Hi Guys! This popped into my head, pretty sure it's been done before but I thought I'd take a shot!

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The Doctors

Snow fell silently onto central London. It was quiet and it was lonely. Taxi's and cars sped down the main street, all blurring together, and ferrying random people, with random lives , random jobs, who still had random friends.

Dr John Watson limped down the London sidewalk. His sandy blond hair was neatly partitioned, his polo shirt concealed by a thick, blue woollen jumper he favoured, underneath a drab, average, beige coat. He gripped his cane as he manoeuvred his way across the icy pavement, avoiding black ice and frost.
He sighed, his other hand gripping a flimsy bag filled with bland food, ready to be put in a bare fridge, that held no organs or blood bags. Was it weird that he missed that?
He had moved out of the formidable 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had been sad but understood. Since 'The Fall' he had been to the apartment a total of only 3 times. Once was after he was out of the hospital, fresh from the incident as he called it. He would never say it out loud. Except from one time in therapist's office. That was hard. Sherlock...was- ah! He sighed, he couldn't even think about it. He turned a corner.
The second and third time had been before and after the...the funeral. Sherlock's stupid science stuff and his eyeballs in the microwave.
John shook his head, ridding his toughs from his head.
He turned off the main street down a little alley and then he walked down a familiar path, through the park where he first heard of the illusive and quirky Sherlock Holmes. As he walked, Dr John Watson thought about his friend- best friend- before the fall.

"John..." said a clip voice, standard English. John shrugged it off. He hadn't talked to the refined gentleman that it was sure to be. Mycroft had slunk back into his hole, back behind the scenes, controlling it all. He hadn't spoke to John since the report and the press.
"Look, Mycroft. You cannot just..." He replied, before being butted and interrupted by the fine tone.
"I'm not Mycroft." John heard the ghost of a smile and turned round his brow furrowed with puzzlement, wondering who on earth wanted to talk to a blogger? His eyes widened with recognition as he saw the familiar figure.
On a bench, the bench in fact where he had first heard of the apartment free, was a man. A man, dressed in a shirt, with a tweed jacket and too-short jeans that showed off polished, gleaming boots, laces tied-up to the max. His face was set, old, old eyes staring out from under a high brow. His nose was broad and his jaw was square. Brown, floppy hair was tucked back and styled and his legs were crossed as he lay back against the wooden back rest.
"Doctor." he said, leaning on his cane.
"I got your message." said the Doctor, looking down, a sadness creeping in as he surveyed his friend after the death of another. John had a pain, a pain that he could quickly identify. He'd been through it a lot of times. With Rose, Donna, Martha, Sarah-Jane and River.
"Yes...I can see that." said Watson, bringing his friend out of his daydreaming. John limped over and sat down on the cold, hard bench.
"How have you been?" said the Doctor, looking at him.
"How do you think?" He cleared his throat, leaning back against the wood.
"I know how you feel." said the Doctor, his eyes glassing over again.
"No, NO! You don't! No one does..." He cried, angrily. He tried to stand up but the Doctor held him back with a flat palm. John was having none of it and his eyes grew watery...Sherlock was his best friend and he had killed himself. No one could understand.
"I've lost things." The Doctor told him, quietly.
"He was my best friend."
"I've lost friends." said the Doctor, looking away from John and staring out. Oh, yes. He'd lost many, many friends. The Ponds, it was less than 1 month in someone's time since Manhattan and the wounds were still fresh. They were ok, and then they were gone. Away. Like everyone else and everything else. John looked at his friend.
"Who?" He said softly, like a gasp.
"Amy...and Rory." replied the Doctor, clapping his hands together and giving a sad little smile.
"I'm sorry." said John. He rubbed his forehead, letting the news sink in. He'd met the Ponds, once or twice on many mis-adventures. They were nice people. He took one of the Doctor's hands in an attempt to console his friend. The Doctor gave him a painful smile and he mirrored it. Then John gave a small laugh.
"It's just us, isn't it?"
"Seems that way." The rueful smile was injected with humour and the eyes sparkled again, however dull. Sherlock was gone...and so were the Ponds.
"So...you got my message?" John said, trying to get onto topic. He turned to the Doctor, trying to sound light-hearted as he wiped away a tear then sniffed, as if it was going to keep his emotions at bay.
"Yes..." The Doctor didn't look at him, his eyes dancing to look at everything but John's face.
"Doctor?" A tremble was apparent, the word quivering like a violin string. It had to be possible...one last miracle. But the Doctor shot him down.
"You know I can't do anything." replied the Doctor, his voice shaking. John stood up, taking a few steps away from the bench before swivelling around to look at him.
"You have...a TARDIS!" cried John, caution to the wind he then looked up at the sky, hoping to see the blue box seeking to go and save his friend.
"You know I can't!" said the Doctor, who put his head in his hands, a look of pure sadness in his eyes. If he could, who knows what he would have done? There was Susan, and Sarah Jane, Brigadier and the Ponds. Oh, he could have saved them all. Every single one of them. And Sherlock. But he couldn't. Cures of the Timelord, he thought ruefully.
"Doctor...what's the point." said John, his voice a contrast now, it was cool and icy, thick with venom.
"The point...?" The Doctor looked up at him.
"The point of you. If you can't do this..." John broke down and sat back on the bench, his face resting in his hands, tears now fighting their way out, begging to be spilt. "Then what's the point of you?" He finished, gasping, eyes wide. What was the point of a stupid time machine if you couldn't save your BEST friend!
"John you don't understand."
"No, I understand perfectly, Doctor!" he shouted.
"John..." The Doctor motioned for him to calm down but he couldn't this is what he couldn't show his therapist. He want to laugh, he wanted to scream he wanted to cry and beg.
"My friend is dead!" He shouted to the world, snow falling fast now, flakes covering the back of his neck, seeping into the jumper. He didn't mind though, at least he could feel it.
"So are mine."
"You can change that!"
"You know I can't."
"Yes! You CAN! Don't tell me that you can't!"
"John. I can't"
"YOU HAVE TO!" The tears fell freely now, streaking from John's eyes down and down and soaking into the blue jumper. The Doctor's eyes welled.
"Do you not think if I could I wouldn't be...alone, right now? All of them, every single one! Everyone!" The Doctor' stood up pacing, his jaw working furiously to hold back the water works, a stray hand rubbing it furiously. John stared up, eyes wide, and saw pain. He stood up.
"Ok, Doctor. I'm sorry. For doing that. It was-" He cleared his throat, and looked down at his shoes before returning his eyes to the Doctor.
"That's ok. Sorry to you too." He said, chuckling to shrug off pain. For that was what he had always done, at least for the regeneration.

And they both parted ways. The lonely men, the singles. Those who all were gone.

And in the park, watching over them was a man, in a blue scarf, a long coat with it's collar turned up to look cool. A tear ran over the sociopath's cheekbones as he watched his friends depart.
And over in the other field, near the playground were two children by the names Angie and Artie, playing whilst being minded by one Clara Oswald.