Part 9—Epilogue

Rose was gone.

That was his first thought when the Doctor found himself laying on his side in bed, his body curled around a pillow where Rose had just been.

But she hadn't been. Not here at any rate.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, only peripherally aware that his face was damp. The other Doctor had been right. His time with her hadn't been enough. No amount of time would ever have been enough.

But it would have to be enough.

It was time. Time to let them get back to living their lives.

And time for him to get back to normal life, or whatever passed for it for the Last of the Time Lords. Being the hero. Saving the day.

But before he could save the universe again, he needed a shower.

He got up and walked to his en suite, undressing on the way, and stuck his pyjamas in the hamper by the door. He got into the shower stall and turned on the water, trying not to remember his shower with Rose. But as the water poured over him, he realized it was impossible. His eyes fell closed as the memories bombarded him.

Her naked body, slick and glistening.

Her nails lightly scratching his chest.

Her kneeling in front of him.

The cool tile under his hand as he steadied himself.

Hot water cascading over them both.

Her even hotter mouth on him.

No. He shouldn't think about it. He needed to stop this.

And he abruptly turned the dial on the shower's temperature control and allowed the icy cold water that began to pour out of the showerhead to shock him out of his thoughts.

He finished his ablutions, toweled off, and began to get dressed without consciously being aware he was doing so. Underpants. Socks. T-shirt. Shirt. Suit.

With a start, he realized he had pulled his own blue pinstriped suit out of the wardrobe, an identical copy to the one the other Doctor had worn to Pete's World. He began to put it back, and then stopped himself as he was struck by the irony of the situation. He was concerned about the color of his suit? What did it matter what color suit he wore? He had spent the last day wearing a borrowed blue suit in a borrowed body.

Besides, he was in a blue mood. He bloody well wasn't going to determine his clothing choice based on what the other Doctor wore.

Before he could change his mind, he put on the suit, carefully buttoning the two top buttons of his jacket, and tugged on a coordinating tie and his red trainers.

Once dressed, he turned to tidy his bed—the TARDIS didn't do everything for him—and caught a glimpse of Rose's photo album on his nightstand, with the photo of Rose in the cream colored bikini still laying on top of it.

Picking up the photo, he sank down onto the bed and stared at it for a moment, tracing her image with a fingertip. He swallowed hard and blinked away the tears that threatened.

No. He couldn't do this anymore.

He quickly slid the photo back in its place in the album, set it down on the nightstand and then strode from the room. He returned almost immediately, holding a cardboard box he had retrieved from a storage room down the hall. Before he could change his mind, he put the box on the bed and carefully laid the album in the bottom of the box. He then opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand.

Could he do this?

Yes.

He had to.

The TARDIS could have done this, provided a box, even packed up Roses' belongings, but the Doctor knew he needed to do it himself. It was symbolic of him letting her go, the way he should have done after dropping them off at Bad Wolf Bay. Slowly he began to take Rose's belongings out of the drawer and place them in the box, carefully stowing them or folding them neatly as he went. A colorful silk scarf he had purchased for her in Kyoto. Her pink jacket. Her purple top. A hair tie. Her underthings.

Once the drawer was empty and the box full, he carried it down the hall to a familiar door. Rose's door. He closed his eyes and paused for a moment, steeling himself, and then forced himself to enter the room.

Eyes still closed, he inhaled deeply, taking in the scents of Rose's soaps and perfume, and that of Rose herself. They hung in the air, preserved in perpetuity by the TARDIS. It was like being surrounded by her. If he kept his eyes closed, he could imagine she was still there, lying on her bed reading, or doing her makeup in the bathroom, perhaps.

He opened his eyes.

Everything was exactly as she had left it—bed unmade, clothes on the floor, makeup scattered across the dresser and in the en suite—as if she had just left for the day and would be back shortly.

But she wouldn't be back shortly.

And it wasn't fair.

No, can't think that way. It's over and done and for the best.

He tightened his jaw, and with a determination he didn't know he possessed, he set the box on the floor and left the room. Once the door had closed behind him, he pulled out his sonic screwdriver and sonicked the lock, sealing the door more effectively than simply locking it. He'd be able to reopen it if he really wanted to, but it would take effort, enough effort that he'd have to choose to break the seal.

He stuck his screwdriver back in his pocket and walked the short distance to the console room.

The room seemed overly large, the hum of the Time Rotor overly loud in the empty room. As he walked up to the console, the memories of the last time he had been in this room came rushing back. The disaster on the space transport last time out—everybody died—had only been a matter of hours earlier. Being with Rose had allowed him to forget that for a time, but she wasn't here to hold his hand now.

No matter, he thought, flipping a switch as he circled the console. He had traveled alone before, in most of his incarnations at one point or another. Had been doing it this time for a while now, in fact. Preferred it even, over being entangled in the nonsense of human relationships.

He was getting quite good at lying to himself. He almost believed it this time.

Rose had wanted him to be happy, he reminded himself. He didn't think he could quite manage that, but perhaps he could have fun.

"Where to?" he said aloud, spinning dials and pressing buttons. "Deltarious for the singing cloud festival? The rings of Reginaus? The no longer lost moon of Poosh?" He glanced at the display. He had unthinkingly programmed in the coordinates for a familiar place and a familiar time. His voice, when he spoke, was low and cold. "No. Not there. Anywhere but 21st century Earth."

He took a deep breath and slowly let it out, forcing a sense of joviality into his voice. "I just need a distraction. Hmmm. I know! Somewhere to explore all by myself." With a false enthusiasm that he hoped would become real, he bounced around the console, beginning to set the coordinates for the next destination. "Somewhere fun. Somewhere where I don't have to save the universe. And I know just the place.

"I'll go to Mars."