Title: Keep Yourself Alive
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: gen
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: PG
Table: 1, 50ficlets
Prompt: 35, Warmth
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the Tenth Doctor. Please do not sue.

***

The Doctor shuddered as he stood at the railing of the bridge, looking down at the dark waters swirling underneath it. He'd thought of throwing himself off the bridge, into those waters, but what would that accomplish? Nothing, from his point of view.

Another regeneration into a new body, probably one that he wouldn't like nearly as much as he did this one. That would be a terrible waste, especially since there was really no reason for him to throw this one away.

It was such a human reaction to feel that something as inconsequential as a broken heart could lead him to do something so desperate, so meaningless. Or, in his case, broken hearts. They would heal eventually. At least, he hoped so.

Of course, in his case, there was twice as much pain, given that he had two hearts. Or was there? Did he hurt any more than a human who'd also been told by their lover in no uncertain terms that it was time for them to part? Maybe he didn't. He'd never know. He'd never be human.

It didn't matter if the human in question came from this time period early in the 21st century, or if they were from the future -- specifically, from the 51st century. It didn't matter if they were immortal, or if they had the normal life span of any garden-variety human being. They were all the same, in the end.

And he would never be like them, no matter how much he wanted to be. He would always be different, always be cursed with this freakish life span, always outlive those who he cared for, and ultimately be abandoned by them because they couldn't deal with who and what he was.

He shuddered again, pulling his coat closer around him. It wasn't the unusual coldness of the weather that was getting to him so badly, though that was part of it. It was the coldness he felt deep inside himself, the coldness of his own loneliness.

That was what everything in his life boiled down to, wasn't it? He was lonely. He always had been, and apparently always would be. There was no way to avoid that fact.

Oh, he could alleviate the loneliness for a while. He'd take a new companion on, show them the galaxy, experience all kinds of excitement with them. And he would come to care for them too much, all the time knowing that eventually they would walk away from him.

Some had left because they'd had no choice. Some had left of their own free will. But it didn't matter how they'd chosen to leave. He'd cared for them all as friends, as people who were an important part of his life. And he always lost them. Each and every one.

Especially the ones who were most important to him. The one who had been everything.

He wasn't going to say the name. He didn't need to. It was burned into his brain, the face etched into his inner vision as though it was a part of him. The one person he'd expected to stay -- and the one who'd seemed to be the most relieved to go.

Looking down into the water again, he closed his eyes, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. No, he wasn't going to do something as melodramatic as throw himself into the Thames. That would be foolish. And he wasn't a fool.

Eventually, he supposed, he would heal from this latest betrayal. But there would always be what he perceived as a thin crack running through the center of both his hearts, one that would always be visible and would never completely mend.

The cold day was symbolic of how he felt. The buffeting wind, the dreary, grey sky, the promise of snow and an even more intense cold to come. There was no warmth in the day, certainly not from the weak sun that struggled to break free of the cloud cover pressing down over London.

He'd never be warm again. He was sure of that. Outwardly, he could sit by a fire, warm his physical being, and forget that there was a chill out of doors.

Inwardly, he felt as though he had shriveled into a tiny shard, curled up within himself to hide from whatever coldness would attack him next. At least he'd learned from all of this. He knew better than to let his emotions have free reign over him again.

He kept telling himself that, he thought with a bitter little smile that was more of a grimace. But somehow, he never seemed to learn. He just kept repeating his mistakes, over and over again. And he'd probably never stop doing it, much to his own regret.

The Doctor turned away from his contemplation of the Thames, hands still buried in his pockets, heading back towards the street where he'd left the Tardis. He'd go back to his ship, find some other time to take himself to, and begin the process of trying to heal.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't feel the warmth of the sun breaking through the clouds.

***