Yesterday was hell.

Yesterday, he was punching himself for letting Rose go—again. She needed to be safe, and yet the Doctor had warred with his selfish desire to keep her close, tightly wound in his arms forever. In the end, he'd chosen to save her. No doubt she would have tried to stay with him had she known ahead of time.

Then, yesterday, she'd come back, and he'd dared to hope. Hope that the universe would be kind for once, and would give him a second chance. A future, with Rose by his side.

Yesterday, he'd clung to a cold metal clamp as his hopes, dreams, and love were sucked away—

Before the void had closed as suddenly as it had opened. Rose had careened into the wall and the Doctor had rushed to her side. As soon as he'd seen that she was alright, they'd clung to each other, her crying and him nearly doing the same.

Yesterday, they were tears of gratitude and relief.

Yesterday he had held her hand as she'd said a final good bye to her mum. She'd hugged him tightly after the transmission cut out, and the Doctor had held her just as close.

He'd kissed her forehead, and her cheeks, and then, her lips.

Unexpected—but then she'd kissed back.

They'd fallen asleep in each other's arms that night (just sleep—the Doctor hadn't been brave enough for anything more), but he'd hoped. He'd wondered if maybe, one day, they could tumble over that cliff together.

Yesterday, he had not woken up with her in his arms. Or found himself smiling like a fool and not caring, because Rose was safe and that was all that mattered. Yesterday he hadn't willingly let his mind wander to the domestic possibility of marriage, or bonding, or children, or family.

Yesterday he hadn't suggested that they should go to Paris for their first "official" date. (How'd she'd laughed…)

Yesterday he hadn't accidently landed in 1940, in the middle of the German invasion of Paris.

Yesterday he hadn't saved the life of a French solider.

Yesterday he and Rose hadn't been running for their lives, ducking behind sandbags with smiles on their faces. (One solider had called them love-sick teenagers. They hadn't corrected him.)

Yesterday the Doctor hadn't had to stop when he realized Rose's hand wasn't in his.

Yesterday, he hadn't turned around.

Yesterday, he had no idea what Rose Tyler looked like face down, the mud and blood (so much blood!) discoloring her clothes, fair skin, and golden hair. Had no wish to picture her like that, didn't think he'd live to see the day.

Yesterday he hadn't scrambled to her side and held her head in his lap. He didn't have to whisper comforting nonsense in her ear, and feel the gripping pain in his soul because he knew they weren't true.

The Doctor of yesterday wasn't there to hear her final words:

"My Doctor…"

Yesterday, he hadn't had to close her eyes.

Yesterday, the tears were of joy and not pain.

Yesterday the Beast in the Pit's words had yet to come true. The universe had not fulfilled its original intend and had taken away everything, his very will to live. He honestly felt he had a chance of keeping his promise to Jackie Tyler, to keep her daughter safe. Yesterday, her smile was so easy to see in his mind, a stamp that marked reality and future and hope.

Yesterday was hell.

The Doctor held Rose Tyler's bloody body tightly to his chest, and sobbed and howled into her hair despite the battle raging around him.

But it was nothing like this.