A/N:

Fic inspired by yourworstnightmare on the Teaspoon. This one comes from the idea that the Doctor's room is 'covered in photographs', which I thought was a pretty damn good idea. So here we are. Because I just had to look that little bit deeper. Awkward much?

'Rose stood in the doorway, watching, waiting, praying to every god going. The Doctor was in his room; she had only ever seen it once. It was quite small, not very furnished, but covered in photographs. Something from every part of the Doctor's history, or so he said. No matter how much it hurt to look at, it was still him, parts of him through the years. That was why he needed even the memories of everything the Master had done; they were a part of him.'
Extract from 'Echoing Drums', chapter 9, by yourworstnightmare.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The Doctor screams. The edges of photos catch under his nails, pricking him, as he ripps them from the walls. The tears streak from his eyes as he lets all of his hurt and anger out in one final roar.

And then, sobbing uncontrollably, he falls back against the wall and slides down it, coming to a halt as his rear connects not-too-softly with the floor. His lanky arms snake out to hug his legs to his chest, curling up into a ball as he lets his emotions spill out of him. Closing his eyes, he shuts out the rest of the world and just lets himself think.

He knows he shouldn't have ripped down his photos. In a strange, twisted way, they are all he has. After all, what are photos but captured memories?

And what is a Time Lord but memories?

For a man who can change his face, change his personality and change his name, memories are all that hold him together. Without his memories, who is he?

No-one.

And the Doctor will never be no-one.

And as long as people remember him, he'll always be the Doctor. Whether he wants to be or not.

He wants to run, to escape into the Void where nothing and no-one and not even Time can hurt him. But he can't, because he's familiar with the hollow sense of guilt he'd feel, despite being a coward of the lowest kind. And he'd hear her disappointed voice in his head, and he couldn't cope with that.

If he could wipe his mind, free himself of the memories he replays over and over, time and again in his head, he wouldn't be forced to suffer these suffocating emotions. He wouldn't be cut with Anger or drowned in Shame. Guilt would leave him alone and even Grief would have no hold over him. How blissful it would be to have no past. His was pockmarked with deeds of heroism and actions of evil. He'd give almost anything to be rid of everything he had once done. But not the Universe. Not quite. Not yet.

He'd seen how it'd ruined Donna to have her memories taken. But she hadn't seen the horrors, the true horrors, of the Universe. She was still unspoilt and whole. He was different. He was old.

And with age came knowledge; the knowledge that you can't escape sacrifice. And he sacrificed his heart too often for it to remain whole. This time it had shattered.

It would be too easy to forget it all, to forget every single thing he'd done in his centuries-long life. But it wasn't supposed to be that easy. Life was meant to be hard.

He knew Lumic was right. Life would be so much more simple without emotions to make us weak. But emotions are what make us human. And he wouldn't ever lose that.

And his memories are what makes him him. Without those, he is just an empty shell, each regeneration someone new, someone who wasn't him. He remembered all the adventures he'd had, all the good times and bad. He remembered his family and friends and lovers. He didn't want to forget the reason he fought for the little people. He didn't want to forget why he saved the Universe. He didn't want the Universe to suffer if he was selfish enough to forget. If he took away his memory, he wouldn't be the Doctor.

And he could never let that happen.