Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who or hold any influence over it *glares at Moffat*

Chapter One

Rose. . . Donna, Martha, Amy, Rory. Clara. . . Oh, god, Clara. God, I can never do anything right. I couldn't keep any of them safe. I couldn't keep any of them here. How am I the Doctor? I don't deserve the title. I'm a useless excuse for a person. I've failed at everything. Save the world once, just to be knocked back down twice. I'm a failure. A failure. I'm useless; worthless. I can't do this anymore.

The Doctor heaved and wretched, but nothing came out. He just wanted to feel nothing, but instead he felt everything. Having the weight of the world resting upon him for more than 900 years had never pained him so much until then. He had finally cracked. He just wanted to stop thinking.

He couldn't keep the image from appearing before his eyes. He was blinded by it; he couldn't see anything else. All he saw was her, Clara, taking one step outside the TARDIS and crumbling to the ground. One step was all it took. The TARDIS had taken them on a random trip to a different planet, as she liked to do, but not even she could've known what would be in store.

He'd discovered the technicalities later on. There'd been a war. One of the sides had newly-formulated bombs that hadn't been tested.. It gave off a special type of radiation, leaving no survivable chance to beings with one heart. It attacked the circulatory system, of course including the heart. Of course, since the Doctor had two hearts, he'd at least had a chance.

Why? Why me? Why was I the one that lived? He'd give both of his hearts to Clara in an instant. Any moment, any time, he'd have rather died than banish her glorious existence from the planet.

He smashed his fist against the wall of the TARDIS. He punched it again and again, but his hand never broke. Stupid Gallifreyan bone density. He just wanted to break something. He'd let down every single one of his companions; all he wanted was to suffer as they had. He'd failed everyone. Everyone. Everyone had trusted him so much.

He decided that he couldn't do it; he wouldn't let anyone trust him ever again. The best way to protect this planet wasn't spending days on end gallivanting around the galaxies, showing off his shiny TARDIS and saving civilisations. When had that ever worked, anyway? It was always at the cost of something else.

No. The only productive way to deal with any situation was to stop the problem at the source. Himself. His existence.

He'd never really saved anyone, had he? He'd only lost friends, to alien radiation or parallel dimensions or time. And, in some cases, to himself. To his own inability to move on and accept love from someone else.

He sobbed. His hearts lurched and his breathing stuttered between occurring too quickly and not being there at all. He kept banging the wall, wanting to just go back and stop the TARDIS doors from opening. He always could, of course, but it would create a paradox, and he'd die. But wasn't that what he wanted? No. Getting lost to a time paradox was only something a time lord could do, and he obviously was not one.

The Doctor lurched up off the ground, smashing and tearing at things as he moved. He stumbled down one of the hallways leading out. His eyes were blurred and foggy; he could hardly walk straight. He dug his right hand into his left forearm; his strong nails creating perfect crescent-shaped indents in his skin.

He just wanted to break something—everything. Preferably himself. He finally stumbled into what he somewhat recognised as the infirmary. He ripped at the cabinet hung on the wall and wasn't even surprised when one of the doors broke off at his touch. He ruined everything he encountered. He hastily swiped the contents into his arms.

When he got back to the control room, he dumped everything on the console and leaned on it; he would've fallen over had he not. His muscles were weak. He'd been alive far too long. He needed things to end.

One by one, he unscrewed the pill bottles and tossed them back, handful by handful. It didn't matter what they were; he couldn't even read the labels anyway. His throat became drier and his chest tighter with every handful.

Twelve bottles later, he was smashing everything in sight. Work, damn it, kill me already! He was throwing the pill bottles toward the door, even the glass ones which gave him a little pleasure as they shattered.

He slammed down random controls on the console, grateful to finally be able to do this without caution. Suddenly, the TARDIS started moving and making her TARDIS-y noises. He glanced back and realised that he'd hit the random location simulator. Oh well. He decided he may as well let the TARDIS choose where he dies.

He could feel his muscles becoming weaker. He didn't know how quickly the pills were meant to work, but the sooner, the merrier. He tripped down the steps, skidding on the floor. The glass from the empty bottles dug into his face, his palms, his knees. So much pain. But he deserved every bit of it. His hearts were slowing down, finally, and he couldn't even find the strength to get up. He slipped and slid about, glass digging into him—the TARDIS was landing. His breath had almost stopped; he just wanted it to end already.

There was a sudden jolt as the TARDIS decided to finally make contact with the ground. Not only that—the snarky girl had the nerve to open her doors spontaneously and throw him outside. As he was falling through the air, he thought about Clara—how he had failed her; how he had failed to keep her safe—and then, his chest contracted and he blacked out.

The emergency department was filled with noises, but Martha didn't mind them. They seemed to help her work. She was called over by one of the male nurses. She thought his name was Nurse Peters. He was indicating a man resting on the rolling stretcher next to him.

"Doctor Jones! Doctor Jones, I need you to tend to this man. I was just coming in a couple minutes ago and found him passed out on the field next door. That's all I know, I didn't have time to check for things that weren't obvious," he exhaled in one go.

Martha nodded. "All right, I've just finished with my previous patient anyway. I take it you have other patients that need you?"

The nurse nodded his head and hurried away. People were always hurrying in the hospital. Martha looked down to assess the man. He was maybe 30 years old. Over the sheet, she could see that he was wearing a perfectly-tied bow tie and a white dress shirt with little flecks of blood on it.

She rolled him over to one of the little partitioned rooms and closed the curtain. She though better of it, and ducked her head out again. She called over Nurse Hedley, one of the nurses she ate with in their lunch breaks.

While the nurse was making her way over, Martha quickly checked some vitals—just the basic ones. She put her hand to his left wrist—mindful of the multiple small lacerations on his palm—to check his pulse. It was extremely slow, he'd be in danger of dying if it went any slower. His temperature was extremely low as well, and his stomach was slightly bloated.

When Nurse Hedley stepped through the curtain and moved to shut it behind her, Martha motioned for her to halt.

"Unconscious, low pulse, low temperature. Bloated stomach. Pale skin. Almost definitely an overdose," she gulped, never liking to making diagnoses like those. "I'm going to have to do the gastric suction right now. I'd wait to check the rest of his vitals first, but it's really not worth the risk of waiting. Would you be able to ask Nurse Peters where he found him earlier?"

The blonde nurse nodded and walked off to do what she was asked. Meanwhile, Martha was already getting the gastric suction machine ready and set it up on the table next to the man's stretcher.

Before anything else, she had to undo the man's bow tie as it was far too constricting. Then, she unwound the thin, plastic tubing and slipped it through the man's throat. She stopped when she could feel it reach his stomach. It was fine to rest there on it's own, so she turned to the machine next to her. Plugging in into the wall socket, she pushed the power button. She fiddled with the settings until they were just right, then sprayed the inside of the tube in the man's mouth with a saline solution before attaching it to the machine.

Come on, stay with us, she hoped, as she turned on the machine and heard it's far-too-familiar hum of life. She watched as the stomach pump suctioned out all the unnecessary liquid from the man's stomach. Then she studied him.

Even though his skin was currently pale due to the drugs, she could bet that it was still naturally ivory. He had a brown tweed jacket scrunched up next to him, which Nurse Peters must have taken off him. Martha slid it out and checked the pockets for any identification. There was none.

His face wasn't unappealing, though he did have a rather large chin. His hair was a rather lovely shade of brown, and though it was messy, looked like it was used to being perfectly styled. She sighed and began to start on fixing up his hands.

Martha was halfway through when she realised that she still hadn't finished his vitals. She waited until the second hand on her watch reached 12, and started counting the rises and falls of his chest. The man had an extremely low respiratory rate, coming up to just 5 breaths per minute—a normal adult's was 14! She scribbled that down on the blank chart that she had found next to the bed.

Then she checked his temperature: it was extremely low, just as she'd suspected. His pulse was also lagging extremely. Next, she got out the blood pressure machine. She walked around to the other side of the bed to set it up so it wouldn't coincide with the gastric suction machine. she carefully lifted the man's arm and wrapped it around the upper part of it. She took her stethoscope from around her neck, where it felt so natural hanging that it was like a second skin. Sticking the knobs in her ears, she unbuttoned the top 3 buttons of the man's shirt so she could reach his chest.

Martha started on the left side, where, naturally, the heartbeat would be more predominant. She turned on the blood pressure machine and monitored it while she felt her way around. His heartbeat was extremely erratic. One second it was going frantic, then the next, it wouldn't even beat. It was strong, though, like it was amplified.

She moved her hand to the right side of his chest. She received a shock when she realised that it was just as strong on that side. Even after the machine next to her beeped, Martha felt around more; his skin cold to the touch.

She was still listening when Nurse Hedley came back with information. "Nurse Peters said he found the patient out just on the field near the car park," she said. Martha hummed for her to continue.

Then she found it. Hard to notice, but still there. Just as the nurse said "There wasn't much around—just the regular restrooms and this dingy blue telephone box," Martha noticed the faintest double beat. A double heart beat, for someone with two hearts.

Ayhhhhhh I'm sorry this is so bad. I just thought of this and had to write it. As opposed to, you know, writing the other 2 fics I currently have going. Anyway, I just really don't think I captured the characters write. Mainly because I'm not used to writing in third person, but also because I just wasn't paying as much attention to this story as I do to my other ones.

If you liked it, please, PLEASE give it a follow, but, most importantly, please leave me a review and let me know what you think of this. If you liked it, what you want to happen, yada yada yada. Seriously, please just take 3 minutes of your time to let me know what you think, because I get really insecure without reviews. (Also, I really honestly don't mind bad reviews. Honestly. They help me fix things.)

Anyway, last but not least, PLEASE go check out my other doctor who fic! I like it a lot more than this one and am giving it a lot more attention and TLC. If you like angst fics, you'll probably like it. As you might have learnt, I'm all about that angst ;)

Hez xx