Martha needs to pee. Bad.

Sometimes, she thinks that the TARDIS is Hogwarts in disguise. She could swear that the hallways change, and that rooms appear and disappear at the ship's will. There's a prodding in her mind as she scurries down the corridor, desperately looking for the loo; apparently, the ship does not find the thought that it is the alien equivalent to an imaginary Scottish castle very flattering.

She doesn't have time to consider the TARDIS's feelings, however. She needs to find a bathroom, and she needs to find it now.

The ship could help, if she wanted, but she is still a bit miffed. Who knew a bloody blue box could know so much about modern children's literature? Martha mutters an apology, but the TARDIS does not seem to find it sincere, as each door the girl opens contains a broom closet, or a ton of costumes from various periods throughout history.

Martha vows solemnly that she will not mop up anything should she not find the loo, and she feels something shift inside her head. When the next door opens, it is a room with—thank God—an en suite bathroom.

She makes a run for the toilet, and it's only when she's washing her hands and drying them on the hand towel next to the sink that she gives a proper look at her surroundings.

Whose room is this?

The bath towel hanging off a hook on the door is dry and stiff, as if it were hung up wet and not used for a long time. There are half-full bottles of shampoo and conditioner siting on the rim of the tub, the nub of a bar of soap next to them.

She steps out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom. The bed takes up a majority of the space, its light blue duvet rumpled and unmade. There is a novel on the nightstand next to the bed, open and upside down. Clothes are strewn on the floor: a pair of jeans, a girl's jumper, a purple t-shirt. The doors to the armoire in the corner are ajar, and there are more clothes hanging in there. Everything is covered in a fine layer of dust.

She ponders the mystery of the room for a moment; it has never appeared for her before. They are definitely girls clothes, and quite modern. And whoever last slept here looked as though they expected to come back—otherwise, they probably would have packed, or at the very least, picked up after themselves...

Then, everything slides into place.

Oh, God, she needs to get out of here.

She sprints to the door, throws it open, and then stumbles back abruptly. The Doctor is in the doorway, somehow managing to fill it despite his stick-thin frame.

He does not look happy.

"How did you find this room?" he demands, stepping forward. Martha retreats until the backs of her knees hit the bed. She knows the Doctor would never hurt her, but she can't help but feel scared by the wild look in his eyes. "How did you get in here?"

For a moment, she opens and closes her mouth like a guppy. When she finds her voice, she says, "The Tardis—was mad—Hogwarts...I had to pee!"

Despite the fact that her explanation makes no sense, the Doctor seems to deflate before her. His anger is gone, and he is all slumped shoulders and grim features. He grabs his hair, pulling at it desperately. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Martha. I didn't mean-"

"It's fine." she cuts him off. "I knew you wouldn't hurt me. And I swear, I never would have come in here if I'd known. It was a bit of an emergency."

"Yes, yes." He attempts to smile at her, and it breaks her heart, how forced it is. "Hogwarts, was it?"

Martha gives a small laugh, but it rings hollow. She feels like they're each trying very hard to act okay when they are both very much not. "Apparently, the TARDIS did not appreciate the comparison. I asked for a bathroom, she sent me..."

He finishes where her voice trails off. "Here. She sent you here."

They both stand awkwardly at the foot of Rose Tyler's bed. She looks anywhere but at him and has the distinct feeling that he is doing the same with her. This girl, this one silly teenage girl who doesn't even live in the same universe anymore, who hasn't done for months, has somehow managed to wedge herself between them.

Finally, Martha asks. "Fancy dinner?"

The Doctor gives her the same manic grin he is always sporting. She tries to ignore the fact that it does not reach his eyes. "Sounds great."

She nods and heads toward the door. At the frame, however, she pauses, turns back. "Doctor," she says, her voice hesitant.


"You left it as it was. The room, I mean. You never even picked up the clothes. Is it," she pauses, collects herself, "is it because you expect her to come back?"

There is no false smile. The Doctor leans down and brushes his fingers lightly, lovingly over the unmade bed. "No, Martha. She is never going to come back."

Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who.

A/N: Recent Who fan, and I would love some feedback on the well as some recommendations for good TenRose stories, ha!