It was a sad day in the TARDIS, everyday was since the Ponds died and River left the Doctor once again. He couldn't bare it. He spent most days locked in his room, just crying. Sitting there crying, thinking of all the terrible things he had done and all of the people he had destroyed. Everything broke him, everything he looked at was a reminder of all he had done in his time, all of the people he had broken.
The TARDIS hummed loudly, trying to get the old man's attention from another one of his times sobbing, this time he was clutching one of Amy's scarves, tears rolling down his cheeks.
"What do you want, old girl?" He asked the TARDIS aloud, messily wiping his tears on his sleeve before shakily making his way down to the console room, his legs barely able to move, but he soon managed, and looked at the console slightly annoyed. "Well? What is it?" He asked impatiently, while the TARDIS continued to hum, silently guiding him where to go. And something had changed.
Right on the TARDIS, there was two boxes. One labelled 'outgoing' and the other labelled 'incoming', the Doctor peered at the boxes confused, opening the one labelled 'incoming' and realizing it was simply and empty box, while the 'outgoing' one, seemed to lead off to some unknown location.
"What is this?" The Doctor asked his machine rather confused, his sadness now replaced with a curiosity that overwhelmed him, the TARDIS hummed in response, mentally planting a thought in his mind 'Send a letter' the Police Box told him.
He shrugged, what did he have to lose? Literally no one else... Maybe the TARDIS, then that'd be it for him... Nothing, and sending a letter, from where the TARDIS told him, couldn't kill him, could it? No, the old girl wouldn't do that to him. The Doctor rummaged around the console, soon finding a piece of paper and a pen. He leaned against the console, beginning to write in his neatest cursive.
Dear, whomever I am writing to, Well, I suppose a hello would be nice wouldn't it? Though hellos are often much nicer in person, aren't they? But I assume I will never see you in person, and whether you are a person or not does not matter. I've met plenty of lovely people that aren't persons... That doesn't make sense. Forget that. Anyways, hello whomever you are, I suppose I should introduce myself at this point, shouldn't I? I'm the Doctor, as they call me. But some call me John Smith, but those people aren't as special to me (They are important, don't get me wrong, just not special) but you, whoever, or whatever I should say to be politically correct, are very special. You are special by a very strange circumstance. Maybe I should get some explaining done, even though we will probably never meet. I don't want to meet anyone any more. I am not a human, although I do look it (I am a handsome human, as many have said), but I am a Time Lord, an ancient species from a planet called Gallifrey, that was destroyed many years ago... My own fault, and far too many trust me for how terrible I am. My dear friend, please remember, never trust me. I am terrible, I am horrid, and nothing ever ends well with me... And that's why I need friends, as much as I hate to admit it. I wonder why I feel so trusting towards some unknown source, maybe it's because I will never see you get hurt. You will never get hurt because of me, and at the first sign of danger, I'll stop this all. Maybe I should finish this now, there is far too much I could go on about right now. Over 1000 years I can write about. Maybe one day, my friend, I will tell you all of my stories, if you wish to hear. But be prepared for a series of 11 novels if you do wish to know the long, tragic story of the Doctor. You don't have to mail back, I don't know how you would. The TARDIS would figure it out somehow, wouldn't she - ah, don't ask about her, that's another story - but the point stands, somehow this will work, won't it? Things likes this always do. I'm done now, I think. I don't want to make this too long for whomever/whatever you are. I hope this has been fun. It was for me. Sincerely, The Doctor
The man returned to his room again, to once again not sleep and to just stare at his ceiling, thinking. Doing nothing but thinking, thinking about the Ponds, about River, about all of his pas companions.
But little did he know, that somewhere in another universe, Rose Tyler was retrieving her mail, and was about the read a letter to whomever or whatever.