John Smith is dead, and you look like him.
Her words kept echoing through his head; quite maddening, really. After all, it was his face first. And that look she'd given him when she said it, that mix of resignation and outright hurt, as if he had intentionally caused her pain.
Honestly, travel through the universe for nine hundred years, and the one time he had absolutely no say in the destination is the day he was brought to task about the lives lost. Sure, she had a point, but still, it wasn't as if he hadn't already thought of that, didn't think of that every time he had to see someone die. No need to go rubbing his nose in it, but of course she had.
John Smith is dead.
Except that he wasn't. Not really. Sure, he'd been deliberately vague about being "in there somewhere," really for her benefit as well as his own. How was he supposed to explain fragmenting a consciousness as he had, and what effect that has on the person? Tell her the truth, that the John Smith she loved was still right below the surface? That he had to fight like hell to keep this "other him" from throwing his arms around her where they stood? It was already impossible to keep the desperation from his voice when he asked— no, begged her to come along with him.
He'd hated her then.
The fact that she'd declined his offer hadn't done anything to settle John Smith back into his mind, either. If anything, the presence had only sharpened, taunting him now with nagging little thoughts he'd never had before, not to mention the constant thoughts of her. As much as the Doctor would have liked to push her aside with a shrug and a sigh, no amount of trying would let that happen this time.
Which, he supposed, was how he'd gotten here, crouched over a microfilm projector in the library while Martha had lunch with friends. What he was looking for, he wasn't sure, but some part of him needed proof of her existence. Even an obituary would be nice, as terrible as it would be to think of her dying.
No such obituary could be found, however; instead, a different sort of announcement caught his eye:
Farringham School is pleased to announce the engagement of Matron Joan Margaret Redfern to Professor Charles Peter Tyler. Wedding ceremonies will be held on Sunday, the twelfth of May, 1918.
A slow, sad smile grew across the Doctor's face. John Smith hadn't died, but then again, neither had Joan Redfern. On the contrary, she'd lived, and nothing could have made John happier.