He knew he had nightmares, god he knew. They haunted him to the point where he didn't know if he was sleeping or awake. What he didn't know, is that he screamed and shouted in his sleep. He cried with such pain and sorrow that it almost tore the universe in two. And he most definitely did not know that his red-haired companion with the cracking legs came into his room every night, trying to calm him down.

The first night she paid no attention to the cries from the room down the hall, and forced herself to believe it was just the engines or something. It was certainly not him screaming. What would someone so happy and so crazy possibly have to be so upset about?

The second night she tried finding his room, but had no luck.

The third night, she found it, but she didn't know what to do. She stared blankly at the blue door for a few minutes, her eyes brimmed with tears. The sound broke her heart, but it also terrified her. Nightmares were one thing, but this was clearly something much, much worse. Instead of helping like she knew she should have, she ran off, back to the comfort and safety of her room, where she buried herself under layers and layers of blankets, trying to block out that horrible, horrible noise.

On the fourth night, she ventured into the room and shook him awake.

"What's wrong, Pond?" he asked sleepily. As tired as he was, he still threw her his signature childish grin.

"Um, nothing... nothing, sorry, thought I heard something," she lied, realizing that he didn't know he was doing it.

"What did it sound like?"

He became alarmed, throwing aside the blankets and scurrying from the bed. Oh, please don't let it be the temporal motivator again?

"No, it was nothing. Promise. Probably just dreamt it," she insisted, nodding to affirm her point.

He took the bait with ease.

"Silly old, Pond," he chuckled, ruffling her hair before he crawled back into bed. She quickly left the room.

The fifth night, she went in and sat with him. She pulled up an old wooden chair with odd carvings on it, and hoped he would know she was there, and that it was just a dream. He didn't get any calmer.

On the sixth night, she held his hand. It stopped a little, but no anywhere near as much as she hoped. He still thrashed about and screamed a little. Whatever the dreams were, Amy hoped she never had a dream anywhere near as terrible as the ones her best friend was obviously having.

She held his hand for the next few nights. He often spoke in a foreign language, his native, Amy guessed. Gallifreyan, if she could remember correctly. When he spoke in English though – or at least, in a language that could be translated – he said names. Hers, mostly, but sometimes there were others. 'Rose', 'Donna', 'Martha', 'Jack', 'Susan', 'Sarah-Jane', just to name a few. She desperately wanted to ask who 'Rose' was. He said her name more than the others. Sometimes he said full sentences, but usually Amy could only guess what they were, usually coming out in Gallifreyan, the only language the TARDIS couldn't translate. She cursed the old girl for that stupid system flaw.

On the tenth night, she held his hand, pushed his hair out of his face and whispered soothing sentences to him.

"I'm here, it's okay," or, "It's just a dream Doctor, you're safe on the TARDIS, they're safe too."

She didn't know if she was telling the truth or not, but it had helped. He didn't scream as much if she was there, holding his hand and talking to him. She hated seeing him like that. He screamed, he cried, he thrashed and flailed about, and screamed some more. It broke Amy's heart.

Not once did she dare mention it to him. She didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable around her, as he often was when she asked about his past. If she asked, he wouldn't tell her, just a quick comment about how 'they leave or die in the end'. She began to guess what his nightmares were about.

It became a usual routine for her. She would wait until she heard the scream, sometimes getting in an hour or two of her own sleep, then go running off to comfort him.

When Rory joined the TARDIS Team, it became more difficult. She had to make sure he went to bed before the Doctor. Rory would most certainly hear him and ask what was wrong. Amy doesn't know what Rory would be like if he found out; and she definitely didn't want to know what either of their reactions would be if they found out she held his hand every night. Neither of them can ever know – one because he would be too shamed to ever talk to her again, and the other too furious that she was choosing him over her fiancé.

It was only once she died that he realized what she did for him every night.

He woke up mid-scream, not knowing that he'd been doing it. He looked down to his hand, which was hanging outside of the covers, held in a way that looked like someone else's hand would fit perfectly into it. He then looked to the chair. The old chair from the planet Sarchindipolis, carved by an ancient people who lived amongst the forests in underground huts made of clay and blue dirt.

He'd never noticed it being so close to his bed before. He put three fingers to his throat, where it hurt.

"Amy," he whispered brokenly. A large number of answers clicked together in his head, but another lot of questions formed at the same time.

He knew he had nightmares. He screamed in them, he cried, he ran and he thrashed about and begged for it not to happen. He never realized that he did it out loud. He hoped, no, he prayed, that this was the only incarnation he did it in. He can't imagine all of the people that must have heard him cry if he were wrong; all those who must have seen the pain etched onto his hearts.

Every night he woke up. He always had woken in the middle of the night, but he always figured it was his internal body-clock, not a nightmare awakening him. He turned to the chair; the chair he refused to move from the position Amy had moved it into oh so long ago. His left hand always caught his eye. It was outstretched to the chair, waiting for Amy's pale, slender hand to take his (a hand that had always fit oh so perfectly in his) and comfort him through the night, to tell him that it will all be okay, that the nightmares will end soon.

But it never happened.

Amy often found herself waking up at absolutely nothing. She would just wake up. It always seemed to be a little after midnight. That was usually when the screaming began, if they were staying the night on a planet that had time keeping.

She always got up and sat in the kitchen. She had a cup of tea, rested in her left hand, and took a small sip every few minutes, whilst her right hand was outstretched on the table, waiting for the Doctor to take hold. She remembered the way her hand would fit perfectly into his strong, rough yet ever so soft hands, and how he would squeeze it when dreaming something so terrible Amy never wanted to imagine. She remembered how he would roughly grab it when they ran, or how he would carefully hold her hand when they were finally out of danger or on the TARDIS.

She always teared up and wished his hand would suddenly appear, so she could grasp it and save him from the nightmares. She hoped so badly that he had found someone to look after him, for her. The Doctor needs a hand to hold so he doesn't fall over the edge.

Amy knew that she picked the wrong life. She picked living with a normal human, even if he was Rory Williams, living in New York in the old days before extreme technology, and never leaving, waiting, a family life. She should have stayed with the Doctor, exploring new places, saving people, discovering new worlds and meeting alien races, and even becoming an ambassador for Earth when a foreign race wished to come back. Earth was no place for a girl like Amelia Pond.

He often found himself staring blankly at the places she used to sit or stand, reading a book from thousands of years in the future, reading a scroll from an ancient planet or place, or reading the first ever copy of Harry Potter. He remembered her watching him—no, studying him – as he single-handedly piloted his beloved machine, teasing him about his 'ridiculous bowtie', or his 'gangly arms and legs', or simply how he danced or moved. How she would skip around the console with him, singing songs at the top of their lungs without a care in the world, or joining him in some ridiculous dance she would never do around anyone else. How she would step outside to a new time, or a new world and how she would take it all in with wide eyes, eyes as big as the moon, and then run ahead to explore. How he showed her to pilot the TARDIS, how she and the old girl would gang up on him, how they would swim together for hours on end in the pool, then hop onto one of the pool chairs and pull a book from one of the many shelves in the library that surrounded the pool while they dried off.

Amelia Pond picked the wrong life. Earth had no adventure, no one to act like a complete loon with or someone that when they came to mind, all she could think was wow. No one to hold hands with in the middle of the night, even if they don't realize she's doing it. Rory's hand didn't fit right, like the Doctor's did. Not even anyone to sing terribly with! Rory was far too conservative for that.

Every night, millions of years and planets and dimensions away, they both did it. They held out their hand and expected the other to take hold and tell the other to run, or whisper that everything will be okay, or to suddenly leap into a mad dance with the other around the console.

Years after her terrible decision, Amy held out her right hand out for the Doctor to grasp. She knew he wasn't going to come back, but it gave her comfort. Her last action, was one she wished she could do for eternity: to comfort him.

"Be safe, Raggedy Man. Be safe… explore the stars… this… this is how the story must sadly end… I'll wait forever, Doctor... but please… never forget… and never… loose hope... gotcha."

Through every regeneration and every companion, the Doctor does it. His hearts cry out for his dear Amelia. He never was the same after she left. She healed him, only to break him again. Somewhere, deep down, he knew it was the right thing for her to do, but he was too selfish to admit it. He never took anyone's hand in his left. That was her hand to hold.

He never let anyone find his room ever again, or let anyone sit in the pilot's chair, no matter what console room it was or how many regenerations later. He never moved that old chair from his bedside either, in fear that it would fade away and all become just a dream. No one was allowed to make him fish fingers and custard, or dance and sing with him, or be too cheeky with him. And most definitely, no one could flirt with him… and if someone wore a miniskirt, he looked the other way. The sight of those little skirts on legs other than hers just didn't fit right. She completely broke him.

He never took another ginger companion either. It was much too close to his hearts.

On his own deathbed, millions of years in the future, he managed to make his way. He used up all of the TARDIS' energy on the trip, but it didn't matter. He killed the old girl, just to get to New York. He made his way to the graveyard where Amelia Pond – the woman he knew he loved all along – would forever rest in.

He sat by her grave, old and brittle, not looking a thing like he used to.

"If you could see me now, Pond… blimey, you'd never stop the teasing now! …I wasn't the same, Amy," he whispered. And all too soon, he began crying. "I wasn't the same when you left. I couldn't cope without you. I still can't. I need a hand to hold… I tried to find one, but no one else's fit right! Only yours, Pond. You held my hand every night for so many years! I know you did! You never said a word or complained, you just helped me!" he cried, sobs raking through him like a tidal wave. He placed his left hand on the side of her headstone, wishing it were her hand. He held on like his life depended on it.

"Come along, Pond? We'll have fish fingers and custard… we'll finally got to Rio… come along, Pond… please?" he whispered.

He fell against the headstone, still clutching it like a grenade in his left hand. That was his resting place. Right besides Amelia Pond, the girl who waited and never stopped. They would be together forever, fighting outrageous battles, visiting extravagant places, dancing around and singing like two idiots, eating fish fingers and custard, imagining where to go next in a universe of impossibilities, running an awful lot, and, of course, being their mad and impossible selves in a universe that was theirs and only theirs.