TWO
Martha looked up from her book, looking at the silver box and watching the lights blink away in blue.
She straightened slowly in cautious trepidation, noticing the four blinking lights had gone down to three. She bit her lip, looking over at the Time Lord, watching him breathe in and out silently. She watched him for a few minutes, then looked over at the box again. She thought about it for a long moment, then went back to her book.
She reached the end of the page and sighed, stretching her back out before putting her finger up on the corner to pull it over to the next page. She happened to flick her gaze up to him automatically as she did so.
His chest wasn't moving.
She dropped the book over the side of her chair immediately. She jumped up and over to the sofa-bed, ripping the duvet back and pressing her ear to his hearts.
"Don't you dare!" she hissed, sitting up and putting her palms out flat on the Gallifreyan's shirt. She took a deep breath and pushed firmly at each heart, stopping as he coughed and spluttered.
She reached for the bucket and turned to him, keeping most of herself out of the way as the same vile, blue liquid welled up out of him and splashed into the bucket.
"Alright, alright," she soothed, hearing him groan in fatigue and plain awkwardness. She rubbed his back firmly, pausing her hand to feel for both hearts going.
He simply gasped in air and put his hand out blindly. She set down the bucket and grabbed his fingers, slapping a damp cloth into them.
He wiped his mouth and fell back on the bed, exhausted.
"Am I dead yet?" he croaked.
"Not quite," she smiled bravely. "Look, can you tell me what's going on?"
"Drowning," he managed. She put her hand to his eye, opening the lid wide and leaning over him to look in.
"You mean from salt water in the lungs?" she asked. "Or something similar?"
"Similar," he croaked. "You a doctor yet?"
"Next month," she said, letting go of his eye and instead pressing her hand to his forehead. "Look, this tea thing isn't working."
"It is. More time," he managed, then coughed again. She leaned over for the bucket but he gasped in air and relaxed flat.
"If you say so," she said dubiously.
The bedroom door opened behind her and Francine walked in, carrying a tall, hot cup of tea.
"Here he is," she said gently, favouring him with a smile. "And I was starting to think you were going to be lazy for the rest of the month."
"Intention," he managed, then coughed again.
Francine shot Martha a look as he twisted to see the silver box. He nodded to himself and settled back flat again, looking uncomfortable.
Martha got up slowly and moved to walk away but he put a hand up and grabbed the side of her trousers.
"No!" he said, suddenly forcefully.
"Mate, I'll be –"
"No," he said again, more quietly, but she could feel his grip weakening, could see his eyes drooping. She turned back and removed his hand, holding it in hers warmly. She waited, and he slipped slowly into unconsciousness.
"Right. Now, while he's not looking," Francine whispered hurriedly.
Martha looked at her, aghast.
"He's been sleeping in those clothes for two days, Martha!" she hissed. "It's not good for him!"
"Alright," she said gingerly, getting to her feet. "But don't you even think about Dad's pyjamas. Unless you boil-wash them first to shrink them," she added with a small smile.
She looked at her mother, and for the first time in a long time, they giggled together.
-------------------------------------------------
The Doctor opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. He felt the familiar crush of pain in his chest, the leaden feeling to his limbs.
He struggled to sit up, blinking around and finding himself alone. He rubbed his eyes, looking around and realising he was in Martha's bedroom.
He immediately looked around wildly, then relaxed as he spotted the silver box. He reached out with a grunt of pain, snatching it up and pressing small switches on the side. The blue lights dimmed, then the two lighted ones pulsed and flickered.
He breathed a sigh of relief and put it down slowly, looking round the room again. His gaze caught sight of some rather familiar blue trousers, draped over a coat-hanger hanging on her wardrobe doorknob.
He swung his feet over the edge of the bed, getting them underneath him and hauling himself up. He staggered up and toward the trousers on the wardrobe.
He stopped suddenly as he had an alarming thought. His hands went to his ribs, then his backside, then the sides of his thighs cautiously.
At that moment the bedroom door opened and in walked Francine, hot tea in hand. He turned unsteadily to look at her as she walked past him, unfazed, and put it on the side table by the bed. Then she turned and put her hands on her hips.
"Is there a reason you're out of bed?" she asked cautiously.
"Screwdriver," he managed, wondering which of her four heads was real. She huffed.
"Why?"
"Need it," he croaked.
She put her hand on his arm and spun him round gently, aiming him back to the bed. She pushed him to sit, then watched him struggle onto the bed. She tutted and sat on Martha's chair next to him, bending over and putting her hands under his knees, helping him lift his feet back under the sheets.
"You do not need it right now, Doctor. You need to rest and stop thinking about your gadgets," she said, folding the duvet over him securely.
"Martha?"
"She's sleeping herself," she said, turning and chucking a thumb at the sleeping young woman on the chair by the computer, tucked up in a spare duvet. "She's nearly out of her head, worrying about what's wrong with you. Just because you've stopped heaving into buckets every hour doesn't mean you can simply get up and walk about," she said sternly. "Now sleep."
"Need my screwdriver," he grumped, turning on his side so that his back was to her.
She smiled to herself, got up and went to his jacket on the inside of the door. She searched through the inside pockets, found the instrument, and brought it back. She leaned over him and tapped it against his shoulder.
"Here. Later we'll ask why," she said knowingly.
He reached a hand up and took it slowly, letting his hand fall back to the pillow.
"Later I'll ask why I'm wearing someone else's boxers and t-shirt," he managed, muffled by the pillow.
Francine smiled to herself and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her quietly.
He rolled slowly onto his back, lifted himself up on his elbows, and found the box. He fell weakly onto his back, turning over and reaching for the box. He clutched it to him, watching the blue lights.
"Hang on, mate," he managed, ceasing the struggle to hold onto the world the right way up.
His eyes rolled up and he gave in to the darkness.