An ending just felt right here. After all, what better way to establish the Doctor's feelings than to resolve his Bad Wolf Bay issues? There can't be much more to say about his future with Martha after that, and so this is it. This is the final chapter of Not Better, Just Different. This has been the most difficult thing I've ever written, and much like the Doctor, I had no idea what I was in for when I began! But I have loved it, and it has been very satisfying to create.

I felt that the final chapter should demonstrate a full-circle effect, and should harken back to earlier chapters in which dreams and symbols ruled the lives of our heroes. I hope you feel good about it, and that you can look at the future of the Doctor and Martha with encouragement and contentment!

Thank you for reading. Really.

EPILOGUE

"How do you feel?" Martha asked, having watched the Doctor trudge slowly up the ramp, fire up the TARDIS to depart shakily through to the other side of the dimensional retro-closing walls, then sit pensively upon the navigator's chair. She came carefully round to face him and leaned against the console. She didn't get too close, as she didn't want to crowd him, but something had to be said. She had heard everything, so there was no need to ask how it went, or was Rose okay. She knew it had gone as well as could be expected and that Rose would be fine if Mickey could look after her and continue to keep her grounded.

What she cared about now, and what she didn't know, was how the Doctor felt. She guessed he must be feeling quite torn right now, but who was she to assume the heart of a Time Lord?

After a delay, he looked at her and smiled softly. "I feel all right."

"It's okay if you're not all right," she said.

"I know," he shrugged. "But I am."

"I can handle it if you're feeling conflicted," she assured him. "You can tell me - it's what I'm here for."

"No, this is the least conflicted I've felt in a long time," he told her, beaming at her, marvelling at how beautiful she looked.

"Okay. That's good, I guess."

"I mean, that's not to say that I won't always carry her with me – everything she was, said, did..."

Martha nodded. "We always carry a part of the people we've loved. Even if they throw wrenches at us and kick things."

He exhaled through pursed lips. "That was scary. I had never seen that side of her! And the bit about the colour of my suit…"

"Well, you'd told me she wasn't complete yet," Martha offered. "All that time, I thought she'd grown up, but I guess she's still got some ground to cover."

"I guess I was right, then."

"You usually are," she said, smiling.

"Well, I talk a good game," he protested. "But I'm more bluster than bang."

"Not to me," she said, stepping forward. He opened his arm and took her in against him. She grasped him tightly around his middle, and closed her eyes. She felt him lean forward and adjust the TARDIS controls with one hand, without ever letting go of her. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"On holiday," he said. "We never finished the first one."

"Mmm, lovely," she sighed.

"How do you fancy a jaunt to France?"

"France?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Sure. Any time period you like. I personally am fond of the pre-Bourbon countryside, but it's all up to you."

"I don't mind," she said. "It's just funny how all roads seem to lead there."

Martha and the Doctor held hands and strolled through the Cimetière de Passy. They could see rain clouds gathering above, but they were all right with that – a little rain could be refreshing.

"And a lot of rain can be downright beautiful," the Doctor said, smiling broadly. She blushed when he looked at her, and she averted her eyes coyly. "It's poetic, even. The Earth and her moisture oscillate between the air and the sky, building heat and pressure. And when it becomes too much, there's the release. It's cathartic, like a flower blooming."

She tingled pleasantly as he spoke, looking forward to the oncoming storm.

But when she looked around, she was reminded that they were surrounded by the dryness, the stone coldness of death. "We can't be here in the cemetery when the rain comes," she said.

"You're right," he said. "Wouldn't be proper."

But they didn't hurry. Commemorating the lives of people who had left their mark upon the world, and then passed, was not a job to be hastily done. Each soul marked here deserved its due, and the Doctor and Martha silently read names as they moved through the cemetery, and occasionally, when they recognised one, they would look at each other and smile with kindred acceptance. Gabriel Fauré, Edouard Manet, Claude Debussy, Berthe Morisot… they had been great figures, and their works would be felt throughout time immemorial, but they were gone. Their time had passed, and the world now keeps special places for them in the museums and books and symphony orchestras of the world.

"I've always loved Manet's work," Martha mused.

"Yeah?" the Doctor asked, looking at her with amusement. "I'd never have pegged you for a Manet fan. Luncheon on the Grass, quite scandalous, Miss Jones."

She smiled. "Scandalous – don't be silly. I've been to France before, walked among the greats, mourned their passing," she said. "And I'm a better person for it."

"So I have learned," he said, his spine tingling in remembrance. "Me, I'm partial to Berthe Morisot."

"I know you are," she said, squeezing his hand. "I think that's sweet."

"There's an innocence in her work, images of children and untouched meadows, skies with clouds only just beginning to gather," he mused.

He turned his head and found Martha looking back at him with a mixture of admiration, questioning and expectation.

"I mean," he amended. "It doesn't have the symbolism or Georgia O'Keeffe or the violent complexity of Artemisia Gentileschi, but it doesn't need to. It's not what Morisot was about."

"Very well put," Martha admitted.

And still, it wasn't proper to think on the old greats in the rain. The storm was coming – there was no avoiding it, and the travellers needed to move along.

At last, the Doctor and Martha saw an opening in the long wall that surrounded the cemetery, and they headed toward it, toward Rue Paul Doumer and the Trocadéro station.

As they stepped out onto the street, the Doctor looked down at Martha and smiled. He said, "I love Paris, don't you?"

"Oh yes," she sighed as she leaned into him and he obliged her with a kiss. They lingered for a moment, their lips dancing together in tentative pas de deux, still a bit bothered by the proximity of rain and death.

The kiss broke softly, and he moved his lips gently across her cheek toward her ear. "Let's move on," he whispered. His breath was hot against her skin, and it was a coup to her senses.

The street was alive with gentlefolk, going about their daily lives, going to their jobs, thinking of their families, doing the things that people do. It was the stuff of true life, and Martha and the Doctor felt they were in the presence of true love.

And as they rounded the corner at the Palais de Chaillot, the view took her breath away. She gasped a little, but said nothing, only stared, at a loss for words. He smiled at her, feeling purely happy.

The Eiffel Tower was framed by the two perfect sides of the palais, and the short marble avenue was lined with silent golden statues.

And then the heavens opened up, and the rain came. They had never felt the sprinkles, only the beginnings of an insistent storm, followed by a wild torrent. They were not deterred, and walked forward toward the balcony where the view was perfect. Paris in the rain.

After a time, the Doctor asked, "Would you like to take shelter?"

"Never," she replied.

The rain poured behind Martha's eyes and the ghosts of yesterday rested behind them. The Time Lord and his human love slumbered entwined in both flesh and conscience, sleeping an unsheltered sleep.