear more. "The Doctor says they're here on a mission. Probably to make more werewolves, sounded like. But why…I just don't know."

"Werewolves. Like in stories my daddy used to tell me…stories I used to tell…" he stopped, not wishing to go there. Martha's forehead creased slightly as she watched him stop himself from speaking further.

"Used to tell who…?"

He sighed. "My son."

"Oh." He could tell she wanted to ask more questions.

"His mama took him when I was out workin' one night. Ain't seen him since. He was barely six years old."

"I'm so sorry."

"She's his mama. She got a right. I was always workin', didn't have time for her, and sometimes not for him. I tried, but…" he felt emotion creeping up on him and forcibly willed it away again. "Anyway, he's gone so it don't matter. Let's go find your friend and get down to the jailhouse. I need to have a word with Deputy Morris."

"Okay, then."

They moved on.

«∑Ω§» «∑Ω§» «∑Ω§»

They were getting deeper and deeper into the trees, and the sun was getting closer and closer to the horizon. Martha was so relieved to see it – that meant, if everything she read or seen in the movies about werewolves was true, they were out of danger for the time being.

But that should mean that so was The Doctor. That should mean that he was on his way back to her – to them, she corrected herself. That should mean that they would run into him any moment.

But they didn't.

She looked up at the sky again. She wanted to check the time, but was wary of taking out her mobile in front of Mister John. "What time d'you reckon it is?"

He squinted up with her. "I'd say round six thirty, best guess. Sun'll be comin' up soon. Round seven or so. Least by the time we reach them tracks. They'll be startin' to load up the freight trains now."

They were almost to West Point, John was saying. Once they got to the other side of the wood, all they had to do was walk along the train tracks a bit until they came to the station. Then they'd be in what he called 'the White side of the creek', which was ironic, since the complete segregation of the two townships had the black population living in White Station, and not the other way around.

Martha had to admit – all this talk about race was starting to get to her.

She realized that The Doctor was right. It never bothered her before, and that was because before her experience in 1913, it really never came up. She had never been so acutely aware of her own skin color as she had been when she was scrubbing floors and tidying up John Smith's quarters and…watching him fall in love with the fair skinned, perfect, prejudiced Nurse Redfern.

And this whole experience did nothing but make it worse, even though so far she'd been surrounded by her 'own people', as her mother would say. It was all 'white folks', this, 'that white man you travel with' that, and 'Negro' this and 'sista' that, and so on. It was so much a part of this place, of these people, of their every day lives, that it threw her. Living in London, where your accent mattered more than your skin color, she supposed she'd grown up a bit…oblivious. Her parents even stopped sharing their experiences from their childhoods, when things were different. They lived in a modern London, now, and their children were happy, not having to deal with what they went through. So Martha didn't think about it much, if at all. It shamed her, really.

And there was something else, too.

She often lamented that The Doctor seemed to have a taste for blondes…dainty, sweet, blonde girls like his precious Rose. Of course, that was just her projecting on the companion before her, but she couldn't help herself. She often looked at herself in the mirror – sometimes examining herself for hours, wondering how The Doctor saw her. Petit, cheeky, 'tough', dark-skinned, round bottomed Martha Jones who's hair would never ever be blonde. She had never seen a picture of Rose, apart from the rather attractive-looking drawing in John Smith's journal of Impossible Things. She wondered what the other woman really, really looked like – and sometimes Martha thought that she must be breathtakingly beautiful, and it really hurt.

Martha shook her head harshly, deciding to stop feeling sorry for herself and concentrate on the task at hand – finding The Doctor.

Mister John carried her bag without complaint, and Martha thought. What would The Doctor do…?

"It was obvious that werewolf was heading to West Point," she muttered. John turned slightly to look down at her as she talked to herself. It was getting easier for her to say 'werewolf' without feeling silly. "So The Doctor followed it. He said…it would be looking for new hosts."

"Host for what?"

"Hosts for…more werewolves, I imagine." Martha racked her brain, trying to remember everything The Doctor had said before they were separated. "Remember? He said something about having a word with their leader – 'their' leader, like there was meant to be more of them."

"Right. So, if Lenny ain't dead, that means he's a…host."

"Exactly." Martha stepped wide over an overturned log – the very same one The Doctor had leapt gracefully over mere hours before, unbeknownst to her. "And it was going after more. In the town. That's where The Doctor will be. He'll be trying to protect people from being attacked and turned into one of them."

"You think Deputy Morris has seen him, if he went to town after he left the GYST House, that is?"

"Maybe!" Martha brightened. "Maybe The Doctor got through to him, and the Sheriff. He has a way about him, I told you – people trust him. He knows what he's doing, even when he doesn't know exactly what he's up against straight away."

"Hm…" Mister John nodded again, hoisting her bag up on his shoulder.

They kept moving, Martha growing more and more certain that they would find The Doctor in town, holed up in some safe place, awaiting the sunlight with the authorities backing him up.

She quickened her pace, the anticipation of joining him again growing more intense as they neared where she could see the trees were thinning out. After a short while of brisk hiking, she could see the edge of the wood. Then she could hear voices and movement.

"We're nearly there, come on!" Martha exclaimed, half-jogging, half-power walking towards the noise.

Mister John kept up easily, having longer legs. "Be careful, Miss Martha – white folks in town won't be as welcomin' as you might be used to with ya friend."

They finally reached the tracks, and Martha noticed that just as Mister John had predicted, the sun was emerging overhead. He insisted that they slow down and make their way into town calmly, in an orderly, non-threatening fashion. Martha felt like she was going to jump out of her skin at any moment, her desire to see The Doctor's grinning face again was so acute. But she did as John asked, and slowed her pace.

She scanned the tracks as they walked. It looked pretty deserted, except for a few isolated sounds of people moving on the other side of one of the massive cargo trains, out of sight.

"You sure about this?' Mister John muttered.

They were momentarily distracted when one of the train cars began to rattle and shake, and someone yelled. "I told you to check for riff raff…!"

"What's going on…?" she asked, her interest peeked.

"Scragglers, catching forty winks before they load up…" he answered simply. There was a bunch of commotion, then the enormous train started moving, slowly. "Must've been drunk if they got themselves caught so easily."

Satisfied with his explanation, Martha sighed and they moved on. "No, I'm sure of it." She answered his earlier question. "He'd go to town. He'd go to warn the Sheriff about the danger."

"Stop it! Stop the engines! There's something in there!"

Martha frowned and turned around again. The train was moving, and the car that had been rattling just a moment ago was getting nearer. Except that it was open on their side, now. And something was sticking out of it. Martha felt the sun on her back as she stared at the pale shape hanging limply from the open train car, her heart rate speeding up. She squinted hard – there was something alarming and familiar about it as it drew slowly nearer. That, and the silver, glinting, wand-shaped object the pale thing was clutching.

It was a hand. The Doctor's hand. And it was clutching his sonic screwdriver.

"Doctor!" She gasped, her heart leaping into her throat. She started running.