Chapter Eight—Damned

Doctor

Agony.

That was all he could feel, all he could think.

The agony of another creature devouring him, consuming every happy memory—dancing with Rose, running with Martha, befriending Donna, dancing at Amy and Rory's wedding, marrying River, finding Clara, saving Strax, traveling with Susan, living on Gallifrey before it was destroyed, being Santa for Kazran, accidentally getting engaged to Marilyn Monroe, the first time he flew his own TARDIS, all the times he'd saved the universe, Madame de Pompadour—all of those were gone, blotted out, being sucked away by the greedy creature inhaling all his joy and his victories and his livelihood, leaving him an empty shell with his darkest moments.

Ending the Time War by committing double genocide and having to live with that guilt haunting him, hearing the screams of the burning children in his nightmares.

Failing to save River at Demon's Run.

All the times his companions left or were taken: Losing Rose to another dimension; Martha leaving him; Donna, unable to remember because she would burn if she did; Amy and Rory, taken by the angels, who died to be together; River, who sacrificed herself to save him; Clara, who he'd lost so many times and whom he was so afraid of losing again.

When he'd gone to Trenzalore to save his friends, believing he was going to die.

All the times he'd faced down an enemy—the Daleks, the Silence, the angels, the Cybermen, the Sontarans, the Sigorax, the Zygons, the Slitheen—sure he was going to die and accepting that hopeless bleakness as his reality, only to rarely escape and put off the inevitable for a few more years.

Leaving his clone with Rose, because he knew he could never be enough for her, and she would be happier this way.

Living with the guilt of never saying goodbye, always leaving them behind and never looking back because he didn't want to see the trail of tears and destruction he left in his wake.

A groan escaped the Doctor as tears cascaded down his cheeks. He was damned, that's what he was. A damned man running from the inevitable. It was all so pointless, he was so pointless. He couldn't save anyone, because in the end they all died anyways. He was no one's hero. He was no one's savior. He was a mad, genocidal man with a box, leaving his shadow on the universe.

The universe would be better without him, he thought bitterly. Time and time again he'd come close to death, only to somehow miraculously escape. Why? Why couldn't the universe just let him go? Why did he have to escape?

Because he was clever.

But what is the point of being clever, if nobody is there to admire your cleverness? It's an empty sensation that always returned—a little worse, a little harder to bear each time—when he lost them.

His name was a lie. He could not heal. He could not save. He only destroyed. And people praised him or damned him.

This went on for several minutes. The Doctor was losing himself, losing his mind. He wasn't aware that he was screaming or crying, he was too lost in his mental torment to notice any physical anguish, although some part of him was vaguely aware of a burning sensation tearing through his body, similar to the agony of regeneration.

He only became cognizant of this when it abruptly halted.

He collapsed to the cold, hard ground abruptly, gasping and shaking. His breath made fog in the air as he shuddered and tried not to whimper pathetically. He reached up to scrub at his face with trembling hands. Then after a few moments he became aware of the sounds of a struggle: muffled cries of pain, the heavy thunk of a fist colliding with flesh, the sudden crash of a body on the ground followed by a sickening crack that the Doctor sincerely hoped was only a bone breaking and not something more serious, like a skull or a spine or a neck.

With a horrible feeling of foreboding, he slowly turned to look at the source of the sound. He immediately regretted it.

"NO!" he screamed, his throat raw and feeling as if it were on fire from its overuse. The sound of his cry seemed to be wrenched from his soul.

His first impression was of crimson, staining the drab gray concrete. The blood spilled from her skull as her dead eyes stared straight ahead blankly. Her body was lying spread-eagled on its back, and he shuddered, his eyes spilling liquid fire down his now-cold cheeks in the form of tears.

"No…" This time all he could manage was a broken moan. He fell to his knees by her body and pulled it into his arms, cradling her. Not this time, Clara, he'd promised. I won't let anything happen to you this time. I'll keep you safe. Except that she had once again sacrificed herself to save him. Stupid, brave, sentimental fool—

Hissing laughter interrupted his thoughts. His head snapped up, and his eyes immediately locked on the creature. The blank expanse of its face was turned towards him, and it was mockingly chortling as Clara's blood stained his clothes. Gingerly, the Doctor set Clara down again, rising. As he set her aside, he also set aside all personal feelings: his grief, his anger, his shock, his pain, he brushed it all aside as easily as he brushed the dust off his sleeve. He would deal with that later. Right now, he had to destroy this creature. It would burn in hell for causing this.

He sort of blacked out for a moment there. He was still conscious. He was doing…something—Why did his knuckles hurt? Why were there blisters on his skin? Why was he so angry?—but it didn't seem to important. He just had to finish what he was doing.

What was he doing…?

He forced his eyes to focus.

Blood. Blood, everywhere. Blood on the walls, on the ground, on his hands, violent crimson staining his vision. His head spun as he slackened his grip on the cloak of the creature, and it fell in a heap at his feet.

Dead.

He'd killed it.

Oh god, he'd killed it.

He had to get out of here.

Returning to Clara, he woodenly picked her up and carried her back to the TARDIS. He was dimly aware of being grateful the graveyard was abandoned. It would've caused quite a stir if someone had seen him looking so macabre, carrying a girl with her skull cracked open. He shuddered again, hating how cold Clara felt cradled against him. Hating that he couldn't see her pulse beating in her throat. Hating that her eyes—once so warm and alive—were now completely blank and starting to film over. Hating the universe for taking her from him again, for being so cruel. Hating his whole damned existence.

He kicked the blue doors open and shut behind him, ignoring the groan of irate protest he received for that, and carried Clara downstairs to the room under the main control room. He gingerly laid her down on the hammock, as though she was asleep and he didn't want to wake her, instead of dead. He knelt by her body and brushed her hair back from her forehead with a shaking hand. No response. No flutter of the eyelids, no flush on the cheeks, no speeding of her pulse. He pressed his lips to her forehead, his eyes filled with tears that wouldn't come out.

He wished they would. He might feel better if he could cry, if he could get it out. He felt so empty, yet he was hurting so much. His hearts continued to beat, but each beat ached like a sledgehammer smashing against him from the inside, making breathing difficult. He started to gasp, and he leaned his head forward, touching his forehead to the edge of the hammock.

It was no good. It wasn't helping. He couldn't be by himself—he needed a friend, a companion. He needed Clara. Clara, don't leave me. Please, I need you. Where have you gone this time? If I run fast enough, will I find you again?

But she was gone. Gone again.

And this time he felt sure she wasn't coming back.

He couldn't handle it. His mind rejected it. Clara couldn't be gone, she wouldn't just leave him. Surely any second she would open her eyes, take his hand, and save him from this, too. Because that's what Clara does. She saved him, time and again, from everything: Daleks, Cybermen, bad luck, even himself.

Still, no twitch of the hand. No breath entering her lungs. She was gone. She had left, just like all the others. He was alone, he was gone. He closed his eyes as gray dots began to sparkle along his vision. Was he hyperventilating? He couldn't stop. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't handle this.

He was on his own. There was no one left to save the Doctor.

[A/N: Okay so I feel like such a horrible person right now, I know I haven't updated in a while. What can I say, life is busy and it sucks. Not to mention I've been having a bit of block for this. HOWEVER, I have finally figured out how I want to do this. So I stayed up till midnight, sacrificing precious sleep and study time to type this up to give to you guys. I am officially closing the voting for this story, as I have the couple picked based on the eleven votes I have received. They won by only one vote, too—it was so close!]

[However…since I'm a horrible person…I'm not going to tell you which couple won. I'm going to let you guys figure it out as the story progresses. Yeah, yeah I know, suspense and hate and crying and angst…I'M SORRY BUT I'M A WRITER! It's how I keep you guys coming back to read more. :) I know, I'm a sadist and a horrible person.]

[Also… don't hate me for how I ended this chapter and PLEASE don't abandon this story! I feel like such a Moffat, but killing Clara was necessary for the story line. I'm sorry—don't hate me! DON'T HATE ME PLEASE. *Runs away screaming from the angry fangirl mob assembling with torches and pitchforks* DON'T KILL ME OR YOU DON'T GET TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.]

—Makenna

P.S. I'll try to update again soon!

P.P.S. Part One is probably end soon.