Summary:

Clara sometimes asks me if I dream.

"Of course I dream," I tell her, "Everybody dreams."

"But what do you dream about?" She'll ask.

"The same thing everyone dreams about," I tell her, "I dream about where I'm going."

He wandered.

Sometimes, he saved entire planets.

Sometimes, he saved people time and time again.

Sometimes, those people became his friends.

Sometimes, those people left him.

Sometimes, those people were left behind.

Sometimes, very rarely, those people, died.

He mourned them, was sad, cried even. But he kept on going.

He kept on wandering.

But now, he wasn't sure if he could. He carried on breathing, but he didn't carry on living.
Because, he died one day, you see. And he could never fully regenerate. He never would.
Because he died, without truly dying. His hearts never stopped beating but they stopped being hearts. He was a man, but he was devoid of any life.

He was The Doctor.

He saved lives, and planets, and friends.

But he didn't save their lives.

But the life before that day was always with him. Just a small bit. A trace.
And that life seeped into his dreams. Vibrant and full of colour, a promise of a better tomorrow. Hope.

He dreamt of days where everything would be bright again, of days where everything would be better again, happier. He lost his life, so he looked for it, he looked for a breath of a life in his dreams, a little touch of heavenly light. But he knew he would never find that life again.

"I don't want to tell Rory that this baby might have three heads or like, a time head or something."

"What's a time head?" Despite the sincerity of the situation, The Doctor still smiled, and then he laughed, because he could.

He didn't feel the massive hole where his hearts should be.

Now the grief, the massive whole, spread. Like a disease, it contaminated every inch of the small amount of life he had left, it made him angry and bitter, sad and unforgiving. The few that he could call friend, bore the brunt of his grief. But they never gave up, never gave in, they tried and tried to make him care again. They called for his help countless times, trying to find something, anything that would reveal even the faintest finger print of the man that they knew and loved.

"River Song you're wearing that face again."

"What face?"

"The he's hot when he's clever face."

"This is my normal face."

"Exactly."

"Oh, shut up."

"Not a chance."

The Doctor sunk deeper and deeper within himself, and another man made his way to the surface, he wanted to lead the life he once had, but the TARDIS was empty of the voices that he needed to do so, the room was so, so quiet and there was nothing he could do about it.

In the first few weeks, he mourned them. He sat and talked to the TARDIS, the one thing he could rely on to be there. But mostly he just sat. Then, he started to think of ways to get them back again. Time can be rewritten. That's what he kept on saying to himself.

"Not when it's been read."

Those words, his words, had betrayed him. They were full of sadness and bitterness. The rules of time, were essentially, his guidelines, he followed them and broke them as he pleased, very rarely was he not able to mould them into what he wanted them be, and their deaths were one of these occasions where he couldn't do anything. And it was so, so unfair.

"Doctor, this time could we lose the bunk beds?"

"No, bunk beds are cool! A bed with a ladder? You can't beat that!"

Rory had asked the Doctor if he slept, and he didn't answer. But they knew he never did. Now, though, he slept for hours and hours – if you could call it that, his dreams were always about that one moment when everything he ever loved had been taken away from him, his little Amelia and his Last Centurion, River Song, the woman he married.

He was never going to see River again, their time together had finished, their intertwined timelines were now unravelled, separate, he had seen her when she was born and when she was dying. And then his best friends, the two people who, no matter how bad it got, he could turn around and there they'd be. They were no longer there.

He wasn't there for them.

He supposed he was getting better, Clara lessened the pain, but she was not them, like she herself said. Clara thinks he has sad eyes because of the Time War, which is true, but when he had them in his life, his eyes were also happy. Clara brought some of the happiness back, but not like they did.

He sometimes felt the happiness he felt when he was with the Ponds, but the room was too quiet. He couldn't feel the same happiness again, and he knew it.

Clara sometimes asks me if I dream.

"Of course I dream," I tell her, "Everybody dreams."

"But what do you dream about?" She'll ask.

"The same thing everyone dreams about," I tell her, "I dream about where I'm going."

And that's true, I dream about home in Gallifrey. But to make a home, you need two things, the home, wherever it may be, and the people who make it home.

My friends; the Ponds, River and Clara and everyone else who I have shared my life with make me feel at home.

You can't have one thing without the other.

So what do I dream about?

'I dream about where I'm going, where I've always been going.
Home.
The long way round.'

AN: Hey! I just joined the Doctor Who fandom! This oneshot was in my head for days and I was to busy to write it up, to blame school! I mean seriously England? You make me go to school, and then you give me tons of homework on my first day AND give me rubbish weather!? This was based on Florence and The Machine's awesome Breath of Life!

Anyway, sorry if it seemed really dark, I guess I thought after Amy and Rory's death The Doctor would be really sad (like we saw in the Christmas episode, he was pretty much a recluse who lived in sadness) and I don't think he ever got over that, and ends up dreaming about better times. And of course the flash backs were something it would be criminal to not add. Plus I am just really dark anyway so... This was my way of venting...

For those of you wondering, this was set after, the saddest episode ever, in my opinion, The Angels Take Manhattan.

Also, (shameless self promoting is ahead) I have a little Sherlock fanfiction that I am writing so go check that out if you are fans of the show! Oh, and I would really like to hear your thoughts on the new Doctor, I think he is awesome, but the writers need to work on the storylines, I liked them complicated, and also they need to stop playing with the effects...

Until the next time

~ElevenWholockian~