Martha started out by drowning her rejection in some hot chocolate, while eating a crêpe disguised as a small pizza and trying to concentrate on a novel she'd found on the floor of one of the storage rooms. When her mind wandered to dark places, she tried to tell herself that she hadn't been rejected, because she hadn't actually put herself out there - she had merely offered a lonely guy some company. She had offered to be there for a friend, that's all, and he was well within his rights to decline. If he needed to clear his head, as he said, then it stood to reason that he'd want to spend the evening alone, walking along the waterways and reflecting.
But no matter how hard she tried not to make the Doctor's angst about her, she just kept coming back to the general atmosphere of the TARDIS over the past five days, and the all-too-familiar sensation of never getting what she wanted, of something missing from her life, in spite of having a very full life.
Next, she saw a film at an art house theatre, about a woman and her six children, and how they escaped the Rwandan genocide. Depressing as it was, it took her mind off the Doctor for a bit.
But as soon as the carnage finished on the screen, the mental carnage came back. Was he having second thoughts about taking her on full-time? If so, should she just bow out gracefully and get on with her life? Was he tormented and/or traumatised by having been possessed by a sun? If so, could she be of any help?
Why wouldn't he talk to her about it, whatever it was? Why wouldn't he give her a chance to help him?
And what in God's name was with the big twice-over he'd given her, just before leaving the media room? If she didn't know better, and if she had seen that look on the face of any other man, she'd say it was something like interest. Interest in her, and the fact that she was young, eager, athletic and standing there waiting for something to happen. He had looked her over, hadn't he?
Well, had he? She supposed that he had done similar things before when sizing her up for a particular scenario (including when they had first met), and she rarely ever thought much of it. What made this incident different? She couldn't say for sure. It had been over almost before it had begun, and it had made her go pink all over, and she couldn't be certain that she hadn't blushed and looked away. So it may very well have been no different than all those other times...
"Ugh, snap out of it, Martha," she scolded herself as she opened the TARDIS door with the key he had given her just after the Pentallian. She shed her coat and hung it by the door, and called out to see if the Doctor had returned yet. Either he was being incredibly impolite by not answering, or he hadn't returned from his head-clearing excursion just yet.
That was just as well. She went to bed alone, as usual, but completely alone in the TARDIS.
The Dutch morning came as mornings sometimes do: with a blare from an alarm clock, and a maddeningly chipper sun outside. Martha performed her morning ablutions and changed into some "street" clothes, then went to the console room. To her surprise, it was devoid of any Time Lord presence. Normally whenever she woke, even in the days before their permanent arrangement, she could count on him being there, waiting to fly them to their next destination, but not today.
"Doctor?" she called out, thinking perhaps he was behind a ceiling panel or under the floor. When there was no answer, she went to the archway leading to the TARDIS' corridors. "Doctor!"
Her voice echoed amongst the walls and rooms and memories, but the Doctor did not answer.
She looked at her watch. It was eight in the morning, local time. She had known it was approaching late, but she wanted to be sure.
Next she went to the door and peeked out side. Leidseplein Square with the Marriott Hotel in the distance. The TARDIS was still parked in the same spot.
If he was indeed not here, the Doctor had been out all night. He had been "clearing his head" for twelve hours, all night through, and into the next day.
She stood at the top of the ramp with her hands on her hips and a frown on her face.
As the TARDIS door creaked open, Martha, sitting on the navigator's seat with her book, glanced at her watch for the eight hundredth time in the past forty minutes. It was eight-forty-two, and the Doctor was finally stumbling in.
"You all right?" she asked. She was trying to play it cool, not immediately bombarding him with questions about his whereabouts like an overly concerned mother, and also not showing any keenness or more-than-casual concern.
"Yeah, fine," he told her, rather surprised to see her sitting there. The front of his suit was disheveled, and his hair had gone a bit flat.
"Did you get any sleep?" she decided to ask, shoving a playing card into her book to save the place.
He smiled wearily. "Don't worry about me, Martha."
"Okay," she shrugged, moving to open her book again. "But maybe next time you're going to be out all night, you could call?"
"Don't tell me," he snapped. "You were afraid I was lying in a ditch."
"Or floating in a canal," she added. "Or kidnapped and being dissected by government officials. Or building a weather balloon on another planet. With you, it's hard to tell."
"I promise, if I get kidnapped or killed, I'll be sure to get on the horn and give you a ring, all right?
"Oi," she said, finally showing some concern. She sat up straight in the chair and leaned forward. "Don't get cute with me. You and I, we may not be the closest of friends lately, but we do live here together, we share a life, in a manner of speaking. Do not get surly about me being concerned for your well-being when you stay out all night. You've never done that before, I was worried!"
"Martha, I'm alive, as you can see. I am an adult, I can handle myself."
He was being cagey. "Doctor were you doing something that's going to get you killed?"
"No," he sighed. "I wasn't."
"Something that's going to get you thrown in prison? On this planet or any other?"
"No, not that either."
"Okay, you don't have to tell me where you were, but let's just agree..."
"You're right, I don't have to tell you anything. I don't owe you any explanation. Just drop it."
She clammed up, hurt, and sat back. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked away from him. "Fine. Let's just get the hell out of here."
"Actually, we need to stay in Amsterdam a bit longer," he told her, shedding his coat, and heading for the hallway. "Something's come up."
"I don't suppose you'd tell me what."
"I'll handle it. You just concentrate on that book of yours."
"Where are you going?"
"To get a glass of water. Would you like me to phone you when I get to the kitchen?" he called from down the hall.
That night, he brushed past her bedroom door and said, "Going out again. Don't wait up."
"Wha-" she began. But he was already out of earshot, and in the next ten seconds she heard the TARDIS' front door slam.