This is just a little thought I had while I was writing the second chapter of my other fic (which will be up shortly).

Hope you like it!

Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who.

Parallel Life

The sheets had been too warm on his damp back. His fingertips had grazed the softest parts of her body. He had been gentle. He had collapsed onto her, as carefully as possible, his body exhausted, and she had run her both hands through his sweat soaked hair.

The Doctor grimaced where he sat on the raised foam chair, his feet propped up on the TARDIS's console, his hands cradling his head. It was torture. The connection between himself and the man he was calling John Smith had been apparent as soon as the TARDIS had left Bad Wolf Bay. Already, memories from another head were floating into his consciousness.

He had kissed her passionately, one hand resting on her swollen abdomen. He had wrapped his arms around her protectively as they lay down to sleep. Being human is tiring. He had needed very little sleep as a full Timelord, now he seemed to need it constantly.

He wondered vaguely if John Smith was receiving his memories, and then quickly reasoned the dominancy of his human part, and that it was not likely. He would have to live with this for as long as his other self would live. He hoped for Rose's sake that it would be a long time.

The TARDIS shuddered and landed. He had barely glanced at the screen and registered that it was 2015, when he was hit by memories with enough force to cause his knees to buckle.

The pain had been intense. Rose had nearly died. There were complications. He had held his premature, tiny, beautiful daughter to his chest and pressed his lips to her soft head. He had heard the monitor and gazed down at his wife, exhausted and looking years older.

The Doctor was sure that there were fresh lines on his face. The torture that came from experiencing the memories of another man had aged his body. He had to leave earth.

He chewed his fingers until they bled.

Rose's death had been unexpected. The accident had been bad and Rose's body could not handle the toll it had taken. The kids were at school. It had happened directly outside of their home. She had died in the street, in his arms.

The Doctor fell to his knees, the entire life of John Smith—repeatedly cycling memories in his head. His hands clutched at his head, his eyes wide and unseeing. He could not escape the maddening memories.

He had lain on the same hospital bed as his wife. His children and his grandchildren had been in the waiting room. He fancied a trip to the hospital shop but his body had seized and everything was dark before he could attempt it.

The Doctor felt the energy drain from him. He shuddered and longed for the warmth of a time when he and Rose had lain together, enjoying each others company. He dragged himself with difficulty around the console, as though the weight of the universe rested on his shoulders, and pulled the lever. New New York, year 5,000,000,023.

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