A/N: I own nothing. All characters and subsequent awesomeness are the property of Steven Moffat and the other creators and showrunners of Doctor Who. Slight AU where House didn't delete all of the bedrooms during The Doctor's Wife.

"Doctor, do you have a room?" Rory had asked, before Amy pulled him away.

Well of course he had a room. The Doctor had hundreds of them, thousands even, and he never went into a single one.

They held aching memories and ancient keepsakes, baubles and mementos from planets that he had watched burn into nothing. The TARDIS held scores of bedrooms that he would retreat to on those rare occasions when he gave in to the call of sleep. (The Doctor seldom slept, for his dreams were fraught with dead faces and lost smiles and the hollow corpses of forgotten civilizations).

There was a room right off of one of the largest corridors; a room with a plush purple bed and photographs on the walls that had belonged to a girl with blonde hair and sunshine in her smile. The human girl who had him now, even if he no longer had her.

Oh, there were splendid halls where he would dance for hours on end, with whoever happened to be passing by. He had libraries by the dozen, and rooms packed with forgotten stories and lost treasures.

There was a room whose walls were lined with novels and medical journals, a bed with crisp white sheets pressed up against the wall. The room of the one he hadn't noticed, the savior of the world that he had driven away.

He delighted in the faces of his new friends, as they became lost in the endless chambers and twisting passageways. They found hideaways and hallways that even he had forgotten. (It was a mercy when he could forget. Often he simply tried not to remember).

There was a bedroom cast in rich orange fabrics and luxurious furniture. The most important woman in all of creation, who would never know how amazing she was. The Doctor avoided that room at all costs, lest the guilt drive him madder than he already was. Lest the guilt send him lurching into the darkness he was forever dancing on the edge of. (He was already further cloaked in shadow than he cared to admit. The Oncoming Storm, they called him. But the storm had already come).

The Doctor had a myriad rooms, all scattered about in the tiny blue box. He had more Squash courts than he knew what to do with (he was rubbish at Squash, in any case), gymnasiums and theaters and kitchens galore. There was a room specifically devoted to hats, which he took special care to keep secret from his wife, in case her gun took a liking to any of them.

Her room was a long hall of crimson silks, bookshelves crammed with tales and tomes, cupboards bursting with weapons and secrets. He loved that room, and he hated it. It reminded him of her, and so it set his hearts fluttering and skin burning. It reminded him of her, and so he felt again the lurch of his stomach, the deafening turn of his mind towards that day so long ago when he hadn't known her, when he had lost her.

That room seemed to whir with Spoilers.

The Doctor had wonderlands of frivolities, playgrounds that twinkled with dreams. He had watched countless people wander, awestruck, through the brilliant blue box he was proud to call his home.

There were other rooms though: small, dark rooms with big, soft beds where he would shut his eyes and fight off the monsters of his past. Sometimes he would dream of the ones he had lost, and sometimes he could even forget that he'd lost them.

"Doctor, do you have a room?" Rory had asked, as the Doctor worked beneath the TARDIS console. He had been almost happy at that moment, fiddling with wires and sparks and the laws of Time.

"Doctor, do you have a room?" Who needs a room when they've got the whole of creation? Who wants four walls when they can have a universe with no edge?

"Doctor, do you have a room?" And he did, though the room wasn't his. The room belonged to her, her heart, her essence, her core, where she led him across time and space.