The Doctor's face went from amused to concerned in a second. Again, Martha was reminded forcibly of a chameleon. "Did you not just say that?" he asked.

"Say what?" Martha asked, resigned. With the Doctor, there were no straight lines.

"Say that you meant it. I'm sure you did."

"Say that I meant it? Doctor, what-"

He cut over her, talking fast. "You said you didn't mean to shout at me, and I said you did, and then you cocked your eyebrow and said I meant it all over again. Are you feeling okay?"

Slightly stunned at the machine-gun delivery, Martha only blinked. "Am I – what?"

Now the Doctor was circling her, stepping in quick, direct movements, his gaze moving, searching for any sign of abnormality in her body. Martha turned with him, feeling ridiculously exposed. His glasses, she noticed, had been fished from the depths of a voluminous pocket and were now perched precariously on his nose, wobbling slightly.

"Doctor, -" she tried again, as long hands started probing delicately at the glands in her neck. "Doctor, I'm fine – ".

"…known something like this was going to happen," he was muttering under his breath, ignoring her completely. "Out there for three months, with all that dirt and grass and sheep – a singularly useless animal, sheep, and thick as a boot to go with it – with no form of hygiene, you humans are so slow when it comes to evolving. A ridiculous year for soap, something like a hundred bars sold for all of England. I'd be surprised if you hadn't been sick, did you get thinner?" he asked suddenly, looking up, eyes squinched in concentration.

Martha focused on controlling her urge to laugh. "Ah, Doctor," she said, mouth twitching helplessly. "Your glasses-" "Martha, this is important. If you've lost weight, or developed a rash, or had anything change with your body, you need to tell me. Now."

He was staring at her, eyes dark and intense behind his glasses, hands resting gently on the sides of her neck, her face cupped within his thumbs. Martha struggled not to blush, hating herself for the warmth spreading over her face. "Doctor, I'm fine," she said shortly, embarrassment making her abrupt. "You don't need to worry about me." Not giving him time to react, she slipped out of his grasp, and back into her room, the door snicking shut behind her.

Left alone in the corridor, the Doctor slid his hands into his pockets, sighing as he did so. "Ah, but that's the problem, Martha Jones," he said softly. "I do." He turned as if to go, and then looked up, brow wrinkling in momentary peturbance. "Oh, and give her her towel rack back, will you?"