Previously . . .

I can't tear my eyes away from the monument, from a particular name that has my heart thudding like crazy. A name I know extremely well.

Rose Tyler.

I feel the Doctor shake my shoulder, anxiously. I glance up at him to see him looking back and forth between me and the monument and I realise after a split second that he hasn't seen what I'm seeing, that he hasn't see that name.

And I'm relieved. I mean really relieved.

Because I'm looking up at the Doctor's worried face and I know that he loves me. OK, so maybe not in the way that I would like him to, but I can see something behind his eyes when we've come close to separation, something that makes me feel so safe and happy and warm and I know, I just know that he doesn't want to lose me.

Okay, so it's a risk travelling with him. I know that. He knows that. But there's so much more to life with the Doctor than fighting aliens and risking your life. It's about opening your eyes and seeing the majesty of the universe, racing to see every star and every planet and everything, everything out there. It's about finding that spark deep inside yourself and turning it into a supernova. It's those "It's bigger on the inside!" moments when you feel the thrill, the terror, the joy of finding out that something you've believed all your life is just a glimpse of what's really around you. It's just … the Doctor. That's what it is.

Just seconds ago, that was it, that was How It's Supposed To Be, and I don't want it to change. I really don't. And if one thing's for sure then it's that if I tell him, things will be different.

And I'm looking at him now, at the concern in the creases between his eyebrows, at the fear in the set of his mouth and I realise that I can't tell him what I've seen. I just can't.

"Rose, what is it? You're scaring me," the Doctor says, putting a hand to my cheek and cupping my face.

"I just . . ." I manage to get out. "I suddenly felt a bit faint."

I can tell he doesn't doubt me. I mean, why would he? I've never had reason to lie to him before.

He bends down a bit to my level, looking seriously into my face, and says "You do look rather green."

I wonder why?

"I think we'd better get you back to the TARDIS," he says, decidedly. "Come on."

He strokes my hair then takes my hand with a firmer grip than before and leads me away from the memorial. I glance over my shoulder at the monument, standing tall and imperious over the park.

Then I close my eyes, take a deep breathe and turn away.

I stumble in to the console room, rubbing sleep from my eye.

"Watcha," says a pair of legs sticking out from under the console, and the Doctor slides out from underneath with a grin. Seconds later, he's on his feet and looking at me intently. An eyebrow lifts.

"Rose, you look like death warmed up."

"Good morning to you, too!" I say, because I know I should feel insulted.

But I don't. 'Cause to be honest I feel like death warmed up.

It's been a while since I saw –

Since we were in Hyde Park, and I've had about three hours' sleep. I try, I really do, but I just lie there for hours and think about that monument and the Doctor and what it means for me, for us, and Mum and the monument and why can't I get to sleep? and the Doctor some more.

When I glanced at myself in the mirror this morning, I saw my face was this kind of worrying grey colour with circles under my eyes so dark, I might have been punched in the face by that Irish boxer at the Olympics.

"Have you been sleeping?" the Doctor asks, seriously.

"Of c-c-course," I say, trying and failing to stifle a huge yawn.

Stupid homeostasis.

"Come here," he says and pulls me into a hug. My eyes close and I breathe him in and I already feel better for just being here, in his arms, with my face pressed to his chest and his nose in my hair and for a few seconds, I forget to be worried and exhausted and scared.

And then I remember. He pulls back and looks me in the eyes and says, "Rose, is there anything you're not telling me?"

Yes. I saw a war memorial with my name on it and now I'm worried sick (no, literally) about what's going to happen to me and to you and to my mum and I'm terrified you're going to find out in case you realise it's too dangerous for me to travel with you and leave me, that is unless I die first or –

"No," I say. "No, everything's fine."

To be continued . . .

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