I Listen For You Every Morning
There's never silence in the TARDIS. Throughout the ship is a constant hum, changing in pitch and tone depending on place time and mood. There's the sound of engines and moving, working parts.
There's a loud clink as the ice machine in the kitchen drops down a new set of cubes. At the same time the kettle switches on automatically with a sharp click. A rustle of fabric, creaking of a mattress and then soft footsteps.
The lights in the console room brighten imperceptively. An old bit of soldering finally gives way to the weight it's holding and snaps. A wire swings free and thumps against metal grating a few times before it stills. The creaking of partially rusted metal. Water rushing through pipes and splashing down onto porcelain.
The ticking of a clock. Small bubbles rising in nearly boiled water. Wet bristles being flicked dry.
A mechanism clicks over. Footsteps on carpet. An old gear grinds away. A hinge squeaks. Footsteps on metal. Water boiling. Hearts beating.
Mugs clacked together and placed on a counter. Tea bags torn open. The groaning of ancient metal settling. Water pouring. Footsteps. Blood rushing. Rapid heart beats. Soft breathing.
The Doctor looks up and waits for the most comforting sound in the ship. Rose enters and smiles.