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The Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS, into Winston Churchill’s office, Amy in tow.
(Elsewhere, a young woman in a Union Jack t-shirt dangled from a barrage balloon. An also young- oh so young- con man ran his con on the wrong people. A man with big ears and a leather jacket dashed after them both).
He had the urge to run, Reapers on his heels, just to see Rose smile at him and Jack, in that way she had. Regeneration had dulled the pain of separation (and the knowledge that he hadn’t abandoned her, not really) but he didn’t think the ache (the soft, gentle hurt punctuated by a wish, so deep that the Devil himself could not stifle it) would ever go away. He wasn’t sure what he’d do without it.
(Somewhere in London, two humans danced in front of Big Ben on an invisible spaceship)
He wanted to go back to the simpler, darker times. When the universe was his oyster and his curse; a curse that made Rose smile, in that way that she did- had. In the way that she had. How long was it now? Time passed differently there, he was fairly sure. She could be dead. They could be dead.
As he was led outside, he scanned the skies for signs of her. Not that he could do anything. But maybe, if he timed it right, he could see her, just to watch, one last time.
(You got your last time, Doctor)
(I wanted it to be enough.)
(And?)
(It wasn’t.)