Relationships are difficult, even when you've met someone you really, really like! Baggage weighs everything down.

ELEVEN

Colin Brownhill was charming, gorgeous, clever, well-off, and clearly seemed delighted by Donna. Martha had confirmed his story about being cheated-on by his most recent ex-girlfriend (she'd heard it from her dad, a few months back), so to her, it seemed unlikely that he would be the sort to inflict that sort of pain on anyone else. He had made no vulgar jokes, did not talk about football, and did not utter a single sexually suggestive comment, just to test the waters. And, as it turned out, he was better-apprised of celebrity gossip than any straight guy she had ever known.

Not that he was perfect. He did absently pour raw sugar packets onto his saucer so that he could suck it off his index finger as they chatted. He also used the word, supposably several times. Both of these things struck her as slightly off-putting, but they were nothing she couldn't basically ignore.

He'd taken her to The Red-Eye, a café that catered to the après pub crowd, opening at 10 pm and closing at 8 am. He'd found out about it, he'd said, from his younger brother Ted, who was a "much harder partier" than was Colin. The place served tea, coffee, espresso drinks, and greasy diner food. It occurred to Donna that she should remember this spot, for her next hangover.

She and Colin had been, by far, the oldest people in the café, but it had been genuinely fun anyhow. Being with him had made her feel not middle-aged, not painfully single, not ultra-conspicuous as a person who clearly did not belong there. It had been easy to slide into conversation with him, and feel rather comfortable. For one thing, he was a member of a family that she already highly respected, so this was a tally in his favour…

Then, he confessed his rather entertaining hatred of "warm fruit" (in pies, muffins, tarts, and the like), the scent of cedar (well, really, he just though it was overrated – I mean, really, do you want a candle that smells like wet wood in your house?), and the voice of Mariella Frostrup (it sounds contrived). All of this made Donna laugh, and put more tallies in his favour. Not because she agreed with him, but because of his passion, irreverence and humour.

And actually, most of what she had to say made him smile, as well. Given all this, it had been so, so tempting to jump at the chance to see him again when he'd asked to make another date with her. But considering her state of mind of late, she decided to try and be level-headed about it.

So, at the end of the evening (which was really just before three in the morning), they had exchanged phone numbers, and agreed to "talk soon." She was fairly certain that Colin thought he was being blown off at that point, but she resisted the urge to give in and change her mind, and agree to his suggestion of French food and an art-house film on Saturday night.

It was also tempting to ring up Mads and talk things through, but she knew her friend would not appreciate a call at this hour. She knew Mads would talk to her if she needed it, but she reckoned it could wait at least until the sun came up. Not to mention, her phone had died just after they'd arrived at the café – Colin had been obliged to write down his number on a napkin.

She took a taxi back to Martha's flat, and she thought it was fifty-fifty that either the Doctor, or Martha, or both, would be waiting up for her. And if so, she resolved to be honest with them. Even though they might take it personally, or, at the very least, it might make them feel even more guilty than they likely already did.

And the truth was: she was all but smitten with Colin, and vice versa. But she had spent all of Wednesday night in the throes of a powerful, desperate depression, which had manifested in overconsumption of alcohol and embarrassment the following morning. It had also manifested in the decision not to travel with the Doctor any longer, if it meant living in close quarters with him and Martha as a couple. She had actually declared that living with her mother was preferable to being an interference in the lives of people in love. She wasn't sure that she meant that bit any longer, but she wasn't about to go back on her word now.

All of these were symptoms of a deep despondency, and she'd been in this state before. Quite a few times.

Case in point, she had quietly cut ties with at least two close friends after serving as a bridesmaid in their wedding, because she couldn't stand to witness their syrupy-sweet lives coming to fruition. She had feigned illness in order to avoid attending more than one baby christening. She had purchased tickets to Portugal, rather than turn up for a flat-warming party for a recently-married co-worker. She knew it was selfish and small of her, that her friends' happiness was making her miserable; nevertheless, she'd learned to cut her losses.

In the latter case, she had met a Portuguese businessman on the beach, who had wined and dined her, easily charmed her into bed after knowing her for all of eight hours. He had never called her afterwards, and when she tried phoning him, she learned that he'd given her a false number. She was left feeling used, ashamed, ridiculous and gullible.

In another of those cases, standing in line at Starbucks, dodging a phone call from a newlywed friend with a loud "ugh," the tall, rugged-looking man standing in front of her had complimented her outfit, asked cheekily why she'd blown off the call, and demonstrated a decided attraction to her. Henry, he was called.

Henry, she wound up dating for six months, while he made her pay for all of their dinners out, borrowed rent money from her three months in a row (and never paid it back). The relationship ended when he booked a "surprise" spa day for the two of them on her credit card, then shagged the masseuse the following weekend.

The carnage didn't stop there.

And so, she was a little leery of jumping into a relationship with the first man who showed interest in her, just after what the Doctor called "a weepy bender." Yes, Colin seemed amazing… but so had the others. If she had taken a bit of time to get to know them, she likely would have realised that Paulo the Portuguese man was a cad, and Henry was a , and worse. But she'd allowed herself to become self-effacing and desperate, and had made horrible mistakes that had cost her months of more self-loathing, and wondering what's wrong with me?

She felt sure that Martha would understand this, even though Colin was her cousin. Martha was an eminently rational and kind person, and would not feel affronted that Donna would question Colin's intentions.

She stepped out of the taxi onto the kerb in front of Martha's flat, and noticed straight away that though it was three a.m., the lights were on. Not just the one in the bedroom upstairs, but the parlour, foyer and kitchen lights on the ground floor as well!

"What the…?" she whispered, drifting up the front steps.

But before she could reach the top, or even form a complete thought, the door flew open, and Martha appeared in the frame, looking dishevelled in a pair of shorts and the Doctor's wrinkled dress shirt, phone in-hand.

"Donna!" Martha cried out, upon seeing her. She met her halfway down the stairs, and threw herself at Donna, hugging her hard. "Thank heaven!"

"What? What's wrong?"

Martha grabbed Donna's arm and began dragging her up the stairs the rest of the way. "I've been calling and calling…"

"My phone died hours ago," Donna said. "Why are you up at this hour? Why are you so frantic?"

Martha waited until they were well and truly through the front door, and shut inside of her flat before reporting, "The Doctor's been arrested!"

"Arrested?" Donna choked out. "Are you bloody kidding me?"

"No! Why would I do that?"

"What did he do? I mean, what were the charges?"

"I don't know, they didn't say," Martha said. "We were upstairs, and these beings in, like, HazMat suits came barging in, handcuffed him and escorted him out. He said they were from the Galactic Council. When I tried to stop them, they tazered me or something."

"Beings? So they weren't human?"

"No, Donna, it wasn't just a pair of sprightly London bobbies who took him," Martha whined. "They came into the house totally silently. They were… humanoid, but I reckon there was a reason they were wearing those protective suits. Like, maybe, they can't breathe here!"

"Okay, okay. And they tazered you?"

"Yeah," Martha answered, now pacing in her foyer. "They touched this thing to my neck, I felt a big vibrating jolt, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up on the floor where they'd left me, with the Doctor nowhere to be seen."

"When was this?"

"I woke up about an hour ago," she said. "I have no idea how long I was out."

"Have you tried calling the Doctor's mobile?"

"He didn't have it on him, Donna."

"How can you be sure? He can be surprisingly…"

"He barely had time to put on a pair of underpants, before they hauled him out, all right?"

"Oh. I see. Well, have you tried calling anyone other than me?"

"I tried Jack," Martha said, absently, still pacing. "He didn't answer. I'll try again during business hours."

"Who's Jack?"

"A friend of the Doctor's," Martha said. "He fights aliens… he's got a base in Cardiff. He's almost as weird as the Doctor, almost as old, almost as clever. Almost. Twice as reckless, though, and has half as many intergalactic contacts, but he's better than nothing. Actually, he's a pretty good guy to have around in a crisis, but…"

"Hard to track down?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, now what?" Donna asked.

"I have no idea!" Martha shouted. "I've been waiting for you!"

"Okay, erm…" Donna said, thinking. "Is the TARDIS still there, in the back garden?"

"Far as I know. I haven't looked, since the Doctor's been gone."

"I've got my key. Let's get inside, and ask the TARDIS to contact the Galactic Council."

"Brilliant!" Martha said, with a huge measure of relief. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're in panic mode," Donna said. "It's all right… Martha, you've got the Doctor out of far worse jams than this. Everything's going to be fine."

Martha took a deep breath, swallowed hard, then followed Donna out the back door.

The TARDIS didn't have any problem communicating with the Galactic Council, as it turned out. The euphoria of this triumph was, alas, short-lived, however. There was an annoying answering system that required callers, just like on Earth, to press buttons to indicate their business.

"In order to be put into contact with any being currently in the custody of the Galactic Council, you must submit your Blue-Clearance Credential number," the recording said.

"What? What the hell is that?" asked Donna.

"No idea," Martha said. She reached forward to stroke the Time Rotor. "Can you help us out Old Girl?"

But the TARDIS did not give a groan, nor a response of any kind, and the recording repeated.

"Well, what if we want to talk with someone who is in charge of beings in custody? What then?" Martha asked.

"That wasn't one of the options," Donna said. "Main menu said, general info, event and hearing schedule, speak to a financial advisor, lodge a complaint, or speak to a being in custody."

"Then let's lodge a complaint!"

"Okay," Donna said, cutting off the comm, and asking the TARDIS to place the call again.

"In order to lodge a complaint with the Galactic Council, you must submit your Red-Clearance Credential number," the recording said.

Martha cursed loudly.

The TARDIS tried again for them, and when they failed even to have the credentials to receive even basic information, a new recording came on, and said, "We've noticed that this is the third call you have placed – we assume this means you have been unsuccessful in your bid for information and/or satisfaction. If you do not have the required credentials, please press Alpha."

Donna did this.

"Welcome, civilian. If you are looking for a hearing schedule, please leave a message requesting this information, after the tone, including the entity being heard, your purpose for attending the hearing, and your contact information. You may expect to hear back from us within ten galactic hours. If you are lodging a complaint on behalf of someone with credentials who is incapacitated, please leave a message after the tone, including the credentialed entity's name, and your complaint. You may expect to hear back from us within ten galactic hours.

"If you have an acquaintance or loved-one who has recently entered the custody of the Galactic Council, please allow 22 galactic hours for the entity to be processed. All beings in custody are asked to provide a contact outside of the Council for the purposes of defence, bail, and in case of emergency. If you are the contact, you will receive a communiqué within 22 galactic hours, with temporary credentials so as to allow you to bypass the Blue Card system. If you are not the contact that the entity provides, there is nothing we can do for you. Thank you for your concern… beep."

"Twenty-two galactic hours?" Martha shrieked. "How long is that?"

A message came up on the TARDIS' computer screen. "Calculating… 55 Earth hours."

"Fifty-five hours? So… like, lunch-time on Monday," Martha sighed. "Great. Isn't there anything else we can do? Don't you know any other way of finding him?"

The TARDIS remained silent and still.

"Martha, it's only a couple of days," Donna said. "In the meantime, we have a meeting to prepare for. Monday at nine – the Doctor won't be back by then, it seems like, so it's up to you and me."

Martha squeaked out, "I can't stand the idea that he's out of our reach." She felt she might begin to hyperventilate. "I can't bear it. I feel like a part of me has been ripped away. And, damn it, if I had just listened to him, and not got in their way, they wouldn't have knocked me out, and I could have had a few hours' head start on all of this…"

"It's no good with the coulda shoulda woulda. He's gone, for now," Donna said, gently. "But you know, the Council have given us a way to get in touch with him – it's not like we have no idea where he is. We just have to wait. And what are the odds he'll give them contact info for someone who is not you?"

Martha felt panic rising up then – she felt myriad unpleasant emotions. Anger, desperation, sadness, loneliness…

She pushed down the surge of blinding fear, and forced herself to say, "Okay. You're right. I know you're right."

"So we spend the next two days doing what he'd want us to do, which is…"

"…get ready to spy on Alfred P. Duckworth and his cronies, on Monday morning."

"Yes. Exactly. But first, maybe let's get some sleep?"

"Not gonna happen for me. You sleep if you need to."

"Martha…"

"Just go. I'll be fine."

And she parked herself in vigil on the seat beside the TARDIS console, too wired to sleep, too stricken to cry.