For a long time, the Doctor didn't say anything. He just sat, hunched in on himself, fingers white-knucked against his brown suit coat, eyes focused on the distance. Here they were again. The Doctor and Rose Tyler, with the world demanding they give of themselves rather than, for once, be given something. Was it too much to ask, he wondered, for just a brief chance to rest? Was it too much to ask that this reprieve from his death sentence be something innocent and wonderful? Just once.
"I don't think I can do this." The words were said almost before he realized he was speaking aloud. Well, there was no taking them back, not now, and why should he? They were the truth. "They should have turned to a different Doctor. Not to me. The things I've done ... " He shook his head, then reached up to dash tears from his eyes. "I'm tired, Rose. I've worn out this life. It hasn't ... Things haven't been right, since I left you. I've gone too far. I was told I was going to die, and I ran. I ran so hard, and Wilf still found me. I shouldn't be here." He took a shuddering breath, afraid and at the edge of breaking. "It might have been better if I'd been pulled back into the war with all the rest of them."