Have I reread this chapter in full? Nahhhh. Did I procrastinate writing two essays by doing this instead? Oh yeah

A week. They'd been in the TARDIS a whole week and Ian was finally starting to look better. Skin clear, temperature down, heart rate steady. When Orla finished up with his vitals on that seventh day, she knew it was likely the last. The thought made her smile.

She slipped into the little Medbay cot next to her brother, fingers pausing in his hair as she realized there was no point in pushing the fringe out of his eyes when it was almost down to his chin. When was the last time he'd had a haircut? She'd been thinking about taking him down to the barber's…why, that was well over a month ago!

With a devious smile, Orla searched the Medbay. There had to be scissors in there somewhere. She opened and closed a few cabinets, stumbling upon a wealth of cotton swabs and bandages but no scissors. Turning to search a cabinet she'd already gone through with a slope of defeat to her shoulders, she saw them.

Scissors. Just out in the open, laying on one of the medical sink counters like it'd been there all along. Orla shot a grin at the ceiling before bounding towards her treasure.

"Cutting shears, too! Cheeky girl!" With a satisfied pat to the counter, Orla returned to her brother.

Gathering a good stack of pillows from the other cots, Orla began stuffing them behind her brother. Now that he was well and propped up (even if he was sitting with the posture of a sack of potatoes), she grabbed a bed sheet and tied it around his neck for easy clean up later.

Satisfied, she started in.

Usually, he'd be a lot squirmier. Ian made a good client unconscious.

Orla took her time, extending each strand, measuring with her fingers, eyeballing where it would all fall. Without a razor, she'd just have to crop it enough to stay out of his eyes while leaving some overall length. If it came out terrible…well…it couldn't be worse than the bowl cut he'd ended up with on occasion. Poor boy.

She talked as she worked.

"Once upon a time," she began as she always did. "There was a wee boy named Ian. Now, Ian wanted nothing more than to meet the fairies, to see Neverland." Orla paused to concentrate on snipping closer to his ears. "But his big sister never did. He was braver than her, because she feared them—the faeries. But despite all her precautions, it was a faerie she'd be needing."

"One day, Ian ate a bit of faerie fruit and fell into a deep deep sleep. His sister, who loved him very much, was determined to find the faerie who did this to him and lift the curse."

"As each day wasted away, her suspicions grew for one man in particular. But the curse was moving faster, and it wasn't just sleep that wee Ian faced, but death. His sister feared the worst."

Orla had to pause her snipping to run a sleeve under her nose. God usually Ian was the one to cry during her stories. A glance at his face revealed nothing. Orla wondered who she was really telling this for.

"But then, the faerie came," Orla smiled meekly. "And he wasn't at all what the sister had imagined. This man…he didn't come from Neverland, but the stars. And the sister was scared. Very scared. But she went with him because she knew it was the only way to save her brother."

Ian's hair was starting to take shape. A little longer on the top and shorter towards the nape. She kept enough length so Ian could gel it back if he liked. The best part? It didn't fall in his eyes anymore.

Not closed ones either. Slightly foggy, unfocused, yes, but open, and very very green.

Orla felt her heart in her throat. "Ye keepin' up?" She nudged his shoulder and his back straightened just a little as he rubbed at an eye.

"Mhmmm…"

"Good," she smiled, tears blooming on her lashes. "What do ye think happened next?"

"The faerie brought Ian to the stars," he slurred through the words. But he was talking.

He was talking!

"Filled 'im up with…stardust...Fixed 'im right up." Ian's smile twitched into a frown as a realization hit him. "Does this mean I'm goin' back to school?"

Orla dropped the scissors with a clatter and launched herself towards him. His newly cut hair was quickly wet with tears and she rocked her brother in a ball of limbs and chatter and coos. "Yes!" She laughed through the tears. "Yes, ye're goin' back to school. The sooner the better. Ye've got a lot of catchin' up to do," she teased, and Ian let out a groan of genuine pain.

"Oop," she pulled back, sheepish. "Light hugs. Okay. But that won't stop me from…" she shoved her splayed finger into his shortened hair and mussed it with giggly fervor.

He attempted to slap her hand away. It was as pitiful as a kitten swat. "Now ye're jus' takin' advantage!"

And they laughed.

Martha and the Doctor stood in the doorway with bittersweet smiles. They'd received alerts from the TARDIS monitor that Ian's heart rate had risen above resting and went to investigate. Mystery solved.

Going unnoticed in the midst of reunion, Martha tilted her head up to meet the Doctor's eyes. "Does this mean it's time to go back?"

She dreaded the way he seemed to deflate.

"Yeah, yeah it is," he replied, swinging an arm over her shoulders and turning them bodily around, away from the Medbay scene. He didn't walk with his usual cheer, and when he spoke, it was with all the weight of the Oncoming Storm.

"Time for goodbyes."

"Story understood?" The Doctor asked, framed by the TARDIS doors.

"Understood," Martha and Orla said in unison. And though Ian was already loaded up in the carriage and slightly loopy, his eager thumbs up could be seen even from a distance.

"Last thing," the Doctor said, twisting off the silver ring from his finger and presenting it to the two of them. "Martha," he took her hand and placed the ring in its center before closing her fingers around it. "Keep it safe for me? I'll be needing it."

Martha nodded, fist tight around the metal.

The Doctor pulled his companion into a tight hug. "Martha Jones! My star!" He beamed. And as he pulled away, the Doctor's face melted into concern. He let her go with a squeeze to the shoulders. "Are you going to be okay?"

Martha returned a weak smile. "Okay is relative. But yeah," she glanced at Orla before linking their hands. Orla gave her a squeeze, too. "I think I'll be okay."

"Good. That's good…I'll miss you."

Martha barked out a laugh. "Miss me? You're going back to me now, silly. Future me."

He gave her one last squeeze before turning to Orla. "One more month and we'll be out of your hair."

"Thank you," Orla said, because it needed saying. She was ignoring the Martha being gone in a month part. "You didn't have to come, and you did. Thank you."

The Doctor shifted on his feet, hands in pockets. "But I did. Have to."

And before she could object, he pulled her into a hug too. "I'm sorry," he whispered and she could feel his breath on her nape. What he had to be sorry for, Orla hadn't a clue. "And thank you. For everything."

Again, before Orla could process, the Doctor had already extracted himself. With a single glance at both her and Martha, he stepped out of the TARDIS and left them with a solemn salute.

"Doctor!" Martha shouted. "This is your TARDIS. What are you—oh whatever." Martha groaned as he grew smaller and smaller in the distance on those long legs. "God knows what he's up to. You ready?"

Orla nodded with a smile. "More than."

Trodding towards the carriage—towards Ian, Orla thought—Martha extracted the Doctor's ring from her finger. "Almost forgot, d'you mind keeping an eye on this for me?"

Orla startled as Martha plopped the ring into her hand. "Whatever for? Isn't it better with ye?"

"Not really," she shrugged. "I don't want to risk John Smith seeing it on me and triggering a memory. Anyway, you already wear a ring. I doubt anyone would notice if you swapped it out for another."

Orla did wear a ring. Her iron one. The one she got to fend off fairies. What a twist of irony—to reject her faerie protection to protect the faerie. It was certainly…symbolic.

She blew out a breath before twisting off her iron. Bringing the band up to her lips for one last kiss, Orla flung the old ring far off and into the grass, likely never to be seen again. Martha looked at her, a question painted on her face. "Won' be needin' it anymore," Orla said in explanation. Sliding the new ring onto her bare finger, Orla felt the weight it carried.

She wasn't just agreeing to protect the ring, but to protect him. The Doctor. No longer opponents, but allies. They were on the same team now, and the Family was now enemy number one.

Oh, how things had changed.

Upon return to the school, Nurse Redford met them at the gates.

"How?" Was all she'd really been able to get out, bent over knees and panting for breath. As it turns out, she'd sprinted down upon spotting them through the infirmary window (,the poor boy she'd been attending to, Joshua, left to choke on his own bloody nose. Ian would bully him later for not knowing to lean forward and not back.)

It would be very important to stick to the story now.

The Doctor, prior to goodbyes, had landed the TARDIS precisely 1 minute after their departure from Farringham with a fevered Ian. To avoid any confusion with the real John Smith, the Doctor had intercepted the Matron before she could march down to the teacher's classroom and informed her that Orla and Martha were in the village with Ian and getting the best doctors money could buy to treat him. The Doctor apologized for his intrusion and asked that they be given privacy at this time. And, feeling poorly for having been able to help Ian herself, Matron excused the girls and Ian from their school duties until their return, covering for them with the Headmaster the interim.

One time jump later and Martha, Orla, and Ian were returned to Farringham precisely a week after their supposed village doctoring.

"The very best doctors," Martha assured her. "Nothing you could've done. They had some medicine from abroad. Orla's inheritance took quite the hit, but as long as Ian's better…" she continued, and Nurse Redford shot a glance at Orla's new and expensive blue dress.

Orla had of course taken it out of the TARDIS, not her nonexistent inheritance. Though, Orla supposed, an inheritance was as good as anything to explain her newly bespoke attire. Her undergarments were new, too (and a modern polyester blend), but that particular fact would likely remain a secret to all but her.

Following their convoluted explanation of events, Ian broke out his best puppy eyes and the two girls their very brightest smiles. With a look between the three, the stern set of Nurse Redford's lips turned up into a smile all her own.

"Good to see you up and walking again, Mr. MacKenzie. Now, Martha?"

"Yes?" she answered, surprised to be acknowledged.

"I've inquired with the Headmaster. You'll be taking up a new position in the nursing wing. I expect you'll be able to keep up?"

"Of course!" Martha beamed. Orla gave a proud pat on the back before coughing out something that sounded a bit like Itold ye so with a smug smile.

"Orla," the Matron turned her gaze on the girl, eyes softening. "Mr. Smith negotiated an extra week off for you if you'll be needing it?"

"Nae, I'll be alright," she answered firmly. "I could use the work. What with my…inheritance being...depleted."

Matron accepted this with a shrug.

"And Ian," she said last. "You've got a pile of school work on your dormitory desk. I recommend you get started."

Ian let out an ill-mannered groan.

"Come on kid," Orla's arm swung around Ian, pulling him into an amicable choke hold before he could say anything ruder and spoil their generous welcome back. Anyway, it was good to see some emotion on his face, even if it was a scowl. "I'll help ye with the algebra."

Farringham was…good. Normal.

With one less maid on the staff, Orla had to take on quite a bit more of Martha's workload. In all honesty, it was a good thing. Orla got to throw herself into her work, Martha got to continue doctoring without the cover of secrecy. It was a win win.

From what her friend reported back to her in their shared attic room each night, Orla knew Martha would be well on her way to replaying the Matron as Head Nurse if she stayed.

God what Orla would give to see the look on Redford's face. But that was okay, because back in Martha's time, she was well on her way to becoming a doctor. The thought made Orla smugger than perhaps strictly necessary, but she was proud of her friend, to say the least.

So Martha had her nursing, and Orla had her work. All was well.

Except when Orla wasn't working, all she could think about was what they would do when the Family came at the end of the month, as the Doctor had warned them they would. How she would say goodbye to Martha when the time came. How to act around John Smith in the meantime.

For the moment, her strategy revolved around steadily avoiding him. It was growing to be difficult, now that it was Orla's duty to bring him his breakfast on school days in Martha's absence.

And cleaning his classroom, of course.

It was a Friday when Orla went in to clean it last. It was like the other times, except for the fact Mr. John Smith was sleeping at his desk, head sound in a pile of worksheets, when she walked in.

Orla swept and mopped and dusted in relative silence, very careful to carry her supplies in a manner that would avoid rattling above a certain decibel. Perhaps she should've just woken him to begin with. But she didn't want to deal with the awkward conversation that would follow, as she almost certainly would be too busy trying to figure out where Mr. Smith began and where the Doctor ended.

Thirty minutes later, Orla had finally finished. Collecting all of her materials, and almost out the door, a broom just had to fall from the crook of her elbow.

Why are things always louder when you really need them not to be?

"Up! Sorry Sorry Sorry," Mr. Smith exclaimed, paperwork flying at all angles as he stood. He watched as they fluttered to the floor with a sheepish grin, eyes turning on Orla. "Sorry," he said again, moving to the front of the desk and getting to his knees to gather his mess. "I've got it."

Orla stared. She really really didn't mean to. It was just…weird.

John Smith, she reminded herself. This was John Smith. Checklist: Button down, yes. Leather dress shoes, yup. Glasses perched on the end of his nose, mhm. It was him! And yet, his hair—mussed up from the kip reflected the perfect image of the Doctor.

Deja vu much?

Standing at the door and feeling very, very awkward, Orla couldn't help but ask. "How come ye're sleepin' in 'ere?"

Mr. Smith sighed, returning to his desk with the papers and a foggy expression. "Haven't been getting much sleep as of late," he said, scrubbing a hand down his face. The action sent his glasses flying, but the teacher either didn't notice or didn't mind. Orla suspected it was the first.

Curious. "How come?"

"Ahhh, nothing, really. It's just—I've been having the strangest dreams. This mad man and a blue box. A sort of daredevil. Except," he glanced at Orla with another one of those sheepish grins. He seemed full of them today. "He looks just like me." Shaking his head, Mr. Smith continued: "Absurd, I know. Anyway, I'm sure you've got better things to get to. I won't waste your time with the details."

Shit. That sounded an awful lot like the Doctor, did it not? And if he was dreaming of the Doctor, were they really dreams or…memories?

Damn awkward, Orla needed to get the details and report back to Martha. It could be fine. Or, on the other hand, this could be very very bad. Alien memories in a human body? What kind of psychosis could that induce? Or would the Doctor have to switch back early and blow his cover?

She couldn't risk that.

Orla glanced at John Smith again. He'd moved on to shuffling through his paperwork, having expected Orla to leave with a curtsy and move on. She supposed he had sort of dismissed her. But there were more important things at stake than manners.

Instead, she shuffled to one of the student's desks—the one directly across from Mr. Smiths—and plunked down.

Orla went to bite at her nails in consideration when a flash of silver caught her eye.

Ugh, the damn ring. It was mocking her. Yes, she had pledged to help the Doctor, but did that really extend to John Smith?

She would ask for details, but subtly. A secret agent. Orla liked the sound of that! She would be helpful enough to repay the Doctor for his help with Ian. She owed him, Orla resolved. Right?

Her eyes slid to the teacher.

John Smith looked rough, and somehow, still, had yet to notice her presence. God, his under eyes looked bruised with the lack of sleep. And were his hands trembling?

He just looked so…human, eyelids fluttering in their fight against sleep.

"I know a good tea for sleep," Orla offered before she could stop herself.

Blinking through some sort of haze, he fought to register what Orla had just said. After a moment, Mr. Smith grinned. "That would be good, wouldn't it?"

Orla nodded, hopping from the desk to take a tentative step forward. "Works wonders. Lavender and valerian root," she said. She was really doing this, wasn't she? Damn his humanity. "I could bring it up to your room before bedtime?"

Mr. Smith positively beamed. "Oh, that would be just lovely, Orla! Thank you," he effused, gratitude clear to see. "Really. I appreciate it."

Orla grew flustered by his acknowledgement and gathered her supplies quickly as she made for the door. "I'll bring it by at 10?"

"Yes, thank you," he nodded and Orla ducked away with a strange feeling in her stomach.

It was 9:50 and Orla was in the kitchen. The kettle screamed from the stove and Orla wondered if she could do the same.

She was fine. This was fine! She would hand him the sleep draught. He would say thank you. She would say you're welcome and he'd…what? Divulge all his deepest desires and dreams without prompting?

Perhaps she could ask in the morning, when she brought his breakfast? She'd say it casually and he would tell her out of gratitude for her oh so wonderful medicinal prowess.

Yes, okay, perfect! Orla sighed at her game plan. Nothing to worry about after all...

She poured the steaming water into a teapot, setting a few teacups with the various ingredients onto a tray in case Mr. Smith needed more than just the one cuppa. From the looks of him, he'd be needing a bit more than the average insomniac.

With one last sigh, she took up the tray and made her way to the teacher's wing. The path was familiar as she made it every Sunday morning, and now, all the weekdays too, for Mr. Smith. She passed the first door on swift feet, Headmaster Rocastle's, before heading further down the wing and into the left corridor.

Orla took a breath of confidence before raising her hand. She could feel the ring biting into her fist as she knocked.

The door flew open in a few short seconds.

Orla gulped.

Mr. Smith was in his dressing gown. Barefoot, bedhead, trousers, normal, yes. Except he wasn't wearing a shirt.

Had she interrupted his bedtime dressing?

She couldn't tell if this was better or worse than if she'd allowed him to finish. Nightshirts didn't typically come with bottoms.

The teacups rattled on their tray. Orla attempted to steel her hands.

"Ah, Orla! I'd almost forgotten—apologies. Haven't been myself," he shook his head in good humor. Little does he know, Orla thought.

The teacher beamed before stepping away from the doorframe. "Why don't you come in? If you could just put the tray at my usual table…" he motioned inside and Orla gave him a curt nod before entering.

Resting the tray on his coffee table, she made to leave with a curtsy and haste.

"Oh," Mr. Smith exclaimed, fidgeting in the permeating silence. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands when he said, "I thought you might like to join me?"

Orla stilled with her hand on the doorknob. What was it with this man and inviting her to tea?

"I wouldn't mind the company," he continued, fingers resolving to tug at an earlobe. And then, as if struck by sense (perhaps the dressing gown was feeling airier than usual?), lunged towards a chair to scoop up his dress shirt with a flush that flamed towards his ears. She relaxed with each completed button. Orla suspected she'd acquired some nerves around shirtless men, but that was an issue for another time.

"You've brought so many cups!" He persisted after finishing. "And you've done me favor. Let me thank you. It's only fair."

"Really, t'was no imposition," Orla mumbled, unsure of how to proceed. Why was he being so insistent? "An the cups are there for you. I'd calculated from yer height, weight, an' eyebags that ye'd be needing at least the three."

Mr. Smith suppressed a grin. "I can reuse the one cup," he said, motioning to the sofa chair across from him as he plunked down himself. "One cuppa. What do you say?"

Orla sighed. She could ask John Smith about his dreams while delivering his breakfast tomorrow morning—a whole 2 minutes of interaction before she was obliged to bustle off to her next duties…or she could stay. Ask now. He'll be all sleepied up on tea, and perhaps more forthcoming with that information. It wasn't all that bad an offer upon further consideration.

So she took a seat and they both smiled for different reasons.

"Brilliant!" he gushed, pouring the teapot triumphantly. His hands no longer trembled. "How do you take yours?"

Thank you to everyone who's stuck around! 10 chapters! Hell yeah. I feel like I'm somehow getting worse at writing but we're still chugging, eh?

Until next time :)