Rose's eyes slammed open, the ceiling of her bedroom slowly swimming into focus. Her chest was still heaving as if she had been running hard and she was drenched in sweat. Instinctively she reached out with her left hand, but her fingers encountered nothing more than the cool cotton of her bedsheets. There was light, entering the room through a gap in the curtains, and the bedside clock read six twenty-seven. Rose sighed, as full consciousness kicked in. It was Thursday morning, three minutes before her alarm went off, and she was safe in her own bed.

And alone.

She swung her legs out of bed and padded across the luxuriant carpet into her ensuite bathroom, shedding her nightie and stepping into the shower. The cool water pounding on her head was blessed relief from the sticky heat of nightmarish sleep. She was still annoyed at her initial reaction upon waking from her bad dream. Mark had been gone three weeks now, she really should be getting used to sleeping alone.

Again.

She finished washing her hair and stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a large, fluffy white towel. The bathroom was a beautiful creation in gleaming white marble and pretty blue tiles. Pete's money had paid for the place, and he refused Rose's offers to pay rent, so her salary was spent on redecorating the London pad. Apparently the alternate Jackie had possessed as much taste when it came wallpapers, carpets and bathroom fittings as her own mother did. After nearly two years the place was at last beginning to resemble a home Rose felt comfortable within.

Washed, dressed and fully made up for work, Rose wandered downstairs to her comfortable kitchen to make her morning cup of tea and toast. She felt a stab of irritation as she pottered around the room; she realised Mark's coffee cup was still hanging on the mug-tree, and through the half-open door she could see one of his jumpers on top of a pile of undone ironing. She toyed with the idea of gleefully destroying them both, but decided against it. At twenty-six, she really should be mature enough to move on with dignity and return his forgotten belongings at the next reasonable opportunity.

By half past seven Rose was wheeling her bicycle out of the front door and down onto the street. Safe in the garage was quite an expensive car, but the London congestion charges were far too excessive to consider driving the short distance to Torchwood Tower, and besides, Rose enjoyed the exercise. A few more minutes on the bike meant a few less minutes in the training gym under the beady eyes of Jamie, the personal trainer for all Torchwood field officers. He was a nice enough guy, Rose would have grudgingly admitted if pressed, but having the muscle-bound ex-SAS soldier bellow in your ear could leave a lasting impression.

She was in her office by five past eight, sorting through her email inbox. Nothing fantastically interesting had arrived in the night, to her disappointment. She supposed she should be grateful, as she needed the time to sort out the mound of paperwork last week's narrowly averted Auton invasion had caused, but she wasn't. Fighting the plastic monsters had reawakened far too many memories. On top of Mark's late night flight from her house after a blazing row, she wasn't having the best of months.

She looked up at a familiar knock on the door to see Mickey smiling at her. "Hey," she said, smiling back, "What're you doing in so early?"

He shrugged. "Got to catch up on paperwork," he admitted, and grinned wider at her grimace.

"Yeah. Me too."

Mickey took a step forward, shooting a furtive look down the corridor before pulling the door closed behind him. "How are you feeling?" he asked, radiating concern.

Long gone were the days when Rose would have been annoyed by his compassion. She pulled a face. "Pretty miserable," she admitted, "I've been... dreaming a lot again. And the whole Mark... thing... doesn't help either."

He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You'll be fine," he said, bracingly, and she forced a smile.

"Yeah, I know."

The dream was always the same.

The mighty armada of ships hangs in space, sleek steel shapes against the black backdrop of eternal night. The stars burn cold, matching the freeze of the blood in her veins. Amongst these monsters of the sky the TARDIS is as incongruous as a strawberry in a salad, and yet the comm does not crackle with commander's voices, telling her to stay away.

As the Dalek ships appear on the scanner she almost wishes they would. Wave after wave after wave with no seeming end... she realises this is a battle the Time Lords cannot win, will not win.

And now the comm crackles and the voice she was dreading speaks. "Doctor... if we cannot prevail... You know what you must do."

Rose hears the fear in the speaker's voice, though she is trying her best to hide it. "Romana.." she manages, voice cracking, "Don't make me-"

"Only you can do this, Doctor," she cuts across, "... I believe in you."

And Gallifrey is burning, and the armada is burning and the Daleks are burning and everyone is screaming, screaming; thousands upon thousands of voices crying out into the universe, voices she cannot shut out even when she clamps her hands over her ears. And the TARDIS is burning now, and she knows that her own flesh soon will burn with the light of the Time Lord's curse.

She wishes for blackness, for an end, and instead is given a shuddering crash as the TARDIS lands. She doesn't know where she is, can't see the control panel any more – it's wreathed in smoke.

And the door opens, and there stands a figure whose face she cannot see. But the eyes, the eyes... they burn with the intensity of the sun, flashing gold.

"I am the Bad Wolf. I create myself"

It was hard to explain, the uneasy feeling that seemed to have suffused her life over the past fortnight. It was a kind of prickling on the back of her neck that struck at odd moments, a curious tingle sometimes in her fingertips she couldn't explain. It was a little bit like deja-vu, but not as specific. Frankly, having been plagued with the odd sensation for eleven days now, Rose was more than a little annoyed about it; unable to find a reasonable explanation except perhaps her current downcast mood, which she was loathe to use as an excuse.

She was picking at her lunch when the alarms suddenly erupted into life, shocking her so much her fork dropped from tingling fingers. She stood up so quickly her chair fell over, and sprinted for the control room. Doctor Henry was behind the commander's desk, and he smiled without humour as she hurried across to him.

"Unusual energy signature," he explained, "In the Westminster area. We're trying to pinpoint it now."

She nodded and waited patiently at the side of his desk. Far too many unusual energy signatures had been detected by the Torchwood staff in the past six years for her stomach to perform the sort of acrobatics it has used to, when every alarm had raised the possibility of it being him, doing exactly what he had said he never could. Instead it lolloped feebly, making her momentarily queasy.

"Got it," Henry said, "We have a camera in the area..."

She stared at the image on his computer screen, as the camera panned across an alleyway, quiet by the standards of London at lunchtime.

She inhaled sharply as Henry exclaimed. "Good lord! It's him."

The TARDIS seemed to fill the screen, as blood roared in her ears.

But it can't be. He said it was impossible!

When did that ever stop him before?

Henry turned to face one of his best field operatives, but Rose hadn't bothered to wait for the order. Her long brown hair was already swishing out of sight as she sprinted for the lift.