AN: Hey again guys! The reaction, especially in followers and favorites, has been STUNNING, oh my gosh, thanks so much guys! I have decided to continue this because of the support I have received, so I hope it fulfills expectations. Don't expect regular updates. My life is busy. I haven't even watched Doctor Who since summer... I know, I know, it's a crime. Anyway, enough rambling, let's get to the good stuff! Here it is!

*I don't own anything except the plot bunnies. Those are mine. General warnings still stand- if you are squeamish towards blood or are triggered by anything even referencing self-loathing or bordering self-harm, I don't even know why you looked at this story in the first place, much less the second chapter, but please don't read on. This may be less feelsy than the first, but it still references those things, and I don't want to get anybody hurt.

Eventually the Doctor wiped his tear-stained eyes and looked down at the pool of blood that was slowly trickling down to his feet.

Weak his mind taunted.

"Not. Weak," he gasped feebly.

Oh yeah his mind sneered back you're just lying on the floor of your room, sickened by the sight of your own blood. Not weak, huh?

The Doctor growled, getting up and stumbling to the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom.

He stared at his haggard, blood crusted face and the dark circles under his eyes before turning his attention to the blood pouring from the broken skin around his knuckles and palm.

He groaned, and, with shaking hands, threw off his clothes and got into the bath.

Turning on the water, he relished the feel of the cold water splashing over his open wounds, washing the blood and grime away.

The TARDIS sent a worried hum through his mind, but he pushed her away roughly.

She couldn't help him in his pain.

After all, he deserved it.

He deserved all of it.

After a while, the Doctor's teeth began to chatter from the cold, but he kept the water running until all the blood was washed away.

Then he went, dripping and clad in nothing but a towel, back to his room.

He noticed a perceptible change in warmth and huffed.

You're not my mother he growled in his head.

The TARDIS sent him a message that clearly said well I wouldn't have to be if you didn't do this to yourself.

The Doctor slumped back into his bed admitting defeat for a moment, and enjoying the warmth against his naked body.

Eventually he would go on.

Be the Doctor who saved everybody.

But right now he was just the tired old man who was so broken inside.

The one no one could know.

The one no one stopped to listen to.

And the one no one could ever see.

Of course the Doctor caught the little looks Amy gave him when he said something off handedly.

The worried expression of Rory when the Doctor would over-exert himself.

But the true darkness inside him…

The darkness that threatened to consume him even now that he was over the majority of the battle, of the storm-at least for that night.

They did not see that.

They were too young, too innocent.

At least that was what the Doctor told himself.

And that was the lie that kept him living.

That they would not see that darkness inside him so they would never be scared away.

And if only he saw the darkness, the indulgence of the pain in which the darkness cried out inside him could be done cleanly, safely even.

Simply because they would never know.

I am sorry if you are dissatisfied with the Doctor's self treatment, but I mean if he didn't want anyone to know, bulky bandages, ESPECIALLY on something like the hand that he uses a lot, is pretty noticeable, so if he can clean the wound with water until the bleeding stops and leave it to heal on its own time, that would be better. After all, he is a Time Lord and he heals a little faster, so I feel a quicker treatment might not be so bad for him, assuming his wounds are shallow like they were in this story. That's just my take.