CALL HIM JOHNNY

Call him Johnny: Chapter Two:Part One

Cats and Dogs

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, because RTD refuses to share

Author's Note: I've had to do the same with this chapter as I had to do with one of the chapters on my other story; split it into two because it was toooooo long. So here's Part 1. Part 2 should be up later on tonight if all goes well Feel free to review. Ooh, and be on the look out for references to a few familiar faces. Ooh, and if anyone can get the name of the book that Rose has read about talking to your own head being the first sign of madness...I shall be vair impressed and may have to hug you.

So, the dog or the cat? Rose surveyed the large selection of pastel-coloured cuddly toys in front of her carefully, chewing on her bottom lip. After a mad dash across London, (which hadn't exactly been easy wearing high heels and a tight pencil skirt), in the pelting rain she'd been glad to reach the sanctuary of Mother Care, which was warm and dry inside even if it was full of crying babies and whinging toddlers.

She didn't need the many mirrors smeared with sticky fingerprints that were dotted about the Maternity section to know that she looked a complete mess. Bits of hair had come undone from her neat bun as she'd ran and now fell over her eyes in damp strands, sticking to her forehead, and by the looks of the fresh orange tidemarks on her collar, her make-up had also began to run. The rain had soaked through her suit, making her feel sticky and uncomfortable, ooh, and she'd also managed to get a small ladder in her tights. Brilliant. All in all, she felt ever so slightly bedraggled, but was choosing to ignore her discomfort, and the dull pain in her feet as she stood with a baby-blue toy cat in one hand and a baby-blue dog in the other, quietly dripping rainwater on the linoleum.

Rose fingered the two soft animals indecisively. Which one should she buy for her new baby brother? For some strange, sentimental reason that she couldn't properly explain, she wanted to be the one who gave him his first toy. It felt…necessary, somehow. But which one was the right one? They were both adorable; all soft and cuddly but there was a big difference between a dog and a cat, wasn't there? As far as she was concerned you were either a 'dog person' or a 'cat person.' What if she bought him the cat and he turned out to be a 'dog person'? She just so desperately wanted to get him the right one; if she couldn't even buy him the right cuddly toy what sort of big sister did that make her? A fairly rubbish one, in her opinion.

She was fine with all the complex, life or death stuff; traveling with the Doctor, she'd had to be. When faced with death by extermination, shouting for her mum or wishing for someone to hold her hand hadn't been an option, really. She'd had to learn how to remain calm and unflinching, just like the Doctor. Perhaps it was their underlying determinedness that made them who they were; 'the stuff of legend.' Yet, when it came to all the trivial things, like deciding whether to have a cup of tea or a cup of coffee, or whether to buy a cat or a dog she couldn't cope. Just a few days ago she'd had to decide whether or not to issue a warrant for the arrest of this rich, famous man; a newspaper darling, renowned for his generosity towards children's charities who'd recently given a tremendous amount of money to Comic Relief, but who was known to be fond of hosting Weevil-baiting parties; resulting in the deaths of two hundred Weevils this year alone, (incidentally, she had in fact decided to have him arrested) now, here she was fretting over which toy to get her baby brother, of all things; treating it like a Code Red situation, when to be quite frank he would be none the wiser even if she were to attempt to give him a cuddly Dalek.

Rose Tyler; psychological anomaly…

" Rose, you've been standing there for ten minutes," came a little, amused voice at the back of her mind. Again, the niggling subconscious voice sounded achingly like the Doctor's.

" It's not like he's going to sit up and lob his rattle at you for choosing the wrong one, is he? Just pick one!"

" I know," murmured Rose to herself.

Tearing her eyes away from the shelves of soft toys she realised, with some mortification that she was blocking the entire aisle, standing there being awkward. Heavily pregnant women tutted as they were forced to squeeze past her, waddling slowly around the rails of maternity clothes.

" Sorry," she muttered to two young mothers cradling tiny infants, stepping aside as they clucked their tongues at her impatiently.

She was about to replace the dog back on the shelf when a sudden, fleeting memory of a futuristic hospital and a ferocious Cat Nun swathed in reams of white robes, its claws sharp and lethal, its eyes cold and sly, came flooding back to her.

The memory was so vivid and sharp that she could almost smell the sterility of the hospital; the strong whiff of the disinfectant and the antibacterial soap, hear the low whirring of the hospital machines…

Feeling queasy; her stomach clenching, she rather unceremoniously dumped the cat upside down at the back of the shelf, its tail and back legs sticking up in the air ungracefully. The old shop-assistant impulse to turn it the right way up and to neatly fold its paws together kicked in, but she ignored it. In the years she'd worked at Henriks, the job she hated the most was going round the shelves after closing time, tidying up other people's mess. Experience had taught her that if customers dropped something on the floor it tended to stay there to get trampled on, or it'd get picked up but put back in the wrong place. It used to annoy her so much and she'd mutter away to herself under her breath, cursing the rude, ignorant shoppers. That was before the Doctor had blown her job up, of course. He'd been fond of making things explode.

She made her way over to the tills, clutching the dog; her brother would have to be a 'dog person', whether he liked it or not.

Much to her chagrin, she saw that there were only two women manning the tills. Even then they seemed too preoccupied with having a good old gossip to each other as they scanned in numerous bibs, mittens, nappies and babygro's to notice that the queue was slowly snaking itself right around the shop and that the customers were beginning to grow impatient and irate.

Rose found herself waiting behind a young couple; a red-headed woman and a tall, dark man who were obviously shopping for the arrival of their first baby. They were stood holding hands, each carrying baskets laden with bottles, baby shampoo, nappies, baby brushes, and blankets looking ridiculously happy. She was squashed so close to them that she was able to hear what they were talking about; their banter was good-natured and teasing, similar to the way she and the Doctor used to carry on.

" I don't understand why we have to buy it a teething ring now," whined the man, looking at loss, " it won't be teething any time soon."

" Don't you keep calling our baby an 'it'!" said the woman, warningly, " Until he or she starts teething I can use it to keep you quiet whenever you start complaining too much."

" Thanks," said the man, mock-offended.

" Welcome."

Rose looked at their joined hands with an ache of longing. She had always held the Doctor's hand, even when it hadn't always been necessary, even if they were just walking down a street or round a market rather than running for their lives. It seemed that the littlest things could remind her of the Doctor; even though it had been nine months since she'd lost him. Walking past the stand of bananas in the supermarket, seeing the displays of Converse in the windows of Schuh, seeing couples holding hands, like now or even just eating chips; he was everywhere around her yet never really there.

" You get wet in the rain, love?" asked the cashier as Rose approached the desk, handing over the dog when it was finally her turn to be served.

Rose glanced down at her damp suit and flicked her wet hair off her face, raising a sardonic eyebrow. What on earth did it look like? She was dying to answer with a sarcastic, " No, I'm perfectly dry thanks," but somehow, she managed to bite her tongue and simply indulged the woman, giving her a thin smile and a polite " Yeah, it's awful out there isn't it?"

" Eeeh, it is that, love. That's eight pounds fifty please."

Lifting her knee to balance her bag on, Rose rummaged for her purse amongst a collection of planners, keys, passes, make-up compacts and Torchwood equipment, extracting a green ten pound note, (different coloured money was something she was still trying to get used to) and offered it to the woman.

After accepting her change and being wished a 'nice day' Rose made her way to the automatic exit doors, happy with her purchase but not exactly relishing the thought of going back out into the rain; it was still coming down heavily.

" S'cuse me?"

Rose heard a feminine voice with a strong cockney accent, much like her own, from behind her and felt an unsure hand on her arm.

Turning, wearily Rose found herself face to face with the redheaded woman who had been standing in front of her in the queue.

" You haven't got a coat or anything, have you?"

Rose shook her head. She didn't trust herself to say anything because if she did, she knew that it would sound rude. She was never normally rude, but after being stuck in a meeting for most of the morning, and then being caught in the rain Rose felt decidedly miserable and more than a little cranky, and it seemed that people were going out of their way to ask her stupid questions. She was very clearly soaking wet; it was obvious that she'd got wet in the rain and that no, she didn't have a coat or an umbrella otherwise she would have used them!

" Here Lance, hold this for a sec," said the woman to the man beside her, thrusting a bulging carrier bag into his chest. She then opened her handbag and drew out a very wind-beaten looking black umbrella, holding it out to Rose.

" Take this, I don't need it."

She smiled at Rose encouragingly. " Seriously, I'm not going to use it but you'll get drenched otherwise!"

Rose stared from the umbrella in the woman's hand to the woman, wide-eyed, startled at her act of kindness.

" No, no," she began to protest, shaking her head, " I couldn't, and I'll be fine, honestly."

The redhead ignored her and pushed the umbrella into her hands.

Rose handled it as if it were some alien object; she couldn't begin to explain the emotions that this woman had brought out in her; she had a strong urge to throw her arms around her. The fact that, even in a city ravaged by crime, where no one spoke on the Tube, a city that wasn't even her own, a stranger was willing to give up her umbrella was very humbling and threw her completely off guard. When she'd first started traveling with the Doctor, seeing aliens, experiencing cultures so completely different to her own had shocked her enough to reduce her to tears. Now, she felt just as thrown, just as wrong footed, as if the redhead had offered her something more than just a manky umbrella.

" Thank you," she stuttered, trying to show how grateful she was, yet her smile came out as more of a grimace, as she felt a lump at the back of her throat and was mortified to feel tears pricking her eyes.

The woman obviously noticed her too-shiny eyes and her struggle to keep her mouth from quivering, as she stepped forward, her eyes full of concern.

" You had a bad day?"

Rose nodded, mutely, willing herself not to cry. She hated it when people were nice to her; it generally touched her so much that she ended up even tearier. She hadn't properly cried since that day at Bad Wolf Bay, when she'd spoken to him for…the last time. Not because she hadn't wanted to, or hadn't been able to, but because she knew that if she allowed herself to cry, if she gave in to the constricted feeling in her chest, the burning of her eyes and the tightness of her throat, she'd never stop. She would cry and cry until she either made herself sick or ran out of tears. She wasn't as good as…him at putting stuff behind her. Never had been.

" It might get better," said the woman, smiling at her, her eyes full of pity.

Rose wasn't sure how to answer that.

" I'll get this back to you," she said, holding up the umbrella to change the subject.

The woman waved away her offer.

" Nah, keep it, I won't lose any sleep over it."

Giving her a final smile, she took the carrier bag back off the man and they walked away, hand in hand.

Rose stood rooted to the spot, staring after them.

" What, do you think you're Mother Teresa now, Donna? What you give her your umbrella for? She looked rich enough to be able to afford one for herself," complained the man loudly as they made their way out, which Rose unfortunately overheard.

" Because she was already wet enough and I felt sorry for her alright?"

Rose stiffened. Did she really look so pathetic that total strangers pitied her? Surely she wasn't that much of a mess? Though she appreciated the umbrella she didn't need anyone to feel sorry for her, not at all. The redhead, as kind as she was could save her pity for someone who needed it…

Feeling almost defiant, Rose walked through the automatic doors; the chilly rain hitting her face as soon as she stepped out onto the street. With difficulty, struggling against the wind, she managed to get the umbrella up and set off in the direction of London Royal Hope hospital. Her shoes rubbed against her toes painfully as she walked and the straps were digging into her heels, yet she ignored the pain as she jostled against the crowd of people zigzagging down the street, past people sitting drinking coffee in the bright warmth of the cafes and the steady throng of people pouring in and out of the high street's busy shops. London's shoppers never stopped moving; even in the pouring rain.

Twenty minutes later, Rose reached the drab, poky florists that lay just outside the grounds of the hospital. Inside there was only the one plastic counter but the room was crammed with so many arrangements and bunches of flowers, ranging from the very tacky to simple and beautiful, giving off such a mixed haze of perfumes that Rose felt quite heady. She looked around at the displays of bright flowers and wreaths spelling out words and patterns, feeling very out of her depth. Despite her name, she'd never been much of a chocolates and flowers type of person. Well, chocolates yes but not flowers; she only knew a handful of their names, like lilies, marigolds, carnations, and roses of course.

The portly, bald owner of the florists was unabashedly staring at her, she realised. He was a big, beefy man wearing two thick gold chains around his neck and a gold stud in each ear, his scrubby West Ham football t-shirt stretched over his large belly and his forearms were covered in many, quite lewd tattoos.

" C'I 'elp you, luv?" he drawled

Rose swallowed. Coming from quite a rough area of London, she wasn't unused to having to deal with leering men; they were more of an annoyance to her than a threat, but still, if she could choose between buying flowers off an inarticulate alien or a man who looked at her chest rather than at her face, she'd choose the alien any day.

" Yes," she replied confidently, using the tone she'd frequently heard Pete use when in conference calls with UNIT whenever they were being particularly difficult; a firm tone that oozed authority and just a hint of superiority. " I'd like a bunch of pink roses please."

The man did a double take, visibly thrown at her coolness; clearly, she was not a woman he could try anything with. Grunting in acknowledgement, he walked around the counter and dipped his hand in the nearest bin of flowers, bringing out a fairly wilted looking bunch of roses.

Rose wrinkled her nose at them and smiled at the man, sweetly.

" Any roses that don't look like they've been stood in sea water for the past two days?"

The man threw the roses back in the bin forcefully, and then made a big show of bending over and reaching for a bunch of fresher-looking roses at the back.

" Will these do you?" he snapped, squinting at her with his pig-like eyes, rubbing his back theatrically.

" They will, thank you," she answered primly.

Grunting again. The man shuffled back around the counter and began to wrap the flowers in cellophane.

" You want a ribbon on 'em?" he barked at Rose.

" Please,"

Rose watched him as he worked, noticing the tattoos he had across his knuckles and the sovereign rings that glinted on both hands. Such a charming man…

" Twenty quid, darlin'," he announced when he'd finished, looking up at her expectantly.

Rose drew out a crumpled twenty-pound note from her purse and slid it across the counter to him.

" Thank you," she said brightly, accepting the armful of flowers that he almost threw at her, " for your wonderful service."

As she stalked out of the florists with the scent of roses tickling her nostrils, Rose did not miss the man's disgruntled utterance of, "snobby cow." She smiled to herself in agreement. She was from a working-class family; not snobby in any way, shape or form, but sometimes 'walking in, acting like you own the place,' got you exactly what you wanted; a valuable lesson she had learnt from a very intelligent man who spent his life walking around like he owned the universe.

" Good girl!" came the voice in her head that still sounded like his.

" Got it from you," she whispered back. She had crossed the road and was walking up the hospital grounds before she realised that she'd just talked to her own head, which, as she'd read in some book somewhere, was the first sign of madness. Definitely worrying.

Shaking her head, as if to clear it of the Doctor's voice she carefully made her way across the car park of the hospital, the ground slippy in the rain, struggling to hold the umbrella, the flowers, her handbag and the carrier bag containing the dog at the same time.

The hospital was large and quite modern, with a group of patients huddled around the entrance in their pyjamas and dressing gowns, looking decidedly worse for wear but nevertheless puffing on cigarettes. Rose grimaced as she walked past them, the thick cloud of smoke getting in her eyes, the noxious smell sticking to her hair and clothes.

Once inside she walked past the shop, (stifling a smile because the Doctor had loved hospital shops) and headed straight for the lifts on the right-hand side, waiting beside an elderly couple armed with a ridiculously large pile of the People's Friend and a bag of fruit, and two nurses, dressed in their normal day-clothes who were obviously just about to start their shifts.

They all squeezed into the first lift, exchanging polite smiles before falling into the inevitable awkward silence. At least, thought Rose, there was no disinfectant.

Shyly, she stared down at her patent black shoes, which were now marked with rainwater and shifted her grip on her bags and flowers.

There was a small ping as the doors opened at the second floor and the elderly couple got out, to be replaced by a very pretty dark doctor, who Rose knew by sight, if nothing else.

" You back here, again?" she said to Rose, smiling warmly at her.

" Yeah, but for my mum this time, not work," Rose answered indicating the flowers in her arms. She'd met this doctor a few times before through various cases. The most recent had been only the previous week, when a young boy of about seven had lost his hand after being bitten by a Weevil that Torchwood had been trying to track down. Rose had sat with him whilst they had waited for his agonised parents to arrive and this woman had been his doctor. Martha, her name was, if she remembered correctly; Dr. Martha Jones…

Martha frowned.

" Oh no, is she alright?"

Rose smiled, noting the concern in her face.

" Yeah, yeah, she's just had a baby," Rose chirped, happily.

" That's lovely," said Martha, " congratulations! This is your floor, then; Maternity's just down the corridor."

Together, they got out of the lift and walked down the blue-linoleum floor. The walls of the corridor were pale, flecked with bits of pink, and there was the telltale smell of hospital food and bleach. Posters advertising flu jabs and baby clinics lined the walls as doctors and nurses hurriedly made their way back and forth. Next to Martha, who had her dark hair in a neat ponytail, clad in a pristine medical coat, Rose felt extremely scruffy in her damp suit, laddered tights and rain-mussed hair. She was also conscious that she was leaving watery footprints on the clean floor in her wake.

" You're ok," assured Martha, firmly, noticing her fidgeting with her skirt, " there's an unwritten rule that says Torchwood are allowed to drip water on the floor."

Rose laughed, nervously

" I feel a right mess!"

Martha shook her head vigorously.

" Believe me, you're nothing compared to some of the states we see in here," she said as they reached the sealed door to the Maternity suite. " I'll buzz you through."

Thanking her, Rose bid her goodbye and approached the reception, where a friendly-looking nurse was leaning against the desk, chatting to the receptionist with a stereo foam cup of tea.

" Erm, I'm here to see my mum, Jackie Tyler?"

The nurse looked up and smiled at her.

" You'll be Rose, her daughter, yeah? She said you wouldn't be long."

" Ye-yeah," replied Rose, it always unnerved her slightly whenever someone knew her name before she'd introduced herself. She readjusted her grip on the flowers again, her arms beginning to ache.

" She's got a private room, I'll take you to her," offered the nurse.

" Thanks," said Rose, gratefully.

She followed the nurse past several bays, where Rose caught a glimpse of a few cots holding tiny newborn babies and their worn out looking mothers sitting up in bed chatting to their visitors or watching TV on the small screens by their bedside tables.

" Here you are," said the nurse brightly, " Room 42"

Rose waited until the nurse's footsteps had faded away around the corridor before she went to open the door, before drawing her hand away from the handle sharply, as it if had burnt her. It suddenly occurred to her that she would not leave the room the same person as she was now; when she left she'd have a new identity, a new role to carry out as big sister to her little brother.

She wasn't sure if she was entirely prepared for that. She could battle aliens, no problem, but be responsible? Be some one her brother could look up to? The prospect of that seemed a million times scarier than anything she'd ever faced before. For the first time, she understood what the Doctor had said about not 'doing domestic.' Her hands were shaking so badly that she put down her bags and leant heavily against the door, breathing deeply through her nose. Something clicked in her mind, like the last piece of the jigsaw fitting in to place and she realised why choosing the right cuddly toy had been so important, realised why she was so truly frightened to enter her mum's room.

Because, the cuddly toy was actually the TARDIS key. Yes it was, it really was. Not literally, of course, but they were both the same because they both stood for something; something that would never be able to be put into words.

The TARDIS key; yeah, it was a key for opening the TARDIS but what it meant was;

" I will run when you run. I will jump when you jump. I will be there to hold your hand when you need me. I will make you hot chocolate when you have a bad dream. I will stay awake when you can't sleep. I will buy you chips. I will save your life. I will argue with you. I will love you. I will stay with you."

The soft toy dog that she'd spent a million hours choosing, it was physically something that could be used to play with or to cuddle in to, but what it really meant was;

" I will wake up at 2am to give you your bottle and nurse you back to sleep when mum's too tired. I will change your dirty nappy. I will help you take your first steps. I will take you to school. I will buy you sweets on the way home. I will help you with your homework. I will keep quiet when you get detention. I will cover up for you when you stay out too late."

That's exactly what it meant, thought Rose, hot tears spilling down her cheeks.

The Doctor had said to her once before, " Always wait five and a half hours," so she had. At Torchwood, she'd sat against the wall that had separated them, her fists beating against the floor, for five and a half hours, just waiting. At Bad Wolf Bay, she'd waited for five and a half hours, waiting for him to come back, to find another gap, burn up another sun just to finish his sentence, just to see his face one last time.

That was just it, though. When it had been just her, her mum, Pete and Mickey, it had been so easy to hope that he'd somehow be able to find a way back to her, to pretend that time could stand still, to fool herself that she would actually see him again.

The birth of her brother, though, showed that time had passed, the world was still turning, life was beginning to move on. That was what was so upsetting; her brother's birth was a turning point, the start of a new life. It meant that she'd have to leave her old life behind and face up to a new one that would never involve the Doctor.

How ironic that the newborn baby boy meant that Rose had something to fight for, another person to continue living for after she'd lost her real life, but that the same baby also concluded once and for all that she'd never travel with the Doctor again. Even if, by some miracle the Doctor was able to come through, she innately knew that she'd never be able to go with him because now she had a responsibility; she'd never be able to leave her brother; not after she'd seen him. It was either the Doctor or her brother, wasn't it?

Rose cried, a horrible rasping noise escaping from her throat as she struggled to stifle her sobs, rocking herself back and forth, curling her fingers in her hair in desperation. She could either have her brother or the Doctor; she could not have both. If she walked into this room now, if she opened the door and went in she'd be admitting to herself that she had lost him. For good. That she was never going to see him again, even when it was this desperate, illogical hope that had kept her going for so long. Walking through the door would mean giving up. Not giving in; she'd never give in, but giving up. Giving up her suspended stilted life, her half-existence.

For months, her mum and Pete and Mickey had been urging her to let go, but she'd obstinately refused. She'd said that she'd never let him go, but here she was, sitting on a hospital floor with her legs stuck out straight in front of her like a doll, after she'd slid down the door, dressed in a wet, creased suit, her hair sticking up like a bird's nest, her make-up running down her face finally…letting him go.

Her shoulders shaking, her chest heaving, breathing raggedly to stop her wracking sobs, Rose struggled to come to terms with what she was doing. It had taken her a while, but she'd done it on her own; she'd let the Doctor go. Something she swore she would never, ever do.

" Well," said a small, brilliant-sounding male voice in her head, " it's about time, too!"

" I know," answered Rose, quietly, wiping a sleeve over her eyes and then making a face when it came away covered in black and orangey-coloured stains.

" Doesn't mean I'm going to forget you, though," she muttered.

" I should think not!"

Why Rose was talking to herself as if she were talking to the Doctor, she really had no idea. She knew it was ridiculous, probably even dangerous; maybe losing him had turned her slightly mad? But it helped, it honestly did, because she could pretend that he could still hear her, even though his voice in her head was no more than her subconscious, it was soothing to hear.

Her legs cramping, Rose scrambled to her feet rather ungainly. There was a difference, she thought, between letting go and forgetting. For the past nine months she'd been waiting for the Doctor, like waiting at a station for a train that would never come in. If she knew one thing about the Doctor, just one thing, it was that he'd hate to think that she'd stopped living her life just because of him, not when it had been him who had shown her a new life in the first place. He wouldn't like that at all.

" No, I wouldn't," came the Doctor's voice inside her head, darkly.

Perhaps Rose had simply got up too fast, or perhaps she was just feeling faint at running across London on an empty stomach after the meeting had spilled into her lunch hour. Maybe it was simply the cloying warmth of the hospital or the butterflies in her tummy at going in to see her brother, but for some reason, for a long minute she saw the Doctor. He was standing inside the TARDIS; she recognized the golden hue of the walls, heard the low humming of the ship, saw him standing by the console, clear as day as if he was standing right in front of her. He was wearing a blue suit and red converse; something she'd never seen him wear before, and he was smiling softly to himself; she could make out the curve of his lips, his chiseled cheek bones, the longing and sadness in his eyes and the faint lines around his face that had almost certainly not been there when she'd been traveling with him. The cheeky glint in his eye and charming smile; they were still there, if a little faded, but he looked so much more…weary.

" You look so much older," she whispered in disbelief. What was this image of the Doctor she was seeing? A vision? It couldn't be a memory; she's never seen the Doctor look like that before. Was it a picture of what he looked like now? How was she seeing this…? Then, just as suddenly as the image had popped up in her mind's eye, it flickered and disappeared again.

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