He was being very specific in his commands; self-enforced, small goals that he could barely accomplish in order to function without too many strange looks from the humans he passed.


Walk to the next block. Turn. Walk a block. One foot after the other. Repeat. Go to park.

He knew that those commands should have been simple, but his feet were leaden and stiff. He just wanted to collapse- to have a meltdown and regress back into his formerly catatonic state.


The voice was, as always, correct. Regression was ineffective, selfish, and stupid. It would burden those who were cursed with him as a friend, and it would serve to make them more concerned for him then they already were.

He was near the ladder in the park. People were milling about, but the built-in perception filter would fix that.

Grab ladder. Pull ladder down. Climb ladder.

He could feel his strength leave him as it happened; he knew what the problem was too. He was triggered, triggered more than he had been ever since he had been in the past near-year.


He had tried to stay in isolation during that year, but it was difficult with the TARDIS forcing him down to the human world everyday and his friends trying to fix him, metaphorically and well as literally.

As he rose on the staircase, his breath quickened. He was in the throes of a panic-attack. He had only been in this state once since he had been there; his reaction to them locking him in the small room.

Trying to ignore his fear, suddenly relying on his respiratory bypass system, he felt something wet go down his cheek.


He wiped it away with a suddenly renewed energy. Feeling it pulse in his bones, he jogged up the stairs, onto the super-dense water crystals, and put a hand against his TARDIS, right below the Saint John's Ambulance sticker.

He could feel her greet him warmly, her gladness at his current well-being. The tears started falling freely now; he didn't deserve such devotion nor concern. He wasn't a person and attachment to monsters never ended well. The TARDIS deserved so much better than to be tethered by his selfishness and neediness and corruption.


He didn't know what he was supposed to do. He had no purpose, hadn't in so long, if he ever had, and he just couldn't cope.

He hadn't been coping and that just led to even more problems and there was no way out and he wasn't able to do anything and nothing he did was worthitanditallcamedowntoabsolutelynothinganditjustwasn'trightand-

He standing near the edge of the cloud, looking down in anticipation; because it would just be so easy to jump take a step forward and that would be it. He had survived higher falls, but what if? Oh, sure, his friends would mourn because they somehow couldn't comprehend the fact that he was a monster, and someone would have to cremate his body, and his TARDIS would shut off and die-

Wait, no, he couldn't let that happen. She was a person, and even though she deserved better than him, and death was better than him, she also deserved better than death.

He took a step back from the edge and took a deep breath, before turning and entering the TARDIS.


He could program the TARDIS to go to a specific place in the event of her "pilot"-


-was no longer there to pilot her. The current programming would tell her to shut down, to rot. He had never changed that since he stole her away on Gallifrey.


He went over to the console and pulled the monitor toward him, typing things in quickly.

Then, without him expecting it, he saw an angry flash of lights and received an electric shock; however, he did nothing about it and continued working. What was a bit of pain to him? What was he to do when he continued receiving shocks from the TARDIS? Complain, like he was being wronged?

He shrugged off the pain he was receiving until he heard a small voice behind him.

"Voice interface enabled," it droned. He was standing before a perfect copy of himself.

Disgusted, he turned to it and asked loudly, "What?"

"Internal Programming is being changed in the event of the primary pilot's death. Enable changes?" it asked.

He rolled his eyes, and turned back toward the screen. He could do that manually, without the interface's help. Without his own help, because he never helped anyone, and a copy of himself would undoubtedly suffer from his likeness.

Pressing the keys faster, still ignoring the electric shocks, he looked at the screen and starting typing in coordinates.

He would have to give the TARDIS to River Song, his wife.


He finalized the coordinates and he heard the interface disappear. He breathed a sigh of relief. He wouldn't have to deal with himself (even he didn't want to deal with him), and he could continue on.

He scrambled down the corridor almost hurried. He had time, he was sure, but there was an urgency to this.

What was he to use though? He had nothing dangerous on him.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to feel what they had allowed him to keep.

He had his screwdriver, but that would do him no good. He had a pair of child-proof safety scissors, courtesy of the twentieth century, which were basically utterly useless, and a pad of psychic paper.


Damn it. He couldn't obtain anything dangerous inside the TARDIS, she was too cautious for that.

He trembled, for what was he to do? He had nothing. He was nothing. He would be nothing.

To be nothing for him would be such a gift. He wished he could just think of a way to accomplish it.

In utter desperation, he opened a random door and walked in; it was the small room she had used in the past when she didn't want him to hide, when she was concerned for him.

He ignored though, and forced himself into the room. It was so small, and it terrified him. His hearts were wild, not synchronized. He was so small and the walls were too close together and he heard the door lock behind him.

He knew he was just imagining the last part too, because the door wasn't even closed the whole way.

He took the safety scissors from his pocket and, with everything he had stored within him since his friends caught him cutting the previous night. All of the shame and guilt and fear and loathing went into the scissors, which he snapped in half.

They weren't designed to be dangerous, but anything with a broken, jagged edge was dangerous. Without concern, he ripped of the bandaged from that morning and put the newly made weapon near his wrist, pressed down, and dragged.

The pain was immediate, and as he felt the wet blood trickle down his hand, the satisfaction occurred and he knew the voice was gone.

And, with luck (or mercy), he would never hear it again.

That day would be a blessing; the only thing he had left to look forward to. Maybe, if he was lucky, his friends had received some sort of spoilers and were only taking care of him for that and wouldn't even be sad.

That would be the best; a happy ending.

Eagerly, he slashed at his wrist again, seeing through the light of the hallway that his hand was soaked and the green of the broken plastic was also stained. It was more blood than he had lost in so long and it felt so right. It was hard to believe that less than two hours ago he was ashamed of doing this. Ashamed of his need for absolution.

He had wronged so many people. He was a murderer, someone who was too selfish to realize the pain that he inflicted on others; someone who didn't care what he did that hurt others. He was a monster that needed to be stopped at all costs.

The easiest of costs was him taking his own life. No one would feel guilt at his passing coming from their hand, and he had killed so many people that thought him good that the only ones left were only three; three that knew how to move on, and understood (to a degree) the reality of his taint.

The third slash was laced with ecstasy. The pain, so bitter, made everything so intense; his life-force slipping away, the deserved self-loathing, the awareness of his uselessness were all reasons to continue.

He was going light-headed. He was losing consciousness, and he would never awaken. The universe would be well; the cancer would be eradicated.

Of course, just as he was on the brink of peace, he heard running.

They were going to find him and try to save him. Bile rose up in his throat as he knew that now he had a chance of surviving. That was such a horrible thought.

"He's in here!" he heard as the door swung open. It was high-pitched, human, ergo, Jenny.

"What's his condition?" he heard from farther away.

"His cut up his wrist and he..." he heard, but her voice just grew quieter, until he felt the jagged plastic taken from him.

"I thought we just spoke about this," he heard, muttered. The Madame was cross with him, as she was apt to be.

He felt his arm being tugged on and pressure being put onto his upper arm.

His vision, blurry, saw Strax working on his arm.

That was so wrong though. He was supposed to die, his TARDIS going to River and nobody ever sparing him another thought. He had always taken onto himself to eliminate what was wrong, so why stop? He pulled his arm away weakly, struggling away from the Sontaran's grip.

"We're tryin' to help you, Doctor!" he heard Jenny protest.

Shakily, he forced himself forward and to the door, at which point his arm was grabbed by one of them. Still resisting, he suddenly pulled to the side with the last of his strength, before he collapsed against the wall. Then he was pulled forward and his arm was twisted behind his back, while his injured arm was pulled before him and his head was pulled back. While it wasn't a very pleasant position on his part, he had to admit that it was effective. His whole body was forced to become rigid, so even if he could resist, he would find great difficulty doing so.

Still losing consciousness, he slumped, his breaths becoming shallower. Then he passed out.

He awoke on a bed, his left arm aching, and his right arm handcuffed to the bed-post.

It was the middle of the night, but that was to his advantage. They didn't know he was awake, and wouldn't until they were awake, and that gave him time to try and escape and fix everything.

Grunting, he moved his injured arm, ignoring the sharpness of the pain, even beneath what he knew were bandages. The blanket, though, was too heavy for his arm to lift single-handed.

Stubbornly, he inched himself up into a sitting position, and slipped his arm out of the blanket, hissing as it pulled down on the bandage, causing a stinging pain to shoot up his arm.

He didn't focus on that, nor did he revel in the satisfaction of it hurting, but instead forced his arm over to his other arm, and starting fiddling with the handcuff. It was on tight enough that pulling on it caused it to dig into his skin, but not enough that it cut off his blood supply. Damn, he thought, they thought it out.

He could just pull on the chain until it broke loose of the cuff he was in, because then he would have two injured arms, and he wouldn't get very far. He was trapped, and they would wake up soon and learn he was awake and that would be bothersome. He really, really wanted to never wake up. He didn't deserve to live but they kept on forcing him to continue on and it was wrong.

He wasn't a person, and he would end up killing them if he continued living. Their association with him would lead to their demise, as it had everyone else. As utterly amazing as they were, they weren't exempt from his taint, his corruption. Their attempts to help him, make him feel his taint was lesser than it was, was inaccurate and would only make his evil worse.

In a new desperation, he looked around the room, even though his eyes were maladjusted to the dark. There was nothing in his reach that he could use a lock pick, frustrating him.

"Calm down, Doctor," he heard, as the door on the far side of the room rattled. "You woke up a few hours earlier than we thought you would," the same voice pointed out. "It's only four in the morning."

"Sorry," he muttered. Of course. The Madame was telepathically connected to him, even though he limited the connection to almost non-existence. In his struggle to correct things, he had awaken her. He hadn't the right to-

"You're anxious," she said, bringing a candle in with her.

He did nothing in response, even though he felt like he needed to. Looking at her, the severity of his action quickly became apparent. He had, after he promised to tell them when he wasn't alright, tried to kill himself, again. And there was light, which was always a bad thing. Carefully, in silence, he watched as she lit a lamp near the bed he was tied to.

"I assume you're upset about the fact that you're unable to leave?" she guessed, glancing down at his arm. "The fact that you're still alive as well?"

He bit back a scathing remark; it would only shame them both. Instead, he held his breath, seeing what she would do next. She sat down on the bed, next to him, and lifted his injured arm, gently.

"You shouldn't use this arm for a while," she said, "at least until Strax says you can."

He tensed his arm, and tugged it the other way. She let his arm drop, and he ignored the flash of pain that occurred when it hit the soft mattress. She observed his arm for a second before returning her eyes to him.

"Do you remember when we had that discussion about your addiction?" she asked. He purposefully averted his eyes before returning eye contact and nodding.

"And do you remember what we said we would do if you didn't eat?" she asked. He looked at her with confusion before nodding.

"Of course," he said softly, "but what does that have to do with anything?"

"The same concept applies with any form of self-injury, from now on," she said. "It's an addiction, we're not letting you feed it."

"You won't be able to stop me," he said, sighing. "I'll escape eventually."

"We'll see," she challenged, "but, for the time being, you're on suicide watch; and you're not leaving when we think you're okay this time, you've lost that privilege."

He nodded in acceptance. As wrong as it was, he could (sort of) see it from their point of view, even though he disagreed with it. He was in no position to argue though. He hadn't the right to openly defy them as he had done, so he had to somehow come up with a better solution.

"You're planning on disobeying," she said, "and don't bother lying, I've linked myself to you."

"How the hell did you even do that?" he asked, his eyes containing the first traces of energy that it had since the start of the conversation.

"Against your unconscious will, naturally," she said. "However, you needn't worry. You left extra psychic blocks to parts of your mind, which I didn't invade."

"Always prepared," he shrugged off. "I should feel violated."

"But you don't," she pointed out. "For some time, you've been expecting us to become stricter with you."

Of course he had, it was only natural. If he were in their position, he would have become as such in a shorter period of time. Contrary to any way he was acting, he wasn't an idiot. He knew better than to not prepare for the worst.

"You should go back to sleep," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Oh," she said, cocking an imaginary brown, "are you implying something?"

"You look like hell," he said. She did, her eyes sunken and her posture more Silurian than it had been after she had adjusted to the humans, her ruffled sleeping gown and candle not helping the image. "Go to bed."

She nodded in resignation and stood, before leaving without further comment.

He tried to ignore the giddy laughter of the voice that made itself known as she closed the door, leaving the lamp lit.

Jenny came for him much later (his mind was not processing human time correctly; a malfunction as annoying as blurry vision), taking a key from her pocket and taking him out of the handcuff before otherwise acknowledging his existence.

"We're goin' to the kitchen, without any trouble. You got that?" she asked as he pushed himself off the bed.


"No trying to run off," he agreed, walking a few steps behind her as they left the room and went down the stairs.

They entered the kitchen with no more dialogue, until she pointed at a chair and ordered, as she had an undisclosed amount of time ago, and told him to sit.

Obedient, he sat and wrung his hands, trying his hardest not to wince as the muscles that he had torn contracted.


"Don't work with your left arm," Jenny scolded, as she started to put some sort of food onto a plate (something human, English, and unidentifiable that looked like bread but didn't smell like it).

He put his left arm down, letting it hang limply at his side, before she placed a plate of whatever she had made before him, along with a fork. It was already cut, but whether that was in consideration for his arm or proving a point that he was no longer trusted with any sort of sharp object, he didn't know.


"Vastra's talking to the Inspector in the conservatory," she said, "and Strax is doing God knows. They both want to speak with you later, though."

He nodded, before poking at the food with his fork.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's- you've never had French Toast before?" she asked, a grasp of desperately denying awe in her voice, a form of anxiety relief he felt grateful for.


"Is it common?" he asked, curious.

"Very, and I doubt it's gonna disappear in the next few decades," she said, before sitting down herself and watching him.

"What's it made out of?" he quizzed, the food strongly smelling of egg confused him.

"It's bread dipped in- does it matter?" she asked. "You have to eat anyway."

He pondered that for a second, before finally taking a bite of the food.


He continued eating until he heard footsteps coming in behind him, which he instantly turned to. They were heavier, more clumsy than the Madame's, but far longer in strides than Strax.

"Who's this?" the man asked. He was slightly overweight, but young (youngish), with a mustache typical of the era.

"That's a friend," the Madame said, appearing behind the man, in clothes that implied she was soon to go outside.

He was quite uncertain of what he was to do next that wouldn't break social etiquette, especially in the arrogantly proper Victorian era.

"Is he the one you said could do autopsies?" the man asked. He must have been the Inspector.

"That's somebody different," the Madame said. The Doctor could see her amusement.

"Introduce yourself," Jenny suggested from across the table, rolling her eyes. In a false calm that had not graced his manner in almost an entire year, he stood and held his hand out to shake.


"John Smith," he said as the man took his hand.

"Fredrick Abberline," the man said.

He felt a panic rise in his being as they released their hands. What was he supposed to do next? He had already ruined a small part of his life by haven spoken to him, having interacted with him, so what was he supposed to do?

"Perhaps it's time for you to lead me to crime scene, Inspector?" the Madame swooped in, saving him from doing anything.

"Yes, yes, indeed," Abberline agreed, as the two left.

They continued to exchange details about the scene of the crime as they left out of the door, and the Doctor returned to his seat quietly, finishing the meal Jenny had made for him.

He pretended the voice wasn't screaming because of his sin.

"Hold you left arm out," Strax ordered, in the conservatory as they stood around him.

Carefully, hesitantly, he held is hand out, which Strax grabbed at the elbow, unwinding the bandages that covered his most recent suicide attempt.


The wounds were closed, fragile perhaps, but closed. They were red scars on his wrist, extending vertically to the ground. Just seeing them made him want to duplicate them, to cause such beautiful pain onto his evil, sick twisted being as everything trickled to noth-

"Snap out of it, Doctor," the Madame warned.

He shook his head slightly and watched as Strax carefully brought his wand against the wounds.

"They will heal more quickly when exposed," Strax said, pocketing the instrument and letting go of his arm.

Pulling his sleeve down, he attempted to stand, only for the Madame to pull him back down, and put her hand on his head, injecting focused thoughts into his mind, instead of calming ones.

Vehemently rejecting the foreign emotion, he attempted to shut his mind away from her, failing spectacularly.

"You're in a foul mood," she observed, moving in front of him.

"Jenny, Strax, if you might leave us?" she requested, and they both exited the room, understanding the importance of solitude between the two, even thought they were undoubtedly listening at the door.

"You were afraid when speaking with Inspector Abberline, this morning," she began, "even thought you looked more like yourself than you have in months. Why is that?"

He shrugged, unsure himself of the reason.

"Answer verbally, Doctor," she said, sitting in a chair across from him.

"I don't know," he said, leaning forward and picking at his sleeve's cuff.

"Think about it. I'll come back to it later," she promise. "Now, it's time for the interesting part, I guess.

"Why are you constantly triggered? What makes you feel like hurting yourself is a legitimately good idea?"

He froze for a second, his hearts simultaneously skipping beats. How was he supposed to explain it? How could he tell her about the voice (scream) and how honest it was and how much of a monster he was and how much he deserved to die? How much he deserved to be in pain and agony? How was he supposed to explain the gnawing at his bones and mind and hearts because of his sin? How he sometimes hallucinated his taint, smearing onto everything he touched unless he purified it?

"It just is," he said simply, not explaining it more.

"No it isn't," she argued. "Something convinced you of that. Maybe it was you, yourself, and maybe it wasn't. However, you believe it, so it isn't something that 'just is'."

"I can't explain it," he said, shaking his head. "It's right."

"How so?" she asked, also leaning forward.

"I... I'm not a person," he said, trying to explain. "I'm a monster. My life destroys others."

"We've been over, this, Doctor," she sighed, "A monster doesn't feel remorse, guilt, or shame. Only people do. You are not a poison, like you seem to think you are."

He bit back frustration. Why was it that she was never able to understand what he was?

"You'll never be able to convince any of us," she said, "because it's simply not true."

He did nothing. There was no point to any of it. He couldn't convince them, he couldn't die, he couldn't tell them-

"Calm down," she said, soothingly, grounding his mentality and preventing it from wandering. That was just frustrating, honestly. He couldn't even think independently anymore.

He shouldn't have felt so bad about that. The voice had been controlling his thoughts before that.

The voice...

Was the voice the source of his current problems? It was the one that reminded him of those truths, but it came from his own mind. It was a suffering of his own design, so would it even be relevant?

"That's interesting," she noted.

"What is?" he asked, completely bemused.

"You've taken my words into serious consideration. That's not what you usually do," she pointed out. "Normally you dismiss it with twisted logic and self-hatred."

"Yes," he admitted, wincing at the bluntness of her statement.

"So, what's your reasoning?" she pressed, stretching her hand to meet his.

"A... a voice that doesn't sound like I do in my mind," he said, twisting his hands.

"What do you mean?" she asked, alert. "Describe it."

"It doesn't think in first-person pronouns," he answered, his voice trailing off.

"I don't think it's a good idea for you to be doing dangerous things, yet," Vastra said lazily, as she flipped a page in her book.

"What do you mean?" the Doctor asked, feeling quite distinctly as if he had missed an important part of the statement.

"We destroyed the parasite," she said, not looking up, "but you're still depressed. The parasite only amplified your emotions; it had no control of which emotions you felt or your actions as a result of them."

He shifted, knowing where the conversation was heading.

"If you ever do get into a dangerous situation, there's no guarantee you won't decide it's a good time to get yourself killed. You know that's a risk," she said, as he opened his mouth to protest.

Jenny, in the chair next to her wife, nodded.

"If you were desperate for pain then, I wouldn't put it past you to kill yourself in the heat of the moment," she said.

He felt a small glimmer of a reminisce of the feeling of being completely and utterly trapped, as he had so long (so short a time, less than 2 weeks) ago.

"Then what am I supposed to do?" he asked, confused.

"Stay here until you're better," Vastra proposed.

"I impose on you enough as it is," he said, rolling his eyes.

She hissed gently, a reminder that he was still under their control until they let him leave (hopefully soon), and he wasn't able to control it either way.

"In London, at least," Jenny cut in before Vastra could retort.

"We need to keep an eye on you," Vastra agreed.

He tried to bite down the self-loathing (his own voice, slow, first-person pronouns), that came with that.

I'm not good enough to deserve that

"Especially until such thoughts are gone," she emphasized, getting the gist of his feelings through their decreased link.

"But Vastra," he whined, falsely, "the thoughts'll always be there, no?"

"Not funny," she said, flipping another page.

"Worth a try," he shrugged, reaching into his pocket, past the scissors and the paperweight to a Rubik Cube, pulling it out and scrambling it.

He was sure that they were at least considering letting him go, to leave, but they hadn't cleared him yet, as close as their conversation had come. He wished they would fill their minds with the fact that he wasn't planning on going out into the world anyway.

Red-orange spilling onto the ground as he stood watching it with a maniac expression, until they came and fixed him and told him his behavior was unacceptable and he would just do it again a few nights later, relishing the feel of some sort of blade or glass dig into his flesh.

He couldn't let that happen again. It did nothing for anyone; them especially, as they were reminded to worry about him every time his sleeve was pushed up, the angry scars on his wrist still fading.

The thought of going out into the world filled him with terror. What if he did something wrong? What if he died? The fear of death was embellished in him, recently, just as his previous regeneration had at the end.

Life, he wanted life. Going out into the universe, there was no point in that. He would just end up dying anyway, right? He had to stay isolated though, in case the Paternoster Gang decided he was a danger to himself again.

Isolation was perfect. He had his cloud, the TARDIS, and he was alive. What else did he need.

What was the word humans used when they decided they wanted to quit their jobs?

Oh, yes. He had retired.

And series 7 progresses as normal. This, if you couldn't figure out, is the end of a series, yay. I'll add more, though, smaller pieces that fit in. More songfics, probably.

So, my usual thing. I'm Spirit of Gray, a dyslexic American. Please feel free to correct things that are wrong grammatically

The point of the whole series isn't me dealing about my depression by angsting online. I had two cousins, twins, who were in a car wreck earlier this year. One died on impact, and the other died en route to the hospital. Their older sister had cutting, and finally decided to stop. In the memory of what happened to that part of my family, I decided to write this, with that sister's help.

I'm not endorsing self-injury or suicide in these fics, but trying to portray them in a serious way that makes people understand what my cousin said she felt like at times.

I hope you enjoyed the series. Over and out!