Chapter Text
2015
Martha Jones knows a lot about the future.
She’s traveled to the farthest edges of time and space. She’s met more alien races than she can count. She’s stood on distant planets and marveled at them. She’s walked a collapsing Earth, closing in on itself through despair and ruin, not knowing if the future could be saved.
But now, as the cold porcelain she sits on chills her, nothing in the far-flung reaches of her travels prepares her for what comes next: her future tilts on its axis, in two bright blue lines.
She’s pregnant.
—
Martha moves through her flat on legs of jelly. She’s lost track of time with everything that’s happened, and it takes her a while to count backwards to discover she’s about six weeks along, by her count. Six weeks earlier, there had been wine and warm glances and hope. None of which she has now.
Martha thinks back to her first year at med school as she looks at her taut stomach and tries to remember gestational stages. At this point, organs are beginning to form. The brain. The heart. This is something she’s wanted, something they have both wanted, for over a year. But the timing is all wrong. If this had happened a month earlier, they would have had a chance.
She thinks back to their last argument–possibly their final one–almost two weeks earlier. As Mickey left, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, she stood strong and confident, even though her insides were crumbling. Now, she wonders if she made a huge mistake.
The coffee table rattles, and Martha realizes it’s her phone vibrating across the glass top. Her heart leaps into her throat as she scrambles to answer it. A ring of disappointment when she realizes it’s Mum, not Mickey, as she’d been hoping despite herself. And as soon as she hears Mum’s downtrodden tone, she knows.
“It’s Tish,” Mum says with little emotion. “She’s been arrested again.”
Static fills Martha’s head as she slumps to the floor. Tish had promised that she was going to turn herself around, but those promises were as empty as her.
“Broke into a car,” Mum added.” She didn’t take more than pocket change, but given her record…”
“Yeah, I know.” Another addition to Tish’s long rap sheet. Petty theft. Fighting. Pickpocketing. Mum’s question hangs in the air, unspoken. Driving across town feels like a Herculean effort, and for once, she doesn’t know if she can do it.
When Martha doesn’t say anything for several seconds, Mum says, “I could call Leo.”
“No,” she replies, firm and resolute. This isn’t her brother’s responsibility, and she can’t let Mum and Dad deal with the police alone. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
—
By the time the Jones family gets home, it’s almost 2 am. They found Tish in her cell with bloodied clothes while an indifferent guard looked on. That was the most painful part, how he looked at her sister as just another junkie. When Dad saw the state she was in, he’d nearly launched himself at the guard, and Martha had had to restrain him.
“I’ll stay the night,” Martha tells her Mum when they’ve put Tish to bed. “Should check her in the morning anyway, for withdrawal symptoms.”
Mum nods absently as she stares at Tish’s closed bedroom door. “That’s not who she is. You know that, right, love? She wasn’t like that before the Valiant.”
The last word is brittle in her mouth. Martha thinks back to tea parties, borrowing her sister’s clothes, often without permission, and how she’d looked up to Tish. And how far she’s fallen.
“Get some rest, Mum,” Martha says softly.
Mum goes upstairs as Martha searches the linen closet, hoping there are clean sheets for the couch. None of them keeps up with laundry, but that’s the least of their concerns. She doesn’t know how Mum and Dad can stand to look at her, after what she’s put them through.
On the couch, Martha can’t sleep, despite being exhausted. She runs her hands over her flat stomach as if she could touch what was growing inside. She didn’t mention the baby to her parents. Another grandchild would be just the thing to brighten Mum’s spirits, but she’s not ready to tell anyone, not yet. In the darkness, she can only see the outlines of the recliner, the telly, the bookcase, like background scenery. Her family survived what didn’t happen, but they’ve barely lived since.
The night drags on, as she wills herself to sleep. The living room window is open, and the scent of smoke drifts in, tensing her and sharpening her senses. She's a steel trap. She's alert. She's on the run. She’s back in Okayama.
She’s running as bombs fall around her, lungs screaming as she breathes in ash and burnt flesh. Bodies are falling on all sides, footsteps crunching over rubble and bone. The bomb sirens have long stopped, blasted to bits. A silver sphere zips towards her, sending a scattering of bullets, and she hits the ground, choking on dust. All of her allies, the Resistance members who risked her lives to get her there, her safe house hosts, their children, some no older than five, all dead. All because of The Master.
Pulling herself back up, she stumbles as she starts running again, but she’s not strong enough, not fast enough, surrounded by death, bodies are strewn across the landscape, every step could be her last…
Martha bolts upright, panting. She can’t get enough air as her heart pounds. Eyes darting left and right, she assures herself it’s all in the past, a past that never happened, it’s gone. He’s gone. She’s safe. They’re all safe.
She can still see his face as clear as if it was yesterday, the face that’s haunted her nightmares. Beady little eyes. That triumphant sneer. Thought you could get away from me, didn’t you Martha?
The Master. The man that had kidnapped her family, tortured them in unspeakable ways. He’d ravaged the planet, and that none of it happened did nothing to dispel her rage against him. Worst, yet, the Doctor forgave him. Forgave him, after what he’d put all of them through.
Leaning against the couch, she peels her sweat-slicked top away from her body. The nightmares about that year don’t happen as often as they used to, but they still leave her distraught. She wishes she had someone to talk to, but Martha can’t place another burden on Mum, and she hasn’t talked to Mickey since he texted to say he was staying with mates. Instead, she’ll do what she’s always done. In med school. With the Doctor. In UNIT. Running on adrenaline and need, to save her patient, the world, the future. Suck it up and keep going. Lying back on the couch, tense with fear, Martha doesn’t know what’s worse, going back to sleep, or not sleeping at all.
--
Tish is already gone when Martha wakes up the next morning. Off to find her dealer, to get the next hit. After Martha texts her with no response, she considers calling out for her shift but decides against it. Work will keep her hands and mind occupied. She rushes home to change into a blouse and slacks with low heels before going to work. Her white coworkers can get away with coming to work after all-nighters and changing into scrubs. But if Martha tries that, she gets mistaken for a nursing assistant. Or worse, the cleaning lady.
Martha has worked in A&E for the past 18 months. The emergency medicine experience on her CV is a fabrication from UNIT, from when she’d called in a favor, but the fieldwork she’s done more than qualifies her for her position. Everyone is pleased with her performance, but at times, the thought of another diabetes check or sore throat makes her want to scream. She’d thought A&E would be more exciting, like the TV shows. But today, she’s grateful her most intense patient is a radius fracture.
There are days she misses the alien hunting, the thrill of the unknown, the chase. Light on her feet, running from danger. Blood pounding in her ears as she comes face to face with a Judoon, a stray Cyberman, a slug with a gaping maw of a thousand horrible teeth. The triumph as she stood over their motionless bodies, having underestimated her, a human with her wits and a black market rifle. But that’s not who she is anymore. She’s given it up for something greater. Something better.
While she’s in the office updating records, Carmen, her colleague, approaches her with two styrofoam cups. “Hey, brought some coffee.” At seeing Martha, her smile falters. “Looks like you need both of these.”
Martha reaches for one out of instinct, but draws back. “No thanks.”
“Are you sure? You look like death.” Carmen sets the cup on her desk.
“I can’t,” Martha says, a little too sharply, and when Carmen’s mouth draws in a small O, she realizes she’s said too much.
“You’re pregnant.”
“No, I”m not.”
“Yeah, you are! Couldn’t sleep with my first either.” Carmen says. “How far along are ya?”
Martha sighs as she slumps back into her chair, careful not to bend too far back. No doubt the chair is older than she is. “Six weeks.”
“Does this mean you and the hubby have patched things up?”
“Not exactly. Haven’t told him yet.”
Carmen’s brow wrinkles with concern. She’s Martha’s closest friend at the hospital and the only one who knows Mickey left. “Have you thought of seeing a marriage counselor? That’ll get him straightened out in no time.”
Martha tries not to laugh. What would they say to a marriage counselor? We met on a Dalek spaceship. Mickey had just come back from a parallel universe. I wanted to give up alien hunting to start a family, and he didn’t think we needed to. Which one of us is right? “I’ll think about it.”
Carmen patted her hand. “If you need to take a break today, just holler. I'll cover your patients.”
“Thanks. I should get back to entering these patient notes.” She gestures to her screen.
“Any time,” Carmen says. “Motherhood changes you, right from the very beginning. For the first time, there’s something bigger and important that you’ll always put before yourself.”
Carmen goes back to the exam rooms, and Martha sits, head in her hands, feeling the weight of her colleague’s words. There’d been a time she’d held the welfare of the entire human population on her shoulders. Why was one—her child–so daunting?
—
Martha gets through the rest of the day, holding herself in. She’s friendly, even upbeat, with her coworkers, just as she has been for the past three weeks. But by the end of the day, she’s spent. All she wants to do is go home and lie down.
She has a decision to make, and not much time to do it.
She knows several of the gynecologists at her hospital; she’s spoken with them for consults. She’s referred several patients to them for terminations, and there’s no doubt they’d show her the same care and discretion, but Martha doesn’t know if she could do that. She already feels a bond between herself and what is growing inside her (she doesn’t allow the word baby to form in her mind, to allow for some detachment). Besides, Martha couldn’t deny Mum another grandchild, not after everything her family had gone through...because of her.
The thought of raising a baby by herself weighed her down like chains. Managing school conferences and 3 am feedings. So many of her patients were single mums, aged beyond their years, children hanging off of them.
The third option-raise the baby with Mickey-is out of reach. Their last argument still echoed in her ears:
“You gave your dad five hundred quid? Without asking me?!”
“They needed it for the mortgage. They were going to lose their house! Dad will pay us back. It’s just until he gets another job.”
“They’re never going to pay it back. You know that.” Mickey flopped in his chair, the brown corduroy one in front of the telly.
“It’s just until he gets another job—”
“Oh, can it Martha! This what, the third one he lost?!” Mickey throws up his hands. “What’s it now?”
“Got into an argument with the foreman.” She blinked back tears.
“Why didn’t you ask me before lending them the money?”
She’d stood there, not answering, because I knew you would say no. He’d done so, many times.
Five hundred quid. Her laptop cost more. She’s gone through that conversation in her head dozens of times a day since Mickey left, but that argument was only a symptom, not the cause. Things between them had been rocky, on and off, for a while. Resentments had grown between them like weeds in sidewalk cracks. It might be better that he left because he’d never understand.
As she walks through the car park, Martha nearly bumps into a man as she rounds a corner, dropping her handbag and spilling its contents everywhere. “Oh, bloody hell!” she snaps.
The man crouches down, and starts helping gather her things. “Rough day?”
“You could say that,” she mutters. “Sorry. It’s just I didn’t sleep last night, worried about some family things, and now my favorite lipstick’s covered in motor oil. It’s just one thing after another.”
“You’re made of tougher stuff than that, Martha.”
Martha tenses to her toes. How does this man know who she is? Purse forgotten, she studies him. Brown-skinned, about her age, with dark eyes that gleam with delight. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, the way he says her name, but she can’t place it. She wonders if she met him at a conference, but she’d remember a man who wore purple suits. That type of bloke stands out. She has no weapon, but she’s trained in three forms of unarmed combat. She can have him on the ground in seconds, if necessary,but she tries the less violent option first.
“Sorry, have we met?” She keeps it cordial but watches him for any sign of danger.
“Oh, we know each other very well.” His broad grin reveals shining white teeth. “Though my face may be a little different--regeneration’s a lottery and all that--it’s still me.”
Realization sparks in her.
It’s him.
He’s come back.
He’s regenerated.
And in a moment she’s rushing over to him for a hug. As his arms close around her, she presses herself into the stiff fabric of his suit, feeling the twin heartbeats beneath them.
“Doctor,” her voice is muffled against his chest. “It’s so good to see you.”
“I know it’s been a long time. But don’t worry, Martha Jones. Whatever you’re facing won’t keep you down.” He strokes her back. “The Doctor will see you now.”