Hi there! This is my first Doctor Who story - I watch the show and love it, and I write on here in different fandoms all the time... So I figured the time was right to try my hand at this little ficlet that has been floating around my head for a while. I'm not 100% on writing these characters yet, and this is a first attempt, so please be gentle! Ten is my absolute FAVOURITE so I had to write him. Read and review, if you would! Thanks in advance.
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who, or anything to do with it.
Martha sighed in exasperation, grinding to a halt and crossing her arms over her chest. The TARDIS was playing games with her – three days running around on a foreign planet and the damn machine kept rearranging her corridors and keeping Martha stuck in a long, door lined hallway. All she wanted to do was shower and sleep, but no – the time machine was determined to keep her here. The Doctor, if he hadn't been too busy faffing around with his screwdriver in the console room, would have been able to tell her where she was and what all these doors were, but she was obviously too far away to be heard – he didn't come when she called, which was new. He would have told the TARDIS to stop playing games and let Martha sleep… She would probably have ignored him, but at least he would be company.
Turning on her heel, Martha made a last ditch attempt to exit the corridor, only to turn a corner and once again be faced with the same line of doors, fading into the distance. She huffed, pulling her jacket more tightly around her body. There was a chill in the air here, and an odd sense of sadness. Martha knew the TARDIS was sentient – was it her emotion she felt? She also knew the Doctor was telepathically connected to his ship, so was it his emotion? She couldn't be sure, and just attempting to work it out magnified her already pounding headache.
"Alright, girl, if you want me to be here, show me why," Martha muttered, brushing her hand gently against the wall. Slowly, she began to wander up the corridor, inspecting each door as she passed. There was a little rectangular plate on each, with something inscribed upon it. Pausing briefly at the first door, she peered at the faded lettering. 'Susan', it read. The next read 'Barbara'. On and on, each door assigned a different name. Polly. Jo. Jamie. Sarah Jane. Romana. Alistair. Ace. Tegan. Jack.
They continued, right and left, door after door, name after name. The further down the corridor she moved, the newer the nameplates looked. By the time she reached the end and the final door, she knew the name she would encounter – the one that haunted the Doctor and the TARDIS and, in a way, even Martha herself. The name of the woman she could never live up to.
Rose.
Her breath hitched in her throat, and without hesitation she grasped the polished handle and pushed the door open.
Martha knew she should not be here. Every atom of her being screamed at her to leave, and yet the masochistic part of her stayed firmly rooted to the spot, taking in the sight with her dark eyes. She felt indecent; as though she had stumbled upon the Doctor in a compromising situation: this room was so obviously a monument to his lost companion, apparently untouched since she had last been there. The air was thick with a sweet perfume – various bottles of the offending liquid sat haphazardly on a dressing table on the far side of the room. Clothes (much of them pink, purple or blue) were bulging out of the large wardrobe, or draped over the frame of the large bed. Martha noted with interest that although the rest of the room was a deep, dusky pink, the bedclothes were TARDIS blue. She smiled softly in approval.
Gaining confidence, the young woman took a few steps into the room, peering more closely at its contents. Large hoop earrings. An array of half used eyeliner pencils and empty mascara tubes. A few pictures in frames. Dried flowers. A maid's outfit. Martha did a double take on that, before silently assuring herself there would have been a perfectly reasonable explanation – after all, the Doctor didn't seem the type to… She brushed the thought away, her face growing hot. Continuing her perusal, Martha found other things of no real interest to her – a stack of well-worn paperbacks, crumpled up newspaper that still smelled of chips, and a tie. A chocolate coloured silk tie, overlaid by fine brocade swirls in pale blue.
Martha frowned and picked up the garment, running it slowly between her long, elegant fingers. The Doctor's tie. In that moment, the full magnitude of the relationship the Doctor had shared with Rose hit her. If Martha Jones had been a weak woman, the sudden swelling of loss in her chest would have reduced her to tears. Biting her lip in anger, she threw the tie back onto the bedside cabinet and stalked from the bedroom, her chin thrust resolutely in the air as she slammed the door behind her.
Outside, the Doctor leaned rigidly against the wall, his legs crossed at the ankles and his arms folded. He peered at her over the top of his black spectacles, dark hair falling into dark eyes. Martha gulped.
"There was a malfunction in the core processor – these rooms are archived and only accessible when the password is used. My fault – waved the sonic around a bit too much and the TARDIS didn't like it. I had to do a full re-wire of the console and sing to her in Gallifreyan before she'd calm down," the Doctor said quietly, shifting slightly and sliding his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers. He didn't look at her, and Martha's rage fizzled out, leaving her feeling like a naughty little girl.
"I'm sorry. I just – I couldn't get out of this corridor. The TARDIS, she…"
"I know."
"I'm really so sorry, Doctor, I was just curious. I didn't touch anything, I promise."
"Okay."
The Doctor turned to leave, his eyes lingering for a moment on Rose's nameplate, his eyebrows knitted together and his lips pressed into a hard line. Martha, refusing to crumble, continued to bite back her tears as she followed him.
"I really am sorry, Doctor," she whispered, once again feelings as though she had intruded upon the Time Lord in the most private of acts. The tall, thin man stopped just ahead of her and breathed slowly through his nose.
"I understand, Martha. But please, don't go into any of these rooms again. Please," he muttered, his voice sounding more pained than she had yet heard it.
"I won't," she promised, stepping forward and gingerly taking his arm.
In his mercuric fashion, the Doctor quickly turned to face her, his mouth spread into his usual wide, infectious grin.
"Right, Jones, now that's all fixed, where are we off to now?"
He grabbed her hand and tugged her down the corridor at a jog; Martha gaped wordlessly, agog at yet another swift change of his emotion. An internal battle raged inside her – the overwhelming urge to sleep, but also the thrill of her hand enclosed in his, the anticipation of saving the world at his side once again. Ever the masochist, the fleeting memory of his tie in Rose's room only served to stoke the fire she felt for him. Sleep could wait – for a moment, even if only in her head, the Doctor could be hers.
She sighed, grinning tiredly as one word left her lips. "Anywhere."