Author's Notes: Hello people! Yeah, this is something that I came up with after watching S4's finale. I can't believe that happened! Yeah it is a bit late to be saying that but… Anyway, this has slight spoilers for S4 Journeys End, so if you haven't watched it yet, WATCH IT!! It also has mentions of 4&5/ Adric and Rose/9/10, so if you don't like that then read another fic! Enjoy!
The rooms aboard the TARDIS were perhaps some of the most precious things he owned. They told stories of the people who had once lived there: people who had made him feel whole and alive. They were symbols of happiness passed, of hurt feelings, lost names, sweat, blood, tears, and hope.
From the day of their departure to forever, no one used the rooms after they left. Sure someone would open the door and inquire, only to be met by a Doctor who is neither angry nor sad, just lost in his own thoughts, wondering when he'll have to do it again with another.
All of these rooms were frozen in time. The last remnants of the occupants still strewn around the room, most were the result of a hasty departure: uneven pairs of socks, a wrinkled shirt, over turned bed sheets that are long cold, shoes with undone laces, hair brushes with stray strands caught in the bristles, undone toothpaste caps, and so much more. A few were semi- tidy. Made beds, no toothpaste or laundry spilled across the floor.
But they all gave the same feeling of being lived in, being someone's home.
And it was outside Donna's room that the Doctor never felt so, not at home.
And it was outside Donna's room that the Doctor finally broke down; tears spilling down his face as he wept for those stupid, fantastic apes.
His tears blinded him, but he knew his TARDIS: she would help him back to his own room, even if that was the least homey place on the ship.
The Doctor's room was a stark contrast to any other living space aboard the entire TARDIS. Whereas the other rooms were in different stages cleanliness, amount and quality of knickknacks, stray clothing that the owners never had time to pack up, and general evidence of being lived in, the Time Lord's personal room (well rooms really) looked like it was never used.
There was no crease in the bed covers, no hairbrush, no clothing, not even evidence of a secret bathroom slob. Thus when he dropped into it from an exhaustion that he hadn't felt since the Last Time War, he felt even colder, his body was numb and his tears stained the white sheets.
The TARDIS hated to see her Time Lord in such a state, but this was where she could not help him. She could not hold him the way a mother would her childe or the way a lover would. She could barely comfort him in his own mind that was a sad, raging storm.
In an attempt to feel, well, anything, the Doctor curled his body into the fetal position as he had when he was a childe and felt like an outsider at the Academy.
And it was as he let his sorrows drown him and consume him that he barely registered feeling his head being raised onto someone's lap and a hand running through his hair and gently caressing his cheek. But he felt something, even if he didn't know what it was.
It was comforting, loving, warm, right, but yet so sad.
"Rose…" The word was something less than a whisper, full of something that could not be identified, something that exceeded hopelessness.
But the hand heard it: that word that tore the owner up inside. But the hand never paused; it just kept on going, the sadness in the owner's heart growing, but stopped as it realized that he only felt jealousy.
After all, the Doctor had once loved him like he had loved Rose. It was something that only few had bared witness too.
Romana had just smiled and shaken her head, silently giving her approval and blessing to them. Nyssa had been happy for them, and Tegan had been, well, Tegan.
"Rose…" The cry was straggled, "Rose, please forgive me." The hand's owner had heard the same words and he had forgiven him, as Rose already had.
"Donna, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." Again, more words that the hand's owner had heard and accepted.
For a long while, nothing happened: the Doctor cried and the hand calmed the storm.
Suddenly, the Doctor gained some sense and realized something, "Adric…?"
But then it was gone. The feeling of being loved and the gentle hand upon his face was gone. Just gone.
Through bleary eyes, the Doctor looked around the room and called again, with some kind of hope that he could not identify, "Adric?"
But there was nothing. As he reminded himself that Adric was dead, his previous feeling's returned, the clouds re-appeared full throttle, and with effort, he gathered himself up and left the room.
And as the door shut, the ghost or spirit, or whatever one would call it, of Adric appeared. There he sat on the bed, lost in his own thoughts.
The Doctor had never stopped loving him, this much he knew, but it had been Rose who had stolen his heart, and for that, he both hated her and was so happy that she did.
But there was little her memory or his could do now, except for small instances like these. It was not the first time that the Doctor had succumbed to his tears.
But when his Time Lord returned that night for a sleep that he desperately needed, for the first time in regenerations, it would feel like home.