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“So, quiet or busy?”
The Doctor’s voice echoes through the TARDIS, through her intercoms to the places his voice doesn’t reach.
“It’s not good to be lonely.”
And still, there is no response from Martha Jones, hidden somewhere in one of the TARDIS’s rooms. The Doctor can only hope she didn’t follow the rest of her people.
After he woke up from ending it, the Time War, his people, he’d lain on the floor for days, knowing exactly where it’d put that bottle of aspirin, yet never managing to muster up the energy to get it.
“Martha!” It shouldn’t be as concerned as he is, the TARDIS would tell him if Martha needed him, but Martha Jones was the woman who walked the Earth for a year and never once faltered. She’s nothing if not persistent, dedicated, stubborn.
It’d screamed at her to stop. Cried, begged, yelled, anything. He’d broken down more than any of them had seen him break down, more than it’d broken since the Master. And then she’d looked him in the eyes and he’d felt like those children, those soldiers, the innocent and the guilty it’d damned to die that day.
“Why do we survive?” the Dalek had asked him, back in Utah, 2012. Why do we survive, the killers and not the cowards? Why can’t we die a dishonorable death? Why can’t we lie down and let it happen?
“Martha, can you hear me?”
The Doctor walks through the TARDIS’s halls, hoping she’s guiding him towards Martha’s room.
I know, the Doctor thinks. I know you don’t like her as much as— I know you don’t like Martha as much as her, but I need to find her.
It finds her room without much trouble, recognising it by the shadow under the door. He slides down, leans against it.
“Martha.”
No response.
“I know what you’re feeling right now, I do, I really do.”
Again, no response.
“I’m here to make sure you’re alive. Keep you well, all that.”
There’s a muffled sob from behind the door. The Doctor squeezes his eyes shut tight.
“I’m going to be here, Martha Jones,” he promises. “Whenever you need me.”