She hadn't seen him all day.
When her racing mind had awoken her that morning (two hours early), Rose had immediately felt horror at the idea of seeing John when she delivered him breakfast. She'd spent the time till sunrise brainstorming excuses that might get her out of it. By the time she had to get up, she'd given it up as a bad job and steeled herself to face him...only to find when she arrived in the kitchen that John had called down to say he wouldn't be needing breakfast—something about a bad stomach. Rose had felt hurt and disappointed, and then felt like an idiot for feeling hurt and disappointed.
Midday now with no encounters, and essentially nothing had changed. She was dying to see him and dreaded him simultaneously, and frankly she hated it. Blimey, where was Jenny? She never seemed to be assigned to work with Rose these days. Rose wasn't really sure how much she'd feel comfortable telling her, but...the company might help. Maybe some conversation to keep her mind from whirling.
The entryway floor swam meaninglessly in front of her eyes—she had no idea what kind of job she was doing scrubbing it and she didn't care. All she could think was how she'd finally experienced something she'd craved since the day she started travelling with the Doctor, but naturally it couldn't be simple. She ought to have been rejoicing, and felt cheated that she couldn't.
She felt sure that what she'd seen yesterday were the Doctor's real feelings on display. This was how he could and might behave if only he weren't constantly thinking of himself as an old, damaged murderer who deserved nothing good for the rest of his existence. How he might let himself relax and be if he wasn't constantly thinking of all of time and space and every possible thread of fate and the well-being of every species in existence.
She'd seen it now—tasted it, literally—and she would never doubt her instincts on the subject again. No matter how he kept her at bay in future she would always know he was denying himself and her. And that was exactly it: once he came back, he might go back to denying himself. Provided they got out of this predicament at all, once he got his big Time Lord brain back he could easily regress to hiding within himself, continuing to wear his planet's fate as a hairshirt and single-handedly denying them both the one thing that might make him whole again, if only for the time it took her to live her life. Yes, her life would be brief, but she would argue the healing that being together could provide might give him what he needed to keep going, after she was gone. (She could argue it, but he would resist the subject fiercely—his stubbornness could be colossal.)
She'd have a greater toehold and reason to bring it up after this, but right now—her chest abruptly felt like someone was sitting on it—right now she had his heart, and she didn't want to give it back. She knew she had his heart back in their "real" situation, too, but...not like this.
She knew now that fear of 1913's repercussions wasn't why she'd pulled back in the linen room. To her it didn't matter one iota what anyone thought of them in this century. Let him be fired and whispered about, let her be sacked and labelled a slag; they'd muddle through it and in a few weeks they'd hopefully be back in their old situations and no one here would ever see them again.
The wooden floor before her now swam and blurred, but for a new reason. She blinked in faint surprise when a tear actually splashed down onto it. She'd pulled back because to have the Doctor and lose him might break her completely. She wanted, desperately wanted the Doctor to choose her when he was him.
He finally saw her that day, in a way that just made everything worse.
He wasn't daft enough to think he could possibly keep his mind off her, so he concentrated on simply managing it: packing up his thoughts and carrying them with him. He mentally pictured keeping them off to the side while he tended to any business at hand. When he wasn't occupied, however, his thoughts broke their mental bindings and her image assailed him. Her image and everything he'd experienced about her, there in that room...
At times it became so burdensome he wanted to weep. Nothing had ever meant to him what this did, and there was no solution at hand.
Lost in this, he had rounded a corner and seen her without warning. It was near to the next class bell and a smattering of boys strode the corridors. One of them was with Rose near a stairway, both with their backs to him. The boy's arm was around her waist; Rose seemed to be leaning away.
"Blankenship!" he erupted, immediately sounding wrong to his own ears; his voice was too strained, unnatural. He couldn't stop himself continuing: "Explain yourself!"
Blankenship turned, looking frightened, but when Rose turned to see John her eyes narrowed at him. She patted the boy's shoulder reassuringly, using him as leverage to stand straight again. "Thank you, Malcolm," she said gently. The boy looked at her uncertainly. Rose nodded and the boy made a hasty escape.
John felt full of defensive bluster as Rose approached, appraising him calmly. "I stumbled and almost fell down the stairs," she said quietly. "Malcolm caught me. It was a godsend he was there."
John could hear her words but couldn't process them; his adrenaline refused to abate. Rose's eyes gained an edge of pity and suddenly John knew this was bad. He was wildly grateful there were no reflective surfaces nearby in which he could see his face. This wasn't defending her against Baines, this wasn't chivalry—this was hysteria and obsession. This looked bad.
He wanted to say something to fix it, to apologize, to make it go away, but he couldn't even form words, much less think of the right ones. He turned and left as quickly as he could, his face burning.
Rose sat on her bed near her window, in her flannel nightgown with her arms around her curled-up legs. She'd had the room to herself ever since her former roommate had left to get married, to someone who could evidently take her away from all this—seemed ironic, somehow. She stared out at the night, moonlit and frosty. It was midnight and she knew sleep was absolutely off the table.
Her brain churned with the same thoughts it had fruitlessly tried to process all day. One more round with them would not earn a different result, she knew. She was reaching a conclusion that made her feel shamefully desperate, but was simultaneously concluding she didn't care.
She uncurled herself and reached under her bed for her boots, lacing them up over bare feet. She put her coat over her nightgown, donned her hat, scarf and gloves. Moments later she was outside, traversing the route to the school grounds by moonlight, going as quickly as she could to keep frostbite at bay. It was far too late for anyone else to see her doing so...she hoped.
Once at the school building proper she sneaked up the back stairs, into the hall and arrived at John's door, panting faintly, gathering herself.
If this was the only opportunity she would ever have to be with the Doctor, she would take it with both hands and never look back. She could think of no worse fate than to let this chance go by and realize later it would never come again. The regret would certainly kill her.
She knocked softly, and when he opened his door to find her there he was in his shirtsleeves and suit trousers, tie gone and sleeves rolled messily up. He looked not in the least surprised to see her; his pale eyes were quiet and helpless and intensely thankful. He moved aside to let her enter, shut the door behind her and pulled her wordlessly into his arms.