Cold

Cold. So cold. The heating in the UNIT headquarters was, like most 20th Century human devices, primitive to a depressing degree. The Doctor felt stifled in the four little walls that was his lab room. He used to experience a different alien planet every week. Now he had to see the same sights, meet the same people, and sleep to the same moon (left on a planet with only 1 moon? How could the Time Lords be that cruel?) every day. For however long his exile was. Possibly eternity.

And the cold temperature was creeping into his bones. Cruelly bringing up memories of warm Gallifrey, even as his teeth started to chatter. Even as he attempted to sleep, wrapping his red cape around him, he could barely concentrate.

Nights like these, he began to hate the Time Lords for his exile. He had been a free bird, and they had clipped his wings, and ripped him apart—violated him—and given him a new body he had not chosen. Deep down, he was beginning to like the new body, even the nose. But he would have liked to have chosen it himself. The Time Lords had stolen that choice, and worse, stolen his friends. He would probably never see them again.

And so, on this cold night, he walked to the TARDIS and hugged it,attempting to keep warm from the ship's warm surface. It was the only thing that could remind him his home in the stars.