Forgive me my weakness
Martha Jones is sitting at a table with a plate of spaghetti. She knows she needs to eat (one look at herself and the similarities to an anorexic skeleton in the mirror and she definetly knows) and she is trying, but after two bites she's nauseas. And cold and sweaty.
And... God.
Just what she needs.
To get sick now.
She's so frustrated she just might scream a little. She doesn't have time for this even if time stops here, she has to keep moving.
Of course, it makes sense that she is getting sick. The doctor portion of her brain is telling her this. She'd been out there for so long, unable to take care of herself, being exposed to who knows how many germs, but... Martha rubs her forehead and pushes the spaghetti away.
And... God.
Just what she needs.
To get sick now.
She's so frustrated she just might scream a little. She doesn't have time for this even if time stops here, she has to keep moving.
Of course, it makes sense that she is getting sick. The doctor portion of her brain is telling her this. She'd been out there for so long, unable to take care of herself, being exposed to who knows how many germs, but... Martha rubs her forehead and pushes the spaghetti away.