Disclaimer: Doctor Who and the characters thereof are the property of the BBC. Atonement, which partially inspired this story, is the property of author Ian McEwan and film production studio Focus Features. This story was also inspired in part by "Finding Love at Netley," a memory of WWII contributed by Francesca Heasman to the BBC's WW2 People's War: An archive of World War Two Memories. 'WW2 People's War is an online archive of wartime memories contributed by members of the public and gathered by the BBC. The archive can be found at .uk/ww2peopleswar'

Author's Notes: Firstly, this story is inspired by WWII but is not intended to be historically accurate. Actual events were used to frame the plot, but liberties have been taken with the precise timeline and other details.

Secondly, regarding accents: I am an American attempting to write various British accents for the first time. This is just an experiment, practice for me. If the accents are awful please tell me, I don't mean to irritate or offend anyone with poorly conveyed accents.

Unbeta'd.

28 May, 1940

Rose Tyler stood on a forsaken cobble stone street, immersed in the disquieting sensation of non-action amidst chaos; it was as though she could feel the earth turning beneath her feet yet remained quite still on the exact same spot. The lead weight of her throbbing feet anchored her, preventing her from feeling entirely detached from the present situation. Rose's exhausted eyes remained fixed on the back of the austere woman in front of her, awaiting an order her body was loath to follow. The sea air, thick with dust, encompassed her and filled her nose and lungs while the distant din of men and machines both beckoned her mind and repelled her body. She shouldn't be able to do her job in such conditions. And yet, such was the very nature of her work.

Matron Redfern turned and gave direction with the curt nod of her head. Rose fell into step behind her, feeling as though the onslaught of sensations was wrapped around her head like cotton. The rest of her unit of the Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Service stumbled along around her, all equally tired and hungry. Their company had narrowly escaped German-seized territory and struggled to reestablish communication with their commanders before making a four day trek on foot towards the port town of Dunkirk. They were poorly provisioned for the journey, having slipped away from German troops at the first opportunity, but were also lightly burdened, having left most of their supplies behind.

The occasional cry from some dark corner of the town or the low moan of one of her fellows reminded Rose of her duty to help; a duty which took precedence over resting her weary body. As they approached a row of buildings that once contained shops and apartments above, Rose forced her eyes to seek out the red cross which would designate their destination as a med station. But no swipe of crimson marked the drab façade, and the Matron led her girls in the wake of a major without a word. He took them past a small collection of soldiers on the first floor, all of whom seemed to be encased in some form of sling or splint though all were quiet and seemingly settled. A few nodded respectfully at the nurses, but otherwise dozed noiselessly. At the top of the stairs the Major again spoke briefly to Matron Redfern before showing them to a small, empty room and taking his leave. The girls filed in and stood in a line along the wall obediently, awaiting instruction. The staff nurse to Rose's left stood on trembling legs, but valiantly resisted the urge to lean back against the wall.

"This room will be our camp until we are evacuated." The Matron's voice was hoarse with tiredness, yet firm as ever. "We should expect to stay for some days. Major Bennett will have a few blankets and provisions brought over for the time being. It is not likely we will be called to duty before we sail, but remember that you must always be at the ready. However, for tonight: we rest."

A collective sigh came from her small unit as half of the girls sank immediately to the floor. The Matron watched, with measured pride, as her girls quickly arranged their spare supplies into a camp on the floor and promptly made themselves as comfortable as the circumstances allowed. Many were asleep before a pair of soldiers knocked on the door, bearing a few blankets and enough for the nurses to make two small meals before having to venture out of their newly assigned building. At their arrival Rose hauled herself upright once more and helped the Matron distribute the gratefully received items. The two women shared a look of understanding before succumbing to the sweet call of sleep.

Doctor John Smith leaned against the bumper of a medical vehicle parked at the top of the beach, feeling the small notebook in his pocket. It was too dark for writing now and he wouldn't waste the torch light, but he had not had a moment during the day as he oversaw the evacuation of many of the more grievously injured. He had long since grown accustomed to death and the loss of good men too young, but today he had packed off one of his own doctors and feared the conditions on the crowded ship would not help the man stave off his lung infection until he reached England once again. The doctor had learned not to burden his heart with each death he witnessed, but felt a particular responsibility to the men under his command. He mentally commanded himself to take a moment when the light returned to note the younger doctor's name and the ship he left aboard, so that he may inquire after him once back in England.

Sighing, he stood and went over to a small camp of men to check that one of the young cadets in his charge was in fact still resting. Cadet Mitchell had been presented to John with a lovely gash to the head. John deemed the wound to be superficial, but gave strict orders to the lad to remain still and rest. While bandaging the young man's head John had noticed he was already numb to the pain on the excitement of going home and was eyeing up a rambunctious football scrimmage eagerly. Amidst the hundreds of embittered soldiers all too willing to rest their legs and hearts, packs of others rallied the high spirits that had been missing for some time and dashed about with delighted abandon. Nightfall had stilled many more, but a low drone of activity remained.

Satisfied that the cadet was in fact present and sleeping, he trudged through the sand back to the truck where he planned to kip for a couple hours. He kicked irately at a divot in the deep sand left by another man's boot, annoyed that the loose material seemed to drag down his already tired feet. The doctor was familiar with less than comfortable circumstances and had run for his life on more than one occasion. But he had been able to run; the prospect of slogging through sand made him feel vulnerable and impatient. The enemy knew their position, transport was slow, and poor footing would slow him down more than if he was running on solid ground with the body of an injured soldier slung over his shoulder. Having erased one divot he made a new one and settled into it, leaning against a bundle of bandages. If anyone needed the supplies, they'd have to rouse him and he'd be back on the job.

Around John time seemed confused. The sun had long since set and the ocean calmed, the earth steady and peaceful at night. Many men had seized the break from combat as a chance to sleep, and sleep wherever they seemed to land without caring about guards or defenses. But hundreds more milled about, working or carousing by the light of sporadic bonfires and torches. Low tones of the upper officers discussed maintaining defenses and strategized the next round of evacuations while the high pitched cries of the wounded punctuated the loud and jovial rumpus of those who were too riddled with adrenaline to remain orderly. The sea breeze brought alternating waves of sweat, blood, and salt water. John likewise hovered in a place somewhere between daytime and night, wishing to give into the draw of sleep but unable to do so. He shifted, trying to find a position that would put a bit more pressure on his well bandaged arm without leaving it completely numb and useless, before trying to push the onslaught of ever changing sounds and smells to the back of his mind.

He drifted in and out of a restless sleep for several hours, twice rising long enough to earn a pointed look and nod from another doctor on duty. Insomnia or not, they had arranged a schedule and would hold each other to it. And that included time to sleep. When John arose for the day, he couldn't be sure if the sky was lightening or if he was imagining any call to wakefulness. But he was soon put to use, as out of the grayness emerged two bedraggled soldiers with a third clutched between them.

"T'were the bombs turned 'is head" one of the men offered. "'ees lost 'is sense. Heard a door slam and bolted straight over the stairs up the other end of the street."

John helped the men lower their companion to a crate, mindful of the apparent injury to the soldiers' arm. Broken, but neatly so. More pressing was the likely concussion from the tumble, but John struggle to diagnose such. Whether the man's eyes rolled and roved, unfocused, was the result of the blow or the overbearing terror of the battlefield, he could not be sure. John leaned back and sighed. Such was, to his way of thinking, the greatest damage done during a war. Innumerable good men came home bearing physical scars, many forever impaired by their wounds. Countless others left their lives on the battlefield. But then there were others who returned, perhaps to their loving and grateful families, forever smothered by the wartime terror that lived in their minds like a plague. They breathed yet, but did not live for the inability to escape mere moments of their past.

He set the snapped arm and wrapped the man tightly in a blanket. "You can leave him over there, and I'll keep me eye on him." John gestured to a stack of sandbags piled nearby. "Jus' settle him down against the wall an' tell him it's a bomb shelter."

"I'll stay with 'im, if it's all the same to you." One of his companions said. "'Ee an' I were in school together, an' I'll see 'im home if I can."

"Good lad," John replied. "You know where ta find us if you need anythin'."

As the men made their way off, John turned back towards the channel. The oncoming sunrise bathed the beach in a light grey haze, offering only utilitarian encouragement to the bleak sight. Soon all manner of sea craft would be bobbling off shore, ferrying away more men than they could rightfully carry. It would be a long day for the doctor.

29 May, 1940

Several blocks away the imminent daylight woke Matron Redfern, who had rested with her back to the door in a gesture of guarding her girls and in doing so placed herself in direct line with the small window which had long since sacrificed its curtains. Even her practiced, contained movements roused some of the other women in the cramped room. To her right, a pair of alert hazel eyes regarded her with a degree of impatience. Joan bit back a sigh and stood, instructing the nurses to remain where they were unless she sent for them. As she made to close the door behind her Rose Tyler slipped through with the same restive expression. She must have hurdled at least two of her sleeping companions to reach the door, and had done so quickly and silently. This time the matron did not curb her sigh.

"No, Nurse Tyler. Stay with the other girls, I'll not have any of you wandering off."

"I won't be wanderin' off if I'm with ya, yeah?" Rose countered. The matron offered a pointed look. Surely the lieutenants did not challenge their superiors with quite the same undercurrent of sass that flowed from the young nurse. Rose yielded only slightly. "Please, I can't stand to be useless. Not like this."

"If you leave my sight I'll not be responsible for seeing you back to England." Matron Redfern said stiffly. She knew Rose would be an asset to have at hand, but couldn't justify relenting on an order completely without some modicum of stern authority. She also knew perfectly well that both of them knew she would never abandon one of her nurses. With that, the pair traversed a few dismal blocks before seeking out a med station on the disheartening waterfront.

The Royal Army Medical Corps had commandeered an open corner of the beach walled on one side by a rock jetty, near a stretch of buildings that still had running water. The smartly uniformed officers stood in contrast to their half-dressed patients, and imposed order as well as could be fathomed amongst the general commotion. Rose hovered like the Matron's shadow while a colonel gave the older woman a curt overview of the operation. Their first hour was spent observing and determining where the rest of the unit could be most useful. Rose was sent to collect some more of her fellows and returned to find the Matron had set about assisting a doctor endeavoring to stitch up as many wounds as possible in hopes of conserving bandages. Rose sat nearby, organizing and inventorying supplies as they were brought in by other medical officers or requested by units established further down the beach. Soon she was shuttling clean supplies over to a tented triage area, where two doctors bent over soldiers laid out on cots and attempted to remove shrapnel from their wounds before bandaging them as best they could and praying the wounds stayed clean during the channel crossing.

"Wait," during her fourth trip to the tent a low order stopped Rose in her tracks. One of the two doctors summoned her to his side without taking his eyes from the shredded chest barred before him. "Wash your hands an' help me with this man. It's a delicate job and you'll make cleaner work of it."

A minute later Rose crouched next to his camp stool, steadying herself against the edge of the cot. She was inches from the doctor, and could sense the tightly wrapped bandage under the sleeve of his uniform, though his hands were steady and moved confidently. "Have you seen a shrapnel wound before?" he asked.

"Yes." Rose answered softly. She hoped not to cause any undue alarm to the quivering soldier on the cot, and supposed the doctor's noticeably large ears would catch her words no matter how quietly spoken.

"Good." He still did not remove his eyes from his patient. "There's a little metal sliver, jus' there by the vein. Last one in there. My lamps not bright enough and I can't chance nickin' the vein." He gestured with the needle in his hand, and Rose noticed the slim silver shard. "You take this, an' pull it out while I hold a light closer for you to see."

With one hand he passed Rose the needle and took up a small torch. His other hand maintained pressure on the soldier's chest, keeping the man's blood from flooding the wound. Rose accepted the tool silently and paused while the older man adjusted his grip on the torch. The tent, though needed to prevent the sand from blowing in, obscured what little sunlight was forcing its way through the morning clouds. Most of the more delicate procedures were being conducted in a nearby building, but an influx of troops the night before had overfilled the facility and forced some out into the open.

Reminding herself to breath normally, Rose carefully ran her instrument along the tiny metal splinter, trying to free the pointy ends from flesh without pushing it in any deeper. Painstakingly, she nudged the splinter with her needle until she felt sure she could safely raise one end and pull it free.

"Well done." The doctor offered simply. The medical corps did not bandy about excessive praise. "Do his bandages an' you can be back to your work." Quickly Rose slid a roll of gauze under the soldier's back and pulled it tightly across his chest, applying enough pressure that the doctor could remove his hand and look to his next patient. Deftly she covered the remaining gashes and gave the man a few low words of comfort. As she rose to gather the dirtied instruments and tray of shrapnel, the doctor returned to glance at her work.

He could see the bandages had been used conservatively, but effectively. "What is your name?" he looked directly at her for the first time.

"Nurse Tyler, sir. Under Matron Redfern."

"Thank you, nurse." He nodded in dismissal before turning his attention to the other operation.

Once outside of the tent Rose did not allow herself to feel pleased with her work, but took a moment to appreciate being back in the open air. Stifling though the environment was, there was a certain openness standing exposed on that beach that would be lacking when Rose returned to London. The sense of being enclosed would perhaps feel less dire after her experiences in the war, but Rose was not hesitant to find a moment of pleasure no matter the circumstances. She knew too well that life was too short.

The day carried on at a fast clip, but by mid afternoon another group of invalids were being organized for loading onto a boat and Rose was ordered out of the way. With a brief look from the Matron, Rose accepted permission to sit nearby with an injured man who would remain on the beach for at least another day. Matron Redfern new Rose's compassion could often do more for a man than her skill with a bandage, and rarely begrudged the younger woman a few minutes to sit and find the humanity in a soldier who had walked into combat without hesitation regardless of his fear.

The dark haired captain sat a few yards from the medical station, out of the way of foot traffic but able to clearly see his fellows marching down shore to the awaiting vessels. His light colored eyes betrayed a hungry expression as they slid over the distant figures, weaving across the beach and into the surf like ten-pins. Rose noticed this as she approached, and intended to greet him gently. But when the man noticed her coming he perked up and gave a devilish smile that lit up his eyes with genuine amusement despite his evident pain.

"Why, hello there." His words carried a smooth, well practiced sound despite the rasp in his voice. "What devilry sent a vision like you out to this god-forsaken place with the rest of us motley lot?" He used the bandage on his head to his advantage, looking up from below the bit crossing his eyebrow the way a woman flirts from beneath the brim of her hat.

Surprised by his good humor, Rose let herself relax and chuckled at him. "That would be our dear B.E.F." she sank down to the sand and sat facing him.

"Damn them," the man said with a grin. "Captain Jack Harkness." He offered a heavily bandaged hand, but then glanced at it and let his grin slip a bit and pulled back. Grime and blood don't mix well with suavity.

"Nurse Rose Tyler." She gently snatched up his hand and spent a moment inspecting and re-fastening his bandage before glancing up with a sly look that she hoped would encourage him to engage again. She had read him well.

They struck up an easy banter, and soon discovered they both new the same neighborhoods in London. "Rosie Rosie Rosie," the captain had awarded himself the right to use a nickname, and Rose didn't tell him it was one she never favored. "What do you mean, you've never checked out the Bad Wolf? It's the best bar that side of London."

"We are talking about the same Bad Wolf, that dungeon of a place on Piper Street, yeah? It's terrifyin' enough from the street, thanks. If I go down those stairs I might never come back up." She gave him an incredulous look. True, it might not quite appear to be the cess-pit she described, but the place seemed to give off an odd energy that always sent her further on in search of a safer place.

Captain Harkness snorted. "Dungeon? Oh love, I've seen some dungeons. Nah, this is definitely the place to be…" and with that he launched into several stories that all seemed to involve excitement, flirting, and some degree of questionable activity. It seemed the captain had hardly walked the straight and narrow his whole life, but Rose decided he was a good man at heart and silently willed him to make it home alive.

For several minutes they talked about music and dancing before inadvertently broaching the subject of family. Captain Harkness's eyes clouded over again and the longing expression returned as he began to close himself off from Rose. She persisted gently, and gradually learned that Jack had been away from his family with the army for some time before the war started, and had not been home since his younger brother came of age to enlist. He had no idea what had become of his brother, and didn't need to explain out loud that in his mind every distant figure on the beach could be him, making his way home safe from the war he may or may not have entered. Rose held his hand and offered him the most sincere empathy he had experienced since enlisting, oblivious to the fact that she had briefly been under the observation of the same Doctor Smith who had required her earlier that day.

Above the din Rose heard footsteps approaching and deflated. She might well be reprimanded for fraternizing with a soldier while there was work to be done. Jack nodded in understanding as she moved to check his bandages again. His eyes moved upwards towards the face of the approaching man, who came quite close before stopping. Rose determinedly kept her back turned, her focus on the safety pin that had grown uncooperative in the sea air.

"Doctor," Jack seemed to recognize the man standing behind Rose. She supposed he was the one who applied the bandages in the first place.

"Captain Harkness." The familiar voice made Rose stiffen. She was sure she had made a good impression on him in the triage tent, proving herself valuable. Now surely she would seem to be lazy and irresponsible. Coercing the pin closed, she made one last move to smooth the gauze before rising and turning to acknowledge the officer. He again nodded, but offered neither a reprimand nor a dismissal.

"How's your head, captain?"

"Aww, its nothing, Doc. Had worse after a good night out on the town, and may I say one of those might just do you good once we're outta here. I was just about to ask Rosie to join me next time." He finished with a rouge wink at Rose. Rose's eyes widened, but the doctor accepted the younger man's words with nothing more than an eye roll. He had worked alongside the captain's unit briefly, but long enough to see that the man seated before him was worth his weight in gold when the need arose and had learned to ignore the unseemly remarks that seemed to keep the rest of the men in good spirits.

"Watch yourself. He's a cad, this one." The doctor said dryly, glancing at Rose. "Well, mind you stay put an' rest . Word is the worst of the lot'll be left behind."

"No, they can't!" Rose's words seemed to tear themselves from her mouth, disregarding of her expected deference to the ranked officers in her presence. The Doctor turned and raised an eyebrow but did not speak, as if giving her a chance to retract the outburst. Rather, Rose squared her shoulders and stared straight back.

"They can't leave these men behind, they've given nearly everything! What does that make England, hmm? The country who abandons 'er own men when they need 'er most? Are we gonna turn and leave when the French need our 'elp too? Can't even take care of our own, then." Her eyes smoldered with the disgraceful speech. She could easily be kicked out of the QA's for saying those things but at the moment she didn't care; Rose would just as soon stay behind to care for the wounded if the army found her no less disposable then the men who took bullets on the front lines.

"I'm not tellin' you it's ideal, but someone has ta make a decision and tha' might be it. There aren't enough boats and there isn't enough time, 'specially if we start takin' on the French too. Do you have any idea how many thousands of soldiers are in this town right now, nurse?" John Smith's eyes were cold and sharp, but he didn't shout. He simply stood, a tall and imposing figure of authority, in front of a well-meaning girl who would be more useful if she understood.

"No, but it can't be too many to count, can it? I wonder if someday you'll count the ones you've treated. How many of them will you have stitched up and left?" For a moment, her eyes flickered up to the insignia on his blue beret. "In Arduis Fidelis," she read, scoffing. "Faithful in adversity, indeed."

A less patient soldier might have lost his temper then and there, seeing to it that her blasphemous words were rewarded with dismissal and disgrace right there where she stood on the sand while personally ripping the red cross arm band from her sleeve. Doctor John Smith stood perfectly still, yet some indescribable emotion bubbled and churned just beneath the surface, flashing in his eyes. For a moment they darkened, more closely resembling his navy beret than the hazy horizon. Rose, defiant, stood her ground.

"The RAMC is here to see to the wounded and we'll patch up as many men as we can to get them fit for the journey home. Gettin' them home is the job of other men, an' we'll follow their orders. Now I suggest you bite your tongue, 'cause you're needed where that won' be taken kindly. And you," for the first time in several minutes the doctor looked down at Captain Harkness, who had been gaping silently at the pair. "See you're looking fit enough to leave with your unit in the morning."

"Yes, sir!" the captain saluted with his bandaged hand and continued to stare at the pair as they turned and moved up beach. What a woman he thought bemusedly. "Hey, don't you forget about that drink at the Wolf!"

Rose moved away from the beach at the doctor's side, silent but not remorseful. Perhaps she had been wrong to snap at a medical officer; of course he was more likely to value the life of each individual soldier than the officers aiming to reassemble war-ready troops. But her conscience would not yield to any justification of the decision at hand.

John, for his part, found himself torn between irritation and admiration. He and his fellows worked endlessly to save every life they encountered, thank you. Not for one second did any of them take failing to save a man easily. If a few men from each country had the right to call the shots and design the fate of their people, John thought, then wars could be had across conference tables rather than battlefields, without the lives of the loyal marching into devastation. If only. But at the same time he was an officer who did his duty, followed orders, and expected respect from the men beneath him. The nurse should never have dared speak to a superior in that manner. And yet, he respected every word she said and admired the conviction with which she spoke. Hardly a delicate English flower, this Nurse Tyler. He should have been able to brush the incident aside upon leaving her presence, but he knew his curiosity, however out of place, was piqued.

As the pair walked down a road littered with debris their attention was caught by a loud bang echoing towards them. Two pairs of eyes turned northwards, but neither altered their course. The doctor could not help but be pleased to see the nurse remained steady at his side. Bombs had fallen barely two miles up the coast that morning and it was well known the safety of Dunkirk was relative.

"They are destroyin' the trucks an' guns so that the Germans can't make use of them." He explained, still moving east. "Bet an engine jus' went up."

Rose nodded in acknowledgement, but did not speak for another minute.

"What is it I'm needed for?"

"I'm takin' a shift in our 'hospital' building an' they suggested I bring a red cross with me."

"So you came looking for me 'stead of grabbing the first nurse in sight?" she asked skeptically.

The doctor paused a moment before replying. "We've got a ward of men who wouldn't survive the trip home even under the best conditions." He said slowly. "I've seen enough of you today to know you'll give 'em a bit more comfort than some of the others. Most people's compassion is stretched a bit thin at the mo', but is seems you've still got some. Mind, you'll have plenty of practical work to do an' the other doctors won't want to see you dilly dally."

For a moment Rose gazed at him with an almost betrayed expression. He expected her to give hope to the very dying men he just revealed would not be evacuated. But she quickly quelled the emotion in her eyes and mentally pulled herself together. If all she could do was give them one last bit of kindness on their way out of this world, then she would damn well try as hard as she could.

Rose thought she had witnessed hell out on the battlefields, where she stepped over the dead and dismembered in search of the living. Now, standing in the makeshift hospital on the French coast, she experienced purgatory. The room, which once may have been a dance hall, overflowed with occupied cots and the spare corners housed those for whom beds could not be found. Blood and fear flooded her nostrils. Not one man in sight, save the few RAMC officers, was not covered in bloodied bandages, burns, or grime. The groaning man nearest to the door Rose entered through was missing a leg; the wound leaking through the bandages was staining his cot. Doctor Smith quickly introduced her to the major in charge, Patterson, who set her to work changing bandages. She chanced posing a question at the severe man, wondering if she shouldn't try to change the sheets of the amputee's cot, to save the mattress from becoming contaminated. All of the spare sheets, he told her, had been torn into bandages. The major then walked away, taking John Smith with him.

For hours Rose moved from bed to bed, changing bandages and offering brief smiles and words of encouragement. She longed to place wet cloths on the foreheads of the feverish, but there were no scraps to spare. Several painstaking minutes were spent repairing stitches torn out by a cadet in the grips of a nightmare. Occasionally she glanced up at her fellow medical staff, exchanging tight lipped nods with another nurse and noticing the way Patterson moved from one dying man to another with no sympathy, only efficiency. Her doctor remained as well, but always appeared intensely focused on the patient he was treating.

Rose paused, hand on the door of the cabinet housing clean bandages. Her doctor? She didn't have a doctor. She arrived at the hospital building with a doctor. One she only met that morning. Rose glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of the man with his hand on a patient's shoulder, giving reassurance as he made to move on to another cot. She whipped her eyes back and gave her head a slight shake. It's being surrounded by death and loneliness, she told herself. You're just looking for someone familiar, but you'll see Matron Redfern and the girls in a few hours. And with that, she set herself back to work.

Not much later she forced herself to stand up straight, breathing through her nose to quell a rush of nausea that threatened to make her legs shake. Removing the man's grimy bandage to reveal an empty eye socket underneath had turned her stomach more than anything else she had seen for several days. Striding away to discard the old gauze, she heard another man mumble and guiltily checked to see that his eyes were still intact before approaching the bed.

"Emily," he mumbled, looking around the room but clearly seeing something else. "Emily."

"Hello," Rose approached his bed slowly to not frighten him. She reached for his arm, intending to soothe him.

"Emily!" With unexpected quickness the feverish man grabbed Rose's writs and pulled her down closer to him. Though she kept her feet, Rose suddenly found herself very close to a young man's face.

Across the room, John Smith caught a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye and turned just in time to see his nurse caught in the grip of a young man suffering greatly from the infection in his wounds. He rose to free her, but in doing so caught her eye and received a grateful but reassuring look. When her eyes left his for the soldier's he knew he wasn't needed but kept a close watch regardless.

"Emily, Em, Em, Emmy, it's me, it's Ben, you know me, you know your brother Ben. Emily." The sick man rambled, his grip slackening on her wrist. Rose hesitated for a second, feeling guilty over the notion of misleading him. But then, he was dying and what comfort was Rose when he had found his Emily?

"Shhh, yes my dear. Of course I know you, my silly brother. I'm here, Ben. I'm here." Rose perched herself on the cot and took his hand in hers, smiling sweetly.

"Emily, I've been looking, I've tried, I've…tried, found you. Needed to find…you…"

"You did find me, I'm right 'ere. You are back now, don't you see? We've been waiting and you've come home to us."

"Yes" he gasped, trying to sit up. Rose again shushed him and forced him to lie still with gentle pressure from only one hand pressed against his chest. "Yes," he said more slowly. "Home…your…I said…promised to keep you safe…you…"

"I am safe." Rose told him. "See, safe, right here. Completely safe. You protected me, yeah? You watched out for me."

"Yeah…I always used to watch out for…you…Mum said…"

"Mum said you would always keep me safe. And you did. You watched over me. And you know what? I think you will always be watching over me. No matter what." She tried to keep the sadness from her eyes. Rose suddenly though she knew how poor Emily would feel, thinking about her dear lost brother looking down on her from heaven. She felt a pang in her heart and thought about her parents. Perhaps Ben had a family member waiting to comfort him on the other side. But at the moment Ben still lived in this world and began rambling again about one memory or another from the sibling's childhood.

For nearly twenty minutes, Rose sat by and tried to comfort a very confused, very young soldier from Finchley. And when he died, he believed his sister sat with him. Rose held his hand a moment longer, silently praying to any god that may exist for Ben's soul to be a peace.

Rising, she moved to the far side of the room to wash her hands before seeking out Major Patterson to inform him of the death. He met her with a disgruntled look.

"That was hardly a good use of time, Nurse." He glared down at her reproachfully. "There is too much work to be done to have bleeding-hearts coddling the men." He proceeded to give her a tongue lashing, shooting a warning look at the other nurse when she scurried by.

A few yards away John Smith watched intently. His eyes had not left Rose since she moved from the dead man's side, and John had an inkling of what she was in for. The Major was not known for his patience or his kind heart. But he also knew that involving himself would do no good at all, so he rolled his eyes and watched and hoped the blonde kept her tongue in check.

Rose, emotional already close to the surface, felt her temper flare. Her face began to scrunch in anger when she suddenly remembered the warning she was given earlier to bite her tongue. It's was already too late to keep her mouth shut entirely, but she'd make one try at being respectful. Rose knew this was one man she shouldn't antagonize.

"My apologies, sir." Her posture was stiff and the annoyance flickering in her eyes did nothing to disguise the edge she was struggling to keep out of her voice. "With all due respect, compassion for people was part of my training. If your men are gonna to keep dyin' for England, I'll 'old their 'and and thank 'em for it. Standard orders, sir. Unless, of course, I'm given orders to stand aside and roll bandages for the next hopeless soldier to take that bed. What is it you want me to do?"

Patterson's frown deepened and John held his breath. The tension gave unnatural length to a few scant seconds. Rose did not take her eyes off of the major, though she was immediately aware when one of the ill soldiers began to vomit on himself.

"Go keep that one clean." He barked gruffly. "And come if you're called." Rose spun on her heel and marched off in search of a bowl and clean rags. John finally took his eyes off of her, turning them quickly to a clip board of medical notes as the Major passed by. He blinked at the indistinct words, feeling an uncommon sense of triumph despite not being responsible for the turn of events. Head still bowed, his eyes crept upwards to sneak another glance across the room. His little firecracker of a nurse was standing over the sick man, suddenly calm and soothing as she cleaned his shirt and eased his nerves.

John might have noticed another pair of eyes following the young woman's movements, had not his attention been summoned by a scream from his other side. A man who had been carried in nearly unconscious, covered in severe burns, had moved in his sleep and inadvertently torn a patch of seared skin off of his shoulder. Bracing himself, John joined another doctor and began to contemplate what little they could do. Eventually both doctors knew it was the pain that quelled the screams, having become so intolerable the soldier again lost consciousness. Rising, John found himself facing the major, who informed him he was leaving the building for a meeting with his peers and would send another senior officer later that evening. Nodding, John watched the stalwart figure exit into the falling darkness.

Quickly his eyes left the door and confirmed that he was not the only person aware of the major's exit. But Rose's glance did not turn towards the doctor; instead she turned smartly and strode back to the bed of a very young soldier whom she had seen watching her for some time and sat down gently on the edge of his makeshift bed.

"Hello," he offered with the best smile he could muster. Fair headed and barely older than Rose, he reminded her of the boy who had lived in the flat above hers during her childhood.

"Hello," she smiled. "Finally." Her smile grew and he managed a slight chuckle. "What's your name?"

"Simms. Cadet Peter Simms."

"I like that name." she said quietly, taking his hand. "Peter was my father's name."

"Was, miss…?"

"Nurse Tyler. And he died when I was a baby, I only ever had a photograph."

"Awe, come on then. Tell a dying man your proper name."

Rose gave him a pout, which made him smirk back. "Can't do, I'll get in the 'abit and be in trouble with the matron again. Besides which, I've seen a lot 'ere and you don't look like a dyin' man to me."

"But I will die eventually, and I'd like to know your name before I go." For lying rather still, the cadet seemed to have enough energy to put on a bit of spunk for the pretty girl.

Rose let out a small laugh, though she wasn't entirely sure why, and smiled again. "Yeah, we'll all of us die eventually. Doesn't mean you're going 'ere. I'll tell you my name when I see you in London."

He shook his head. "I can't feel my legs. I'm not walking off of this beach, and I don't expect I'll be leaving any other way save dying. So your name, out with it."

Her grip on his hand tightened involuntarily and her stomach flipped as understanding washed over her. Before her was a perfectly lucid, paralyzed man who had already realized he would be trapped in bed watching everyone else evacuate. And he would remain, utterly helpless.

"No," she said sternly, as much for her own comfort as his. "No, they'll get you out. You can still live your life, they won't abandon you 'ere."

The look he gave her was one of gratitude and pity. "If there was a ceasefire, I might hope. But I know the war is still on, and no one is carrying me away. I'd be a burden at best, a vulnerability. I've been over here long enough to know how it works. And I've heard the major talking."

"Horrid man," Rose mumbled, not knowing what else to say. She looked closely at his bright brown eyes. For her entire (albeit short) career as a nurse, Rose had taken it upon herself as an unwritten duty to share her own courage with her patients. But in this moment she desperately looked for strength in the face of a man who appeared calm in wait of a horrible, lonely death.

Peter made a laugh-like humphing sort of sound, but with little mirth. "He probably isn't, it's just war does things to the way you think."

Rose shook her head sadly, gazing at him with open wonder. "How can you stand to think like that? How can you tell me that you are dyin' and not look scared?"

"I'm not scared of dying," he said, shortly. "I suppose…I suppose I wouldn't have wanted to go this way. I would have wanted to stand on my feet and faced it coming quickly. But I can't, and I've still got my mind and that is something." His brutal honesty seemed almost unintentional, and he shrank down a bit as the understanding washed over him. Together they sat quietly, overcome.

"I'll do whatever I can to see you sent home." Rose was struggling to pull herself back together, to hold down the bile threatening to rise in her throat. The emotional blow delivered by the young man, one of the sort she would have flirted with before the war, had devastated and unnerved her more than any of the deaths she had seen thus far.

Again he smiled at her. "Just tell me your name. Please."

"Rose. It's Rose."

"That's pretty. Rose. At home we have these flowers, Mum calls them Christmas Roses. I know they aren't actual roses, but they are her favorites." He paused, thoughts and eyes drifting. "I quite like Christmastime. Suppose I won't be seeing it this year. Do you sing?"

The question caught her off guard. "Umm, yeah, I suppose. A bit, I mean, I never learned proper or was in a choir or nothing."

"Sing me a Christmas song." He said simply, sure she would not refuse.

Rose blinked, and glanced around the now quiet hospital room. No one seemed to be minding her, and the major had not returned. As quickly as she had looked up Rose looked back at Peter, knowing she could not bring herself to disappoint. Quietly, and with a flicker of a sad smile, she began to sing the first holiday tune to come to mind.

"Have yourself a Merry little Christmas. Let your heart be light. From now on, your troubles will be out of sight…"

By the time her soft singing had ended Peter's breathing had slowed and his eyelids drifted half closed. "Thank you, Rose." He all but whispered, sounding peaceful.

"Merry Christmas, Peter." Rose gave one last smile before he relaxed into sleep, impulsively reaching up to brush his cheek with her thumb before summoning the composure and motivation to rise and return to her duties.

Relieved to find many of the wounded soldiers were sleeping, Rose made her way to the supply station and tried to busy herself with any little task that would allow her to remain in the quiet corner with her thoughts.

During her song John had found himself staring unabashedly at the young nurse. Her range was lower than he might have expected, but very pretty and genuine. It had been a very long time since he heard such a lovely, sincere concert. Certain the other medical personnel were not paying any attention, he followed Rose to the far corner where he found her impulsively reorganizing the supply cabinet.

"We're running low on just about everything." She said shortly, having heard him approach despite his quiet steps.

"Tha' was lovely." He replied in a low tone. He stepped up to her shoulder and made a pretense of looking into the now meticulous cabinet, resisting the urge to lay a hand on her arm.

"It was just a song." If Rose could have willed the cabinet to restock itself, or spontaneously undo her tidying efforts, the determination of her gaze would have accomplished the task. It was clear she wanted to be left alone, but John couldn't bring himself to walk away from her just yet.

"It wasn't, and you know that." He knew being confrontational was not a good idea, but he plowed on in an ardent but hushed tone. "You meant every word of it, and you know it comforted that boy. Did good for the rest of us as well."

Rose spun in her tight space to finally look him in the eye, her own blazing on her pale face.

"It was a lie." The tension in her under-voiced tone made as much impact as a shout. "He'll never have a Christmas again, because 'e'll be left 'ere. So many of them, we could save them. If half of these men were in a hospital in England we could save 'em, they'd have futures still. But we're gonna kill 'em instead, by leaving 'em here."

John let himself gaze at her for a moment, impressed by her understanding and earnestness. She was staring him down defiantly, as if waiting for him to berate her as he had done before. But in doing so the young woman gave him a window to her own soul, baring fraught compassion and growing bitterness swirling around the delicate thread holding her nerve together. It could be such a burden during war, great compassion. He had once been a young man convinced he would never leave the bedside of any patient without first exhausting his every resource to heal them. There had been a time when every life shone brightly in his eyes, and left sadness and resolve to do better when the light was extinguished. But a career as an army doctor taught him pragmatism; to do what he could quickly, and accept what he could not without breaking stride. The time spent agonizing over one man's fate could be used to save three others. For years he had worked to save lives without taking the time to study their souls.

"We're usin' up all the supplies we have, tryin' ta get them fit to sail home. There isn't enough." He spoke quietly. His words were truthful yet not defensive; they simply filled a void when he didn't know what else to say.

"I can see that." Rose said stonily. She recognized his acquiescence of her claims and suspected there was little to be done in his eyes but mollify her in hopes that she would get back to work, and indeed help ready those few who may yet return home.

"I'll try to get as many of them as I can to the boats." He promised, looking her straight in the eye.

"Don't, say that, just don't, don't—patronize me," she snapped, coming close to the end of her rope but still trying to keep her voice from carrying. "Have you wondered what it'll be like for 'im? His legs are useless but his mind is fine, and 'e'll know when 'e's being left here for dead. Whada'ya suppose he'll do then, hmm? Try to pull 'imself round on 'is arms with whatever strength 'e has left, or will 'e just lie still in bed, hearin' an' smellin' the other ones dying and wait till 'e starves to death 'imself?"

Rose paused long enough to suck in a breath through her nose, forcing her composure to hold. Hadn't she just made the same promise to Peter, knowing full well she couldn't see it through? John stared at her grimly, fixated on the flame in her eyes and the agonizing truth of her words, but could not come up with anything to say before she hurried on.

"His country made a decision, an' it's to betray him. You can't get him home for Christmas any more than I can. Like you said before, you can't make more boats or more time. You've done all you can, so don't pretend for my sake you can do more."

John continued to stare in silence, purposefully not allowing her to move away from the cabinet but without a clear reason why. She had given him exactly what he had sought earlier that evening: assurance that this one nurse, who had arrived amongst thousands of damaged and dog-tired men with inexplicable verve, understood the circumstances and would do her job unfailingly. But she understood a bit too well, and had unhesitatingly torn off the blinders he had subconsciously donned to numb the reality of his position. Whether she had cured him of growing pitilessness or reopened wounds in his heart, the doctor couldn't in that moment decide. The hand held motionless at his side still longed to grasp her shoulder, as though the improper gesture of familiarity could allay the distress of both nurse and doctor. Instead, John gave a tight-lipped nod and stepped out of her way.

"As we must."

He held her gaze for only a moment longer, before determinedly focusing on a chip in the supply cabinet's paint in order to stop himself from again tracking her with his eyes. The Germans had already chased her to the beaches; she didn't need to be now stalked by an emotionally baffled army doctor. Still, he listened acutely to the sounds of her footsteps moving away and to his left, across the large room. Putting distance between herself and the madman of a doctor who had singled her out brought her to see the dying.

John jerked his head up. Fool, he chided himself. Aright war-worked field surgeon, me. Not one of those fluffed up poster-boys taken with the pretty girl. Do your work. With that he turned sharply and strode soldier straight back to his latest burn victim. Not half an hour later the strain on his focus recognized a chance for respite: another senior doctor with two younger medics and a nurse in tow arrived to relieve those on duty for the evening. John of course insisted he stay another couple of hours, and convinced the newcomers that the other doctor and two nurses should be sent off for rest.

No longer afraid to show her eagerness for rest, the second woman promptly steered the other doctor, now her obliging guide, towards the door. Rose, on the other hand, had remained firmly fixed at a bedside half way across the room, pretending not to notice the ongoing conversation. If he stays on, I stay on, she thought, telling herself she would prove herself strong enough. She wasn't at all motivated by the man she was proving her point to, the little voice in her head insisted peevishly. Turning to the next bed, Rose found herself again staring at Peter, the paralyzed cadet. If she left the temporary hospital, she may never see him again. Turning his hand over in her palm, Rose took his pulse and watched his breathing, trying to comfort herself with his seemingly stable condition.

"Nurse Tyler," the voice, quiet but compelling, carried clearly across the room and exacted her immediate attention. Pausing only to note the cadet's vitals on a chart, Rose dutifully left the bedside with no more hint of emotion and made her way to the cluster of medics. Coming to a stop, she acknowledged her newly arrived superiors with a small nod before turning to man who had summoned her. How he remained so fascinating whilst evidently being capable of so effortlessly provoking her was almost irritating. Nevertheless, clearly this situation would not give him a chance to push her and Rose put on her most obedient, attentive expression and hoped her tiredness would not show through.

"This is the next shift," he said impassively, gesturing to the new arrivals. "You're to return to your unit for the night." Despite his stoic expression pale blue eyes watched her closely, noticing how she inflated ever so slightly as if she were indignant but didn't quite have the energy to fuss.

"I can still serve, sir." Rose said stiffly. She could feel herself growing more tired by the moment, but was still reluctant to leave. Suddenly aware of herself blinking, Rose opened her eyes just a bit wider and tried hard to hold his gaze. It was beginning to seem very familiar to her.

"Your matron expects you to return to your unit." John stated with finality, finding himself perfectly content to levy the responsibility for the decision on a woman who was not present. He waited mere seconds for a look of acceptance to appear in her wide eyes before turning to look at the younger of two new medical officers. "Williams, escort Nurse Tyler to her unit, will you?"

The young man, whose nose happened to be more prominent than the doctors, nodded quickly before sneaking a sideways glance at his own supervisor in a belated search for approval.

"Yes, do." The other senior medic said, becoming distracted by one of the patients. "Shouldn't let her walk alone, conditions like these . . . return promptly." With that, he and John moved away from the group.

Shoulders slumping a bit, Rose looked up at her escort who looked at her pleasantly despite appearing anxious to get to work. Swallowing her sigh of discontent, Rose pressed her lips together in a thin but hopefully appreciative smile and followed the young medic out into the night.

"Second Lieutenant Williams, miss." The sandy-headed officer fidgeted before clasping his hands behind his back, deciding after a moment's hesitation not to offer his arm to the nurse at his side.

"Nurse Tyler," she replied quietly. "Thank you, Lieutenant. My unit is staying in a flat three blocks off the beach, on the street where the post office stood near the beachfront."

Time dragged on as they trekked the few blocks to Rose's temporary quarters. The young nurse walked as though in a bubble, aware of the encampments around her yet insulated against their presence by her preoccupation with a few good men. She felt as though the doctor's eyes, which had followed her throughout the day, watched her walk away now. The stern, reticent man had taken up residence in the back of her mind, and she wasn't sure she'd shake him off even if she could. However, there was another pair of light-colored eyes beside her, and Rose was keenly aware of the presence of her escort. Speaking to the unfortunate souls in the hospital had fractured her coolly collected nurses' façade and tiredness prodded her to feed the cracks, to seek an emotional awareness of yet another good man gone to war.

"Where are you from, Lieutenant?" The question sounded forced and Rose cringed inwardly, momentarily regretting her attempt at small talk.

"I, uh, Leadworth. Second Lieutenant, not Lieut…" He cleared his through, clearly having been caught off guard by the conversation starter. "Leadworth. And you?"

"London." She replied, still not quite sure why she was so inclined to talk. "Just me, though. Got a family in Leadworth?"

Rose offered a small, honest smile at the second lieutenant, who visibly regained his composure. "My dad is all. And my girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?" Rose asked, a tad more lively.

"Yeah, Amy." He brightened at the thought. "She's got a job making war posters. Likes that creative stuff. They used her face on one."

Rose couldn't resist a small giggle at the smitten man. "Gonna' marry your poster girl when you get home?"

Williams flushed a bit, barely noticeable in the dark. "I've thought about how to ask her. She doesn't really like to settle down, though. Might not want to be all domestic, yet. But someday, yeah."

"Sounds like that will be real nice, someday." Rose felt a spark of genuine hope and happiness for the young couple. As they turned up another street the second lieutenant gently took Rose's elbow and guided her around a hole where the pavers had inexplicably been dug up. For a second Rose indulged in the image of her escort happily catering to the every comfort of his girlfriend as the pair strolled up a pleasant, imaginary avenue.

"Yeah. I think, this might all be worth it, you know? Being here, at war. If, when I start a family, they are safe because we stopped a threat now, if I have a son who doesn't have to fight because we achieved peace here, then this is all worth it. I don't like it, but maybe if I do my part in the end something will come of it." As he spoke the slightly awkward, flustered young man seemed to come into his own. By the light of a small bonfire Rose could see his faced seemed suddenly more mature, focused on the future and proud of his yet-to-come offspring. She was so drawn to the change in his expression that she scarcely glanced at the bedraggled soldiers clustered about on the sidewalk near the small flame.

His slight smile slipped a bit, glancing at her with faintly perplexed expression. "What's that look for?"

"What look?" it was Rose's turn to be briefly unsure of herself.

Williams gazed down reassuringly. "You looked surprised, I suppose. Like you don't quite believe what I was saying." He seemed unperturbed, mildly curious.

Rose shook her head emphatically, encouraging the officer to smile again. "No, no! I just, I guess…I've been so caught up, being here, I haven't really thought of the future much. All I see is the work to be done, day by day, and you see the end goal."

"Ahh," he nodded. A moment of contemplative quiet fell between the pair before Williams chuckled a bit.

"Amy used to tell me that I didn't see the big picture. I had my one idea of what I wanted, one path I wanted to take, that I didn't see all of the opportunities out there. She never saw why I wanted to go on quietly when there might be an adventure to be had. We could sit in and have tea, yeah, or we could go out and find something brilliant. And maybe I can be more adventurous. But standing here, I see the big picture and seeing that end of the road is why I'm still going. I need a reason to do something—I don't want to run off because I might find something, I want to know what it is I'm after. What I'm trying to achieve. Maybe you should think about whatever it is you want to have or be or what have you. Might make your boat ride back a bit easier."

What did she want from life? Rose didn't know. At the moment, she'd die of happiness if she only had a plate of chips and a warm bed all to herself. Hardly a reason for carrying on. When she had become a nurse, Rose had wanted to help people, and she had wanted to prove that she was useful. But who did she have to prove herself to? She had no family, few friends, and her superiors had no reason to recognize her efforts apart from those of any other nurse in England. By now she had the approval and relative trust of Matron Redfern, who was probably the most commendable woman Rose had ever and may ever know. But clearly that wasn't enough; hadn't she spent the whole day trying to prove herself to that army doctor? What was quite likely the entirety of their acquaintance, a few hours spent on the outskirts of a war, and she had spent determinedly attempting to demonstrate her competence to a man who expected no less and would give no acknowledgment?

They were halfway up a block now and Rose somehow had the presence of mind to stop, now within throwing distance of the building where her unit was staying. How she had precisely remembered the nondescript edifice in the dark was a mystery she couldn't be bothered to solve.

"This is me 'ere then, that one with the shutters. Thank you for the escort. And the perspective."

"I'll see you all the way, miss."

"I made it 'alf way across France; I think I can cross the street on my own. You're needed, I don't want to keep you any longer. Go on, then." Rose hitched up a polite smile and offered a handshake, which the young man gave in the short, firm manner of his profession.

"You've done much needed work as well. Have a safe journey home, Nurse Tyler."

"Second Lieutenant Williams," she committed the name to memory. "Take care of yourself. And your girl, when you get home."

Staving off yet another wave of tiredness, Rose turned and marched briskly across the street towards the implausibly small patch of floor she hoped her girls had left for her bed. Ever the gentleman, Second Lieutenant Williams stood and watched as she disappeared through a dark doorway before returning to his station.

Climbing the single flight of stairs require nearly all of Rose's remaining strength. She slipped inside the crowded room, nodding briefly to the matron before all but collapsing between two of her companions. Matron Redfern scrutinized her precocious nurse as the girl sought out sleep. Rose was clearly exhausted but not only from the physical work, the matron was sure. The situation had finally taken its toll on her spirits; the gravity of war had reached out and stung her soul. The older woman sighed, feeling the beckon of sleep herself. She hoped the gutsy Londoner would recover herself after a reprieve back home, so that the girl would continue to fulfill her potential as a great nurse.

Hastened on by the lack of conversation, Williams made it back to the temporary hospital quickly. Not immediately sighting his own superior, he approached the doctor who had overseen the nurses for instruction. John had noticed at once when the young medic returned, feeling slightly relieved that the nurse had been safely delivered to her matron. Why he spent the energy contemplating her trek of a few short blocks through the British-controlled area when men lying in front of him required attention, he couldn't say. She was just a nurse, a girl, who was feeling the strain of war and was evidently permitted to show her emotions to a greater degree than the soldiers around her. One nurse, whose blazing eyes peered out of the darkness, challenging him.

Setting Williams to his tasks, the doctor glanced at the relative quiet of the room and granted himself a short break. Retreating to an empty hallway, he pulled a small notebook and pencil stub from his pocket. For a moment he simply looked at the clean page, using the blunt end of his pencil stub to prod at the bandage under his sleeve, which itched faintly. Finally putting lead to paper, he neatly wrote out the name of the doctor from his unit who had shipped out that morning with an infection and noted the man's condition along with the date. Hand hovering over the page, he pushed aside an instant's hesitation and made a second, simple note: "Nurse Rose Tyler, QA."

30 May, 1940

For one startling moment, Rose thought she would never see another dawn again. Planes had droned on distantly through the night and when she awoke Rose found a dense cloud of fog had settled so resolutely over the beach that not one ray of early morning sunlight could reach the bare window of their shelter. Realizing they had not been bombed, Rose let out an insecure breath and spared another moment realizing ruefully that she was now very much awake. Finding about half of her fellows also alert, Rose followed their lead and simply settled herself against the wall. Together they watched for the return of the matron, who had slipped out some minutes before.

An impossibly long half-hour later, Matron Redfern reappeared. Before she had closed the door, much less spoken, the matron held up a hand to stop a nurse from waking one of the two girls who remained asleep, simultaneously granting the girls' permission to remain seated.

"We evacuate today. We are to make our way to the harbor by ten o'clock. Until then we will stay in this room. You may rest if you'd like; do not expect the sailing to be pleasant."

Twenty-four hours ago, Rose was vehemently refusing to remain closeted away when there were men in need of her assistance. Then, the order was oppressive, and she fought body and soul to be up and helping. This morning, her mind felt unnaturally blank, empty yet heavy, as she vaguely assented to the directive. Perhaps when the sun is up, we'll be back to work…blimey, I'm still knackered. And without so much as a look shared with the Matron, Rose drifted back into a stiff, dreamless sleep.

"Rose." Someone was shaking her shoulder. "Rose, now." Rose grumbled and peered unhappily at the dark-haired nurse she had so often bunked with. It couldn't possibly be time to make for the harbor yet.

"We're leaving."

Heaving herself upwards, Rose found the girls who were already roused had begun queuing at the door. Glancing again at the small window, Rose confirmed the brevity of her nap: they day was still young and faintly lit. Would they be back to field work within hours of their intended escape?

"New word from command, we leave from the beach immediately." Matron Redfern addressed the quizzical look on the faces of Rose and the other girl who had been last to rise. For once the matron had accepted the blatantly misogynistic attitude of the captain with stony acceptance; the chance to see her girls off the beach during an apparent pause in the air attacks was more than she could have hoped for.

Rose fell into line without another thought and moved down the street in a detached miasma of fatigue, fear, and the incessant draw of duty. The lingering fog which had blown in on the morning breeze cushioned her from the despair lurking in every corner of the besieged town. Sensation seemed to have been numbed below her neck; the uncomfortable twist in her sock went unfelt. Likewise a dull roar of indistinct sound and thought cushioned her ears, encouraging the tunnel-like perception of eyes trained on the shoulders of the fellow marching before her. Time still moved, the clock still ticked; but the clock was broken, and Rose moved across the uneven cobblestones like a pendulum which had fallen out of sync. All around her sensations were sharp, present, and ephemeral, demanding and oppressing. The pendulum continued to swing, but with no power to rise to the correct tempo or to resist the slowing of its rhythm.

At the top of the beach the nurses found the sandy stretch of beach blackened not by bombs but the endless, meandering queues of soldiers awaiting their chance to reach the distantly bobbing fleet of rescue vessels. They twinned like dominoes across the beach, organized chaos valiantly hoping to outlast the aerial attacks threatening to send each man tumbling to the ground one after the other.

Deftly Matron Redfern led her girls down towards the jetty capping one end of the beach, where the crowds were thinnest and the tired women could most peacefully slip past the hoards of done in men. Rose continued to stumble along in her haze until they passed very near by the triage tent she had worked in the previous day. At first she was struck by how close they drawn to the tent before the faded red cross promising help and hope became visible. The men dotting the beach could scarcely discern it; for them, the medics were obsolete. If they could not board a ship and sail for home, no amount of medical attention could spare their souls. Then, before her thoughts could return to what she knew of that particular tent, her attention was thoroughly commanded by the unpleasant realization that a bit of sand had worked its way into the previously unfelt twist in her sock.

When Rose again focused on her surroundings she found herself standing on firm sand with the surf brushing the worn toes of her shoes. The lines of men did not stop where she had, but stretched out into knee, waist, chest deep water to where the smallest of the boats waited to shuttle them farther out to the big ships. The dry sand in her sock was suddenly scarcely worth noting. Around her the other nurses pursed their lips and resigned themselves to getting wet, though none were in any hurry to take the plunge. For several minutes they simply stood at the edge of the surf, awaiting an inevitable order.

Slowly two diminutive row boats emerged from amidst the rag-tag collection of vessels and appeared to be heading towards shore, passing by the outlying sailors' waist deep in water. What chivalry remained in the midst of war piloted the small boats as close to shore as possible so that the nurses may remain dry from the waist up. With a nod from Matron Redfern the girls obediently trudged forward into the cold, muddy water and accepted a hand into the rowboats from the conscripted fishermen who captained them. An unnatural quiet rippled down the beach, distracting Rose from thoughts of what exactly made the water so murky. The drone of a single distant plane, muffled by the fog, could be made out as thousands of men fell hushed in an effort to hear. No bombs fell and the plane seemed to move off again, still well out of range of the most crowded stretch of beach or the even more strategic docks.

With a heave and a mumble of polite words Rose was standing on the wooden planks of a rowboat. Next to her a nurse was mumbling less than polite words aimed at no one in particular, for she had slipped and splashed herself up to the chest while clambering into the boat. All, however, shivered slightly. A particularly violent tremor caught Rose unaware and forcibly shook her from the stupor that had ensnared her mind that day. She blinked and turned slightly to look back at the beach mere yards away as if only just noticing it—the French shore trembling under the weight of encroaching fog and lingering British pallor.

All at once her heart rate soared and her eyes roved desperately up and down the coast line and over the half-submerged soldiers dotting the surf. Rose grappled with a sudden wave of mourning—for the war, for the soldiers she had lost, for the work she was not completing because she was instead being rowed away from shore at a clip too fast to be believed. She should be working, not leaving. And yet a private, persistent feeling of relief hummed in the back of her mind. How horrifying were the sights on the beach, how terrifying the persistent threat of a German raid? Why shouldn't she be glad to exchange the frontlines for London, with its relative safety and familiarity? There would be no shortage of work back in England, nor supplies for that matter. Life will go on, and isn't the desire for such the natural order of things?

Suddenly the small boat was alongside a large military vessel. Desperately Rose looked back at the beach, at the fog-cloaked med station, the main road, the disabled ambulance, and promised to remember the sight always. Still strangely hesitant to leave the warzone, she nevertheless found herself suddenly on the rungs of a service ladder with the feet of one nurse nearly brushing her head and another nurse practically eye-level with her heels. She couldn't pause, couldn't turn her head; could think only of the cold metal beneath her hands and the bitter sea spray determinedly finding its way under the collar of her coat. The nurse ahead was shivering violently, and for a moment Rose clung more tightly to the ladder for fear her companion would slip and send all down into the water. The tightening of her muscles and the shivers brought on by the mere threat of cold made Rose think again of the men standing in the channel, too desperate to wait on shore, and the knowledge of her imminent departure gave strength to her sense of relief.

Then they were up and over the side, forming an approximate line, following a businesslike sailor along the rails.

"Nearly home, Rose." whispered the dark-haired girl behind her. "No more bunking together, we'll all have proper beds again!"

It hit her: Rose had no family in London, and few good friends. She had thought herself well suited for the job when the B.E.F. announced intentions to send small contingents of nurses from the Queen Alexandra's abroad, having no people to particularly care for or be responsible for back home. And she had friends in the service, enjoyed the company as well as one would expect. But these relationships all had expiration dates, and none compelled Rose to fully engage herself with another person. She was all too familiar with the transient relationships. Yet on that beach, somewhere, was a man who captured her mind without any intention of doing so. A man whose opinion inexplicably mattered, whose words made her react, whose eyes challenged her to think and feel and remember. An otherwise ordinary medical doctor—she had met so many—who made her want to stay. For the first time in a very long time it was another person rather than a place or job or memory that gave Rose a sense of belonging.

Try as she did, Rose could not lay eyes on her doctor before finding herself shoulder to shoulder with the girls and shut into a tiny, windowless cabin for the long voyage home.

It was nearly noon, and the sheltering fog had finally burned off, leaving the beach again vulnerable to an air raid. In the distance the sounds of gathering aircraft grew more frequent and all on shore were keenly aware of the approaching danger. Standing on the beach, Doctor Smith looked away from a pack of soldiers to glance towards the mainland where German forces lay in wait for the perfect opportunity to strike.

The unit he had just cleared for evacuation should certainly make it to the boats without incident; with a bit of luck, they'd put France behind them and survive the voyage home. Looking back at the masses of soldiers and the ships awaiting them, John wondered vaguely if his young nurse was tucked away in one of the larger vessels, waiting for more passengers, or if she had already set sail. Two hours ago he had asked for a nurse (any nurse, mind, there was no time to be dwelling on favorites while there is a war on) and been given temporary command of a young male medic who had heard that all of the non-army medical staff had been instructed to evacuate that morning. Having seen a few B.E.F. volunteers not ten minutes before John raised an eyebrow but set the man to work without delay. He knew General Patterson well enough to believe the man and some of his colleagues would have sighed in relief once they could finally force the women, no matter how helpful, out of the male arena known as war.

He too unwittingly let out a grateful breath. John would happily accept the presence of a woman in a hospital or warzone if her skill and work ethic were sufficient. As long as the work was done and done well, skirt or trousers didn't much matter to him. He had encountered plenty of skirts with steady hands and strong constitutions who had as much the responsibility to stay and the right to depart as any other medic on the beach, though he didn't begrudge the inequality of their privilege. After all, he would forever insist on giving his seat on a boat to a fellow man or woman if he had work to complete, for the injured who remained we people just as were those who sailed away. But in this moment he was pleased to think that one particular girl had made her escape.

Why precisely those brown eyes remained firmly in his mind's eye when hundreds of others had not, John wasn't quite willing to admit. Why he was so quick to applaud temerity when it boarded on insolence. Why her focus on the minutiae impressed his big-picture perspective. Why of every person he had met in the corps, among the troops, at home and abroad, he saw one golden girl more clearly than any other. Why he should be especially grateful to think her life was safe without caring twice for the lives of her particular comrades, he tried to ignore.

What mattered now was only that she, Rose Tyler, had gone from his life just as quickly as she had entered. Gone from war, from the promise of bombs, from the despair of the dying, from the beach where he remained. For he, John Smith, had long ago set himself running on a course which promised to never end, to help and heal others when it was not possible to help and heal himself. And for a rare moment, he had allowed himself to stand and gaze out at the channel, indulging in an almost nostalgic hope for a young woman who was very much like he used to be. But then the wind changed, forcing the doctor to settle his navy beret more securely over his cropped hair and return all focus to the work at hand. There was a war on, and Nurse Tyler was in that moment nothing more than a name in his book.

A/N: Thank you for reading through the end! I haven't decided if this will remain a oneshot or if I'm going to write part 2, so share your thoughts.