Authors Note: Hello! I know it's been a long wait since I started this story, so thank you to anyone who is still interested in the update. Life got a bit in the way of writing this, and then the story got away from me and part two turned into parts two and three. That said, anyone who makes it all the way to the end of part three gets extra appreciation! Part three is done and will show up in a few days.
For the disclaimer, please refer to the A/N in part one. However, I do want to acknowledge that I've decided to give my human Doctor a name other than John Smith, and that was inspired by The Green Fields of France by TheWheelWeaves here on FFN, which I highly encourage you to check out. While the idea to give the human Doctor a name other than John Smith is not something original to TheWheelWeaves's piece, it is the first place I happened to read it. TheWheelWeaves has in turn noted Never Quite Normal by Pairadox Timeline as another AU using an original name.
September, 1942
The smart white cap pinned to Rose Tyler's blonde hair did not shift a millimeter as she strode down the cold, tiled hallway of the Queen Alexandra's Military Hospital with the air of a general. Behind her four nurses marched in pairs, eyes and ears primed for directions. The muted clatter of their footsteps and the rustling of stiffly starched aprons did nothing to obscure the clearly spoken directives issuing from the petite woman at the head of the column.
"Davies, Halliwell, two patients in Room 206 are being transferred to the orthopaedic ward. Those beds need sterilizing. I will be by for inspection in one hour."
"Yes, Sister." As they turned a corner two girls detached themselves from the group and disappeared through a plainly marked door. The remaining pair continued behind Rose without breaking stride.
"Wright, you will be assisting in surgical this week. Report to Sister Greyson. Jones, you'll maintain this ward with me. Next week you trade assignments. Any questions?" Rose stopped outside her small office and turned to her nurses. These two were slightly more experienced than her other pair and she was pleased to have them representing her ward while rotating through other units.
"No, Sister." The young women chimed in unison.
"Good," Rose responded briskly. "Jones, make a round and start prepping 202 for incoming patients. Word is units just back from Germany are expected in London tonight but we don't know what their condition is. Both of you should be prepared in case of an influx. Wright, off you go."
The broad-shouldered brunette was soon out of sight, leaving Jones to linger only a second longer before she too set herself to work. Rose herself slipped into her small office, resigned to completing a stack of paperwork before getting back to the wards. With her admittedly rushed promotion to ward sister came more respect, better pay, and inevitable amounts of administrative work. Though pen and paper was a nice alternative to scrubbing bedpans, Rose occasionally lamented the time spent behind her desk rather than at the bedside of a patient. The war had taught her patience, but still Rose thrived when she could see the reward of her labor before her eyes. However necessary to the running of the hospital, filing a meticulously maintained report simply didn't offer the same satisfaction of cleaning and stitching closed a wound.
Sighing, Rose reached for a folder and ruefully recalled how she had never appreciated the amount of time her own former matron had spent charting illnesses and maintaining inventory logs. As anyone would have expected, Matron Joan Redfern had born the burden of paperwork with the same steadfast acceptance and commitment as all other responsibilities laid upon her during her tenure at the London hospital. It was her departure which caused more surprise than any other incident in her entire career, though her motives could not be misunderstood: not long after returning war-weary though resolute from the dangers of Dunkirk, Matron Redfern met a handsome scholar by the name of John MacDonald. His kind eyes, unruly hair, and dreams of quiet country life filled with books and a happy family quickly captured her heart. Within a year a proposal was accepted and a hospital post subsequently sacrificed in keeping with the rules barring married nurses. Mrs. Joan MacDonald then left London completely, delighted when her husband accepted a post as school master at a boy's academy well outside of the city. Since her departure Joan had exchanged occasional letters with Rose, the last of which announced the expected arrival of her first child in the coming year.
The letters, though few, reflected what Rose was sure she had known about the austere older woman: though her personality was sincerely reserved and inclined towards steadfast adherence to routine and structure, she was also truly affectionate and encouraging when loosed from the rigors of hospital protocol. It dearly pleased Rose to know her mentor was contentedly becoming warmer and more open to those around her in her new life.
The faint, crooked smile which had accompanied this thought suddenly gave way to a slight frown which had nothing to do with the paperwork. Though she was always kind-hearted, Joan Redfern had mastered the imposing persona of a matron, exacting military precision from her nurses with firm words and impassive looks. Rose may not have ascended to the rank of Matron, but as Ward Sister she was still an authority expected to manage her probationary nurses with stringent care. While her compassion went well with the ideal of treating her patients as if they were guests in her home, it constantly threatened to interfere with her ability to direct the nurses coolly and strictly. The nurses were elements of the well-oiled medical machine, and none of the hospital staff was expected to give or receive emotional support while on the job. Finding that attitude within herself was a daily challenge for Rose.
Fortunately, she had found a way of balancing expectations with her own personality. Rose sized the chance to take one of her probationary nurses under her wing and gave the girl extra attention and encouragement whenever the pair went unobserved by other staff. Martha Jones was a year older than Rose, pleasant to work with, and incredibly bright with a mind for medicine. She was also born to parents of African and Persian immigrant descent, and had grown up in a neighborhood populated with families representing all corners of the British Empire. Martha had fought with the same fervor as any enlisted man tromping through continental Europe simply to set foot in the military hospital. Despite the clear displeasure emanating from much of the staff, Martha persisted in applying as a nursing student and managed to gain the post thanks to the scarcity of nurses caused by the air raids.
Once decked out in the plain blue dress and crisp white apron worn by each and every nurse in the building she set about proving herself undeniably skilled, much to the chagrin of those inclined towards racist sentiments. Rose had been all too happy to snatch up the gifted newcomer for her own ward and nurture talents she knew far exceeded her own. She had nearly burst with pride one day when, after a particular incident in the dining hall, Martha had assured her that the discrimination from others on staff was more easily ignored when she remembered that no patient had yet to show himself ungrateful for her aid. The simply stated sentiment buoyed Rose through many trying days.
The day passed in the same fashion as any other. Rose and her nurses remained busy while awaiting the possible arrival of men fresh from the front. By the time darkness was creeping over the city Rose began glancing at the clock anxiously. If soldiers were indeed brought to her ward she would of course stay as late as necessary to oversee their admittance and initial care. But then Rose worked long shifts constantly, and was keen to always have a few good hours of sleep each night. For a time she had thrown herself so completely into her work that she had nearly violated hospital policy by exceeding the cap on approved work hours per week, and while her thoughts were thoroughly occupied as she had wished the lack of sleep also shortened her temper and caused nearly everything to become less pleasant. The day Rose found herself immediately irritated by the needs of a patient was the day she dropped her extra shifts, slept for a solid ten hours, and committed herself to a more reasonable lifestyle. The subsequent improvement in her already resolute work ethic contributed greatly to her promotion.
Within an hour of the end of her scheduled shift, Rose heard the tell-tale rumble of lorries entering the hospital yard. Calling to her nurses to be ready, she hurried down two flights of stairs to find the approving nod of the supervising surgeon.
"We've got twenty six men just crossed the Channel about to unload. All but two are reportedly in satisfactory condition. They'll be given a preliminary exam and a bed in your ward tonight, and remain for observation for at least twenty four hours. Rough time's been had by this lot."
"Haven't they all, Sir." Rose replied steadily as she followed the gentleman out into the yard where staff and soldiers were beginning to bustle about.
"These have been in Germany custody, and we haven't had many of those returned to London-town yet. Collect the roster from that soldier there and get it upstairs to Doctors Hardy and Thomas. Should only be simple exams then let the men get some sleep. Twenty four coming up." His tone had shifted from distantly awed to businesslike in a matter of seconds.
Blinking, Rose did a double take. So these men were prisoners of war. True indeed, she hadn't seen a single one pass through the hospital. Making a quick note to inquire at the office once the men were settled, she hastened to collect the roster and caught a brief glimpse of the first few soldiers hopping tiredly from the back of the lorry before scurrying back to her ward.
By the time the two dozen soldiers were queued in the second-floor corridor outside the triage exam rooms, Rose had marshaled Jones as well as two more nurses just arrived for the night shift and taken her place beside Dr. Hardy. Having skimmed through the paperwork as she trotted up the stairs, Rose was confident they were well prepared to assess the men for the minor injuries and infections predicted by their military counterparts. She was further pleased that as the pairs of downtrodden but tolerably healthy soldiers filed into the exam room they were reviewed at a competent clip, meaning she might be able to leave the hospital only an hour late and confident that her ward would have a quiet night.
Midway through her fourth patient a sudden knock on the door revealed a young doctor insistent that Rose come support an emergency surgery. Briefly informing Hardy and Thomas of a serious infection in tone of the soldier's fellows and advising them to be particularly diligent with the examination of any open wounds, he sent Rose to the store room for additional sterilized needles and proceeded back to the surgery unit.
Had her training not caused her to jump to attention at the word of an emergency procedure, Rose would have sighed at the poor timing of her summons. As it was she simply turned towards the nearest supply locker to collect the syringes. As she crossed the room Rose thought she could feel someone's eyes following her, but after the slightest pause she pulled herself together and proceeded to gather the supplies without allowing herself to turn around. Patients and staff minded her movements all day long, the feeling was nothing new. Likely as not she was indulging in her own desire to retire for the night by imagining it was Martha who watched her, frowning slightly at the thought of her joining a surgery after an already long shift.
Slipping through the windowed door of the triage room, Rose took three quick strides before a glimpse out of the corner of her eye caused her to nearly stumble and falter mid step. Momentum not quite halted, Rose felt as if her body continued to move down the hall in slow motion contrary to her will. Though her feet continued to move hesitantly, her gaze was arrested by the pale blue eyes which moments before had watched her through the glass.
It was him. Standing towards the end of the line, slightly straighter than his exhausted comrades with the faded red cross still fastened to his sleeve, was her doctor. Her doctor from the beach.
He turned his head to follow her movements, but neither spoke. For a second, time within the hospital hallway was frozen as the pair stared at one another, he in disbelief and her in shock. A numbness briefly overcame Rose, and she couldn't quite think. Just as suddenly the time lock broke; the line ahead of the doctor moved forward and Rose's momentum caught her again, forcing her eyes on her path as she nearly flew down the corridor.
She clutched the small cardboard box tightly in her arms as her mind grappled with this sudden shock. Could she even remember seeing his name on the roster? Smith, John (RAMC, Dr.)? Rose had long since stopped scanning every list for his name, there were simply too many John Smiths and the mingled anxiety and hope accompanying each printed instance of the name had grown arduous. But that didn't stop her thoughts from frequently dwelling on the man she had last seen standing amongst the damned of Dunkirk.
The impression he had made on her over the course of one day was inexplicably strong. Though she had no way of knowing whether or not he had survived the beach, Rose regularly thought of him and wished for his safety. Too frequently she reflected on the kindness of his countenance whilst bent over a patient, the resignation when he spoke of their circumstances, and the intensity of his gaze when he addressed her. Sometimes she stopped and forced herself to wonder if his steely eyes were truly as piercing as she remembered, and if their capability to change from pale grey to stormy blue with a shift in his emotions was something she had indeed witnessed or simply imagined. An honest fear of mentally turning a man—and he was nothing but a man, if a mysteriously compelling one—into a fantasy had helped Rose to keep her thoughts grounded.
From time to time he would slip from her thoughts and Rose would carry on unperturbed, oblivious to the forgetfulness. Yet invariably the memory would resurface, and she would chastise herself for clinging to the dream of a man who well may have died. It had been more than two years, after all. But for all of the loss Rose had known and accepted, she couldn't shake the longing to know what had become of this one particular man.
Finding herself suddenly at the door to the surgery ward, Rose stopped and forced herself to take a deep breath. There was a man downstairs who was alive and well and probably anxious for a decent night's sleep. Beyond this door is a man suffering from a serious blood infection, in pain and possibly right to fear for his life. There was one she could help, and he would demand her complete focus. Besides, the other man would expect of her no less.
Remarkably, Rose maintained her concentration throughout the operation. It wasn't until she stepped in to apply gauze to the incision that she recalled with a jolt the bandage once concealed by the sleeve of her doctor's jacket. Thanked and cleared to leave for the evening, Rose returned to her ward to collect her cape and see that the evening shift had her domain well in hand.
By the time she reaches her own ward Rose finds the lights have been dimmed, and she knows the soldiers are being encouraged to sleep. The two nurses on duty are seated in an adjoining room with the door wide open, listening for any sign of distress while passing the time by preparing bandages. The ward sister currently on duty rises to acknowledge the sound of someone entering, but retreats with a silent nod upon recognizing Rose. Though she thought Rose gone for the evening, having followed her assigned shift, the woman is unsurprised to see her fellow lingering to check on the new arrivals.
Scanning the room, tired hazel eyes take in the two dozen men resting for the first time in many months on home soil. Some are clearly unable to sleep, either fidgeting or lying perfectly still with eyes wide open, waiting for a threat to appear. Most of those who have welcomed sleep are lying in identical positions, curled slightly on their sides facing the nearest door with their empty hands positioned in such a way that they might have snatched up a weapon in an instant. Only a few, either thoroughly exhausted or remarkably quick to adapt to their new circumstances, were sprawled out in less guarded ways.
In one of the beds farthest from the door is her doctor. John Smith is lying on his side, eyes shut but not asleep. Rose gazes at him from across the room, feeling drawn like a magnet. Her footsteps are nearly silent as Rose always preferred to wear soft leather ankle boots rather than the prim low-heeled Mary-Jane's favored by some of the nurses. Within a yard or so of his bed she stops and stares, overwhelmed. That her doctor is here in her hospital, in her very own ward, is surreal and yet she has absolutely no doubt that the man on the bed is in fact him.
Compulsively Rose closes the distance between herself and the low bed, sinking down to one knee where she is about level with his pillow. Again she stills for a few seconds, taking in the weariness hanging about his profile. Then, unable to resist, Rose lets her hand fall feather-light on his shoulder.
Though she had not intended to wake him, Rose is unsurprised when his eyes shoot open and his body tenses in anticipation. An instinctive jerk brings him to full wakefulness, but in the instant that he processes the face hovering not far from his own John Smith stills, neither moving away from her touch nor making to reciprocate it.
Awareness of time is lost as the pair is again confined to merely staring at one another. For several long seconds neither moves anything more than an eyelid. Prone on his bed, John gazes at the young woman as if she will suddenly return him to his senses. He knows her hand rests on his shoulder, the knowledge nearly overwhelms his thoughts, and yet he feels as though he cannot perceive the weight. All he can do is keep his eyes trained on hers, trying to hold her in place while his brain catches up with his body. But his senses are deadened, and a spasm of irrational fear makes him think that he has dreamed up a phantom of the nurse from his memories who will soon disappear and leave him stranded again.
It is possible his eyes are lying to him. They lied when they thought the saw a familiar figure through an old piece of glass. Lied when the figure emerged from behind the glass and showed itself to be his nurse. Lied when they told him the arm stretching from her shoulder to the vicinity of his body was evidence of her hand on his own. With a small exhale of effort and a spasm through his unresponsive arm, the doctor tries to move, to reach out, to do anything but remain hopelessly still in the presence of the one person he never dared dream he'd see again.
Shushing him quietly, Rose moves her hand in small circles across his shoulder. A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth and she is overwhelmed with a sense of delighted relief. The caress suddenly registers in his mind, and slowly John's breathing evens out to match the gentle rhythm of Rose's touch.
"Rose," he manages to murmur her name in a rough voice, filled with desperation and hope.
She smiles, small and genuine, feeling a wave of contentedness settle over her. Again she quiets him, deciding it best that he not talk at all. A few quiet moments pass before Rose decides her doctor needs nothing more than sleep.
"Rest now, my doctor."
His slight movement is more than enough to tell Rose he is hesitant to see her go, but she nonetheless commits to rising. His arm moves ever so slightly, enabling his fingertips to graze her arm as she pulls it away, but he makes no more effort to stop her. Greedily emblazoning her reassuring look in his memory, John watches her retreat from his bedside before submissively accepting her order that he rest.
Despite the lack of sleep Rose arrived early for her morning shift. She might have slept relatively well despite the shock of encountering her doctor again, knowing he was safe and sleeping at the hospital. But the additional knowledge of his recent POW status had sent her mind reeling through all manner of awful possibilities. Before leaving the night before Rose had stopped by the hospital office to find out what information had been left regarding the POWs, and had not turned her brain off since.
The only report left was brief and clearly had confidential information redacted from it. The contents indicated the small group of men was taken by the Germans shortly after the siege of Dunkirk and remained behind enemy lines for over two years. Held in the vicinity of a smaller training camp, the men were subjected to strenuous physical labor (the purpose for which was made illegible with thick black lines) but reportedly minimal abuse. The small band of men nevertheless must have served a particular purpose, as they were never transferred to the locations rumored to be the sites of larger and more perilous prisoner camps.
Though she had peaked into the ward when she first arrived, finding the lights still off and most of the men sleeping, Rose forced herself into her office until her shift technically started. It took all of her willpower to keep from rushing straight to her doctor's side, but that morning a sudden fear of being reassigned on account of showing favoritism to a patient forced her to control herself. From the doorway Rose could see that all twenty four beds were occupied and contented herself with that until the clocked ticked on to the start of her shift.
Anxiously, Rose flipped through the other ward sister's notes of the previous evening in search of new information about the POWs. A standard report indicated the night had passed uneventfully, with most of the patients sleeping or at least lying quietly for the majority of the time. Those who exhibited signs of discomfort or distress meriting extra observation were listed, and Rose was relieved to find John Smith's name absent from that list. An additional report from the main office was clipped behind the nurse's notes. Per military officials, any POW requiring further medical or psychiatric attention would remain at the hospital as necessary. The others were to be relocated to a barracks in town for debriefing. Whether they would then be discharged or reassigned, the report did not state.
He was remanded to the barracks first thing in the morning.
Rose had known by midday that her doctor was fit to leave. The morning had passed with its usual procedures of checking vitals, tending minor injuries, and conducting a simple cognition test requested by the military to assess the POWs for potential short term memory loss. By late morning Rose had flit past John Smith half a dozen times, always holding his gaze for an extra second but never daring to speak out of turn. He was still fit, lean but not wasted, and competently demonstrating his mental stability. There would be few opportunities to share a private look, much less a private word, before he left with most of his fellows for the barracks. But after so many months Rose was prepared to wait out these last trying hours.
For his part, the overwhelming knowledge of his hasty evacuation from Germany compounded by the shock of finding his Dunkirk nurse had ebbed to a quiet but persistent thrumming in the back of John's mind. His soldierly nature kicked in on instinct, guiding him through the motions of predictable behavior. Though Rose never offered him so much as a word more than his fellow POWs received, John found in himself patience that even he thought had been exhausted behind enemy lines. He didn't dare reach out, to break the steady rhythm of ward protocol with an untoward gesture of familiarity for fear the illusion would shatter and her presence prove to be a dream. So he merely watched her, studying her as he had once done from across a makeshift ward filled with the dying. He decided the hope pervading a room full of well and recovering men suited her better.
As the afternoon ticked on the men were allowed to meander around the room, sharing a couple of newspapers and begging the nurses for pen and paper to write home. Rose passed in and out of the ward, making preparations for the men who would be kept at the hospital to be relocated to another area. Each time she looked for her doctor, just in case. Five times she walked through the door and five times she found him seated on the edge of another man's bed, purposefully engaging the younger soldier in conversation. The soldier, she confirmed, had displayed clear signs of psychiatric trauma and would be remaining at the hospital for some time.
The sixth time Rose glanced at the bed she found her doctor absent. In his place was Martha, murmuring calmly while taking the soldier's vitals. A second glance located John Smith, standing nearby and speaking to Dr. Hardy. Noticing his ward sister, Dr. Hardy summoned her with a slight nod.
"Sister Tyler, no doubt you know this gentleman is not only your patient but an army medic. Dr. Smith's been shedding some light on what it is we've got with Lieutenant Barlowe here. He'll give you the name of this man's next of kin, take it down for our records."
With that Dr. Hardy excused himself, took up Martha's notes, and left Rose and John staring at one another in the middle of the room.
Snapping herself out of it, Rose hastily turned over the sheet of paper attached to her clip board in anticipation of making a note. "Right then, Lt. Barlowe, next of kin is who?"
Feeling oddly breathy, Rose found her doctor studying her stoically. He glanced back at the bed before replying. "He's got a wife, Linda Barlowe, in Norwich. Daughter too. And his parents are just a bit out of town, in Sprowston. Afraid I don't know their given names."
"Right, ok. And you?" she asked quickly, before she could think of a reason not to. "Do you have someone…I could write to, for you? Seems that since you've arrived here you've not taken a moment, still too busy minding your patients."
"No," John replied shortly, withdrawing as he felt her large eyes boring into him. "They still need help, and I can still give it."
Pursing her lips and nodding, Rose silently allowed him to change topics. "And they are better for it, I am sure. But I promise you, they'll be well cared for when you leave for the barracks."
"Will I see you again?" his words came quietly, as if of their own accord, yet did not displace the particular intensity of his fixed expression.
"Halliwell is looking for you, Sister." Martha's voice caused the pair to start. She left as quickly as she had approached, hands full of something Rose didn't quite see.
"Thank you, Nurse Jones." Rose said quickly, flustered. Looking up again she found John had stiffened and looked away, but not moved.
"If you'd like to," her voice was low and his eyes snapped back to hers attentively. "I live in Clapham."
With that she turned towards the sound of the door swinging open and hurried off to shoo Halliwell back into the hallway to talk.
It may have been a dream after all. John Smith left the hospital, and life went on for Rose Tyler as though he had never reentered it. She worked long shifts, took cramped train rides to and from her dim flat where she cooked small meals and slept, occasionally indulging in conversation with a neighbor or the grocer. She received no word of her doctor nor did she dare try to reach him at the barracks.
Only Martha noticed the change in her, and only Martha would have been able to make the connection to the decidedly older POW who had so fleetingly passed through their hospital. When she chanced a question about the man, Rose at first offered only mild scolding. But Rose quickly realized that getting Martha to close her mouth did not remove the questions from her eyes, so she confessed with minimal detail to having encountered the doctor on the beaches of Dunkirk and since remembered him as "a good man, a good doctor" whom she never expected to see again.
Nine days to the day Rose told him where she lived, she was did in fact see him again. There he was, in uniform, coming from the direction of the train Rose rode nearly every day. Despite having seen her from half a block away John wore a rather perplexed expression when greeting her, much to Rose's befuddlement.
"Hello," John began, sounding a bit distracted. "What are you doing here?"
"I live here, like I told you?" whatever Rose expected him to say, that was not it. Why on earth was he wandering down her street if not to find her?
"Well, what do you do that for?" he asked rather rudely.
"Because I do!" Rose blustered.
John's eyes were raking up and down the block, taking in the neighborhood. Identical brick row homes, bins and an occasional bicycle set out front, looking especially middling on the overcast day. The damp smell of soap signaling a laundress on the previous block still lingered in his nose. Glancing down he caught her mildly affronted glare and started, softening as he suddenly realized how he had sounded.
"Sorry," he muttered. "'S just not what I was expecting."
"What, did you think I lived somewhere posh? That's a laugh." Rose still studied him, unable to work out the reason for his apparent mood or why he had chosen to share it with her.
"No, I didn't. Look, I'm sorry, my head was somewhere else." John mentally berated himself and hoped she'd let it go. He hadn't meant to treat her so rudely in the slightest. It was just that the neighborhood was so ordinary. And Rose, she was extraordinary.
"Would you like a cuppa?"
"I just insulted you and I still get invited in?"
"Unless I'm keeping you from something else?" Rose looked at him expectantly, hoping her plan to regain control of the conversation was working. What exactly she would do when they were in her flat required its own plan and she hadn't quite worked that one out yet.
"No, no." John said quickly, gesturing for her to lead on before any more regrettable words could fall from his mouth. Certainly he had not always been so clumsy around women, and Rose practically a colleague to boot.
"Right, then." She turned and started back towards her flat. "How'd you know which street was mine, anyway?"
"I asked a bloke, a bit back. Said he knew you, something about you helped his gran when she was ill."
"Mickey." Rose said. Always helpful, Mickey was. A moment later, a thought caught up with her.
"Wait, you asked a lorry mechanic where I lived, and you still didn't think it'd be someplace working class like this?" This time there was a teasing edge to her skepticism.
"I didn't think there was much of anything ordinary about you." John replied levelly. Somehow the honest sentiment, rather that flustering him, drew out a touch of composure.
"Hmmf." Rose half laughed. "I'm afraid you were mistaken about that."
The last few strides were taken in silence. As they entered the flat Rose found herself hyper-aware of the small plain space. A few trinkets left by her mother graced a shelf, but little else in the way of décor gave the room any spark. She had no reflections her accomplishments, no souvenirs of travel; nothing her neighbor didn't likely have in their own identical home. Just a cozy afghan, pink and white, thrown haphazardly across the small couch gave a glimpse into the personality of the woman who lived there.
"They gave you leave, then?" Rose asked, trying to avoid an awkward silence while the kettle came to a boil.
"No, I've been relieved of duty." John was sitting rather stiffly at her kitchen table, but answered the question readily.
"Discharged! They didn't…but you're…"
"I chose to leave. Honorable discharge and all that. Decided I've had enough of war for several lifetimes." For a moment he appeared grave, with the weight of his experiences settling around his eyes.
"Besides, we've got a whole generation of you young'uns to break down now." His voice pitched with something hinting at sardonic humor. "But it seems you've held your own at the hospital since I met you."
"Mmhm," Rose nodded, busying herself with the kettle before offering any more of a reply.
"It hardly seemed like there was any other option, was there? I could get on with it, or not. So I did." She said simply, passing John his cup and silently accepting his murmured thanks.
She hesitated for a moment, watching him wrap his fingers around the ceramic mug, before reaching for her own. "I came back when most men didn't. Couldn't very well forget that."
Finally Rose sat down and the pair lapsed into a few moments of silence, waiting for their tea to provide the answers to all of the unasked questions.
"I had wondered…that is, I heard that the nursing units left that morning, I thought you must have been with them. I couldn't be sure, of course, but I had hoped…I thought about you, after all of that." As John's mouth moved he wondered if he wasn't bungling it all up. Once the words started, it was an effort to rein them back into order. He hadn't meant to tell her he thought of her; that was a bit off putting wasn't it? But there it was, hanging in the air. Over her kitchen table.
"I thought about you, too." Rose confessed, her slightly shy look offering reassurance. "When I left, I knew you were still there. Knew you'd be one of the last to get away. I hoped you would…didn't think it would be just now, though."
John chuckled a bit over his tea. "Can't say I did, either."
Rose felt her smile growing tentatively. "I tried to look, look for you name anywhere, to know you'd made it back. But there are too many of you, John Smith. I could never know if it was really you."
They studied each other carefully, realizing that until now neither had addressed the other by their full name.
"Did I even tell you that? I don't usually bother much with my own name, me."
"I didn't know the 'John' bit for a while. Just thought of you as 'The Doctor.'"
""The Doctor?'" John repeated, amused.
"Is that a problem?" She shot back.
"No," He chuckled again. "S'just funny, isn't it? You identifying one doctor out of all the medics by his title without his name too. Seems to be the wrong way round."
"Why should I have used your name when you didn't even tell it to me? I knew you without it, didn't need it to remember you either. You're my doctor from the beach, that's all you needed to be to me."
His gaze on her seemed to become more focused and Rose was suddenly embarrassed.
"Besides," She said quickly. "Smith. It's a bit ordinary, wouldn't you say?"
"More so without anything in front of it. S'what I wanted. How did you find out it's 'John?'" He was pleased, maybe a touch too much, to discover that she had made a point of remembering him after all that time, and was genuinely curious to know how she had managed to work out his intentionally indistinct name.
"How do you mean, it's what you wanted?" Didn't miss a trick, Rose.
"I wasn't always 'Smith,' I changed that when I was young. For good, since that's how I went through school and the service. And don't think I'm letting you out of my question."
Rose's curiosity was immediately piqued, but it was clear John had no intention of divulging any more details so she stored the tidbit away in her memory and changed topics.
"You remember that man I was talking to on the beach, the one you warned me off from? Captain Jack Harkness?"
That lead was apparently not what John had expected. "Yeah, I met that man long before you did. Was asking for a chance to liquor you up, if I recall correctly."
This time it was Rose who giggled. "Yeah, he was telling me about this place and one day I just decided to go…"
The few short months since Rose's return from France felt like an eternity. Dutifully she had taken up her position at the hospital, tending to the relentless influx of soldiers. Hope of the war coming to an end seemed to evaporate as the numbers of hurt and dying continued to mount. Rose smiled at her patients, smiled at her dorm-mates as they found encouragement in letters from home, and smiled when her dear Matron became smitten with a handsome university man. All the while Rose felt her life was destined to remain forever at the hospital. It was hardly a life to complain about, with a roof over her head and people to help. But in a fit of feeling stuck Rose leapt up and found herself staring at the dark and unimposing door of the Bad Wolf.
Entering the basement bar, Rose held her chin up defiantly, but held back just a bit too long while trying to look for the captain in the moderately filled establishment. A brunette bar maid with a smirk and a kind eye noticed and silently summoned Rose to the bar.
"Looking for someone?" she surprised Rose with a strong Welsh accent.
"Yeah, actually, military man. Captain Jack Harkness?"
"Ah, you pretty ones always know where to find him. Turned on his charms for you, then?" The Welsh woman turned to look around the room for her frequent customer.
"No, it isn't like that, I'm not, I'm not going with him or nothing," Rose flushed.
The bar maid regarded her with amusement. "Well, that's probably best for you anyways. But you can't tell me he didn't make a pass at you."
"Well, yeah, but it didn't mean anything." Rose saw the glint in the other woman's eye and hastily elaborated. "Met his unit when I was with the military medics, all the men flirted with us. Not been around many women for a while. I just came tonight to ask something about his unit, and this is the only place I knew to find him."
"Ah, I see. Still doesn't mean he won't start it up again tonight though. Oh, there he is." She gestured towards the back of the L-shaped bar, where the captain was leaning casually on the counter and chatting with the man keeping bar.
Rose eyed the pair with surprise. "Oh, erm, I don't want to interrupt anything…"
"Oh, its fine, he's just talking to Ianto. Owns this place, Ianto, he and Jack go way back." The bar maid then caught on to Rose's thoughts and chuckled. "I told you didn't I, Jack will chat up anyone. Between you and me, I'm surprised he hasn't gotten himself arrested. But that's just Jack, I suppose."
Recovering her surprise, Rose shrugged and gave a small laugh. "Whatever he likes, then."
"Come on," the woman nodded her head towards the men. "Oi, you two!"
Spotting her, Jack leapt off of his bar stool and rushed up to Rose. He seized her hand and gave it a very overdramatic kiss while exclaiming.
"Well, lookit what the cat dragged in! Rosie, lovely, sit, drinks on me. Ianto, would you believe this is that pretty nurse I was telling you walked over those damn beaches saving us sods? Rose, this here is Ianto, good friend of mine, keeps us all in good spirits down here."
Rose found herself seated at the bar, coat still buttoned, while Jack's mouth moved at a mile a minute. His friend, Ianto, slid a drink towards her with a smile and a look that said he was no stranger to Jack's enthusiastic rambling.
"I'm glad to see you made it back well, Captain."Though still feeling slightly out of place Rose smiled warmly.
"And you. I hoped they wouldn't keep you nurses until it was too late."
"No, I left the next morning. Lucky, I was, didn't even get too wet on my way out."
"Ahh, only the best for you girls, eh?" He teased good naturedly, earning another laugh from her and an eye roll from Ianto.
"Hey, don't make like we weren't kind to you. From where I'm sitting it looks like you've healed up, after all." Rose immediately defended herself, however hoping she didn't sound affronted.
"Head and hand, good as new thanks to you. Want to see for yourself?" Jack perched on the edge of his stool and leaned over so that his forehead was suddenly in the vicinity of Rose's nose.
Leaning back only slightly, Rose allowed herself to study the faint scarring under the fringe of his hair. Before she could be sure just how wide the scar was Jack jerked he head around, landing a kiss on her cheek before sitting back on his stool with a roguish grin. Rose's mouth dropped in surprise and Ianto swatted at Jack's arm with a rag, apologizing to Rose for his customer's behavior. A second later Rose blinked and laughed, realizing there was nothing else to do, and began to relax.
"I should have seen that one coming." She laughed.
"Actually, yes. If I recall correctly, there was a rather up-tight gentleman warning you to watch out for me the day we met." He snickered.
"Called you a cad, he did."Rose added.
"And he was right." Ianto chimed in dryly, rag still in hand.
"I don't suppose he came back with you?" Rose asked, trying to sound casual though her throat had suddenly gone dry.
Jack sobered a bit, respectfully. "No, I don't know what became of him. You worked with him, on the beach?"
"Yeah, I did. Just a few hours, but it'd be nice to know if he made it ok. D'you know his name, then?"
"Doctor Smith, John Smith. Memorable eyes, weren't they?"
"Yeah." Rose answered quietly, looking away to take a pull at her drink. "Anyway, I thought I'd keep my eyes open for him. Might come through the hospital, after all."
"So you're still nursing?" Jack queried.
"It's what I know how to do. And you, you must be out now?"
"Indeed, too much trouble to be had elsewhere…"
The trio descended into lighter, easier conversation for several hours with Jack singing along loudly with the radio much to everyone's enjoyment. When Rose chose to leave before closing time, emphatically insisting she didn't need to be walked home, Jack wrangled from her a promise to stop by the pub from time to time to see them. Though Rose warned that she often worked late shifts at the hospital, she gave her word and made an effort to spare an occasional evening for the new friends who could take her mind away from her work.
The cheerfulness of the memories came through in Rose's voice, and across the table John grew more relaxed in her presence.
"He's a good man, Jack, he was a good soldier too. Still a cad, though." John smiled and shook his head. "But I'm glad to hear he's been good to you."
"He has been a good friend." Rose agreed.
"What about the woman you were with at Dunkirk, your matron. Do you still work with her?" He tried, but found the woman's name escaped him.
"No, Matron Redfern isn't with the hospital anymore." Rose noted his mild surprise. "She's married now, gone to live in the country."
An odd expression passed over his face, almost a grimace, though he spoke with vague sincerity. "How nice for her. Shame she's left you, though."
"Something wrong with getting married?" Rose questioned, letting him know he had not hidden his reaction well.
"No, of course not." John said hastily, hoping he hadn't somehow offended her. "I'm just not one for domestics."
"Domestics?"
John shrugged. "I've gotten accustomed to being on my own or at war, I suppose. Don't much like the sound of pressing linens or fussing about shutters or any of that bother."
"So what, you're going to bum around living in barracks for the rest of your life?" Rose scoffed, deciding the utter disgust he evidently felt towards linens was unwarranted.
"Course not, I just don't feel the need to be settled down. Like to be on the move, me. Speaking of, I should be off. Need to find a place for a few days." Though he still spoke with confident ease, John was silently grateful to be making an excuse to leave. Goodness knows he hadn't called round for tea in ages, and precisely why he had already shared so much with this young woman remained a mystery.
"You don't have a place to stay yet?" Rose was surprised. Surely he was the sort to plan ahead about this sort of thing?
"Nope," he reached for his hat, unconcerned. "I'll just find and inn or something till I decide what I want to do now that I'm out of the service."
"I know a woman with a room." Rose blurted out. Somehow the words surprised her just as much as they did him. "If you'd like. Her name's Bev, I stayed with her a while when my mum died. I'm sure she's not your ideal housemate, bit of an old bat after all, but she won't charge you much if you need something for a little while."
John looked at her a minute, trying to decide how he felt about the unexpected offer. "Alright, then."
"Sorry?" Rose was fussing with the tea things and turned back sharply, having expected him to refuse to kip with her mother's crazy spinster friend.
"Thank you. I suppose I'll talk to her, then, if you'll give me her address? I wouldn't want to call on her too late." A slight unease had slipped back into his voice and he watched her reaction cautiously, resisting the urge to bolt.
"Oh, right, yeah. Um, actually, I could go with you, it's just a mile or so and she won't give you fifty questions if I tell her I know you." Rose stared and prayed he'd accept, wondering if she was making things better or worse.
"Ok," he said, to his own surprise. "If-if you think that's best."
Maybe he wasn't quite ready to let her out of his sight just yet.
A self-conscious silence fell as the pair collected their coats, though neither seemed to find that acceptable. The short trip across town was filled with polite, staccato conversation about anything they happened to pass by.
Bev greeted the pair with aplomb and promptly began twittering to Rose about all of the local news, giving John a chance to see perfectly clearly the sort of woman he would be staying with. A thankfully brief set of remarks about Rose finally visiting with a soldier in tow ("Quite a man you've brought, Rose, all through with boys, then?") was navigated with minimal embarrassment and moments later Rose was shooed off to make a pot of tea while Bev showed John the room. From the kitchen Rose could hear faint snatches of their conversation, and she found herself feeling oddly warm and pleased when she overheard John insisting Bev would be abysmally undercharging him and insisting he pay her a fair rate.
An hour later the sun was beginning to set and the pair parted ways, Rose to go home and John to the bank. They exchanged simple goodbyes with little more than a lingering clasp of the hands, and made no outright plans to meet again. But each knew, as they savored the proof of life offered by the handshake, their peculiar acquaintance was not over.
A fortnight passed with few plans made or interest in one another expressed outright, yet hardly more than two days went by without the pair meeting even briefly despite Rose's work schedule. If asked neither could quite explain their attachment to the other, much less define their relationship, but within days they developed a familiarity which would have made society ladies raise their eyebrows.
In many ways they knew very little about the other. John would all but refuse flat out to talk about his past, once stating shortly that his family was 'gone' and making it clear to Rose that whatever memories he had of them were painful to say the least. A look of guilt had passed over his features as he said this which did not go unnoticed, but still Rose found she had not the slightest reservation about placing her trust in him completely.
She had explained her own childhood, telling him how her father had died in a factory accident mere months after her birth and how her mother never truly recovered, seemingly losing the will to live and passing quietly when Rose was a teenager. Rose also confessed to the poor choices she had made not long after losing her mother when she took up with a bloke who was aiming to break into "business" who had ruined her confidence and reputation. For some reason it was important to her that John knew exactly what kind of girl he was socializing with, however contrary to her blanket acceptance of his own mysterious past. Besides which Bev, though well meaning, may well have dropped a few hints about Rose's past mistakes whenever she managed to ensnare her lodger with a torrent of gossipy babble.
More often than not their discussions revolved around Rose's work. Though John did not like to talk about his experiences in the field, he was a medic first and was genuinely interested in the cases Rose saw passing through her ward. It was in the course of one of these conversations, held when they met for tea during a break between Rose's shifts, that John announced his decision to leave London and hopefully find a position as a civilian doctor somewhere farther north.
"Out with it, then." Martha looked at Rose expectantly as they sifted through a supply closet with a few minutes to themselves.
"Out with what?" Rose replied, looking back at her inventory blearily.
"Whatever it is that's got you so distracted. You took your tea break and came back without your brain." She plucked a box from Roses hands and deftly turned all of the packets Rose had fumbled with so that the labels were properly facing up.
"'M sorry," she muttered, watching the other woman correct her mistake with slight shame. "It's just I've got a friend who's decided to leave London and I'll miss them."
"Your friend, the POW?" Martha asked slyly. Though she didn't socialize with her ward sister outside of the hospital, she knew the younger woman's life well enough to have a sense of her limited circle of friends. And Rose should have known that Martha would be the one to recognize that her recent good moods were not a coincidence.
"What on Earth would make you say something like that?" Rose tried and failed miserably to hide her flushed acknowledgment of the truth behind the stern reprimand of a superior.
"I'm not blind, even if the rest of the staff is." She chided gently. "Is he still with the service?"
"No, he's a civilian now. Still wants to be a doctor, just doesn't fancy London."
"He must fancy you, though."
Rose nearly laughed. "You have no reason to think that." She told her nurse, incredulous at her conclusion.
"Yes I do," Martha laughed in reply, casting a quick glance towards the closet door before continuing. "He watched you the whole time he was here, and he's made a point of seeing you since. And he talks to you about his plans. For a bloke that's practically a written declaration."
Martha gently placed her hand on Rose's, stopping her from creasing the inventory list any further. "Would you go with him?"
Rose sighed. "That's a silly thing to say. He hasn't asked, and I know he won't."
"But if he did, you would go."
"Martha, he isn't going to ask. I know that, and I should have known he wouldn't want to stay around here for long. I care too much already. And besides," Rose suddenly pulled herself together, clasping Martha's hand in return. "I wouldn't want to abandon you. I've said enough goodbyes around here."
Martha smiled at her friend, still convinced the doctor from the war was exactly who Rose needed, but grateful for her friendship nonetheless. "I'd be sad to see you go. You won't want to keep an eye on me forever, though."
Faint footsteps were growing louder, and the women said no more.
Four days later John was at Rose's doorstep, collar turned up against a faint drizzle. She ushered him inside, hoping he couldn't sense her trepidation.
"How was your trip?" she asked, taking his damp coat and nodding for him to go on to the small parlor.
"Good. I've taken a position in a town a bit south of Manchester." John looked tired, but his eyes were bright and he gazed at her expectantly.
"That—that's wonderful!" Rose blinked, smiling through her disappointment. Disappointment that left her feeling immediately guilty.
"Go on, sit, let me fetch some tea and something to eat and you can tell me about it." Rose flapped her hand in the general direction of the couch before hurrying to the kitchen to collect herself.
Returning to the lounge with two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits, she found John had wandered into the room but was still on his feet, waiting for her.
"How are you?" he asked, relieving her of his teacup and rectifying the lack of manners he demonstrated at the door.
"I'm well; I want to hear about your job." Rose said honestly, settling herself on the sofa.
"It's just a small township. It used to be that most of the residents would work in the next town over, at the cotton mill, but now many of them have to take the train further out to the new factories. Their local doctor has gotten too old to practice." Though the teacup was still in his hand John seemed to have forgotten about it, caught up in story. He watched Rose earnestly, willing her to know how pleased he was.
"Well, it sounds like they need a good doctor and they couldn't have asked for a better one." Rose couldn't help but smile warmly, thinking perhaps after being at war the small town dynamic would be exactly the sort of companionship John needed.
"No more battlefields," he seemed to know what she was thinking. "Just patients who want to be happy."
"It sounds wonderful. No more patching up someone just to send him back to the frontlines."
"Yeah." John smiled, finally reaching for a biscuit.
"You'll give them hope," Rose said, trying to will away the sadness settling around her heart. "You did for me, anyway."
"What?" John looked back at her, grin fading to a more serious expression as he studied her.
Rose flushed a bit, but carried on. "I was feeling so tired of losing people. My parents gone years ago, my mentor and my friends from the nurses left or moved on, I had patients that I couldn't save. And then I saw you again, after all that time, and I finally saw that sometimes people come back. Sometimes they don't die. I'm going to miss you, John. But there's a whole town what needs you now, and you can give them hope. And I won't forget meeting you."
She finished and bit her lip, waiting restlessly for him to say something. That was the most sentimental thing she had ever said to him, and it very well may go over like a lead balloon.
"You could come with me." He said at last.
"What?" Rose suddenly sat up straighter, nearly recoiling in surprise.
"You could come with me," John repeated. "They don't have a nurse, either. There's even an apartment you could take. If you'd like."
"You…you got me a job?" Rose breathed.
"If you want it." He nodded. "Is that ok?"
"Yeah." She said, a bit too quickly.
"You don't have to say anything just now, I know you've got your job and everything here, I just thought…"
"No, it's ok. I'll go. I'd like to go. With you." An image of Martha's smirk floated past Rose's eyes and she let out a small laugh.
"Are you sure, Rose?" John tried to interpret her reaction, hoping she hadn't felt pressured to accept.
"Yes." She answered, calm and confident. "I always felt trapped in London. I thought the BEF was my way out, but that obviously didn't go so well. And if you are giving me a second chance, I'm taking it."
John's expression softened again. "Good."
"When do they expect you?"
"First of the month."
"Just over two weeks," Rose mused, gazing around the room. "I'd better make arrangements."