A/N:
I am so sorry ahead of time. Just...really...I'm sorry. I've no idea what compelled me to write this. Please review anyways?
It had been weeks, weeks, since the Ponds…died. Since...Amy died.
Amelia Pond: the girl who waited.
In the end, the Doctor had known it wouldn't be him she would choose. He had known, with all his hearts, that Amelia would always choose Rory. And that was how it should have been—it was so…human.
But things weren't getting better.
And the Doctor couldn't stand it.
River had left him shortly after the incident with the Angel—incident…was that what he was calling their deaths now?—and he'd broken back down. While River had been with him, he held back his tears, because River Song was strong and, no matter what, he would stay strong for her. He wouldn't let her see his pain.
Now, the TARDIS was so empty, so lonely. She groaned and creaked, her grief clear as the Doctor's. He had tried to distract himself from the loss of his friends—the loss of his best friend—but nothing worked. Everywhere, everywhen, he went, there was always that little nagging voice in the back of his mind, reminding him:
"Amy would have loved this."
"The year 2000…the same number of years Rory the Roman waited for Amelia Pond."
"Rio…you always promised Amelia you would take her to Rio."
"No, you can't go there; Gallifreyans were banned ages ago."
"But, on the other hand, Gallifrey is gone now…"
"…Just like Amelia."
"Gone."
"Gone."
"Gone."
Their deaths had taken their toll on the Doctor's health—both mentally and physically. He was thin and frail, his clothes hanging off his body loosely, as he had stopped eating and sleeping. He would constantly talk aloud, nothing new there, but he only did it in the hopes that one of the Ponds would reply. They never did. His already scattered thoughts made less and less sense as he went on.
Until one day he was roaming around the TARDIS, aimlessly, and accidentally found himself in their bedroom.
He turned to leave immediately of course, their memory causing him too much pain, but something was keeping him there. He slowly found himself walking over to their set of bunk beds. Sitting on the bottom bunk, he inhaled deeply, their scent preserved perfectly in the room. He looked around, feeling numb as he was overcome with memories.
Amy's skirt—the one that combined with her husband and the Doctor's glass floor to cause the TARDIS to materialize inside itself. Rory's centurion outfit—the boy who waited. Amy's reading glasses. A replica of Van Gogh's Sunflowers.
A cricket bat—the one Amy used to hit the Doctor's head when he came back for her, twelve years late, he was certain of it.
It quickly became too much for him. The Doctor got up to leave, when a small, white cylinder caught the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he read the label.
Advil.
Perfectly safe, so long as it was taken in small doses. But the Doctor wasn't thinking about small doses right now.
He'd finally found a way out; a way to escape the pain he was feeling.
Was it selfish? Yes. Cowardly? Absolutely. But everything just hurt too much.
"I'm sorry, River," he murmured, taking the bottle in his hand. The TARDIS would bring him to Torchwood—to Jack—afterwards. She always knew exactly where he needed to go.
And Jack would know what to do with him.
Laying back on the bed and holding Amy's reading glasses to his chest, he poured the almost-completely-full bottle of pills into his mouth and swallowed, closing his eyes.
"Geronimo."