nevermoreraven

I was going through old fic and found a bunch of unfinished Doctor Who stuff that will probably never be finished, so here, have them.

Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: Teen
DISCLAIMER: Again, Doctor/Martha isn't a thing.
Summary: Not the most cringiest, but not great. Mostly archiving here. 10th gets hurt.

She'd somehow grown used to having him around, of him being there, for her. It felt weird not to run with his hand intertwined in hers, his long legs sprinting, carrying them both over leagues with ease.

She understood his urge to look after the others, to make sure that no straggler's lives were lost. The need not to watch another die, to save lives that would otherwise be lost to avoid the guilt and feeling of responsibility. Even so, she felt incomplete, even though she could merely glance back and know he was there. If he saw her look, he'd meet her eyes with that smile that never failed to warm her heart.

Except the last time she looked, he wasn't there. At least the ones behind had caught up, something very akin to fear in their eyes.

If he'd gotten himself eaten, she'd kill him, and glare at the ones who'd left him to die. If she didn't lose it completely.

She began running. It wasn't a conscious thing, anymore. She needed to be by his side, and that would be closer to the source of danger.

Her heart almost stopped beating when she saw a crumpled form propped up against the wall. Eyelids struggled to open at her approach-so at least he was alive.

"Doctor?" she asked, knowing in his heart that something was wrong but hoping, praying...

His eyes finally opened. He tried to turn his head toward her, but made a low sound of pain and let the head droop instead. "Martha..." he muttered, the voice laced with an agony that he could barely conceal.

She quietly wiped the tears away-she couldn't afford them, not now, not when he needed her, as a doctor, as his doctor. "What's wrong?"

He tried to put on the brave face, tried to wave away the pain like it was nothing, tried to get to his feet. He gritted his teeth and only made it a few inches before slipping back down. She could see his chest rise and fall as he started to hyperventilate. She knew that Time Lords didn't tend to breathe fast, not when adrenaline was pounding through their body, unless it was bad enough that they began to lose their amazing control over their bodies. "It hurts," was all he could manage.

"Doctor..." she muttered warningly, coming over to him, let her hands professionally run over his body to see the damage he'd caused himself this time.

It was when she touched his right shoulder and neck that he tensed up at her touch, pain hissing through his teeth.

He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate, to conserve his strength. "It...they got me." He was still breathing heavily. Not such a good sign. "...the back, a blade, or something. I think I'm bleeding but I can't tell."

His speech at first was hesitant, but as he went he picked up speed. He had to pause for breath, but never continued, instead leaning his head against her shoulder. As pleasant as that was, she had to stop that. She took his shaking head in her own hands, kissed the top of it, then gently set it against the wall. His hair was matted with sweat-it covered his whole body, making his shirt cling. Hopefully whatever it was wasn't poisoned.

"I'm going to take a look at your back. I'll try to be gentle, but it will probably hurt. I just need you to trust me." She let compassion creep into her voice, but ignored the tears that threatened to join as well. She wanted to be the strong one, to comfort him for once.

He began to nod, but that hurt too much, so he stopped. "I hope you don't doubt it," she guessed was his reply, garbled as it was.

She pried him away from the wall, and even that brought a scream. At first, it was just a reaction, unconscious and uncontrollable, but after a little while he noticed and tried to muffle it.

She tried not to gasp herself at what she saw there. The gash was huge, and what must have been Gallifreyan blood had stained nearly all of his back. The strange dark purple splotches she saw down the corridor, she realized, must have been a trail of where her poor Doctor had staggered, until he couldn't make it any farther.

Carefully, she got a bit of it on her finger from somewhere far away from the wound and showed it to him. "Blood, yes?"

His eyes opened unwillingly, and it took a moment to focus on her finger. "Oh. Yup."

"Is it supposed to be purple?" She hated asking that, feeling either like an ignorant first year student or a worrier. Yet she couldn't help but wonder.

"Yup," he answered tiredly, leaning his head back again.

"Well...there's quite a lot of it. I hate moving you, but I'm surprised that whatever it is that's hunting us hasn't found us yet. D'you think you could move with my help?"

He gritted his teeth and opened his eyes again, staring into hers with surprisingly alive, awake eyes. "I can try." He tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace instead.

"All right, on three." She wrapped his left arm around her neck, trying to make it as secure and gentle as possible. Carefully she put her arm around his waist, supporting him as well as she could.

When she pulled him up, a short scream rumbled in his throat, but she realized he'd stuffed his sleeve in his mouth. "You okay?" she asked, concerned.

He spat out the fabric. "I'm...I've been better. But yeah. Actually being closer to you seems to help. Something to distract from the pain." His voice was low, hard to hear. She realized he must be close to unconsciousness from blood loss by now.

She smiled through the tears at his somewhat morbid sense of humor. "Glad I'm as good as anesthetic, Doctor."

"Better than!" His voice almost sounded normal by this point, but she guessed shock must be setting in.

"No, no shock. Not yet. It's when I start getting cold that you should worry. Right now I'm pleasantly warm." As usual, he seemed to know what she was going to say and beat her to it. "Getting lightheaded, though. I actually tend to get hyper from blood loss."

"You get hyper from everything..." she remarked, smiling despite herself.

A half choked chuckle burst from him. "Point, Martha," he acknowledged, love and pride warring with the pain in his voice.

"I'm getting blood all over your nice clothes. I'm sorry, Martha," he said after a little while, voice sounding a bit giddy.

"Don't worry about it. I care more about you than my stupid clothes. I can replace those." She did, in fact, care about her clothes, but she'd rather have the Doctor.

She glanced over to see a smile tug at his lips, and he pulled her just a little closer.

Eventually, they'd gotten to a point where they hoped they'd be safe. The other refugees had already set up a camp and were getting a fire started by the point the two of them staggered in. Martha carefully set the Doctor down by the flickering beginnings of a fire and gratefully accepted a sip of water. "We'll need some of that for his wounds." They all knew how precious the water was, but none of them wished to speak up. The two of them had saved their lives, and anyway, the no-nonsense authority in her voice invited no question.

She bent down to his childlike, agonized face. "It's going to get cold soon, Doctor. I'm sorry."

"Shock?" She could barely hear his words now, but could easily identify the utter confusion in the remnants of his voice.

She shook her head, amused-but how could she be amused at that? "Water. I'm going to wash out your wounds. I'm going to tell you everything that I'm going to do. And you're going to tell me if any of it is wrong for you. Okay?"

He was too weak even to speak now, so merely reached out and did a thumbs-up, with his left hand, she noticed.

Carefully she peeled the articles of clothing off his back, one by one, and he let small sounds of pain escape him. By the end, he was half-naked and shivering in the cold.

Knowing that the water, warm as it was, would feel like the cold fingers of ice stealing over his back, but also that there was no choice, Doctor Jones began to pour the water over the exposed skin, letting it wash away the stains that had begun to swallow his back.

He shuddered, teeth beginning to chatter, the movements becoming uncontrollable. When the water touched his wound, though, he screamed.

It was like nothing she'd ever heard before, like his soul was slowly being ripped to shreds, and for one, doubting moment, she paused, unable to see him like this, to know that part of it was her fault, that she had caused his current agony. No monster she'd ever heard had been half as terrifying, and no moment had she feared for him as much as she did now. It was the definition of pain, the essence of fear. He was completely and utterly terrified. His eyes jerked open, twin pools of panic, as he began to curl up into a foetal position, trying to escape the pain tormenting him. In that moment, he was no longer there, caught up in his own world where nothing existed but anguish and suffering.

She started moving again, finishing the work-she had to. She longed to hug him, to let him hide in her arms from the world, letting her love mask the pain. But as a doctor she knew that was the exactly wrong thing to do. She had to dress the wound first, at least. It wasn't as bad as she'd feared-in fact, it was fairly small, though deep. She looked around, but all she saw was his already torn clothing. She began to tear the dress shirt into strips-a shame, but it had to be done-and wrapped his wound, not letting his unconscious flailing prevent her from her job. At last, the wound was properly bandaged, and she covered him, still shaking, in his own warm brown jacket, and hugged him tightly, being careful of his wound. At least it wasn't salt water.

She knew she'd been doing something right when he came to half an hour later and sleepily moved out of her arms. "I'm hungry," he murmured to her. She had to help feed him, and felt yet another pang of regret when he was weak as a kitten.

"Thank you, Martha. My doctor," he muttered when finished, settling back against her.