When Donna woke up, she already knew what had happened. It was familiar now, horrifyingly and soul-wrenchingly familiar. She gingerly swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing. The TARDIS hummed quietly and one of the drawers in her bedside cabinet slid out, containing the alien pain medication Donna had hoped she wouldn't need. The Doctor slept on beside her, unaware of the blood pooling in the bed. Donna put a hand to abdomen, mourning the life that had barely begun. For a brief flash of a moment, she felt all the emotional pain that she was expecting before she managed to lock it away, dulling it until she could manage herself. She reached over and laid a hand on the Doctor's shoulder. Tears were budding in her eyes, but Donna did her best to keep it together. The Doctor, of course, slept on and she had to shake him. Finally, he woke up, eyes half-shut,
"What…"
"C'mon. We need to change the sheets." The lack of emotion in her voice spoke the reason why. The Doctor's sleep-addled brain took a second to realize what was happening, and then he saw the blood on the sheets. What light there was in his eyes dulled and he nodded grimly,
"Do you need anything?"
A biological tolerance for Time Lord DNA, thought Donna. But she shook her head, "No, the TARDIS had it ready for me."
"Right." The Doctor rolled out of bed, vaguely noting there were a few specks of blood on his pajamas and he'd have to change those too. This was their fourth miscarriage. The Doctor had once suggested going to hospital to see if there was anything wrong, but Donna had brushed him off without meeting his eyes. He was an alien life form; did there need to be another problem? There had never been a Time Lord-Human hybrid, and it appeared it was for a reason. Of course, on nights like this where Donna woke up with an empty womb or a negative pregnancy test, it was just as easy to blame herself for being too old. Those were nights Donna made sure she either didn't wake or didn't see the Doctor. She didn't need kind lies, not when she knew the truth of it: This was her fault.
Donna and the Doctor stripped the sheets. It wasn't all that surprising to note blood soaking into the mattress. They'd need a new one. The Doctor sighed and led Donna out into the hallway. They'd stay in her room that night, until they could replace the Doctor's mattress. Donna turned down the sheets and the Doctor stripped out of his pajamas, leaving him in his boxers. Each climbed in on their sides, the Doctor on the left and Donna on the right. Donna pulled a heating pad from her drawer and curled around it, facing away from the Doctor. This was also part of their routine. One would pretend not to cry and the other would pretend not to hear. That night, Donna cried. Her shoulders shook slightly and she kept a fist pressed to her mouth to stifle the sobs. Great big tears flowed from her eyes and soaked the pillow. The Doctor turned on his side until he was looking at Donna's back. He propped himself up on one elbow and his right hand came up to comfort her before his hand stopped just a few inches from Donna's back. This was his wife, his most-important-woman-in-the-universe wife, and she was crying. He needed to comfort her. He was the Doctor, he fixed things and saved people. But he couldn't fix this. He couldn't save Donna. He had no comforting words to say that she wouldn't see right through, because she knew him too well. There was no last-minute plan, no brilliant flashes from nowhere. There was nothing he could do, and that was his fault.
The Doctor's hovering hand went back down to the bed and he turned to lay on his back. Donna was still shaking with quiet sobs beside him. He pretended not to hear and pretended each sob didn't break his hearts. Donna cried quietly and pretended each second didn't break her heart. Neither of them slept and neither of them spoke, and that was familiar too.