29th July 2004. The TARDIS, 3.12am Earth time, lost.
It's a good job Martha's a light sleeper.
They sit in the console room, a soft green glow from the time rotor illuminating the TARDIS. The Doctor runs his hands agitatedly over his face before jumping up and pacing, Martha trying not to notice the fact that he's in pyjama trousers and an unevenly-buttoned dress shirt, his coat thrown over one of the many pillars. He'd obviously left in a hurry.
"What am I going to tell her?!"
"The truth?" Martha suggests, wishing she hadn't when he turns to glare at her. She reminds herself that he's just worried; it's nothing to do with her. She's got him back. That's all that matters. Now they just have to figure out what to do next.
"Oh, yeah, 'cause that'd go down great, that would," he says, throwing his arms all over the place. "Oh, by the way, Rose, I know I proposed to you, but I'm going to have to withdraw that offer indefinitely because, uh, I'm actually a nine hundred year old alien who should be locked up for paedophilia by his own planet's standards right now, let alone your mother's, and because if I stay any longer I'm going to royally stuff up your established time line."
Martha tries very hard not to snort.
"Sorry I didn't tell you before. I sort of accidentally-on-purpose misplaced my memories when an alien race came after my lifespan (got thirteen of those, by the way). So yes. Now I have to leave, and then you can travel with a me who isn't me at all but really rather Northern and leathery, so that you can be separated from me in just over two years' time and everything will be hunky dory again, and we can go back to being bloody miserable on separate sides of the universe. Bye, then! Hope you kept the receipt for that dress!"
"…Point taken." There's really nothing Martha can say to that. She sighs. "I knew you should've been an astronaut. Astronauts don't have time for wives."
"Oh, but astronauts are so much sexier than teachers." Martha raises an eyebrow. "What?! They are! I'd've been fighting off women left right and centre. Men too, probably. Not to mention – but that's really not the point. What are we going to do? I hope you've got an idea locked away in that medical brain of yours, Martha Jones, because I? I am completely stumped. Bamboozled. …Oh, and I can't even think of any more synonyms for not knowing the answer." He flops onto the console chair, utterly defeated. He can't even begin to consider what this might mean for him, losing Rose all over again, not when he has less than forty-eight hours to come up with an excuse to leave that won't break her heart.
He's considered dying, but a staged death would be so elaborate, and it's really not fair on any of them.
"There must be something you can do," Martha insists. "I don't know. Change her memories, or – "
A look of realisation dawns across the Doctor's face. "Of course! Brilliant! And so simple! Oh, Martha Jones, what would I do without you?"
Martha is silent, but her answer couldn't be more clear: marry Rose, apparently.
--
There's no choice, really. Martha's suggestion is the only option open to him. There's nothing else he can do. For the first time in his life, he's completely and utterly powerless entirely through his own actions, and he really doesn't like it. Rose doesn't know about his life, and he doesn't want to share half of himself with her, doesn't want to spend the rest of his time living out a lie. Quite apart from that, the need for him to sort things out and disappear very, very soon is becoming more urgent by the second.
John Smith might have been all-human, but the Doctor doesn't age. Even if he managed to persuade his previous self not to take Rose along – and how could he deprive her of those years, let alone risk the consequences of such an action? – someone would notice, eventually, that Rose Smith's much-older husband looks somehow much-younger than her. This can never work.
Part of him wants desperately to steal her away with him, spend an eternity with her, showing her the stars and living out the life they should have had, but the bigger, more sensible part of his brain knows that wouldn't be right. He'd keep her too long. He wouldn't return her in time for his previous self to find her. He'd get her killed, give her knowledge of times she shouldn't have, change the course of her life with him beyond measure.
For every selfish solution he comes up with, every chance he has to convince himself that it would be right to stay, there are always a thousand disastrous eventualities just waiting to beat the idea down.
--
29th July 2004. John Smith's Bedroom, 4.02am, disbelieving.
As he sneaks back to bed in order to wake up with her as normal at 6.20am the next morning, he's never felt so guilty. Now he knows what he has to do, it's even more difficult, somehow.
Lying there in the dark and listening to her breathe, he finds that he can't look at her. He has to turn on his side and face away from her to stop his eyes flicking back to her face, has to keep telling himself that he hasn't got her back. This is not Rose. This isn't the woman he travelled with, the woman who said I love you in Bad Wolf Bay, the woman he lost. He won't let her be. If he even begins to think like that then he knows it's going to be impossible for him to ever leave.
And so he shuts her out and stares fiercely, unblinkingly, at the clock, trying to pretend that he doesn't notice every slight shift of the mattress, every rustle of the covers, forcing himself to believe that the long, even breaths he can feel at his neck aren't burning his skin.
It's no use. Within ten minutes he's practically leapt out of the bed, frustrated hands pulling at his hair as he paces the room. It's driving him insane, being this close to her again and all the time having to pretend that it's normal, that he hasn't been, effectively, mourning her for almost a year now. He grabs a pen off the bedside table, passes it agitatedly between his hands in an attempt at distraction, as a form of restraint, giving himself something to do that doesn't involve touching Rose, gathering her up and losing himself in her until he forgets his own name in order prove to himself that she's real. He can't even comprehend that much right now, let alone the thought that he's going to have to give her up after finally finding her again.
She mumbles in her sleep, and the pen snaps.
Perhaps if she'd been someone else, things would be different. In losing John Smith he would lose all his feelings towards her, except perhaps some residual fondness, but…as it is, he's fallen for her harder than he's ever fallen for anyone else, both as human and as Time Lord. He tries not to dwell too much on the implications of being so bound to one person no matter what he does, more than a little scared by the thought.
Throwing the broken pen to the side, the Doctor drops to his knees at the foot of the bed, resting his arms on the mattress and staring desperately at her through the gloom. How many times had he wished for this? How many times has he asked for a normal life, a way back to Rose, a chance at forever with her?
Irony is a cruel friend.
The knowledge that his previous self will be along in little under a year isn't exactly consolation. She may have all of it to come, but for him, that time has passed, and he's got to lose her all over again.
--
29th July 2004, 7.53pm. John Smith's flat, living a lie.
The night before the night before, and everything has changed. After having spent the bare minimum amount of time with Rose all day – a quick goodbye in the morning and a made-up meeting at lunch, not to mention discussions with Martha in the TARDIS straight after work proving sufficient for avoidance – it's time to face the music.
Oh, he hates that metaphor.
The Doctor turns the key in the door to "his" flat, shuts it wearily behind him. He's hardly taken two steps when a mass of blonde hair bounds into view. Rose.
Her arms are around his waist before he has time to protest. He tries to return the embrace the way John would, but it's impossible with their history. How had he ever let it get to this?
She's pulled away before he can remember how right it feels to be that close to her. It's a long moment before he realises she's been talking all this time.
" – and mum reckons we can…are you alright? You look a bit…different."
Good different or bad different?
He takes a breath and reminds himself that she can't possibly know. She's not that girl yet.
"And your hands are so cold!" she exclaims, taking them both between her own. The Doctor closes his eyes. "Come on, come in properly, I'll make us some tea or something; you must be freezin'."
So this is what life would have been like, with her.
He looks around the flat with renewed interest, even though he knows it all by heart through John Smith's eyes. Pictures everywhere. A kettle. Bills and letters on the table. She's running the tap, pulling teabags out of little cylindrical pots, her hair a harsher shade of blonde than he's used to due to the bright, unnatural kitchen strip-light, and none of it's right. He remembers her bathed in green, even gold, but never this clinical white, sees her covered from head to toe in slime and still beautiful, not this clean and young and so untouched by adventure and excitement. He's got her back but he hasn't, can't even share that joy with her because, for Rose, this is where she's always been, and in reality she is still trapped, unattainable, insurmountable miles away without even as much as a human version of himself to make tea for. She sings absent-mindedly as the kettle boils. He wishes he knew if her later counterpart were this happy.
And all of a sudden she's not standing there, calm and sleepy, making a simple cup of tea, but screaming and dying, being pulled through the air to her inevitable fate, only saved from an ending worse than death by the lucky timing of a father she hasn't met yet, is convinced she will never meet. She's not saying a cheerful "see you later" at the door, but a tearful "I love you" in a parallel world.
She will not answer me, and she keeps walking away.
He coughs, blinks, runs a hand over his face. When he looks up, she's still there, alive and present as ever.
It's still too much for him to take.
--
Rose gives him half an hour, just long enough for the tea to go cold. John gets like this sometimes. Says strange things, reverts into his own thoughts, daydreams. Disappears in the middle of a conversation, changes his morals and philosophies as though there's someone else in there, fighting to get through.
The clock strikes eight-thirty. She grabs his coat and heads for the roof.
--
"Thought I'd find you up here."
He doesn't turn around. Despite all the extra time he's had, he doesn't think he'd ever have asked for this.
"Go on, then," Rose prompts, set on making him talk one way or another. "Which stars are you looking at?"
He doesn't answer for a very, very long time. Then, he pulls her to his side, dropping the hand on her arm as quickly as if she'd burnt him to point up into the sky. "That one," he says, wincing. "The Andromeda galaxy. Also known as Messier 31, M31, or even NGC 224, if you're very, very boring. Made up of over one trillion stars, seven times the diameter of your moon in width and created long before anyone on this Earth was even rocks and dust in the air."
"Didn't know I was marrying a Patrick Moore wannabe," Rose teases, obviously impressed and wondering why he hasn't tried to woo her with the stars before now.
Well, I'm very good, almost comes the standard response, but he reminds himself that he's not supposed to be the Doctor anymore. "Well. I am a Physics teacher. One would hope that I'd have some knowledge of the night sky."
He can almost pretend that nothing's changed, that he's on the roof of Jackie's building with her, pointing out the stars as he once did. Even though he can't offer them to her this time, he can't help but put his ever-so-slightly shaking arms around her, pull her back into him. This is how things always were, he tells himself as she rests her head back on his shoulder, so it can't be wrong. It's alright as long as he doesn't think about that ring on her finger, or the shared flat below them, or the necessity of his impending departure. Somehow, it's been far too long since they stood like this together, no matter what he's been doing as John Smith in the meantime.
It's not fair that he had all that indefinite time with her and didn't appreciate it, didn't have the chance to really live it.
"Wish I could visit them," Rose says, a little wistfully, obviously thinking of his dreams as she looks up at the stars. "See them properly."
"Maybe you will," the Doctor replies, quite unable to manage any more than those three words following that declaration.
She laughs, and he feels it reverberate through his stomach. "Yeah, if I can find someone with three million pounds to fly me to the moon." There's a slight pause. "D'you reckon there's anything else out there?"
He knows what she's going to say, but he asks anyway. "Like what?"
Rose tilts her head to the side, scanning a different area of the sky, and he notices for the first time that she's wearing his coat. "Aliens and things?"
The Doctor suppresses a smirk, feigns ignorance. "What, like in Signs?" It takes every ounce of willpower he possesses to stop himself from launching into a rant about how they got everything so very, very wrong. Allergic to water, of all things! Why, if they'd – but Rose is talking.
"Well, kinda. Less scary, though, I hope. And I don't really think they're green or anything."
There's a pause in which he tries not to laugh. Then: "Yes," the Doctor says, finally answering her question with all the certainty in the world. "Yes, I do. …Do you?" He's not sure why her answer to this is so important to him.
"Never really thought about it 'til now. I hope so."
"Why?"
"Sort of lonely otherwise. Don't you reckon? Just this massive universe and we're the only ones in it."
He'd never thought of it like that before. "Yes. I suppose it is."
Rose turns her head and raises herself on tiptoes to kiss him. He lets her, too guilt-ridden to do much else, but he can't bring himself to respond. He just hopes that the awkward angle disguises his reluctance. This isn't right. He'd almost forgotten, got himself caught up in the right here, right now, but he shouldn't even be here. He should have left the moment the watch opened, should have made sure the TARDIS wouldn't come here, should…
Oh, there are a thousand ways it could have turned out differently, a thousand ways he's messed things up.
Part of him says that while he is here he should just enjoy it, but how is that possible when he knows he has to leave her? He can barely even process her kissing him so naturally, conscious and in control of her own mind, no less, let alone the fact that he has to break off an engagement with her. It's another promise of forever that neither of them will be able to keep.
"I'm going to bed." She tugs on his hand expectantly. "You coming?"
He hopes his shock at hearing those words come from Rose doesn't register on his face. He gives a slight, awkward cough and can't meet her eye. "No," he manages, eventually. "I'll…stay out here for a bit. I've got some thinking to do."
Rose is turning to go when he suddenly tightens his grip on her hand, prompting her to look back at him. "Rose, before you go – I just…I should tell you – " Oh, how is he ever going to phrase this? She's looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to go, but how can he? How can he admit that he's not the man she fell in love with, that he has to leave her before tomorrow is over? He can't do that her. If he's honest, he can't do it to himself. Perhaps it's selfish, backing out, making sure he won't have to deal with the fallout of the mess he's made, but it what he always does. It's how he's always worked. "You know what? Don't worry about it," he says, finally. "It doesn't matter."
She drops his hand, doesn't complain. He's always been a bit mysterious, a little bit brooding – that's why she fell for him in the first place – but she wishes he'd tell her what's bothering him. He's been acting oddly ever since he came in.
"Okay…see you in a bit?" It's the most uncertain he's heard her since he came here.
The Doctor gives a tight nod, watches her out of the corner of his eye as she heads back downstairs, apparently satisfied. As soon as she's out of sight, he lets out a breath he feels he's been holding ever since the watch was opened and leans against the railing bordering the roof in defeat. Oh, Rassilon. What has he done?
--
30th July, 2004. John Smith's bedroom, 12.03am, fighting a losing battle.
She's asleep when he finally goes inside.
The Doctor's not letting himself think about this. He can't. All he knows is that he can't just leave her without so much as an explanation. He has to leave a note, or a…
Yes. Because a note would make everything alright. He can stay with her until their wedding day, run off hours before and then leave a note.
Sometimes he really hates himself.
But what else can he do, other than keep up the pretence until he forms a better plan, an excuse to leave? He can't just up and go. He can't do that to her, no matter how much of him is screaming that it's the kindest thing for both of them.
He knows, though, that if she were anyone else, he wouldn't still be here.
"John?"
He thought he'd been quiet, getting in next to her, but obviously not quiet enough. He hesitates before accepting the name. "Yeah. Go back to sleep."
She smiles and shuffles closer to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and tangling her legs with his. He freezes, wishing she'd turn back and face the other way. He can't look her in the eye. Luckily, she's asleep before long – he envies that – and he can play the observer without being observed.
Rose. Oh, God, Rose. Right in here in front of him, in a bed with him (he didn't see that one coming), Rose who fell through the Void, so close that he could reach out and –
No. He stops himself, hand millimetres from her face, feeling as though the whole, fragile world could shatter and explode if he moves too quickly, breathes too loudly, allows himself to fall for her all over again. This is wrong. He's messed everything up. She's still going to fall through that Void. He hasn't got her back, no matter how much he likes to think so. This isn't Rose, and it isn't the Doctor she's fallen in love with.
Losing his identity as John Smith hasn't returned his emotional remoteness, as he perhaps might have hoped. He supposes it's silly, really, to expect to become distant to Rose simply due to remembering their separation when he has her right here with him, asleep and draped all over him in a way she would never have dared to before.
And Martha! There must have been moments where the poor woman's wanted to brain him for being so stupid.
But she's here, Rose is here, and that ring on her finger…
The one adventure I can never have.
This is too much. If he stays, he'll be consumed by it. So he does what he does best: he runs away.
--
30th July 2004. Kings College London, 1.52pm, stealing moments.
When she woke up that morning, he'd already left for work.
She visits him at lunch, wearing a worried smile and a summer dress, happiness radiating out of her despite his earlier disappearance. She trusts him too much.
"Are you alright? You just…left, this morning. You never do that."
The Doctor tenses, forces himself to pretend to keep writing the long, complicated and boring report in front of him. John Smith was so very different. He can't imagine doing something like this every day.
"I'm fine." His answer is short and terse, and Rose frowns as she takes a couple of steps closer.
"Not getting cold feet, are you?"
"My toes are just toasty, thank you. Well, not literally. That would make walking rather uncomfortable, don't you think?"
She laughs. He reminds himself that he has no right to miss the sound. "Well, mine were cold this morning. Never woken up in that bed by myself before."
"I'm sorry," he says, his earnestness far surpassing her level of teasing.
"You are happy, yeah?" she asks, taking him aback, her face and voice, even her posture, full of concern for him, for herself, for them and their future.
"Of course I am," the Doctor replies, perhaps a little too quickly, trying his best to look bewildered.
"You just sound a bit…"
"Rose Tyler, I'll have you know that I am happier than I have been in a very, very long time, and that's all because of you." It's truer than she knows, considering her disappearance was the source of an awful lot of his unhappiness before coming here in the first place.
There's a slight pause. He can't look at her but he knows she's smiling. "Good," comes a small voice, eventually. "Me too. But…"
There's always a but, isn't there?
"You've been having those dreams again, haven't you?" She's picked up on the fact that he's acting oddly, and she thinks this is why. Oh, if only if were that simple.
"No," he says, quite honestly, because he thinks he's just woken up into one.
Rose looks hurt and confused, a little shocked – once again – by the brevity of the Doctor's answer. She's not used to him brushing her off like this.
"Do you miss them? The dreams," she clarifies, watching him closely. He looks up sharply, locking eyes with her in slight shock because he knows that, if he were still John Smith, he really would. He hadn't realised quite how well she knew him.
"No," the Doctor repeats, again truthfully – how can he miss them when he's planning to return to the life they echoed in less than twenty-four hours, when the main object of them has woken up into this living, breathing woman before him?
She doesn't understand. "Then – "
He can't do this anymore, pretend that having her back doesn't matter when she was – is – his whole world. He pulls himself up from his desk, throwing his glasses down in the process. An utterly bewildered look crosses Rose's face – he doubts she's ever seen him look so purposeful – as he moves round the desk in two long strides. Rose is thrown off balance as he grabs her by the arm and waist, practically yanking her to him even as she stumbles in the same direction, and she thinks she knows what's coming but he's been acting so unpredictably lately that it's impossible to tell. Then, his lips descend on hers, fierce and desperate and with none of the awkward tenderness she's used to, and she promptly forgets that she was thinking anything at all.
She's laughing against his lips and he's not entirely sure he wants to know why. "Blimey. What was that for?" she asks, sounding as breathless as he feels.
"Sorry," he says, quickly, resting his forehead against hers, using every ounce of willpower he has to stop himself believing that he has her back. If he doesn't open his eyes, perhaps he can convince himself that her hair is a good few inches shorter, that she's two years older, that he never had to say goodbye to her in the first place.
She's utterly bemused by the apology – and probably rightly so – but the Doctor can't get used to the feeling that this is all right and normal for her, an ordinary, every-day occurrence, not when he feels like he's broken a thousand rules just to do it. He opens his eyes and manages a shrug. "I just…I've missed you." Now he's broken that barrier, it's beyond tempting to do it all over again, and he's not sure he's ever going to be able to leave. Suddenly his earlier avoidance of her seems utterly insane. Why not take these moments while he has the chance?
Rose laughs delightedly. "I love you. Very much. You know that, don't you?"
It's a rhetorical question, a perfectly-at-ease remark. Not a declaration, as he's known it from her before. No fireworks. No life-or-death, no last-chance. Just I love you. As simple as that, just because she can.
She used to be so free with her words. He hates that he'll be the one to suppress that.
"Yeah," he says softly. "Yeah, I do."
She bites her lip through her grin. "And…?" It's the most obvious hint in all of history, but he doesn't care.
"Rose, I – " love you? Don't know what to say? Have to leave? Can't possibly finish this sentence?
And then Martha walks in. Even he can't help but laugh at her timing as Rose drops her head to his shoulder and tries not to giggle, her youth and good humour ridiculously infectious.
--
30th July 2004. Kings College London, 3.32pm, and John Smith's flat, 4.05pm and onwards, trying not to watch the clock.
"You're not actually going to go through with this, are you? Doctor?"
Martha drops her books and papers onto his desk with a loud, agitated thwump. After all his lectures of don't mess up time, be oh-so-careful and God-help-you-if-you-change-as-much-as-the-lifespan-of-a-fly, she can't believe that he's being this stupid. Truly awful as the past seven months have been, watching him fall in love with someone else and unable to do a thing about it, at least she could go on thinking she'd get him back at the end of it, that eventually he'd see sense and stop the universe imploding – or whatever else it does when someone marries their future companion in the past. At least she knew they could get away at the end of it.
But nothing's changed. He's back but he's still staying, still well and truly stuck in the past if the position she found him in with Rose earlier in the afternoon is anything to go by. And now it's bigger than wanting him back or wanting to see the stars again, so much bigger than the absolute abandonment and – she'll admit it – jealously she's been feeling for months now, because if he doesn't do something, the whole of causality will probably rip apart.
Well, if the scare stories he told her before they came here were true, anyway.
Either way, she's not keen on sticking around to find out. The plan was to leave before they got too embroiled in anyone else's life, and that's exactly what they need to do, now, before embroiled becomes married.
The Doctor looks up at her wearily from his seat at the desk, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Tomorrow, Martha."
"Tomorrow," Martha points out, "you're supposed to be getting married." She says the word as collectedly as she can, trying to keep her head because apparently she's the only one seeing sense around here. "And we both know that that's never gonna happen. So what are we going to do?"
"I meant," he clarifies, "tomorrow, we leave."
She takes a step back and frowns at him, doubting him for the first time since she started calling him Doctor.
"I know staying, even for a little while, is a bad idea, and I appreciate that you're so concerned with the end of the universe, but really, that doesn't happen for another three trillion years, and besides, if the human race wasn't so – " Martha's glaring at him. He sighs resignedly. "It's just one day, Martha. One day, that's all!" She doesn't look convinced, obviously betting on him extending that one day to a lifetime, abandoning her three years before her time, forcing her to live out her life as a Biology lecturer, watching he and Rose settle down from the sidelines. But he won't. He knows what he's doing. He's lived with nine hundred years of some temptation or other, and he always comes out all right.
"You want to see her," she begins, gently. "I understand. But why can't we leave now? What difference is one day going to make?"
He laughs. "You of all people shouldn't need to ask that question. This is just something I've got to do, Martha."
She nods, finally, not liking it but accepting it all the same, allowing him these last few hours in which to play human.
Whatever Martha might fear, he's not staying, and he is back. He's just spending every moment with Rose that he can with these memories, knowing how it turns out, valuing her more than John Smith ever could, because he's lost her too many times already to give up this chance.
--
And so he has one full day with her, as the Doctor, kissing her with more passion and desperation than John could ever have mustered (she notices), making love as though it's the last time (she's right), insisting he gets a glimpse of her in a dress that should have started the rest of his life with her, despite the bad luck (she's beautiful).
But now it's time to leave.
She's asleep. His hands either side of her head, then, because there's no other choice. She doesn't even get the option to shut mental doors in his face – though, he thinks by now that he knows everything there is to know about Rose Tyler. She's got nothing left to hide.
He can't remove all traces of himself, as he's so desperate to do; that's far too complex. He's ingrained too deeply in her mind. Besides, he'd have to go around changing the memory of more people than he's willing to count. And while Rose wouldn't be likely to suspect anything amiss at his being on their bed, he's not so sure he'd get the same treatment from Shireen, Mickey or Jackie. He winces at the thought.
There's even a part of him, deep down, that wants her to keep this time they had together, a part of him that doesn't want to create great voids in her mind or take the last seven months from her. That's not fair, no matter how much the memories will hurt.
So there's only one option left, really. He alters John Smith's appearance in her memory so that, when he regenerates, she won't even begin to think that he looks exactly like the man she was once going to marry. The Doctor has a strong suspicion that she might not have been so willing to stay with him had he regenerated into the ex-fiancé who dumped her at the altar.
Finally, just to make sure he won't be recognised, that he won't cause problems, he places the slightest of perception filters around himself, so that Jackie, Mickey and anyone else who he happened to meet while travelling with Rose and visiting the Powell Estate won't make the connection between him and the infamous John Smith. At least, being a Time Lord and therefore timeless, this will apply to him no matter where he is in time and space. That's about the only blessing the Doctor can imagine at the moment.
He's changed history beyond measure, and the potential consequences of that are escalating through his mind at a hundred miles per hour, each scenario worse than the last, so he can do nothing but hope this works.
"I'm sorry, Rose. I'm so sorry."
He never thought he'd have to say that to her.
--
31st July 2004. John Smith's bedroom, 2.13am, attempting desertion.
All done – he's even written a note, for all the good it will do – but he can't go. There's something keeping him here, watching her sleep. It's safe, now – she'll see someone else if she wakes up, someone she believes is the man she's hours away from promising her life to – but he should really leave. It's tempting to stay here, though. Too tempting.
This is why he can never go back.
The Doctor looks at Rose across the pillow, moonlight bathing the sheets from the open window and her hair splayed all about her face. She's all ruffled and content, resolutely clutching the front of his shirt as though she knows she's dreaming of a day that will never – can never – come.
She's still a child. How could he ever have considered it, even playing a thirty-something year old man? She wasn't even in nappies by the time John Smith would have entered university.
"The thing about love is that one is always at its mercy," the Doctor sighs, and kisses her forehead as lightly as he can manage. She smiles a little and tightens her grip on his shirt, but other than that, the kiss elicits no response. "One day," he tells her, quietly, hoping that some part of her, somewhere, deep down, hears this and remembers. "One day, you'll find someone who'll grab your hand and sweep you off your feet as quickly as you swept me off mine, someone who's willing to run with you to the ends of the universe." He smiles sadly, untangling himself from her and brushing her hair out of her face. "But that can't be me. Not yet."
And so he leaves, slips out in the middle of the night, taking the coward's way out so that he doesn't have to witness her tears. Leaving her behind just like he promised he never would.
When she wakes up in the morning, he'll be gone without a trace. His phone number will stop working, his bank accounts will close, and his position as a physics lecturer at the local university will be filled by someone else.
John Smith will never have existed.