Notes: Sorry this chapter has taken so long! I was Internet-less for a few days and I really wasn't happy with this chapter so have edited it quite a few times. Unfortunately, Martha and The Doctor are still in different places but I promise there's a reunion planned for either the next chapter or the one after that. Thank you for reading and reviewing. I hope this chapter isn't a let down!

Chapter Six:

"Home sweet home," Martha sighed after the cage-door slammed shut behind her. She returned to the exact same place she had been sitting just a few days earlier and it was like slipping into a pair of comfy shoes. Well, perhaps not entirely comfortable but at least she was used to this place. She settled down, taking care to watch where she was placing her hands and resigned herself to a night or two of solitude. At least, that was what she thought…

"Still determined to make your stay here even harder I see," something stirred in the shadows. Martha immediately followed the voice, crawling across the floor to the opposite side of the brig. There, propped up on a slightly raised piece of flooring and with his back to the wall, was the starfish man who had been thrown back into the brig just before The Doctor had departed. "Ah, so this is Bootstrap…" Martha observed.

"I don't see how not getting flogged makes things harder," said Martha, rolling her eyes. Bootstrap's eyelids fluttered open but he kept his head down. He was drumming his fingers against his knees as though Martha's presence hadn't really registered, he may as well have been talking to himself. Silence engulfed the brig and Martha crawled back a couple of paces to rest against some free wall space. She crossed her arms over her chest and huffed.

"Keep exhaling like that and you'll blow us off course," Bootstrap sighed sarcastically. Martha shifted, using her legs to support her and leaning to her left so that she could see her cellmate. This time, he lifted his head and slowly turned it towards her, finally acknowledging Martha's presence with his eyes. "No need to stare, you'll start looking like this soon enough,"

"I won't!" snapped Martha, dropping her gaze.

"Have you touched your hair lately?" Bootstrap paused as Martha tentatively raised one hand but did not let it come into contact with her head "you're already on your way, go on…touch it," Martha hovered her fingers over the middle of her head, lowering them to her parting and visibly shaking. Since her hair had become untameable, it had set into a centre parting, creating an untidy fringe that swept across her forehead. Martha touched this first and discovered that it still felt like normal hair, albeit a bit matted with damp. Her hand fluttered back up to her parting and she pressed her fingers down in the middle of her head, she touched something thick and flat with a slippery texture and let out a quietened gasp. Trembling more violently, she pinched the alien object between finger and thumb, pulling it away from the main body of hair so that she could look at it. She felt sick, attached to her head was a very long and very green piece of seaweed. She tried to pull it out but the only thing that achieved was pain. She had looked in a mirror just this morning and her hair had been normal, to discover this now added to her growing list of woes.

"No…" she whispered, continuing to pull at the root.

"Happens quickly, doesn't it?" asked Bootstrap "you're fine and then suddenly…you get a piece of seaweed in your hair. Next thing you know, you have a starfish on your face…oh stop doing that, it won't come out,"

"Can I stop this?" Martha fixed her eyes on Bootstrap, pleading for a positive answer. He sighed again, this time more piteously.

"No," he dropped his head back to its original position "as I told my son, there's no escaping the Dutchman, not until your sentence has passed,"

"Son?"

"Word of advice…" Bootstrap dodged the question "your stay will pass a lot more pleasantly if the captain is on your side…" he looked at Martha with an awkward smile, one that suggested he was not simply advising her but telling her.

"Well, that ain't going to happen, he obviously hates women," Martha replied.

"Then you're going to have to give him reason not to hate you!" snapped Bootstrap.

"You're kidding? Somethin' tells me he passed the class on Deceitful Women with flying colours! It just ain't going to happen!" Martha pouted and re-crossed her arms.

"Yeah, the sort of woman she was will do that to you," said Bootstrap, closing his eyes "suit yourself then," he didn't speak again after that and Martha concluded that he was probably asleep. She couldn't achieve the same result; she was too tense and kept her eyes fixed on the entrance to the brig, waiting for her punishment to arrive.

"The captain wishes to see you…" with those words, Hadras had brought the punishment to Martha a lot sooner than she had been anticipating.

The Doctor had taken up permanent residence on the bridge deck, staring out to sea. Occasionally he'd spot a bird and try to name its species, feeling tormented on those rare occasions when he realised he could not. It meant admitting that he didn't know everything. Soon, he found himself in a trance and the material world about him melted away into an endless stretch of blue sky. He was lost in his thoughts, and those too emphasised his loneliness. Since Martha had been taken away from him, he had regressed back to thinking purely in his native tongue. Of course, he was still in the presence of those who used English but he wanted to converse with them as little as possible, and even thinking in English became too much of a chore. It was a harsh reminder that he was the last, and given the current circumstances it worried him that he would waste the rest of his lives making poorly thought-out deals with selfish seafarers.

His thoughts splintered, shot to pieces by an incomprehensible explosion of a disparate group of voices. It sounded like there was a commotion brewing on the main deck, and The Doctor actually grinned from ear to ear. "Finally, some excitement" Without caring to investigate from the higher ground first, he leapt over to the staircase and flew down with such speed that he had to hold his silly wig down with one hand. His hearts sank a little when he saw that Jack Sparrow had returned but even more curious was that nobody was restraining him, instead they were concentrating all their efforts in holding a small but definitely feisty woman. Jack on the other hand was trying to force his way through the circle of midshipmen, finding himself barred by their shoulders and choosing to gesticulate wildly as he made his case. Most of the woman's bile was apparently directed at Sparrow. The Doctor moved closer, tired of being unable to understand what the fuss was about and hoping that Sparrow was feeling more articulate.

"Sorry luv, but I promise, I'm already thinking of a way in which to get you out of this mess," Sparrow was still slurring words, but thank goodness for small mercies, he was using shorter sentences.

"You won't be gettin' me oot of dis Jack Sparrow!" the woman spat, trying to tear away from her captors and lunging towards Sparrow, whose face gave an uncomfortable twitch as he stepped back one pace. "After all that I be doin' for you, brought you back from de locker…"

"Ah, can you believe it Mercer? He actually came back!" Beckett's interruption stilled the air somewhat, but this new woman continued to glare daggers at Sparrow, who had tiptoed over to The Doctor, using him as a human shield. Nobody had even seen Beckett arrive, they had been so occupied with trying to restrain the woman and ignore Sparrow, the latter being achieved with little success. The Doctor turned to greet Beckett with a nod, and Sparrow's head humorously popped up from behind one of The Doctor's shoulders.

"Gentlemen," said Sparrow, The Doctor sighed and reached behind, pulling Sparrow by the shirt and shoving him to the front. Such action made The Doctor feel assimilated; he had been on this ship far too long and was beginning to exhibit brutish tendencies. Although, he had to confess that Sparrow needed to be pushed around a bit, there was barely enough room for two egos on the Endeavour, a third was ridiculous. "Thanks mate," Sparrow added sarcastically "as promised, Tia Dalma" he flattened out his hand, exposing his palm and gestured towards the woman. She curled her mouth into a snarl but had given up struggling.

"For a goddess, you're quite disappointing," Beckett sneered. Tia Dalma hissed at him but he was not deterred, he stepped towards her, confident that the men surrounding her protected him. "Then again, you are human,"

"Lord Beckett…" The Doctor piped up, "I don't think teasing her would be a good idea," he said, stammering.

"Teasin' being de only power him have," Tia lurched forward again and managed to free one hand, reaching far enough forward to lightly cup The Doctor's chin "Docta…" The Doctor shuddered under her touch, but fortunately one of the men grasped her wrist and forced her hand back behind her. Still, the look in her eyes remained one of amused playfulness.

"How do you know my name?"

"She does that," said Sparrow, who was now being watched very closely by Mercer.

"Are you still here?" sighed Beckett.

"I don't recall anyone ever tellin' me to leave. Else I would've left by now," replied Sparrow, eyes nervously shifting from man to man. "Though this negates the fact that I am a pirate, and we have already established that I am a man whom you do not trust. So me waitin' to be told to leave could be just a rouse, when really I'm planning an over-elaborate escape and you be left cursing your negligence, savvy?"

"Oh don't start that again…" The Doctor groaned. Beckett stepped up to Sparrow, his shoulders held high to compensate for the height difference and he flashed a patronising smile.

"I don't think you've done enough to prevent a killing," said Beckett and Sparrow arched his body backwards "your friends, lead us to them!"

"Mate, I already got you Calypso, can you not grant me the pleasure of a day off?"

"You can have a permanent day off," Mercer growled sinisterly. Jack instantly backed down, his hands dangling loosely at his sides in defeat.

"Alright, I lead, you follow and nobody even thinks about rearranging our pre-arranged previous agreement," Sparrow slurred, he paused and wiped his right hand under his nose "though at present I have absolutely no idea where we're goin', probably callin' in the troops," he smiled and offered his hand to Beckett, who wrinkled his nose. Behind his back, The Doctor was smirking.

"There's no need for that," said Beckett. "Just go!" Sparrow performed a mock bow and climbed back into his longboat, readying himself to be lowered into the sea by Beckett's men. Beckett let out a frustrated sigh and turned towards the stern, addressing the crew in general "send the sea goddess to the brig and then summon the Dutchman immediately," he commanded. The Doctor grabbed Beckett's shoulder, forcing him to turn again.

"Wait, you can do that?" The Doctor was genuinely confused. Beckett's mouth smugly curled.

"You didn't honestly believe that I truly did not have the means to track that ship without your help?" Beckett asked in amused tones.

"You said you needed me, and if you're not actually chasing something that makes me a prisoner," The Doctor hissed, visibly annoyed.

"Oh come now Doctor, you're not a prisoner. Calypso is a prisoner, look at her…" he motioned towards Tia Dalma, who was being pulled along by ropes and dragged below deck "she's bound and on her way to the brig, a stark contrast to how we treated you. Besides, I still need you,"

"I don't understand"

"Jones has already been here several times," said Beckett with another smile, The Doctor felt wounded and it was reflected by a flash of misery in his eyes "I'm sorry Doctor, I couldn't tell you, lest you become influenced by your own emotional interest in that ship, still, now Jones believes you to be a loyal to the East India Company, you've just acquired a new use as mediator,"

"Why do I not like where this is going?" The Doctor sighed.

"I want you to go aboard the Dutchman and deliver several precise instructions…"

Of all the humiliating tasks Martha had anticipated, this was perhaps the worst. She had been given an object the size of a toothbrush and instructed to clean the pipe organ in the main cabin until it was "gleaming as though new". The organ was so old and covered in sea life that it was virtually impossible to achieve any sort of gleam, especially considering that several bristles were missing from the head of the brush. There was also the matter of the brush being so small that she was only able to work on a square inch of surface at any one time. Martha sighed as she attacked the area around the topmost keyboard, she imagined that it would take several weeks to finish the entire instrument and her wrist was already hurting. She had to scrub lightly for her injury sustained from her fall a few nights ago was still troubling her. Gleaming as though new was definitely not going to happen any time soon.

In spite of its age, the pipe organ was impressive and the sheer number of keys fascinated Martha. The white keys were stained yellow, presumably caused by years of being underwater whereas any water damage was less obvious on the black keys. Some keys were covered in a thin crust of barnacles, which had been worn away by continuous play. Martha had no idea how she would clean these keys without disturbing the eerie silence in this room and so for now she occupied herself with scrubbing the ornate decorations surrounding the main keyboards. She gritted her teeth and pushed the brush against a dulled gold surface, growling as one stubborn stain refused to budge. Annoyed, she slumped onto the bench behind her and hurled the brush in the general direction of the organ. It ricocheted a couple of times before landing with a light and hollow thud. Immediately afterwards, the air was filled with a gentle melody originating from something that reminded Martha of a jewel box she possessed as a little girl. Whenever she lifted the lid, she would gaze longingly at the ballet dancer twirling against the blue velvet, imagining that she would one-day dance so beautifully. However, she knew that this particular sound was not coming from a jewel box and decided to investigate the resting place of her 'toothbrush'.

Placed upon a small piece of wood, jutting out from the organ like a makeshift shelf, was a heart-shaped object that gave off a metallic flash in the faint light provided by a pathetic smattering of candles. Martha stood and moved closer, raising a curious hand, curling two fingers over the delicate edge of the object and pulling it towards her by the point. Upon closer inspection, she discovered that it was an open locket and numerous miniature gears had caused the gleam as her shadow shifted. She struggled to find a wind-up mechanism and instead rocked the heart slightly. It answered her, playing a few notes of the same melody at a reduced speed before the gears ceased moving again.

Martha withdrew her hand, remembering that she had been told to not touch anything else in the room. She was honestly quite surprised she had been left alone and playing with this music box was perhaps the most instant way of reversing the situation. Actually playing the pipe organ, which was tempting her to revisit childhood piano lessons, was another possibility. Still, she was going to make a noise eventually, the grime attached to the keys appeared to be stuck fast, and that would require scrubbing so hard that she would have to push each key down individually. Her features twisted in anguish as an index finger stretched over the first key on the bottom keyboard. She recoiled before the key had even been half pressed as the note produced a skull-splitting boom. However, Martha was a fast learner and quickly looked for ways to soften the sounds produced. She settled back on the bench and began testing the foot pedals beneath her. She grunted, most of the pedals were stiff or wouldn't move at all. Given how loudly Jones played the organ, she wasn't at all surprised that he had neglected the foot pedals, and the crab-leg probably didn't help matters. Nevertheless, Martha's efforts were eventually rewarded and luckily she had picked the correct pedal for the sound was much quieter. She played a game as she cleaned, pressing down keys in an order that would produce a drawn out rendition of pieces she once knew. She became so lost in the false sense of security provided by the pedal held firmly at her feet that she did not hear the cabin door open…

Jones's uneven footsteps stopped half way across the room, and although Martha had not heard him, a shiver engulfed her entire body. She released the key she was working on and dropped her brush. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, she knew she was being watched but was unprepared for dealing with it. She turned her head, but only enough to see Jones's lower body at the edge of her field of vision. Curiously, he still didn't say anything and that disturbed Martha more than anything he had said to her since she had arrived.

"Come to yell at me some more?" she asked, voice trembling.

"Nay lass…" the reply was surprisingly quiet "would be nae point, yer will's already broken," Jones walked over to the bench and stopped directly behind Martha, who dropped her head so low that her chin was resting against the base of her neck "see, yer already actin' like a terrified wee pup!" Jones scoffed.

"Look, I know it's not done, but really…I've tried my best, so if you're wanting to shout at me, please…get it over with," said Martha, clasping her hands in her lap and bracing herself.

"I'm half-tempted tae discipline ye fer being so presumptuous Miss Jones," Jones replied with a hiss "I was merely admirin' yer rather inventive methods," he moved again, this time so he could sit on the bench to Martha's left. Given Jones's large form, it was quite a squeeze and Martha stiffened at the blatant invasion of personal space. Yet she couldn't stop thinking about Bootstrap's advice and knew that endurance was currently her best virtue. "Y'play?" Martha was gob-smacked; he was actually asking her a question about her.

"I used to, piano I mean," she stuttered.

"Bah! It's a start, I suppose," said Jones, producing a pipe from one of his pockets and using a candle to light it. "Yer free to go whenever y'like Miss Jones, but do nae think I'm goin' easy on ye, you'll be back here at first light to finish the job!" he snapped after a stream of smoke exited the siphon on the side of his face.

"I…well…I mean. Nevermind…" Jones looked expectantly at Martha and she barely managed a smile.

"If y'have something tae say, better say it lass…I'm not above punishing ye for frustratin' me!" Martha didn't reply, she moved her hands up to her face and flattened her palms against her cheeks, fingers splayed over her eyes. For no apparent reason, she began to sob so much that her tears leaked between her fingers leaving watery trails down to her wrists. Jones sighed and clenched his teeth around his pipe. "Women…" he muttered.

"I'm sorry…" said Martha, lifting her head and thoroughly rubbing her eyes.

"Ye'd better be!" spat Jones, sighing again when Martha visibly flinched "and what be troubling ye anyway?" he asked, extinguishing his pipe.

"Why do you care?" Martha asked, her mouth remaining open in shock.

"Well," Jones shifted in a way that suggested he was finding this just as uncomfortable as Martha "way I see things, yer gonna be here fer quite some time, better get used tae each other,"

"The Doctor will save me," Martha replied with a sniff.

"Ha! Yer Doctor's all talk lass, that's how he saved ye last time. I've dealt with men like that, they just make everythin' up as it happens," Jones instantly regretted his taunts when Martha resumed sobbing. "At least everything's already wet on here" he thought.

"I just…miss him I guess," Martha babbled, forgetting to whom she was speaking "and my family, warmth, and a change of clothes, that's why I went in the TARDIS in the first place," she wiped her nose "I bet he's not even missing me, probably havin' the time of his life out there…" Jones's eyes widened, the penny definitely dropping.

"Yer in love with him," he stated, with pained emphasis on the word love.

"I don't know, I suppose…maybe, I think. Oh I don't know anymore!" replied Martha, noticing that Jones was no longer looking at her and that a few of his tentacles were roaming over the music-box locket. His expression was one of deep-rooted sadness, a side to him that Martha had believed couldn't possibly exist. She decided to put her next question in as delicate terms as she could manage "are you ok, Captain?" she deliberately used an ambiguous phrase.

"My advice would be tae leave him lass, ye don't want tae let a pretender break yer heart" said Jones, retracting his tentacles from the locket. Martha studied him closely, his eyes were now closed and his features relaxed in a manner that very much conveyed the years of hurt. He was no longer a formidable foe capable of extreme cruelty, but a pathetic shell of his former self, driven to such cruelty by the sting of spurned love. Martha's heart was breaking for him. In a moment of weakness he had allowed her to glimpse the motivation behind his self-mutilation and she could relate to it. She felt compelled to do something and was rather uncertain of her own intentions. Bootstrap had told her to give Jones reason to trust her, yet the conflict in her soul could not be blamed solely on deception. She actually pitied Davy Jones! Without much thought, Martha clasped a hand around Jones's right hand. Jones's eyes snapped open and he gasped in genuine disbelief as Martha squeezed his hand tightly. It was definitely a sympathetic squeeze, for Martha's hand was so relaxed that there was no obvious indication of horror as there had been when Jones hauled her up onto the bow deck. Even Martha was surprised, Jones's hand was still slimy to touch but there was a slight hint of warmth below the surface of his flesh.

Jones finally yielded to Martha's touch, curling his fingers over the top of her hand and wrapping the longer index finger over her wrist. The suckers covering his hand pressed lightly against Martha's skin creating a pinching sensation that was pleasant rather than painful. Jones turned his head towards Martha and stared at her, she shuddered and loosened her grip on his hand.

"Ok, this is getting too weird," she mumbled, untangling her fingers from his and wiping her hand against the sparse bit of bench between their bodies. Jones didn't reply, how could he? He was still reeling from the ounce of sympathy that his newest recruit had just expressed. His only action was the same as it always had been in a time of emotional turmoil, he started to play the pipe organ. His tentacles swooped over each key with every feeling that had consumed his being within the last few minutes. He didn't even care whether or not Martha Jones remained at his side to watch, his only concern was to have an outlet. He hammered the keys with such force that occasionally he would have to suppress a roar. Martha was quite intrigued.

Perhaps it was stupidity or maybe she genuinely wanted to watch Jones play. Either way, Martha stayed silently at his side. Predictably, the music was loud but her mind wandered to the haunting melody of that golden locket, blocking out the much bolder sound of the pipe organ. Her eyelids suddenly felt very heavy and attempted to close of their own accord. Without realising any potential for danger, Martha Jones soon drifted off to sleep.

Note: I know, the end of this chapter was a little bit strange but it's all an important part of the general plot!