The Doctor doesn't like to sleep.

She remembers when she was a child, dreaming of the worlds she would walk on when she grew up, what people she would meet, what adventures she would have, with her best friend Koschei by her side.

But those childhood fantasies are long past, the innocence of them leaving a bitter taste at the back of her mouth at the merest thought of what might have been. How could she have been so naive?

Now her sleep is the home of nightmares, memories twisted into tragedies, unable to escape guilt even in the arms of Morpheus. She curses the imagination that she had loved as a child, spiralling down timelines and spouting out false futures of death and loss and fear and loneliness.

The blood of millions drips through her fingers whether she is asleep or awake; of children, of innocents, of friends, of her own.

With no sanctuary, nowhere to escape the images in your mind, would you like to sleep either?