He closed his eyes, wincing at that distinct pain that he'd never felt before.

His arms and legs were stiff. He couldn't move. Maybe the attacker washed the blade in poison?

He shook his head - at least, he thought he did. His whole body lay stiff, with only his eyes given the liberty of movement.

Whoever broke into the TARDIS, whoever, whatever, he, she, it, thing, human, alien...

It wanted to kill him with such strife, and the Doctor knew this might be it.

His lack of movement made it hard to regenerate, but not like he wanted to. He felt the blood trickle down his forehead, the cut down his back ooze out the venom with the blood.

The blade was fast, faster than what one could imagine - his yelp didn't even reach his throat, like everything failed, as he stumbled over and hit the TARDIS with a large crash. And there he lay for around 10 minutes. He heard the attacker run, run for its life. It was scared of him, but what could the Doctor do? He was slowly losing blood and the venom seeped through him. He gave himself an opportunity to think about those 900 years of his life.

His many generations and his companions. Gallifrey. The Master. He was just a big coward, a coward with a blue box that keeps running from his past, a dreaded past that managed to keep up with him.

And Rose.

Probably forgot him. After she became stuck in the parallel world, it was a pain, a searing pain that left him pessimistic about his future for some time. But like everything else, he had to continue with a burden that can never be lifted.

The Doctor opened his eyes, crusted with blood. He'd dozed off, barely alive. He was sitting in a pool of blood.

Amy and Rory... They couldn't help him. They were asleep. It was late, and the Doctor had an hours rest. What would they think? Seeing a corpse of an Alien with blood everywhere?

His body had been fighting against the poison, and thank God, he could move. Slowly beginning to hoist himself up, he realized he had a large cut down his leg, resorting him to limp.

Pain. Pain. Pain. Every step. Pain. Step. Pain.

He began fiddling with some controls, being careful not to stretch the gash on his back. His face was dry, crusted with the smell of blood. This amount of blood loss would kill a human, he knew, but thankfully his body was fast at restoring blood. Not skin, though. Those cuts would be there for some time, maybe a week.

The pain was exhausting. He fiddled with the controls, had to take Rory and Amy home, stop messing with them...

"What's the point of you?" Amy's words flickered through his head.

The TARDIS began to move to it's destination. The Doctor collapsed, he had given up. He didn't care, simply because he had no point. Everyone who came with him, everyone who trusted him gave up on him at the end. He was bloody useless. He wasn't a Doctor, he was a murderer of hope and faith and humanity and everything.

You've won. He managed to whisper, before tumbling through the rabbit hole into eternal sleep.