Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Doctor Who.
Author's Note: This is a tiny fic I wrote years ago while rewatching Series 3. I have always loved Martha Jones and I honestly believe she is underappreciated. Of course, I'm probably biased because she's the companion I identify with the most. In any case, this is an attempt I made at trying to expand on the trauma that must have meant for Martha to travel the Earth in the Year That Never Was. I apologize for likely ooc-ness.
Not Rose Tyler
It was hard, to hold on to hope. Martha's eyes were dry, though. They had run out of tears months ago. All that remained in the girl's hardened heart was a dull pain, silence, and the tiniest spark of hope. But it was hard to keep it alive, she thought, brown eyes fixed in the ceiling of the hut she was staying in for the night. She trusted the Doctor with her life, and she knew that if there was someone who could fix this whole thing, it was him. Even so, some nights, Martha Jones wondered if the Earth would ever be the same.
She had done what he had asked of her that fateful day. She walked the Earth, telling folks to think of the Doctor, in the day that was to come. She smiled at them, helped them, healed them, gave them hope. But, as she had read in a book once, she had given hope to the world, but she had kept none for herself.
She believed that the Doctor could perhaps fix the world, but she knew he wouldn't be able to fix her. The things she had seen, the death, and pain, and suffering, spread all over the globe. Humans fighting humans, killing each other, like dogs, for the last blister of aspirin. Mothers hiding their children, and telling them bedtime stories before they went out to hunt animals that used to be humans' pets. In other life, Martha would have been horrified to the point of throwing up, but in this world, in this apocalyptic Earth, nothing surprised her anymore. Even then, as she saw in women's eyes the guilt and horror of what they had had to do to survive, she would smile to them and tell them to hope. To dream. To think of the Doctor. That it would be over soon.
It had been hard. It had taken weeks of nightmares. Long days without sleep, because she was afraid of the monsters in her dreams. Only when she realized she was so weakened she would not be able to complete the mission the Doctor had assigned her, she had hardened herself and started taking sleeping pills. All her life, even as a medical student, she had refused to depend on pills. She was so innocent then. She used to think pills were supposed to be the last resource. But she had lived a lot since. She knew better now.
It had taken a lot of throwing up, and crying silent tears when nobody could hear her.
Martha Jones, the Child of Hope, as some called her, would curl in a ball at night, when nobody saw, when nobody knew, and she would cry for hours. Not for herself. For the Earth. For the people. For the seventy percent of Earth's population that had died in the first six months of the Master's regime of terror. For the children whose eyes had been shut forever. For the hopelessness, the pain, the emptiness she saw in men and women's eyes every single day.
And specially, she cried because it was her fault. If she had not noticed that watch. If she had not pointed it out. If she had kept quiet. If she had asked the Doctor about it first.
But she hadn't. Of course curious, sympathetic Martha Jones would ask about the watch. Of course she would trigger the Master's memories. Of course she would cause him to be interested in Earth. Of course she would bring this terrible fate to humans.
Because she was not Rose Tyler.
Rose Tyler would certainly not have done what she had. Rose Tyler was smarter, braver, purer. Rose Tyler had absorbed the time Vortex to save the Doctor, and had brought life, while Martha had brought death.
Her jaw hardened as she stared at the ceiling. Once more, she wanted to cry. She wanted to release her guilt. But after six months, her tears had dried. Because there was no point in crying. Tears wouldn't solve anything. She wouldn't bring millions back to life by crying.
All she could do was put herself to use. Treat the injured, help the living, give them all hope. Think of the Doctor and believe he could fix all of this. And then, be gone.
One of those countless nights when she stood awake, even after taking the pills, she had found clarity, in the starless sky. She had looked up at the darkness and seen it all, her entire life, the places she and the Doctor had visited, the people they'd met, the happy moments, fade to nothing. Nothing meaningful, at least. An amazing adventure, yes, but also painful, at times. And everything had led to this. To terror, death, suffering.
She had caused this.
And if there was one thing Martha Jones was certain of, was that she would rather die a million deaths than be responsible for this amount of pain. So, if this was ever over, if the Doctor miraculously managed to save Earth, she would leave him, for good. She would turn her back to the stars. Strange planets, civilizations, aliens, wonderful things she would never see anymore. Martha's guilt would kill her if something even remotely similar to this ever happened again.
Add to that a year of travelling with a man she loved but who did not love her back, and the weight of it all was nearly enough to crush a person. Her sister Tish, for example, would not have gotten through it. Martha had endured everything life had thrown at her since she had joined the Doctor in his big blue box, but enough was enough. She knew that he appreciated her, and trusted her with his life. It was the warmth of his friendly affection, mostly, what helped her get up every morning, but it wasn't enough to keep her on the TARDIS.
Martha Jones would try and save the Doctor, even if it meant her death, but she could never be saved. Because she was not Rose Tyler.