A/N hello! This will be a two-shot, probably, just a little idea in my head. I needed to get these things out into words. I got the idea from the song "Weight of Living" by Bastille, so I feel that it deserves some credit.

Please leave me some feedback in a review, I love you whovians!


"All that you desired, when you were a child

Was to be old, was to be old

Now that you are here, suddenly you fear

You've lost control, lost control

Do you like the person you've become?

It all crept up on you, in the night it got you

And plagued your mind, it plagues your mind

Every day that passes, faster than the last did

And you'll be old soon, you'll be old

Do you like the person you've become?"

-the Weight of Living part II by Bastille.


The young old man sank down onto the bricks of the darkened alley, leaning his head against the blue blue wood of the 1960s police box that stood behind him. The light of yellow street lamps had somehow found its way into the dark corner of the city, the very depths of twenty first century London, and it shone sharply onto the planes of his face.

Several people passed the alley on that night, but none of them ventured in. At least, almost none.

One was a seventeen year old girl, coming home from a night out. She glanced down the little street, saw the man sitting in the shadows. Her path should have taken her down there. But something about the way the man was sitting, his head in his hands, unmoving, told her to go the long way round.

And there was an old woman, frail and wrinkled, who hobbled past on the way to a neighbour's house. She saw the man in the alley sitting under the funny blue box, glaring up at the sky. He struck he as being very very old, something she recognized from herself, though he did not look much more than thirty. Maybe it was how he held himself, his facial muscles taught, his limbs slack. As if he was giving up. Giving up on life. And the way he was staring up at the sky, as if he was looking for something that he could never find, that he had given up on finding. The woman hobbled along quickly, trying not to attract the attention of the old young lonely man.

Another was a young man in a black hoodie and track suit, the hood pulled over his face. He had a small knife in his pocket, and was prowling for late night wanderers that may have something of worth to him. He peered into the alley and saw the man. He thought he looked rich enough, he would have a wallet, and a phone, a watch, maybe. He was wearing a crisp tweed jacket and bow tie, which also looked expensive. But he stared at the man for a second too long, and he lifted his head.

The eyes that bored into him, the green grey eyes that should not have been of any note, frightened him. He was no stranger to London after dark, a member of a gang and a nightly mugger. The knife he clutched did not reassure him, however. Those eyes, they were more than just angry. They were... Pained, sorrowful, and yet so fierce, as if the man had seen so many things that they passed him by in a blink, but the injustices of everything he had experienced had finally caught up with him. He looked dangerous, unstoppable, a pure force of nature. A man who had killed many, and lost many. But a man who would kill again, who would show no mercy. He had lost too much that mercy no longer held meaning.

Those eyes were the most frightening things he had ever seen. And he ran.

The man in the tweed jacket looked down again, hearing the resounding footsteps of the mugger echo through the streets. He had seen the look on his face before he ran, that look of pure terror. The truth was, he was as terrified of himself as anyone else.

Before, he could kept it hidden. He could redeem himself, be the Doctor, a healer, a helper. Save the universe enough times, and maybe his guilt would fade.

But guilt never fades.

His companions had always helped him. They kept him in control. Their inherent humanity, their emotions, their goodness, their morals, all of that had kept him sane.

Rory and Amy, they had always reminded him to stay kind, to stay merciful. To show mercy to everyone, no matter how evil. To give everyone a second chance. He managed to lock his self-hate away, behind a bow tie and a fez and some silly jokes.

But then he lost them.

And he disappeared, for a while. Wandered the universe, never interfering, never helping. Observing. He thought for a while that he made no difference, no matter what he did evil would still be there. Everyone would always die.

But then there was Clara. Again, and, despite everything, he found himself wanting to help again. He was drawn in by her impossibility, her cleverness, her fire. When he found her for the third time, he was determined to keep her safe. She grew on him, brought the best out of him. He found himself becoming happier again, regaining those silly quirks that he hid his grief and regret and guilt behind. He reveled in the memory of her smile, her joyful flirting and witty remarks. The sorrow behind her eyes, the loss that reminded him of himself.

He had found himself, impossibly, undeniably, falling in love with her. He would never had admitted it to her, of course. He supposed that he loved all of his companions, but Clara was different. He had felt such an overwhelming need to protect her, and maybe he was always trying to protect himself. To protect himself from loss. The loss of her.

And in that, he had failed.

He could remember those few moments that his already splintered hearts has shattered in perfect detail. He had though he had saved her, after she had saved him countless times.

She had jumped into his own timeline, despite his pleadings, to save him. She had spread herself across space and time to save the stars, to save all those galaxies.

He couldn't have let her just go. So he had followed her. And he thought, finally, that he might have the chance to save her like he had done him so many times.

Oh, how happy he had felt when she had fallen into his arms. He had pulled her to him, convincing himself she was there.

But she had faded.

The pressure of his timeline on her shattered soul was too much. He was barely surviving himself, and Clara was only an echo of herself.

And she had faded into oblivion.

Now he had nothing to live for.

He was old. Much too old. He was always vague about his age, but the truth was that he didn't actually know. He told himself he was around a thousand two hundred years, but that was a lie. He was much older.

When he was young, so long ago, he wanted more than anything to be old. Old and wise, having experienced so many great things. But with greatness, comes downfall. With happiness come sorrow. With good comes evil.

It was all too much.

What he wouldn't give to be young again. Innocent and naive and striving for the good of the universe. Sharing the company of humanity, sharing in their goodness.

Now, the Doctor looked at himself. Truly looked, scrutinizing every detail.

He hated what he saw.

All that evil of the universe disgusted him, he had always fought for good. It was so hard to keep himself above the evil, however, so hard to show mercy.

Now it was impossible.

Why live? He asked himself. He had lived through ages, seen the turn of the universe. He had seen all the evil of the world, all the injustice. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. Not without becoming evil himself.

The Doctor closed his eyes against the light of the street lamp, stroking the wood of the TARDIS with this thumb. It was always them, in the end. A mad old man and his box, off to see the universe.

Maybe, just as he had seen so many others do, it was time for the mad old man to finally end.


"It all crept up on you, in the night it got you

And plagued your mind, it plagues your mind

Every day that passes, faster than the last did

And you'll be old soon, you'll be old

Do you like the person you've become?

Under the weight of living

You're under the weight of living

Under the weight of living

You are under the weight of living

The weight of living, the weight of living."