It's been three days. Three days. And the Doctor just can't figure out how to change Rose back into a normal, twenty-one year old human being. He's taken care of basic necessities—clothes, toys, food—and can he just say how happy he was to find out that three-year-old Rose is already potty trained. Thank you, Jackie Tyler.

Currently, the Doctor is sitting in the library, the universal computer with the knowledge of all time in it having failed him, surrounded by mounds of books on all varieties of subjects. The ones closest to him, and most dog-eared, are Traxafargons and Their Culture, The Sontaran Wars, Planets in the Androgan Galaxy and their War Tactics, and What to Expect When You're Expecting. Not that he's expecting of course. But the rather helpful book addresses what to do when Rose throws a temper tantrum, or needs some love. So far, Rose has been remarkably passive, rather content to just play quietly with her toys or look at the pictures in a book (Thought the Doctor suspects that she can actually read quite a few of the words), leaving the Doctor to his musings. Occasionally, she will come up to him and request something, or just clamber onto whatever seat he is currently occupying with her toy or book, and sit in his lap. When she does this, the Doctor just gets this wonderful feeling as he wraps one thin arm around her thin body to keep her from falling off his lap.

He looks up from the current book he is speed-reading (Weapons, Weapons, Weapons) when he hears the library door open with a creak and a small grunt on Rose's behalf (it is a rather heavy door), as Rose's wail of distress pierces his sensitive eardrums. The Doctor leaps to his feet to see Rose sitting on the ground by the door, cradling one small hand, tears streaming down her face as she sniffles and tries to cry quietly.

"Rose, what's wrong?" the Doctor asks urgently. In response, she holds out her little hand, her fingers an angry red and looking slightly flattened. She must have pinched them in the door. He crouches beside her and takes the injured hand, carefully bending the fingers and checking for breaks.

"Does this hurt for me to do this?" He bends the fingers into a fist, and Rose shakes her head 'no', "How about this?" He gently bends her fingers backwards and repeats the action, sniffling slightly as she blinks her eyes hard.

She rubs under her nose with one little fist, "I'm okay Mr. Doctor man." She wouldn't stop calling him that, "I just pinched my fingers."

He smiles gently, and then states brightly, "Well, I don't see any broken bones, missing fingers, or little aliens so I think you'll be okay!" She giggles and stands up, tottering slightly on her short legs. The Doctor's hearts pang a little at her outfit. A miniature version of what she wore when they met Queen Victoria and had the run-in with the werewolf. The TARDIS must have set it out.

The Doctor straightens up as well and turns to walk back to his books when he feels a light tug on his sleeve. He turns back to see Rose's skinny little arms in the air, just begging him to carry her. He thinks and then lifts her up, settling her on his arm, which he wraps under her bum and grips her leg, the other arm pressing into her lower back. She wraps her thin arms around his neck and rests her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes with a little sigh of exhaustion. The Doctor checks his time sense and is shocked to discover that is it nearly midnight, London time. No wonder Rose is exhausted.

"Ready for bed?" He asks in a low voice, stroking her soft, wavy hair.

Rose nods into his shoulder and asks, "Can you sing the song?"

"What song?"

"The one that the walls sing."

"You can hear the walls singing?" the Doctor asks, shocked.

"Yeah. And it's this pretty," she stretches her arms out as wide as she possibly can.

He sniffs, his mind turning over this new information. Could twenty-one Rose hear it as well, and just didn't tell him? Or can only children hear it along with Timelords? "I can't sing that one, only the walls can. But I can sing you another one."

"Can you sing Mummy's song?"

"I don't know that one," the Doctor admits, feeling a twinge of guilt at Rose's being away from her mother in this fragile state.

"It goes like this," Rose states:

"It's nine o'clock on a Saturday
the reglar crowd shuffle in
there's a ol' man sitting next to me
makin' love to his toxic and gin"

"Your mum sings you 'Piano Man'," the Doctor asks amusedly.

"Yeah, do you know it?"

"Mmhmm." He nods:

"He says, Son can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes.

La la la de de da
La la lade da da dum

Sing us a song, you're the piano man
Sing us a song tonight
Well, we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feelin' alright." The Doctor walks out of the library, still singing the song while Rose sings along quietly. Jackie Tyler, a Billy Joel fan. Who woulda known?

"Now John at the bar is a friend of mine
He gets me my drinks for free
And he's quick with a joke or to light up your smoke
But there's someplace that he's rather be.
He says Bill, I believe this is killing me
As the smile ran away from his face
Well I'm sure that I could be a movie star
If I could get out of this place."

Rose sings along a bit louder now, knowing these words by heart:

"Oh, la la la de de da
la la de de da da dum."

With a smile, the Doctor pushes through the door of Rose's room and lays her on her bed, removing the dungaree to leave her in her knickers and t-shirt. He continues to sing, Rose mumbling along, as he removes her socks:

"Now Paul is a real estate novelist
Who never had time for a wife
And he's talking with Davy who's still in the navy
And probably will be for life.
And the waitress is practicing politics
As the business men slowly get stones
Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness
But it's better than drinking alone."

Rose looks at him blearily, her small eyes quickly falling shut as she tries to sing along, but ends up mumbling:

"Sing us a song, you're the piano man
Sing us a song, tonight.
Well, we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feelin' alright."

The Doctor is the only one singing as Rose closes her eyes and her breathing evens out, becoming deeper as she sinks into sleep:

"It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday,
And the manager gives me a smile
'Cause he knows that it's me they've been coming to see
To forget about life for awhile.
And the piano sounds like a carnival
And the microphone smells like a beer
And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar
And say "Man, what are you doin' here?"

La la la de de da
La la de de da dum."

His eyes soften with his voice as he watches tiny Rose sleep. One small hand is curled into a lax fist, the other gripped in his hand. Quietly, tenderly, the Doctor sings the final chorus:

"Sing us a song, you're the piano man
Sing us a song tonight.
Well, we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feelin' alright."