It was always fun to see him dancing across the console room, flipping switches and pulling levers and pushing buttons and generally making a ruckus. The wide domed area was splashed with bright lights and color, and he was splashed with color too-bright red bowtie, light brown tweed, shiny black shoes, pink socks and a chrome watch. Flying around, with not a care in the world, but so much excitement and happiness he was like a coke bottle about to burst into a thousand little bubbles of delight.
Eleven had a secret.
Tik. Tik. Tik.
That's the sound that the console makes when the whole entire TARDIS, every single room, every single hallway, is coated in darkness except for the little guiding lights on the floor. That's the sound of a little clock ticking, keeping track of the time while everyone sleeps, continuously working on and on and on. The artificial night goes on and on and on. Lights out. Everyone's asleep.
Accept someone's not.
Tik Tik Tik.
A long time ago, when the universe was not so different but the people were, Theta Sigma studied at the Academy back on Gallifrey. He sat in class with his group of friends, unaware that one day most of them would try to murder him out of hate. He was a clever boy, not clever like Koschei was with people or Ushas was with science, but clever all the same. The question had come up by the way the most intriguing questions do-slowly, with the root of the subject in mind, but then somehow detouring and spontaneously spouting out of a pupil's mouth.
"What would happen if a Timelord (Or lady) were to live out all their regenerations?" They would die, said the Teacher, unless they had been granted a new cycle of regenerations. Why would someone ask such a simple question?
But what would happen to their brain? What would happen after one thousand, two thousand, three thousand years, ten thousand years? Would they start to go senile? Would their brain rot away, out of their ears?
Tik Tik Tik.
The Teacher said that brain rotting was extremely unlikely, although not entirely impossible, and after a moment of pause said that he wasn't exactly sure what would happen after a couple thousand years. Middle age was somewhere around seven hundred fifty, he supposed, and a thousand seemed to be like a number of early old age, but a couple thousand after that…
Was The Teacher himself over one thousand? Did he know anyone who was? Of course he wasn't older than a thousand, and stop asking his age! He didn't know anyone personally, besides, perhaps, a couple of his cousins who had seemed to be around forever, and he'd ask them later.
Was The Headmaster over one thousand?
The Headmaster would be most upset at your impolite question, but as far as he, The Teacher, knows, she is not. He had only heard a legend about a Timelord/lady who lived until ten thousand, and even then he wasn't sure what had happened to him.
Then The Teacher shut his book and told them to stop pushing the subject.
Tik Tik Tik.
Officially he's the Eleventh of the line, Eleven meaning two more Doctors to go, but in actuality he's done, he's the last of his line and the last of his kind. A thousand years, he supposes, a little bit more over a thousand, more like a thousand and two hundred-but time travel messes up a lot of things that are supposed to be timed, like age. He really tries not to think about it, even though now he knows that some Timelords/ladies do make it over a thousand, quite a lot of them, but his thousand years are filled with more than living out life day after day, quietly. He's seen most of the universe now, seen more of it than he ever could if he'd stayed back and hadn't run away.
Most of the time he thinks that's a good thing-that he knows more, much more than what they taught him to know.
But sometimes...When it all comes back…
Tik. Tik. Tik.
His eyes burn.
Burn from memories that overwhelm him, of the Time War. Of hundreds of thousands of massacres that he couldn't save. The people who he couldn't save from death and the people who he brought death to.
Shot, stabbed, blasted to bits by explosions. Slashed, punched, kicked, torn into pieces.
Melted, frozen, ripped, spiraling out into nothing.
Bleeding, broken, dying, calling out his name for help.
Burning. They're burning. Burning in his mind and his eyes and the tips of his fingertips. The tips of fingers that held a gun and a staser and a bloodied knife. That have saved many but left countless others to unknown fates, to fates he knew would destroy them. Then they would be gone.
Tik Tik Tik.
That's why he didn't look back, either. Always living in the moment. Because eventually, everyone he knew would be reduced to dust. Ashes. Nothing. Molecules of atoms of dust of nothing. An expansive canvas of black death, with the universe collapsing on itself. He would be alone, all alone. He didn't think about it but he did. The word grabbed him with iron hands, painfully forcing him to repeat the word over and over again.
Alone.
Alone.
Alone.
He would be all Alone.
Tik. Tik. Tik.
These thoughts came sometimes, when almost all the lights are out, when he's all by himself in the console room. They forced him to relive every horrifying moment of his life, every regret and every painful memory, every single death. Every single loss of life by his hand, or watched by his eyes. His past caught up with him, then, the most violent parts being shoved down his throat, choking him.
Strangling him.
Every. Not. Breath. Is. Death.
Tik Tik Tik.
Except this time he believes it really is Death, /the/ Death, draining his lungs and closing up his throat, pulling an invisible noose tight around his neck. Every breath he does get is not relief, but poison, stabbing him in the chest. His hearts pound and his body, legs, arms, hands, shake, pale sickly white in the darkened light of the room. There's a roaring in his ears as he beholds the site of blood and death, of bodies strewn about and smoking. His mouth can taste the smoke of the explosions, the taste of blood. The roar in his ears screams, a thousand voices in his ears screaming for mercy, screaming for pain, and he tries to scream with them, his mouth wide open and nothing coming out.
Tik...Tik...Tik...
He's done for. It's over. He can't move. He can't scream.
Tik...Tik...
The images layer over each other until they're unable to be separated, knives each carving a new scar into his hearts. His eyes are wide, his tongue out, his blood is rushing.
But he still. Can't. Scream.
Tik...
Everything's going black, it's all going to hell, he feels his body collapse on itself and-
He screams.
...
He screams and screams and screams, until his throat is raw and aching but he still screams anyway. He screams for the images to go away. He screams for pain, for loss, for sorrow. He screams for every time he has watched silently as planets burned and people withered. For every regret, for every misfortune, he screams. For every drop of blood spilled, he screams.
He screams, screams, until finally he can do no more, he's on his hands and knees, panting for breath.
Tik...
He breathes raggedly.
Raggedly.
Raggedy man, goodbye.
No.
He banishes the thought. He's done. That memory won't haunt him again, at least not now.
The blackness in his vision clears, and he sees a dark and blurry console room. He wipes his eyes, and is surprised to find to find tears in his eyes, running down his face.
He looks down. At least he hasn't pissed his pants.
Tik...Tik..
He clenches his fists. In, out. Breathe, he tells himself, breathe. It's over now, those memories. They've gone back to recesses of his mind, and they won't bother him for a long while. He won't let them bother him. His chest heaves up...and down. Up...and down. With each breath, the memories, the feelings dissipate, losing their hold over him. He's returning to normal. He's becoming himself, The Doctor, again.
Tik...Tik...Tik...
He pulls himself up, using the console to steady himself. Maybe he'll go for a walk today. He hasn't done that for a while. Visit someone, anyone. He hasn't seen Madame Vastra in a while-maybe he'll go check up on her. She's still alive, right? He's got a time machine, of course she is.
Tik. Tik. Tik.
He may be at the end of his run, but he's not ready to die. And certainly not alone. He can't sit down, he's got to get up, he's got to keep moving, to replace those old, terrible memories with new, better ones. He's not ready to move on, but he'll go for a walk. Walks are good. Let's go for a walk. Maybe even a jog, if he doesn't run out of breath.
Tik. Tik. Tik.
He's a Timelord, a ticking clock. He's The Doctor, and he doesn't give up.
No matter what.