When the Doctor tried to open the door, he discovered there was something blocking it on the other side. He pushed a little harder, attempting to shift whatever it was. It slid a few inches, then stopped, but it was enough to allow him to squeeze his arm in. Sonic Screwdriver in hand, he pressed the button. A blue glow, a whirring sound, and then from somewhere in the room, a light flicked on. By angling himself and craning his neck, the Doctor was able to see through the gap he'd made. The door was blocked by a large wooden crate, which had gotten caught in a jumble of papers and fabric.

He didn't wonder about how the crate had gotten pushed up against the door. Contents of his room sometimes shift during flight. Add to that the fact that he hadn't been in his own bedroom since... He tried to remember. He'd met Donna at Christmas, but he hadn't known Martha at that point. In fact, now that he was thinking of it, he'd only just left Donna, the last time he was in here.

He'd put the TARDIS in standby, and sort of let her sit in the Vortex while he went to try and take a nap. He'd been so tired, he thought he could have maybe logged a full night's sleep, but he hadn't succeeded. He'd spent half the time tossing and turning fitfully around on his bed. The few times he'd managed to doze off, he'd been plagued by dreams of Rose. Her smiling face, her laughter, then the more recent fear written across her lovely features as she was being sucked backward into the Void. Her tears on that beach in Norway... it all haunted him. He had ended up feeling worse than when he began, and he hadn't even attempted it since then.

Now that he'd dropped Martha off at home, he could get in here and sort it out. Of course, there was a nagging something at the back of his mind, but he couldn't really tell what it was. It would work it's way through the different levels of his consciousness, and then it would hit him. It just had to make it through the proper channels.

In the meantime, he thought, giving the door a great shove, I can clear up some of this. He figured he would be better if he could store away his memories of Rose. That had been his problem before. His room was full of little reminders of her, so it was no wonder he couldn't sleep without dreaming of her. The crate shifted again, this time allowing enough room for the Doctor to squeeze sideways through the doorway. He took a good look around.

His room was a mess, that much was certain, but there were also signs of it not being entirely his fault. Things had slid off shelves here and there, and his desk had half the drawers slid open. Miscellaneous papers littered the floor, no doubt the contents of the desk, and was that a jumper? Smiling rather grimly at his former self's idea of fashion, he stooped and picked up pea green knit. He tossed it to the corner of the room, where a small mountain of them already resided. He'd used his bedroom a lot more often pre-regeneration. It had been his place to escape to when the guilt and sadness threatened to overrun him. Now he barely even looked in the direction of the hallway leading down here. Not that anyone else knew it was there through the cloaking circuit he'd put in place, but he knew it was there, and he still rarely thought of it.

Squaring his shoulders, he shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it on the bed, and rolling up his shirt sleeves. He figured this would be good therapy for him. He could use a bit of an exorcism of sorts. He couldn't forget Rose, didn't want to, but he could take steps to put some of the hurt and pain of loss behind him. He'd done this once before, when she had looked into the heart of the TARDIS. He had gone into his regeneration process not just as a new man, but a renewed soul as well. Casting off the shades of melancholy was something he had to do. He couldn't live with the grief roiling around in his gut otherwise. And maybe then he could get some sleep. He took a deep breath, and tucked in.

Three hours later, the Doctor got to his feet and stretched his back and shoulders. He'd stacked box after box into the adjoining bathroom's shower stall. He never used it anyway, preferring the much larger one just off the console room. This bathroom, however, was perfect for storing anything that gave him an excuse to dwell on missing Rose. He looked around the room, smiling slightly in satisfaction at a job well done. As he looked though, his smile slowly faded.

A few odds and ends were all that remained of the massive collection of bricabrack he'd accumulated on the bookshelves. Even his books only took up two of the shelves, where as before they'd been crammed into every available inch of space, stacked two deep on the bottom. His dresser top was completely cleared, and devoid of even the smallest of the trinkets that had once littered its surface. The same went for the desk, and the wall above that piece of furniture, which had once been home to a collage of photos, maps and graphs, now stood barren. A few empty photograph frames were the only evidence that anything had even once been there. The pile of jumpers had all been stuffed into a bag, and dropped between the toilet and the sink. At some point he would wash them, but he couldn't be bothered by that just now.

Glancing around the room again, the Doctor had to laugh at himself. He'd taken just about everything out of his bedroom and packed it away. How ironic, he thought, Rose would say it's just mu excessive personality taking shape again. He laughed out loud, and started when the sound echoed through the near empty room. Even after taking everything out, he still thought of her. At least now he could feel the joy of remembering her, without all the sadness. He'd not only cleaned his room, he'd succeeded in what he'd truly set out to do... his thoughts were interrupted as a different thought slammed into his head.

...change what it means to be human...

"WHAT!" He gasped, breaking into a run for the console room. Slamming the TARDIS in reverse, he zipped back to Martha's flat and the immortal (not to mention immoral) words of one Professor Lazarus.