Chapter Thirty-Seven: MM (Or Three Hundred Years Later)

All that had been left of Dr. Walter Simeon was his dapper-brown top hat. It was sat in a puddle on the floor of the cavern, looking remarkably like a duck in the middle of a pond. It was not the most dignified end for an enemy as bitter as the Great Intelligence, but it would have to do.

Stooping, the Doctor had picked the gently headwear off of the ground, and shook the droplets off of its brim.

Now, he was sitting in his TARDIS looking at the hat once again. The gentle rumblings of his beloved Time Machine was threatening to send him to sleep, but he knew better than to allow it. For now, anyway.

His slumber would not be peaceful tonight.

As much as he gazed at the hat, as strongly as he willed it to burst into flames, and scorch its previous owner down to his ethereal flesh, he could still not bring himself to truly hate The Intelligence. In the end, it had been just as much of a pawn as he had been.

But the great chess game of fate had now reached its checkmate. Indeed, there had been sacrifices; vices that would torture the Doctor for the rest of his life. However long that may be. His victory had come at great costs.

"I will never forget you, Clara Oswald," he whispered, picturing her rosy cheeks, long brunette hair and sparkling green eyes for one last, picturesque time.

Three hundred years had passed since Trenzalore. After depositing his crestfallen companions back with their families, he had taken a long odyssey of the mind. He had not set foot in our universe for over three centuries.

Until today.

Today was the day that the last of the time lords would make his re-introduction to the universe.

He'd had three hundred of his years to grieve for Clara Oswald and Craig Owens.

Now, he had the rest of them to honour them. To wear their names upon him like a blazing banner.

To parade them as a pride.

"You can run around in that dilapidated police box as much as you like, pretending that you're one of them, but you can never, ever, run away from your past!"

His father had told him that. His father had been a callous, selfish, and brutal man, but he was right about one thing. He could run around in his TARDIS for as long as he liked.

And do you know why?

It's because I am the last of the Time Lords.

I am from the planet Gallifrey.

I am over two-thousand years old.

I am not just the Doctor.

I am her Doctor.

The End.

I never thought I would write those words. It's been a long journey from point A to point Z on tha journey of Doctor Who-dom, and there a few thanks that I would like to make, to people whose invaluable contributions to this story were the only thing that make it even slightly presentable in its final state.

Firstly, to my betas. Tirelessly-working, devoted and utterly-fantastic people. Thank you to PringleScoop, Le Master Procrastinator and Iceroza. The fourth of my betas would like to remain anonymous, and I will respect her wishes here.

Secondly, to all my readers, favouriters and reviewers! You guys rock! If O ever needed encouragement to keep writing, without fail, you all gave it to me.

And finally, to Doctor Who itself. Never has a TV show touched my soul as this one did. Long may it live.

Goodbye, and thanks for reading :D

ASouffleToServeTwo