There was a time, not long ago, when the universe thought The Doctor dead. And they held their breath in silent mourning, waiting and watching the skies in fear.
But he returned, alive, and the earth took breath again.
He lived on a cloud, now. Far above, like he was better then us. Like a god. He'd gone back to his roots, I suppose, to silently watching this world play out like a film. He didn't even answer his phone anymore, like he could not bring himself to admit he stopped.
Could not stand the cries of help he'd receive.
His hearts had, of course, been broken before. He had been born out of brokenness, with the wight he'd built upon himself. But it had never weighed this much.
Like his hearts threatened to break at any moment.
He retired because a brave, brave man had died and with him, a mad impossible irreplaceable woman. All because he did not wish to be alone.
9 was born out of fire,
10 our of limitless love,
But 11 was born out of sorrow, he was born of loss.
And so he'd tried to fill the gaping hole in his hearts, tried to fill it with a nurse and a kiss-o-gram, tried to fill it with a killer's creation now redeemed, with hats and bowties and acting as though it did not pain him. Laughing and smiling like it was the only thing keeping him from falling.
And he tethered himself to his companions. But when that tether, that rock broke, so did he.
So he retired.
And he stopped.
And the earth held its breath once more.
But then, once, near Christmas, in a small sleepy sort of town under his cloud, she came along. Clara. Bright and trusting. Loud, bubbly, fun, cheery, human Clara. Clara with a stubborn faith The Doctor would save them.
He he never does in the end. Save them.
But what kind if man would he be if he didn't really try? Was he really wrapped so tightly in his own suffering, he let others suffer as well? Amy would be so disappointed.
This is not him. This is not the Doctor or Theta or the Oncoming Storm.
This is Scrooge.
This is Rassilion. Not causing but not helping. He is disgusted with himself. With what he's become.
He's become blind, like him, sitting in his glass bubble while worlds burn and people die, pretending he can not hear the screams of them. He hates the complete apathy of it all. The blissful ignorance he held to the fact that they needed him.
So, with Clara's help, he stops being Scrooge, and starts being The Doctor.
Starts saving them and Clara, who's faith in him had not been broken.
And the earth sighs and rests, looking at the sky, seeing not a threat, but the stars. Christmas stars. And bright, shining, human hope fills them up, knowing their savoir has returned. They look at the blue box whirling through the sky, resting in the knowledge that he's not ever stopping again.
A/N Hope you liked it! Please review, and forgive mistakes. It was typed entirely on my phone, as my left arm is in a cast and I can't bloody type!