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Season three, episode one:
Smith and Jones - Part two.
- ~ -
"Got it!" Exclaimed the Doctor, slumping into his chair in relief.
Lynnette smiled softly, smoothing out his ruffled hair as she pecked his freckled forehead, "Good job, Darling."
Momentarily, the Doctor allowed himself to close his eyes, basking in the bliss that was Lynnette. His Lynnette. God, how had he managed to get so bloody lucky?
"We'd better find Martha," Lynnette whispered, "The quicker we get this over with, the quicker we can get back to Lovely."
A grin spread over the Doctor's face, his eyes lighting up with all the wonder of the universe, "And then we can adventure as much as we want."
Soft expressions remained on the pairs' faces as they darted out of the office, searching for the one and only Martha Smith. People continued to cry around them, panic still clutching at the seams of their hearts.
It gave Lynnette a headache but she couldn't truly fault them.
Fear meant you were still alive, after all.
Martha wasn't hard to find.
In fact, she collided right with them. Lynnette knew something was wrong instantly. Martha's face was fined faintly with sweat, eyes wide, body seeming to buzz with fright and adrenalin. That wasn't good.
The Doctor smiled, "We restored the backup!"
"I found her!" Gasped Martha.
Lynnette should have expected that and yet the world still shocked her to her very bones. How come she never got to find any aliens? She supposed that wouldn't make a very good story though, she'd dominate over said alien with ease.
That thought triggered another one.
The distant sound of two ringing laughs, her mother and father. Faces so blurry yet so familiar. Lynnette found herself heavy with loneliness.
She wanted her parents.
The thought shook her.
The Doctor choked in surprise, "You did what?!"
Martha had no time to respond. A being in leather burst through the wooden doors with ease, motorcycle helmet tight on their head. Lynnette scoffed but her body still did what it did best.
And what was that?
Run.
She latched onto the Doctor's and Martha's hands and shot down the hallway with ease, heels clicking against the floor like a daunting drum. The banging of a never-ending drum.
