"Oh, thank you, Doctor! Blessed be!" The plump older woman wrapped the man in a bone-crushing embrace, blubbering incoherently as she praised and thanked him.

"Ah, yeah," he groaned, trying to wrench himself free of her tight hold. "All good, no problem, gotta be off then!"

The Doctor managed to weasel his lanky frame out of her grip and stumble a few steps away towards the TARDIS, turning to give one final wave to her and the others he'd helped. The Crebs were a relatively peaceful race, prone to piety and proselytism, sure, but never to the point of aggression. That is, until one overly-ambitious zealot came to power and turned the planet on its heels in order to fulfill his fantasies of religious imperialism. It was rather unfortunate, really—a relatively untainted history of prosperity washed down the drain as a result of one corrupt man. Still, nothing he'd never seen before.

"And if you need anything, just give us a ring!" The Doctor flashed that signature grin of his in response to their cheering, but it didn't reach his eyes. It hadn't in a while.

The doors to the TARDIS whisked shut behind him, and he bounded up the metal ramp and to the console in a flurry of movement.

"Right then, that's one planet Crebula safe and sound, making it the..." he paused to count on his fingers, "Fifth! Population to be freed from an evil/tyrannical dictator in the past... week? 72 hours? Blimey, I've lost count. What say you, Rose?"

An unnerving quiet filled the air around him, suffocating and heavy. It was utterly still, save for the faint clicking of the console and the natural whirring of the TARDIS that typically faded into the background. Those noises were unbearably audible now, so distinctly present with nobody to talk over them, that it made his chest clench and his throat tighten. He'd never heard silence quite so loud. He loosed a deep breath, turning to rest his backside against the console railing as he allowed himself to shut his eyes and just be for a moment.

It'd been nothing but go, go, go recently, and though there was nothing out of the ordinary about that—it was, after all, how he spent nearly every waking moment—it'd been amplified immensely as of late. In truth, he wasn't sure of the last time he'd stopped to take a break outside of what was imperative to fulfilling his biological necessities.

Of course, he went on as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about any of this, pushing down that bothersome voice in the back of his head that knew exactly what he was doing and kept urging him to slow down; to stop. To think of her.

A tug of a lever and a quick press of a button and the TARDIS was in liftoff, whorling through the vortex toward whatever spirited venture awaited him next. His mind wandered to the last visitor he'd had aboard the ship; a feisty redhead clad in what he soon came to realize was a wedding gown, horribly cross with him for unintentionally kidnapping her. That was a whirlwind, of course, but, although the distraction was rather nice, her last words had begun to haunt him.

"Find someone," she'd said to him on that frigid night. "Sometimes... you need someone to stop you."

The TARDIS landed and, hands stuffed in his pockets and coattails fluttering behind him, the Doctor sauntered over to open the doors. Only... they didn't. Locked shut.

He clucked his tongue and swung around to face the interior of his ship, hands removing themselves from his coat to rest on his hips in defiance. "What's this, then?"

She simply hummed in response, acknowledging his displeasure but remaining steadfast in her obstruction of his exit, lights dimming slightly as he tried to pry the door open once more before returning to their ambient glow.

He let out an indignant huff as he trudged back up to the console, decidedly not in the mood for the old girl's shenanigans and rather miffed by her indecipherable rationale for keeping him locked up inside.

Several minutes of fiddling around with the controls and a handful of muttered expletives later, he flopped back into the on-board seating on the outer ring of the foyer, concluding that whatever the issue was, it wasn't something he could bypass her intentions to fix. He'd have to work it out with the TARDIS herself.

The flickering of something to his left caught his attention, and he immediately hopped up to investigate. The overhead light at the entrance of the hallway that led deeper into the ship was flashing intermittently, drawing him near. So, she wanted him to go down the rabbit hole, eh?

So be it.

Living in a somewhat sentient, ever-shifting, multi-dimensional, and rather meddlesome time machine proved to be more of a challenge with each passing day. The doctor swept down the halls of the TARDIS, stopping to try the numerous doors he passed to no avail. It became increasingly evident that she had something specific in mind for him to find.

He swallowed past the lump that had begun to form in his throat as he approached the rooms toward the back of the ship, which had been intentionally placed within the distant bowels of the vessel so as to limit their presence in his everyday paths. His hearts thumped in his chest as he reached the final door, which was slightly ajar.

It opened with a groan, revealing a room that he had long since forgotten about. It wasn't nearly as grand as some of the others—around half the size of the console room—and had since grown dusty and lifeless from lack of use. The wooden flooring creaked beneath the Doctor's sneakers as he entered, letting out a small cough as his senses were assaulted by the stuffiness of the dank old room. The wooden door swung shut behind him promptly, locking with a click.

The walls were lined with bookshelves and cabinets of various designs and colors, packed with dozens upon dozens of old books, and in the center of the study sat a large mahogany desk with a vintage swivel chair positioned just behind it. Several framed portraits and an array of impressionist landscapes decorated the room, complementing the deep burgundy of the wallpaper.

Past the desk and towards the back of the room was a polished escritoire of a similar design, its mahogany drawers coated in a fine layer of dust. Beside it was a shut door leading to a supply room that housed an abundance of boxes containing documents, photos, and other memorabilia that had been otherwise lost to time. Everything was just as he'd left it.

Ah, yes, his Sherlock Holmes phase. The old chap had a knack for home decor, and the Doctor had been taken with his brooding sense of interior design and, in his inspiration, transferred some of the ideas to his own space. The room contended with the legendary detective's own study and arguably would have paired well with a glass of whiskey.

Cautiously, he approached the desk.

Sitting atop the dust-ridden surface was a small, unassuming cardboard box. He stiffened upon seeing it, slowly reaching toward it and opening up the top to peer inside.

His jaw was set as his eyes landed on the contents of the box, unsure how to respond as he took it all in. It was filled with a handful of photos and Polaroids, as well as a few trinkets. He gently grabbed the photo that'd caught his eye initially, resting peacefully atop the mound of pictures.

It was a Polaroid—one he hadn't actually seen before—that must have been taken by Rose during one of their trips. Her beautiful, smiling face took up most of the frame, and the Doctor saw his own self just a few feet behind her, attention fixed on something in the distance. His chest tightened at the sight of her. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gazed upon her face.

He flipped it around, noting Rose's neat, looping script that marked the date and location of the photo. He recalled that day, then—when they'd gone to New Earth and later had a run-in with Cassandra; or rather, the bitchy trampoline. He didn't allow himself to think of the kiss they'd shared. It wasn't her—not really.

He traced a finger over Rose's features, taking in her shoulder-length blonde hair, piercing brown eyes that joyfully crinkled at the corners, and easygoing, effortless grin that was known to inspire the same jubilance in others. It certainly did in him.

He hummed a little, reluctant to tear his gaze from hers as if breaking eye contact with that still moment in time would cause it to disappear into the cosmos forever. So he wrote it to memory, ingraining that dazzling expression in the depths of his mind. He blew a puff of air onto the top of the desk, scattering the particles of dust into oblivion before placing the photo beside the box.

He reached in and took out another, this one taken back in the 1800s when, at Rose's request, they'd traveled into the past to seek out the poet, Emily Dickinson. She was a recluse, of course—he'd tried to tell her—but Rose was set on meeting the girl. They'd even gone so far as to camp out outside of Dickinson's Victorian estate, hoping to catch a glimpse of the legend herself.

Of course, it was short-lived as their rustling about in the bushes and not-so-subtle hushed whispers and giggles gave away their presence rather quickly and they were escorted off the premises. Oh, how he indulged her. She'd even dragged him to a local studio to have their photo taken in their period clothing, witnessing firsthand the early technology being put to use. The black and white picture he held in his hands was the product of their escapade, and he was beyond glad that he'd gone along with her wishes.

Rose wore an ostentatious Victorian gown, all ruffles and volume and extravagance in a, from what he could recall, royal blue. Her hair was pinned up in a coiffed bun, blonde curls dropping to frame her face quite exquisitely. Her hands were folded at her side and her smile was reserved, but the sparkle in her eyes, evident despite the primitive form of image capturing, conveyed her true excitement.

The Doctor stood beside her rather awkwardly, dressed in a suit not unlike his signature pinstripe one, joined by a prop cane and a superfluous top hat. That same glee was visible on his own features, surely exacerbated by the presence of his over-excited companion beside him.

He stared at this photo for a prolonged period of time as well, transfixed by the many folds of Rose's lavish dress and how lovely she looked in it. Pursing his lips, he set it aside and pulled out the next one.

And so it went on, photo by photo, each documenting one of the many adventures they'd gone on—spontaneous spaceship visits, evading cruel and unusual punishment in the middle ages, and kicking back on far-off planets in distant galaxies, to name a few. There were too many to count, and although not all were recorded, there was nary an exploit he would soon forget.

Sifting through those photos was like combing through his own memories, reliving each moment of time he viewed with as much emotion as the day it had occurred. These snapshots stirred a great well of emotions within him, so deep and treacherous that he had been loathe to acknowledge it previously. A tendril of longing coiled around his hearts, along with an innate sadness that had been seared into his bones hundreds of years ago, burning deeper each time he was thrown into tragedy and wrung out the other side.

The baubles within the box ranged anything from a napkin with written messages between them, slipped under the table at an off-world restaurant, to a pink compact mirror of Rose's, to a custom off-white handkerchief with the epithet "Dame Rose" embroidered in flowy, cursive gold lettering.

His hands had begun to tremble as he pulled each item out, fingers tracing the raised inscription of the kerchief, hesitant to relinquish it to the pile of belongings he'd already sorted through.

He swallowed nervously when he found he'd reached the bottom of the box, left with nothing but a folded piece of paper resting flat against the cardboard. He paused for a moment, taking a deep, shaky breath before opening it.

It was a letter—addressed to him.

Doctor,

If you're reading this letter, then you've either gone through my things, I've told you about it, or you've discovered it before I had the chance to. If it's the former, you're in for it. If not, well, here we are.

I hope this finds you well, or whatever it is you're supposed to say for stuff like this. It probably hasn't. Doctor, I'm sorry. This letter is a sort of a failsafe, so... it means something's gone wrong. And I'm sorry for that.

You know I would never willingly leave you. If I'm not by your side, I'm not living. Not really. I know that's dramatic and all, but it's true.

That's not meant to make you feel guilty. It just goes to show how alive you've made me feel in all this time we've spent together. Traveling to different planets, meeting aliens, seeing the universe; all these things I've never in my wildest dreams thought I'd get to experience, you showed me.

If our traveling has come to an end, I want you to know that it wasn't your fault. No matter what happened, no matter how it happened, I could never blame you. Not ever. But I know you. And I know that you will find some way to blame yourself. To wonder what you could have done differently.

Please don't. I can't bear to think of you all alone in the universe, trapped in your own thoughts and feeling regretful or... bitter.

Look back on the time we spent together, the precious moments we shared, and remember me.

But, for God's sake, Doctor, don't travel alone. Don't isolate yourself.

You and I both know that you need someone. And if it can't be me, well... make sure they live up to my memory. And they better not be blonde. Cheers.

And lastly, if I didn't get the chance to tell you, Doctor... I love you. That's all.

xx,

Rose

"Rose Tyler, you're a tough act to follow," he forced out a quiet laugh, teetering on the brink of emotional upheaval. He smiled sadly, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. "You were brilliant," he sniffed. "And..." Finally, the dam burst. Wet, hot tears rolled down his cheeks, leaving a trail of moisture in their wake. "And I loved you, as well."

His breath hitched, and he swiped a hand across his face, drying the evidence of his sadness on the cuff of his suit. He'd never admitted it to himself. How could he?

Those words that he hadn't had the chance to convey to her that day on the beach had fizzled on his tongue, destined never to make it past his lips before his final glimpse of his precious girl disappeared in an instant.

Saying them now, alone on the TARDIS just as she feared, shattered his hearts into a million pieces. He braced his hands against the desktop, hanging his head as his emotions overtook him. Tears streamed down his cheeks and plopped onto the wooden surface, emptying circles in the remaining dust.

After a moment, he sat back in the cushioned chair, letting himself fully decompress and feel. Up until then, he'd pushed Rose to the back of his mind, preventing himself from facing the torrent of overwhelming anguish that would accompany her memory. Now, he realized, it was wrong of him.

He held his head in his hands as he allowed himself, for the first time, to grieve. To grieve the loss of his companion; her laughter, her smile, the way her eyes softened when she looked at him, and her heart—so compassionate, so full, so human. She'd completed him.

He grieved their adventures, both the ones they'd experienced together and the ones they never would. The people she would never feel obligated to help as a result of her endless supply of empathy, and all of the wonderful sights he would never get to show her.

Most of all, though, he grieved their love. He knew it never could have happened. And yet, he mourned the illusion of choice that had been ripped away from him regardless. Those words she'd confessed to him on the beach, so full of emotion and heartache and sorrow, knowing that she needed to tell him even though she'd already lost him.

"I love you," she'd choked out. Those three words replayed in his mind like a broken record. He didn't think any words would ever again hold such power as those.

Were they destined for this from the start? The day he'd grabbed her hand and said, "Run." If he'd known this was how things would end, would he have bothered? What was the point of being happy if it only meant heartbreak in the end?

The answer, of course, was because of the sadness that would come as a result of it. Sad was good. Sad meant he still cared. And Rose Tyler was worth every ounce of sorrow.

After a while, the tears stopped and the Doctor stood once more, compelled to look through those old photos one last time. This time, he chose to find joy in those memories. To look at the photos not as a reminder of whom he'd lost, but of whom he'd had the pleasure of knowing. Of loving.

"My Rose," he murmured, pausing on a particular favorite of his in which they were dressed in 50s attire. Rose wore a pink poodle skirt and a bomber jacket with a matching pink headband to top it off, and a genuine smile graced his lips for the first time that evening. "We really were timeless."

The TARDIS gave a soft hum in reply, and the door to the study creaked open slowly. The Doctor paid it no mind, immersed in his own world of fond remembrance as he pored over those photos. He stayed like that for hours, allowing himself the luxury of doing nothing but laughing and crying and reminiscing.

When he realized he'd been in that dusty old room for far too long, he gently placed the collection of keepsakes into the box and folded the top down, grabbing a nearby pen and writing "Rose" atop the lid with the utmost care and precision.

He placed his hands on either side of the box as if to lift it, then paused, glancing behind him at the door that led into the storage room. Decidedly, he removed his hands from the box and left it there on that desk in the middle of the room, where it would be waiting for him to return anytime he liked.

The Doctor reverently grazed his fingertips along the top of the box once more before approaching the door to the hallway and shutting it quietly behind him.