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[kuroshokora.livejournal.com]

Title: Say It With Flowers (Especially Those That Can Kill You)
Author: Kuroshokora
Rating: M....ish?
Summary: "If I'm sick..." the Doctor began, humouring the Master for the moment "... then what's wrong with me?"
Warnings: Character death.... surrealism?
Disclaimer: Don't own. BBC owns all.
Notes: Use of digitalis poisoning is entirely subject to artistic license

**

The Doctor awoke to the welcoming aroma of hot soup. It took him a few moments to adjust to his surroundings, and even when the room came into view, it took him even longer to place it. Eventually, he recognised the bed he was in as a hospital trolley, and the curtains drawn about his bed to be the partitions to seperate him from the rest of the ward. He was trapped in a horizontal position by the flat surface of the wheeled hospital table over his chest, pinning his arms to his sides. He lifted his head, straining his neck to look around him, eventually spotting the blur of a white coat somewhere above his head.

"Hello? I seem to be... somewhat stuck." he said tentatively.

A short, sharp laugh and his hearts sank. The Master strode into view, white coat fastened neatly and stethoscope hanging around his neck. He leaned forwards, taking hold of the table and wheeling it to the side. Gratefully, the Doctor attempted to sit up, but the Master planted a hand on his chest to push him back down with a disapproving tut. Struggling for a moment, the Doctor eventually consented to lie flat, following the Master warily with his eyes. The other Time Lord gave him a benevolent smile, cranking the side of the bed to raise the upper half, forcing the Doctor's torso upwards into a sitting position.

From this vantage point, he was able to look around more easily. Although it was indeed a hospital, he was beginning to doubt that it had been used as such for some time. There was no noise, no bustle of nurses or coughing of patients, and the halogen light above his head was externally rigged- a stage light. The Master pushed the table back into place to rest more comfortably over his waist. The Doctor blinked at the steaming bowl of soup, and a red vase of fresh foxgloves sitting by it, the bell-like flowers heavy and purple. He noticed with a frown that the leaves were missing; the green curling leaves that cushioned the stems of the foxgloves were in fact from tulips.

"Digitalis." he commented of the flowers, pronouncing the Latin name with an extended enunciation of the vowel sounds "They're poisonous, you know..."

The Master grinned, sitting on the foot of the Doctor's bed and toying with the crisp white sheets while he watched his patient.

"Don't eat them, then."

He reached into a cardboard box on the bedside table, and the Doctor was hit with a sudden unsettling image of surgical equipment as the Master produced a pair of latex gloves and stretched them carefully onto his hand one at a time, snapping the elastic of the wrists into place and flexing his rubber-coated fingers thoughtfully. The Doctor peered around him for any signs of what the Master was planning. He was sure it would soon become apparent; the Master loved to boast about the genius of his complicated plans, especially if the Doctor couldn't work them out.

"Your soup's getting cold." the Master remarked, looking over and gesturing at the bowl.

The Doctor looked down in surprise, almost having forgotten all about it. He looked from the bowl to the Master uncertainly, bending his head over the thick surface of the admittedly appetising soup to take a cautionary sniff. He couldn't smell anything out of the ordinary, but the sour scent of the digitalis flowers were overwhelming any possible traces he could have picked up, and he pushed the vase aside in an attempt to concentrate more clearly.

"You're not usually this fussy." the Master said with a small pout "I made that soup myself, you know. It'll make you feel better."

"I'm not sick." the Doctor insisted.

"Then why are you in a hospital? Silly boy; of course you're sick. Now, eat up your soup. Do I have to feed it to you?"

"If I'm sick..." the Doctor began, humouring the Master for the moment "... then what's wrong with me?"

"Your hearts are broken." the Master said seriously, dipping the spoon into the bowl of soup and stirring in a slow circle.

The Doctor glanced sideways at one of the glowing monitors to his right, monitoring his pulse rate. He shook his head firmly, his eyes following the steady oscillation of his twin hearts.

"I think you need to go back to medical school, Mas--oof!"

Apparently tired of waiting, the Master had shoved a soup-laden spoonful straight into the Doctor's open mouth. The Doctor gagged as the metal hit the back of his throat, and the soup tipped sideways to run down his tongue. He swallowed compulsively, vaguely recognising the flavour of thick leek and potato soup. It was lukewarm but not unpleasant. In any other circumstances, he would have called it delicious, but he was still wary. He could taste no sign of poison or chemical, but that didn't prove anything, and the Master was nothing if not deceptive.

"Eat up." the Master said pleasantly, removing the spoon and loading it with more soup "Here comes the TARDIS spiralling into the black hole....!"

The Doctor clamped his mouth shut firmly. The Master sighed, looking disappointed, and taking hold of the Doctor's chin in his other hand, pulling down hard on it.

"Open up. I don't want to have to force feed you."

There was a certain, sinister emphasis on the word 'force' that made the Doctor's shoulders sag in defeat, and he obediently opened his mouth. The Master probably would be able to force him into it, and he didn't much like the Master's methods. Especially since he could see the glint of the Master's laser screwdriver in the top pocket of his white coat. This way seemed the easier path. So he allowed the Master to spoon-feed him, a little at a time, feeling more and more desperate with each mouthful.

"Is it poisoned?" he asked, wondering if the Master would just admit to it now that he'd eaten it all.

The Master did like to boast after all. Maybe he would just tell him. Maybe he'd want to brag, and to laugh as the Doctor died an agonising death from some horrible compound that he'd hidden away among the leeks and herbs. In fact, of course he'd want to do that. The Doctor sometimes thought that bragging about it was the whole point, for the Master. Displaying what he'd done and how clever he was, and conversely how stupid the Doctor was.

"No." the Master said simply, and although the Doctor narrowed his eyes suspiciously, he did sound truthful "The soup isn't poisoned."

Before the Doctor could consider the intonation, he had left, with a swish of white coat. The Doctor frowned, staring after him for a moment, and then rolled over on his side and grasping out desperately, his hand thankfully grasping onto the rim of the soup bowl which he dragged back towards him and held it beneath his chin, bending double to vomit copiously into it, tears springing into his eyes as his stomach seemed to twist and turn fiercely, contracting painfully as he heaved up all of the soup he'd just eaten. Gasping wordlessly, he shuddered, shoving the bowl back onto the table and falling back against the pillows weakly.

He could escape now; this was his chance. The Master was away, leaving the perfect opportunity. Oh, if only he could make himself escape! And why not? His limbs were in working order. Yes, all of them. He could move each one. He wiggled his toes experimentally.

Besides, he'd just been sick, and that meant that if there had been any toxins in that soup he had hopefully flushed them all away. But that didn't mean that the Master wouldn't try again, and he needed to leave, and to get back to the TARDIS to ascertain if there actually had been anything harmful that he needed to get rid of. What he definitely couldn't do, under any circumstances, was stay here. That was the wrong thing to do. Definitely. So... why wasn't he moving? He gazed at his legs, the shapes of them, under the thin sheets, and willed them to start running, surprised that they weren't doing so already.

It was so easy to sink back against the mattress and pillow, like it was a warm bubble bath. His eyes were closed before the back of his head hit the soft, soft... it was all so soft, and warm, and...

He woke with a start, curled into a ball with his sheets tangled around him in almost impossible shapes, twisted painfully around his thighs. The flimsy hospital gown he was wearing was sticking to his clammy skin, and he gasped aloud, forgetting where he was or what was going on, other than the fact that the blood was pulsing in his ears and his head was pounding with the force of it. He struggled to sit, pushing the hot sheets off him, and then shivering involuntarily with the realisation that he was actually cold, pulling them back over him.

The Master was nowhere to be seen, but he had clearly been here. There was no soup this time, but a plate of mashed potato and slices of meat. Chicken. The Doctor clutched his stomach, feeling a hot wave of nausea burning up inside his throat. He didn't think he could have eaten it, even if he'd wanted to. Which he wasn't going to. He wasn't stupid, and there was obviously something wrong with it.

Staggering to his feet, he picked up the plate and held it carefully to his chest, shuffling step by step away from his bed and between the ward curtains. The entire ward was deserted, with only the bright light over his own bed, and a window at the very end of the corridor. He concentrated on the small square of faint natural light at the very end, forcing his unco-ordinated body to move towards it, and clutching the plate in his shaking hands. Cold sweat beaded under his hairline and he gasped painfully, lurching forwards against the wall and jarring his knee as he thrust it out into the stone to steady himself.

The window was already half open, and the Doctor lifted the plate up, intending to tip the contents out onto the pavement below. Unfortunately, his fingers were too slippery and awkward, and the entire plate slipped out of his hands and crashed into pieces on top of a dustbin in the alley underneath his window. Watching it with a slight feeling of guilt, he stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet and collapsing onto his back. His breath knocked out of him, he inhaled deeply, trying to slow the erratic beatings of his hearts, feeling dizzy and confused, but nonetheless determined. Whatever the Master was trying to do here, it wouldn't work, because he wasn't going to fall for any of his twisted tricks.

He had to crawl back to his bed, acutely aware of the millimetres of dust on the cracked linoleum floor. The air still had the faint stench of lemon bleach. What was wrong with him? Was he really ill? What had the Master done to him? He shuddered violently, hauling himself up onto the bed and falling flat against the mattress, curling up with his knees to his chest, his hearts thudding hard. He twisted his head to try and check the heart monitors, his vision obscured by the large vase of flowers on the table. He hadn't noticed they were still there. The fox gloves had wilted considerably, with the bell-shaped flowers shrivelled and browned at the edges. How long had he been asleep? He couldn't have been asleep that long, surely; it only felt like a few hours! He stared, and then frowned. The vase was blue. It had been red before, he was sure of it. They must be new flowers. He didn't understand. But he didn't understand anything about this situation.

"Master??" he demanded loudly of the empty ward, his words echoing back to him "Where are you?! Tell me what's going on; tell me what you want, I---arghhhh!!"

He drew his legs closer to his chest, convulsing with the erratic pounding of his hearts, feeling as though they were smashing themselves against his ribs over and over again. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, the bile collecting in his throat almost making him choke. It was so cold, he was shivering, and his head hurt, it hurt so much, from the blood from his hearts it must be, forcing the pulse through his brain and shorting his synapses. He clutched his stomach; everything hurt. He longed for sleep, just to make it stop. Everything was blurring, even more when he tried to concentrate on it. He stared at the flowers, trying to keep his attention focused just on them, but the edges were smudged like the whole room was drawn in chalk pastels and somebody was dragging the tip of their finger along the lines and distorting the whole picture. No, not picture. Room. This was real. Not a picture.

Gazing more fiercely at the fox gloves, he stared as the flowers started to lengthen and melt, like wax, twisting like a Dali picture. He closed his eyes, scrunching them tight to block out the confusing images. When he opened them again, the hospital room had disappeared entirely. He was in a jungle, with the huge green leaves of the canopy shading his head in the warm tropical heat. It was hazy, humid and sticky, and he sat up in bed to gaze around. Only it wasn't a bed anymore. It was a bamboo bench, covered in curling fern fronds that tickled his back and unfurled around him, creating a mattress of tightly packed leaves that buoyed him up, feeling light and cushioning him. It didn't hurt anymore, and he stretched out and relaxed luxuriously, turning his toes out from the ankles. The dingy hospital room seemed a thousand light years away. Maybe he'd imagined the whole thing. It seemed possible, from here. Whatever planet he was on, and it was odd that he couldn't remember, he must have fallen asleep from the heat and the fumes of the heavily scented blossoms that were hanging thick and heavy above him. But he had this prickling feeling in the back of his mind, as though he'd forgotten something, something important...

There was a rustling of leaves and the Master stepped towards him from between the trees. The light around him seemed to dim, but it must have been his imagination, because this was sunlight and sunlight did not dim so dramatically in such a short amount of time, and there wasn't a cloud in the cerulean sky. He focused back on the Master, frowning slightly. There seemed to be something different about him, something that the Doctor couldn't quite put his finger on. Then he realised that he was wearing robes, green robes, robes that moved around him as though they were alive. As the Master approached, he realised that the whole length of the long flowing robes was a tangle of moving creepers and vines, that seemed to be growing around him and wrapping themselves around the curves and contours of his body, a huge fan of ivy leaves creating a curved collar behind his head. The Doctor gazed, mesmerised, even before he noticed that the Master's skin was tinged a pale and luminescent green.

"Doctor." the Master intoned, and his voice was like the wind in the leaves, so quiet that the Doctor was half convinced that he'd imagined it.

"Master?" he asked, and the figure smiled a slow, sleepy smile, moving fluidly towards him in what could only be described as a slink.

The Doctor tried to move, but suddenly realised that his arms and his legs were bound, in thick snarled vines that pinned his limbs flat to the bench. He swallowed, eyes wide, as the Master crawled up onto the bench and over him, his fathomless eyes unnaturally dark; pools of ink in his grass green face. He grinned, and his teeth were dark and as sharp as daggers, as they had been in a previous regeneration when he was half-way turned into a Cheetah Person. Was something happening to him here? The Doctor opened his mouth to ask, to offer to help, and the Master leaned forwards to smash their lips together. Mouth moving in a silent protest, the Doctor closed his eyes to kiss the Master back, but found to his horror that he couldn't move. His body was rigid, limbs locked, muscles solid, and he couldn't open his eyes. All he could feel was the soft pressure of the Master's lips on his, hands on his shoulders, and then the weight of his body. The Doctor panicked, trying to move, to speak, to reach out with his mind, but all in vain. His body felt as though it was fading even as the Master kissed him deeper, as though he was being poisoned by the well-remembered sensation of his enemy's embrace; toxins destroying his body from the inside out, burning him up into ashes, radiating death from the epicentre of their joined lips.

The pressure inside his body felt to be building. It didn't hurt, but it was uncomfortable, as though the insides of him that had been burned away were now rapidly filling, as though with water or something more dense and viscous even, like treacle that was oozing into each corner of his being and expanding. He felt like he ought to squirm, but he couldn't even move.

He jerked awake, panting, disorientated for the time it took him to realise that he was back in the hospital. His sheets were once more wrapped around him, tangled around his limbs and his chest. He realised that was probably what the vines in his dream had been. He wasn't sure about the rest. He put his fingertips to his lips, considering. The details were fading fast, but it had felt so real. But at least he knew it was just a dream, not him going completely mad, nor dying from some bizarre toxic kiss. He licked his lips in thought, and for a moment, he could have sworn he tasted jelly babies.

There was another plate on the side, waiting for him. Banana pie, with a mountain of whipped cream, and a cherry resting on the top. It looked delicious, but his appetite had deserted him, and besides, he knew it was probably poisoned. But he couldn't dispose of it in the same way this time; he doubted his ability to stand, let alone walk all the way to the window. A brainwave struck him, however, when he realised that there had been a small cupboard by his bed all of this time, and he could hide it in there! Brilliant! Genius! Let the Master try and poison him now! He smiled brightly, leaning forwards to take hold of the plate in his trembling hands, pulling his legs to the side to kick the cupboard door open. From what he could see from this angle, it was entirely empty. He shoved the plate inside and shut the door, feeling very pleased with himself. That small action had exhausted him, however (why was he so tired all of a sudden?) and he took a moment to catch his breath.

The flowers had changed again. The vase was green, now, and the fox gloves were dry and brown and brittle looking at the edges, drooping almost to the point of the bell flowers hanging over the rim of the ceramic. The Doctor eyed them, and then looked up to the ceiling. At least everything wasn't blurry anymore, but there was an odd sort of outline around everything, in a yellowy-green, or was it a greeny-yellow? It was sort of like looking through his 3D glasses, but he didn't squint to try and see any better. His head hurt too much.

He looked sideways at the heart monitors, and then frowned. Surely that was wrong. The oscillations measured his double heartbeat at far more than was normal, or safe, and it definitely wasn't healthy. He blinked owlishly, and pressed one palm over his left heart. It was racing. And now he could hear the blood rush in his ears again. He didn't like that; he didn't like that one bit. Maybe when he woke up, it would be better. He could feel himself falling asleep again, and lay down hastily just in time to feel his eyes slide close like heavy leaden shutters as he sank once more into oblivion.

It definitely wasn't better when he woke up. In fact, for a moment when he opened his eyes, he was sure that he could feel four hearts thumping in his chest instead of two, and all doing so in a far too fast rhythm. He moaned, arching against the sheets, which seemed to be sending fierce prickles through his skin at the slighest brush, his over-sensitised skin enflamed by the faint brush of cotton. A numbness in his legs made him wonder, in sudden horror, whether he had become paralysed in his sleep. But then he realised that they were numb only because the Master was sitting on them, a heart-shaped box balanced on his knees, and a bizarre yellow-green halo shimmering around him.

"Chocolate?" the Master asked conversationally, pulling a ribbon from the box and opening it to tilt in the Doctor's direction.

The Doctor opened his mouth to speak, but found that he couldn't, so shook his head instead. Less of a shaking, really, than merely allowing it to flop from side to side, but it served its purpose because the Master didn't press the matter. Instead, he reached into the box, selected a chocolate, and popped it into his own mouth, chewing. The Doctor's eyes bulged, and he stared at the Master in shock. The crazy bastard!! Didn't he realise that they were poisoned?! He would have knocked the box out of the Master's hands to save him, if he could, but his muscles were too weak and he only managed to jerk his arms upwards slightly. He gasped in pain, as his hearts seemed to stop, or jump, or cease, for a few beats at least, and he stayed still. The Master eyed him, amused, and ate another chocolate.

"They're safe."

"--you... poisoned me..." the Doctor rasped out, each word a colossal effort "....was it... the... soup?"

"No." the Master replied "I told you that wasn't poisoned, remember?"

That was true. He had told him. The Doctor really ought to listen. Yet the statement didn't compute, somehow.

"I.. th-threw the rest away..." he explained, accusingly "S-s-soo...."

"Idiot." the Master cut him off, holding up a hand to stop his attempts at speech "You really think my methods would be so... prosaic? You were dying long before you came to my hospital. Everything else has been your own foolish paranoia."

He'd been aware of the idea that he was ill, he supposed, but the word 'dying' still struck a chord with him. His eyes automatically went to the yellow vase of flowers on the side. Every one of the flowers in it was dead, crumpled and brown and withered. He swallowed a mouthful of bile, painfully aware of the rapid thumping in his chest. How long had his body been decaying, the cells

"Am I... going to die?" he asked in a small voice, and suddenly, he wasn't himself anymore, nor was he here in this hospital, in this time.

He remembered it vividly, more vivid than any dream. It had been their first off-planet trip, and he'd had the luck to catch some obscure foreign virus from the dense crowds of tourists. He'd never been so sick before, and as he'd lain shivering in his bed in the Time Academy, it had felt as though the universe was ending.

"Am I going to die, Kosch?" he asked seriously, his voice shaking and his eyes tightly closed against the burning light infiltrating the room.

"Don't be ridiculous." Koschei had said, all calm and no-nonsense, tucking his bedclothes around him and setting a wet flannel on his brow "Everybody gets sick. You'll be fine."

Though despite his words he'd stayed by Theta's bedside until he'd completely recovered, at the risk of getting sick himself.

Back in the here and now, the Master gazed at him, with an expression that was simultaneously identical to, and yet nothing like, his Koschei. And said: "Yes. You're going to die."

The lack of emotion in his voice, the vindictive pleasure, even... if the Doctor's body had been capable of feeling anything, he might have been hurt at the lack of regret, or anything that suggested he was even the slightest bit sorry to watch the Doctor slowly dying in front of his eyes. As it was, he felt that the Master's prediction with the flowers had come true; this was the last time he was going to wake up, if he fell asleep again, he wasn't going to wake up. And it was that thought that was most frightening. The inevitability, and how tired he was now, and the idea that actually, since it was going to happen anyway, couldn't he just let it happen instead of prolonging it, and the pain, and the fear? He knew what was happening, could feel his hearts weakening. Any second, they would stop and he would die, and he couldn't, he couldn't, he wasn't ready to die... 

Everything around him blurred, and the pressure around his skull was immense, compressing his brain just as his chest was being compressed, and his heart beat was increasing. He gasped for breath, not caring what the Master thought of him lying here, gaping like a fish out of water in his desperation to keep his body alive, just for a little longer....

The Master gazed at him, slowly, eyes larger than life and boring into him with their dark intensity, whirling galaxies in their midst... and he raised a fist over the Doctor's chest. The Doctor concentrated on his breathing and his focus on externalising his feelings instead, not paying any attention on the Master at all until... wham, the Master's clenched knuckles came down, hard on his ribs, and he felt his feeble heart give a final flutter and then die altogether. The Doctor struggled in protest, panicking as his remaining heart was forced to struggle alone.

"d--d-don't, Master, please!" he begged at the thought of the Master forcibly erasing his last lifeline, and the Master laughed loudly, delightedly, his laughter echoing around the room or was that just inside the Doctor's head?

He gasped for breath, attempting to draw in oxygen to fill his lungs, for him to survive on, just a little longer. He didn't want to die! He couldn't! Not like this; he wasn't ready, he wasn't...!

"Please!" he entreated the Master "Help me!"

"Oh dear, Doctor. I'm afraid it's far too late now. Maybe if you'd asked me earlier, I would have been able to do something about it. You only have yourself to blame."

His words faded away, absorbed somehow in the air before the Doctor could hear them properly, as though he was underwater. Yes, that was how it felt, exactly. He was drowning. Drowning on the air, and the toxins inside his blood and his body. And there was no way of escaping. Nobody to pull him out of the water and bring him back to life. It was useless. And just as the Master's words were disappearing, so was his own consciousness replaced with his own single heartbeat that was taking over all else, all of his thoughts, but sounding pitiful and weak even as it continued to pump his lifeblood around his body. He couldn't count the beats, he had no regular pulse to speak of. All he could do was cling onto that, hope that it could sustain him. He hoped that his eyes were closed, and not that everything had just gone black, but he couldn't manage to lift his eyelids to check. And he wasn't breathing anymore, he realised with a jolt, but slipping into unconsciousness. So why could he still feel it? Why did he still know what was going on?

The heartbeat was slowing, shuddering. It was like an old car trying to drive up an icy hill, and any second now it was going to stall. Every beat was a monumental effort, almost more effort than it was worth, he imagined. Part of him wondered whether he was already dead. He couldn't tell, because he couldn't move, and everything was black. The gaps between his heartbeats was extending, until.... until... suddenly... nothing. In the distance, somewhere, miles away, he could hear the long, high note of a prolonged beep as his body flatlined in the hospital bed. And there was nothing, apart from the ringing of laughter in his ears.