bakerstreet | insomnia

insomnia

the i n s o m n i a meme

It happens to everyone - sometimes, you have nights where you just can't fall asleep, no matter what you do. It could be for a number of reasons, or no reason at all. And this is what's happened now: you've been laying in bed for what feels like hours, just tossing and turning, and nothing seems to help. So what's left to do? Get out of bed and go wake someone else up, of course. If you're not getting any sleep, then why should they?

i n s t r u c t i o n s

• Post with your character (note the name and fandom in the subject).
• Other people reply to you by generating a number from 1 to 10.
• Have fun!

o p t i o n s

01 • FEAR. Maybe you're hearing strange, indeterminable noises; maybe there's a severe storm happening outside; maybe you watched a scary movie before bed? Whatever the reason, you're terrified and it's keeping you awake. You just want to wake someone else up so they can protect you from the monster in your closet.
02 • HUNGER. Your stomach is growling and it just won't stop. Or perhaps your throat is so dry you could cough up a tumbleweed? Well, you've gone to the kitchen to remedy this and hey, that was a pan that just dropped on the floor. It was loud enough to wake the dead! Oops.
03 • PAIN. Your body is completely worn out, be it from exercise, battle, sickness, or what have you. Either way you're in enough pain to keep you from sleeping, so maybe someone else has a home remedy or something, or can at least help you take your mind off of it.
04 • SOLITUDE. For some reason, your bed just feels so empty at the moment. You're feeling terribly lonely and really just want someone to keep you company for a while. Maybe it'd be easier to fall asleep if you're with them...
05 • DISCOMFORT. Your room is an oven. Either that or a freezer. Or maybe this bed is just really uncomfortable? Who knows why you can't get to sleep, it feels like it could be anything. Why even bother trying? Maybe someone else can preoccupy you until you feel tired enough to ignore your discomfort.
06 • PENSIVE. Something's on your mind, and no matter how hard you try to focus elsewhere, it's just not going to work. Your body may be tired, but your mind is incredibly busy and it's virtually impossible to get to sleep. Surely, talking it out with someone else will help?
07 • SADNESS. Something terrible has happened that day, perhaps; or you could just be severely depressed. Either way you're trying your hardest not to cry yourself to sleep, and it's not working at all. Better find a way to get it out of your system somehow; you need a shoulder to cry on.
08 • ANGER. You are just... fuming. Who knows why - that annoying dog is barking again, or maybe the people next door are getting busy and keeping you awake. Whatever the reason for your ire is, you'd better put an end to it so you can get some damn rest already! Go wake up a friend so you can complain to them.
09 • RESTLESS. You're far too energetic to sleep right now. Maybe you're just trying to do so out of necessity - you have to be up early tomorrow! But you just don't think you'll be able to fall asleep for a while now, so why waste the time trying to sleep when you could be doing something else? Namely bothering someone else - you're totally jealous because they're getting more sleep than you.
10 • WILDCARD. Choose one of the options above, or make up your own scenario.

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The worst possible thing for the Doctor is to be stranded. Stuck one place. Confined. Hates it. The lack of freedom, unable to run.

It's been five days and the TARDIS is floating through space on bare minimal systems with the Doctor and Martha onboard. Knocked out of the vortex, he had grimly said, simmering with anger. Not sure by what, but it wrecked her thoroughly.

Days one through three he had worked nonstop of repairs. Day four he sulked and half avoided Martha. Day five he completely avoided Martha, only waiting until she was, presumably, asleep to trudge back to the ill-lit console room. It takes... a lot for him to be tired. It takes a lot for him to succumb to sleep.

He's tried. He's spent half a day trying and despite how much his body aches and his mind's sluggish and his ship is almost as broken as he is, he can't sleep.

So he sits on the grating, legs drawn up, back leaned against coral. If not for the pale blue tint lighting him, he'd be completely unnoticeable.

Martha's terrified and trying hard not to show it. They could float here forever, and nobody would ever know what happened to them. Her parents would think she'd just disappeared without a trace - been kidnapped, maybe. It's more frightening than the prospect of being eaten by the- whatever lurking at the bottom of New New York, than burning up in a sentient sun. At least then the Doctor might have been able to give her parents some closure. They're both stuck here, though, and it's awful.

She feels more fragile and human than usual, more painfully mortal. She's on edge, the Doctor's on edge, they're both trapped in a paralysed ship, and there's absolutely nothing she can do to help. By the fifth day, she's succumbed to a quiet spate of frustrated tears in her room, crying herself to sleep, imagining her mum there with her, waiting by her bed like she'd always done when she was sick.

When she wakes up, Martha still feels uneasy. It's strange, but she's grown used to sleeping with the hum of the TARDIS in the background, and now that it isn't there, it feels wrong. She wanders out of her room and back to the console room - she'd like something to eat, but they have to conserve what they've got.

The Doctor looks even worse than she feels, and she just stares down at him. Part of her wants to hug him; part of her wants to hit him. She's torn between the two sides, so all she does is comment, "It helps if you try to sleep in a bed, you know." Because that's all she can do now, point out the bloody obvious.

He startles at her voice, which is another sign added to just how exhausted he is. He didn't hear her coming. He tilts his head back to look towards where she stands. He was hoping he could continue to avoid her, just a little longer, just until he could rest and return to fixing the TARDIS in earnest, but, well...

None of those things are quite working out right.

"Tried that," he admits with a murmur. "Didn't go so well." Too antsy. Too worried. Too angry. He keeps those things to himself, as always. She doesn't need to be troubled more than she likely already is. "Go back to sleep, Martha," he whispers.

"Already slept." She sits down next to him, drawing her legs up as well. She knows he's been avoiding her - it's not exactly hard to tell. He blames himself for everything, as always. She wants to tell him that he doesn't need to carry the weight of the universe on his shoulders, but she doesn't think he'd listen.

"My mum always used to fix me warm milk with a bit of cinnamon when I couldn't sleep," Martha offers. "It would send me right off." Problem is, she doesn't think they've got milk, or any way to heat it. "Or I could tell you a bedtime story."

He ducks his head and smiles a little, an image of Martha's mother in his head, helping out her daughter. Doubts Francine would do the same for him, but it's an amusing thought.

"Time Lords have the worst bedtime stories." Case-in-point: Toclafane. "TARDIS usually gets me to sleep, when I need it," he hides most of the pain of his words, but there's still some that slips in.

"Have you ever heard the really old versions of fairy tales?" Martha makes a face. "I'm surprised kids didn't have nightmares, between Snow White's stepmother dancing in red hot iron boots and Cinderella's sisters having their eyes pecked out." She prefers the Disney versions. At least Ariel didn't dissolve into seafoam in the film.

She reaches out and rests a comforting hand on his knee. "You can't do anything for her like this, Doctor," she points out softly. "There has to be some way you can get some rest." He's run himself ragged trying to fix the TARDIS, trying to save all three of them, and she gets the urgency, she really does. But it's clear that he can't keep going on like this.

"Kids probably did have nightmares, Martha," he says. "Or maybe not. Kids are more... tolerant than adults. You don't realize how awful something is, 'til you're older." And then looking back, trying to understand how you missed it.

He almost leans into her. Almost, but then restrains himself. Martha's trying to be strong for him, he's sure. It should be the other way around. He's usually better at it. Except, he usually isn't also stuck with nowhere to go.

"I don't know," he laughs, sounding embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Martha." Not for his inability to sleep, but for their situation. He doesn't think he's said it at all before now. If he had, he might not have meant it. Something said while he was working, unfocused. He means it this time.

"Or maybe they just lived in a time where their parents would go dump them in the woods if they couldn't afford to feed them." She's been in the past, she knows how different it is. People back then had a harsher mindset, even as children. It seems awful to her, but she's well aware of the privileged life she's led.

"Yeah. You say that a lot." She's too tired to keep the tinge of bitterness out of her voice. She doesn't mean anything by it, not really, but...it's true. Martha realises how it sounds a second too late and winces. "S- that was uncalled for." She can't exactly say sorry if she's taking him to task for it. "I know you're doing your best."

"It really isn't." Uncalled for. There's equal bitterness on his own tongue, his age showing through, "Better I say it, than the truth." That's uncalled for, but he doesn't take it back. When he fixes the TARDIS, he thinks they might need a break away from each other. She might walk out. He might take the choice from her, dropping her off and keeping his back to her.

He folds his arms over his legs and presses his forehead to them.

"There's always trying harder, eh?" he says blandly from his bundled form. He wants to say I'm sorry again, even if it'll just make things worse. It'd fill silence. Things he doesn't know to say.

"The truth?" Martha's laugh echoes harshly in the stillness of the TARDIS. There's a humourless hollowness to the sound. She hasn't told the Doctor the truth yet - why she's travelling with him, why she isn't engaged anymore, why she finds it hard to sleep even when things aren't horribly wrong. She can't tell him any of it, because he'll just blame himself. It's his fault - but she's not entirely blameless either. And the worst part is, knowing the consequences of her actions, she still isn't sure she'd change anything if she had the chance.

Instead of saying any of that, she sighs and places a hand on his back. She can't leave him alone, can't abandon him. He needs someone. Maybe his punishment for his sins is to be stuck with her. Maybe it's her punishment. She doesn't really know anymore.

"Oh, yeah, obviously the solution is just a bit more elbow grease. 'Cos you just haven't been trying hard enough already." Though her tone is sarcastic, she rubs his back soothingly. He doesn't know how to fix the TARDIS, she doesn't know how to fix him. They're both a bit rubbish at being doctors right now.

Never said he wasn't one to force distance between him and his friends. Yet still, she doesn't seem to hate him. He wonders just how far gone he has to go to make them hate him, as they should. To stop coming back, as they should.

He really needs the hum of the TARDIS in the back of his mind. He's tipped far into self-loathing than is comfortable. His safety net's gone.

Now, he actually leans into her. Hugs are one thing but personal space--usually on his end--is different. Turns his head to lay it against her shoulder.

"Can never turn my mind off, that's my problem," he murmurs. "Thousand years and I can't shut it up. Too much knowledge, thoughts, worlds. 's'hard. How does someone stop thinking?"

Martha combs her fingers through his hair. It's softer than usual, without all the product he uses to spike it up. She knows she ought to hate him, but she can't. She doesn't hate anyone, save one person, and that isn't the Doctor. She's bitter about him sometimes, but he's still her best mate - you don't always have to get along with your best friend, after all, or even see eye to eye on everything. And he needs someone to take care of him.

The only answer to his question she can think of is the Very Wrong Answer, so wrong that it deserves the capital letters. (Martha thinks of it as the Jack Harkness solution, which is reason enough to avoid it.) "I think that's what people use drugs for," she answers finally, her tone wry. "And lobotomies."

Yes. Very helpful, Martha.

A laugh startles out of him. Says something about them, probably. "Bet you could perform a lobotomy, Doctor Jones. Not that it's recommended. Ever. But, you know, if you had to, I'd trust you to do it. No one else is getting near my brain."

He groans and moves, just a little, but he's still primarily resting against her.

"I don't think the TARDIS is sleeping. Like the crash gave her a concussion. I can feel it, in a way. Wrestling," he draws out, "from her, to me." He frowns. "Maybe 's'why fixing her systems isn't doing anything." He snaps his mouth, quick. Added to the list of things he hasn't told Martha: his repairs have been primarily useless.

Edited (s h u t u p) 2016-06-03 04:24 (UTC)

"Thanks for the compliment, I think." She shifts so she's got an arm wrapped around his shoulders, keeping the other hand running through his hair. It's strangely relaxing, like she's preening him. "Not saying you ought to trust my neurosurgery skills, though."

"Only way to heal a concussion is time." Which isn't an answer either of them wants to hear. "You can ease the symptoms, but the bruising itself has to heal on its own." The part of the analogy she doesn't want to think about is the potential for permanent brain damage - or, rather, permanent TARDIS damage.

"Time," he scoffs. "Right." Time Lords hate waiting, don't you know? Or maybe it's just him. He'd certainly rather take a trip in his time machine and skip the waiting period, except that machine in the problem right now. "Maybe we should tell her a story. 'The Brave Little TARDIS.' 'The Little TARDIS That Could.'"

Some of his sarcasm has actually started to fade. Waiting. Sleeping would be nice, while they wait. He really does think he's done all that he can physically do to ease the TARDIS. She just needs rest. She'll get better. She has to. He doesn't want to think what will happen to them if she doesn't.

"What's the worst injury you've ever gotten, Martha?"

"Have you got any nice picture books in the library? I'm sure she'd love those." Except that the pictures would be wasted on an unconscious TARDIS. Probably. She really doesn't know the first thing about TARDISes, or if they even can see, as such.

Martha hesitates for a moment, pausing in her mindless hair-stroking, thinking of the unnaturally straight furrows of scar tissue that stretch across her back. A car crash, she'd told Tom when he'd inevitably asked. She doesn't remember much of crossing Australia; it's all been lost in a haze of pain, heat, and feverish delirium.

"I broke my arm when I was seven," she lies. Well, it's true - it's just her second-worst injury. "Leo pushed me off a swing at the playground 'cos he got tired of waiting for me to finish, and I fell all wrong." Martha smiles a little as she remembers. "The paramedic distracted me in the ambulance by teaching the names of the bones in my arm and hand, and I thought the ambulance ride and getting my arm plastered at the hospital was the most interesting thing ever."

"There's a few," he answers, voice distant as he remembers why he has them, and he doesn't offer up more of a comment.

"I hope Leo got properly scolded. Or felt bad. Or both. Both, I think." He nods his head against her, which feels slightly strange, and slightly confusing; it's not a position he's used to.

"And I'm sure you got him back at some point, when you were older. Seven, huh? That's a rough age." And there's that distant voice again.

"He was just acting out." 'Just acting out' describes the majority of Leo's life; he's only recently settled down and started acting like a responsible adult. Parenting has actually been good for him, she reflects. "But he was the one who ran for Mum after he realised I was hurt. Didn't save him from a scolding, but I think he felt bad about it."

That wasn't long after Francine had gone back to work - once all three of them were old enough for school, she'd gone right back to the hardworking lifestyle she'd had before Tish was born.

"I was always the good kid." Martha wrinkles her nose. "Someone had to be, I reckon." Tish hadn't been bad, per se, but she engaged in her fair share of misbehaving. And Martha? She'd always been the studious, hard-working one. The dull one, as Tish always called her. She's not dull, but she knew what she wanted from a young age, and knew that she'd have to work hard to get there.

(At least he's believing her lie. She tries not to think about the inch or so of scar tissue that pokes up past the back of her tank top. He won't notice it.)

"Then you became a troublemaker," he jokes. 'Troublemaker' being his companion. It makes perfect sense to him, even if she might see if differently. "Must've been all built up over time, waiting to burst free."

He stretches his legs out and shifts his head off her, shaking feeling into the rest of his limbs until he stops suddenly, tense. "...What's that?" he murmurs, then vaults forward towards the console, makes it to his knees, then falls to his elbows with a groan. "Martha, 'little help..."

"I like to think I keep you out of trouble," she huffs, pretending to be disgruntled. But, honestly, he's the one who gets into trouble. She's too busy taking care of him to get into it.

Martha watches him as he leaps for the console, then falls forward again. "Doctor?" She furrows her brow with confusion and concern, moving forward and slinging one of his arms over her shoulders. She drags him towards the console. "Grab the edge there," she tells him. "Can you pull yourself up?" He's skinny, but it's still hard to manhandle him.

He'd argue that her being around only encourages him getting into trouble, but he's too busy focusing on pulling himself up with her assistance. He's passed the point of being annoyed at being seen like this. Five days takes a toll, even on him.

He hangs there for a moment before limping around the console and reaching into her innards, pulling up a light like he's holding a pulsating firebug. He looks over at Martha, grinning cheekily. "I think someone's starting her bouts of recovery." If he really thought about it, he'd say he was feeling better, too, just talking to Martha about everything and nothing.

Funny how symbiosis works out.

"Good." She feels relieved when she sees the little light. She doesn't know how it really represents the recovery as a whole, but it's something, more than they've seen for five days. Hopefully it won't take the TARDIS another five days to heal enough to get them somewhere.

"Maybe she needs some soup to help her recover," Martha suggests jokingly, patting the coral of the console gently. "Though I'm not sure where you'd put it." Maybe through the grating? Who knows.

"Tea, maybe," he hums, delighted. "Tea fixes everything. Or, well, most things. She's not really into that sort of thing though." Which is really just him saying that no, he's not sure it'd even work and if it did, where he'd put it. He treats his TARDIS like she's sentient and like she's always listening, and though there's a link between them, he's not actually sure how much sentience is there.

So don't call him out on it because he'll probably just lie.

He places the small light down and bounces backward, a skip to his step. "Give it a few hours, and she should have more of her systems back online! If we can get her back into the vortex, we can land her 'round Cardiff."

He sways and quickly finds himself leaning against another coral column and laughs, acting like it was completely on purpose. "Maybe I should go back to bed."

"Who doesn't like tea?" Martha jokes. "I bet even the TARDIS likes a cuppa now and then." Maybe there's a little spout in the console to pour things down. She wouldn't be entirely surprised.

"Excellent. We can drop in on Jack, make him take us out for breakfast. Or lunch. Dinner. Whatever meal it happens to be then." Honestly, at this point she doesn't care, just as long as it's a meal. And even if the Doctor doesn't want to go out to eat with Jack, Martha has absolutely no problem taking advantage of it and dropping in on her other best friend.

Her practiced eye catches that sway, the exhausted ashen tone to his skin, the slightly clumsy movements. "Yeah, you probably should." Not that she's doing much better, but at least she hasn't been up for five days running.

He definitely doesn't want to go out to eat with Jack, but he supposes he can play nice and act like it isn't completely disorienting to look at Jack face-to-face. If he manages sleep, he'll be able to do it, and act like nothing's wrong.

And anyway, it isn't like he can park the TARDIS down and hope Torchwood doesn't notice. She'll need longer than usual there.

"Sounds good," he agrees with some reluctance. He straightens carefully and stares at the console. Concussion. Rest. Time. There's nothing he can do for her waiting around here. A watched pot never boils sort of thing. He rubs at the back of his neck, not looking at Martha. "Mind giving me a shoulder to help get me back to my room?"

what are timelines who cares - 10

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