Disclaimer: I own nothing. I don't even own my soul, for that belongs to a man in a blue box.

A/N: I swear my writing looks more coherent when I'm sleep-deprived.


Of Dreams & Nightmares

There is a reason why the Doctor never sleeps.

There are the nightmares. Running, screaming, burning, dying. The anguished calls of every person who has ever slipped into his subconscious. It's his fault, all his fault; it always will be his fault. He can never save everyone, it's pointless even trying. The screams echo in his mind, bouncing, biting, increasing in pitch until his brain forces him awake and he runs, runs to forget it all.

(The nightmares are not nightmares. They are memories.)

There are dreams amongst the nightmares, scattered like drops of water quivering on leaves after rain. Dreams of running, a far different sort of running, the exhilarating kind where your goal is everything you ever wished for. Dreams of home, a world that never was and never will be; a slanted vision of beauty forgotten and yet remembered. Dreams of falling asleep without the nightmares, a double heartbeat curled within his arms. He sleeps soundly with these dreams.

(The dreams are not dreams. They are memories.)

Sometimes, the dreams scare him more than the nightmares.