Martha was not surprised to find the Master sprawled on her couch when she entered her flat after a long day’s work at UNIT. She wasn’t sure she would call him a frequent visitor, but he came round often enough that the sight of him with his suspiciously dirty boots propped up on her coffee table watching telly while he plowed through bags of her favorite crisps no longer startled her. Quite the opposite, in fact, and as she set her bag down and put up her coat, Martha acknowledged the rush of excitement for what it was: an opportunity to actually help someone. To be of tangible use. To heal someone, even if that someone was the Master. 

Maybe especially because it was the Master. 

It was “her” Master today, the Harold Saxon form. This wasn’t always the case, and she was surprised at the variety his regenerations had taken. There was the incredibly menacing, but unfailingly polite, older Master with the graying goatee and beard who sat for tea and drew her into bewildering philosophical conversations. She’d entertained him several times and was usually left feeling as though she’d only just passed a difficult exam. There was another Master with dark hair and darker eyes, who liked to suck dark and painful marks across her breasts and was so touch starved that a simple hug often caused him to lose his composure. There was the woman, intensely Scottish and rather adorably called Missy, who only ever wanted a cuddle and to talk about everything and nothing. 

But this Master, her Master, when he came around it was for one thing. 

The blue-white light from the television reflected off his silvery white hair, the halo it created so at odds with the darkness of his clothes and heart. He had yet to tear his eyes away from the programme, but Martha could feel the heavy weight of his attention settle over her shoulders, the anticipation like a thick fog. She toed off her shoes and made her way to her bedroom, unsurprised when the Master’s heavier footsteps sounded behind her. 

Martha detoured to her small bathroom and turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature to her liking before making her way into her room. The Master stood at the foot of her bed, and as always Martha was struck by his stillness when she knew just how dynamic he could be. It was disturbing in a way she could never quite describe, that same part of her that hadn’t been surprised when he first showed up at her door now frowning. 

“Let me take a look at you,” she said, her words soft and muted in the silence between them. A smile, thin and fleeting, crossed his lips. He inclined his head mockingly, and he was all graceful alien movements as he first removed his hoodie, kicked off his boots, dragged the scarlet shirt away from his body, all going into the same pile tossed at her feet. His socks soon followed, then his trousers, and here Martha was always slightly shocked by the Tardis blue briefs and the almost obscene way the fabric molded to his engorged flesh. Missy once told her (eyes sharp and hawklike as she did so) that it really got “ole Harry” going when she watched him undress. 

Martha turned and searched for her medical bag, never quite able to watch him remove that last layer of clothing. She located it easily but kept rummaging through the bag checking and rechecking her supplies until she heard, “I’m ready for my exam, Doctor Jones.” A deep breath to fortify herself, and she turned, stethoscope draped around her neck. 

She refused to feel shame for the greedy way she looked at him nor for the rush of arousal, the sense of power that came over her at the sight of this evil Time Lord standing naked before her, waiting with ill-concealed impatience for her touch.  All that bare skin, her still fully dressed, and him begging with his eyes to come and take her fill. 

The stethoscope was only a little cooler than his skin. She used it to listen to one heart and then the other, made him take a series of deep breaths so she could listen to his lungs. Her touch was light, just the tips of her fingernails sweeping across and down his shoulders (tight with tension and stress) and arms, across his ribcage and up the corded muscles of his back. Back in front to inspect his pectorals, and now she was a bit firmer, using the pads of her fingers to trace a line from one nipple to the next before dragging a line from his diaphragm to his navel, smiling a little when his hands clenched and abdominals flexed. 

Her hands rest, one on each jutting hip bone (she would make sure he had more than crisps to eat before he left), as she allows her gaze to sweep up and down his legs before settling on the thick cock and heavy balls anxiously awaiting her attention. The shower was running, wasting water with each passing second they left it empty, but sometimes Martha would sink to her knees and - 

“To the shower with you,” she said, giving his hip a squeeze before deftly scooping his discarded clothes into her arms and heading to the washroom. His frustrated huff made her smile and diluted some of her painful arousal. 

She shed her clothes, dropping them into the washer along with his. Detergent followed, and it amused her to know that he would leave smelling like her. Laundry was a mindless task, one that allowed Martha to gather her thoughts and ask herself again why she never told anyone about the Master’s visits or even that he was still alive. And, just like the first time he came to her flat soaked to the skin and so angry she could taste his despair on her tongue, she could only ascribe her silence to a kind of patient confidentiality. He came to her because she was his doctor, and until he was healed, Martha wouldn’t stop treating him. 

The faint sound of him humming drifted down the hallway alongside the usual noise of the shower. Martha followed it, her steps subconsciously in sync with the da da da-dum he alternately tapped on his thigh and her shower wall. The Master made room for her to step in front of him, loosely wrapping his arms around her middle, chuckling at her indignant hiss when he rested his wet head on her hair. 

They stayed like that until the water started to cool, him with his cheek on the crown of her head, hers in the crook of his neck, their fingers entwined. Slowly and sleepily turning the water off and drying themselves. A difficult feat when he insisted on staying skin to skin, but Martha was an old pro at working in spite of him. 

By the time they crawled into bed and beneath the blankets, Martha was swaying with exhaustion. Her eyes were drooping, big yawns cracking her jaw as the Master drew her into his arms and buried his face into her chest, warm mouth gently latching around one of her nipples, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle as they sleepily stroked up and down her back and the curve of her bottom. She sighed, settling into her pillow. Her fingers carded through his hair, soothed by the subtle lullaby created by the beating of their three hearts. 

He would wake her, she knew, in the middle of the night and fuck her with a ferocity that would leave her aching and bruised for days. But for now, this was what he needed most, the care and attention of his own personal doctor.