After Amy and Rory were taken by that angel, and River had left for the last time, The Doctor just kept to himself and his TARDIS. Not speaking a word to anyone or anything. Just living his depressed and miserable existence. He, in other words, was just waiting to die.
After days had turned to weeks, and weeks had turned to a month, his mind had been cleared of almost everything that upset him. He would never get over loosing any of his companions, but The Doctor had a certain way of coping until they were mentioned or he saw something that reminded him of them. The bad thing was, he saw something most every day.
But on this certain morning upon waking up, he felt utterly and horribly sad. It was as if someone put weights on his mind. Sad weights.
So, he pushed aside his many covers (The Doctor loved to be cozy) and sat up. He looked around at his familiar room, bed in the middle of it, and stood up on the wooden floor. The Doctor stretched, hearing the light popping noises in his back. It was always those spots. He trudged to the washroom on the other side of his bedroom and flicked on the lights.
The Doctor grimaced at his appearance in the mirror. His hair was all over the place at once, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his scruff of a beard made him look homeless. His eyes moved down and he sighed. He was wearing his favourite boxer-shorts (the black ones with the galaxies on them), the ones he had put on last night in a weak attempt to cheer himself up. Well, it evidently didn't work.
The Doctor ran his hand through his hair and looked at himself in the eyes in the mirror. This was going to be a very long day.