Had trouble with this one... hope you like it.

**Martha lost her shoes again!

FOURTEEN

The heavens cried and poured upon them, and the Doctor and Martha took it all in blissful oblivion. Rain? Who cared? This was the kiss of their lives, the kiss that would define them, for better or for worse.

And in the midst of possibly the most cathartic moment of her short existence so far, Martha found herself suddenly covered with mud. She and the Doctor immediately let go of each other, and both of them cried out with unpleasant surprise. She scooped the mud out of her eyes, and found that the Doctor was in very much the same state.

"What the hell was that?" she yelled over the rainstorm.

The Doctor, his hair matted to his head, looked at the orange plastic coverings overhead, all around them. "There must have been a pocket of dirt from the dust storm, resting on the awning!"

"Right over our heads!"

"Come on, let's get back to the house," he said, picking up the rucksack and taking Martha's arm.

"What about the berries?"

He looked into the part of the field where they'd left the containers. "They're buried in mud now. Let's go!"

They began to jog down the hill and over the soft, now slick, yellow grass, back toward the large house they'd been sharing.

"It's freezing!" Martha shouted. She was wearing shin-length trousers, a tank top, and no shoes.

"I know, I'm sorry," the Doctor said. "Let's hurry!"

They hastened, and when they reached the curb, Martha picked up her shoes from where she'd left them, put them on, and they ran through the streets back to C.J.'s house.

Once inside, they slammed the door and let out a relieved cry, both of them holding their arms far away from their bodies, standing watching the mud drop in clumps onto the floor. The Doctor dropped the soaking-wet rucksack onto the tile, followed by his suit jacket, shirt, tie, shoes and socks. Martha kicked off her sandals and wrung out her hair.

"Come on," he said, and began to sprint toward the stairs.

"I'll catch up," she told him.

He disappeared up the stairs and Martha bent, reverently unzipping the rucksack and gently extracting the purple journal. It was only slightly damaged, the bag itself being somewhat resistant to water. The pages were slightly wrinkled and poofy, but flipping through it very quickly as though she were shuffling cards, she found that there were no smears. She was relieved. Truly this journal had been the source of some profound pain for her, especially today, but she couldn't bear to think of the words and emotion within being lost to the ages forever.

She realised that she was leaving muddy fingerprints on the pages, so she closed it, and held the book away from herself as she followed the Doctor up the stairs.

On her way up, a bolt of thunder rang out across the sky, harshly cutting through the din of rainfall outside the house. She jumped a little, grabbing onto the bannister for support. And with that, she saw the light in the bathroom go out. The bedroom had no electric light, but the bathroom attached did; and now it was kaputt.

She went into the bedroom and found it quite steamy. The Doctor was in the bathroom, but she could barely see him. There were no windows in there, and even in the afternoon, especially with storm clouds, it was dark. He had the shower door open, and one arm stuck inside.

"Did the storm kill the electricity?"

"Looks like," he said. "The water's ready, come on."

"No, you go first, it's all right."

"Martha, you're filthy from head to toe – we both are. It's not like either of us is going to sit down and relax while the other one showers. What are you going to do, just stand there until I'm finished? Come on." He held his hand out to her.

She opened her mouth to protest, but only achieved a stunned silence.

He sighed, and dropped his hand. "Martha, it's dark in here, and it's a large shower. Come on, you're shivering!"

He was right. They were both cold and dirty, and they were both adults. And good friends.

She set the journal on the bed, marched into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. It was now pitch dark, except for one little sliver of grey afternoon light shining under the door. She peeled off her clothes, and she could hear them go glop as they hit the floor. She heard the Doctor's trousers and pants do the same.

She reached out into the dark. "Where are you?"

"Here," he said, blindly taking her wrist. He pulled her gently toward him, and after a moment, he put her hand against the jamb of the shower door. She was able then to feel her way inside, then pull the door closed.

She felt warm immediately. The water, the steam around her warmed her veins and made the cold leave through her pores. She couldn't feel any actual water touching her body, but the environment was steamy enough.

"You stand here," the Doctor said to her. She felt his hands close around her upper arms, and he moved her, positioning her under the stream of beautifully hot water. She felt caked-on clumps and layers of dirt washing away from her body, and she sighed loudly. She couldn't help it. The room was dark, and she'd lost sight. All she had at the moment was sensation, and this particular sensation was absolutely gorgeous.

She turned so that the water was pouring directly into her hair. She had fairly thick black tresses, and didn't trust that all of the dirt was getting rinsed out under this one stream of water. Having oily scalp was one thing – clumps of mud were a different matter altogether. Actual dirt in her hair was a disgusting thought to her.

"I think I need to wash my hair about five or six times," she said. "Can you help me get the grit out?" She turned her back to him, and almost immediately felt his hands buried in her hair. He tugged gently, massaging her scalp, complemeting the hypnotic, calming effects of the water. It sent a shiver up her spine, in spite of the heat. Once again, she could not hold back from letting out the sounds of pleasure. She moaned a little, then did it again as his hands came back for another dive, then another exquisite tug.

He repeated it a few times, before leaning down toward her ear and saying, "Feels clean to me."

His voice, the whisper, the touch, it sent another shiver through her body, in the form of a wave of pure lust. She felt weak and hazy, and almost involuntarily, she leaned back against him, skin on skin, in the dark, under the water. "Oh, Doctor," she managed to hiss. "What are you trying to do to me?"

"Anything," he told her. "Just tell me."

She sighed with barely-concealed exasperation. His body felt amazing against hers, both of them slick and warm, and she distinctly felt the hardness forming against the small of her back. It was making her melt, making her crazy and unable to think.

Still, she hesitated. He had read a journal that she had clearly been concealing. True, it hadn't been hers, but he had seen her hiding it, and did not get the clue. And as a result, he had the upper hand now.

Oh, but, running through the hospital hand-in-hand, flying off into the night... Sharing close quarters at Dolly Bailey's inn, feeling so lost and frightened in New New York, knowing he would come for her... Talking to a showgirl about his utter oblivousness, feeling gutted as she thought he was dumping her back at her flat, watching his face float away from her as she went adrift into the sun... it all came back to her. Moments in which she loved him, wanted him, ached to be with him as more than just a faithful companion and he had been painfully unavailable.

And she snapped.

She was still angry, she was suspecting of his motivations... but she was human. She was here, it was now. She owed it to herself, owed it to the girl-in-lust he'd picked up in that alley, and to the woman-in-love who had cared for him for three months in 1913, and for ten days in this house. She reckoned she'd be livid at herself no matter what choice she made, so she made the easy one, the incendiary one.

The one she really, really wanted.

A whisper came out, echoing through the falling water, bouncing off the glass walls. "Just put your hands on me."

His hands touched her hands lightly, then slid up her arms. He moved them inward toward her middle, stroking her stomach, feeling her muscles tense. His touch was electric, and she keened against him, throwing her head back to lean on his shoulder, making her whole body fit against his, like she was painted on. When his hands reached her ribcage, then slid up over her breasts, she almost lost all strength in her knees, and she moaned deeply, feeling a sure twitch against her back as his cock hardened further. If they had not been standing in total darkness, her vision would have blurred momentarily.

He slid both hands down once more, and his palms gripped her thighs. As he pulled his hands up over her body, from thighs to collar bone, he leaned down and kissed her neck just behind the earlobe. He nipped at the sensitive flesh there, licked it, whispered her name. She went weak again and moaned his name in return.

One hand cupped her breast, the other was edging its way back down. She was panting now, unable to entirely anticipate what he'd do next. She wanted him so badly, wanted him to touch her just perfectly, to take away the ache. She wanted them entrenched in one another, not just the water. But it wasn't a good idea. Some things could not be taken back, once done, and there was so much yet to work out.

Hs hand reached her abdomen, and showed no signs of stopping. He moved slowly, but it was more than obvious what he wanted. She was about to protest. No, it's too soon, it's too much, it will change everything...

"Martha," he whispered, then he bit her earlobe gently. "I love you."

She thought she was finished being surprised today, finished snapping and making decisions with her heart. But she wasn't finished.

She was stunned. And his fingers then slid down between her legs and into slick, waiting folds. He squeezed her nipple, and his other fingers danced over her clitoris – and she let them. She reached up and back with one hand and held onto the back of his neck for leverage as she sank deeper and deeper into pleasure. She felt her whole body pulsing and bending in rhythm with his fingers, her breathing came in rhythm as well. Shockwaves shot through her, more and more each time he stroked her, each time her desire was pushed to the edge and back.

She asked him to, but he never increased his speed. She begged him to, but he never pressed any harder. He kept a maddening, consistent beat, and before long, felt her begin to tremble violently in his arms. She shook and moaned, dug her fingernails into his thigh. She tried to squirm out of his grip, but he held her tight and whispered to her. This was the sweet torture that he loved most, the part where she just needs release, and he gives it to her in languorously small doses. She wanted more with every step; harder, faster, something...

Until she was just there. Her whole body jolted quite unexpectedly, and suddenly she found she was hurtling through orgasm, a million miles per hour, pervasive and explosive. He held on tight as she went through spasm after spasm, high cry after high cry, and finally, she let go.

She seemed to take a moment to catch her breath. Then he heard her say, "I'll be in the bedroom." But her tone was a harsh, not like a bedroom voice, and he was startled by it. He heard the shower door open, felt a draft, then heard it close.

She was in one of C.J.'s cotton robes, and was pacing when he emerged. She was stalking back and forth in a bedroom lit with the grey afternoon outside, and one lonely kerosene lamp.

"That was a dirty trick," she scolded. There was fire in her eyes, a totally different kind of fire.

"What was?"

"Saying that to me! How could you do that?" she asked, actually picking up a pillow and hurling at him. "Is it really that important for you to have the upper hand?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know if you said... that I'd let you..." she stopped speaking for a moment and gave a shuder. "And I did. I let you!"

Her face contorted into a look of disgust. Her eyes widened, as she suddenly seemed to realise the implications of what she had just done.

"Martha, no."

"Oh, God. Oh, God, I have to get out of here." She pushed past him and headed for the door.

"Please, stop," he called out, following her. "What are you doing?"

They were now in the hallway, and she turned and said. "Back up on the hill, I asked you to leave me alone. Can you please give me some time?"

"No. I'm afraid you'll do something rash. Now... hold on, okay?" he said, holding out his palms to her. "Just stand there. Don't move. I'll be right back."

She sighed and nodded, crossing her arms over her chest.

The Doctor disappeared into the bedroom, and when he came back, the purple journal was in his hands.

"Doctor, really? Now?"

"This is why I brought this with me on our little excursion today. There's something I want you to see."

"I've read it cover-to-cover."

"Perhaps, as of this morning. There are some new developments."

"What?"

"When you read it," he began. "When you read it, Martha, know that it came to light days and days ago in my sleep. Not five minutes ago in the shower."

"Why can't you just tell me?"

"I did. You said you thought it was a trick."

"Doctor..."

"Listen," he said, stopping her. "I became a contributing author this morning before we left. I'd intended it to be a kind of revelation that we could share up on the hill with some fluddberries, but that didn't happen."

She sighed, and put all her weight on one hip.

He flipped through to a particular page, and handed the journal to her. "Just read. Then I'll leave you alone for as long as you like." He returned to the bedroom and shut the door softly.

She stared at the open book, both sides of the spine covered with hand-written text. On the left, C.J.'s tight writing in black, penned angrily at Haruka after Christmas one year, approximately twenty-five years earlier. After that, Martha's handwriting could be seen responding with her sentiments about the Doctor, lovely, loopy penmanship, red ink.

Below that, writing in blue ink, very boxy, clipped, all in caps. The Doctor had added to the purple journal angst, beginning with the phrase, Dear Martha...

Martha sat at the top of the stairs with her elbows resting on her knees. She could see the living room sprawled out in front of her on the other side of the bannister, and she stared at the plain white sofa. She had run the gamut of emotions, and now the panic had subsided, and she was simply calm.

Another note to self: getting what you want... scarier than you think.

It had been almost an hour. The Doctor had written no more than fifty words to express himself in the journal. He'd been uncharacteristically succinct in his phrasing, exacting and concise, so that there could be no question of his feelings or his intentions. He knew now what she wanted and needed. He was tired of being sensible, over-thinking, intellectualising everything. He wanted to feel with his heart and go the distance, whatever that meant.

Still, he was fairly certain that she was capable of reading more than one word per minute. So what was taking so long?

Of course, he knew the answer. He'd felt that way earlier when he'd read her entry to C.J. Knowing that she loved him had been devastating. Wonderful, but devastating. It had floored him. He'd locked himself away until he felt ready to take life by the horns again. He understood why she was staying away now... but he didn't like it.

So he opened the door.

He could see her bum and back, but not her head. She was sitting forward in such a way that most of her body was concealed.

"Martha."

"Mm?" she asked, without looking at him.

"Please come back in. We got our electricity back."

"I noticed."

"Not that it makes any difference in that room, except in the loo," he conceded.

She smiled slightly. "True."

There was a long silence. "Are you going to sit there the rest of the day, staring at the back of the sofa?"

"No."

"Then, here," he said holding out his hand.

She looked at it, but did not take it. "Then what?" she asked.

"I don't know," he answered. "But you sitting there, staring, being silent... it's making me nervous."

"So I go back in there with you," she said flatly, gesturing toward the bedroom.

"If you want."

"And... then what?" she asked, again.

"I don't know," he repeated, however, a little more emphatically.

She smiled again. It was soft, loving, sympathetic. "Yes, you do."

His expression didn't change. "I know what I want, but that's all."

"You can predict the future," she said. "Tell me what comes next."

"Nope," he told her. "This one is for you to tell me."

She stood up, and never taking her eyes from his, she stepped forward and put her arms around his waist.