Chapter Two.

He hadn't left the TARDIS for almost a month. He hadn't even tried, too afraid of what he might do if he did. He had killed a man. An innocent. After it happened, he'd stood in the bathroom for hours, rubbing his hands past raw, trying to get rid of the taint they now possessed. He only stopped when the TARDIS turned off the water off, and mentally screeched at him until the pressure made him pass out. He'd woken up in his bed, feeling rested, and all he could think of was that he didn't deserve it.

Thus began his self imposed exile, staying in the TARDIS, and ignoring the outside world. He tried to pretend nothing had happened, that he hadn't gone outside because he didn't want to, that the TARDIS really needed these repairs, that that book really needed reading, that his garden room really needed tending. But every time he closed his eyes, or looked at his hands, or he dropped a tool and it made a 'clang' when it hit the floor, he saw him. The man he killed, and everything, the fear, the panic, the closed throat, the horror... the relief. That feeling of exhilaration as the adrenaline burned through his veins. It all came back. Then he'd feel sick again, and the walls would close in, and he'd find himself wishing he'd just died in the war. Because that would be so easy. So easy compared to this turbulent storm of emotions he was facing.

What was wrong with him? He, who had stood, when so many had fallen. Was this it? Was he falling? It certainly felt like it. Falling down deeper and deeper until he would never be able to get back up. Was this what war did? Made a person so dependant on fear and death that killing someone, an innocent no less, made him feel better? Or was he always like this?

He dropped the book he was reading, pages long forgotten, and stood, unsure of what else to do. Was he always like this? Had he had this urge, this subconscious longing to kill since his first form? Because that's what it was. A longing. He had felt it building the past week. This desire to feel that peace again, that steadiness. He wanted it, craved it so badly... It terrified him.

He scratched his neck, and pulled at his shirt. He felt so hot, his skin prickly. Turning, he could've sworn he saw the walls moving in closer in his peripheral vision. He had to get out. This was insane. He was built to travel, to run, and here he was, hiding in his ship, all because he was afraid of himself? No. He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't trap himself like this. It was an urge, a craving, that's all it was. Like a sudden desire for chips, or chocolate. He could control that. He just had to stay away from crowds, and loud noises. Then he was safe.

With that thought, he ran towards the console room, his coat billowing around him. He'd been trapped enough in the war, and he refused to feel it any more than he already had. He wasn't afraid.

~line break~

He was afraid. He was very afraid. He'd made a mistake. He'd set coordinates for a nice, peaceful planet. Of course, with his luck, that wasn't where he'd landed. No crowds, he'd said, no noise, he'd said. Where does he land? The assassination of JFK. Clearly, someone had a death wish, and now, now he was surrounded by people, screaming in happiness, joy at seeing their precious president, unaware of the killer in their midst. Two killers- he corrected himself. There was him, seemingly normal, seemingly harmless, and the other one. The one that was about to kill one of the most influential people of the century. He couldn't be here, this was a fixed point, and if he did anything, everything he'd fought to protect would fail. He had to leave, because when that shot went off, it would be chaos, and he was barely coping as it was. He had to run, run like the mad man he was. And never come ba-

He heard it before he saw it, his ears more sensitive than the humans, even through the noise. War had trained him to recognise the sound of a weapon, feel the subtle shift of the air as it was displaced. He turned to leave, before the others noticed, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the president fall, blood everywhere. He moved faster, hoping that he could leave, run while the people hadn't quite realised what had happened.

He managed two steps before the screaming, this time of panic, started. Bodies moved against him, and he almost fell to the ground as a horde of humans overwhelmed him.

It would be so simple. So easy, just a flick of the wrist, and they'd fall. People would think they got trampled...

He shot up, pushing past the crowd, shoving, hitting, at one point he almost bit the hand of a man who had blocked his path between him and the alleyway he had in his sight. He needed to calm down, to get away from people. He could hide there while the panicked people left, and then he could get in his TARDIS and leave. He didn't want to hurt anyone. Never again. He'd damaged enough in this world, this universe. He didn't need to add to the body count, it was already in the billions. No, not again. He was so close too, a few metres at most. He could make it, he really could.

So easy.

He almost made it.

~line break~

He didn't throw up this time. He wanted to, wanted to feel that disgust so badly, so much... but it never came. Instead, he felt more alive than he had since the war. He felt his hearts beating, his blood pumping through his veins, the very essence of time around him. The restlessness was gone, in its place, euphoria, freedom. He felt normal, like he had before the war, and really, that should have disgusted him. Should have terrified him to his very core, but it didn't.

You like it.

He didn't scrub his hands, instead, he showered, washed the stench of fear and humanity that covered him. He reeked of the stuff, and it clung to him, whispering hints of his past deeds, and he couldn't have that. So he showered, he ate, he fixed the navigator on the TARDIS console, because clearly something went wrong for him to end up there, at a fixed point, when he wanted peace and relaxation. It was when he went to sleep, however, that it all came back. He hadn't sleep for weeks, pushing it, even for a Time Lord.

The event bled into his dreams, and he saw himself kill over and over, felt the rush, the fear around him. Then he'd been on fire, the burn in his veins, and he saw his home burning, searing itself into his memory. He saw that man, at the market, felt the crack of his neck in his hands. So much death, and oh it burned. Burned so bright, he felt dirty, impure, unworthy of living, yet unworthy of the death he had granted others. He wanted to curl up in a ball, he wanted to have never existed. But he didn't deserve it. He saw his friends. Sarah Jane, Ace, Romana... What would they think if they knew of his deeds? Of what he was... he knew. He knew what they would think, what they would do, because it was what he would've done, what he had done at their side, to countless foes. They would end him.

You're a monster...

He woke up shaking, felt his very being tremble, tasted the salty and hot tears streaming down his face. He was a monster. What gave him the right to live, and all those countless, unforgettable numbers to not?

Nothing.