One for Sorrow
Susan had always loved Earth. Perhaps it shouldn't have come as the surprise it did that one day she decided to stay. He hides his dismay at the loss well he thinks. He tries anyway, for her, not wanting that his own feelings should cloud hers, that his chosen life should constrain her choice.
"There must be no tears," he says, and it's an admonition as much to himself as to her.
Two for Joy
This new regeneration was born bursting with energy and enthusiasm, the boundless curiosity that had already been there no longer fettered by a body at the end of its natural span. He feels like running and jumping and singing, and with only that baffled looks of his companions to give him pause he does exactly that.
Three for a Girl
Liz, Jo, Sarah-Jane. All of them full of life and spirit and good humour. Prepared to toss aside the conventions of their time and the societal expectations of their still young world and throw in their lot with an exile to see new skies. He watches them grow, watches them test the limits of their courage and their wit, like young birds stretching their wings and preparing to fly. And in the end he knows that fly they will. He knows he'll never keep them. Knows he'd never try.
Four for a Boy
Admonishing a stowaway when one had oneself stolen the ship in question was an exercise in wilful double standards of course, so he never did fight all that hard against Adric's presence. In any case the lad was bright enough to be useful on occasion. That he was also curious enough to get into trouble more often than was entirely reasonable was another area where the Doctor didn't feel entirely certain of holding the moral high ground.
Five for Silver
The Cybermen lay crumpled, silver corpses on the floor of the console room. All too late as the freighter burned white hot before coming apart entirely. That all the creatures' scheming and cold metal logic had only ensured them a place in the inevitable history of the world they had sought to destroy was cold comfort indeed.
Six for Gold
Lytton lies dead and the Doctor can't quite grasp how wrong he'd been about him. He'd assumed mere money was the motivation. Filthy lucre. Dane-geld. It would have been a nice simple task to be contemptuous then. This was harder. Hard because he had done all of those things. Had killed, had betrayed, had worked for the vilest creatures in the universe. That he had done this thing too — had worked to save a species, had given up his life to save another's — it didn't wipe out that past. It couldn't. And yet it made things different. Messy. Made understanding difficult.
Seven for a Secret
He gave little away this time around. Sometimes he felt as though his subconscious must be working its way through all the possible permutations of personality. Quiet, loud, worried, confident, forthright, secretive. The trouble was, at the time, whichever hand was in play felt like the obvious one, the natural one, the only one. He wonders sometimes why they trust him anyway. Of course he never asks.
Never To Be Told
Stories about the War are more common than facts now. In some places it's a mythical cataclysm, long past. Elsewhere it's yet to come, the foreboding of soothsayers. 'Sad stories of the death of kings'. He can no longer place the quote. He's tired. Heart and mind tired and it's not just that he's seen friends die. Worse, was holding the hands of people who were never friends to start with. Watching them slip away, twisted and broken by strange weapons. He saw one young Timelord die thirteen times, all of his lives burned away one after the other. He remembers his face. All of his faces, but not his name. He no longer wishes for a victory, only for an end.