Gallifreyan Nature: Chapter 22

[nevermoreraven]

Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: Teen
DISCLAIMER: Other people have actually read this one before the internet.  Yes, I know.  It's weird.
Summary: This is a rewrite of the Human Nature/Family of Blood two-parter, because I really liked Latimer.  It's long.  I liked it pretty well at the time, as did the other readers, so let's see how well it held up.  ...so far, so good.  also I actually bothered to tab for once on this one.
It's not finished, but it's fairly close.
Slightly angsty

 

When the Doctor next woke up, he couldn’t quite remember where he was or why he was lying on the floor.  For that matter, it was pretty hard to open his eyes, no matter how hard he tried.  He groaned and tried to sit up.

“Easy, Doctor,” Martha’s voice came at him from somewhere to his right, a warning in her tone-and not just about him trying too much.  He couldn’t place what she’d have a complaint about this time, but he was sure it’d come to him eventually.

“Martha…” he began, but couldn’t quite remember what he was going to say when the time came for the next words to roll off his tongue.

At last, he was able to open his eyes, and her own brown ones were closer than he’d anticipated.  He wanted to kiss her.  He wasn’t quite sure whether that’s what he was supposed to do, but he felt like the proximity called for intimate lip contact.  He frowned upon seeing her expression.  It was particularly cool, as was her manner towards him, and he couldn’t quite recall why she’d be acting that way, either.  “I…oh,” he added, as the headache struck him, “Um…get me to the TARDIS?”  It came out more of a question than the request he’d intended, but he’d gotten a bit distracted, what with rubbing his head and all.  His perceptions, and probably, he guessed his consciousness, kept flickering in and out, like a broken light.  However, from somewhere he’d gotten that she’d acquiesced, but didn’t know where his ship was.

He blinked owlishly, completely flabbergasted that she didn’t know.  But then, he realized, though he didn’t know how he knew it at all, that he’d moved it.  “Sorry…silly me, orbit,” he muttered the words, not sure at all of what order they were supposed to be in or what sense she’d be able to make out of them, but glad that he could communicate anything at all in the state he was in.  “Sonic.  General Morse Code SOS it should do.”

He’d thrown in other words at random, it seemed, though he was trying to do a normal explanation, like he sometimes did, the really long ones that helped his companions have a background on something-or-other.  It just got completely scrambled.  Or was it he that was scrambled?

His head felt like it’d been shut in a very tight, enclosed space, and light hurt, physically.  He longed for night, the comforting shadows enclosing him.  He wasn’t ready for daylight yet-he was still, personally, in a very, very dark place.  And he wasn’t altogether certain he’d come out of it fine, though he managed a reassuring smile at Martha as she called the TARDIS.

 

When he next awoke, he had been dumped unceremoniously on the floor of the TARDIS console room.  The Doctor found that this memory loss was getting pretty annoying, although it wouldn’t quite come back to him when last it’d happened.  No matter.  He’d figure it out eventually.  Maybe his ship had crash-landed.  She’d been doing that rather a lot lately, and despite how gentle she tried to be on her passengers, she could only do so much for them.

He started to sit up, but banged his head against the seat behind him and muttered something that he hoped the TARDIS didn’t quite catch.

The Time Lord felt a little embarrassed as he saw Martha Jones crouched opposite him, watching him closely.  He hoped quite fervently that she didn’t know Low Gallifreyan, and hoped even further that the TARDIS was wise enough not to translate that particular piece of language.

She wasn’t wearing her familiar oxblood jacket, nor any of her normal outfits, for that matter.  She was wearing period dress-something from around the point of World War I.  He was about to ask her where in the clothes room she’d found that particular article of clothing, but frowned instead, something about that point jogging his memory.

1913.  That was the year.  How he knew this, he didn’t especially know, but he supposed he’d been running about, and his memory had been recording some things, however much trouble his brain was giving him about retrieving them.  The year before one of the worst wars in Earth history.  Not one of mankind’s proudest moments, but at least they had redeeming features-otherwise, he’d have found some other fascinating planet to keep returning to long ago. 

“Get down!”  His voice-watching Martha running into the TARDIS, with shots following them as they fell to the floor…

The urgency, the worry for her-not for himself, never for himself, as they were being followed…

And pain, bright, hot, undimmed by the time that had passed, lancing through his brain, stealing everything that made himself away…

He thought he yelped, but he wasn’t certain.  The next thing he knew, he’d somehow turned around and backed up all the way to the console, leaning against it as he sweated through whatever he was wearing.  Everything was slippery, and he tried to control his breathing, which was altogether too fast for a Time Lord’s biology.

And Martha had followed him.  She was softening, just a little-the look in her eyes told him that she felt for his pain, but wasn’t perhaps allowing herself as much emotion as she would have otherwise have done.  He’d done something, perhaps unforgivable, and he didn’t even know what he’d done.  She wasn’t looking over him, fussing at the scrapes he’d gotten himself in.  She wasn’t putting an arm on his shoulder and asking him, “Are you okay, Doctor?”  Nothing.  Just…keeping an eye on him, making sure things didn’t get out of hand, but not being gentle.  He leaned his head back against the console, closing his eyes and trying to prevent the tears gathering in his eyes from falling.  He was more emotional than he’d ever noticed himself being, but perhaps he’d regenerated, and that explained her standoffishness.  Perhaps this was regeneration trauma.

“Doctor?”  It was Martha’s voice, somewhat concerned, but with that hard edge he’d never seen in her before.  He kept his eyes firmly squeezed shut.  He didn’t want to see the accusing look in her face, something that was more painful to him now than any wound.

‘When did I ever care?’ he asked himself, still smarting, but from what he didn’t quite know.  ‘I mean, yeah, she’s a friend, but it never hurt this much.  Not like this.’  He wasn’t sure whether the change was good or bad, but he supposed he might get used to it-in time.

“Doctor, what about Daniel Winters?”  That was Martha again, although where she’d have gotten that one of his aliases he didn’t know.  He’d…

He’d used the Chameleon Arch.  That was it.  Although he was fairly sure that the fake life he’d set up for himself to live had used the alias John Smith, not Daniel Winters.

He tried to sit up quickly and got dizzy, which was confusing.  The Time Lord was pretty sure that’d never happened before.

He felt a warning hand on his shoulder-Martha’s, though by this point he hadn’t opened his eyes yet.  For some reason, the thought of being blind, not opening his eyes for the rest of his life sounded like a good idea.  A bit weird, but he wasn’t about to argue when he wasn’t even sure if he could construct a lucid argument.  “Low blood pressure,” she told him.  Something in her tone said that it should be a reminder, that he should know this or else.  He wasn’t sure why this little fact was so important to her.

“Did the plan go wrong?  Where’s the Family?  Martha, talk to me.”  He started pleading with her, eyes still squeezed firmly shut.  He used the console and her arm to lever himself up, this time ready for the wave of dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him.

“Daniel Winters.  First.  What about him?”  Doctor Jones was all professional.  He couldn’t detect any compassion at all in her tone anymore.  In fact, it was rather flat, like she was trying not to cry-or get really, really mad.  What was going on?

“No one really exists called Daniel Winters.  It’s a name I picked up because it sounded pretty good.  The initials stand for Doctor Who, which I thought pretty clever, and-OW!”  His voice trailed off, as another one in the Jones family slapped him.  Hard.  Probably using all her strength too.  It hurt.  A lot.  In confusion, he lost his balance and slid down the console again.  “What was that for?”

She was crying now, tears of loss and rage.  “That body you’re in-that isn’t yours, Doctor.  There’s still a human called Mr. John Smith running around.  You’re in someone else’s body-a cousin’s-and you killed him.  You’re as bad-worse-than they are, the Family of Blood.”

He opened his eyes, barely in time to avoid the fist she aimed at his head.  She wasn’t thinking now, the emptiness speaking for her, guiding her actions.  Using the TARDIS console as a prop, he slowly slid up it, watching her cry and hit out at him, though she could barely see anymore through the tears.

He stared at her, letting her beat his chest, though only weakly.  She didn’t seem to have the power to do anything else, the pain leeching the strength right out of her.  He deserved a little of that, he figured.  He tried to reach out, to hug her and comfort her, but she wouldn’t let him, hitting out even more, and in that, he decided, she was probably also justified.

She looked so much smaller than he’d ever seen her.  The dignity was gone-she was scared and broken and lonely.  And somehow, he’d done this to her.  He felt the pity and the pain well up inside him as he stared at her, at the shattered husk that Martha Jones had become.

And then he remembered.  He remembered who he was.  He remembered Martha, and a lot of what had happened.  He remembered the transformation, remembered the choice she’d made.  And, like the coward he knew he was, he ran and didn’t look back.

Oh, he knew she’d follow eventually.  And, quite frankly, he wasn’t sure whether she’d keep the promise she’d made and try to kill him.  He wasn’t sure whether she had it in her, to hurt him, or whether the attempt would be as feeble as the attack on him earlier, just made half-heartedly because she said she would, and because she couldn’t think of anything else to do.  She needed him, more than he’d ever realized, and he’d let her down so many times.  He didn’t deserve her love, didn’t even deserve her help.  But she didn’t even see that-so blinded by her overwhelming love for him that she didn’t even recognize her personal glory.  She might even try suicide-but not before she searched for him.  That wouldn’t even occur to her until after she at least told him goodbye, and he’d talk her out of it before then.  It wasn’t in her nature, and he wouldn’t allow her to hurt herself.  Not like this.  He cared about her too much to let her do that.  And once he’d meditated, once he’d cleared his mind, he was sure he could convince her of anything.  Well…almost anything.  Enough that she might accept him, enough that she’d know the truth.  Enough to put a bit of salve on his aching heart.