A/N so, if none of you have heard the news yet, Matt Smith is leaving Doctor who. The Eleventh Doctor will regenerate into Twelve sometime in this year's Christmas special.

Let me tell you, when I heard I broke down sobbing. Matt Smith is my first Doctor, he is my Doctor and when Christmas comes around it won't be all smiles for me. I hope they do him justice.

Anyway, I decided to write my own little regeneration scene. Even though I almost cried five times writing it. Why do I do this to myself?

EDIT: I have improved this story a bit, fixed all the little mistakes and added some more stuff in. :)

EDIT NO 2: I've improved it again. Mostly because I've been hit by a new wave of MattSmithDepartureDepression post comic con. (" I DON'T KNOW I'VE MADE A MISTAKE" and all the snarky remarks from Moffat regarding the regeneration)

Another, tiny, reason is because I really need to get this story off eleven reviews. It's depressing me.


The Doctor gazes down with blazing hazel eyes at Clara, his Clara, for one last time. Tears are running down her face, but she isn't making a sound. Just staring back at him, as he does her. Yet while her eyes are wide and shimmering, he feels his stretch and yearn across her face, imprinting the image of her, in this moment, inside him forever. The last time these eyes will glimpse her. May as well make the most of it.

"My Clara. My impossible girl." the Doctor murmurs.

"You can't go. You can't. Isn't there some way..." Clara chokes.

He brings up a hand to place it on her cheek, brushing away the tears with a hesitant thumb.

"It will still be me, Clara. Still the Doctor. Just not... not this me. I've never liked goodbyes, truly. In fact, I hate endings. It's hard to say goodbye to yourself. It's the hardest thing I've ever done. But you, Clara, have everything ahead of you. Go. Go to all those places you always wanted to, the 101 places to see. And remember, without endings, nothing would ever get started."

"I've seen all of your regenerations. Each and every incarnation of you. But this one is the first. You are the one that I ran away with, the one that showed me the stars. It won't be the same. I don't- I can't..." Clara looks away for a moment.

"Clara. My brave, clever girl. I don't want to leave, but I have to. This time, I saved you. For once I could save you like you did for me, so many hundreds of times. I'm weak now, too wounded to carry on in this form. I have only one chance. And my next regeneration, no, my next one won't be the same. But I'll still have all those memories. All those thoughts. It will be me, but not."

Clara puts her hand over the Doctor's, and he shuffles closer to kiss her forehead and pulls her to his chest.

"You're the one regenerating. How can you be comforting me?" he hears Clara mumble.

"Because you are the reason for this. The reason for my regeneration. The reason I am carrying on at all. Without you, I would still be living in pointless sorrow and loss. Without you, I wouldn't even be."

The Doctor feels a warm tingling in his fingertips and looks down to see wisps of golden dust float from his hands.

"It's beginning." he says with regret. "May I ask one last thing of you Clara?"

Clara tilts her head up at him and nods. "Of course."

"Remember me, Clara. Please. Do not forget. Do not forget me." he feels his voice crack as he repeats the words that his own Clara had said.


They gaze back into each other's eyes for a moment, and then without thought or warning the Doctor is kissing her and she is kissing him and it is short and soft and wet with tears. An insistent shout niggles at the back of his head, the part of him that tries to keep all of these complicated feelings locked away and hidden. But he is dying anyway, this version of him, and he no longer cares. This is his Clara, his is his impossible girl, and for once his hands do not listen to the voice of his mind and settle softly onto her neck, because he isn't listening to his mind anymore. He won't have it for much longer.

When they break away the Doctor steps back from Clara as golden light begins to swirl around him, rising from every inch of his skin. He feels the heat burning under his skin, in his every atom, every thought.

She smiles. "What happened to that confused flailing?"

The Doctor returns the smile, impossibly. "Nothing left to lose."

He raises his head as the golden mist rises faster and faster, then straightens his beloved bow tie one last time.

This chapter of his life has been a long one, with happiness and sorrow and love and loss. He remembers everything.

The small red haired girl who didn't really belong, who wasn't afraid of him, and that was the greatest gift anyone could give. Amelia Pond, waited twelve years for him. The girl who was always so clever and brave and daring. And Rory, who waited a thousand years for her. Those two, the Ponds. They could always see through him. He remembered every moment with them, he had promised to say with them until the end of his days.

Or vice versa.

The weeping angels, the daleks, the Pandorica, Demon's Run, Lake Silencio, the town of Mercy, the asylum, Akhaten, Trenzalore. Craig and Alfie. Rory and Amy disappearing into past Manhattan, together. Leaving him alone. So, so alone. After that, those dark years living on a cloud, separate, uncaring. His faith in the universe lost. It took someone impossible to pull him out of that.

River, always so cryptic with her spoilers and a last goodbye. Gone, too, forever.

Clara, who split herself into a million pieces to save him. Clara. Whom he had lost twice already, nearly three. Clara, who had stubbornly searched for him in Victorian London, not putting up with his shadowed mask. He had broken the the rules for her, bargained with the universe. He thought, once she died for the second time, that the universe really didn't care at all. But then he found her again and, with her, hope. Hope, which had not graced him since Manhattan, settled back in his hearts. Clara. The impossible girl. In so many more ways than one.

Everyone, everything. Seared onto his hearts. Never to forget.

It was always so hard to say goodbye. He hates endings.

Now he must end himself.

Say goodbye.

Perhaps it is for the best. This him, the eleventh him, had always remembered much more than the others. He ran as fast as he could through the universe, just so he wouldn't have to look back at all the hate and rage and sorrow and grief and power inside him. All the wars in his name, the people he killed, the people who killed for him, the planets he destroyed, the races he rendered extinct. All because of his straining for what is good and right, and his failing mercy. He would always get carried away with eliminating the evil in others that it made the evil inside him grow.

Live and fight too long amongst the shadows, and the shadows latch onto you.

And sometimes he is more shadow than light.

Perhaps it is his time to go.

In fact, perhaps he welcomes it.

An end to the unforgiving grief and rage and guilt and hate that plagues him, the memories of death and war and genocide.

The shouts of anger, screeches of pain, sobs of grief, screams of hate. This cacophony of terrible sounds can stop playing in his head every second, every minute. It can end.


An end.

And a new beginning.

Thanks to the universe, just for this little thing. A chance to forget.

Death, an ending, a beginning. You are welcomed with relief.

The Doctor takes a deep slow breath.

"Well, Clara. My impossible girl." he says. She looks back at him with the tiniest smile through all the tears. He can feel salty droplets spill down his face too, the tracks glowing with iridescent light.

His every cell screams with pain, but his mind is slow and calm.

He may welcome this regeneration for the sake of forgetting, of a new beginning, of no longer running like a mad man just to avoid wallowing in his own self-loathing, but Clara made it worthwhile. She was what kept him alive. He lived for her. And he still would. Even after this.

Clara, his light in the darkness. He would miss her, if nothing else.

Clara, his impossible girl. He might just love her, he thinks. Perhaps he does. He hasn't experienced love in its pure form without insurmountable obstacles before, so it is hard to tell.

He looks one very last time into her warm brown eyes, and observes how beautiful she looks, even with the tears on her cheeks. He has thought this before, of course, but wiped the notion from his mind immediately. But now, he has nothing to lose.

"Clara Oswin Oswald," he breathes, feeling the fire in him rise fiercely in power, now unstoppable.

He lets his ending breath fill his lungs with no catches, just a long and pure inhalation to cleanse his soul.

Last words. What an idea. A few dying sentences to sum up an entire lifetime. How could that be possible?

He rolls his tongue around the word, savouring it and this impossible moment with thanks and relief. Light in the darkness.



So, *sob*, there it is. Hope you drop me a review. Pretty please?

And from all whovians, goodbye, raggedy man.

I love you.

Oh god I'm going to cry matty don't leave please it has to be some cruel elaborate trick of the BBC.

Farewell, for I must go to cry in the corner over some jammy dodgers and a teddy bear with Eleven's face on it.