"What needs fixin' this time?" The courier heard Doc Mitchell ask this from the other room where he was rinsing his hands in a bucket full of water. The courier didn't answer immediately - he was fine physically. Mentally, however, the Mojave had put him through a cheese grater, blended him up and then used his liquid remains to rinse its teeth. He knew that Doc Mitchell would not be able to help him because, although he had tried to act as one on multiple occasions before, he was no therapist. Even if he was it would take days just to identify the problem with the courier and then days after that to solve it. Ever since the fall of the Legion, the NCR and Mr. House the courier just never felt the same.
In truth, the courier was bored. Without an ongoing war for Hoover Dam he had no purpose. All his friends - Boone, Cassidy, Lily, Rex - abandoned him to resume their lives and live as they did before they met him. He was forced to retire to Goodsprings where he helped defend the inhabitants from Geckos and the occasional raider party. It wasn't exciting for him though because the securitrons were more than able to handle the disasters alone.
"Hey, didja hear me?" Doc Mitchell raised his voice slightly and took the courier out of his thoughts. "I asked what's wrong."
"Oh. I think I've changed my mind," the courier said, standing up from the bed he was sitting on, "I probably just need a Nuka-Cola or something." Doc Mitchell only nodded his head and patted the courier on his shoulder. The courier got a good look at the doctor for the first time in two years and the man had changed.
Mitchell used to be balding from the middle of his head outward and now he had not a single strand of hair on his shiny head. Two years ago the wrinkles on his face were not very noticeable but now no matter what angle the courier observed him from he could see that Doc was old. His forehead reminded the courier of the desert sand during a bad sandstorm and his cheeks and jowls drooped substantially.
"Time flies, eh Doc?" The courier was genuinely sad about the evident aging of this man. If it wasn't for him, the courier would not even be standing here right now.
"Yes," Mitchell answered, sighing heavily, "it does. My bones become more and more brittle by the day, and I don't feel fit to get outta bed in the mornings sometimes. I can see that the sun is setting for me." Mitchell took a step back and slowly sat on the bed that he had saved the courier's life on years ago. "I'm fine with it, though. I'm seventy-three years old, if I've kept track correctly, and I think it's about time I go."
"Doc, don't say that. People still need you."
"Oh no, they don't. You're practically the only person that ever comes in to see me anymore. Nobody ever gets hurt anymore and," the doctor paused to catch his breath, "those that do head over to the auto-doc. I'm old news, my friend."
The courier, with tears in his eyes, walked over to his old friend, hugged him and said, "That makes two of us. I'll see ya later." Doc Mitchell said goodbye, and the courier headed to the front door. Never in a million years could he have predicted what was going to happen next. The courier opened the door and stepped out into the blinding light.