The day was a quiet one—there were no alien monsters to chase through wormholes or time and very few repairs that needed immediate attention. As such, the Doctor and Martha soon found themselves curled up in various over-stuffed chairs in the library of the TARDIS, thumbing through books and rising only to replace one book on a shelf and select another. That was something the Doctor liked about Martha—she was content to sit in silence, to read and learn with him, yet still alone to their own thoughts.
Because, secretly, he wasn't really reading any book. The volume in his hands, in his lap was no novel or guide to alien plants or repair manual, but one that he'd found in Rose's room after…well…after. Her handwriting graced every page, the scent of her perfume permeated through the covers, and this was rather comforting. He imagined he was rather ridiculous, still thinking about her so often, though she'd been gone for nigh on a year now, but he usually managed to reason such thoughts away with various pearls of denial every once in a while. He traced his fingers over the page thoughtfully. Sometimes he read a page or two, but usually he just found himself staring at the writing, watching as the words blurred and swam before him. If he read too quickly, he'd run out of pages to read.
Martha's voice broke the silence, sounding a little awkward and out of place in the large room. "I've just found a riddle, Doctor, and I think you might like it," she said, then hesitated, seemingly waiting for permission to go on. He nodded, gave her a little wave with an even smaller smile, and she did. "Alright, so…It says, 'until I am measured, I am not known. Yet how you miss me, when I have flown. What am I?'" She smiled at him, but he hardly noticed. There was only one thing—person, rather—that it could be.
He hadn't told her. He had never told her how he'd felt about her. He'd always thought that he'd have more time to tell her, more time to make it clear to her. More time. More than anyone else, he should have realized how fleeting it is. It wasn't as though he could go back and change anything—if he could, he would do it in a heartbeat, though he knew it wasn't exactly fair to Martha. Even on their last meeting, he hadn't been able to tell her. She had been crying, confessing herself to him, and he'd just stood there.
But she'd known, hadn't she? The looks they'd shared, the secret, quiet, tension-filled moments that transpired between them—she had to have felt those, had to have realized. He hoped so.
How he ached for one of her hugs right now. One of those triumphant, 'thought-I'd-never-see-you-again' hugs, where it was obvious that neither of them had any desire to let go of the other anytime soon. She felt so nice, so right, in his arms—and maybe that'd been said a hundred thousand times before in every language in the universe, but it was how he felt, plain and simple.
He'd ached—yes, literally ached—to touch her one last time there on the beach. Those tears hadn't belonged on her cheeks. Only his lips, his kisses, were allowed to rest there—never such sadness, never such pain. He couldn't even take her hand, couldn't rest his chin on her head. It had almost been worse than it could have been had he not even tried.
"Doctor?"
Martha's voice roused him, made him realize that he had probably been somewhat out of it for a while there. He cleared his throat, looked apologetically at her, and straightened up in the chair. "Sorry, Martha. What were you saying? Of course, the riddle. Right. What was the answer?"
His companion looked at him, the disappointment in her eyes obvious to any but the man across from her. "It's, um…time," she said softly, lowering her eyes to the book. "Time…"
The Doctor looked at her for several more moments, before returning his gaze to the dark leather cover of the book in his lap. "Time…" he said just as quietly. "Of course…"
If only he'd had more time.
