AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is set just after 'Family of Blood'. Please read and review! Hopefully will complete the story soon. I do not own anything to do with 'Doctor Who', I'm just a fan :-). Hope you enjoy my first fan fiction!
The Doctor lay awake, his mind buzzing. He didn't really know why he had gone to bed, except it seemed sensible, as Martha had. He felt strange, though perhaps that was understandable after two months of…not being himself. Mostly, he felt guilty. In his head, he rewound over his insensitive manner with Joan. He should have been delicate and kind when bidding her goodbye. Instead, he blindly offered her a place on the TARDIS, forgetting the pain she was feeling. Why did he always say the wrong thing, when later he could always think of a better way to handle a situation? Humans called hindsight a wonderful thing, but he found it acutely unpleasant.
His mind began to drift, from thoughts of Joan, to his usual subject of bedtime angst. The memories of John's love were so like his feelings for Rose. Another example of not saying the right thing…not saying anything. The Doctor often wondered how differently things could have been, if only he had told her. If he had looked into her eyes and told her how much he loved her, how wonderful she was. Again, hindsight, a terrible thing. He smiled weakly as he thought of another common human idea, the thought of turning back time to do things again. He was a Timelord, but he could no more do that than anybody else. There had been a handful of occasions, times when he and Rose had been so close, times when he wanted to tell her so much. But, he hadn't. He would look away when she gazed at him, trying to contain himself. He was a Timelord, with no time or inclination for such silly things.
Of course, since losing her, he knew that his feelings were not as transient and foolish as he had hoped. He loved her, more than he had ever thought possible. Dare he admit it, he needed her. His eyes pricked with tears, as the familiar desperation rose within him. Over the past 18 months, he had spent many long nights wishing she were there with him, crying like a child. He sometimes felt ashamed in the morning, as his rational side emerged, but really he knew that his sadness was a sign of his deep love for Rose. Blinking, he sat up and headed to his library. On the desk lay a thick tome, old and permanently dusty, despite his frequent reading of it recently. He looked at the front cover, and felt a little better. 'Traversing the Void: Theories of inter-universal travel'. Settling in his chair, he turned to a bookmarked page somewhere in the middle.
