Dreams.

They aided John in conforming to her lifestyle.

Unexplainably however, acknowledging life in the TARDIS presented unending waves of discomfort.

The Time Rotor wheezed down.

"What's wrong?" Rose caressed a coral panel.

John sunk into a book.

Energy in a burst Rose jumped to her feet. "Be back in a tick."

She went, not to the exit, but another doorway entirely.

"To where?" John twisted to stand.

Rose held up her book to a page depicting— something. "The Family of Blood have a history, apparently, of body bouncing." She turned down the corridor, speaking as if he followed. "They'll be needing one when they arrive in order to function. Something tells me wildlife won't be their first choice."

John watched, alarmed as she disappeared. The bowels of this creature are infinite! Neither his subconscious nor Rose have told him what to expect. But...

Cold hard machinery towered overhead. Casting artificial light as if it were an eye cast over the entire room. John stood within her entire being, this living box, subject to her judgement. His life her pawn. She created him afterall. And for the spite he should have felt that she allowed he live with this burden, all he knew now was fear. Presuming she holds a capacity for kindness, he knew she would not erase him for his resent. But the doubt in what he feels with such solidity kept a nice warm fire of dread alive. This infinite, timeless soul. Never had he felt so small.

A lever snapped and John bolted. Following Rose's voice down various junctions, stopping steps before her to hide his heaving breath.

"—could stay forever, but the Doctor's cabin fever acts up something fierce," she'd been saying.

Dim lighting made John hyperaware of their clanging footsteps from the grating underfoot. The seamlessly unending corridor coupled with uniform doors. And how he could not, for the life of him, remember what turns returned to the entrance. Like the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur. They could walk an eternity.

"H-how do you know where you're going?" He asked, barely hiding the tremor in his voice.

She tapped a finger to her chin. "Intuition?"

He worked his mouth wordlessly.

"TARDIS has this way of telling ya where to go, yeah? Usually she'll rearrange the place, put your destination closer, but she's on emergency power now."

"Talk?" He choked out. "You... converse with her?"

"Not with words," she tossed the thought in her head. "Like... like a feeling..." His displeasure dreadfully blatant, Rose wafted a hand to her side, inviting him to pass. "Why don't you lead the way, Mister Smith."

He threw his hands up. "No. No, honestly Rose, no."

"Come on." She elbowed him forward, grinning. "Pick the first door that strikes your fancy."

Out of sheer panic he turned the closest knob, body half in before he retreated. Slamming with such force Rose had to swallow back down her heart.

"Blimey."

"Sorry." John couldn't face her, heart still racing from what the room contained.

Rose turned around, walking while he followed. Two lefts, a right, and the console room blinked in the distance. "Always know my way back," she told him. "Should've told me you were spooked. She's no harm, Mister Smith."

He wouldn't admit to that, instead taking her earlier offer with a confidence he did not feel. "Any door, you said?"

And she nodded. The quest for a door easy enough, although, which to strike his fancy? Their consistent design leaving little variety for his choice.

But there, a gothic arch door. Its age something of the 16th century, he turned its handle in piqued fascination.

John checked the room, well aware of how his last encounter went, and cautiously pulled away. Shaking his head. Was that—? Breathless he turned to Rose. His grin answering a question before she asked.

Fearing it might disappear, John pushed the door open.

A museum.

Leaning back for a better view, Rose walked to the first painting in a long line against a pale wall. "For all the museum's he's dragged me to, you think he would've shown this first."

"Rose!" John laughed in awe. "This painting is Leonardo da Vinci's Medusa Shield!" The twinkle in his eye unmistakeable, Rose held her breath. "One of his earliest works, said to be missing. Sold by his father to Florentine merchants." He combed a hand through his hair. "On an actual wooden shield! To witness in person this masterpiece— the amount of detail astounds me!" His eyes darted to a pedestal. Hovering over it, all toothy smiles, he suddenly exclaimed, "a handwritten poem!" He glanced up to gauge her excitement, and felt she should be more enticed. "Hans Christian Andersen, Rose, surely you know. Thumbelina, The Little Mermaid, fairy tales! Here is an original hand-written poem— and look! His signature."

Rose did look, unintelligible squiggles meant to be his name that almost put the Doctor to shame.

He bounded away, mile-a-minute rambling, too thrilled to stop. Slouching forward, prodding and lifting all he could. A smile so bright Rose had to turn away. His knowledge, his fascination, him.

She exhaled.

It's not him.

Blinking, Rose tilted her head up. Not him, but god, if he didn't just trip her into the growing hole in her heart. All the times she's brushed off wanting to tell the Doctor something, explore this time like the visitors they are, felt frustration trying to understand impossible research without him. Avoiding the idea of him felt akin to ignoring a festering wound.

Rose retreated to the door, hand almost to the doorknob, and it hit her. It's always been this way, hasn't it? Memories aside she's had to look for differences. A little list gathered of who he is apart from the Doctor. Out of respect, she reminded herself. It matters to him, but should it matter to her? What contrasts accidentally appears, compared to what's parallel. And what's parallel... is a lot.

It's not the first time he's changed, she reasoned, if not in face here; other traits. Her first Doctor who spoke in short sentences, compared to her second who left nothing out, compared to Mister Smith who can —apparently— do a bit of both.

He's the Doctor... but different.

Good different or bad different?

Rose gently put her head to the door, a small smile as her eyes drifted closed. Whispering a familiar response, "just different."

And maybe that's okay.

Emotions near a cozy midpoint, Rose twisted her back to the door.

Perfectly unaware she no longer followed, John stood under an abstract creation of a painter. An almost sloppy, kid-like creation with uncomfortable proportions.

"Your Doctor has quite the sticky fingers," he turned his body, not head, to her. Properly enchanted.

Rose cleared her throat, pushing off the door to approach. "Dunno." She told him, happy for the clarity in her voice. "I recognize this; Picasso's The Painter. Heard it burned in a plane crash."

"Than he is a rescuer?"

"Relieves time of its masterpieces before their end. Sounds like him."

"Do you suppose any are missing because of him?"

There was a laugh in her voice. "Oh, I know."

A/N

Before anyone asks. That terrible, traumatizing, room John initially entered. You've probably had your guesses, but yeah, it's Jack's.

MirrorFlower and DarkWind: Thank you, I'm glad. :)

Demonic Host: Suppose it would be that the setting is their playground, and I base facts, and events based on location. Look through history. Thankfully I hadn't planned anything drastic like have them celebrate Thanksgiving. Still, it threw me. ^^; Thank you for reading.

DoctorWho42: Ha, DoctorWho42, that rhymes. Thank you for the review! Happy to know you enjoyed that bit. Sorry for the wait, but for your flattery, I dedicate this chapter to you.

MaidenAlice: That's brilliant, thank you for reading. I hope you like future chapters as well.