Disclaimer: Neither Doctor Who nor Torchwood belong to me nor do I lay claim to them in any way.
It sat in a heart. It sat in a heart so heavy being the last of your kind; standing at the brink of nothing with stories to tell, memories to share, questions to ask. And no one to tellshareask. Rose was unreachable. Martha was off being the title she earned, a real doctor; not just a title chosen to hide words that could unravel. He was alone.
The lone traveler, the man without a home.
Blinking in and out of worlds, saving hundreds and disappearing without a word.
It wasn't a mere job; it was a life, a life he chose when he ran away from what was left of ten-zero-eleven-zero-zero by zero-two from galactic zero centre. He hated the death, the people who sacrificed everything for him. Their faces flashed before his eyes, always there, always haunting. So many. Those faces sat heavy as well, next to his loneliness. Never able to be forgotten lest their deaths be in vain. He despaired inside, so craving a death he could not have, his own makeup rebelling against him with regeneration after regeneration never offering a moments respite from the pain and sadness.
But then he would experience something wonderful. Something so entirely brilliant it revitalized his desire to live and keep living. New worlds. New species'. New heroes. New stories. The pain and sadness paved the way for delight and happiness. Without one there could not be the other. He saw humans fight for their future; he helped an Isolus to find its family, he saw a new species saved from disease.
And just when he had thought he'd seen it all something would spark before his eyes and he would learn something new.
He learned that there were sometimes friends who stood the chance of time. Millions of years, even.
"Doctor."
"Captain."
And he told his stories. He told them to someone who knew not why he told them. He told them to someone who would understand one day what it meant to be so old and so alone. The last of your kind.
