Chapter Five

"Swab, please."

A young nurse in surgical overalls turned around and picked up a cotton swab from the metal tray behind her, handing it over to the chief surgeon silently. She moved around the table to get a better view of the patient, sidling around quietly so as not to distract the surgeon. Consequently, she managed to bump into a tall man with ruffled brown hair and large brown eyes, the rest of his face hidden by a surgical mask. From the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners slightly, she guessed he was smiling apologetically at her, but she was only guessing after all. She ducked her head modestly as she shifted past him and positioned herself next to the patient's head.

The Doctor carried on staring intently at Frobisher, whose life was currently in the hands of a rather pompous and slightly arrogant surgeon. In his surgical mask and gown, the Doctor was able to stay relatively unnoticed – just as well, he surmised. If this place was what he thought it was, then it would have been very difficult for him and Rose to have gained this much access without specialist clearance. From past experience, he knew that the Armed Forces were funny like that.

As the surgeon continued to work on Frobisher, the Doctor walked slowly round, inspecting the surgical tools and instruments. He smiled fondly behind his mask as he marvelled at how far human technology had come. Yes, humans were definitely back on his list of favourite species, even if his previous self hadn't appreciated them as much.

Occasionally a nurse would glance up at the Doctor, but because of his quite nature and authoritative appearance, they didn't register his presence. As the chief surgeon cleaned out Frobisher's wound some more, he started talking to a nearby surgeon about the state of Frobisher's wounds.

"Yes, there's a lot of internal bleeding …" mutter the chief surgeon, pointing a particular area out. "Mainly centred around the liver." The Doctor looked up sharply, his interest piqued. He frowned seriously as he made his way back towards the operating table to take a closer look.

"The shrapnel must still be embedded somewhere," continued the chief surgeon. "See, there's an entry wound here consistent with shrapnel injuries, but no exit wound." He poked around for a moment before tutting to himself. "Damn, it's bleeding again … nurse, more swabs." He clicked his fingers impatiently. "Quickly, please."

The Doctor decided to try and make himself useful by passing some swathes of cotton wool to the chief surgeon. The chief surgeon didn't even look up, let alone thank him. He'll thank me when I've saved his planet, thought the Doctor, half-jokingly, half-mutinously.

"God, it's like someone's opened the floodgates in here …" the chief surgeon said, with a hint of concern in his voice. He looked at the nearest nurse and indicated the patient notes on the table nearby. "Is this man a haemophiliac?"

"Nothing on his medical records, sir," the nurse said, flicking through the notes. The Doctor shifted to one side to give himself a better view of the situation. Frobisher was anaesthetised and connected to so many wires that he barely looked like a real human being. The Doctor almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"Everything has its time. Everything dies."

Now isn't your time, Frobisher. Now isn't your time. I can't feel sorry for you if you don't fight. You've got the best working on you, and if you don't fight then –

"Odd …" mused the chief surgeon, interrupting the Doctor's thoughts. "I can't find the shrapnel anywhere … it seems to have vanished …"

The Doctor looked up brusquely, frowning first at the surgeon and then down at Frobicher's injury.

"Perhaps he ingested some form of anti-coagulant?" suggested another surgeon.

"Maybe them Germans are gettin' clever," said a young nurse conspiratorially. "Puttin' that anti-coagulant stuff on the shrapnel so's the sound keeps bleedin'."

"Think logically, Sally," the chief surgeon snapped condescendingly. The Doctor shot him a disapproving glance. "Firstly, how would the anti-coagulant get onto the shrapnel, and secondly, why is there no shrapnel?"

Fantastic. I love the way the human race has the infinite capacity to rationally explain away anything they don't understand.

"No, this is obviously a severed artery …" continued the chief surgeon. "I just need to find it and fix it …" The young nurse lowered her gaze again and busied herself with tidying the surgical instruments, clearly embarrassed at having been put down by such a senior member of staff. The Doctor watched as she blinked away some tears, and felt a surge of pity for her. The poor girl had only been trying to help, and the man she looked up to and respected had trodden her into the ground.

"Now, let me try something …" the chief surgeon muttered, holding his hand out as the nurse passed him a couple of surgical clamps. The Doctor tried to move in to watch what the surgeon was going to do, but out of the corner of his eye he spotted something … odd. Something … very odd.

The blood that had been continuously seeping out of Frobisher's wound had soaked through the numerous swathes of cotton wool which had been placed there in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. Frobisher had been bleeding to profusely that his blood had seeped right through and was now gently dripping onto the operating room floor, in a steady movement. Drip. Drip. Drip.

But it wasn't this dripping that caught the Doctor's attention. It was the pauses inbetween.

Drip. Drip. Pause.

Drip. Pause.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Pause.

The pauses aren't regular.

Drip. Drip. Pause.

What the …?

Bending down to watch the blood, the voices of the surgeons and nurses continued as meaningless noise to the Doctor. As he watched, the drips of blood appeared to do something impossible on Earth – they disappeared. The drops fell regularly enough, but every so often one drop would fall and vanish into thin air. It didn't hit something else on the way down, it didn't congeal, it wasn't affected any way. It just disappeared. Without warning.

Suddenly, the drops of blood stopped disappearing. It was as if something – somehow – knew the Doctor was watching. Something knew that the Doctor was observing these odd happenings and was making a conscious effort to stop them. Slightly shaken and frowning deeply, the Doctor stood up slowly and swept silently from the room.

"… eight months we've been together, and he keeps threatening to propose!"

"Seriously?"

"I swear! I mean, I only met him because he'd been hurt in Operation Dynamo and he needed looking after." Margaret and Rose were walking down one of the long, chalky corridors, chatting animatedly as if they were long-lost friends. Rose was gradually beginning to learn how to blend into the different time periods, managing to adapt her choice of words and know when to hold her tongue. She smiled as Margaret blushed. "He was on one of the wards, I was passing through one evening and he asked me for a light. I told him smoking wasn't allowed on the wards, and anyway I wasn't a nurse, so I couldn't help him. He just smiled and said that was ok, as long as I gave him a kiss to make up for it."

"Really?"

"Honest, I'm not making this up! He was so cheeky!"

They giggled together as they rounded a corner, passing a doctor in a crisp white coat who frowned at them disapprovingly. Margaret stifled her laughter as Rose bit her lip, but as soon as the doctor had gone they chuckled again.

"Honestly, though," sighed Margaret, "this war's a nightmare."

"Tell me about it," Rose agreed. From the depths of her memory, she recalled a fact that she learned in year nine history. "They're still rationing things, aren't they?"

"They're even rationing stockings," Margaret moaned. She looked around and lowered her voice, whispering to Rose as if she was telling her a secret. "Half the girls here have just got bare legs!"

"No!" whispered Rose back, smiling in spite of herself. "You're kidding!"

"It's true!" giggled Margaret, leaning in closer. "Doris, she's on the station next to mine, she paints her legs with tea after she's shaved them, she told me last week. It's very ingenious, looks just like real stockings." She looked around, as if worried that Doris was nearby and listening to her spilling her secrets. Satisfied that the coast was clear, Margaret continued. "Only problem is, she can't get the line up the back of her leg. The seam, you know. She can't find anything to look real enough."

"Have you tried make up?"

"Make up?" Margaret said, frowning slightly. "What sort of make up?"

"Well …" said Rose, remembering what her nan told her about tea-painted legs during the war. "What about eyebrow pencils? Are they rationed?"

"I hadn't thought …" Margaret muttered. "I suppose, if they are, they're not expensive …"

"Well, there you go," Rose said happily. "Tell Doris to try drawing the stocking seam with her eyebrow pencil, see if that looks any better."

"Gosh," said Margaret, clearly impressed at Rose's idea. "How clever! I'm glad I bumped into you today!" She smiled warmly at Rose, who grinned back. I'm on a ROLL today! All of a sudden, Margaret stopped abruptly outside an office door.

"Well, here we are," Margaret said, turning to face Rose. She smiled, and Rose thought she looked a little apologetic. "I'll leave you to it."

"Thanks again," said Rose, "for showing me the way." She grinned at Margaret, who was eyeing the door somewhat nervously. She glanced at her watch and Rose suppressed a giggle as Margaret made an obvious show of 'realising' what the time was.

"Goodness, is that the time?" she said, a little too loudly. "Must be off now – there's a war on, after all!"

Rose grinned again as she watched Margaret hurry off back the way they came. He can't be that bad, surely. She turned to face the door and, remembering her manners, knocked on the door.

"Come in," said a gruff voice from within. Rose steeled herself and pushed the door open, nervously poking her head round the door. Into the fire …