Expressions

The Doctor sure slept at odd times.

She'd only been on the TARDIS a fortnight, and up until tonight Martha hadn't seen him go away to sleep, or even contemplate going to bed. Usually he was "fixing" the TARDIS when Martha went to sleep, and was still at it when she got up to get a glass of water at 2am, then was still waist-deep in wires when she woke up the next morning. It was as if he had extra energy stashed away somewhere – probably did too, behind one of the countless doors that the TARDIS guarded.

The very doors which, incidentally, Martha was exploring now. Many of the doors she'd tried to open were locked. Two or three were kitchens; five so far had been bathrooms (each more elaborate than the last) and a couple had been sitting rooms with comfy leather sofas and widescreen TVs. One memorable door had opened up to reveal a grassy garden, complete with fountain and benches. She'd closed the door on that one as quickly as she had opened it, not quite believing what she was seeing.

Soon she found herself standing in the doorway of a bedroom, and the only one she'd seen so far that was not her own. It was sparsely kitted out, with just a bed, a wardrobe and a few drawers dotted around the large room. It didn't look very lived-in; it was clear to her that the occupant had only been here a few months, if that. Everything was covered in a thick sheet of dust. The bed was crudely made, as if in a rush to get somewhere, and a few tight, white tee-shirts were on the floor, as were a pair of black jeans.

Judging by the medium blue décor and the clothes, the occupant had been male. Taking a look at the drawers, Martha gasped; on the bedside table, much to her horror was a gun; it wasn't cocked and was seemingly unloaded. Martha proceeded into the room then, without a further thought.

She gingerly picked up the gun, and dropped it onto the bed with a small thud, sending a plume of dust into the air. Coughing, Martha waved her hand in front of her to try and clear the air slightly, and in doing so knocked over something she hadn't noticed before. It hit the ground, and she picked it up quickly, not noticing half of it had fallen away on the impact. She realized it was a framed photograph. In it were people she'd never seen before. A man, maybe late twenties, early thirties stood in on the left hand side, with a mop of brown hair and a cocky grin on his face, wearing a tight, white tee shirt not unlike the ones on the floor. On that fact alone, she decided that he must have been the occupant of the room. Next to him, in the middle, was an older man, seemingly mid-forties; he had little hair, but what was there of it was brown, and while his companion's smile stood out in the photograph, it was his electric blue eyes that made him stand out of the page. Martha had never seen him before, but it was as if she had seen his face countless times and never asked his name; she didn't know him but she had the distinct feeling of actually knowing him. On the other side of the older man was a mop of blonde hair, and an ear. Someone had obviously taken a wonky photo. Martha instantly recognized the background – the blue panelled wood told her the three (ish) occupants of the photo were standing in front of the TARDIS. They looked happy and carefree, as if they had no cares in the world, no running around from aliens to do. She made to put the photo back on the table when she realized the back of the frame was missing. On the back of the photo, exposed by the missing frame, were the words 'Left-Right; Captain Jack, the Doctor and Rose, taken by Mickey (the Idiot) in Cardiff' scrawled in unfamiliar, slanted handwriting. Martha sighed, and turned the photo back over. It was the Doctor, this older man. She didn't know how he had turned from the old man in the photo to the young, energetic man he was today. She didn't particularly want to know. More important to her, however, was the little part of Rose that was in the photo. She was blonde. It was the first actual glimpse Martha had gotten of her predecessor, and still it wasn't much.

She backed out of the room then, after replacing the back of the frame and placing it back in its original position. She shut the door cautiously, not wanting to wake the Doctor, if this corridor of doors signalled bedrooms. This thought was extinguished by the next door she tried, as it was something of a utility room, with a washing machine and tumble dryer. Sighing, she decided not to try and of these doors. Instead she walked for about five minutes, before stopping in front of a door she would have usually walked straight past. Something was niggling in the back of her mind to open this door, and so she did, and suddenly wished she hadn't.

The room was pink. A light pink light bathed the room, with an equally light pink carpet on the floor; the duvet that covered (or should have covered) the bed was a bright hot pink. The bed was unmade. A few cups of tea stood on the bedside table, along with a magazine Martha didn't recognize instantly. Clothes littered the floor, and most of them were female clothes; tee-shirts lay everywhere, a pair of jeans, and shoes; a red hoodie contrasted with the room as it hung on the back of the chair that was in front of a desk. What shocked Martha, though, was that also lying on the back of the chair was unmistakeably one of the Doctor's suit jackets. Now she looked around the room again, she saw more of the Doctor's things lying around; a pair on Converses were on the floor next to a pair of trainers; his glasses were lying on the bedside table next to the cups of tea and magazines; and in the wardrobe, which was standing ajar, she saw many of his shirts mingled with hers. There was no question as to who this room belonged to. Rose.

She proceeded in, with more caution that she had going into Jack's room. She made her way over to the desk, noticing a few framed photographs. One was of a little girl with light brown hair, in the arms of a woman with peroxide hair in a pink tracksuit. Another one was of a man, with blonde hair. He was smiling, and on the bottom of the frame was inscribed 'Peter Alan Tyler, RIP.' She wondered who this man was to Rose. She put that frame down, in exchange for another one; it had the same older man that had featured in the other photo in Jack's room, but beside him was who Martha was most interested in. Rose was now fully standing there, her arms wrapped around the man who was credited as the Doctor. She had blonde hair (although was going brown at the roots) and was wearing normal clothes. She wasn't a goddess, she didn't seem extraordinary, she just seemed … human. Like Martha, just human. But it was, again, the expressions on their faces; both their faces were grinning manically, their eyes alight with love and the prospect of adventure. All that was behind them was a bright blue sky, so she couldn't picture where they were. She didn't want to dismantle the frame to find out, either. This room was almost shrine-like.

She did want to get out of this room, but couldn't bring herself to leave. She picked up another photo, and Rose featured in it again; this time she was on the Doctor's back in a piggy-back style, her arms spread wide in glee. He was holding her legs and grinning, never looking happier in his life. In this photo was the Doctor Martha knew and loved; with the familiar messy brown hair, chocolate eyes and skinny-as-a-rake body. Martha had never seen him grin so wide. Both of them looked in love, and it was spread across their faces. She put the photo down, not wanting to know. She was already completing with Rose almost continually now, and she didn't want to know how in love they were. It was sickening to Martha.

As she turned to leave, a noise distracted her. It was a groan, followed by a slight whimper. She turned around, looking around the room for the source of the noise. There were two doors in the room; both at opposite ends. One stood ajar, and led through to the en-suite. Martha automatically put the noise down to the pipes. Contiuing to walk out the door, she heard the voice again, along with the words 'Rose …'

It was the Doctor's voice, she was sure if it now. The way he said her name with such love was both sickening and unmistakeable. She walked over to the other door, and pressed her ear against it; she heard the Doctor turn over in his sleep, the rustle of bedcovers. They had adjoining rooms? Martha didn't know what to say about that. She could just imagine to door being open most of the time, for both to wander freely from room to room, for a chat or to ask to borrow the toothpaste. She suddenly had a rush of emotion, and found herself turning the doorknob to enter the Doctor's room.

It was very him. Clad in brown, it matched him to a tee. His clothes were lying everywhere as well – was no-one tidy on this ship? – and the brown was punctuated by spots of pink clothing on the floor. Martha didn't want to look. He had pictures as well, and cautiously as to not wake the sleeping Time Lord, she picked one up. It was of a family, that was obvious, if a mismatched one at that. The Doctor and Rose sat next to each other, arms entwined, while the woman from the photo in Rose's room was the Doctor's other side. A black man was also there, on the other side of Rose. It was a happy picture, on Christmas Day it looked like from the mass of food in front of them and the fact that all of them (even the Doctor) were wearing paper hats, the kind you got out of crackers. His was pink, and Rose's was blue; the woman (who Martha assumed to be Rose's mother) also had a pink one, while the man had a green one.

The Doctor turned over in this sleep, starling Martha so much she almost dropped to photo. Cringing, she put it back carefully on the beside table, as so not to wake him, and crept out of his room and into Rose's. She quickly exited that room, as well, and found herself back in the TARDIS corridor. She made a decision that the Doctor was going to be sleeping for a while, so she made her way to one of the entertainment rooms to watch a movie – the Doctor had said he had almost every film made. She doubted that very much, but if one thing was for sure, she didn't doubt the love shared between the Doctor and Rose. She had wanted to find out more about her predecessor, but now, she wished she hadn't, because now she knew what she was up against. And, frankly, she had no chance in hell of beating her.