He stood in the alley, his breathing quick and shallow, leaning on a wall. It was too late for them to find him. He had remained outside after going up his cloud, after they escorted him back. He always did what he was told on nights like these, after all. They told him to go into the TARDIS and rest.

The bandages were pressed tightly against his arms. As he looked at them, he knew that he was right to proceed.


He ripped them off angrily, barely even feeling the pain. They had taken everything from his coat a half hour, (it was early June, 1889 now, which was hot, but not miserable, which is why he needed his coat), so he no longer could just take . He was also freshly off of suicide watch, so he knew they were watching and looking out for warning signs in him. They had learned his idiosyncrasies fairly well, and were mostly correct in determining his welfare.


Mostly correct in being that they missed the fact he was about to commit suicide when they found him that night and was still planning to.

Mostly correct being that they thought he wasn't an immediate danger to himself when they had taken him off suicide watch. They knew that was wrong at the moment- not two days off quite and he had already hurt himself.

Then, the last assumption they had not quite realized yet: that he was obedient.


Yes, he had wanted help- but he didn't deserve it in any way and he would always put what he deserved before what he wanted. It was like putting a need before a want- it was just common sense. Besides, it wasn't like he even consciously wanted help until the Madame pointed out that he had agreed in disagreeing. Before that point, he had been horrified she still wanted to associate with him.


After all, what benefit could he give them?

He was nothing. He couldn't aid them in their cases-


or give them proper supplies, or even offer them some sort of entertainment. The TARDIS had parked herself and only let him into specific rooms near the Console room (in case the Paternoster Gang ever felt that he needed to be found in her again), none of them with anything smaller than his hand or sharper than a dulled butterknife. The lack of small objects being in the light of his most recent suicide attempt- swallowing a jaded piece of glass.


But the overall point was he had no value to them. Yet he still somehow earned their care and concern and that had to end.

He was more intelligent and clever than they gave him credit for, though. He had stashed a small knife (a cheese knife with a loose handle) in the alley he was in at the moment. They might have caught him cutting tonight, but he was just preparing his body for the grand finish. After all, was his death anything but wrong if he was not in an appropriate amount of pain to make the penance fully paid?


He had already retrieved the knife, and used the loose handle of it to hit the no longer bleeding wounds from earlier. Almost instantly, one of the lacerations reopened- the deepest one, naturally.

The other three didn't though. He hit the one parallel to it, but it still didn't reopen.


He turned the knife around, and reopened the wound surgically, on the exact same place as the earlier cut.

The pain was so intense, even greater than when he had cut in the past. It didn't discourage him though. It excited him, almost. After all, what was on the other side?

Would it be nothing, something he literally couldn't mess up? Or would it be heaven, where he could be tortured for all eternity.

Or would it be hell, where he wouldn't be able to pay his due and be happy, a disgrace?

He ignored that bit for a while, while still contemplating it. He was well aware that most people would call his heaven hell and his hell heaven, but it was different with him. People got what they deserved, and that was heaven, right? He deserved everything that was not good. Therefore, his heaven would be most people's hell.

Besides, he wasn't a person, and monsters deserved pain for all of eternity for their crimes, right?

On a more energized level, he thought of his sins. He was about to die- so he might as well list them off.

There was River Song, and her family.

At one point, he considered them his family too, but family didn't kill its own members, ruin their lives, or have them tortured. Family was built on love, and how could he possibly love them in anything but his twisted, evil, and not-really-loving love? He couldn't be part of it.

But he ruined it all the same.

Amelia and Rory, the lives he ruined by merely entering it and whose daughter he stole.

Oh sure, he didn't directly steal his daughter from him, but if he wasn't such an evil creature, then there wouldn't need to be a weapon created to kill him, so it was his fault. Demons Run and all of the deaths there were his fault completely.

Then there was River Song herself. He didn't even know where to start. Angry at this, he pressed the knife into the next closed wound and pulled it across, as he did with the next two.

He had wronged her so much.

Then there was everyone her knew or met from his tenth incarnation. Martha Jones, the soldier he created. She never even wanted to be a soldier. She wanted to be a doctor. The kind of doctor he could never be.

The Master: the guilt of a childhood murder placed onto him (oh, Torvic), and then used to death by their own people.

Donna, whose mind he stole. Who's companionship he took for granted. The most important woman in the universe. She was great, but he took that from her while she begged. Never mind that she would have died: it was his life-energy that would have killed her.

Jack, who he betrayed and ran from. Who he cursed. He deserved death at Jack's hand, if anything, but Jack was a good man. Jack wouldn't kill him, no matter how much he deserved it. If he wanted him dead, then Jack would have shot him when he introduced him to Alonzo.

His ninth incarnation- bloody hell. That was a tricky one.

Like how he tricked Rose Tyler into thinking he was a good man. Like how he was born out of blood-shed but still tried to help. The best he could ever do was kill. He should have killed himself then.

Disgusted, he took the knife to his wrist and cut it deeply, the voice chanting to him.

The incarnation he never spoke of- the Warrior.

The body he killed so many people in.

He slashed at his wrist twice more just because of that.

That regeneration was when he knew he had messed everything up. He was trying to fix it then.

That was how he knew now that he only made everything worse.

He decided to stop breathing at that point. Blood loss worked by stopping the supply of oxygen to the vital organs. If he stopped taking in oxygen, it would be over quicker.

After all, his eighth body breathed the air all this century, and would continue breaking it throughout the twentieth century.

He had taken too much oxygen in his lifetime. There were others who deserved to breath. He didn't need it.

Ian and Barbara and Susan. Why did he suddenly remember them?

They were the best. That was when he was so evil that he tainted everything he touched. Susan was happy for a time with him, even as he kidnapped her teachers. Funny, they developed some sort of Stockholm syndrome, and he Lima syndrome. His only regret for them was that they were the first in a long list of people he should have just avoided because he wasn't worth it. At least they didn't die.

But Adric did. Adric- the boy who only wanted to impress him, and died for nothing.

He was the first death.

The Doctor slashed at is wrist again. His knees felt like jello. Knowing he could no longer stand, he sat. The ground and his trousers were soaked in blood but he didn't mind. He could only think of Adric.

He was when the Doctor became a monster.

The edges of consciousness were leaving him. He was entering a healing coma. However, he already knew that he would bleed out before it could start making a difference.

He smiled a bit, his head going back and hitting the wall.

The voice was quiet now. It hadn't been in so long.

Now he could remember for himself how long his evil would affect the universe.

He went to so many different time periods.

His taint would last for all of eternity.

He wished he could fix it, but he couldn't fix anything. It was too late anyway.

He was unconscious, but he still had a dim awareness of what was going on.

He could feel his survival instincts kick in, finally forcing him to breath- to at least supply his rapidly lessening blood with precious oxygen he did not deserve no need.

His survival instincts triumphed over his weak will easily though, and he was breathing.

He was dying, but life still rose up like bile inside if him. The little regeneration energy he had left was trying to close the wounds. He forced it deeper into his body, and his whole form could feel it.

It was an identical feeling to when he had procrastinated with regenerating in his previous body. It felt like bugs were biting every inch of nerve that he had. The pain was so intense- only second to the pain of regenerating itself.

There was something touching his body though. He could feel the pressure to his regeneration energy tighten there. They were disturbing the wound. That didn't disturb him though. A human would probably make the wound worse.

He could feel something lessen though. A four beat rhythm he had always felt and heard (but ignored) turned to two.

One of his hearts had stopped.

He was close to the end- closer than he had been in so long. Hopefully, past the point of no return.

His body temperature, already colder than a human's, would drop quickly at that point. One of his hearts couldn't aid with pumping blood, ergo, less blood was there to heat his body.

His reign of evil and hatred and fear was over- a new age might begin now. There were still good people who could fix his damage.

Everything was going to be okay.

Hopefully, the Paternoster Gang wouldn't be too sad over this. They loved him far too much for their own good. Everyone who had shown anything other than pure-blooded hate for him did.

His love had destroyed them. Now it was time for it to destroy him. To pull him away from the pedestal he had built for himself- his god complex. He was over. It was fine.

Now he just wasn't there. He was leaving the universe. Maybe, and he sincerely hoped, they would throw a party instead of a funeral. He didn't deserve a funeral. Funerals were a remembrance: solemn and sad. Parties for celebration: the act of enjoying what is good.

He knew the only ones who would probably ever find out about his suicide wouldn't though. They needed to see the truth. It was too bad he couldn't leave a note, explaining why they shouldn't mourn.

He had killed everyone. Everyone except them.

He was finally saving a life. They should be proud.

He was gone, he was sure of it. He couldn't last this long alive while he was still thinking, so he must be dead. He couldn't hear his last beating heart.

Everything was numb. The pain in his arms. The emotions of self-hatred and guilt.

But then it was back.

His emotions were back. The pain had flared back into his arms. His hearts were both beating.

He was horrified. He was alive. He was there, and had been saved. Was the torment he felt going to remain forever. He was burdening someone, right then.

Why was he alive? He wasn't worth it. His hearts had stopped. He should be dead.

He was conscious too. He opened his eyes, but his vision was blurry.

He tried to lift himself up, but his left arm screamed in protest. It was useless at that moment. His right arm was held by something metal. Handcuffs, probably. He tried to sit up the best he could, but a heavy blanket was over his frame. He was too weak to remove it.

He tried to get up once more, but he couldn't. He just didn't have the strength.

He was trapped, and he couldn't move.

It claustrophobia, he was sure. Small, enclosed spaces triggered him into a full on panic attack. His space was the blanket that was on him and the handcuffs that prevented him from escaping.

He gulped, resisting the urge to scream. What was that stereotypical thing people did in this era? Faint. He wished he could, but he doubted it.

He waited in pure, desperate fear instead. The blurriness gradually faded from his eyes.

Strax walked in, and immediately saw that he was awake.

All he could think was that he should have realized who saved him instantaneously. Of course the Paternoster Gang would. They were the only ones who knew how.

Strax didn't speak a word though, instead pulling out his medical wand and scanned the Doctor without hesitation, before bringing out his diagnostic pad for further analysis.

Then he promptly left.

The Doctor resisted the urge to call him back, but what would he have said?

He had no words. His throat felt a bit raw anyway, for whatever reason.

Strax returned with Jenny, who looked at him with sympathy in her eyes.

She stayed at the doorway for a few moments, as if afraid. Then, with a flimsy air of confidence, she continued to him.

This ordeal was going to be humiliated, he knew. Why couldn't they have just let him die?

He wanted to shrink into nothing. He was still alive. He was in their control. He was unable to escape.

He was in it so deeply that he doubted he'd ever be able to climb out again. He was there and alive and trapped and he felt claustrophobic and they were both too close to him and the voice was screaming at him and it wastoomuchtofasthecoulnd'ttakeitcouldn'ttakeithadtogetoutofthereawayhadtodosomethinghadtoleave-

"Doctor?" he heard. It was like he had dissociated again, but was still in control of his body.

He looked over to Jenny, not knowing what to expect.

"You're shaking," she fretted, and then she asked knowingly, "Is it your phobia?"

He didn't respond, but she understood his mentally shouted yes as if she was actually a telepath, removing the blanket from him.

Now that it was gone, though, the cursed fear, only hopelessness remained.

He started cursing out loud.

Nothing ever went like it was planned. He needed to just die.

"Strax, is this normal?"


He started thrashing his right arm against the restraining handcuff. His breath was as quick as it was before he had started cutting the second time.

"Doctor, you need to calm down, before you hurt yourself," Jenny said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

He wanted to laugh, but he instead he just pulled on the handcuffs harder, the metal cutting into the back of is wrist.

Then, there was a jab at his other elbow, and a he could feel something being injected.

"The sedative will a few seconds to work," he heard Strax say, "the blood to that arm is bad."

He calmed down before the sedative fully kicked in.

But then, it wasn't like that mattered a few seconds after the fact.

This is based from a prompt given to me by who I'm writing everything for (for those wondering, no, I'm not suicidal or depressed), so I gave it top priority. I'm also facing a bit of writers block, so bare with me. The song "Dear Agony" belongs to Breaking Benjamin, who I am not affiliated with.
For those wondering about the voice, if you read my other stories, you'll find that it kinda goes away with pain, so...
If you're wondering where all the lyrics are, go to Archiveofourown and look up this story there (I have the same account name).