When she opens the door, though, it's just the Doctor-- the new, new Doctor, pinstripes and all, but her Doctor all the same. She opens her mouth to ask about Rose, but there's a tightness in his features that makes her stop. "There's tea, if you want," she says simply, and pushes the door open wider to let him in.
He sits on her couch, his collar limp and tie askew. She measures the sugar into his cup without asking; she can't imagine a version of the Doctor without a sweet tooth. He drinks it without comment, and she finds herself feeling almost relieved. If he'd protested, she wonders, would she have thrown him out? The Doctor changes his face the way other people change hairstyles, Sarah thinks, but tea should be immutable.
He tells her what happened, after a time. Privately, she's a bit jealous; Rose got her father back from the dead and an alternate universe. All Sarah Jane got was a suspicious gap in her résumé and a long week spent hitchhiking back to Croydon. She doesn't say that out loud, though; the Doctor looks too shaken to tease. Rose almost died, would have gone to hell rather than leave him, and that's frightened the Doctor more than he can say. Would you have done that? asks the Doctor silently, his eyes pleading, and Sarah has to look away. It's too easy to love the Doctor, even when he can't quite love you back.
When he reaches for her, she doesn't resist. She slides her hands over his chest, pushing off his jacket and half-surprised not to find those daft ruffles on his shirt. It's been thirty years, but the sense memory is still strong. She guides him to the bedroom because she feels too old for sex on a couch, almost feels too old for him. She keeps getting older and he keeps getting younger, and she's suddenly struck by the image of a teenaged Doctor, loitering uncomfortably at her funeral.
She snorts at that as she pulls him down to the bed, but the Doctor doesn't seem to mind. There's a moment's confusion as shirts and ties and elbows get tangled together, and then it's just them, breathing. The Doctor looks at her sadly and whispers a name, and she's so absurdly glad to hear the right one that she kisses him, hard and desperate. She knows him well enough to guess about Rose, remembers catching Harry Sullivan, flustered and sheepish, slinking down the TARDIS corridors at night. It's not about her, exactly, but it's familiar and she'll take it. His body feels strange against hers, too young and too thin, but she doesn't care. His hands remember where to go and later, as he's shuddering against her and inside her, she marvels as how little he's really changed.
In the morning, Sarah Jane scrambles some eggs while the Doctor fiddles with her toaster. She's not entirely sure what he's done, but later she'll discover that her radio now receives crop reports in Hungarian. There's no scarf trailing down her hallway, but she trips on his shoes instead and it feels the same. They talk about her work at the paper and the Doctor reenacts some of their adventures with the salt and pepper shakers. She stalls for time.
Eventually, though, the coffee turns cold and the Doctor starts to fidget. The scene is too domestic, and it doesn't suit him. She sweeps up the toast crumbs as he collects his coat, and he turns awkwardly to face her at the door.
"You have to say goodbye, Doctor," she tells him, and he winces.
"I can't. The energy you'd need, it's impossible..." he tries, but she just shakes her head. The Doctor has always been good at doing the impossible, the only man for whom won't means something more than can't. They stare at each other for a long time, and then he wilts.
"Yes," he says, finally, and then, "I'm sorry."
She shakes her head at him again, but it's kinder this time, and he smiles. She kisses him and tells him goodbye again, but he just nods at her and walks back to the TARDIS. She's already had her goodbye, and she knows better than to ask for another.
Sarah Jane shuts the door behind him, and neither of them looks back.
----
Title from "The Indifferent" by John Donne.