Addendum

He comes back. Just once, he comes back. Or, more accurately, he gives in. Just once. A moment of weakness, if you will.

Just because Martha Jones doesn't need the Doctor doesn't mean that the reverse is true.

When he opens the TARDIS doors she's there; uncertainly, curiously, but she's there, and it feels almost familiar, almost the same. She notices the distinct lack of Donna as he steps out, notices the weary weight to his step and the tired look in his eyes, and even as he grins and goes through the lighthearted movements he can see that she's seen through him already. Remarkable what a few years away from the Doctor can do - Martha's much stronger, and she's having none of it.

He'd expected her to push, like that day on New Earth. He'd expected her to be stubborn, because Martha always was. He figures he should have learnt not to expect to understand Martha Jones, and he can't pretend to understand her in the slightest when she cuts him off mid-sentence to hug him.

He tries to laugh it off. Holding his arms out by his sides, he tries to grin, and he only realizes something is wrong when it actually hurts to try. It never hurt before. And then his attempted laugh comes out as a strangled noise that he barely recognizes, and he realizes that he's crying.

He won't deny that it scares him, startles him so badly that he finds his arms wrapping around Martha in response, and he's grateful that she doesn't comment on how he trembles. Grateful for so many things, actually, but most of all that she says nothing. She seems to understand, at least a little, and it's all he can ask for, really.

He doesn't cry for long, and he never pulls away far enough to let her look at his face - shame, maybe, or fear. (Martha Jones terrifies him. Always has.) He goes very still in her arms, his face buried into her hair (always hiding), and Martha hears the few ragged, steadying breaths he takes - feels them flutter against her skin - before he detaches himself. He's quick to dash at his eyes with his palms (wipe away the evidence) and stretches another shaky smile across his face that doesn't hurt as much, somehow.

He says thank you, and apologizes. Martha doesn't quite know what for - for any number of things, really - and she responds by reaching up to cup his face - his daft, old face - and pulling him down far enough that she can kiss his forehead. It's bittersweet. If a few more tears leak out on the Doctor's part, no one points it out. He covers one of her hands with his own, his face seeming to crumple with the sheer weight of the sadness in his eyes as he looks at her.

He looks old. Very old. His years shine in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispers, and then it seems to be all he can say. He cries a little more, and Martha thinks it says something that he doesn't even reach up to wipe them away. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" He closes his eyes. His shoulders shake - his entire form shakes.

It's one of the saddest things she's ever seen. She slides her thumbs under his eyes, tracing his face with a reverence that surprises him, and she smiles. Their faces are close enough that her breath tickles his mouth when she speaks, and he's surprised by the ache in his chest even though he probably shouldn't be. It figures, he thinks bitterly. It figures.

"Don't be," says Martha Jones. "I'm not."

("You can come back, you know. Anytime. I'll always be here, whenever you need me. Whenever you need someone to talk to. Or, you know. Not talk to."

"I don't think that… would be the best idea."

"Why not?"

"Martha Jones, if you let me walk in that door I can't promise you that I'd ever walk out again."

"Would that be such a bad thing?"

They stare at each other. It feels like a challenge.

"Duly noted," he says, smiling despite himself. It can't be that easy - it could never be, with him - but maybe he doesn't have to close the book just yet.

He leaves a bookmark. Just in case.)

END