Written because I was in one of those nostalgic Martha moods.
Orange and purple and blue melded together in the heavens, painting the blank white canvas of a new day. Their work went unseen by all nestled in their beds. All but one. For the dim light of Cravencourt Alley lit up the silhouette of one woman, and one woman only, pacing the deserted streets. The wind paused from its sport of tousling the hair of the trees to examine this new prey. It rustled along lightly, nipping at her cheeks and turning her nose clammy and cold. She didn't pause however; she merely hitched her woolen burgundy scarf up firmly, resisting the impeding Cardiff breeze. Nothing could stop her today.
The woman walked a distance until she reached the Cardiff Graveyard, nestled in a secluded far corner of the lane. Its pompous marble plaque illuminated the woman's face, stretching the shadows across her tired lines. Her face was that which had seen far too much of the universe, had endured too much toil and bravery. She slowly pressed the rusty gate open with her left hand; the other was occupied with a bouquet of bloodred roses. Taking careful, deliberate steps, the woman wove her way around the numerous gravestones, her eyes searching for one name only. The woman didn't expect the tomb to be very visible; it had been almost seventy years since Miss Redfern had died. She left no stone unturned though, checking each and every grave.
Finally, the woman had made her way to the very last portion of the mortuary. With steady fingers, she peeled back a layer of vines and weeds to reveal the grave she had thought of ever since he had dropped her off at that curb. Using a kerchief, the woman cleansed the rock of its years of neglect and decrepitude. After a few minutes of labor, the epitaph could be viewed clearly. It read Matron Joan Redfern, 1892-1958. Wife. Mother. Curious, the woman pulled back one last weed so she could read the rest of the epitaph. A love lost is infinitely preferred over a love never known.
Martha sighed audibly, clouds of grey forming in the cutting air. "Ah, Matron Joan, but is that really true?" She arranged her bouquet of roses around the tomb pensively, taking care to cover every inch of the ancient rock with the sweet-smelling flowers. Caught up in a dreamy state of reminiscence, she leaned against the boll of an oak, recalling the good old days in that wondrous blue box – traveling around, skipping from past to future like a schoolgirl jumping a game of hopscotch, forever changing people's lives. With him. Martha stared up at the dawn wistfully. Oh how she had savored every moment of that great adventure – the madcap running, hopping from planet to planet, battling such daunting monsters… It had been so different from her normal life of studying well into the night, valiantly trying to keep her family from falling apart at the seams, tending after Tish and Leo. Martha had loved leaving a mark on the history of the universe, knowing that somewhere, someone was alive, changed, grateful, because of her. Wasn't that the reason she had chosen to be a doctor? To make a difference?
And he had given her that opportunity, that Doctor of doctors. He had lifted her up through time and space in his little big blue box during one of the lowest points of her life. And he had shown her the magnanimity of the universe, and all the joy and sadness it possessed. She had flirted with Shakespeare, tested her wits against Daleks and pig-men, almost gotten enveloped by a star, visited the very end of the human race, faced the Doctor's old enemy. She had travelled the world for a year in order to bring the Doctor back – and had succeeded magnificently. Finally, she had said goodbye, but the Doctor, of course, had dragged her back into his whirlwind of danger and adventure.
And during all this travel, through all those years, she had fallen in love with him - fallen in love with the way he tucked his hands into his coat, the way he prattled on and on about subjects only he could fully comprehend. She had treasured each and every time he called her "brilliant", impressing his face and voice into her memory so she would never forget. She had relished every time he had embraced her, and had been petrified of the hug too, for what if she let her emotions run out of check and clutched him too hard? But there was no denying it – as he had shown her his world of danger and monsters and wisdom and joy, he had inadvertently become her world. She, Martha Jones, the woman who had promised to always stay true to herself, had gone and become besotted with the one man who was everything she had ever wanted.
And he had not loved her back.
Martha rustled uncomfortably, wrapping her arms tightly around her legs, which were starting to develop goose bumps from the wind. She painfully remembered her first attempts at flirting that very first night after the moon and the Judoon, and how the Doctor had rejected her sharply, even a little fearfully. That had been her first and foremost lesson – both of the Doctor's hearts were already taken by someone – someone had beat Martha to him – Rose.
The thought of that woman seemed to make the breeze blow a little colder. Martha knew, she could always see it in his innocent, brown eyes – he had constantly longed for Rose. Martha wrinkled her nose instinctively, and instantly felt ashamed. Who was she to judge Rose for loving the Doctor? Rose had done what she desired, and Martha had no control over that. And yet… Rose had taken the Doctor's hearts and left her to work with his wounded mind, which was infinitely more cold and unforgiving. The Doctor had gone and fallen in love with that Rose, and she, Martha, was just the rebound. The sensible, reliable, clever girl everyone looked to for backup. Backup, and that was all. Really not fair at all… But hadn't the Doctor shown her that the universe itself just wasn't fair? People coped; so did she.
But maybe, Martha mused, maybe if Rose hadn't come along… it all would have been different. The Doctor would have loved her; she could have had the happy ending, euphoric in his embrace due to the knowledge that those long supple arms craved her, and her only. They could have flown together. The Doctor and the doctor. "But it wouldn't have lasted," Martha whispered softly, glancing at the gravestone. "You know that, Matron Joan. The Doctor is too kind about it, but he always leaves in the end. Always…" She lapsed back into thoughtful silence.
The sun began to rise steadily, bringing with it a new day. Martha watched the glorious colors break over the dark sky. She remembered, she smiled, a single tear fell down her smooth cheek. It dripped off her chin onto the bouquet of roses, deepening the scarlet. Martha paused for a moment, savoring the new day, then leaned down and pressed her lips to the top of the tomb. She straightened briskly, tightened her scarf around her throat, and made her way to the mortuary exit.