John Smith went through his evening routine automatically, puttering around his chamber with his mind half-occupied on other things. He ran through the next day's lesson plan as he removed his clothing and placed it back in the wardrobe, debating on how much reading he should assign and whether three days was enough time for the boys to write their next essay or if he should give them a full week. Three days, he decided, was more then adequate. Wouldn't do to coddle them.

He went to the washstand and poured water from the jug into the basin, and he cleaned his face and hands thoroughly. Cleanliness was next to godliness, after all. He replaced the towel on the stand and gave a quick glance to the mirror. He blinked at his reflection, for a split second it had seemed unfamiliar, as if he expected to see another face looking back at him. It was quite odd, to say the least, forgetting the colour of one's own eyes. John blinked again. Brown, of course, not blue. He frowned and turned away, feeling slightly unsettled. He ran a hand through his hair as he went over to the fireplace, checking that it was banked properly for the night. More then once he'd woken to a cold hearth and had to give the young maid a firm reminder of her duties. She was certainly a pleasant enough girl but John had some doubts as to her abilities. He wasn't certain she was suited to her position, she seemed out of place amongst the other servants in a way that went beyond the colour of her skin. But he was unable to pin down exactly how she was different. Perhaps he thought so because she was the only person he knew in his waking life who had appeared in his strange dreams.

John moved a log with the poker and inspected Martha's handiwork. The dark clouds massing all day over the village indicated a bad storm was coming, and he had no desire to have the fire go out in the middle of it. He did not like storms at all, their unpredictable nature and the sometimes violent results they left in their wake unsettled him greatly. John watched a few sparks rise of the glowing red coals and deemed it satisfactory. He left the fire and went over to the bed. He took off his dressing gown, hanging it up on the hook, and shucked off his slippers, placing them so he could slide his feet back in again easily in the morning. The journal sat on the bedside table, writing instruments beside it, everything ready for his next entry. The dreams faded so quickly into nothingness sometimes, and John had learned to make his notes immediately upon waking so that they wouldn't be lost. It was maddening that it all felt so exhilarating real and yet it was gone so quickly, as though his human brain was not meant to conceive of such strange and wonderful things. Creatures from beyond the stars, places long gone or not yet born, men and women, all so different but all so brilliant, who flung themselves headlong into adventure alongside him.

His heartbeat quickened in excitement and he took a few deep breaths. He didn't want to work himself into such a state of anticipation that he would be unable to fall asleep and miss out on a new dream, as deeply ironic as that would be. John smiled and chuckled slightly. He gave the journal a fond pat, and then he extinguished the lamp and slid his long frame under the bedclothes. Alone in the dark, he stared up at the ceiling and let himself imagine that it was all real, that he was the strange and fantastic Doctor, travelling the universe in his magic box. And, as he always allowed himself in these private musings, she was by his side, her small hand tucked securely in his.

She stood out amongst all the impossible things, her smile a beacon that pierced through the darkness of the Doctor's soul. She is a companion like the others, but she is different. In his dreams she is a goddess who shines with golden light, wielding the power of death with a wave of her hand. He sacrifices himself to her, his life willing forfeited so that his goddess may live. But she is human too, a girl who looks at him with wonder and lets him lead her through the most amazing adventures he can offer her.

John turned onto his side and opened his eyes, squinting in the darkness until he could make out the form of his journal. He had the sudden urge to open it and look at the sketch he had made of her face, even though he could see her clearly enough in his mind's eye. She never faded, unlike the other dreams. He could picture the blonde hair, the generous lips curved in a smile. But then the image shifted and she stood in front of him, the blonde hair framing a blank slate, and he tasted the Doctor's terrible rage, his anger that anyone would dare to steal her face. John frowned, pushing the remnant of the nightmare away. He brought her face back, looking at him with a smile, and remembered better dreams.

They were the dreams he hardly dared to recall, the ones he could never record in his journal. He felt his heartbeat accelerate again and the flush of heat rising in his body. John tried to suppress it, but it was too late, and he closed his eyes again with a sigh. She stepped into his mental embrace, lips parting against his own, arms wrapped tight around him. Her slender body pulled flush against his own, and John still felt shock at his dream girl's wanton actions. But the Doctor in his mind had no such qualms, ravaging her mouth and pulling her tight against him, pressing her into his desire. She pulled her head back, panting with sinful lust, and he heard her voice as clearly as if she was speaking in his ear.

"Doctor, I want you. Take me. Now."

John let out a strangled gasp and opened his eyes. Shame welled up within him. The dreams were one thing, he had no control over his slumber, but deliberately allowing himself these thoughts, relishing them, was not the behaviour of a gentleman. He was not that sort of man.

"Doctor."

Her voice inside his head. Why could he hear her so clearly, and imagine her so perfectly, and not even know her name? He spoke it in his dreams, he knew, in every inflection, from a soft whisper to a scream that left his throat raw, and yet he woke every morning with an empty space where her name should be. He could conjure up the most intimate aspects of her at will and yet he could not recall that most basic of information. It was as maddening as the end of every dream he had of her, whether a nightmare, an adventure, or a dream of erotic bliss, he always found himself frozen in place, unable to stop her as she walked away.

"Why does she always leave me?" John muttered, rolling onto his side. His dream girl slipped away into the fog of his mind, leaving him alone once more. He let her fade away, much as it pained him, and shivered with sudden cold, no longer feeling the imagined warmth of her body. As tempting as it was to indulge his secret fantasies, he was a respectable man, an upstanding member of society, not the type who would consort with such a woman as the one from his dreams, if she actually existed. But then, a woman like that, so bold, so brazen, could not possibly exist. She lived only in his dreams.

"The stuff of legends," he whispered without thought, and closing his eyes again, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep, hearing rain begin to lash against the window. The storm that had been simmering in the air all day long had finally come.

"Hold on!" he yelled, reaching out uselessly towards her. She tried desperately to maintain her grip on the lever, but he knew she would fail, knew it was all his fault. He should have insisted she return to safety, but she'd looked at him and said she never wanted to leave, and he hadn't been strong enough to resist her, he never could, and now she was going to die and it was all his fault. She screamed in terror and he saw in horror that her fingers were slipping, and the light in the room was blinding him but he couldn't look away, and she was falling and he was helpless to stop it. He could only watch and the scream that ripped from his throat was an inhuman cry of pain and loss.

John wrenched his eyes open, trying desperately to fling himself out of the horrible nightmare. His heart pounding, he rolled onto his back, mouth open in an echo of his dream-self's screams. He blinked frantically, his vision still full of white light. Was he still asleep, still locked into that terrible room, forced to watch her die? But he could feel the familiar bed under him, the scratch of the wool blanket under his fingers. The rain still pounded outside, but then there was a new noise, a heavy thump of something falling onto the floor and a loud cracking noise that he would have taken for thunder had it not come from inside his room.

The white light disappeared and the room plunged into darkness. John sat up, blinded by the abrupt change, but sensed immediately that he was no longer alone. He could hear movement and heavy breathing from a few feet away, and he squinted in that direction, trying to bring the room back into focus. There was a long pause, and then a small soft light appeared, illuminating a figure standing on the floor.

"What?" he croaked, and the light moved towards him.

"Doctor?"

The word that sprang immediately to his mind was "impossible". The voice was her voice, and the light lifted higher, showing her face, the one he had sketched so carefully in his journal. But that was impossible. She couldn't be here, couldn't be real. He was still dreaming, he had to be. There was no other explanation. John flung the blankets back and scrambled to his feet, taking a few hesitant steps towards the apparition.

"Doctor! I did it! I know you said there wasn't a way, but we found one, one chance, a trans-dimensional portal that was just stable enough for one trip, and I know, I know it was dangerous and I was taking a huge risk, but I had to try, and it worked! I found you."

She took a step towards him and overwhelmed by her incomprehensible speech and impossible presence, he took a step back.

"You found me?" he repeated dumbly, and her eyes widened.

"Doctor? What's wrong?" she asked, her voice going high and shrill with fear, "Oh God, you do remember me, don't you? How long has it been? Years? Centuries? Please tell me you didn't forget me."

She sounded so small and scared, and John stared at her, mind full of half-remembered dreams. And then suddenly it was there, the name that had eluded him for weeks on end, that he chased through his dreams only to have it vanish like a soap bubble when it was touched. The name of his beautiful, brilliant, fantastic girl, who held his hand and loved him and saved his life.

"Rose," he said, and her face lit up in the smile from his dreams, "Rose. Of course I didn't forget you."

Rose dropped the small oddly-shaped lantern she was holding to the floor and in two steps had crossed the distance between them, flinging her arms around his neck. It felt so familiar, as if they had embraced like this a thousand times.

"Doctor," Rose whispered, and he felt her begin to shake. She was warm, and she was in his arms, and she was real.

"Impossible," John said, "This...you...it's impossible."

Rose pulled back and looked up into his face.

"Nothing's impossible, Doctor. I learned that from you."

He reached up and touched her face, stroking lightly down her cheek. Rose closed her eyes, and John shuddered as he remembered what they had done in his dreams. He should be ashamed of his thoughts, but he no longer cared. In this moment, in this room with this impossible woman in his arms, he was the Doctor. Boldness overtook him, the Doctor's boldness, and he circled her waist with one arm and with the other threaded his fingers into her silky blonde hair.

"This is a dream," he whispered into her ear, and felt her arms tighten around him.

"Maybe both of us are dreaming," Rose whispered back. "We better make the most of things before we wake up."

He felt sheer terror at the thought, of waking from this dream to find her gone and him left with nothing but another entry he could not write. "Never leave me," he pled silently.

"I'm never gonna leave you"

Rose's hands stroked up and down his back and under the material of his nightshirt he felt himself begin to burn at her gentle touch. His hips jerked against her of their own accord and he felt himself flush scarlet in embarrassment. She pulled away and he opened his mouth to apologize for his unthinkable behaviour, but the words died in his throat as Rose began to undress. John watched speechless as her clothing fell to the floor, the strange outer garments and the even stranger inner ones, until she was nude in front of him. He swallowed hard, feeling a painful throb in his groin. Her skin was pale and perfect, and she stood proud and unashamed under his gaze, his goddess, his Venus, his love.

"Rose," he managed to choke out, and then she was in his arms again, lips pressing against his own. Her skin was even softer then it had been in his dreams, and he let his hands roam over her body in abandon, searing each plane, each curve into his memory. Her own hands sought him out, grasping him where he was hard and aching. He arched into her touch, feeling dizzy with pleasure. She was a succubus, she was a sin. She was a dream, and a miracle and he was the Doctor and she was his.

They fell to the bed in a tangle of arms and legs, Rose underneath him. He went to his knees and removed his shirt with shaking hands, baring himself to her gaze. Her smile could illuminate the darkest night. He was afraid to breathe, afraid to blink for fear that he'd open his eyes and find her gone, back to whatever netherworld she'd emerged from. The storm was raging now, rain pounding against the windows and rattling the glass, but he hardly heard it over the frantic pounding of his heart. His movements were clumsy and awkward, but Rose was not, grasping him with a sure hand and guiding himself into her incredible heat. Rose held him to her as he sank deep, whispering into his ear.

"I missed you so much...oh God...been too long...Doctor...don't stop...tried so hard to find you...missed you...love you."

"Rose," he gasped, shuddering. He was moving on instinct, still afraid to look away from her face as various images flew through his mind. Him and her, her and him. The Doctor and Rose. He laced their fingers together above her head, he needed to hold on so that he wouldn't lose her again. Body moving, skin on skin, he was conscious of every inch of breasts and belly and thighs, she was so incredibly soft and he was impossibly hard. The scattered light she had dropped to the floor sputtered and died, plunging the room into darkness once more. Her face retreated into shadow and he chased it, forehead pressing to hers, fingers tightening. It was hard enough to hurt, he knew, but Rose didn't protest. Her breath was coming in shallow pants, eyes slamming shut. He felt himself nearing completion and he longed to climb inside this moment and live there forever. The universe shrank, contracting down until there was nothing but this room, this bed, nothing but the two of them. He could no longer hear the sounds of the rain over her soft whispers of love and his own voice repeating her name over and over again. He would not let himself forget again.

Time slowed down and stood still. He was standing on the edge of a precipice and he hung there suspended for an eternity. And then he fell, and it was all happening too fast. He cried out in words he did not recognize, holding Rose tight as his body shuddered and spilled itself within her. She clutched at him with equal ardour, stiffening for a long moment in his arms and then going pliant as he collapsed on her.

For a long moment neither of them spoke and then Rose said something he didn't quite hear and her body started to shake. He lifted himself up and looked down at her, and saw tears spilling from her eyes as the sobs escaped from her throat. He was dazed and muddled by what had just transpired, but he pushed it aside and focused on her, cradling her against his shoulder and trying to comfort her as she cried. Fear suddenly struck him and he asked, "Did I hurt you?", terrified that he had done something awful to her.

"What?" she sounded confused and her eyes blinked open, looking up at him, "No, of course not. I just...I missed you so much, Doctor, and I'm scared that this isn't real. Maybe I'm dreaming and I'm going to wake up any second and find that I'm back in the other universe without you."

It was curious, he thought, that a dream should fear the true nature of it's existence. But then she was a manifestation of his own mind and it seemed sensible that she shared his own fears. This was one dream that he did not wish to wake up from, he would spend the rest of his life asleep if he could.

"Don't think about it," he said, to her and himself, "You're here now."

"Where is here?" Rose asked, wiping her eyes and looking around.

"1913," he answered without thinking and then frowned at his strange response. But Rose didn't seem to find his answer odd, she simply nodded and sank back down into the bed. She shivered, and he reached down and grasped the discarded blankets, pulling them up to cover her. It felt so natural to be like this.

"The storm's over," Rose said, and he realized that the rain had stopped. There was something about storms, something he should remember. He tried to recall but it eluded him.

Rose closed her eyes and he listened to the soft sounds of her breathing. He placed his hand above her heart and felt the gentle rhythm against his palm. She covered his hand with her own and he very much wished that she was real. Fatigue had stolen over him, his limbs heavy and resisting his attempts to move. Eyes closed, opened, closed again. He was falling asleep, or maybe he was waking up. But she was still here. She hadn't left like she did in every other dream.

He struggled to get the word out, to say what he always tried to call after her when she walked away.

"Stay," he whispered.

He felt her shift and fear shot through him, but she simply molded her body to his and he felt her lips graze his ear.

"Forever."

And John Smith drifted off into a dreamless sleep.