Okay, here we go again. This is an idea that's been incubating for a long time, but it's not going to be epic, I don't think. So, let's pick up where Not Better, Just Different leaves off. It's a separate story because it no longer has anything whatsoever to do with Season 4, and the Doctor / Martha relationship is established in NBJD as quite a singular goal. In this story, it's just there as a comfy backdrop.

I apologize for all the different series and continuations, etc. when the goal is usually the same (Martha and the Doctor as a couple, having adventures), but I didn't feel this story would work with the Shades of Blue / Elementary series because... well, eventually you may realize why. I'm finding, though, that creating different end-points at different points in the continuum for our favorite couple is opening doors for me, giving me places to pick up that are flexible and different as far as criteria... but this is just me thinking aloud. Sorry.

Oh, and if you're thinking that I'm obsessed with France... well, you'd be right. And it shows you're paying attention, congratulations! I wear my francophile mantle with pride!

So, as always, enjoy!

CHAPTER I

Martha Jones lay in the semi-dark of a room illuminated only by a streetlamp outside the window. She admired the wainscotting and the scalloped wallpaper on the ceiling. There was soft breathing beside her, and it was comforting to her. This was one of the best bits of being in love – the little things, moments longed-for, savoured, but eventually forgotten and replaced. Taking comfort in hearing each other breathe, the warm flush of holding hands, liking the way the other person chews or walks or ties their shoes, taking pleasure in preparing their tea just the way they like it…

And she glanced to her left and smiled lazily at the hypnotic, gentle rise and fall of a chest regulated by slumber. That this particular chest happened to house two hearts did not take away from the warm glow she felt – in fact, oddly enough, it enhanced it.

She closed her eyes and sighed, but in spite of the evening's exertions, she was too wired to sleep – she couldn't remember when last she'd had so much sugar in one day. A croissant with Nutella for breakfast (and when the croissant ran out, she'd eaten Nutella off a spoon), along with some fresh café au lait with two sugars. At Versailles, she'd procured a lemon icy thing, and for lunch a Croque Monsieur with raspberry jam and a Coke. A crêpe with sugar and cinnamon as an afternoon snack (because in Paris, it's like a requirement), and for dinner, nothing but carbs and slightly too much alcohol. The crème brûlée came later, after they'd returned to their room, and now she thought about it, she wondered how she hadn't either gone into a diabetic coma or exploded.

But what the hell, it was a holiday, and oh how they'd earned it, after the year they'd had! Their one other attempt at a break, a jaunt to Hervang, had been intense but short, and they'd been thrown headlong into a universe-shattering debacle with the Daleks, not to mention the not-quite-benign threat of the past batting its brown eyes and wedging its blonde head into their present…

But she would not dwell on that, and she refused to flog herself over her eating habits. Holidays were all about indulgence and relaxation, and they had done plenty of both. Usually, their indulgences led to relaxation, but not tonight, not for her.

She stood and picked up the first piece of clothing she could find. It turned out to be a man's dress shirt, in beige. She disentangled the brown and blue tie from the collar, which hadn't been quite properly removed when the garment had been discarded, took in its scent and then put it on, buttoning only three of the middle buttons. She went to the window and opened both sides of the floor-to-ceiling Parisian fenêtre, andwondered just how long it had been since she'd had a proper holiday. Her last year at university, maybe. She gazed out upon the lights of Paris, and smiled.

It had been a whole week, and there had been no aliens (except for the one currently slumbering in this room), no threats, no schemes discovered, no possible changing of human history, not even a tense thriller on the television. It was miraculous! They'd seen everything they wanted to see, did everything they wanted to do, and if today was any indicator, they'd eaten everything they wanted to eat. In fact, they'd got so far removed from their "normal" life, that halfway through the second day in Paris, the local language actually started sounding like French! It meant she'd broken off from her ties to the TARDIS' consciousness, and therefore, its translation circuitry. It worried her at first, but she'd been promptly assured that it was a good thing – it meant she was relaxing and removing herself.

"What's that noise?" a voice groaned from the bed.

She smiled. "It's the sound of contentment," she sighed. "Just go back to sleep."

"Not your best line," he groaned back. "But I'll take it."

He sat up and swung his legs over the side, cradling his head in his hands. When she didn't hear him speak or breathe for a few moments, she turned and saw his seemingly pained stance.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"Seriously, what's that noise?" he asked.

"Is it something in the street?" she wondered. "Maybe you're hearing a Vespa half a mile away with your fabulous heightened Time Lord hearing."

He scrunched his face and turned to face her. "My what?"

"Well, you can grow new body parts when they get lopped off, and you've got twice as many cardio-vascular systems as I do. Can't you hear better as well?"

"No," he said. "I think you might be confusing me with Superman. Gallifrey, not Krypton, remember?"

"Ah," she nodded. "I must stop doing that."

"Blimey," he groaned, standing. Much as Martha had done a few minutes before, he seemed to grab the nearest piece of clothing, a pair of brown pin-striped trousers, and put it on. He began to pace and muss his own hair rather absently. After a moment he stopped and looked at her. "You don't hear it?"

"No, sorry," she said.

"Hm," he grunted. "Must be all in my head."

She stepped toward the bed and knelt upon it. "Well, if you're just imagining it, then come back to bed. I only got up because I was bored…"

"No, I don't mean I'm imagining it," he said. "I mean it's all in my head."

"Like a telepathic signal or something?"

"I think it's from the TARDIS," he said. "Your link got severed – mine never does."

"Lovely. Does this mean the honeymoon's over?"

"Nah," he said, batting away the question. "Just the holiday."