FIC: New Beginnings
Title: New Beginnings
Author: starfirefic
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: John Smith, Martha
Word Count: ~1,000ish
Genre: Ummmm... wow, I suck at picking genres... errr... character interaction?
Rating: My first ever G-rated fic, w00t
Beta: The very talented unfeathered (because I'm very, very lucky, and she just happened to be around at the time)
Author's Notes:Written for one of the Doctor Who Challenge #9 prompts - "He was sticky. He did not like being sticky" but I took too long to finish and missed the challenge cutoff. Still, it seemed worth posting here despite. Also, kinda written as a not-very-surprise present for janetlin because I know just how much she loved the episode!
Spoilers: Set right at the beginning of the s3 ep, Human Nature, and will probably make no sense whatsoever if you haven't already seen it
Summary: John Smith wakes up confused as to who he is and how he got there
Disclaimer: Neither John Smith, nor Martha belong to me. I suspect they would have got it on far sooner if they did
Warnings: None really. Wow. That *has* to be the first fic I've written that doesn't have any. Excuse me while I take a step back and just acknowledge the moment mindfully...
New Beginnings
When he woke, he felt sticky; and the scent of dried sweat hung heavy and rank in his nostrils. Sticky... he paused, momentarily bemused. He knew he didn’t like being sticky. He was almost certain of it, although he wasn’t really certain of much else right now. Except… well, he thought - no, he knew - he was a man of education. Respectable, he was fairly sure. And respectable, educated men simply didn't allow themselves to become sticky. So it only stood to reason that he didn’t like it.
And he wasn’t just sticky, he realised, as he lay there, blinking in confusion at the oddly-lit room in which he found himself. He was sticky and sore. Every limb in his body ached as though he'd just run some kind of marathon (although he was quite sure he wasn’t the kind of person who would ever attempt one). His head throbbed dully in time with his heartbeat. Bewildered, he felt his forehead pull into a frown as the most peculiar notion that he were somehow missing a set of beats struck his evidently addled thoughts.
And then there was his throat... dear Lord, his throat felt like the groundsman had taken to it with a sheet of sandpaper and a bottle of cleaner's vinegar. As though he’d screamed himself hoarse, over and over (or at least, how he imagined one might feel if one had done so). Had he perhaps fallen ill? It seemed the most likely explanation, although he couldn't recall anything that would account for the evidence in front of him.
"Doc-... Mr Smith, you're awake. Thank goodness! I was starting to worry." A young woman's voice. North London-born, if he wasn't mistaken - he'd always had a knack with accents; that was something else he was almost certain about.
He drew in a breath that trembled very slightly as he fought to remember; and waited for the room to stop spinning before he turned his head towards the speaker. A... housemaid, from the darkness of her skin and the plainness of her dress and apron. His housemaid, perhaps? He thought so, but his memories were so alarmingly hazy.
"Are you alright, Mr Smith? How are you feeling?" Poorly-concealed concern lay thick beneath the surface of the girl’s words, and her brow furrowed visibly; which at least sealed the matter in his mind. Of course, she must be his maid, or she'd not be so worried for his wellbeing.
"I... I think I'm well, Miss..." Frustrated, he cast about in his mind for her name, but it insisted on eluding him.
"Jones, Mr Smith. I'm Martha Jones. I'm... I'm your servant, sir, ever since your family was so generous as to take me in, back when I arrived in Nottingham."
There. So. It was exactly as he'd thought. Of course it was. And yet... there was something odd in the way the girl spoke. Something in her bearing that didn't quite tally with the way he was reasonably sure a well-mannered maid would comport herself. He wondered if it was something he'd spoken to her about in the past. Or was there some reason he tolerated it, inappropriate as it might be? He wished he could remember.
"My servant. Yes, yes, of course you are," he nodded, slowly pushing himself to an upright position on the hard bed in which he’d apparently slept, feeling nausea surge as the world around him seemed to waver oddly. For a moment, two different images of the room seemed to superimpose themselves upon his eyes, before they resolved at last into what looked to be a… hospital room? "Of course you are, Miss Jones,” he repeated, “I think I’m starting to remember now. But, I don't understand - where are we? What happened?"
The girl nodded as though something had just been confirmed to her as well. "Y-... he-... the doctor... said you might be a little confused when you woke up. OK, Mr Smith, it's like this. You're in a hospital, yeah?” He nodded, unsurprised at the confirmation of his initial impression.
“You'd just accepted a new teaching position at Farringham School,” she continued, glancing down and brushing at a piece of lint on her sleeve. “It was the position of a lifetime, you said. Out here in the country - in the peace and quiet - away from the noise and the dirt and the bustle of the city." She paused for a moment, her dark eyes meeting his, just briefly. Just long enough for him to notice the unease in them. Was it just concern for his health that made her uneasy, or was there more?
"Anyway, we were on our way there when you, umm... you fell ill. There was a hospital not too far out of our way, and so we came here.” The furrows in her brow grew deeper, and there was a peculiar intensity to her tone, as though she were terribly afraid he might not believe her. He wondered if he were perhaps a particularly untrusting master, or an unkind one… but that wouldn’t explain the affection he could see mixed in with her worry. Curious…
There were, however, more immediate questions to be answered. For a start, he needed to know what was wrong with him. “And where is this doctor now?”
Her mouth curled upward into a somewhat wry smile, that did nothing to relax the tension in the rest of her face. “He .. errr… had to go, sir. But he told me what to do for you; and I've been watching over you, waiting for you to wake up ever since. He said, once you woke, that everything was in order, and that we could leave straight away. Assuming you’re feeling well enough, sir?”
Did he feel well enough? He turned his attention inward, and realised, to his relief, that the girl’s words had dispelled whatever lingering fog had obscured his memories. Oh yes, he realised, he remembered it all now. The teaching position - the journey - falling to the fever - and, much more vaguely, finding the hospital. Yes, yes, he was John Smith. Youngest history professor to be appointed in the entire county of Kent. About to make a new life for himself in the countryside.
And as the fog fell away from his memories, so too did the various aches and pains from his body. Oh yes, he did indeed feel well now - whatever ailment had afflicted him, it had passed. It was time - more than time - for him to be on his way.
After all, who knew what wonderful new beginnings awaited him in this new life of his?
Author: starfirefic
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: John Smith, Martha
Word Count: ~1,000ish
Genre: Ummmm... wow, I suck at picking genres... errr... character interaction?
Rating: My first ever G-rated fic, w00t
Beta: The very talented unfeathered (because I'm very, very lucky, and she just happened to be around at the time)
Author's Notes:Written for one of the Doctor Who Challenge #9 prompts - "He was sticky. He did not like being sticky" but I took too long to finish and missed the challenge cutoff. Still, it seemed worth posting here despite. Also, kinda written as a not-very-surprise present for janetlin because I know just how much she loved the episode!
Spoilers: Set right at the beginning of the s3 ep, Human Nature, and will probably make no sense whatsoever if you haven't already seen it
Summary: John Smith wakes up confused as to who he is and how he got there
Disclaimer: Neither John Smith, nor Martha belong to me. I suspect they would have got it on far sooner if they did
Warnings: None really. Wow. That *has* to be the first fic I've written that doesn't have any. Excuse me while I take a step back and just acknowledge the moment mindfully...
New Beginnings
When he woke, he felt sticky; and the scent of dried sweat hung heavy and rank in his nostrils. Sticky... he paused, momentarily bemused. He knew he didn’t like being sticky. He was almost certain of it, although he wasn’t really certain of much else right now. Except… well, he thought - no, he knew - he was a man of education. Respectable, he was fairly sure. And respectable, educated men simply didn't allow themselves to become sticky. So it only stood to reason that he didn’t like it.
And he wasn’t just sticky, he realised, as he lay there, blinking in confusion at the oddly-lit room in which he found himself. He was sticky and sore. Every limb in his body ached as though he'd just run some kind of marathon (although he was quite sure he wasn’t the kind of person who would ever attempt one). His head throbbed dully in time with his heartbeat. Bewildered, he felt his forehead pull into a frown as the most peculiar notion that he were somehow missing a set of beats struck his evidently addled thoughts.
And then there was his throat... dear Lord, his throat felt like the groundsman had taken to it with a sheet of sandpaper and a bottle of cleaner's vinegar. As though he’d screamed himself hoarse, over and over (or at least, how he imagined one might feel if one had done so). Had he perhaps fallen ill? It seemed the most likely explanation, although he couldn't recall anything that would account for the evidence in front of him.
"Doc-... Mr Smith, you're awake. Thank goodness! I was starting to worry." A young woman's voice. North London-born, if he wasn't mistaken - he'd always had a knack with accents; that was something else he was almost certain about.
He drew in a breath that trembled very slightly as he fought to remember; and waited for the room to stop spinning before he turned his head towards the speaker. A... housemaid, from the darkness of her skin and the plainness of her dress and apron. His housemaid, perhaps? He thought so, but his memories were so alarmingly hazy.
"Are you alright, Mr Smith? How are you feeling?" Poorly-concealed concern lay thick beneath the surface of the girl’s words, and her brow furrowed visibly; which at least sealed the matter in his mind. Of course, she must be his maid, or she'd not be so worried for his wellbeing.
"I... I think I'm well, Miss..." Frustrated, he cast about in his mind for her name, but it insisted on eluding him.
"Jones, Mr Smith. I'm Martha Jones. I'm... I'm your servant, sir, ever since your family was so generous as to take me in, back when I arrived in Nottingham."
There. So. It was exactly as he'd thought. Of course it was. And yet... there was something odd in the way the girl spoke. Something in her bearing that didn't quite tally with the way he was reasonably sure a well-mannered maid would comport herself. He wondered if it was something he'd spoken to her about in the past. Or was there some reason he tolerated it, inappropriate as it might be? He wished he could remember.
"My servant. Yes, yes, of course you are," he nodded, slowly pushing himself to an upright position on the hard bed in which he’d apparently slept, feeling nausea surge as the world around him seemed to waver oddly. For a moment, two different images of the room seemed to superimpose themselves upon his eyes, before they resolved at last into what looked to be a… hospital room? "Of course you are, Miss Jones,” he repeated, “I think I’m starting to remember now. But, I don't understand - where are we? What happened?"
The girl nodded as though something had just been confirmed to her as well. "Y-... he-... the doctor... said you might be a little confused when you woke up. OK, Mr Smith, it's like this. You're in a hospital, yeah?” He nodded, unsurprised at the confirmation of his initial impression.
“You'd just accepted a new teaching position at Farringham School,” she continued, glancing down and brushing at a piece of lint on her sleeve. “It was the position of a lifetime, you said. Out here in the country - in the peace and quiet - away from the noise and the dirt and the bustle of the city." She paused for a moment, her dark eyes meeting his, just briefly. Just long enough for him to notice the unease in them. Was it just concern for his health that made her uneasy, or was there more?
"Anyway, we were on our way there when you, umm... you fell ill. There was a hospital not too far out of our way, and so we came here.” The furrows in her brow grew deeper, and there was a peculiar intensity to her tone, as though she were terribly afraid he might not believe her. He wondered if he were perhaps a particularly untrusting master, or an unkind one… but that wouldn’t explain the affection he could see mixed in with her worry. Curious…
There were, however, more immediate questions to be answered. For a start, he needed to know what was wrong with him. “And where is this doctor now?”
Her mouth curled upward into a somewhat wry smile, that did nothing to relax the tension in the rest of her face. “He .. errr… had to go, sir. But he told me what to do for you; and I've been watching over you, waiting for you to wake up ever since. He said, once you woke, that everything was in order, and that we could leave straight away. Assuming you’re feeling well enough, sir?”
Did he feel well enough? He turned his attention inward, and realised, to his relief, that the girl’s words had dispelled whatever lingering fog had obscured his memories. Oh yes, he realised, he remembered it all now. The teaching position - the journey - falling to the fever - and, much more vaguely, finding the hospital. Yes, yes, he was John Smith. Youngest history professor to be appointed in the entire county of Kent. About to make a new life for himself in the countryside.
And as the fog fell away from his memories, so too did the various aches and pains from his body. Oh yes, he did indeed feel well now - whatever ailment had afflicted him, it had passed. It was time - more than time - for him to be on his way.
After all, who knew what wonderful new beginnings awaited him in this new life of his?