The Doctor closes the bedroom door softly and makes his way back to the console room. He'd been animatedly retelling the story of his first encounter with a Raxacoricofallapatorian when he realized that his had been the only voice in the room for quite some time. He looked up and saw that Dex had fallen asleep with his head on the kitchen table, hand curled loosely around a cup of chai tea. The Doctor hesitates. He doesn't want to wake Dex, and carrying a sleeping child to bed seems, well, a bit domestic. The Doctor's gaze softens as Dex's hand twitches. He suddenly looks very small. He's had a hard day, thinks the Doctor, I can hardly leave him here. Decision made, he gently lifts Dex into his arms and carries him to a spare bedroom near the galley. I'm not getting attached, he reminds himself as he crawls beneath the console to check on the repair status of the TARDIS. He knows he can't keep Dex; he doesn't want to, not really. Although, it had been nice to have someone help fill the silence- The Doctor abruptly cuts off the thought. He will have no more companions. The arrangement with Dex is temporary; as soon as the TARDIS is repaired, he will return him to where he belongs. He can't bear to ruin any more lives, and he will not allow his hearts to be broken again. The events of the past 24 hours replay in his mind.

The TARDIS was drifting through the vortex; he and Donna had just left Shan Shen. Donna had gone to the galley for tea. The Doctor remained in the console room, contemplating their next destination. That was when he'd received the phone call.

Stolen planets. Daleks. Sarah-Jane, Jack, Martha. Warp stars and nuclear warheads and Davros. Z-Neutrino energy and that God-damned biological metacrisis. He felt the threatening burn of unshed tears. Why couldn't he have just regenerated normally? Worse still, why had he stood stupidly in the street talking to Donna? He should know better than anyone how unwise it is to be oblivious to one's surroundings during a Dalek invasion. Couldn't he have waited for Jack in the TARDIS?

He'd abandoned the genocidal human Doctor with Jack at Torchwood. Nobody was particularly satisfied with this arrangement - he is haunted by the gaze of accusing brown eyes piercing him from the view screen as he dematerialized - but the Doctor could not be bothered to find a more fitting solution. There had been Donna to think of. He replayed their last few seconds together; the empty glance, the "yeah, see ya," that was almost as painful as Wilf's unshaken admiration and benevolent sympathy.

The TARDIS groaned. He heard the hiss of compressed gas seconds before the cloister bell began to toll. I'm so sorry, girl, he thought as he shot out of the jump seat to run a diagnostic. The Doctor felt another stab of guilt. His old girl, who has always taken care of him, had nearly been destroyed in the heart of the Dalek Crucible, and he'd just forgotten her, sitting maudlin with his head in his hands. Her lights dimmed. She was focusing all her power on an emergency landing, shuddering with the effort. The Doctor saw that the time rotor had been cracked and was spewing noxious fumes. He engaged his respiratory bypass as the TARDIS landed with loud thud, throwing him to the floor. The lights flickered out. Gingerly, he picked himself up and staggered to the door, off-balanced from the fall. The TARDIS would repair the crack on her own and filter the fumes from the console room. The Doctor knew from the quick diagnostic he'd run that there was not much for him to do. She would need to spend some time in the vortex to heal, and he could help with repairs once they were there.

The door shuts behind him before he registers his environment. Twisted grey crags jutting out over rippling purple water, a cloudless orange sunset, large, ray-like creatures soaring on the delicate, rain-scented breeze. It is isolated, serene, desolately beautiful. It is also the last place in the universe he wants to be.

He turns back to the TARDIS, hands shaking as he reaches for the key. He will take his chances with the fumes. He is fighting to block the memories that are flooding him, emotions that have long been locked away are straining to surface. The key will not turn. He focuses on his task, the cold bite of the key as it digs into the pads of his fingers, the slight rattling of the lock (just enough to tease him into believing he can break it), the vice grip of his left hand over his right as he devotes all his strength to turning the key. He releases his grip only when he realizes that the key has broken his skin. He is weakening. The demons claw against his paper-thin defenses and he pounds frantically on the TARDIS, shoving all of his anguish and fear at her in a desperate plea for entry. She is silent.

In the end, it is the lonely cry of a ray that shatters him. It is shrill, sharp, and utterly forlorn, ringing across the barren cliffs and piercing his soul. He slides to his knees, resting his head on the wooden door of the TARDIS, and succumbs to the past.

He is unsure how long he remains curled against the TARDIS, shuddering under the weight of his burdens. He relives them all: Donna, Martha, Koschei, Jack; mistake after mistake, loss after loss. The memories keep coming and he savours the pain they leave in their wake, his penance to the universe. He doesn't understand why the TARDIS chose to land here, the place of his greatest joy and the catalyst of his gravest loss. It is unimaginably cruel. Here is where he once allowed himself to believe in forever.

Suddenly, he is furious. He is furious at the TARDIS for dumping him here, furious at the universe, furious at Torchwood and Daleks and John Lumic, furious at himself for choosing the wrong lever. He stands, shoving his fists deeply into his transdimensional pockets. He keeps his back to the lonely bay where she promised him forever and refuses to look at the TARDIS, focusing instead on a rocky grey slope beyond her.

He isn't sure how far he walks; his time sense is buried beneath the swirling chaos of his emotions. Eventually, the white-hot fury fades to a dull ache, and he allows himself to acknowledge the beauty around him. The slope he is climbing is not steep, but he's come far, judging by his distance from ground level. There is no vegetation, only sharp grey stones that threaten to pierce the soles of his trainers. It appears that he is actually on an island in a large ocean. The water is calm; this is a rare planet with no moons to cause a tide, there is only the slight breeze gently rippling the water. The Doctor leans into the cool wind. It carries the earthy scent of rain (petrichor, the Doctor thinks, reveling in the brilliance of the word), although there are no clouds in the sky. With a pang, he realizes that she will never see this, and he misses her terribly. His hand aches to reach for hers, and he suddenly realizes that he is no longer certain of the exact shade of her eyes. The thought guts him. He cannot even keep her locked safely away in his memory. He has lost her, is losing her, will lose her. He turns from the sea and continues up the slope. He thinks he can see the summit in the distance.