Being a prime minister was hard work. Oh wait, no it wasn't. Really, it was simple compared to tasks on Gallifrey. Harold Saxon let out a long sigh and took out his iPod. Quite an interesting invention, but really, he was appalled by how little it could do. He closed his eyes and remembered the music back on Gallifrey. It took him back to a different time.

Swooping, hypnotizing melodies, that reached into your soul and brought every emotion forward. Every note and tone playing with every sense, rising and falling, too much to take in. It consumed you, washing over you in an explosion, the most beautiful explosion ever. It played with time, too. It lasted as long as it needed. For him, it was hours, even days, to wash the drumming out. It left him feeling new, who he was before he looked into the time vortex. He lived for that music. He could laugh, he could scream his till his throat was raw, but he could hear nothing. The screaming felt good, the sharp intake of each breath as he laughed. He couldn't hear the drumming. He could let out his insanity and truly feel… ordinary. He was freed of his agony, he reveled in the freedom. It was singing, but it wasn't audible. It wasn't music that you heard with your ears. You felt it. Now all he had was cheap, loud, senseless music.

He inserted the earbuds in with a twinge of sadness, he would never hear that beautiful music again. Gallifrey was gone. He scrolled through, and touched his finger onto a random song.

Are we growing up, or just going down?

But at the same time,

Dun-dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun

It's just dun-dun-dun-dun matter dun-dun-dun-dun all found out.

He tore out the earbuds in frustration. Why, why, couldn't he get that sense of release, of peace, that the Time Lord music gave him. It wasn't fair. He wondered if drugs would do the same to him, but no matter what, they couldn't stop the drumming. Oh, if only they would work on him. He needed the drugs, he needed the help. If drugs were the closest he would get to the music, his music, real music, then he would do everything he could to get them.

Dun-dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun.

It was endless. He almost wanted the Doctor to come and free him, to help him. He needed the drumming to stop.

He kicked away from his desk and stood up. He screamed, he screamed so loud his ears hurt. Why, why did they have to hurt. He wanted to scream his heart out, but not hear a thing. In a frenzy, still screaming, he tore apart his desk, pulling out drawers, ripping papers, smashing lamps. He cried and screamed and he couldn't stop. He kicked and punched and tore at everything, anything, because he needed to get it all out. He tore with his fingernails, and bit with his teeth. Sparks flew, as he kicked and screamed and used every bit of his strength to destroy.

After what felt like hours, he curled up on the floor of his ruined office and cried. Then his chest shook, but not with sobs, with laughter. He laughed and laughed, and he couldn't stop. Each laugh came out in sync with the drums in his head. And then it stopped.

"Come get me, Doctor." It came out in a garbled, hoarse whisper. "Come kill me."

He whimpered, like a sad dog, lost, in pain, going mad. "Come end this," He whispered. And then, the last word came out in a scream,

"PLEASE!"