A/N: No idea where this sprouted from. Please review.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
"He fell in love with a human and dismissed you?" Rose Tyler reeled, clamping a hand over her mouth, having become submerged in an extreme case of shock.
Martha nodded in such a way that could almost be described as feverishly, while Donna's strong laugh echoed from one wall of the TARDIS to another in the distance. "Yeah; bit old for him if you ask me," she stated defiantly.
Rose paused momentarily, pursing her lips and swallowing hard as she mulled her next question over in the front of her throbbing mind. "How old do you reckon she was?" she concluded, and voiced this to her fellow traveller.
"I'm not exactly sure," Martha admitted, allowing her mind to drift back to the time at which she and the Doctor had taken up jobs in a school in an attempt to protect themselves undercover. "Fifty, I suppose, fifty five," she dwelled; her revelation directly the cause of Donna's apoplectic facial expression. Never before had either witnessed such an extreme sense of shock in one single being; such an extensive dropping of the jaw.
"Blimey…" Donna reflected loudly, still laughing ahead of them. "You can tell he's sex starved; he must have been desperate!"
Rose giggled, reflecting on her own memories as one surfaced almost determinedly, and captured her attention completely, with no sign of an end. "Tell me about it; I thought he was only interested in French twenty-somethings!"
"What's this?" Both women questioned her attentively.
Mentally kicking herself, Rose sighed deeply as she was forced to relive the one moment at which she'd truly felt that she was not the most important female in the Doctor's life. Of course, there had been Sarah Jane, but the conversation that the pair had shared, in which he'd invited her openly to spend the remainder of her years with him; led her to believe in the fact that she was something truly special; she was superior to Sarah Jane, and not merely in youth. "We landed on a spaceship in the fifty first century a few years back, only whoever was in charge was haunting the uncrowned queen of France; Madame De Pompadour. She was living in the eighteenth century, and there was a series of time windows, sporadically placed, and the Doctor seemed to continuously make use of a fireplace, to go into her life. One time, he ended up kissing her, and I mean passionately," she recalled meekly, sadly, regrettably.
Having perceived Rose's grave and saddened tones, the Doctor made his appearance from around the doorframe which framed his bedroom. He was most definitely asking for trouble, travelling with three somewhat hysterical women. Trouble now clung to him like metal to a magnet, it seemed.
"How about seemingly demented archaeologists?" Donna chimed; the girl's mouths falling wide open in unison.
"Careful; if the wind changes, you two will stay like that," the Doctor informed his companions apparently wisely, as he strolled routinely into the control room of his time ship.
Donna grinned mischievously, secretly experiencing a warm glow of something bordering on satisfaction at the situation she had solely succeeded in creating. "Professor Riversong, was it?" she smirked in the Doctor's direction, well aware that Rose and Martha would be avidly awaiting evaluation of some description.
"That's not fair!" The Doctor squealed defensively, thrashing his arms around in the empty air which surrounded him; his movements not dissimilar to those of a small, inexperienced and defenceless child, submerged in water in a swimming pool.
"Oh yeah; you haven't met her yet!" Donna conveniently recalled, joining the others in their towering spell of laughter.
The Doctor made for the TARDIS kitchen, as Rose narrowly managed to stifle her chuckles for a time and expressed, "He gets more mysterious every day."
Rapidly shaking his head, the Doctor paced into his destination as his companions giggled and shook in agreement, forming the ultimate alliance from hell.
The phrase, 'never argue with your designated driver,' was for once, wholly useless.