The Doctor sat at the kitchen table, moving his food around with his fork. He'd never really been a fan of eggs. It was too strange—like eating an unfertilized human egg cell.
Human. The Doctor had been human for some time now. Was he even the Doctor anymore? Everyone who didn't know about his former life called him John Smith. Rose believed that he was still the Doctor. Oh, Rose. She was his world. When he longed for the life filled with stars and galaxies and all the corners of the universe, she brightened his world—shining brighter than any star could. She made it bearable, life on Earth. It's not that he didn't like it here. He loved Earth. But it was so permanent. Being on Earth meant he could no longer be him—be the Doctor. The last of the Time Lords, and he wasn't even that anymore. The real Doctor was in a different universe.
"Oi, you alright?"
The Doctor turned around. Rose stood in the doorway, one hand propped on the wall. The Doctor smiled. His heart lifted, the ache easing with the sight or her. He felt happy again.
"Yeah," he replied. "I'm alright."
Rose walked over to him—he loved her little sauntering walk—and sat on his lap with her arms around his neck. "You didn't eat your eggs," she commented, looking at the picked-over plate.
He shrugged. "Eggs are weird." He looked back up at her face.
"Yeah, they are," she agreed. The Doctor chuckled. Rose grabbed his plate and cleared it. "You ready to go?"
"Always," he beamed with a little head flick.
"Got your bag?"
Rose chuckled. "Yeah, I got it." The Doctor reached for his jacket as she picked up her keys. "You're taking the leather one?" she asked curiously.
He smirked. "Of course I'm taking the leather one." She shrugged and turned to the door. The Doctor turned toward the mirror, already fiddling with his collar.
What- No. That couldn't be right. It- But it had to be. How- Who was that? Not his hair. It wasn't his face. None of it was. But it should be. That was where he should be standing. Mirrors…that's how they work…
"Hey, are you coming or not?" Rose shouted from outside the door.
Hair's too long. What happened to my ears? "Rose," he called, his throat closing.
Rose came inside quickly, hearing the tone in his voice. She saw him standing in front of the mirror, fear and confusion on his face.
That's not me. He tore his eyes away from the mirror and towards Rose. "What's happening to me?"
"But you have to fix it," Rose ordered.
"I'm sorry, but there's nothing we can do," Dr. Wilson replied. "Rose, I really am sorry. We've tried everything. Even if there were a cure, who knows if it would work on someone who's half Time Lord?"
Rose looked over at the Doctor. He'd already been told. He sat there, just staring at the blankets. He seemed so empty. "How long?" she asked.
"Rose, there's no-"
"How long?" she repeated.
Dr. Wilson sighed. "The Time Lords didn't have an illness like this on their planet. It'll attack his memory quicker… He's only got months. Three, tops. His body is degenerating. His mind…"
"It's fading." Rose looked at the Doctor again. Her Doctor. In her mind, he had always been her doctor. But now… She was losing him. He had already begun to forget. He didn't know about the regeneration after saving her from the Time Vortex. She couldn't even tell him all the details of the event—she never remembered it and he refused to tell her everything about it. Maybe he would forget himself completely. She'd only known him for so long. There were centuries to forget…in only months.
Rose didn't even notice when Dr. Wilson left.
What would happen to him? Would he know the whole time? It would kill him, knowing that he was losing grip. But if he didn't know, the confusion would kill him too. He would have to realize eventually that only one heart beat inside his chest. He'd told her once that, long ago, he had had children. What would happen when he reached that point in time? Maybe he wouldn't- Maybe he won't make it that far.
A rippling shudder seized her, and she realized that her face was wet. Tears. Not happy tears. Not sad tears. Not watery eyes. This she had no control of. This shook her and fought its way into her core. It convulsed inside of her, filling her and leaving no void. The agony filled her. It expanded and yet made her shrink inward, curling into the smallest position she could find. She needed something, someone. She needed living contact, around her, comforting her. But she couldn't have been further from it. Her Doctor—her Doctor—would not be with her three months from now. There was no one else.
At first, they tried going all the places they wanted to visit on Earth. But the Doctor kept forgetting. It came in waves. One moment, he would be her Doctor, the next, someone else. Being the Doctor, he was rather good at adjusting to different environments. He never really had to deal with large amounts of cultural shock. The worst part was never getting to see his TARDIS. Occasionally he'd ask about his screwdriver, but Rose always managed an answer.
For a while she hoped that his more recent memories would seep into his older ones. Maybe his mind was so filled that they would start to blend, and even while his mind was in a different time, he would still know her. But it never worked that way.
The Doctor began to remember Rose less and less. His moments of clarity got further and further apart. His body was failing. He was bedridden frequently. Often times, he would just lie in bed, conscious but senseless, just muttering to himself. And Rose never left him. Not even for a day. While she fell apart inside, she nurtured and cared for her Doctor. She loved him. In any state, she loved him.
Sometimes, he would talk to her. He'd mention Gallifrey every now and then. She never told him about what happened. Somehow, he'd often know that he knew her somehow, or rather that he should know her. He knew that she knew all about Time Lords and Gallifrey and the TARDIS. But other times, he would get angry with her—try to leave when she insisted he stay in bed. He could hardly walk.
"Are you a friend of my granddaughter's?" he asked once, sitting in bed on one of his better days.
Her eyes began to sting. But she smiled anyway. She'd just had her doctor. For maybe five minutes. For five minutes he was able to remember. They were talking about Barcelona—the city, not the planet. And in the middle of her response, he had forgotten.
She swallowed. "Yeah," she muttered, clearing her throat. "She had to step out for a moment, but she said for you to stay here."
He smiled and leaned his head against the headboard. He shut his eyes and fell asleep. Rose set her head down on the edge of the bed and tried to relax. Tried to rest for just a moment.
The Doctor's breathing hitched, and she sat up. He looked at her, eyes filled with sorrow. Her Doctor. He was here. She took hold of his hand as he searched for words.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, throat narrowing. "I'm so, so sorry."
"Shh," Rose interrupted, climbing next to him on the bed. He turned in towards her arm, leaning into it with his face. She put her arm around him and they sat there, together. Time passed. How long, Rose didn't know. It could never be long enough for her. But the Doctor broke the silence.
"Rose…" She looked down at him, his eyes staring up at her. His mouth had fallen, into a thin line of exhaustion and sorrow. She knew what he had to say. She didn't want it to be said. This was it.
"I know," she whispered. He rubbed his thumb on her hand, caressing her in the only way he could while so weak. He closed his eyes as his breathing slowed. She pressed her forehead against his with her hand on his chest, begging his single heart to beat forever. "I love you." It was everything—a plea, a sob, a pledge, and a promise—an eternity. But pleas don't change answers. Sobs end in tears. Pledges are not reciprocal. Promises are forgotten. And eternity—eternity is lonely.
The Doctor's only heart came to a stop beneath her hand. Rose couldn't save him. No matter how hard she hoped or prayed or wished. The Doctor was dead. Her Doctor was dead. The other Doctor gave him to her. The other Doctor—he was in a different world, and there was no way to get him. He had made sure of that. Rose's world was gone now. She fell apart. What could she have done to stop it? The Doctor and Rose made each other. After meeting, neither could live without the other. Rose didn't live from then on. She merely existed. She couldn't have killed herself. The Doctor wouldn't have wanted that.
Perhaps it was the only way the Doctor could die. All his life, he'd travelled throughout all of time and space, bouncing around with little control over where he landed. And those were his final days. Even in dying, the Doctor travelled through time, roaming the universe with a companion at his side—one loyal companion who stayed even after the Doctor was gone.