People keep finding Her room. Each make their own decisions and choices, have their own thoughts and revelations. All are changed. These are their stories, carefully interwoven with Hers and His.

Martha sighed.

Just another day in heaven with a madman in a blue box, a perfectly, wonderfully, fantastic man…

Who didn't see her in that way.

Honestly, he was everything she'd ever wanted and more. Sure, there was clearly some baggage but, hey, everyone needed time and he was a Time Lord for crying out loud! He had enough time in the whole bloody universe! He was bound to move on.

Right?

Martha was feeling particularly huffy as a result of another of the Doctor's 'moments', where she'd been talking, he was listening, and then suddenly, he wasn't. He got that Look on his face. Martha wasn't entirely sure what that Look was but she knew it needed a capital letter.

She continued to grumble as she headed down the corridor that led to her room, completely oblivious to the TARDIS' meddling with her layout. In fact, Martha barely noticed that she was not in the right corridor until she came nose to nose with a dead end that, by her memory, should not have been there. Utterly perplexed, she glanced up out of her thoughts and finally took in her surroundings.

Definitely not her corridor.

Glancing to her left she saw a simple wooden door. Around the equally as simple metal door handle, however, were various strange markings, like miniscule and intricate designs, which were barely discernible against the dark, oiled wood.

To her right was another door, and although this one was made out of the same wood, there was the tiniest and most beautiful carving of a magnificent rose just above the door handle. It too had the same markings as the other door, almost like a language, like names…

Ah.

This, this was not good. This was-

Hang on. That's not… No, it couldn't be…Could it?

Martha's head whipped back to the door on her left then back to the one on her right when it suddenly dawned on her.

Oh.

An elephant took up permanent residence in her stomach, which technically was now located somewhere six feet below the floor.

This was Her room.

And just across the way, barely two steps, was His.

Anger and hurt and guilt and betrayal waged an ugly war in her usually rather intelligent brain, clouding her mind with an emerald tinted haze.

Without even realising what she was doing, her arm shot out of its own accord and violently wrenched open the door to Her room, her barging body charging furiously over the threshold. At the sight before her though, she came to an abrupt halt.

Oh.

The room was simple. There were a few clothes lying haphazardly on the worn and deep-seated armchair in the corner. In the centre of the room a king sized bed with a headboard made of the same dark wood as the door, and beautiful white and blue sheets, like the sky and the stars, were still slightly rumpled. A lovely cashmere throw lay folded at the foot of the bed. Twin round bedside tables were occupied with books and jewellery, pens, pieces of paper, a pink and yellow teacup, a mug with bananas on it, a camera and a phone.

What really took the oxygen from Martha's lungs? The photographs.

Everywhere.

The most beautiful landscapes. Oceans, rivers, deserts, mountains, valleys, and volcanoes. Some were bizarre with blue hills and orange skies with 5 suns and 7 moons all sharing the sky at once. There were vast cities and lookouts, citadels and castles, temples and palaces. A thousand different planets and universes, solar systems and times; always the same people.

A woman, blonde and beautiful, with a mega-watt smile that was infectious, golden brown eyes that grinned and whispered, and high cheek bones dusted the sweetest colour of her namesake; Rose.

In many of the pictures she was with him, his brown hair tousled or sticking up in every direction, his manic grin matching her contagiousness, his deep eyes laughing.

Others had Rose Tyler with another man with barely any hair and ancient blue eyes, always accompanied by a heavy leather jacket. Scrawled next to a picture of this man was a quote, perhaps an inside joke, "Many places have a North." The handwriting was neat, if a little rushed, and Martha found herself picturing Rose, this phantom girl who seemed to be the very air around her.

Sometimes there's another man, extraordinarily handsome with brown hair and the looks of a military man turned male model.

Sometimes, the photos were of the three of them, the older man with the leather jacket, the gorgeous younger man, and Rose, laughing or pulling faces or trying to be serious and failing miserably. There was one photo that made Martha smile. In it, the man in the leather jacket and Rose, looking awkward, silly, and smiling at each other indulgently, were dancing.

However, there was one photo in particular that caught her eyes. It was of Rose and the Doctor, though someone else had taken the photo when neither was ready, or perhaps they weren't even aware of it. They weren't in the TARDIS, instead appearing to be at a rectangular dining table, the Doctor's long tan coat resting on Rose's shoulders. However, it wasn't the domesticity of the image that captured her, it was the expressions on their faces.

Like there was no one else in the whole world, in the whole universe, in all of Time and Space, but them.

A sob rose in Martha Jones' throat and she put a hand to her lips, her fingers brushing her cheeks in the process. She wasn't startled to find them wet with tears. In that moment, Martha knew.

She just knew.

Standing in that woman's room, she let her tears fall and realised she was not crying because it had finally hit her that the Doctor would never love her that way. No, the sadness within her was more. Her sorrow was for these two people, human and Time Lord, who had lost everything. And she finally understood.

Glancing around one final time, letting the ghost of Rose Tyler wash over her, Martha backed out of her room. Closing the door softly and reverently behind her, she gently laid her palm against the wood, for a moment feeling the hum of the woman who used to live there.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered to the dark wood.

Looking towards the roof she said, "Thank you," and knew by the rush of warmth the TARDIS bathed her in that the ship understood. Because, she realised, the TARDIS had also lost Rose, as had Martha; a fellow human, with a heart like hers, gone and never coming back.

Casting a final look over her shoulder at the two doors, Martha walked back the way she had come, grateful for the TARDIS rearranging so she arrived at her room sooner.

It was perhaps selfish of her, Martha thought to herself later as she pulled on her pajamas, but she asked the ship anyway that, if at all possible, Martha wouldn't find that room again. The ship hummed in her head, sending a tingling whisper in acknowledgement of her request. With the knowledge the TARDIS had given her, Martha Jones vowed she would be there for the Doctor as his friend, fiercely protecting him from himself, in honour of one who, really, they had all lost.

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