And without another word between them, the three were off.
Skirts hitched up far past what was considered polite, no girl stopped for twisted ankles or the odd branch attack, all focused on their singular goal: the infirmary. And more importantly, who, and in what condition, they would find inside.
Martha thought it was something of a miracle that they made in time, because the second she laid eyes on Ian, she knew. The diagnosis was obvious. The impending result clear.
Oh, how things could have been different if only she'd gotten there two weeks sooner.
Despite Martha's certainty, and the wailing ball of tears formerly known as Orla attached to his bedside, she made towards the patient. There was no harm in confirming. So that's what she intended to do.
Biting back despair, the soon-to-be doctor pressed a gentle finger to Ian's chin. The skin was rough, and Ian barely lucid enough to comprehend, but with a quiet but commanding "Open" from Martha, the boy managed to part his lips, tongue all but falling out. The movement was all too reminiscent of the corpses she'd examined in the hospital morgue, the ones that hadn't had their jaws secured shut yet, and Martha fought to hold back a shudder. The squeak that escaped Orla confirmed she'd been having similar thoughts.
Fortunately, it was Ian's tongue that Martha had been wanting to examine. Less fortunate was its appearance, swollen, bumpy, and bright red. Scarlet, some might say.
"Strawberry tongue," she confirmed with a sigh. Immediately wanting to put some distance between herself and the Mackenzies, if only to give them some privacy, Martha stood. Her knees were weaker than she had hoped, and her resolve seemed of similar constitution. And God, she hadn't even gotten to the hard part yet.
"What-What's that? Strawberry tongue?" A stern voice cut through the chaos of Orla's soft whimpers and Jenny's full out hands-on-knee panting, still fighting to catch her breath from the sprint.
Matron Redford stood with bonnet in hand, wringing it with a sort of anxiety she so rarely showed as Head Nurse. Somewhat alarmed to know she hadn't detected the older woman's presence before, Martha went to her. And once finally catching her breath, Jenny, too, excused herself, insisting she go fetch a bucket and rags to bring down Ian's temperature.
Ferreted away in the corner, Martha felt she could speak somewhat more freely to the Nurse than she could Orla. That would be a rather more delicate situation.
"It's Scarlet Fever," Martha spoke plainly, though unable to hide the crack in her voice.
A defeated, "Oh," escaped the Matron's lips, and only Orla's loving coos, quickly transforming into wracking sobs, could be heard in the following silence.
Privately, Martha reviewed the prognosis.
Days 2-5: fever, chills, vomiting, abdominal pain, sore tonsils, trouble swallowing.
Days 5-7: red rash, first appearing on the neck, underarm, and groin regions. Small, flat blotches, sandpaper-like to the touch.
Days 7-14: improvement...or death.
Usually, it was the former. But usually, Martha wasn't stuck in bloody 1913 with zero antibiotics in sight. But if they'd caught this sooner...
But they hadn't. There was no point thinking like that. No point resenting Matron Redford for missing all the signs. Martha tried her best not to, anyway, and succeeded slightly if only because her exhaustion somewhat tempered the anger.
Focus.
Orla.
She tried to imagine what Dr. Jones would tell her patient's family.
The good news, she would smile, chart in hand, clean, white lab coat and scrubs, is that with some penicillin and a bit of additional monitoring, there should be no long-lasting health problems.
But her gaze fell on Ian, who, looking about twenty pounds lighter and trembling like a leaf in a spring shower, reminded Martha all too well of where she was. No chart, no lab coat. Just a filthy maid's uniform and her wits, and those, too, were beginning to fray.
He wasn't going to make it. No chance.
And now she had to tell Orla.
Martha felt herself switch off and a more clinical version take her place. Dr. Jones knew how to deliver bad news. The kind she was sure sounded like nothing more than white noise in the best of cases and prompted screams and threats and holes in the plaster in the worst of them. Dr. Jones was good with strangers. But Orla wasn't a stranger. And Martha wasn't a doctor.
But maybe, just maybe, it was enough to be her friend.
"Orla," Martha said. Her hands went to the girl's shoulders and felt how they shuddered. The bed dipped beneath her as she tried again. "Look at me, Orla. Please."
Slowly, almost unsure, Orla nodded. And though she didn't drop Ian's hand for a second, she situated herself so as to better face Martha, who, taking some friendly initiative, grasped Orla's free hand with everything she had.
"Okay," Orla breathed. "Wh-What now? Ye must have a plan. Martha, the doctor?" And though she laughed, the sound was so thick with mucus, so miserable to even her ears, that she stopped immediately, focusing instead on scrubbing her face of tears.
But Martha hadn't noticed, too fixated on two little words.
The Doctor, huh? No, she wasn't the Doctor, but, God, did she wish he were here right now.
"I know this may be difficult to hear," she began again, unsure of how to phrase the inevitable. Ian's a goner? Your brother's going to die? The only family you have left in the world is about to leave you alone at the good for nothing service job you took specifically to support him and his education? Of course, none of those words were even up for consideration, but anything Martha had to say would sound like nothing else to Orla's ears.
So, instead, Martha kept it brief. "I can't help him."
There were no shouts, no heaving sobs. No. Orla didn't bother with a response, continuing to fuss with Ian's blankets as if she hadn't heard a word.
Shock. And Martha, who had expected a fight, recognized that this was perhaps the more dangerous reaction.
But there was nothing they could do but wait.
With a sigh, Martha joined Orla, readjusting Ian's pillow so at least he could be more comfortable in his last hours. Her hand brushed against his clammy forehead and suddenly Martha was reminded of Jenny's promise to return with a bucket and rags.
And it was with that thought that the door went flying open, as if kicked in with a single foot. Cringing at the sound, and at herself for not having offered to help with the evidently heavy materials, Martha pretended she was oh so captivated by the task of brushing Ian's hair from his eyes. And it wasn't as if Orla could be bothered to take her own eyes off of Ian.
So it was Nurse Redford who was first to acknowledge the newcomer. "Mr. Smith, what on God's earth are you doing here? Don't you have your evening tutoring to attend to?"
Martha's head whipped to the door.
It was the bright red converse, spectacularly out of place, which caught her eyes first. A familiar trench coat swished at the man's ankles, and her gaze, eating up the sight of him, took in the man's hair, spiked up as if a hand had been running through it, and his face, which, handsome as ever, revealed nothing but a stoic, unyielding mask.
This wasn't Mr. Smith. This was the Doctor.
And as if it had never been there, the mask fell.
"So sorry Matron!" He launched forward with nothing but his usual bravado and beams to convince the others that he was exactly where he was meant to be. And Martha, who wanted nothing more than to believe him, knew this was bad. Really bad.
Because what in the actual fuck was the Doctor doing in 1913?
He ate up the room in two strides. "Just need to borrow Martha and Orla here," he jerked a thumb in their direction. "Won't be a 'mo."
Martha stared at him, slack-jawed. So it was Orla, utterly horrified, who spoke, or rather shouted, first.
"I'm not leaving Ian!"
"Then we'll take him along!" He said, as if were the most obvious conclusion, and proceeded to scoop the fevered boy into his arms as if he didn't weigh a thing. The girls sprang to their feet and sprinted after the Doctor, who, with little more than a "Be right back," over his shoulder to the perplexed Matron, was out the door in seconds.
In their hurry to leave, Martha smacked into an equally confused Jenny who, sure enough, sloshed half her bucket of water onto the floor, rags falling neatly on top.
With a quick Sorry!, Martha continued to keep pace with the Doctor as Orla fell behind, unused to the speed life went with this particular alien.
And so, Martha's pestering began.
"Doctor," she hissed in a way that rather implied the word idiot than his name. "What are you doing here?"
"Had to help Ian out, didn't I?" He replied cheerily.
"But you're obviously from the future! You can't just go crossing back on your timeline like that, can you?" Martha was suddenly unsure. None of her previous adventures had consisted of double-crossing timelines, if you excluded their multiple trips to the moon landing. But even then, they'd been careful to avoid their past selves. No, Martha was certain this was dangerous stuff. Nevermind Timelord authority.
"Well," he said with his usual cheekiness. "It's not technically my timeline. It's John Smith's."
As if that explained anything.
"Anyway, it's not a hard and fast rule," he continued. "And I'm the top authority on knowing when those need to be broken. I'm very clever."
Martha could just about strangle him, though she resolved to block his path as Orla caught up. "But where are you taking him!" She demanded.
He side-stepped her with ease. Those stupid long legs.
"TARDIS. If I can get him hooked up to an antibiotic infusion fairly soon, his condition will be entirely reversible. Past that…I can't risk another trip back."
That confirms it, Martha thought. The bloody idiot shouldn't be here in the first place. But what possibly compelled him to do it anyway? Something important, to be sure, but what?
And Orla, who, hardly able to keep up either physically or conversationally, attempted in her own way to catalog some of the many, many questions Martha would be answering once this was all over.
So far, her compilation went as follows: Antibiotics? TARDIS? Future? Timelines?
And perhaps most importantly, IAN?
It was with that last thought that the trio found themselves rounding on what Orla knew to be Mr. Smith's classroom. Skirting past, she could just make out a familiar London accent and something about the Battle of Hastings. But how could that be if…?
Ducking in briefly, Orla spotted Mr. Smith presenting to an audience of two—the kind of students who actually bothered to attend his review sessions—with his hair perfectly combed, his shoes perfectly leather, and his suit not sweeping nor heroic in the slightest.
Add Two Mr. Smith's?, to the list.
There'd be more question marks if Orla's real priority weren't now leagues ahead of her and hardly capable of screaming for help in the arms of who was decidedly not Mr. Smith. But Martha was there. And Orla trusted Martha. No time for questions. She had to make a decision and fast.
Orla followed them.
And Mr. Smith, catching sight of twin braids flying out his door, made to wave wordlessly at the pleasant maid who he knew to tidy up his classroom and occasionally deliver messages from colleagues. She didn't stop in, however, nor did she catch the greeting, back having already turned. Nor did she catch his bemused smile as the teacher, trying very very hard to focus on the Duke of Normandy, couldn't help but wonder: Who's that man darting through the hall with Orla?
With an amused shake of his head, Mr. Smith retrieved his glasses from his nose, cleaned them off with a sleeve, before returning them with a satisfied sigh. Much better. "As I was saying, the battle took place over the course of one day…"
Orla caught up with Martha and not-Mr-Smith as they'd begun loading Ian into a carriage just outside the Farringham gates. An impatient driver, with the eyebrows to match, was hurrying them along, only growing more pestilent at the arrival of a fourth person.
Martha, too, was unsure of the newcomer. "Orla," she hesitated. But it was for the best, wasn't it? Fix Ian up, drop him back off, return to normal? Orla didn't need to know. Martha could hatch some type of explanation later. One that required a few good nights of sleep, and an actual breakfast, and maybe some comfy clothes, and oh God a real shower!
Okay. Fine. Maybe Martha wanted a little reprieve from 1913. But that didn't mean Orla would benefit from the same.
"Orla," she tried again, gentler. "You should stay."
"Like hell I'm gunna let a faerie haul off my brother without me keepin' an eye on 'im," Orla harrumphed with all the indignation of someone resolved to do exactly as she pleased, so it was no surprise when she attached herself to the carriage.
Martha groaned, having forgotten this fairy business in all the excitement. Not that she should think of Ian's illness as exciting…but in a way, it was. The adrenaline of it all, though, was beginning to fade as the reality of their predicament now settled over Martha. She glanced at the Doctor, wondering what they should do, but his stony eyes held no answers.
But he also didn't stop Orla when she hauled herself aboard with a fire in her eyes. In moments, Ian was in her lap being cooed over as if he were an actual baby brother and not a gangly 14-year-old boy.
The Doctor's lack of protest seemed to suggest Orla's presence wasn't unwelcome, so Martha resolved to hold on tight as the driver flicked his whip and the horses took off.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of hooves as they clomped over the damp earth. Well, that, and Orla's sniffles, but even those were beginning to peter off as her fierce desire to protect overtook that to grieve with the reemergence of hope. Or at least, she hoped that's what Martha had in store for her. Even if she was a bit suspicious of the savior meant to deliver it.
And Martha, whose curiosity had been anything but quenched, resumed her interrogation with a new shot of fear.
"Doctor?"
"Hm?" His head swiveled to meet her eyes. They were glassy, and that worried him. "Are you alright there Martha?" His arm fell protectively over her shoulders, drawing her in.
She detached herself to watch his face carefully. The Doctor lied, yes, but Martha had a better chance of telling from his face, though the comfort was immediately missed.
"No, yes, it's just—" her furtive gaze surveyed the empty land and boundless trees before returning to his warm brown eyes, furrowed in concern. "Are you safe, Doctor? From the Family?" She whispered the last part, anxious her words would draw them in like moths to the flame. As if the Doctor didn't shine brightly enough on his own.
His lips stretched into one of those too big smiles of his. "Ah, 'course I am! Good old Martha Jones, always with the questions. Nah, I've got a bio damper on," he wiggled his fingers. And sure enough, there was a gold band on full display. "Mind you, it won't trick their noses for long, but it's something. The TARDIS will help with disguising my biochemical print, but it's not foolproof, so only as long as it takes to treat Ian."
The relief was immediate, and without meaning, Martha's hand found the Doctor's. All the same, he squeezed a little extra reassurance into her now calloused fingers, and she was grateful.
And now that she knew the Doctor would be okay after all, Martha couldn't help but wonder about her own situation. The Ian fiasco was a welcome reprieve, as awful as that sounded. Seeing the Doctor again was something akin to a shot of espresso, and the withdrawal…god it was going to be so much worse this time. Knowing exactly what Martha would be going back to.
She had no right to be as disheartened as she was, but another month? She had to confirm. Just in case the Doctor's intrusion meant maybe, maybe things had changed.
"So the plan is to fix up Ian then we're back to Where's Wally, yeah?" She asked, silently begging that it wouldn't be the case.
But of course, that would be too much to ask.
"Back to Where's Wally," the Doctor confirmed with a bitter grin.
Orla straightened in her seat suddenly, the task made harder by the unconscious boy wrapped up in her arms, though she managed. "Is that yer name, then? Dr. Walter, is it? Not Mr. Smith?" She accused somewhat triumphantly.
The Doctor met Martha's eyes with a sparkle of amusement. Walter? He mouthed.
Where's Wally? Martha mouthed back, suddenly imagining the Doctor in red and white stripes. It wasn't an awful image.
His mouth made the perfect "O" before snapping shut in what most certainly was not an attempt at disguising a giggle.
"No, pardon me, I can't imagine how confusing this whole thing has been. And I suppose introductions are in order," he said, offering up his hand for a shake. Orla ignored it, and sobering into that more earnest version of himself that Martha was always so fond of, the Doctor tried again. Gentler. "I'm the Doctor. Just the Doctor. And I'm here to help Ian."
Not appreciating the change in subject in the least, especially to one that more than plucked at her heart strings, Orla returned her skepticism in full. "Well certainly that can't be yer real name. Ye're hiding it."
"Oh?" He entertained the notion, though on any other occasion he'd be defending the fact that Doctor was his real name. "Why would I do that?"
"Names have power," she said plainly. And not for a moment breaking from his gaze, "That's old magic."
The Doctor leaned back against the carriage, pleased. "Right you are. Right you are."
And Martha was struck by a peculiar feeling of deja vu. Hadn't the Doctor said something similar when they'd met Shakespeare? But somewhat afraid that Orla's wisdom would turn into another fairy tirade, Martha took what small mercies she was afforded from the following silence, praying only that the horses would hurry it up.
In moments, they were rounding on the hill where TARDIS, a sight that could bring Martha to tears, stood proudly on the crest. Martha had to stop herself from launching out of the carriage, instead, offering to stay behind with Orla for a moment.
The Doctor seemed to understand. And without another word, faster than Orla could react, pried Ian from the girl's grasp before bolting to what Martha was sure was the TARDIS's Medbay.
Martha offered Orla a hand as the two sprung from the carriage. The horses took off seconds later, leaving the two girls to ascend the hill in the Doctor's wake, stopping only when Martha could make out the words "PULL TO OPEN" on the box's front face.
"An' what on God's green earth could possibly be in there that could help my brother?" Orla snapped.
"It's—um…" There was really no preparing her for this, was there? Martha sighed, taking the girl's hand in her own.
"Come on, love. Let's go have a look."
And she pushed the door open.
So this is around the point in writing a multi-chapter fic where I become desperately self-conscious of everything I've already written. Knowing that if I start editing now there'll be no hope of me writing anything new again, I've decided to keep chugging! And though I told myself I'd make spring break my bitch, at least I finally finished this chapter after it'd been sitting in my docs half-written for like a month. Anyway, hope to update soon, and thank you all for your continued support. I have a plan for this story and I plan on sticking it out!