To be honest I really don't know where I'm going with this one yet. This could be a oneshot or it couldn't be.
To solly and to Ally, and this isn't my best piece, so yeah. Onwards!
--x--
It was the quiet nights which got him the most.
As long as you surrounded your life with noise and cheerfulness and busy jobs and conversation and singing and bouncing, you didn't have to think that much.
But you couldn't talk and laugh and make and sing all the time. It tore your throat; it hurt your ribs; it roughened your fingers; it strained your voicebox.
And when the nights came and your voice was worn out through too much use and your feet felt like they would drop off and there was nothing left to fix, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
When it was quiet and there was nothing but the TARDIS and him as it had invariably been, the thoughts came.
The thoughts which all the singing and laughing and making in the world couldn't block out when they really wanted their grip.
And you knew when they came.
By heck you did.
It wasn't possible for the TARDIS to be completely silent. There was always something going on, some whirring or whining or clinking of gears. Small, comforting sounds that acted as a lullaby to its occupants at first board. And then you barely noticed it.
Except when it was gone.
To the Doctor it was barely there. It was something he never took notice of except perhaps to sometimes smile fondly or to pat the console as ten different hands had done.
The nights aboard the ship had once seemed so short- as little to be acknowledged as the tinkling TARDIS- but suddenly, without knowing it, they'd flipped, and now seemed as long as that scarf when he'd worn in his fourth self.
Long nights full of silence.
And as a fish knew that it couldn't breathe out of water, he knew that it would mean one thing.
Traitor.
Those thoughts just wouldn't go away, would they?
And sometimes there was another sort of noise.
A melodic, swirling, swanning, soaring tune. Reverent. Respected.
If he had a faith he would call it 'holy'.
And when it happened he would freeze over whatever distraction he was plotting on, whatever noise he was making- the tune always seemed to be somewhat louder, though it never woke anyone- and straighten up slowly, and make his way to the doorway of whatever room he was currently in.
And there, without fail, would be a hologram. Its matter he knew all too well. So many times he'd tried to touch it, and it had flickered just that bit away from him. A chasing child, and that was his pot of gold. Though of course as children do, he found out that it wasn't real.
Sometimes there would only be a few people there- a handsome, dark haired man who didn't seem to belong there- an innocent young girl- a blonde haired regal woman- a tin dog- a young woman with floaty brown hair- a man who would look at him accusingly- two blonde women stood together, one young and delicate, the other old and hassled...
And at other times when the night was even stiller and the Console room- for that was always where he was when the larger groups came- would darken and the lights would dim, more people came.
They filled up the Console room easily.
They filled up the corridors.
They filled up everywhere.
An entire race, lost save for the hologram.
An entire race staring at him through sad, angry or proud and smiling old or young blue, green, grey, brown, gold or purple eyes.
An entire race singing in a tongue so lost only one person now uttered it, and that was to his machine.
Sometimes it seemed so real that he'd smile in spite of himself and the room would brighten in a golden glow so intense that it filled his heart and made him want to join them in singing and thank whoever that his mistake had once again been put right. That it didn't count.
But then he'd blink, and then he'd see what it really was- a crude hologram, flickering and hissing and spitting, the sound barely more than a whisper though so quiet in the still.
And it'd hit him, the intensity of what he'd done, so much so that he could fall down upon the hard grating floor and sob until he drowned all the rooms. It was as though the few years had rolled back- that he was staring at the inferno distantly through a screen in his beloved, mocked ship, and not moving, but hoping against hope that there would be one spark of life out there.
And finally giving up that hope when lack of food and water made him feel that regenerative pang.
But before he could sink that low, a small hand pulled him out of that misery and stroke his hair and make it all better.
"They sing to me," he'd murmur, clutching at the woman in horror. "I can hear them singing."
"I know," she'd murmur back, hugging him and smiling as though she understood, though she couldn't possibly begin to understand. "I know."
And then the quiet nights wouldn't seem so quiet.