Originally I wasn't going to upload this until the full story had been written and also undergone the beta-reading process, but since I've done absolutely nothing for some time, I thought I should give you a peace offering unless I wanted you to eat me. And, by the way, I don't much want to be eaten, thanks. Anyway, as the title suggests, this story uses the song "The Sea" by Carbon Leaf as a central plot device. Previous knowledge of the song is not necessary, although it is recommended. It would help to at least have the lyrics handy.

Disclaimer: Don't own Doctor Who, don't own Carbon Leaf, et cetera et cetera et cetera.

SIAPNIAN: THERE IS A GUY. WHO GOES TO MY SCHOOL. WHO LOOKS JUST LIKE CHRISTOPHER ECCLESTON. I kid you not. If he wandered around England in a leather jacket he'd be accosted by fangirls, I swear to you. 'Tis creepy. I showed him a picture; he was delighted. (He watches 'Heroes', you see, but he couldn't see the resemblance 'cause Ecclescake had too much hair.)

Non-Warning: Betaed by taiyoukaiwest, who used to have an account on here but doesn't go on it any more.

-BAD WOLF-

He stood on a rock, the rough surface barely allowing him to remain balanced. Before him was nothing but sea, going out to the horizon in a sheet of grey-blue, reflecting the dull tone of the overcast sky. Water pooled in the crevices on the pocked black stone, soaking through the canvas of his trainers, and he suddenly realised he wasn't alone.

She stood with her back to him, clad in the sort of garment that one normally associated with guardian angels or medieval ladies' nightdresses— a long, flowing, insubstantial thing made of too much flimsy white gauze. It whipped about in the wind along with silky hair like spun gold that curled in slight waves like the sea at which she gazed. Her entire figure seemed to glow in its own gilt radiance. She held herself erect, untouchable, like a saddened goddess.

"I woke up from a dream," she said softly, the words clear despite the sound of the waves gently slapping against the rocks on which they stood. Her voice was melodic and possessed a soft Cockney accent not unlike his own. "A white rose was floating to greet the sea."

The Doctor was silent, waiting for some sort of clarification. The words sounded oddly familiar, like a childhood lullaby.

The angelic creature laughed softly, lowering her head a little to look at the rock. "That's not like you, being quiet. Makes me wonder what Martha had to do to you to get you to shut up."

The Doctor blushed slightly.

"Who are you?" he asked, changing the subject.

The woman turned to face him. She was beautiful, but sad, like a cracked marble statue. Although her face was composed now, it was apparent from the grey streaks on her pale cheeks that she had been crying. Her warm, honey-coloured eyes were framed with lashes coated with what mascara had escaped her tears; her gaze seemed to see through him to the slowly healing creature that was his soul. There was a slender metal chain around her neck, but whatever it held was hidden inside her gown.

"I am no-one, and you—" Her fingers played with the necklace before drawing it out so he could see it— "are mine."

At the end of the chain there dangled a key that spun and glittered in the faint light.

And then the Doctor woke up.

He blinked a couple of times at the ceiling. The room brightened a little for him, while still remaining dim in deference to the lump curled up beside him.

A small smile crossed his lips as he rolled on his side and looked at his wife of three years. She was turned towards him, raven hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, dark face perfectly peaceful in sleep. His stomach twisted in guilt as the faint light glinted across a pale line in her flesh.

He gently pressed his lips to her temple, to the thin scar he still hadn't forgiven himself for, before gingerly disentangling himself from the sheets and slipping out of the room.

Once in the kitchen, he sipped at his tea, frowning at the fact that every single thing he had dreamt was gone— except that last one, the one with the rather cryptic woman.

The TARDIS hummed at him.

"It wasn't one of the normal dreams, no," replied the Doctor, sitting back and staring at the ceiling.

"'I woke up from a dream,'" he murmured. "'A white rose was floating to greet the sea.' Where have I heard that before?"

He leaned on the table in frustration and the liquid in his teacup bobbed and spun as the surface was shifted.

The TARDIS buzzed.

"You're right," he agreed, and got up, wandering the labyrinthine corridors until he found the console room.

Once there, he narrowed his eyes at the scanner as he tried to figure out when he had heard the words.

It was before the 42nd century, definitely, but he couldn't deduce anything past that, so he plugged the scanner into the 42nd century's equivalent of the Internet and did the 42nd century's equivalent of Googling the words.

It was a song. A song entitled "The Sea". Specifically, a 21st century song entitled "The Sea" by a group named Carbon Leaf.

Ah, yes, of course. He remembered them; he had been to one of their concerts once, with... with... Martha, it must have been Martha. He hadn't had many other companions in this incarnation and certainly wouldn't have taken anyone but Martha to a concert.

But there was that niggling...

The TARDIS hummed.

"Probably," he agreed, backing up and sitting on the console.

He felt his timeship's song grow in volume and pressure and his eyes slipped shut as she sent him to sleep.

There she was, just as before, standing before him with her back to him. He stepped forward, miraculously keeping balance on the rough black rock.

"Will you wade with me?" he asked her, smiling.

She turned around, and her grin could have outshined the twin suns of Gallifrey itself.

"You and me all alone?" she inquired back, voice lilting in a melody the Doctor could almost remember.

"Wading on the sea," they finished together. The girl laughed, the happy sound warming the Time Lord's hearts.

She came to him, took his hand. A thoroughly wicked glow shone in her golden-flecked eyes.

"Run," she said.

Laughing, she darted from the rocks, leaping down from the rough surface. Her bare feet splashed in the shallow water and she ran, and he ran with her, dashing crazily across the smooth sand. Her fingers were still interlocked with his; he wasn't sure why, but it felt perfect. Natural. As if these hands had been designed specifically for the purpose of holding hers.

"They were," said the girl.

And then she vanished.

Bereft of that support, the Doctor stumbled on the damp sand and fell.

He hit the grating.

"All right," came a voice from above, dark and threatening. "How long was it this time?"

He sat up meekly and faced the irritation of his wife. "A week?" he guessed. "...Two?" he guessed again upon seeing the stark unbelief clearly written in her expression.

She was silent.

"Three and a half?"

Martha sighed, rolling her eyes.

"In my defence," he said, standing, index finger extended to add weight to his point, "the TARDIS pressured me into unconsciousness, and not because I was tired. I slept last night."

"For three hours," Martha shot back.

His eyes widened.

"Heard you come in. So anyway," she continued, removing her hands from her hips, "if you weren't tired—" and her voice didn't bother to try concealing her disbelief of that particular assertion of his— "then why'd she make you pass out on the console there?"

"Because," he said, very clearly and distinctly, "I had a dream. A very vivid and interesting one."

Martha raised an eyebrow, eyes glittering a little. "Was I in it?" she inquired, tone sweetly flirtatious.

"Nope," he said, only mildly unaffected by her gentle innuendo. "There was a beach of some sort— think it was Norway, smelled like Norway... Lovely place, Norway. Designed and built by a man called Slartibartfast. He got an award for the fjords. Should take you to meet him sometime. Nice man. Bit absentminded, but a nice man."

"Bet you two get on perfectly, then," said Martha acidly.

The Doctor looked vaguely insulted, but carried on talking. "There was a girl in it. I never saw her before, but she knew me." He paused. "Stop looking at me like that," he digressed. "All she did was quote lyrics at me."

Martha gave him an odd look and gestured at him, more than a little impatiently, to continue.

"I asked who she was. She went all cryptic on me— something about being no-one—" he strategically cut out the its of her answer which Martha would not approve of; he'd faced her jealousy one too many times for him to want to provoke it even for a second— "and vanished, which is when I woke up the first time. I asked the TARDIS about it and she agreed with me, thought that it wasn't just a dream. I looked up the song she was quoting at me and then the TARDIS sent me to sleep again.

"Then there was more lyric-quoting, we started to run— no idea why, seems she just wanted to— and then you came in."

Martha gave a wise nod. "And how do you know that this isn't just another weird dream?"

The Doctor hesitated. "It doesn't..." He paused again. "It feels more like a telepathic connection than a figment of my imagination," he said. "Like something's trying to reach out for help." Inspiration struck him. "And she quoted lyrics from a song I couldn't remember."

"Never heard it before in your life?" prodded Martha.

He hesitated. "I don't know."

She paused, then shrugged. "Can you make it through the day without falling over?"

He bobbed his head.

"Then we can go on the way we always have and wait for it to sort itself out," she concluded.

They did, and the Doctor didn't hear from the woman for several days. Both the Time Lord and his wife assumed, even if a only tiny bit, that that would be the end of it.

Neither of them entirely appreciated how utterly wrong they were for a very long time.

-BAD WOLF-

After he was rather rudely knocked out by an irritated Jaffa, he was only slightly surprised to wake up on a Norwegian beach with only the mysterious blonde woman for company.

"Hello," he said.

She smiled and in the back of his mind was the niggling thought that if someone hooked that smile up to a power grid somewhere, it could light up two galaxies at least.

Dangerous, that.

"Hello," she replied.

"What are you doing in my head?" he asked of her, deciding to get directly to the point.

"I'm not in your head," she replied, sounding a little affronted that he would dare accuse her of such a breach in the universally accepted rules of telepathic etiquette.

He raised an eyebrow.

"I'm part of your head. Specifically, the subconscious."

The other eyebrow joined the first.

"Has my subconscious always looked like that?" he asked, genuinely concerned about this.

She laughed, the happy, trilling sound reminiscent of the song of the birds on the forest planet of Hyacinth. "No," she answered, to his immeasurable relief. "Your subconscious, it... it took what it remembered about me and created an imitation to try and warn you."

"Warn me about what?"

Her lips twitched in faint amusement.

"The Devil in the deep blue sea," she said.

She began to fade.

"Who—" he began, then thought better of it. "What's your name?" he asked of her instead, quickly speaking before she had the chance to disappear completely.

Suspended in a half-transparent, ghostlike state, she slid her eyelids shut and opened them again in a movement too slow to be considered a blink. The wind blew at her, through her, striking his face. It smelled of salt and time and when she spoke, everything seemed to bend and revolve around the four words escaping her lips, barely curved in a secretive smile.

"What do you think?"

His eyes snapped open and he gasped out the syllable that throbbed through his aching head, in tune with his thrumming hearts until it seemed the embodiment of all that he was— the reason for his hearts' steady beat, the smooth sound that sped his blood through his veins until he wondered how he had ever survived without her name on his lips.

"Rose."

-BAD WOLF-

Don't kill me, yeah?

Anyway, the first draft of this story is written down. All I have to do is go over it and get it betaread, so updates for this might actually be regular. -notes gasps of shock-

SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION: I am one of the authors Jessa collected for her great and mighty October Project, which is, conveniently, found under the penname OctoberProject. The story's title is 'I Miss My Mind The Most', if that helps at all. I'm not telling you what day I do in the hopes that I might be mistaken for OlfactoryVentriloquism or Jessa herself, but I think you'll probably be able to guess.

Anyway. Review, my precious… es? O.o