Chapter 1

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a large blue box must be in want of a companion. Or so Martha Jones had thought. She was finding recently that every adventure she shared with the Doctor was only proving how wrong she had been. He was becoming more and more withdrawn, a shadow, and she could not understand why. His references to Rose, which never failed to twist her heart out of shape, were becoming more frequent - and more pained. It was not a companion he needed, it was simply Rose - and though Martha tried, she was painfully aware that she was never quite enough. The consciousness of this, as well as the Doctor's stunning obliviousness when it came to her feelings for him, was constantly building up, but never quite seemed to reach boiling point.

The morning she finally snapped appeared, on the surface, no different from any other. The strange pattern of domesticity – if it could be called that – which she had become used to in the TARDIS was underway as normal. The Doctor was always the first up, sitting swigging tea and directing his usual nonsense at her as soon as she stumbled half-awake into the kitchen. He always looked as though he had been there for hours – and sometimes she suspected he had, if indeed he ever slept at all. His bright smile would always be in place, and he seemed perfectly relaxed – too perfectly. If there was one detail which made Martha conscious of the fact that his apparent exuberance was a constant façade, it was that. Not that she needed details like that to see the strain in his eyes, not to mention the weariness hidden in his gaze. She was in love with the man after all, which had made her an acute observer of the smallest changes in his body language and expressions – not that it had ever done her any good.

Martha was halfway through her second cup of coffee (she generally needed at least three in the morning before she could even come close to the Doctor's level of manic activity), when he dropped the bombshell.

'How would you fancy paying a visit to Elizabeth and Darcy today?'

His question, asked with a degree of forced nonchalance which was already enough to make Martha suspicious, caused her to narrow her eyes at him.

'Sure, Doctor. I may not be an expert on time travel, but I don't think it includes meeting fictional characters.'

He smirked at her, that sideways grin that always made her catch her breath – at first in admiration, then in annoyance at herself for being so easily swayed. 'Ah, but that's just where you're wrong. You see, they're not actually fictional. Clever woman, Jane Austen, but not as imaginative as people give her credit for – she based the entire plot on a couple she knew. Not identical to Darcy and Elizabeth of course, but extremely similar. Resourceful, she was, and a lovely lady besides…had a bit of a thing for me actually. I told her it would never work, what with me being a time-travelling alien, but she was still rather resentful…'

Martha knew she should be concentrating on the discovery of the existence of literature's most celebrated couple, but her attention was focused on a rather different point.

'You…had an affair…with Jane Austen?'

'Not exactly. But she never forgave me for refusing. I believe she later based the character of Willoughby on me, with the replacement of the alien part for general extravagance and insincerity. Probably a more believable fault.'

'Right. Fine. Good.' Martha had long ago given up being shocked by the majority of the Doctor's revelations. 'So why do you want to visit Elizabeth and Darcy then?' she asked, impressing herself with her matter-of-fact tone.

'No particular reason. Nothing else to do really.' Martha was surprised at his suddenly shifty look and evasive response.

'Go on Doctor, tell me,' she encouraged, deeply curious now.

'Just fancied a bit of a trip down memory lane,' he replied casually – too casually.

'So you've been before then?' Martha was used to having to pry information out of him (useful information at least – he always had plenty of the useless but interesting variety to offer), so his reticence didn't faze her very much.

'Yeah.' He was suddenly staring intently at the nearby coffee jar, despite not drinking the stuff, which was what set alive certain suspicions within Martha.

'…With Rose?' she asked, half-reluctantly. She wasn't sure if she wanted to know the answer, but she couldn't not ask, not now that she suspected what was behind his sudden desire for a trip to the nineteenth century – a time period he had never shown the slightest interest in before now.

'That's right.' As always when his previous companion was mentioned, his eyes regained that spark of life they had contained when she first met him. It was difficult to watch, and even more difficult to know that she could never provoke that reaction in him, no matter how hard she tried. 'We went with Captain Jack Harkness, and Bingley was actually rather taken with him. Not a huge surprise really, as Jack charms everyone he meets - but good old Jane Austen never gave a hint that Bingley was batting for the other side, did she? Typical authors, have to twist all the characters to fall in line with their plot ideas.'

The Doctor was off on a tangent again, but that was nothing new.

'And Mr. Bennet was rather taken with Rose, treated her like another daughter. She has a lot in common with Lizzie, you know – '

'Doctor!' Martha's raised voice suddenly broke through his monologue, and he turned to look at her in slight surprise. She wasn't often so abrupt – he could count on one hand (probably one finger) the amount of times she had shouted at him, excluding life-threatening situations of course.

But just because Martha rarely expressed her resentment didn't mean she didn't feel it, and the emotions she had been keeping suppressed for so long were rising slowly but steadily to the surface. She tried to gulp back the words before they emerged, but it was too late.

'Can't we have even one conversation where you don't bring up Rose Tyler?'

The Doctor made no response, other than a slight furrowing of his brow, which only served to infuriate her more.

'Sometimes I feel like she's more present in this ship than I am! And, Doctor, she's gone. You need to let her go. You need to move on!'

The Doctor swallowed, and she could see that her words had hit the mark. Martha had imagined that she knew the Doctor quite well, and she had envisaged this scenario enough times that she thought she would be able to predict his reaction. But she was mistaken.

His expression of hurt melted away so quickly she could not be sure it had ever existed, and was replaced immediately by a look of chilling anger. The expression was not new – she had seen it enough times, directed at anyone who had been foolish enough to stand in his way or threaten the safety of the planet, but never before had it been focused on her. Martha Jones was a brave woman in many respects, but to fail to be intimidated by the Doctor when he looked like that would have been more than courage – it would have been insanity.

'Don't, Martha. Just don't.' Simple words, but spoken in a tone of such cold finality. 'It's not a subject open for discussion. Not now, not ever.'

But Martha was not so easily deterred, despite the frantic drumming of her heart, despite her fear, despite his anger. She had to know the truth. She had to know whether she meant anything to him at all, or whether she was just a useful accessory, a convenient helpmate – a role which anyone could fulfil.

'Why not?'

His rage at her simple question was palpable. At first it seemed as if he was going to refuse to answer, then the words appeared to explode from him in a shower of fury and frustration.

'Because it's nothing to do with you, because she is too important to me, and because you have no right to even ask!'

Martha opened her mouth. Then closed it again. All her resentment and anger, which had been keeping her words flowing, had fled, replaced only by helplessness. He wasn't listening. He wasn't even seeing her, not truly. And he never would. Not whilst Rose was still alive in his memory, competing for his attention and winning without effort, without consciousness, without even being aware that Martha existed.

The pain which was always waiting in the background - a constant, quiet hum ready to take her over at any moment - invaded her body once more, forcing it into submission. Her fingers trembled slightly and her breath sped up, but she refused to let the Doctor see what he had the power to do to her. Not this time. For once, she would be strong. She wouldn't let him in. But most of all, she would act. To stop him from seeing how much he had hurt her. After all, she still had her pride, as little of it as there was left.

She forced herself to wait a couple of minutes, pretending to calm her anger, then she sighed. 'You're right, Doctor. I'm sorry, it's none of my business.'

The effect on him was instant. His face, which had been slowly turning red, returned to its usual pale hue, and his eyes and mouth relaxed. He let out a deep sigh of his own and a small smile curved his lips up into a half-moon. 'Good.' After a short pause he added, 'So, what do you reckon? Regency?'

'Lead the way, Doctor.'