Story Notes:
Prompt: By ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
shinealightonme Doctor Who, Martha Jones, freelancing
Author's Note: My first Doctor Who fic! This was written for the Awesome Ladies Ficathon on LiveJournal.
All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Free
She doesn’t have a sonic screwdriver, but she figures that she doesn’t need one. One thing she’s learned in all of her travels is that the day is more often saved by a well placed word rather than magic tricks or blasting guns. Mind you, she knew her way around a pistol, but they were such imprecise devices.
Martha Jones was always a superb student. That year or two she spent existing in someone’s shadow was well spent. He may not have ever seen her, but she saw him. The Doctor was not that complex of a being, despite his mercurial moods and the Time Lord mystique he tried to hide behind. Martha knew him well. When she first met him, he was John Smith, a patient at the Royal Hope. He was all teeth, long limbs and winking brown eyes. When the deep bass of two heartbeats drummed in her ear, he became more than a patient; he was a puzzle to solve. But Martha always approached him as a doctor, asking questions and listening to what was said and what was not in hopes of hypothesizing what was ailing him before puling out the x-rays, MRIs and stool samples. She allowed her investigations to consume her so much that she lost herself for a time. Her patient, her puzzle, her thing to fix became her air, food and sun.
She is a doctor in her own right. A proper scientist. She’s learned well from her Doctor. Martha is careful to keep a certain distance from her patients and her puzzles. Perhaps that is why her marriages never worked. It was difficult to doctor a doctor and Mickey made a poor invalid. Perhaps she drove them away. Perhaps Martha is better on her own.
She sees him from time to time. He is not as handsome as he once was. His face is more youthful but his jaw is impossibly square and his eyes old. He sees her now. On the occasions when they work together it is and is not like old times. Martha’s heart still races when he grabs her hand during their mad dashes from and toward danger. Although he is somewhat shorter than his previous self, he still manages to lift her petite frame off of the ground when he crushes her to his chest in relief, Martha laughing like mad as they spin. She still saves his scrawny neck just as often as he saves hers. The inside of the Tardis is different, but the old girl still hums in approval when Martha slides her hand along the console’s edge.
There are stairs now where there were once doorways. The Doctor takes her hand in his, his grip light, and leads her up one stair, down a few twisting halls, past the door to her old room and into a room that is new to her. They leave a trail of socks, bras, bow ties, suspenders, slacks, boxers and button down shirts. There are sighs and grunts but no declarations or promises. None are required. None are needed.
Martha can’t help but make note of his quickened heart rate, his respiration, his temperature, the weight of him between her thighs. Her fingers traverse the length of his spine, counting vertebrae and checking their alignment. She notes a new scar on his lower back before he shifts his hips with a cluck of his tongue. Martha obeys and forgets her study. She whimpers and he pants her name.
Martha dresses and ties back her long braids as he watches. She smiles at his invitation to stay and kisses his cheek. They both know this cannot be a regular thing. Martha no longer does regular. This transitory communion is enough. She walks away, her back to the Tardis as it wheezes and groans. The wind shifts and Martha buries her hands in her pockets. Her fingers trace cool metal and she grins. She examines her sonic screwdriver and its glowing amethyst tip. The attached note makes her smile.
“Every doctor needs a sonic.”