A/N: A response, of sorts, to Dalek.

Little Boy Lost

So what's the point of you, then?

Your equal, opposite, your convenient other half, in who's eye you see yourself reflected in a perfect aesthetically pleasing parallel, is dead. Frankly, you should be a little less pleased with yourself and a little more disgusted that you've decided genocide actually might have its uses after all.

On the other hand, you are alive and you're moving, but you're not going anywhere anymore. The whole point, if you remember, was the fact that home was a bit shit, really. You didn't look good in ornately decorated flowing robes (and you certainly wouldn't now with the buzz cut – though the hats might fit a little better) and it took an enormous and wholly unofficially imported supply of tea to get you through the Academy's ceremonials. Nobody missed you, exactly, until you started getting involved and the occasional slap on the knuckles meant keeping one wary eye on Gallifrey and the other on the monster that was trying to kill you that week. You're not supposed to kill the monster, of course, not even supposed to try. Cause violence? That's one of the things you don't like. But then that's one of the things that the High Council didn't like either. Not at first, anyway. Violence can be an insidious little bastard, when it's in the mood.

Then, and this is pretty important, let's not forget that you killed Rose. Killed her. You did it again: the greater good ahead of a single life, ahead of a billion, billion lives. The big picture that looks so beautiful when you're far away – and you can get very, very far away when you have a nice, working TARDIS – but get up close and you'll see all the shades of reds and blues and greens that make up that picture is the blood of the dead.

Now you've accepted it, which is a bit of an improvement, and you're drifting. Of course, that's what you always did, and at some point that whole gentleman of the universe had a romantic edge to it and, yes, you rather liked being the mysterious stranger that somehow managed to make everything better, then vanish leaving barely a name behind you. But then, even in those situations where you really and truly believed that, yes, this was it, there was always some notion in the back of your head that you were making a point, doing the right thing, that in the end they'd see that you were right all along and someone might be willing and able to give you a proper welcome home.

But then, Romana did do that once, didn't she?

And were you always this vain?

You really are drifting now, you know. You've lost your point of reference, those great academics in their ivory towers, and who would have imagined that they would be so very good at war when circumstances forced them to it? But then it wasn't a war of weapons and force, but of intellect and power on the scale of creation itself. It was a war of gods.

Who had said that?

You didn't. Oh, how you hope that you didn't, because you aren't better than any of them. Not any of them, you understand. Yet you're here, they're dead, because you decided that you knew better. Somehow you were convinced that you had the picture, the only objective picture, and you wanted things to go on and on and on until the universe's final sunset. That was the way it had always been, in your little world of happy endings.

Perhaps, if you were braver, you would go to the end and wait. Let it all burn out and be reborn in the ashes of the next universe. Perhaps it would be a better one, one with less tragedy than the last. It'd be quiet, those last few hours as all the energy of the cosmos compressed unto itself forever and ever, until that indefinable moment when something intervened and it all began again. Energy – that's all that's left at the end. That's all they're fighting for, all that you fought for. Worth it? Course it was, cause the universe gets to end after what is, all things considered, a damn good run. The hell of infinity avoided, and you can't remember who said that either.

Perhaps if you were there, sitting at the end, you'd really believe what you're saying.

But you can't go, even with all the Dutch courage your body could handle, you can't go, not yet anyway, because there's a new compass now and her name is Rose. So she wants to see the universe, and you can do that. And her Mum wants her home safe and sound, and you think, you hope, you can do that too.

Today you almost failed.

Today she died for a bit, and that was your fault.

It scares you so much because you do need her. You need her. As much as you need nutrients and oxygen and freedom. This way, you're not just drifting anymore; you've got a job to do. There's a whole universe for her out there, and you get to be her guide, show her the sights and expand her mind. Help her overcome those little flaws that come with being human and introverted and trapped in a circular existence that virtually none of them ever managed to escape.

So you're doing this for her?

Liar.

Pacing isn't helping much now, is it? And look at those cloisters – as old as you feel. Time has a scythe, and she won't forget that you got out. She'll be after you, and you can't afford to get lost ever again. Selfish...of course it is. But you're not the only one benefiting. Even if she knew, she probably wouldn't hate you.

These are, after all, little goals that you have now. Ones that require a touch of delicacy, perhaps, but you've plenty of time for micro-management. There's been a bit of a problem with the old intellect not being stretched enough, but the whole new opportunities for manic grins and contact with people whose species made it out of the crucible intact and completely sane more than make up for that.

So stop berating yourself. Yeah, right now, Doctor, stop it.

You've got your compass, your TARDIS and, yeah, a map would be nice too, but you don't get everything.

And I think you'll find that the console room is due north.