Chapter One, in which... I start to bamboozle you all. Anything that's... unexplained... will be explained. Later.

For now, just sit back and, um, try to ignore anything that looks like a plot hole (IT'S NOT A PLOT HOLE! IT ISN'T! IGNORE THE POSSIBILITY IT MIGHT BE A PLOT HOLE!) and any spelling or grammatical errors. I have no betas. Nobody loves me, clearly.

And I still don't own it. I don't even know where I would buy it.

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She's so used to the hum and whir of the tardis that it seems almost funereal when it finally stops. They stand, opposite each other, for once not running or laughing, and for the hundredth time she has to blink back the tears she categorically refuses to shed.

"Home again."

"Hmmm."

"Your mum will be pleased to see you."

"Yeah."

Stop talking about my mum. Her knees feel shaky already, and her bag is so heavy it's cutting into her hand. She can tell he knows she's on the verge of tears, and she's both relieved and disappointed he hasn't mentioned it.

"Rose, I'm, er..." sorry. "I..." I don't want you to go.

The doctor is staring at her, conflicted. It's been like this for weeks now, skirting around each other, awkward silences, nervous, almost hysterical laughter and jokes that fall flat. But still, he's amazed that it happened this fast. He's amazed that it happened at all.

"I... I'll... be back in a few days. I've got some things to do."

She swallows and nods, even though they both know that it's more than likely he'll never be back. They both hate it more than words can say, but neither challenges it.

He's still looking at her, but she won't return his gaze, and realises that this is probably it, that she should leave. Still clutching her bag with so much force her nails are digging into her palms, she turns quietly away and walks as assertively as she can towards the door, pausing only momentarily when she hears his voice calling after her, tinged with what she might once have hoped was regret.

"Rose, you know you could have..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. She can finish it herself, and can see how false it is.

You could have asked if you needed help.

She's stopped, a foot from the door, her head bowed and her eyes shut. When she opens them again she's so, so close to tears.

"Stop flattering yourself."

Then she stands up as straight as she can, attempting to leave with what's left of her dignity still intact, feeling like the weight of the world has been forced unwillingly upon her shoulders, and walks through the door, out into the car park of the estate she had so wanted to believe she had left behind forever.

She only gets about twenty metres away before she has to stop and put her bag down, she is shaking so much.

And as she hears that sound, the sound she has come to adore so much, the sound of the universe coming and going and leaving her behind, there is not a doubt in her mind she will never hear it again. She almost doubles up from the pain of it all, still mindlessly thinking please come back, please let him come back for me. Let him realise he still wants me, let him decide he needs me, he always needed me.

But he doesn't, and berating herself for her weakness, hating herself for still being so human after all this time when he so obviously doesn't understand, she allows herself a last few moments of hurt.

He's left her. He's actually left her behind. He's actually able to leave her behind. And she bloody hates him for it.

These are her last few moments of that life. When she opens her eyes again it will all be true, and she'll have to become as emotionally reserved as him to block out the pain.

"Oi!"

Her heart skips a beat. She looks up, still uncomfortably bent over, for one fleeting moment hoping, praying.

"You're Jackie Tyler's daughter, ain't cha?"

There's a large, smoking woman draped over the balcony of flat 3b, all unwashed hair and gruff demeanour.

Rose is heartbroken, appalled that the last few moments she has allocated to grief are being snatched away from her my a nosy woman that knows her mum. She almost says no, Jackie Tyler's daughter's gone now, she left, she's gone, but she stops herself at the last minute, knowing this woman, this brash, ugly, unromantic woman with her cigarettes and tracksuit could never understand, and the truth, that Rose Tyler died a long, long time ago would be totally lost on her. She feels almost violated by the woman's question, hating her for not having the common sense or decency to respect her privacy and keep her nose out of the only sacred moment Rose thinks she will ever have again.

The woman is looking at her expectantly, her cigarette protruding hideously from her pursed, yellowing lips, scrutinising Rose with the self-assurance and obviousness that only the truly intrusive can achieve. Rose looks back, words failing her. This is it, this is really it, he's not coming back. And the second she admits to being Jackie Tyler's daughter, that will be that. That chapter of her life will be closed, and she will effectively be back in square one, a shop girl on the Powell Estate with no prospects, and frankly, not all that much to live for.

It takes everything in her to answer, but somehow she does it, swallowing and grimacing in an attempted smile.

"Yup, that's me."

The woman scowls at her.

"Yeah, well tell her I won't be wanting that haircut, alright? Not after what she did to Tracy in 2g. I told her to go to a proper hairdresser, I did, but did she listen? No. And that's what she got for it."

Rose is speechless. She won't forget this moment, not as long as she lives.

This, Rose thinks, is real life. This is my life.

"I'll let her know."

She's accepted it. She lifts her bag, and with an overly cheery wave to trashy Mrs 3b, she begins to walk across the car park, over the brown, faded lawn, back towards her former home, her former life. And on top of that, she has to silently live with what she's done.

Mum will be pleased.

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It's more chance than anything else that brought them here, and Rose can't stand it.

A small boy wanders past with a look of pure childlike innocence and joy, and she buries her face in his shoulder, not sure she can bear another second of their silence.

"Doctor, can't we just..."

"No."

Her tears slowly leak down her nose, wetting his coat. He sits perfectly still, not allowing himself to react or comfort her for fear that he might not be able to keep quiet, that he might not be able to stick to the stupid set of rules he's made himself.

Each face wears a look of relief and gratitude that it's nearly all over, that peace is so close they can almost taste it, that life can finally go one, and that it's now possible to live, rather than just survive.

"Please, Doctor, please..."

He stands abruptly, his face impassive, and holds out his hand to help her get up from where she is awkwardly positioned on the ground. She stares at him for a moment, then with a look somewhere between confusion and fear at his reticence allows herself to be pulled up from the grass.

"How can you possibly..."

He cuts her off with one of his dangerous looks that could silence the most fervent of preachers and pulls her away, back to the one place he'll know they're safe, away from the sunshine and the laughter of people who are all, essentially, at least within the next twenty-four hours, dead.

Hiroshima, 1945

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She's never really understood the point of funeral parties-if someone's dead, they're dead, and no amount of mourning will bring them back. She'd be far happier to simply go home and eat a tub of ice cream (or drink a vat of whiskey, she isn't fussy), then cry herself to sleep. Sadly, that's not really an option.

"Your mum was a very good friend, you know that? Me an' Shirley, we'll miss her down the laundrette. She was one of our best customers, an' all."

Rose nods, smiling sweetly and detachedly at the stumpy little woman in front of her. It's as clear as day she barely knew Jackie, but Rose makes the decision not to call her on it. There'd be barely anyone here if Rose had a say in it. It's strange to realise after all these years on the estate that neither Jackie nor Rose really got to know the neighbours. And all this small talk is not really what she needs right now.

"Excuse me, Rose?"

Rose turns away from Sheila from the laundrette, and is momentarily surprised by the sight in front of her.

"Sarah Jane!"

She throws her arms around her, for the first time in days feeling something other than the dull ache of inevitability, guilt and grief. The older woman hugs her back, an honest, truthful hug that Rose is really rather glad for. As the bereaved party she's been the recipient of a great deal of hugs over the last few days, but none of them have actually felt as heartfelt as this one. Only Sarah Jane could possibly begin to comprehend some of what Rose is going through, even if she would be appalled if she knew the whole story.

"Death's the end of all," she quotes, whispering in Rose's ear. She sighs and the two break apart, Sarah Jane's face wearing a look of understanding that very few people have managed to muster up without being patronising. It's a sort of half smile of embracing the inexorable, and it makes Rose wonder what look her own sorry face must have.

"I only found out this morning, I'm sorry I didn't call. Is it alright that I'm here?"

Rose smiles sadly. "More than alright. It's probably a good thing to have someone who knows that I... knew."

Sarah Jane nods, understandingly, the unspoken I't's not your fault shining from her eyes, making there no need for words. Rose has had enough consoling words to last her a lifetime, and it appears that that goes understood, at least in some special cases. If one more person asks her if she needs help, she might scream.

Sarah Jane moves a little closer to Rose, looking almost conspiratorial, unwilling to be overheard at such a dismal function. It might spoil the memories.

"You know, he would have come if you'd have asked him. In a second."

Rose looks back, seeing something strange in her friend's expression.

"Have you... seen him? Since you found out? Did you... Does he..." She stumbles over her words. "Did you tell him about my mum?" She's incredulous, almost outraged, but perfectly aware that it is within Sarah Jane's rights to see the Doctor. He's probably more her friend than she is. And the idea of seeing him again makes her feel physically nauseous. Still, she can't help feeling jealous. Of who, she's not quite sure.

"I haven't seen him since you came round last week, he doesn't know."

Rose grimaces, remembering the painful scene in the hallway.

"But he... wanted to know why you'd been crying. So I told him she was in hospital. Was I wrong to?"

Oh God. That must mean he's figured it out. Or did he know all along? Rose swallows, but it doesn't come anywhere near to dislodging the lump in her throat.

"Um, it's okay. I don't mind he knows. And if he asks, you can tell him what happened. That what we did didn't work. That's fine."

She sounds like a child, or a teenager who's split up with her boyfriend. This nightmarish situation has made her feel more like a child than she has since the Jimmy Stones debacle. She wonders briefly if she needs help, then realises that it doesn't really matter, because she most certainly can't have it.

"It would be better coming from you..."

Rose sighs and looks at Sarah Jane reproachfully. "Don't start that again."

"Rose, you need him. And he needs you."

"I don't need him. I don't even want him."

Sarah Jane is infuriated, but stays calm, battling the urge to correct her. "Fine. Maybe you don't. But I'm sure having him around might be helpful, especially now. Tell me you really, honestly don't want to see him and I'll leave it."

There's a pause, where Rose mentally debates whether or not this is the time to have this conversation. It seems disrespectful, frankly. A funeral, especially one as weird as this, isn't generally accepted to be the best place to talk about your love life. No, wait. Not love life. Friendship life? Personal life? Yeah, that'll do.

And now she feels disgusted with herself.

"I can't... do this here. I need a drink."

She quickly slides away, towards the bar, away from Sarah Jane. She does need a drink. She needs several drinks. Several large drinks.

Self-destruction, she thinks, bitterly. This should be fun.

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Is it good? Is it bad? Is it so ugly that when it gets up in the morning it will choose to avoid any mirrors?

I believe this is the point I beg you all to Review.