It was the little things about her absence that hurt the most. The little echoes of her that were quickly fading from his mind. Her humming while he tinkered. Random articles of clothing scattered around the Control Room. The way the cheese was slanted because she could never get the hang of cutting it straight down. The sound the TARDIS made when she stroked her. The way she innately knew when the milk had gone bad. (His tea schedule got completely off when there was no milk.) He even missed the way the bathroom smelled like jasmine for hours after she took a shower. But most of all he missed her warmth. He'd gotten so used to having a warm human running around that the TARDIS seemed unnaturally cold without her. Nowadays the only way he could get to sleep was wrapped up in a cocoon of artificial Rose-ness.

And then one day the bathroom smelled like jasmine again. For one, blissful minute he thought he'd dreamed her absence. But…it was just Martha, using the body wash that he'd hadn't the heart to take out of the shower.

That night he removed all of Rose's things from the communal bathroom and moved them to the one off his bedroom. Carefully arranging everything just the way she'd left it in. If Martha noticed their absence, she didn't mention it.