It all began with some inconspicuous envelope lying on the jump seat in the console room. He had been alone for some time and didn't pay that much attention to the seat; he didn't even really looked at it, he only worked on the controls, left the ship, came back, went to his bedroom or the library or the kitchen or the bathroom, but never did he just sit in this pilot's chair again, like he had done it back when Rose had been still on board.
When once the constant humming of the TARDIS had been comforting and calming, it now roared painfully in his ears and mind; but besides this, there was a deafening silence lying like a heavy veil on his ship. Standing in the console room, lost and lonely, his "it's bigger on the inside"-ship suddenly was overwhelming in its largeness.
Being alone had never been one of his strengths. He had always needed a companion; he needed to know there was someone close to him who was worth it to go on for. To keep fighting for. Someone who opened his eyes for the individual stories and fates out there, while he, with all his knowledge and his 900 years experience of life - and death - often tended to see only the great scheme. He needed someone to remind him that the universe wasn't the bad place he sometimes liked to believe.
They had all been there, on his TARDIS, his family - the Children of Time - but they were all gone now. Living their own lives, living a live he could never have. Now it was again just him and his ship, his magnificent time machine that wasn't so magnificent anymore in its silence. They flew through the Vortex, through time and space, tired and yet never resting. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't settle down.
He had made it a habit to just walk through his ship. Watching how it changed, shutting off his sense for the changes and where the rooms were lying, he just opened doors. Sometimes his came across his former companions rooms, the ones who had been recently with him - Donna, Jack, Martha, and Rose, of course.
Sometimes he would enter these rooms, Rose's specifically, close his eyes and try to remember; remember the moments they had shared, the moments when he had watched her sleep, holding her after a nightmare, the feeling of her in his arms the most divine in the whole universe, despite the reason for him holding her.
The hallways were covered in shadows, the light dimmed. It matched his mood, not all bright and shining and happy anymore, but dark and dreary and deserted. The jump seat also lay in the dark, barely seeable - and so was the envelope.
Only by chance he spotted it, one edge reflecting the light, the white almost blinding against the grayed surface of the chair.
Frowning, he took the envelope and freed the letter it contained. His hearts stopped when he recognized the hand-writing.
Four months I tried to forget. Four months I tried to move on, to leave behind what has been. Four months I tried to settle down and live a happy life. Four months - and I have to admit that I've failed. Someone once said the power of forgetting is a blessing. A blessing I am denied.
I've been debating with myself for some time if I should write this letter. You'll never read it, so why write it at all. I could as well write a diary. But somehow writing a letter, addressed to you, helps me to believe that you're not gone. I can at least make myself believe for some short time that I can still talk to you.
You would say now, I'm not entirely gone, because you have the second Me, the human Me, the Me that will grow old with you and never leave you. You may be right. Julian, as he calls himself now, is a great man and I love him. But I will never love him in the way I love you, as much as I love you.
Sometimes I think I don't deserve Julian. He knows that I love you, and that I will never be completely his, yet he loves me. He's perfect and he's what every woman dreams of. Just... not me. Because I yearn for the man who is the same as the one I have, and yet for my heart so different.
We've settled down. Living the domestic life, as strange as it sounds even to my ears. We have a nice apartment in London, half an hour from my parents' house away. Mum and Pete and Tony are a happy little family, and Julian and I try to be one, too. We're both working for Torchwood, naturally, what else should we do? We've seen the universe, working in a normal office with a normal eight-hour-day would be... almost ironic.
I miss you, my Doctor. I miss you and the life we had together. Running through the universe, knowing that, whatever was going to happen, we have each other. That was all I needed to know. That you're there. That there's your hand to hold. Nothing could really scare me back then.
Now I'm already scared of living day after day, with those daily routines, for the rest of my life.
Still, my heart desperately wishes for me finding a way to reach you - or you coming back. I wonder why we hadn't just gone traveling with you. Julian and me, that is. Somehow I feel like this would have been the best solution. On the other hand, I trust you; trust you to do the right thing, to make the right decisions. And if you think leaving us here was right, then I believe it.
I hope you find someone who can travel with you and help you not being alone. Julian told me about Donna and what must have happen to her, what you probably have done to save her life. I'm really sorry, we both are. She was a good companion, she is a great woman, and she would have taken care of you. I begin to understand what your life is really like. And I wish I could do something, anything for you. You shouldn't be alone. You know, it's always... better with two.
Never forget that, Doctor. And also never forget that, whatever happens, at least in our hearts and thoughts we will always be with you.