yearning for love @moltenkardia - Tumblr Blog

Mar 8

ᯓ★My Dear John Smith

★ Part 1 ★ Part 2 ★ Part 3 ★

✰ Word Count: 17.5k ✰ Summary:John Smith is just a simple teacher. John Smith has feelings for the school's librarian. John Smith doesn’t know he’s a Time Lord. John Smith doesn’t know she’s his wife. ✰ Warnings: Takes place over the episode Human Nature, 10th Doctor, Established Relationship, Martha knows her place, ain't nobody care bout that nurse, Joan minds her business, Mostly PG with a suggestive make out sesh, John is Whipped ✰ Rating: PG-13

✰ Notes: This will follow the plot of the Episode. I tried to avoid using direct quotes, but I wrote this while watching the episode, so it runs closely parallel.

PS. This took me A WEEK, yall. Also its in parts cause tumbler has a character limit lol. found that out the hard way.

The morning sun spills through the thin curtains in pale gold stripes, warming the small room and the narrow bed within it. John Smith wakes slowly, pleasantly rested, limbs heavy in the way they only ever are after deep sleep. For a moment, he lies still, staring up at the ceiling, watching dust motes drift lazily through the light.

Stretching, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and reaches for the robe hanging from the chair. The floor is cold beneath his bare feet, the old wood creaking softly as he stands. He ties the robe loosely over his pyjamas, still half-asleep, when a knock sounds at the door.

Two quick raps.

“Come in,” he calls, voice soothed with sleep.

The door opens, and Martha steps inside, balancing a tray in her hands. Steam curls gently from a teapot; the scent of toast and eggs follows her in. She pauses when she sees him standing there in his robe.

“You’re not properly dressed,” she says, tone light but firm, turning to excuse herself. “I can come back if you like.”

John smiles, a little embarrassed, tugging the robe closer around himself. “It’s quite all right, truly. Set it down.”

She studies him for a heartbeat. There is something in her eyes he doesn’t quite understand, then she nods and steps fully into the room. She sets the tray down on the small table with practiced care, adjusting the cup so the handle faces outward.

“You slept well?” she asks.

“Very,” he replies easily. “Rather better than usual, actually. I had an extraordinary dream.”

She drifts further into the room, fingers finding the edge of the curtains. “What did you dream last night?” she asks, casual as breathing.

John shifts his weight, leaning back against the edge of his desk. The wood is cool through his sleeve. He watches her rather than the breakfast, eyes following as she moves, unpinning the day, inch by inch.

She pulls the curtain aside. Sunlight floods the room at once, filling the corners that had been content with shadow. Dust motes leap into view, dancing.

He hesitates. His gaze drifts upward, unfocused, searching the air as though the answer might be written there. “Sometimes,” he begins slowly, “I dream that I’m an adventurer, I suppose. A madman, if you asked anyone sensible.”

She stills for half a second before moving to the other window.

“In the dream,” he continues, warming to it now,“I have a name there,” he adds, almost shyly. “The Doctor.”

Her back is to him, and for one dangerous heartbeat, she lets it show. Her face twists in longing so sharp it nearly steals her breath. She misses him. She inhales, steadying herself. By the time she turns to the second window, her expression is once again perfectly composed.

John doesn’t notice. He’s still looking into nothing, still chasing the echo of a man he doesn’t know he used to be.

“You were there too,” he says suddenly.

Her fingers pause against the curtain tie.

“In my dream,” he explains, smiling faintly, “you were with me. My companion, I think.” He glances at her, amused.

She gives a quiet huff of laughter as she pulls the curtain open, light spilling across the far wall. “A teacher and a housemaid,” she says lightly. “Never, sir.”

“Oh, quite,” he agrees, grin widening. “But then, I wasn’t a teacher in the dream.”

“No?”

“No. I was a man from another world.” He shrugs, easy and unconcerned. “I imagine that gives one a bit more freedom.”

There is more, another part of the dream, hovering just out of reach, embarrassing in the way dreams so often are when dragged into the light of day. He doesn’t look at her as it surfaces; instead, his gaze fixes on the wall opposite him.

There had been a woman, another of the staff here at the school. Quiet in her own way, kind and clever. The sort of woman whose presence lingers after she’s gone, whose smile he always seems to notice when he least expects it. She has caught his eye more than once in waking life, though he has never had the nerve to do more than exchange polite words with her in the corridor.

In the dream, there had been no such hesitation. In the dream, she had been his wife.

The memory of it makes his ears warm. The way she’d looked at him there, as though she had always known him. They had kissed, just once. Sweet and gentle and simple. He exhales softly through his nose, almost laughing at himself. The man he is in his dreams is a lucky one. Bold in ways John Smith has never quite managed to be.

He is certainly not about to confess that part of it to the maid standing across the room. Friendly as they are, she is still almost a stranger. And some dreams, especially foolish ones, are best kept private.

She turns back to him with a smile practiced enough to pass for effortless and holds out the folded newspaper. He takes it with a murmur of thanks.

“Monday,” she says lightly. “Don’t let the boys catch you unprepared.”

He glances down at the masthead, eyes skimming automatically.

Monday, November 10th, 1913.

The date means nothing to him beyond its usefulness. Another day. Another timetable. Another small, orderly square in a life that feels comfortably, reassuringly ordinary.

To her, it feels like a weight. He doesn’t remember her. Not the way he once did. Now she is just a maid, a friendly face, someone who brings his breakfast and reminds him of the time.

He has no idea that the dreams he speaks of so casually are memories, that the madman, the adventurer, the man called the Doctor, is not imagination but history. His history.

She wonders, not for the first time, if it hurts him more or her.

Her gaze drifts to the far wall, as if she might see through it. She thinks of her friend. Of the woman who loves him fiercely enough to let him forget her. Wherever she is now, she’s likely doing exactly what she was told, blending in, keeping her head down, working quietly among strangers who have no idea how close they are to the center of the universe.

She always was better at following his orders. Martha was always envious of her for how simple all the chaos was to her.

John clears his throat softly, drawing her back. “Anything interesting in the news?” he asks, already half-smiling.

She shakes her head. “Nothing that concerns you, sir.” Martha straightens, smoothing her apron as if she has suddenly remembered her place in the world.

“I should be getting on,” she says lightly. “Plenty to do.”

John looks up from the paper at once. He folds it neatly, setting it aside before standing, manners drilled into him as firmly as Latin declensions. “Of course. Thank you again, Martha.”

“Have a good day, John.”

“You as well.”

He lifts a hand in a polite wave as she turns for the door, fingers brushing the frame as she steps out into the corridor. She doesn’t look back. The door closes softly behind her, clicking into place with a finality that makes his chest feel oddly hollow.

John stands there for a moment, hand still half-raised, before letting it fall.

John Smith walks down the corridor, the echoes of recited dates and uneven handwriting still ringing faintly in his ears. Lessons finished for now, he moves to retrieve what will be needed for his next lectures.

Down near the stairwell, two women kneel side by side on the tiled floor, sleeves rolled up, skirts tucked carefully out of the way as they scrub at a stubborn patch of grime. The sharp scent of soap hangs in the air.

Martha looks up first. Their eyes meet, and she smiles, polite “Good morning, Mr. Smith,” she says.

He returns it without hesitation, inclining his head. “Yes, good morning.”

He offers a brief, professional nod and continues on, footsteps fading as he takes the stairs, already half-lost to his next task. The moment is brief. Nothing at all.

And yet, as Martha lowers her gaze back to the floor, the smile lingers. Seeing him, even like this, even reduced to manners and distance, still warms something in her chest.

Beside her, Jenny snorts softly. “You always smile like that when he walks by,” she says, scrubbing with exaggerated effort. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re sweet on Mr. Smith.”

Martha huffs a quiet laugh, dipping her brush back into the bucket. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, I’m serious,” Jenny insists, grinning sideways at her. “Though I don’t know why, considering his head in the clouds.”

Martha shakes her head. “He’s just… kind,” she says after a moment. “Kinder than most.”

Jenny’s teasing softens. “That so?”

“Yes.” Martha keeps her eyes on the floor as she speaks, voice steady. “Especially considering… well.” She gestures vaguely at herself. “Not everyone here is very welcoming.”

Jenny hums, thoughtful now. “That does count for something.”

“It does,” Martha agrees quietly.

Just as they settle back into their rhythm, brushes moving in quiet tandem, footsteps echo down the corridor. Two boys, sixteen, perhaps seventeen, saunter past them, blazers immaculate, shoes polished to a shine neither woman could ever afford. Their voices carry that particular tone of bored entitlement, sharpened by the knowledge that nothing here truly belongs to the people maintaining it.

One of them slows, glancing down at the kneeling women with open disdain.

“Now then, you two,” he says. “You’re not paid to have fun.”

Martha and Jenny are both still at once.

“Yes, sir,” Jenny answers quickly, head bowed.

“Sorry, sir,” Martha adds, her voice even, practiced. She keeps her eyes on the floor. They both do. They know better than to meet his gaze. The second boy laughs, a short, sharp sound. He leans closer, hands clasped behind his back as if inspecting their work.

“Though I suppose,” he says lazily, eyes flicking to Martha’s hands, “it’d be hard to tell if the floor’s clean anyway. With hands like that.”

He gestures vaguely, mockingly, at her skin. For a moment, everything in Martha goes very still.

Her mouth tightens into something that might pass for a smile if one didn’t look too closely. Her shoulders remain straight. Her hands do not stop moving, though her grip on the brush turns white-knuckled.

She does not respond. She cannot. The boys laugh, loud, pleased with themselves. Posh scoffs and chuckles, elbows nudging each other as though they’ve just delivered the cleverest line in England.

The boys have barely turned to leave when a voice stops them.

“That will be quite enough.” It is calm, which somehow makes it worse.

They freeze mid-step. Standing a few paces behind them is a woman they both recognize at once, the new librarian.

She wore a sensible skirt and a blouse buttoned neatly at the collar. She looks, at first glance, exactly like what she is known to be here: wise, patient, unassuming. The sort of woman who remembers which boys struggle with Latin declensions and quietly slips extra books onto their desks. The sort who stays late to help them catch up without ever making them feel small.

She is kind, and she is respected.

Her eyes move from one boy to the other, taking them in with a measured stillness that makes their smirks falter.

“I happened to hear you,” she continues gently. “And I am deeply disappointed.”

One of the boys scoffs, trying to recover his footing. “We were only joking, miss.”

“No,” she says softly. “You weren’t.”

Behind them, Martha’s breath catches. To the school, this woman is simply another member of staff. To Martha, she is something else entirely.

She is the Doctor’s wife.

The woman who has stood beneath alien skies and never flinched. Who has run toward danger with her chin lifted and her hand steady in his. Who has stared down Daleks and Cybermen and horrors without names, not with weapons, but with the absolute certainty that cruelty does not get to win.

Martha knows that look on her face.

The boys shift uncomfortably.

“You will apologize,” the librarian says. “Now.”

There is a beat of silence.

One boy laughs weakly. “I don’t see why-”

“Apologize,” she repeats, her voice unchanged.

Something in her eyes sharpens. The corridor seems to lean toward her.

The first boy swallows. His bravado cracks, just a little. “Sorry,” he mutters, not looking at Martha.

She tilts her head. “That was not addressed to me.”

Both boys turn, reluctantly, toward the women still kneeling on the floor. Jenny stares back, stunned. Martha lifts her gaze slowly.

“I said,” the librarian adds, “now.”

“I- sorry,” the second boy says at last, face flushed, words rushed and graceless.

The first echoes him, quieter this time. “Sorry.”

“Good,” she says. “You may go.”

They do not wait to be told twice. Shoes scuff sharply against the stone as they retreat down the corridor, their laughter conspicuously absent now.

The librarian turns then, attention settling gently on the two women. Her expression softens at once, the steel she used so sparingly slipping back beneath warmth.

“I’m sorry you were spoken to that way,” she says. “It was unacceptable.”

Jenny nods, still a little wide-eyed. “Thank you, miss.”

Martha doesn’t speak right away. She looks at her friend instead. The woman who is pretending, bravely, to be ordinary. The woman who loves a man who no longer knows her. The woman who has crossed eternity and still kneels here, defending dignity in a quiet English corridor.

The librarian steps closer, skirts brushing the tile as she approaches them properly now. The authority she wielded a moment ago is gone, folded away like a well-read page, replaced with something warmer.

“Are you both all right?” she asks.

Jenny nods quickly, already scrambling to her feet. “Yes, miss. Thank you- truly. That was very kind of you.”

The woman smiles at her, gentle and sincere. “Of course. No one deserves to be spoken to that way.”

Her gaze shifts then, sharper, and lands squarely on Martha. For just a heartbeat, the mask slips.

Martha looks up at her and smiles, something fond and knowing curling at the edges. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “For stepping in.”

The woman exhales through her nose, lips twitching. “Well. Can’t have my reputation ruined.” She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “Just my civic duty.” A mock serious salute.

Martha snorts before she can stop herself, laughter spilling out, sudden and real. “God, don’t start.”

Jenny blinks between them. “I don’t think I follow.”

“That’s quite all right,” the librarian says smoothly, patting Jenny’s shoulder. She turns back to Martha, voice lowering just enough. “Come see me later. When you’ve a moment.”

Martha nods at once. “I will.”

For a second longer, they hold each other’s gaze, two women carrying the weight of a man who no longer knows either of them, two friends standing guard in very different ways.

Then the librarian straightens, smile returning to its public version. “Take care of yourselves,” she says, and with that she moves on, footsteps light as she ascends the stairs.

Martha watches her go, warmth settling in her chest.

Jenny looks at her sideways. “You two know each other well.”

Martha dips her brush back into the bucket, still smiling. “You could say that.”

The stairs creak softly beneath her sensible shoes as she climbs, one hand trailing along the banister out of habit. She doesn’t realize she’s following John Smith’s path, only that this is the quickest way to the headmaster’s office, and that her patience is wearing thin.

“Honestly,” she mutters under her breath, barely aware she’s doing it. “If one more boy insists he definitely returned a book that has quite clearly vanished into the ether, I may start charging rent for imaginary shelves.”

Her lips purse as she reaches the landing. It is, in her mind, a matter of principle. Books are meant to be returned. Respect for the library is respect for knowledge itself, and she takes both rather seriously. Asking politely has only gone so far, smiles, promises, and nothing delivered. The headmaster, she hopes, might help her devise something firmer. A system. Consequences. Accountability.

She turns down the corridor, still muttering. “Not even obscure texts, either. Greek primers, school histories- one would think they’d at least lose something interesting-”

She stops short, realizing she’s speaking aloud again.

The habit sneaks up on her sometimes. Thinking out loud, muttering when she’s irritated, or when her thoughts start moving faster than propriety allows. She’d been terribly self-conscious of it once, long ago, apologizing, flushing, trying to swallow her words before they escaped.

Oh, don’t stop, he’d said then, eyes bright with delight. It’s like listening to the universe sort itself out.

A smile tugs at her mouth despite herself.

Later, much later, he’d admitted, a little sheepishly, that he’d always found it adorable. Amusing when she was just his companion. Endearing when she became his wife.

The memory slows her steps.

For a moment, the corridor seems longer, quieter. She lets the smile linger, bittersweet but warm, carrying it with her as she resumes walking. There are still rules to enforce, books to recover.

As if the universe was listening to her, she rounds the corner and there he is. For a moment, the world narrows to the length of the corridor.

John Smith is heading toward her, arms wrapped around a precarious tower of books stacked from his stomach nearly to his chin, loose papers threatening mutiny on top. He walks carefully, brow furrowed in concentration, every step measured as though the fate of the universe depends on keeping the pile upright.

She stops without realizing she has. It steals her breath in the quietest way.

He is still handsome to her. Still him. It doesn’t matter that the face is different from the one she first met, or that the sharp angles and familiar grin belong to another incarnation entirely.

Still brilliant. Still trying to carry too much at once. Except now it's books and not the burdens of a Time Lord.

She watches him for a heartbeat longer than she should, affection blooming warm and unguarded in her chest. She remembers the first time she saw him, another face, another smile, another impossible man, and how she had known, instantly and irrevocably, that her life would never be the same.

He adjusts his grip, a corner of paper slipping loose. She almost steps forward on instinct, the urge to help him so natural it aches.

My dear, she thinks softly, fondly. You never did learn to ask for help.

For now, she simply stands there and admires him as he approaches, this man who no longer knows her, who believes himself human, who has forgotten the stars and still somehow carries their gravity with him.

As he draws closer, shifting the weight of the books yet again, John finally lifts his eyes and stops short.

It’s her.

The woman from his dream. The one whose face had lingered long after he woke, whose smile had felt impossibly familiar. The librarian. She is also the woman he kissed and called his wife, only in sleep.

She smiles at him first, polite and warm. “Good morning, Mr. Smith.”

His grin comes easily, reflexive. “Good morn-”

The papers slip thanks to just enough distraction. The loose stack slides off the top of the books and flutters to the floor in an undignified scatter. A few pages skid across the wood. One spins to a stop by her feet.

“Oh-blast it,” he mutters, cheeks warming as he stares down at the mess. “I’m so sorry, I- clearly I’ve taken on more than I can manage.”

Before he can try to crouch, she’s already bending down, movements smooth and unhurried. She gathers the papers neatly, tapping the edges together with practiced ease.

“No harm done,” she says lightly.

He lets out a breathy laugh, half mortified, half relieved. “I was trying to convince myself I could manage.”

“And failing admirably,” she teases gently.

She straightens and hands the papers back to him, then pauses, eyes flicking to the remaining tower of books wobbling in his arms.

“Here,” she adds. “Let me help.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly-”

“Nonsense,” she says, already reaching for the stack. “I’m a librarian. Taking care of books is quite literally my job.”

He laughs again, softer this time. “Well, when you put it that way…”

She relieves him of half the pile with ease, then she places the papers carefully on top of what remains in his arms, straightening them with the same reverence she gives every book.

“There,” she says. “Much safer.”

“Thank you,” he replies, and means far more than the words cover.

As they start walking together, John realizes that he has stopped paying attention to where he’s going. His gaze keeps drifting back to her face, the line of her smile, the quiet confidence in the way she carries herself.

He stares at her, openly now, caught somewhere between admiration and disbelief. Amusement flickers in her eyes, gentle and knowing, but she says nothing, letting him look.

She adjusts her grip on the books, glancing down the corridor ahead of them. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen the headmaster this morning?”

John blinks, dragged back into the present. “I have, actually. Just after first lesson.” He tilts his head, thinking. “But I’m afraid he was on his way to a meeting. He should be in it by now.”

Her shoulders sag just slightly. “Ah.” She exhales, then murmurs under her breath, “Blast.” The word is soft, unladylike, and entirely sincere.

Almost at once she straightens, brushing the moment away as though it never happened. “Never mind. I’ll catch him later.”

John hesitates, curiosity getting the better of him. “If you don’t mind my asking, what seems to be the trouble?”

She glances at the books in her arms, lips quirking. “People,” she says simply. “Or rather, people who borrow books and forget they ever did. I’ve asked politely, repeatedly. It’s beginning to feel less like forgetfulness and more like a personal slight against the concept of libraries.”

He smiles at that, warm and sympathetic. “A grave offense indeed.”

“Truly,” she agrees, solemn.

“Well,” he says after a moment, brightening, “I could mention it to my students. Impress upon them the importance of returning what they borrow. A bit of peer pressure can be remarkably effective.”

Her face softens at once. “That would be very kind of you.”

“Not at all,” he replies. “I’m quite fond of books myself. I’d hate to see them mistreated.”

She smiles then, genuine and grateful, and the sight of it sends a small, inexplicable thrill through him.

“Thank you, Mr. Smith.”

They walk on in companionable silence for a few steps before she glances around. “So,” she asks lightly, “where are we headed?”

He opens his mouth to answer and stops. He looks down the corridor ahead of them, then behind, then back again, “That’s odd.”

Her eyebrow lifts.

“I appear,” he admits, cheeks warming, “to have gone entirely the wrong way.”

She lets out a soft laugh, the sound catching him off guard. “Lost already?”

“Only mildly,” he says, good-naturedly. “I was meant to be taking these to my next class, but I’ve somehow ended up nowhere near the proper stairwell.”

He turns on his heel, sheepish but smiling. “This way, then.”

He leads her down a narrower corridor toward a back stairwell, footsteps echoing lightly against the stone. She follows without hesitation, amusement dancing in her eyes.

She chuckles again. “Distracted, were you?”

He clears his throat. “It does happen.”

They descend together, steps measured, books hugged close as their footsteps echo softly down the stairwell. When they reach the second landing, her attention drifts, and then catches.

She slows, eyes lighting on a small bulletin board nailed into the wall. A brightly lettered flier sits pinned among notices for lost gloves and Latin clubs.

ANNUAL VILLAGE DANCE

“Oh,” she says, stopping outright.

John pauses a step below her and turns back. He watches her read it, really watches her, the way her mouth curves into a small smile, the way something unguarded flickers across her face.

“I hadn’t realized that was so soon,” she murmurs. “Tomorrow already.”

“The dance?” he asks, following her gaze.

She nods. “Yes.”

For a moment, she seems almost tempted by the idea. Then she glances at him, casual but curious. “Are you attending?”

John blinks. “I-” He looks at the flier, then back at her. “No. I mean, I hadn’t even thought about it, to be honest.”

“And you?” he asks, before he can overthink it. “Were you planning to go?”

She shakes her head. “No.” Then, after a beat, she adds honestly, “It would be fun, I think. But I’ve no one to go with.”

Something quiet slips into her voice then, something more personal. “It’s been a while,” she admits, almost sheepish, “since anyone asked me to dance.”

The words stir a memory she does not invite but cannot stop.

A different place. Soft golden light spilling across the Tardis console room as music hums low and distant. His hands warm and sure at her waist. Her arms loose around his shoulders. His head bowed, temple resting against hers as they sway.

No running. No danger. Just the two of them, breathing together.

The ache blooms suddenly in her chest. She draws in a careful breath, steadying herself, and lets the memory settle back where it belongs, folded away, precious and painful all at once. When she looks back at John, her smile is gentler now, a little sad around the edges but no less sincere.

“I-” He clears his throat.

She stills, watching him with open curiosity.

He fidgets, shifting the books in his arms, then realizes she’s carrying half of them and flushes deeper. “I mean- well- you said you hadn’t anyone to go with and I—” He laughs, a nervous little sound. “That is, not that I’m assuming you’d want to go with me, of course, that would be terribly forward, and you’ve every right to say no, and I’d completely understand-”

He stops, winces, and barrels on anyway.

“I thought, perhaps, if you were inclined-”

The words tangle and trip over each other. He grimaces, already retreating. “I’m sorry, this was foolish. Please ignore me. I didn’t mean to-”

Her smile stops him. A soft and amused thing that did wonders to encourage him forward. There’s a twinkle in her eye that makes his breath catch. She doesn’t interrupt him. She doesn’t look uncomfortable. She looks… fond.

Something steadies inside him. He swallows, straightens, and tries again.

“What I mean is,” he says more carefully, “I would very much like to take you to the dance. If you’d have me.”

For a heartbeat, the world holds its breath. Then his foot slips.

It’s absurdly sudden. One moment he’s standing, nerves buzzing through him; the next, his heel finds nothing but air. The edge of the top step disappears beneath him and his balance goes with it.

The books lurch. His arms flail uselessly as gravity makes its opinion known.

“John!” she cries.

The books hit the stairs first, thudding and skidding, pages scattering like startled birds. She drops the rest without hesitation and lunges forward, heart in her throat as he tumbles backward, limbs tangling, body bouncing down the steps in a graceless, breathless sprawl.

“John- John!” Her voice echoes sharply with panic.

She’s at the railing in an instant, skirts forgotten, pulse roaring in her ears as she stares down at him. All the careful walls she’s built, the restraint, the distance, the rules, crack in the face of the one thing she cannot bear.

Him hurt.

John lies there with a groan, the world reduced to sharp edges and aching noise. Tile presses cold and unforgiving into his back, pain radiating everywhere at once, shoulder, hip, head, too loud for thought, too immediate for dignity.

“-you there,” a voice snaps nearby, brisk and commanding. “You- yes, you. Run and fetch the nurse. Now.”

Footsteps scatter, hurried and obeying. Then she is there again. Right there.

“John,” she says, softly at first. “John, can you hear me?”

The sound of his name cuts through the haze. He blinks, vision swimming, and when his eyes finally focus, she’s above him, kneeling on the tile, skirts pooled forgotten at her knees. Her brow is drawn tight in a deep frown, eyes shining a little too brightly with worry she hasn’t quite mastered away.

“There you are,” she murmurs, relief threading through her voice even as concern sharpens it. “Stay with me.”

“I-” He winces as he tries to shift, thinks better of it. “I seem to have… made a bit of a fool of myself.”

Her breath hitches. “Don’t,” she says immediately. “Don’t talk like that.”

She leans closer, hands hovering before settling gently at his shoulders, steadying him, grounding him. “Keep your eyes open, please. Just for me. You may have hit your head.”

“A concussion?” he guesses weakly.

“Possibly,” she says, and the word carries far more fear than she means it to.

He swallows and does as she asks, keeping his eyes on her face. It’s difficult to look away anyway. She’s so close he can see the fine lines of worry at the corner of her eyes, the way her lips press together when she concentrates. Her hands move carefully, checking his temples, his arms, his ribs, fussing over him with an intimacy that makes his ears burn even through the pain.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he mutters again. “I didn’t mean to-”

“John,” she interrupts, firm but gentle. “You fell. That’s all that matters.”

Her fingers brush his sleeve, then his wrist, checking his pulse. The contact sends a strange warmth through him, utterly at odds with the ache in his body.

He laughs faintly, immediately regrets it. “If I weren’t in quite so much pain,” he admits, “this would be rather a pleasant way to pass the morning.”

She exhales a breath that might be a laugh, might be a sob. “You’re impossible.”

John sits carefully on the edge of the chair beside his desk, hands folded in his lap as though he’s afraid moving them might undo him entirely. The school’s nurse, Joan, stands directly behind him, fingers prodding at his head, then tilting it this way and that.

“Any dizziness?” she asks.

“No,” John answers promptly. “Well, only the usual sort one feels after humiliating oneself in a stairwell.”

She hums. “Nausea?”

“No.”

“Blurred vision?”

“No, I- well, no.”

She straightens with a satisfied sniff. “Then you’re quite all right, Mr. Smith. A bruise or two, nothing more.”

Just two feet to his right, the librarian leans back against his desk, arms folded loosely, posture composed. Her expression is calmer now, but the worry hasn’t fully left her eyes. She watches the nurse’s hands carefully, as though memorizing every place they touch him just in case.

The door flies open without warning.

“Sir, are you alright?” Martha skids to a halt just inside the threshold, breathless, eyes wide with concern.

The nurse whirls around. “Excuse me?”

Martha blinks. “I just wanted to see if he was all right.”

The nurse gives her a pointed look. “And you thought bursting into a master’s study without so much as a knock was appropriate?” Her voice sharpens. “You may be staff, but that does not excuse rudeness. Or impropriety.”

Martha opens her mouth. Closes it. Then exhales slowly.

Behind the nurse, the librarian’s lips twitch.

“Oh, right then, my apologies,” Martha says, tone so flat it could frost glass. She backs out into the corridor, turns very deliberately, and raps her knuckles against the already open door.

She steps back inside. “Is he all right?”

John bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

The nurse does not share his struggle. “Yes,” she snaps. “As I just said, he is quite fine.”

Martha folds her arms. “Have you checked him for a concussion?”

The nurse scoffs. “I assure you, I know far more about such matters than you do.”

There’s a brief pause, then the librarian speaks.

“Actually,” she says mildly, “Martha studied medicine.”

All eyes turn to her.

“She’s been keeping up with her studies while working here,” the librarian continues, gesturing vaguely toward the shelves as if the walls themselves are witnesses. “Borrowed several medical texts from the library, in fact. Quite diligent.”

Martha blinks once, then nods solemnly. “Very diligent.”

The nurse’s mouth opens. Closes. Her cheeks color.

“Well,” she says stiffly, straightening her apron. “Be that as it may, Mr. Smith shows no signs of concussion at present.”

“Good,” Martha replies pleasantly.

John looks between them, eyebrows lifted, openly impressed. “I had no idea,” he says to Martha.

She shrugs. “One picks things up.”

The librarian meets Martha’s eyes for just a second, amused, approving, fond.

The nurse clears her throat. “I’ll check on you again later, Mr. Smith,” she says curtly, already moving toward the door.

Once she’s gone, the room exhales.

Martha immediately steps closer. “You scared me,” she says, softer now. “How do you feel?”

“Sore,” John admits. “But remarkably well cared for.”

His gaze drifts, unthinking, to the librarian still leaning against his desk. She meets his eyes, something warm and unreadable passing between them.

“Yes,” she says quietly. “You were.”

And John Smith, sitting there bruised and breathless and inexplicably full of awe, knows with sudden certainty that whatever else today has been, it has been anything but ordinary.

Martha clears her throat and, almost visibly, steps back into her role. She reaches for the scattered papers and the fallen books with practiced efficiency. “I’ll tidy up,” she says, as though she hasn’t already crossed galaxies for the man sitting in that chair.

John nods gratefully. “Thank you.”

She moves about the room, straightening, stacking, restoring order where chaos briefly reigned. The normalcy of it all presses in, a little too tight.

John shifts in his seat, wincing faintly, then glances between the two women. The librarian has in her place by his desk, posture relaxed but attentive, eyes still flicking to him every so often as if checking he hasn’t vanished when she wasn’t looking.

“So,” he says, mostly to fill the silence. Mostly to stop thinking about how close she is. “I was just telling her,” he gestures vaguely toward the librarian, “about my dreams.”

Martha stills for half a second.

Then her eyes lift, bright with sudden interest, as if a switch has been flipped. “Your dreams?”

The librarian straightens at once, attention sharpening, the calm concern on her face giving way to something intent.

John notices both reactions and laughs softly, already a little self-conscious. “Only half of them,” he adds quickly, glancing at Martha. “I mentioned them briefly this morning. Didn’t go into much detail.”

“Oh?” the librarian says gently. “You left out the best parts, then?”

“Well,” He rubs the back of his neck, sheepishly. “That depends on one’s definition of best, I suppose.”

He shifts again, uncomfortable now for reasons that have nothing to do with bruises. “It’s going to sound rather silly,” he warns, waving a hand as if trying to dismiss it before it can embarrass him. “So feel free to stop me if I begin to make a fool of myself again. I seem to have a talent for it today.”

Martha smiles to herself as she continues tidying, but she listens closely.

John exhales and continues, voice light, deliberately casual. “They’re not ordinary dreams. I’m not myself in them. Or rather, I am, but I’m also someone else. Less concerned with gravity and staircases.”

The librarian’s eyes soften.

“There’s traveling,” he goes on, warming to it despite himself. “Impossible traveling. And danger. And-” He laughs again, shaking his head. “Honestly, it sounds absurd when I say it aloud.”

“It doesn’t,” she says quietly.

He looks at her, surprised.

She smiles, encouraging. “Go on.”

And somehow, with the librarian watching him like that and Martha listening like it matters more than it should, John Smith finds himself wanting, very much, to keep talking.

He hesitates, then adds, almost as an afterthought, as though it hardly counts, “I started writing them down.”

Martha’s hands pause mid-tidy.

The librarian’s head lifts at once. “You did?”

He lets out a small, embarrassed laugh. “Only for myself. To make sense of them, really. I was going to stop, but it sort of became a habit, then a hobby.”

“May I see?” she asks. And John finds, rather helplessly, that he cannot say no.

“Well,” He stands, a bit stiffly, brushing off his trousers before moving toward his desk. “I’ve never shown anyone before,” he admits, flustered grin firmly in place as he opens a drawer and pulls out a slim journal, its spine worn from use. “So you must promise not to laugh.”

“I promise,” she says at once.

He hands it over, fingers lingering for the briefest second before letting go.

She takes it with care, as though it might be fragile, and begins to flip through the pages. Her eyes scan lines of cramped handwriting, then widen just slightly at the sketches scattered between paragraphs, angular towers under alien skies, constellations that don’t belong to any Earthly map, and creatures she recognized. Daleks and Ood, Cybermen and Clockwork Droids. His memories, leaking through in his dreams.

As she reads, John keeps talking, unable to stop himself now.

“In the dreams, I’m not from here. Not really, I’m from the future.” He laughs softly. “Quite a ways from it, actually. And there’s this- this blue box. Ridiculous thing, bigger on the inside. It takes me to other worlds.”

She turns a page, doesn’t interrupt him, just keeps reading and her smile grows. John notices, and it does something to him.

“Well,” he says, softer now, “I suppose that’s the worst of it. Mad dreams of boxes and stars.”

She finally looks up at him, eyes bright, expression unreadable in the best way.

“I don’t think it’s foolish,” she says simply.

The relief that washes over him is almost comical.

He flashes a big, dopey grin, “I’m glad,” he says. “Because I rather like them.”

And as she turns another page of the journal, of his memories. On the page is a very beautiful sketch of her. The sketch is rougher than the others, lines uncertain, where the rest of the journal is confident. The strokes overlap as if he’d erased and redrawn more than once, trying to get something right. Her posture, the fall of her hair, the cut of her clothes, she recognizes it instantly.

The outfit she wore when he married her. Her breath catches, sharp and quiet.

She remembers the moment with devastating clarity: the hum of the Tardis beneath her feet, his hands warm and steady at her waist, the way he leaned in and whispered his name against her ear before promising himself to her. The universe had felt very small then. Just the two of them, choosing each other.

She doesn’t know how much of that memory has bled into his dreams. If he remembers the words, the vows, the way he smiled like he couldn’t quite believe his luck. But he remembers her. She traces the edge of the page with her thumb, reverent, grateful in a way that tightens her chest.

John notices the pause.

“Oh-” He leans in, then freezes when he sees what she’s looking at. Color rushes to his face at once. “That- well,” He lets out an awkward laugh, rubbing at his neck. “I didn’t mean for that to seem odd.”

He rushes on, eager to explain it away. “You were just- present, I suppose. In the dreams, both of you were,” he adds quickly, glancing toward Martha, who pretends very hard to be rearranging books on the far side of the room. “I thought if I didn’t write it down, I’d forget the details. And I draw better than I write, sometimes.”

He clears his throat. “Please don’t read too much into it.”

She looks up at him then. The same man. The same soul. The same earnestness. Memory or not, he is still him. Still, the man she chose. Still, the man who chose her.

Her smile is soft. Almost tender enough to hurt, “I think it’s rather lovely,” she says.

Something in his chest gives way. He meets her gaze, and for a moment, the world seems to tilt. Neither of them speaks. They don’t need to. Across the room, Martha watches the way they look at each other and feels a strange, aching relief bloom in her chest.

She clears her throat softly, the sound breaking the fragile stillness between them.

For a fleeting moment, uncertainty creeps in. She doesn’t know whether she’s allowed to want him like this. As John Smith, as a man who smiles shyly and stumbles over his words and doesn’t remember whispering vows into her ear among the stars.

But she lets herself feel something else instead, a strange, out-of-body sort of gratitude. For the first two months after they arrived here, he’d barely looked at her. Polite and distant strangers. It had hurt more than she ever let on. Yet now it’s as though something has shifted, as though whatever part of him remembers how to orbit her has finally found its way back.

He can hardly look away.

John inhales, clearly about to say something, something that makes his shoulders tense and his eyes soften, but then he glances to the side and Martha is still there. He falters, doubt rushing in all at once. His mouth closes. He looks suddenly unsure of his place again, of what he’s allowed to say.

The librarian notices immediately. She smiles at him and then flicks a glance toward Martha that is anything but subtle. Martha catches it and beams.

“Oh,” she says brightly, already stepping back. “Right. I should- yes. I’ll leave you to it.” She pauses at the door, glancing between them, eyes shining. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, John.”

“Thank you, Martha,” he replies, genuinely.

She slips out, closing the door gently behind her.

In the corridor, Martha presses a hand briefly to her chest, overwhelmed with a joy she hadn’t dared to expect. They’re still there. Still them. Even stripped of memory, even buried under months of careful pretending, the connection has found its way back. Like a flame that needed no match to light.

The librarian looks back at John, her smile soft and a little breathless, and whatever he was going to say before suddenly feels possible again.

John breathy laugh that doesn’t quite manage to hide his nerves, “I’m afraid,” he says, glancing anywhere but directly at her, “I’ve made rather a habit of embarrassing myself today.” He grimaces good-naturedly. “At this rate, I’ll have quite a reputation.”

She doesn’t interrupt him. Instead, she closes the journal gently and holds it to her chest, fingers curling around the worn cover as if it’s something precious, which he notices. She watches him with a fondness so deep it nearly aches, her expression soft, full of understanding he can’t quite explain.

The Doctor had rarely been uncertain. He was decisive, brilliant, confident to the point of arrogance at times, when the universe demanded it. A man who spoke with certainty about time, about stars, about things no human should ever have words for.

And yet she recognises him now, just as clearly.

She has walked past his classroom before, slowed her steps without meaning to, listened through the open door. Heard that tone in his voice when he lectured, animated by a confident authority. The same voice he once used to explain the birth of galaxies to her, hands waving, eyes alight with wonder.

The same man.

Even here, even now, John Smith fumbling over his words, uncertain and flushed, she recognizes him. She’s seen this version too. After their first kiss. It was a heated, reckless moment, born of a ‘I refuse to die without doing this’ kind of certainty. And later, safe in the Tarids, when he’d suddenly gone quiet and shy and unsure how to speak to her without frightening her away.

That was just like this.

John Smith is the Doctor, not in face, not in memory, but in everything that matters. The way he looks at her like she is something extraordinary, and is startled by his own feelings.

“You’re allowed to be human,” she says gently. “Especially after a day like this.”

His shoulders ease at that, tension bleeding out of him without his realizing it. “I appreciate you saying so.”

She shifts the journal slightly, still holding it close. “You didn’t make a fool of yourself. I found it all quite charming,” she adds softly. Her brow furrows just slightly, “Aside from you falling down the stairs, that was terrifying. Promise to be more careful, John.”

The way she says his name does something to him.

John’s grin breaks wide and unguarded, giddy in a way that surprises even him. He straightens a little despite the ache in his ribs, nodding quickly. “I promise,” he says. “Absolutely. No more stair-related heroics.”

She huffs a quiet laugh. He laughs too, flustered and bright, eyes shining as if the day’s chaos has finally settled into something wonderful instead of overwhelming.

Night settles over the village in a sharp, biting November cold. The windows of the pub glow warm and amber against the dark, laughter and music spilling out each time the door opens.

The librarian joins Martha and Jenny at a small table just outside, the three of them wrapped in coats. She fits there easily, no stiffness or awkward sense of rank, just another woman grateful for good company.

Jenny watches her with open curiosity, still a little amazed.

“I have to say,” she ventures, smiling as she leans in, “I didn’t expect you to come out with us. Not many ladies in your position would.”

The librarian chuckles softly. “I find it’s much easier to enjoy life when one doesn’t put oneself on a pedestal.”

Jenny grins at that, clearly charmed. She glances between the two women. “I was wondering, if you don’t mind me asking, how do you and Martha know each other? You seemed awfully familiar earlier today.”

At that moment, the pub door opens again, letting in a burst of cold air along with Martha. She carries two glasses and slows when she hears the question.

She sets one drink carefully in front of Jenny. “Here you go,” she says, then looks up with an easy smile.

The librarian doesn’t miss a beat, “We came to town around the same time,” she explains smoothly. “Didn’t know a soul between us.”

Martha nods along, picking up her own drink. “We were both looking for work,” she adds. “It just happened.”

“It did,” the librarian agrees warmly, turning her gaze on Martha. “Some friendships don’t require effort. They simply make sense.” There’s a depth to the way she says it that slips right past Jenny, but not Martha.

Martha meets her eyes over the rim of her glass and understands instantly. This isn’t the librarian speaking to a housemaid; this is the Doctor’s wife speaking to his companion. A truth wrapped in a lie, gentle enough to keep them safe.

Jenny smiles, satisfied. “Well, you’re lucky to have each other.”

Martha lifts her mug slightly in agreement. “Very lucky.”

The librarian grins softly and tugs her coat a little tighter around herself, settling back in her chair as Jenny and Martha fall into easy chatter beside her. Their voices blend together but gradually they fade into background noise, like music drifting from another room.

Her gaze lifts above the pub and the tree line, beyond the thin smear of cloud, the stars glitter cold and sharp against the night. She lets herself look at them for a moment longer than necessary.

Once, she saw stars up close. Watched them burn and die from impossible vantage points. Stood on worlds where the sky was a riot of color and light, where constellations meant something different entirely. She remembers leaning against the console of the Tardis, his shoulder warm at her side, both of them quiet for once as they watched the universe pass by.

She misses the hum of the ship, the rush of danger, the running that always followed the Doctor wherever he went. She misses him.

But she still has her husband, just a quieter version now. The thought steadies her. It’s strange, she thinks, how peace can feel almost as frightening as chaos after so long without it. How sitting still, sharing a drink, and listening to laughter can feel like learning a new language. But still, it was nice, even knowing there are murderous aliens somewhere out there, living out their short lives searching for him.

She exhales slowly and lets the calm settle in her bones.

Her mind drifts back to him without effort. She wonders if he’s in his study now, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed as he grades papers by lamplight. Or perhaps he’s already preparing for bed, moving carefully like he promised, bruises aching just enough to remind him of today.

She wonders if he’ll dream tonight, another memory will surface, of her, of them. Of vows whispered into the hum of a ship that no longer exists in his mind. If he’ll wake with that familiar, puzzled feeling in his chest, carrying love he doesn’t yet have words for.

She hopes so.

The light is brief, a faint blip of green in the sky, so quick it might be mistaken for a trick of the eye, but her smile vanishes instantly. The change in her is so sharp it’s almost frightening.

Martha sees it at once.

The look she wore, she wore when a Judoon platoon leveled weapons on the Moon. When Daleks revealed themselves in Manhattan. When Professor Lazarus mutated and became something monstrous and hungry. The look she gets when the universe stops being quaint and starts being dangerous.

Her body goes subtly rigid, shoulders squaring, chin lifting as her eyes track the place the light had been. Martha follows her gaze just in time to see the green glow blink out, swallowed by the night.

Her stomach drops.

“Did you-” Martha starts, then stops herself, forcing her voice down, casual. Her heart is already racing. “Did you see that?”

“Yes,” she says quietly. Her eyes remain on the sky, calculating, listening for something no one else would know to hear, as the Doctor taught her.

Jenny frowns, craning her neck. “See what?”

Martha swallows and pastes on a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Probably nothing,” she says quickly. “Just light playing tricks. You know how it is.”

Jenny squints upward again. “Didn’t see a thing.”

The librarian finally looks away from the sky, her expression smoothing back into something almost normal, but Martha knows better. She’s seen this woman go from laughing to life-or-death in a heartbeat, and this is the space right before the storm breaks. She reaches for her drink but doesn’t lift it, fingers tight around the mug.

“How far is the school from here?” the librarian asks, mild on the surface.

Martha answers just as calmly. “Ten minutes. Less, if we hurry.”

Jenny laughs nervously. “Hurry? For what?”

The librarian smiles at her then, completely convincing. “Oh, nothing at all,” she says. “Just librarian’s instincts.”

Martha is the first to see her figure break away from the darker stretch of road, skirts hitched just enough to run, breath coming hard in sharp white puffs. The glow from the pub lamps catches her face as she gets closer, and Martha’s stomach tightens.

“Matron?” she says, already rising to her feet. “Are you all right?”

The librarian stands as well, turning just in time to see the school nurse reach them. Joan slows only when she’s right there, stopping between them and the pub, one hand braced on her chest as she tries to catch her breath. Her eyes are wide and fearful, fixed on the sky.

“Did you see it?” Joan asks, voice thin, barely steady. “The light?”

Martha’s heart sink and the librarian’s posture changed at once. She doesn’t crowd Joan.

“Tell me what you saw,” she says calmly.

Joan swallows, glancing upward again, as if afraid it might come back. “Something in the woods,” she says. “A light right overhead. I thought- at first I thought it was lightning, but it wasn’t right. It moved.” She lets out a shaky breath. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The librarian nods slowly, eyes sharp, cataloguing every word. “How long did it last?”

“Seconds. Barely that.”

Jenny looks between them, brow furrowed, still seated at the table. “I don’t understand,” she says, half-laughing with unease. “What light? I didn’t see anything.”

John steps out of the pub just then, the door swinging shut behind him with a wash of warmth and laughter he leaves behind. He pauses, hat in hand, clearly mid-excuse to someone inside who has already gone back to their drink.

He looks up and smiles. His eyes find her first, as they seem determined to do now. The librarian. His smile softens, private and pleased, just her her. It lingers a beat too long before he notices the others.

The nurse, pale and shaken. Martha, standing far too stiffly. Jenny, baffled and looking around for answers.

“Oh,” he says, fidgeting with the brim of his hat. “Have I missed something?”

“John,” the librarian says gently.

He takes a step closer, instinctively angling himself nearer to her than anyone else. “Good evening,” he adds, nodding politely to the group. His gaze flicks back to her again, a quiet reassurance in it, before he looks around. “What are we all standing about in the cold for?”

Joan draws a sharp breath and lifts her arm, pointing skyward. “There, look!”

The green light returns, streaking across the sky in a smooth, luminous arc, brighter this time, unmistakable. Joan gasps, breathless all over again. “What is that?”

Jenny lets out a quiet, awed laugh. “It’s beautiful.”

John watches it for a moment, head tilted, expression thoughtful rather than alarmed. “A meteorite,” he says calmly. “Or perhaps just a comet fragment. Bits of rock falling through the atmosphere, burning up on entry. Happens more often than people think.” His voice is steady, confident, pitched carefully for the nurse’s benefit.

Joan swallows and nods toward the dark stretch of trees beyond the village. “It came down in the woods.” Her voice wavers despite herself.

John doesn’t hesitate. “They always seem closer than they are,” he says gently. “Perspective plays tricks at night. If anything fell at all, it would be miles off. You’re quite safe.”

She clings to the calm certainty in his tone, shoulders easing as she exhales a shaky breath. “Yes, of course. That makes sense.” Her eyes linger on the sky a moment longer before finally dropping.

He notices that she’s steadier but still rattled. “If you’d like,” he offers, already shifting his hat in his hands, “I’ll escort you back to the school. No sense going alone in the dark.”

Joan nods, grateful. “I’d appreciate that.”

John turns back to the others. “Ladies, you’re welcome to join us,” he adds lightly.

Martha answers before anyone else can. Her eyes are still searching the sky. “No, thank you,” she says politely. Jenny lifts her glass and takes a sip, saying nothing at all.

John accepts it with a nod, then looks to the librarian. His smile softens, hopeful in that earnest way of his. “What about you?” he asks. “Would you care to come along?” Even with Joan there, hovering awkwardly at his side, he clearly wants the extra minutes with her.

She meets his eyes and, for a heartbeat, considers it. Then she rests a hand lightly on his arm.

“I’ll stay,” she says gently. “Just to be sure they all get home safely.”

The disappointment flashes across his face before he can stop it, but he covers it just as quickly with a smile, glancing down at where her hand still lingers.

“Of course,” he says. “That’s. . . very kind of you.”

She smiles back, small but sincere, and withdraws her hand.

John tips his hat to the group, then turns to Joan. Together they start down the road toward the school, their figures soon swallowed by shadow and lamplight. The librarian watches him go until he’s out of sight.

The moment John disappears down the road, the librarian turns sharply.

“Jenny,” she says, “Which direction did the light seem to be moving?”

Jenny blinks, startled to be addressed so directly. “Oh- um,” She glances instinctively toward the dark edge of the village. “That way, I think that’ll be toward Cooper’s Field.”

“Thank you.”

The words are barely out of her mouth before she’s moving. She skirts around the table with purpose, coat pulled tighter as she sets off down the road at a brisk, determined pace. The calm librarian vanishes in an instant, replaced by something older and sharper, a woman who has chased danger across planets and knows exactly when time has run out.

“Martha,” she says, already walking faster.

Martha doesn’t question it. She’s falling into step beside her, heart pounding. They break into a near run.

“Oi!” Jenny calls after them, scrambling up from her chair. “Where are you going? It’s dark, and cold, you could get hurt!”

Neither woman slows.

By the time Jenny reaches them, breath puffing out in annoyed clouds, the other two are already moving with urgency, skirts gathered, boots crunching against gravel and frost-hardened earth. The village lights fall away behind them.

Cooper’s Field stretches out before them, far and dark, and utterly ordinary. There is no smoke or scorch marks, no strange debris half-buried in the earth. Just open land and the low sigh of wind moving through winter-dry stems.

Jenny slows first, hands on her hips, breath coming hard. “Well?” she says, looking around pointedly. “This is it. Nothing.”

Martha turns in a slow circle, eyes scanning the ground, the tree line, the sky. Her pulse refuses to slow. “It doesn’t make sense,” she murmurs.

Jenny snorts, rubbing her arms against the cold. “Mr. Smith said it was just a rock, a meteorite. He’s educated, he’d know.” She frowns at them both. “I don’t see why you’d doubt him.”

The librarian doesn’t answer. She steps past them, boots crunching softly as she moves deeper into the field. There truly is nothing but her stomach drops. A horrible, familiar sensation settles in her chest, the feeling she’s learned to trust above all others, the one that whispers you’re missing something.

She stops, breath shallow, turning slowly in place.

“It should be here,” she says quietly. Martha joins her, eyes darting as though willing something to reveal itself.

Jenny shivers hard, rubbing her arms. “That’s enough for me,” she says, teeth nearly chattering. “It’s freezing, it’s dark, and there’s nothing here. Can we please go home before I lose a toe?”

Martha hesitates, eyes still scanning the field, unwilling to let it go. The librarian feels it too, that wrongness humming just beneath the quiet, but Jenny is right about one thing; there’s nothing more they can see.

Reluctantly, she nods. “All right.”

They turn back toward the village, boots crunching softly over frost-stiff grass, their breath pale in the air. They never know how close they were.

Thirty feet from where they stood, space bends ever so slightly, light folding in on itself. A ship rests in perfect stillness, its hull cloaked, its presence masked from human senses. It had been there the entire time.

Nor do the women yet know of Jeremy Baines, a boy from the school, who had strayed too close to the edge of Cooper’s Field earlier that evening, drawn by the same green light like a moth to flame.

Now he stands somewhere else entirely. Metal walls hum softly around him. Shadows move where they shouldn’t, and something hungry is reaching into him, threading itself through his thoughts, hollowing him out to make room.

The hunters have found their vessel.

Gunfire screams through the air.

“Look out!” The Doctor’s voice cuts sharply and urgently as he grabs for them, brown pinstriped suit already singed at the hem, dirty Converse skidding on metal as he shoves them both toward the open doors of the TARDIS. Bolts of dangerous alien energy snap past, close enough to scorch the wall.

“Doctor!” Martha shouts, ducking instinctively.

“I’ve got you, go, go, go!” he yells back, one hand locked tight around his wife’s wrist, the other already waving wildly as he backpedals, eyes flicking everywhere at once.

His wife nearly loses her footing, and he tightens his grip, hauling her forward without hesitation. “Eyes on me,” he tells her, fierce and focused for just a heartbeat, like the universe has narrowed to her face alone. “Don’t stop.”

They scramble up the ramp, Martha first, then her, the Tardis doors yawning wide behind them like a promise. The Doctor spins at the threshold, firing one last glare over his shoulder at the chaos chasing them. He dives inside, slamming the doors shut as another volley hits against the blue wood.

Inside, the Tardis lurches, engines roaring to life. Martha grabs the console to steady herself, heart hammering. The Doctor is already moving, fingers flying, coat flaring as he throws switches and cranks levers with manic precision.

The Doctor in three long strides, hands snapping up to grip Martha by the shoulders, “Did they see you?” he demands, eyes wild, voice sharp with an edge she’s only heard when things have gone very, very wrong. “Martha- did they see you?”

Martha sucks in a breath, forcing her racing thoughts into order. “No,” she says, certain now. “No, they couldn’t have.”

With a sharp nod, he releases her and spins away before she can even steady herself, then he’s in front of his wife. His hands come up gently this time, cradling the sides of her head, thumbs warm against her cheeks. The contrast is jarring, same urgency.

“Did they see you?” he asks her, low and intense. “Did anyone see you?”

She meets his gaze without hesitation, breath still ragged but steady where it counts. “No,” she says. “They didn’t.”

For a fraction of a second, his eyes close, then he lets go.

“Right,” he says, already turning back to the console. “Off we go, then.”

He slams a lever down. The Tardis groans its familiar wheez, and tears itself free of the moment, engines screaming as reality peels away. Relief washes through the room.

It lasts exactly one second.

A sharp beep-beep-beep cuts through the air, he looks up at one of the monitors. Gallifreyan script scrolls across it in angry, pulsing lines, meaningless to the humans behind him, devastatingly clear to him.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” he groans, running a hand down his face. Then, quieter, darker: “They’re following us.”

Martha steps closer, confusion cutting through her fear. “Doctor, how could they be following us? We’re in a time machine.”

He’s already moving again, darting around the console, fingers flying, switches snapping into new positions. “Stolen technology,” he snaps. “They’ve got a time agent’s vortex manipulator.”

He’s pacing now, agitation radiating off him. He stops dead, hand tangles in his hair, eyes wide, panicked. “They can follow us wherever we go,” he says, “They’re never going to stop.”

He turns to them then,“You have to trust me,” he says. There isn’t even a pause.

“We do,” Martha answers instantly.

“Always,” his wife says, just as firmly. That’s all he needs.

From there, everything becomes a blur, moments snapping past too quickly to hold, The Doctor is already moving, hands flying, pulling open panels Martha has never seen before. He presses something into her wife’s hands: a watch.

“You keep this,” he says, breathless. “It’s me. In a way.”

Martha frowns. “Doctor-”

“Those creatures are hunters,” he barrels on, pacing, talking too fast now, words tripping over each other the way they always do when he’s terrified. “They can sniff out anyone. And me-” He laughs once, humorless. “I’m a Time Lord, they can track me throught time and space.”

“So we hide,” his wife says immediately.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Exactly. We hide. They’ve only got a few months left, three at most. Short lifespans. We wait them out.”

Martha cuts in, “Hiding won’t work if they can track you.”

“Yes,” he breathes. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I can hide my scent,” he continues, voice steadier now that he’s found the solution. “Rewrite my biology. Make myself human. Properly human. Nothing for them to follow.”

Martha’s blood runs cold. “Doctor-”

“A chameleon arch,” he says, “I’ll store everything I am in the watch, memories, biology, the lot of it, and become someone else. Completely.”

Flashes of it overlap now, The Doctor explaining faster than either of them can interrupt. His wife gripping the watch like it’s made of glass. Martha shaking her head even as she understands. The Doctor insisting it’s the safest option. The only option.

“I’ll be human,” he says, voice softening when he looks at his wife. “I won’t remember any of it. You. Me. Us.”

Her chest aches but she nods anyway.

“We wait,” he says. “We live quietly. We let the hunters burn out.”

The memory comes in fragments, violent, unkind ones. The chameleon arch settles over his head with a final, terrible click.

He screams.

It tears out of him, raw and helpless, a sound that doesn’t belong to the man who so often laughs in the face of danger. His body arches against as the arch lights up, energy surging, rewriting him cell by cell. Two hearts falter. One stops. His biology twists, compresses, collapses into Human.

Martha can’t look away, like a train wreck. Horror pins her in place, hands clenched uselessly at her sides.

His wife doesn’t look away either. She stands her ground, fists trembling at her sides, tears streaking silently down her face. Every instinct in her screams to stop it, to pull him free, to take the pain for him if she could, but she knows this is the only way. Knows he chose this. Knows he’d make the same choice again.

“I’m here,” she says fiercely, voice breaking. “I’m right here. You’re not alone.”

He can’t hear her.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers to him. “I wish it hadn’t hurt. I wish-” Her voice catches. “I wish I could have made it easier.”

She shakes the memory away like cold water from her hands. The pain, the screaming, the light, it all folds back into the past where it belongs.

A moment later, Martha comes in after her.

“Hello,” Martha says automatically, back to the doors as she closes them. She pauses, frowns, then huffs at herself. “Honestly, talking to a machine.”

“She’s alive, y’know.”

Martha jumps, and then spots her, leaning casually against the console, peering at her from around the controls with a knowing smile.

“Oh!” Martha presses a hand to her chest. “Don’t do that.”

The Doctor’s wife grins. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

Martha exhales, then laughs despite herself. “You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days.”

“Occupational hazard,” she replies lightly.

They look at each other for a beat, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between them.

Then Martha smiles properly. “You all right?”

She nods. “I am. Just remembering.”

“Yeah,” Martha says softly. “Me too.” Martha drifts toward the console, fingers brushing familiar edges without thinking. That’s when she notices the monitor.

The Doctor’s face fills the screen, paused, caught mid-gesture as if he might start talking again at any moment. The video he made for them before the arch. Before forgetting.

“Oh,” Martha murmurs. “You too, then.”

The Doctor’s wife follows her gaze, eyes softening for just a second. “Mm.”

Martha folds her arms loosely. “I figured after last night’s… meteorite, we were all thinking the same thing.”

She nods once. “Hard not to.”

Silence stretches between them, thick with unasked questions. Martha glances back at the frozen image on the screen. “What did you think?” she asks carefully. “About what he said. About what we’re meant to do now.”

The Doctor’s wife doesn’t answer right away. She turns fully to Martha instead, expression calm, like shes done this a thousand times, followed impossible instructions and trusted the man who gave them.

“We stick to the script,” she says quietly. “Exactly as he laid it out.”

Martha’s jaw tightens. “Blend in.”

“Blend in,” she agrees. “Live our lives. Keep him safe.”

“And if it gets worse?” Martha presses.

Her eyes harden “Then we do what we have to. Not before, not a second early.”

Martha nods slowly, understanding settling in.

The knock comes just as John is setting his papers into neat piles.

“Yes?” he calls, crossing the room to the door.

When he opens it, Tim stands there, hand respectfully tucked behind his back. One of the brighter boys in his class, though he rarely seems to realize it.

“Sir,” Tim says quickly, as if afraid he’ll be dismissed, “you said I was to pick up a book?”

“Ah, yes, of course.” John’s face softens with recognition. “Come in, Timothy.”

He steps aside to let the boy pass, leaving the door open behind him as Tim moves into the study.

“It was right here somewhere,” he mutters, lifting a stack of papers, then another. Tim smiles faintly and comes to a stop near the fireplace, waiting as instructed.

John glances over his shoulder. “Your last essay,” he says casually, “was good. Very good. But not as strong as I know it could have been. Your marks are not as high as they could be.”

Tim shrugs, trying for nonchalance. “I’m in the top ten, sir.”

“Yes,” John agrees, straightening slightly. “You are.”

He sighs and abandons the desk, stepping past Tim toward the alcove shelves. “But you could very easily be at the top.” He crouches to scan the lower shelves, fingers trailing along spines. “You lover your head and avoid mocker of your classmates, but you’re clever. Shame to put that to waist.”

Tim’s attention drifts as Mr. Smith keeps talking, something about potential and wasted brilliance and applying oneself. The words blur together once the teacher moves out of sight, voice echoing faintly from the alcove.

That’s when Tim hears it. Whispers overlapping, too many at once. Not loud. He stiffens, heart thudding, eyes flicking around the study. His gaze drifts, the pocket watch sits on the mantelpiece, plain at first glance. Something about it that makes his skin prickle.

He lifts the watch andt’s heavier than he expects. Cool in his palm. His thumb brushes over the strange engraving etched into the casin, symbols that look like gears almost.

The whispers sharpen as it lays un his palm.

“Timothy.”

He inhales sharply.

“Hide us.”

“I’m trapped.”

“I’m waiting. Always waiting.”

His fingers tighten.

“Reach out, boy. Hide us.”

The final whisper cuts through the rest, clear as a bell struck in his mind.

“Time Lord.”

His breath catches. His thumb flips the watch open.

Golden light spills out, liquid and living, flowing within the boring silver casing like sunlight given form. It hums in his bones and vibrated through his chest.

Tim has always had a knack for it. Guessing answers before the questions were finished. Knowing when to duck before a ball was thrown. Sensing when trouble was coming. He’d told himself it was luck.

This is not luck.

The voices pull at him, pleading. They know his name. They sound afraid. Footsteps approach him. Panic flares, but instinct answers faster. Tim snaps the watch shut and slips it into his pocket just as Mr. Smith re-enters the room, book in hand, still talking.

“…and that’s precisely why you shouldn’t hold yourself back,” John is saying warmly. “You owe it to yourself to see just how far you can go.”

He holds out the book, smiling, entirely unaware.“Here you are,” he says. “And Timothy? Do think about what I said.”

Tim takes it with hands that are only just steady enough. The instant his fingers touch the book, the world shatters.

Creatures of steel chanting in unison. Daleks. Cold, silver giants marching without mercy. Cybermen. Red eyes glowing in the dark. An Ood, its song aching and mournful. A werewolf lunging beneath a full moon. Flesh respaing, mutated monsters born of human arrogance.

And threaded through it all was Mr. Smith, but not Mr Smith. His face, but a man called the Doctor. The visions slam together, overwhelming and terrifying.

A voice echoes in his mind, “The power of a Time Lord.”

“Timothy?” John asks at once, concern sharpening his voice. “Are you all right?”

The world snaps back into place. Tim swallows hard, forcing himself upright. His heart is pounding so loudly he’s sure Mr. Smith must hear it.

“Yes, sir,” he says quickly, nodding. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

John studies him for a moment longer, frown faint but genuine. “If you’re feeling unwell-”

“No, sir,” Tim insists, polite, composed by sheer force of will. “Truly. Thank you, for evrything.”

John smiles again, warmth returning. “Any time. I expect great things from you, Timothy.”

Tim manages a smile in return, “Good day, sir.” He turns and leaves before his legs can betray him.

He has no idea that opening the watch, even for that single, stolen second, was enough. Enough for the hunters to catch a wiff of their prey.

He pauses at the threshold just as someone steps into view.

The librarian lifts her hand and gives a light knock against the already open doorframe, more habit than necessity.

John looks up instantly, his face breaking into a wide, genuine smile. “Oh, good afternoon.”

Tim straightens automatically. “Good afternoon, miss.”

She meets his gaze, “Good afternoon, Timothy,” she says warmly. “I hope your studies go well.”

“Yes, miss. Thank you.” His fingers curl tighter in his pocket, knuckles whitening around the watch without quite knowing why. “Good day.”

He slips past her and down the corridor, footsteps quickening the farther he gets from the study. She watches him go, a faint crease forming between her brows.

Then she turns back to John. Her bashful grin blooms slowly, unmistakably human despite all the centuries behind it. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all,” John says at once, taking a few steps toward her. “So, what brings you by?” he asks.

She lifts one shoulder in a small, almost sheepish shrug. “Nothing important, really. I just wanted to check on you.”

A warm flush creeps up his neck and settles firmly in his cheeks. “Oh. Well. That’s very kind of you.” He gestures vaguely to himself, as if presenting evidence. “I’m quite all right, I promise. The bruise from yesterday’s incident is already fading.”

She nods, visibly relieved. “I’m glad.”

They fall quiet after that. Their eyes meet and stay there, the moment stretching longer than either of them intends.

At last, she draws in a breath. “Well,” she says gently, stepping back, “I should let you get on with your work.” She turns to go.

“Wait.” The word slips out before he’s had time to think better of it. She stops and looks back at him, something hopeful twinkling in her eyes.

John swallows, fingers curling and uncurling at his side. “I’ve only a few hours left of my duties for the day,” he says carefully. “After classes end, that is.” He hesitates, then pushes on. “I wondered, if you might care to join me for a walk.”

Her smile blooms, “I think,” she says, “that sounds like a wonderful idea.”

The breath he’s been holding escapes him in a shaky, quiet chuckle of pure relief. “Splendid,” he says, far too quickly. “Excellent. I’ll- yes. Then I’ll see you later.”

She inclines her head, eyes warm. “You will.” With that, she properly excuses herself and slips out into the corridor, footsteps light.

John stands there for a long moment after she’s gone, hand pressed to his ribs where the bruise aches faintly. He smiles to himself and returns to his desk, counting the hours without quite realizing he’s doing it.

The sky hangs low and heavy with clouds, the sort that presses the world into muted greys. They walk with their coats pulled tight, breath puffing faint white in the chill, their steps falling into an easy rhythm.

Side by side, but not quite close enough to touch. Just a few inches between their shoulders that feels impossibly like miles to them both.

She laughs at something he’s just said, a bright, unguarded sound that cuts through the cold. John watches it happen like it’s a small miracle, his grin slow and helpless, eyes fixed on the way her smile crinkles just so at the corners. When her laughter fades, he hesitates only a moment before speaking again.

“Tell me about you,” he says. “If you don’t mind. I feel as though I know you, and yet I don’t. Not really.”

She considers that as they walk.

“My childhood?” she asks lightly. “Average. Boring, even. Nothing remarkable. No grand tragedies or triumphs. Just ordinary.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Ordinary doesn’t seem to suit you.”

She smiles at that but doesn’t comment on the irony. “After school,” she continues, eyes forward, “I traveled for a while.”

He brightens instantly. “Did you?”

“Yes.” There’s warmth there, but restraint too. “I wanted to see what was out there.”

“And where did you go?” he asks, genuinely eager.

She tilts her head, thoughtful. “Everywhere my feet could take me.”

He laughs softly. “That sounds like a great deal of ground to cover.”

“It was.”

They walk in companionable quiet for a few steps before he asks the question that’s been forming since the moment she spoke.

“Why did you stop?” he says gently. “Why settle here, of all places, and become a librarian?”

Her pace doesn’t change, but something in her does. She exhales, slow and measured. “Out of necessity.”

He glances at her then, noting the careful way she keeps her gaze ahead, the subtle tightening around her eyes. He doesn’t press, his instinct tells him not to.

“I see,” he says quietly. She nods once, grateful for the understanding.

He’s quiet for a few steps, boots crunching softly along the path, before another question slips out, “Did you always want to be a librarian?” he asks. “Or did you have some other dream, once?”

She smiles to herself, the expression turning inward. “I’m sure I did,” she says. “When I was in school, something grand, no doubt.” She laughs softly. “But whatever it was feels very small now. Insignificant.”

He glances at her, curious but careful. “What changed?”

Her smile softens. “Traveling did. It has a way of rearranging what matters.” She takes a breath, steady. “By the end of it, the only dream I really cared about was being happily married.”

The words hang in the cold air between them. John’s steps slow, just slightly.

“Oh,” he says. Then, after a moment, hesitant, unsure whether he’s crossed a line. “Did you… ever marry?”

She nods, “Yes.”

There’s no hesitation in it. No doubt.

“There was a man,” she continues quietly, “and I adored him. With my whole heart.” She keeps her eyes forward. “He’s far away now.”

John’s expression changes, more solemn. He nods, assuming what most would. “I’m very sorry,” he says softly.

She sees the shift, understands it immediately, and can’t let him carry that weight for her.

“It doesn’t hurt,” she says, turning to him then. “Not like that. I’m not grieving.” A small smile returns. “In a way, he’s still very much with me. Still here.” She puts a hand to her chest, to the rings that hang from a chain, along with her key for the Tardis, just beneath the layers of her clothes.

John absorbs that, nodding slowly. “I see.”

He hesitates, then adds, almost apologetically, “I’ve never been married myself. But-” He offers a sympathetic smile. “I imagine loving someone like that never really leaves you.”

“No,” she agrees softly. “It doesn’t.”

He clears his throat, clearly searching for firmer ground. “So,” he says, a little too quickly, “what’s your favorite book?”

She gives him an amused, slightly puzzled look, one brow lifting at the abrupt turn.

He winces. “I’m sorry. That was awkward. I was only trying to lighten the mood.”

Her smile softens, saving him from himself. “You needn’t apologize.”

She thinks for a moment, gaze drifting ahead, and then says, lightly enough, “Jane Austen.”

It’s an easy answer. A safe one.

The truth is something else entirely: a novel from Gallifrey, old even by Time Lord standards, its language strange and lyrical. A story the Doctor once read aloud to her in the quiet of the TARDIS, voice low and careful, sharing a piece of himself he rarely let anyone see.

But she can’t tell John that. So Jane Austen it is.

His face brightens at once. “An excellent choice,” he says warmly.

As they reach the village square, their path cuts gently across the grass, boots damp with cold earth. She glances sideways at him, the faintest smile playing at her lips.

“And you?” she asks. “Did you always want to be a teacher? Or was there something else you imagined for yourself?”

He laughs softly, a little sheepish. “Truthfully? I never really thought about it. I just became one.” He shrugs. “But I do enjoy it. More than I expected.”

She smiles at that. “You amaze me, you know.”

He blinks. “I- sorry?”

“I’ve listened,” she admits, almost casually. “When I have a free moment. Your lectures.”

He nearly trips over a tuft of grass. “You’ve- what?”

She laughs at his expression. “Only in passing,” she reassures him. “But I couldn’t help it.”

“Well,” He clears his throat, flustered. “I hope I wasn’t too dull.”

“Quite the opposite,” she says at once. “You explain things so beautifully. You take these complicated ideas and make them feel approachable. As though anyone could understand them, if they only listened long enough.”

He sputters, heat rising to his face. “That’s very kind of you. I don’t know that it comes easily- I just, well, I suppose I like sharing what I know.”

“And you’re magnificent at it,” she says softly.

He looks at her, startled by the way she’s watching him. There’s something dewy in her eyes, something unguarded and sincere, and it makes his chest tighten.

“You are,” she continues, voice steady but full. “Your mind. Your curiosity. The way you care. It’s extraordinary to me.”

He swallows, words failing him for once. “I- thank you,” he manages, utterly sincere. “That means more than I can say.”

The thought hits him all at once and he stops walking. She takes one more step before realizing he’s no longer beside her. When she turns back, he’s moved ahead of her, standing squarely in her path. Not crowding, solid two feet between them, deliberate and respectful.

He looks at her like she’s a question he’s been turning over for days. Weeks. Like the most magnificent puzzle he’s ever been given and is only just beginning to understand.

She stills, breath caught somewhere just beneath her ribs.

“I realized,” he says, smiling a little at himself, “that I never finished asking you something earlier. I was rather rudely interrupted by gravity.”

She lets out a soft laugh, already blushing.

“But before that,” he continues, eyes never leaving hers, “there’s something I ought to say.”

Her heart beats a little faster. She can feel it. He can probably see it.

“I noticed you on my first day here,” he admits. “In the halls, between classes. The headmaster was giving you a tour.” He smiles at the memory. “I remember thinking, quite distinctly, that the building suddenly seemed brighter.”

Her breath hitches.

“You were captivating,” he says simply. “Still are.”

Her head bows without her quite meaning it to, a shy, instinctive gesture, and she smiles as color blooms warmly in her cheeks. She tucks her hands into her coat sleeves, shifting her weight, suddenly very aware of herself under his gaze.

He adores it. Admires the way she squirms just slightly, not uncomfortable, but like she had energy to burn all of a sudden. The way her smile turns bashful and genuine. The way her eyes flick up to his and away again, as though she’s trying very hard not to float off the ground.

His human heart flutters and he knows, with absolute certainty, that this moment matters. She looks back up at him then, eyes bright, waiting. And John Smith, standing in the village square beneath a dull sky, thinks he has never wanted anything more than what he is about to ask.

He opens his mouth and then his eyes flick past her shoulder. Something clicks.

Not consciously, just a sudden, razor-sharp alignment of details: the two men tugging on the pulley above the shopfront, the piano swaying as it’s hauled upward, the rope fraying where it rubs against the edge. The mother turning the corner with a pram, humming to herself, utterly unaware.

His words trail off mid-breath.

She notices the change in him immediately. “John?”

He steps aside, quick and decisive, reaching down to the bench where a boy sits tossing a ball lazily into the air as his mother watches. John plucks it from the arc without breaking stride.

“I’m sorry,” he says absently, already calculating.

He turns, plants his feet, and throws. The ball leaves his hand with startling precision. It strikes a length of scaffolding pipe with a hollow clang, knocking it sideways just enough to dislodge a loose brick. The brick tips, slides, and drops, smashing into a jug perched on a crate below. The jug tumbles, its base skidding across the ground and rolling directly into the woman’s path.

The librarian spins at the sound. She sees it all unfold at once, the absurd, impossible chain of events clicking together like a Rube Goldberg machine set into motion by instinct alone.

The woman gasps as the jug skids in front of her, startling her into stopping short. She stumbles back, clutching the carriage and in the next heartbeat, the rope snaps.

The piano crashes down with a thunderous crash, smashing into the street mere feet from where the woman and her child would have been. Wood splinters. Keys scatter. The sound echoes through the square.

The woman screams, stepping backward in shock, pulling the pram with her. People shout. The men above swear loudly and rush to check on the woman and her child. The boy stares at the empty space where his ball had been, mouth hanging open.

The librarian stands frozen. Her heart is pounding with recognition. She turns slowly back to John. He’s breathing a little harder now, hand still half-raised from the throw, eyes fixed on the wreckage as if he can’t quite believe what he’s just done.

He was completely human, yet she’s seen that look before. That instinct. That impossible certainty that arrives before thought, before fear, before hesitation.

John Smith is just as much the Doctor now, as he was two months ago, before they hid.

John finally looks at her, flushed and a little dazed. “I-” He swallows.

She’s staring at him. In complete and utter awe, her eyes sweep over him as if she’s seeing him for the first time and the thousandth time all at once, bright with something that steals the rest of his words clean out of his mouth.

“You,” she says, voice low and certain, “are impossibly wonderful.”

He blinks.

She steps closer, near enough that the air between them hums. “Truly,” she goes on, eyes shining. “You never cease to amaze me. Not once. The way you think, the way you act.” She smiles, soft and reverent. “I feel extraordinarily lucky to have met you.”

They are for John Smith, earnest schoolteacher with a bruised rib and ink-stained fingers. And they are for the Doctor, ancient and brilliant and endlessly running.

Her impossible man.

He barely hears himself speak. The words tumble out of him, breathless and ecstatic, carried on the dizzy warmth of the way she’s looking at him. “Would you go to the dance with me?” he blurts. “Tonight. Properly. As my date.”

She laughs, “Yes,” she says like he’s ridiculous for ever thinking the answer might be anything else. “Of course yes.”

His grin breaks wide and helpless, joy spilling out of him as easily as breath. He laughs too, the sound light and giddy, feeling utterly drunk on the way she’s admiring him. They stand there in the village square, smiling and laughing, the danger forgotten for just a moment, the universe held at bay by nothing more than mutual wonder and the promise of a dance.

John’s study is lit low and warm, the fire reduced to embers that glow more than burn. She sits beside him on the leather couch, the day’s excitement finally ebbing into something calm and intimate. They’re close now, his arm stretched along the back of the couch, around her, easy and protective. Her side presses into his, fitting there like it always has.

She holds the journal open between them.

“This one’s newer,” he says quietly, almost shy again. “Last night’s, actally.”

She leans in, shoulder brushing his chest as she looks down at the page. Messy handwriting spills across it, looping and hurried, interrupted by sketches wedged into the margins. Crude but earnest drawings of plastic men mid-motion, arms bent at impossible angles filled the page. A woman with a pleasant smile and kind eyes he labeled ‘Rose’. And then herself, sketched more carefully than the others, lines softened, posture familiar.

Her smile curves as she takes it in.

“Plastic men?” she murmurs, amused.

He chuckles. “Yes. Ridiculous, I know.” He hesitates, then adds, “You were there. With me.”

She looks at the drawing of herself again, touched in a way that makes her chest ache sweetly.

“And Rose?” she asks gently.

“She was… important,” he says, thoughtful. “Brave. Clever. I trusted her.” He glances at her, then admits more openly now, “But you,” He exhales. “You’ve been in a great many of them.”

She stills.

“I didn’t say before,” he continues, voice lower, more honest than it’s ever been. “I suppose I was embarrassed. It seemed forward, dreaming of someone I barely knew.” His smile turns self-conscious. “But you’re always there. A constant. Wherever I am, whatever’s happening, you’re there.”

She lifts her gaze from the page to his face. The look she gives him is soft and utterly undone. Love-sick. Full of a thousand memories he doesn’t have. For a moment, he forgets how to breathe. His heart stutters at the sight of it, and he finds himself leaning in without meaning to, drawn by the way her eyes hold him like he’s something precious. He swallows, suddenly overwhelmed, and laughs under his breath.

“I would always be there,” she says softly. “With you. If that’s something you want.”

His breath catches, actually quivers, and for once, words abandon him entirely. Instead, he leans in. The kiss is tentative, almost stolen. Just a brush of lips, gentle and unsure, like he’s afraid of breaking something precious. It lasts only a heartbeat before he pulls back, color rushing to his face.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs at once, voice low and flustered. “I’ve never-”

The journal slips from her fingers and lands forgotten in her lap.

“John,” she says, already lifting her hands, cupping his face with a tenderness that steals the rest of his words. “Stop talking.”

She pulls him back in.

This time the kiss is certain still soft, still unhurried, but filled with everything she’s held back for so long. He exhales against her lips, melting into it, instinct taking over where memory cannot.

His arm slides from the back of the couch to wrap around her shoulders, drawing her closer until there’s no space left to question. His other hand settles at her waist, thumb brushing slow and reverent against her hip, as if memorizing the shape of her.

He’s lost, utterly lost in her warmth, her closeness, the way she fits against him like this has always been where they were meant to end up.

They part just enough to breathe, but he stays close, forehead brushing hers. His voice was more a breathless murmur against her lips. “I feel like a boy with a terrible crush,” he admits, almost laughing at himself. “Or,” he exhales shakily, “as though I’m quite drunk.”

She pulls back a little more at that, concern flickering across her face. “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “Is it too much?”

The space between them feels wrong immediately, like a terrible crime has been commited.

“No no,” he says at once, reaching for her, fingers curling into her as he draws her back. His voice steadies with certainty. “I’ve never enjoyed anything more than the way you kiss me.”

Her smile turns playful, eyes bright. “In that case,” she teases, “you haven’t seen anything yet.”

Her hands slide from his cheeks to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair in a way that leaves him utterly undone. When she kisses him again, it’s deeper and he gasps softly in surprise before giving in completely. His arms tighten around her, holding her closer, hands warm and reverent at her waist. He feels unmoored, breathless, like he’s sinking into something wonderful and inevitable all at once.

She makes a small, pleased sound against his mouth, and it’s all the encouragement he needs. His touch grows surer, slower, as if he’s learning her by feel alone.

John Smith has never felt so lost. His breath breaks into a low, helpless sound against her mouth as she presses closer, her touch tracing down from his neck to his chest with an intimacy that makes his thoughts scatter. He knows, some distant responsible part of him, that this isn’t proper. They were coworkers, and unmarried at that. A line once crossed can’t be uncrossed.

But propriety feels very far away when she leans into him like that, when she makes that soft, pleased sound that tells him, quite clearly, that she’s enjoying this every bit as much as he is. Maybe even more, judging by the way she shivers when his hand strokes up and down her waist, edging a little to close to somewhere it had no right to me on an unmarried woman.

It sends him reeling. For a split second, a reckless thought flashes through him, laying her back on the couch, the world narrowing to just the two of them.

The door opens.

They break apart instantly, breathless, startled, the moment shattering like glass. John jerks back, hand flying up as if caught doing something criminal, heart pounding so hard he’s certain it must be audible. She straightens just as quickly, smoothing her skirt, composure snapping back into place with impressive speed, though her eyes are still bright, cheeks flushed.

John snaps upright, mortified heat flooding his face. “Martha! You can’t just barge in, you- you should have knocked!”

Martha freezes, eyes wide for exactly one second, long enough to register what she’s interrupted, before her gaze flicks to the librarian. The two women meet each other’s eyes. And there it is: a perfectly synchronized, tightly contained smile. Girl to girl, a look full of ‘oh, I see’ and ‘get it girl’ that only someone who knows you well could manage.

Martha bites her lip, fighting a grin. “Sorry,” she mutters, already backing out. “Won’t happen again.” And then she’s gone, the door clicking shut far too cheerfully behind her.

She rises from the couch, and he follows suit, John drags a hand through his hair, breath still uneven.Words tumbling out. “You don’t have to leave. Truly. I mean, you’re welcome to stay, I—-”

She steps closer before he can say another word, and she kisses him.

It’s gentler this time. Sweet in the way the first was, making his chest ache. His hands find her waist immediately, like they know exactly where they belong, and he melts into it with a quiet, helpless sigh.

She pulls back just far enough to speak, lips still brushing his. “If I stay,” she murmurs, amused, “we’ll miss the dance.” The meaning lands a beat later.

“Oh,” He flushes a deep red, nodding too quickly. “Yes. Yes, of course. The dance.”

She laughs softly. “Besides,” she adds, teasing warmth in her voice, “I’m rather a wait-for-marriage kind of woman.”

His mouth opens then closes. He nods again, thoroughly undone.

She kisses him once more, chaste, “I’ll see you later.” Then she’s gone.

The door shuts gently behind her. John Smith sinks back onto the couch like his legs have finally remembered gravity, chest rising and falling as he stares at the ceiling. He lifts a hand to his mouth, still feeling the ghost of her kiss, and laughs under his breath.

John Smith feels like the luckiest man in the world.

In the servants’ wing, Martha stands at the small table tucked into the corner of the room she shares with Jenny. A tray is laid out carefully: a fresh pot of tea, two cups, and a small cake on a platter, far nicer than anything she could afford with what she’s paid.

Her smile is enormous. She steps back to admire it, arms folding loosely over her chest, and lets herself breathe for once.

John is getting closer to his wife, even without knowing who she truly is. Even without the memories, the titles, the centuries. The connection is still there, stubborn and undeniable, like it’s woven too deeply into him to ever truly disappear. For the first time in what feels like forever, her shoulders loosen.

Just a little longer.

The hunters will burn out, their short lives ending as they always do. The watch will open. The Doctor will come back to himself. And the three of them will step back into the Tardis like they were always meant to.

Running again. Together.

Martha looks down at the tea tray, smile softening into something fond and fiercely protective.

“Almost there,” she whispers.

The door creaks open, Jenny steps in, still wearing her coat and gloves instead of her maid’s uniform, cheeks pink from the cold. Martha looks up at once, smiling.

“There you are,” she says easily. “Where’ve you been all day?”

Jenny doesn’t answer right away. She just stands there staring ahead, eyes unfocused, expression oddly blank.

Martha gestures to the table. “I’ve got tea. Mr. Pool wasn’t in the mood this afternoon, so he let me have it.” She grins. “Figured we could enjoy it together.”

A few long seconds pass then Jenny sniffs.

Martha’s smile softens with concern. “Are you all right?” she asks gently, pulling out a chair. “You sound a bit sniffly.”

Jenny blinks. It’s like a switch flips behind her eyes.

“Oh, yes,” she says, a beat too late, more present. “Yes, I must’ve caught a cold. Been out in the chill too long, I expect.”

Martha nods, though her smile fades just a fraction. “You should sit, then. Warm up.”

Jenny crosses the room and takes the seat opposite her, movements smooth, deliberate. She keeps her hands in her pockets and waits, like a computer awaiting an input command. Martha doesn’t notice at first.

Martha lifts the teapot, steam curling lazily into the air as she pours Jenny a cup.

“You should’ve seen them,” she says with a grin, unable to help herself. “Mr. Smith and the librarian, together. They looked happy.” She chuckles, stirring her own tea. “I’m really glad for them.”

Jenny watches the stream of tea fill her cup. “You seem very invested,” she says mildly. “Why?”

Martha smiles into her mug. “Because they’re my friends. And because, well, they’re made for each other.” She shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s nice to see good people find something good.”

She keeps talking as she stirs, warmth and excitement bubbling over now that she’s let herself relax. “I’m just excited, really. To see them together. To be together again.”

Jenny’s head tilts. “Together again?” she asks. “The three of you?”

Martha doesn’t hesitated, she trusts Jenny, or thinks she does.

“Yes,” she says easily. “We used to travel together, the three of us.” Her smile turns nostalgic. “And we will again. Soon.”

Jenny’s fingers curl slowly around her cup. “You travelled with them?” Jenny tilts her head, eyes fixed a little too intently on Martha. “And where did you travel? Where are you going this time?”

Martha lets out a small laugh and waves it off, stirring her tea. “Oh, it’s complicated.”

Jenny doesn’t smile back. “Complicated how?” she presses. “It sounds fascinating. You should tell me. Tell me now.”

Martha opens her mouth to deflect again, but Jenny repeats herself, voice smoother, insistence sharpening with each word. The longer she talks, the more off she feels. Her eyes don’t quite blink when they should and her smile doesn’t reach them. It’s like watching someone perform humanity from memory.

A chill crawls up Martha’s spine. The Doctor’s wife had told her once, half-joking, half-serious: If you ever think someone’s not human, offer them something no human would ever want. See what they do.

Martha lifts the teapot slightly. “More tea?”

Jenny’s grin widens too eager, haven't even had touched her cup yet. “Yes. I’d like that.”

“Of course,” Martha says lightly. She adds, “Would you like gravy in it?”

A human would recoil, laugh, ask if she was mad.

Jenny doesn’t hesitate. “Oh yes,” she says brightly. “That sounds nice.”

Martha’s smile stays perfectly polite as her heart begins to race. “I’ll just fetch it, then,” she says, already standing. “Won’t be a moment.”

Jenny nods, hands unmoving from her pockets, watching Martha with keen, unreadable interest. Martha turns away, every instinct screaming now, the certainty sharp and cold in her gut.

The moment she’s in the hall, Martha closes the door behind her until the latch clicks into place with the softest sound possible. She stands there for half a second, heart hammering, listening.

She takes three quiet steps away from the door and then she runs. Down the stairs, skirts gathered, boots thudding far too loudly for her liking. Her breath burns in her chest as instinct takes over, every lesson she’s ever learned screaming the same thing at once.

They’ve been found.

Her mind races ahead of her body, already forming the next steps. Get to the Doctor. Get to the watch. Wake him up. Whatever the cost.

She takes the stairs two at a time now, pulse roaring in her ears, fear sharp and focused rather than panicked. Whatever is wearing Jenny’s face is learning fast, and it knows too much already.

John Smith has had his borrowed peace. It was time to tetire John Smith and bring the Dcotor back.

Plan B, she thinks desperately. Please tell me you left us a plan B.

The sun has only just slipped below the horizon, leaving the sky wih faint streaks of gold as night took over. The dance will be starting any moment now, music tuning up, lanterns being lit, people beginning to trickle in with excited murmurs and rustling coats.

John stands in front of the mirror in his room, fingers working carefully at his tie. He grins at his own reflection like an absolute idiot.

He pauses, takes a breath, adjusts it again and laughs softly under his breath. The heat and urgency from earlier have settled into something calmer now, steadier, though the memory of her is still very much there. The way she smiled. The way she kissed him.

He smooths down his waistcoat, feeling a little ridiculous and a little wonderful all at once.

“I’ve got it bad,” he murmurs to himself.

The thought strikes him again that he feels like the luckiest man on the planet. To have met someone like her. To have been seen by her. To be adored in return, so openly and sincerely, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

A teacher, an ordinary man. Simple ol’ John Smith.The luckiest man alive on planet Earth.

#yo this series #this three parter #i keep coming back i love it sm #im always wary when it comes to ep rewrites especially human nature/fob but this hittttttt #like fr fr it hittttttt all the spots for me #the doctor x reader #doctor who x reader

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