Disclaimer: Doctor Who and Highlander do not belong to me.
And suddenly, it all ends. Screams silenced in an instant; fire cleansing and destroying, ending a conflict in a maelstrom of pain. In his mind's eye, he sees what he wrought; the last of his people; the only one; alive - because he - he - of all of them - would do what was necessary. Ironic, that of all the Time Lords - he - the renegade - the rebel, troublemaker… and now… the last. He's all alone.
The TARDIS hums in his mind, ever faithful partner - and now. The only other child of Gallifrey.
Gallifrey burns and he regenerates and the TARDIS refuses to just let him die - die like the rest of his people. Erased from time in an instant, destroyed to preserve the rest of the universe from the Daleks. He shudders. And now, now, he has no idea where he is or what he's to do.
He plucks at too-short sleeves - cuffs riding high on thicker forearms - and he knows if he glances down, he'll see skin between socks and trouser-hems. Waistcoat bursting, buttons straining from their perch; velvet coat tight across his shoulders, pinning and hemming him in, the once comfortable fit a thing of the past. The consequence of his actions: a new body. And yet, is it not fitting? Strange face, strange body, to go with the strange new reality in which he finds himself.
The TARDIS exits the time vortex - she's in charge, she's the only one with the strength to think, to carry on, to act. He doesn't know from where it comes. She has kept him alive and here and present, refusing to let him fall so deep into despair that regeneration goes wrong and the Time Lords are no more. He's the last, just as she's the last of her kind, and she won't let him take the easy route, and surrender into the beckoning darkness. He can't blame her; she doesn't want to be alone anymore than he does.
Always before - even when the others exiled him - he's had Gallifrey to return to; he's always had the reassurance that, in spite of it all, he had a home to which he could - eventually - return. Yes, the others might have exiled him, or forced him to regenerate, but they also knew his value, recalling him when they needed his skills. Like this last time - and his hearts stutter and he draws in a sharp breath, mind falling shut, unable to cope with what he's done.
He's alone. And he doesn't know how to go on.
The knock against the door should come as a surprise, but somehow it doesn't. The TARDIS brought him somewhere - somewhen - and while he doesn't know the answer to either question, he does know that wherever the TARDIS has brought him, it's for the best. Someplace she thinks he'll be fine.
Numb, defeated, he opens the door and blinks at the man lounging against his TARDIS. Lean, wearing form-fitting jeans and an oversized sweater, the man resembles the graduate student at which he plays from time to time rather than the many thousands of years old he actually is.
Methos. Immortal. Survivor. Pain-in-the-arse.
"I would ask how you are, Doctor, but I can see for myself," the man drawls; his hazel eyes sharpen, taking in the state of the Doctor, of the veritable pall that hangs over the TARDIS.
The Doctor moves aside, trailing listless back to the console. The TARDIS murmurs in his mind, whispering comforts, but her lone voice cannot disguise the newly created silence that rings in his mind. For the first time in his life, he has lost the comforting murmur of his people.
It's all silenced now.
Methos follows him inside, gathers him by the elbow and drags him into the hallway. The TARDIS aids him, switching her hallways quickly so that the first room on the right contains the extensive clothing collection the Immortal knows from past experience exists on the TARDIS. He's never inquired of the Doctor just why the Time Lord needs so many clothes - or even from where the clothes came - but he's grateful for it now. The Doctor needs to change, to get out of the ill-fitting clothing, to complete the transformation he has begun with the regeneration. This Doctor's taller than the old one, broader at the shoulder, with big ears, and a nose - well, Methos can't really say anything about noses, not with the appearance of his own.
"Let's see…" Methos begins, sorting through the clothing before him. The Doctor remains in the middle of the room, unmoving, uncaring, his own thoughts still circling again and again around what he had done. He's not paying attention, letting his companion choose what he's to wear.
Methos smirks as he pulls black denims, a black tee, and a supple leather jacket for the Time Lord to wear. Not something the Doctor has ever chosen to wear - in any of his incarnations. He would probably never choose it for himself, were he in his right mind. But, with the experience of over five thousand years, Methos knows it's the difference that's important, not the similarities. The Doctor's hurt is too new, too raw to return to his normal old-fashioned clothing. Maybe one day, he'll return to the waistcoats and poet's shirts and velvet frock coats, but not today. Not when the hurt echoes and rolls around, tainting everything about him.
The Doctor remains standing dully where Methos placed him. Methos clucks his tongue, before taking the role of valet - his talents honed as a body slave oh-so-long-ago, coming to the fore as he strips and re-dresses the Doctor without any aid from the Time Lord himself.
And throughout it all, he feels the faint worry pulsing in his mind; the TARDIS concerned about her pilot, concerned at his lack of response, the grief she herself feels entwining with the grief of her partner, invading even Methos' mind, giving hint to the truth of what has happened, what has driven the Doctor and TARDIS to this state, to seek him out as if he might possibly have answers to questions he doesn't even know, but that they wish to ask him.
He may have lived for over five thousand years, survived more than he should, done things he's not proud of, but he doesn't have all the wisdom in the world. He's explained it over and over and over again to all the youngsters who look at him with stars in their eyes, convinced he holds the secrets to the universe just because he's managed to keep his head for so long and they never believe him, convinced that he must know something that they don't. The Doctor has never looked at him like that, never expects him to be wiser than he is. Methos thinks it's because the Doctor flits through time and space and has seen the best and worst that the universe has to offer, even as he never stays still for long, never lives life in a straight line. Time is fungible to the Doctor; it simply exists and he plays through it all, riding the melodies and arpeggios and tempos and bridges as only a finely tuned instrument can. He, himself, has traveled with the Doctor; seen wonders he's never imagined. It comforts him to know that Earth is not alone, when the memories press, and it's all he can do to not scream.
He's also pretty sure that he's not the only Immortal to have traveled with the Doctor. He's never asked - won't ask because it's none of his business. If the Doctor wants to him to know, he'll mention it. But the Doctor's also aware of how jealously the Immortals guard their identities. For years, the Doctor was one of the handful of people who actually knew his true identity. He's never begrudged the Time Lord his knowledge, mostly because the Time Lord has never, in all the time he's known him, thrown Methos' past in his face. The Doctor accepts him, has helped him work through his past, or just taken him away when he needs to get away from it all.
And now? Now he can help the Time Lord as he has helped Methos - helped so many others - time and time again.
With the Doctor newly garbed, Methos leads him back out in the hallway. The TARDIS again accommodates by placing the room he wants immediately before him. He doesn't know how a fully functional fireplace can exist on the TARDIS, but he welcomes its warmth as he urges the Doctor to sit in the comfortable club chair before it. He moves to the side bar and pours them both a glass of an exotic brandy that Methos knows doesn't exist on Earth. The brandy is fragrant, a light purple in color, shimmering as the light from the fire hits it. He knows its taste, knows the Doctor has expressed a preference for it.
The Doctor takes the glass, but Methos isn't even sure that the Doctor is aware of anything. He hasn't said a word since letting him into the TARDIS, didn't even protest the clothes Methos chose for him. But then, this is not an ordinary day for the Doctor. He has not simply popped by to see if Methos wants to join him for a trip or two or three… He's here, in shock, because… Well. That is what Methos is here to figure out.
"What happened, Doctor?" he asks. The Doctor remains silent and he wonders if the Doctor is even aware of where he is. But, Methos is also patient. It's a skill he's cultivated, one of the greatest reasons for his survival, in fact. So he remains quiet, sipping the otherworldly brandy, ready to listen when the Doctor's ready to begin.
Contrary to Methos' thoughts, the Doctor is aware of where he sits and with whom. He's just trying to gather this thoughts, trying to figure out how to relate what's happened. The TARDIS still buzzes in his head, giving him what little comfort she can, and taking what little comfort he has to offer her. He wonders when the pain will stop, when he won't keep reaching with his mind for the others, for that distant hum that had always - always - signified that no matter how far from Gallifrey he might roam, he still belonged in a fundamental way that no one could take from him.
But that's all gone now, destroyed in the burst of fire and flame that consumed Gallifrey and her people. That ended the Time War.
"They're all gone now," he finally says. He raises his head, haunted eyes meeting the concerned hazel eyes of his companion. "All dead. All my people…" He hears Methos inhale sharply, and smiles bitterly.
"How?" Methos whispers.
"Me. I did it." He grimaces. It's truth. His hand, his doing, and Gallifrey is gone, wiped from the time stream, and with it the Time Lords - and the Daleks. Only the knowledge that destroying Gallifrey also destroyed their greatest enemy, makes his actions even a bit palatable.
He waits for the recriminations, the horrified gasp at his admission of genocide - for what else to call it but that? - but… it never arrives. Moments pass, and he keeps his eyes averted, not sure if he can look into his friend's eyes, if he has the strength to see what result his confession has on the other. He rolls the glass of brandy in his hands, the liquid sloshing along the sides, but not so high enough as to spill over. He wonders when Methos will speak, for surely he will condemn the Time Lord for his actions, and demand to never see him again.
Nothing. Just silence - echoing the silence in his head. He frowns. Does the Immortal not realize to what he has just admitted? Does it not bother him?
Apparently not. The Immortal meets his own gaze with calm hazel eyes. The man looks as relaxed as ever, sprawled in the chair with his long legs practically parallel with the floor, shoulders slumped as he swirls his own glass of brandy before taking a sip.
"Did you not hear me?" he finally demands. "I killed them. Me. My people are gone, all because of me!" he shouts, tossing the brandy glass at the wall. In the silence, the tinkling sound of the broken glass echoes.
Methos finally reacts - sighing as he sits up straight. "Would you like me to reprimand you? Condemn you as evil?" His voice holds traces of mockery.
The Doctor surges from his seat. His hands, he finds to his surprise, are fisted at his side. Anger pulses through him, and he feels the weight of his ages on him as he turns truly furious eyes onto Methos. How dare he mock his pain? How dare he just sit there, and pretend that what the Doctor has just confessed to means nothing? "Do not mock me!" he orders through clenched teeth. "I watched as Gallifrey burned, as my people were annihilated in turn - and I could do nothing!"
"And why was that?"
The quietly phrased question throws the Doctor. It's not that he doesn't know how to answer - he does. But, how to explain? He sits back down into his chair, the anger draining from him as quickly as it had risen. "Me. They told me to do it."
Methos raises an eyebrow. It's not a very informative answer. He wishes to help his friend, but knows without more knowledge of what exactly happened, he can't do much. What he does have, is patience. The Doctor needs someone at whom he can rant, to unburden himself of his actions. Methos is happy to be that person. He suspects it is for this reason that the TARDIS came to him.
Over five thousand years on this world, and not much of what a person can do to their fellows can surprise him. He's seen and done more things than he can count. He doubts that even when the Doctor finally confesses to what he did, he will truly be surprised. At least, he can provide the Time Lord with understanding. He might not be a priest by vocation, but he's not going to throw stones, not when his own past does not glow with the aura of the righteous. He's committed acts that shame him, now, looking back. Maybe he even hated them at the time, but he can't remember how he felt about every misdeed he's done. As strange as it sounds, he's come to peace with his past, has come to peace with his actions when civilization did not equate to a Judeo-Christian morality scheme.
"They came to me," the Doctor finally continues, his voice dull and coarse. Methos notes that this incarnation has a rather distinctive Northern England accent. It makes his words all the more harsh. "Came to me and told me I needed to stop flitting around. Told me that the war - that the Daleks… They were… to powerful. Too intent on destroying, too fixated on my people." His lips quirk in a parody of a smile. "They did not think any one else a threat. Only the Time Lords. And so… They focused on us. The Emperor himself commanded his fleets. Billions of Daleks, all intent on one thing. Extermination."
Methos is not even sure if the Doctor is aware of what he is saying anymore. But he will not interrupt, will instead, let the Time Lord say what he needs to say.
"Extermination," the Doctor mumbles. "Their solution. So many dead, Methos. So many dead… but we fought. We fought and fought. But it wasn't enough. Never enough. They kept coming, just kept coming, so certain that they could best us, overwhelm us with their numbers. And they would have." He raises horrified - damned - eyes towards Methos. "But for me. I did it. Did what Romana asked of me. Did it - and Gallifrey burned… and the Time Lords are gone. Gone forever. And I'm alone. And it's so damned silent"
The Doctor slumps, the confession taking from him what little reserves of strength he had had. He exudes an aura of despair, the like of which Methos has seen before - but never in the Doctor. He starts as the TARDIS hums with concern in his mind, watches as the Doctor flinches, before his face relaxes from the grimace of self-hatred. Methos understands - who better? He finds himself moving even before he's conscious of it, and kneels before the Doctor, grasping his hands with his own.
"You're not to blame," he avers, ducking his head to capture the Doctor's gaze with his own. The Doctor's eyes - capable of reflecting so many emotions, the only other person Methos knows who can hide who is he - what he is - bared, expressing the turmoil, the pain of his actions. For the first time in their acquaintance, Methos is faced with the true weight of the Doctor's age.
He doesn't even flinch; instead, he matches the Doctor's honesty with his own, dropping barrier after barrier until all the centuries of his life are exhibited in his own eyes. The windows to the soul. And Methos has lived - lived hard and long - but more than that, he's survived, something he knows is not as easy as it sounds. That weight, that certainty, that ability to go on living, year after year, century after century, despite it all, is there, present for the Doctor to read and see. All that Methos is, all that he was. And he puts all his life experience into his voice, when he reassures the Doctor. "You did what you had to do, Doctor. There is no shame in that."
"But what can I do now?" the Doctor asks, broken from choices and decisions made in the heat of battle. Methos is not used to seeing the Doctor so… helpless. Always before, even when things seem hopeless, the Doctor has exuded a sense of infallibility, of unrelenting hope. The picture of despair he now presents seems at odds with the Doctor Methos knows.
"You live. You grow stronger. You fight another day." Words Methos has lived by for centuries.
The Doctor looks at him, shakes his head. "I am not one of your Immortals, Methos. What purpose do those words have for me?"
Methos sits back on his heels in frustration. He has preached those words to many in his lifetime. Such a very small number have actually understood what he means by them. The Horsemen had, for a while, until the passing of centuries and their sheer desire to recapture the glory they had once held, made them forget the last part. "You don't have to be Immortal to live by that code, Doctor," he counters. "You cannot change what has happened. You can only go forward. You have a choice; sink into despair, or, take what has happened, what you have done, hold it to you, make it a part of you, let it help to shape you, learn from it. You are the Doctor, the Oncoming Storm, the Lonely God," he recites the numerous titles by which his friend is known throughout time and space. "Yes, you cannot take back what you have done, but your actions were honorable. Your people, Gallifrey, they are gone, but you still live, and as long as you do… so do they."
Silence fills the room; Methos doesn't know if what he has said has penetrated the Doctor's consciousness. But then, the Doctor sighs, nods his head. "Maybe you're right," he concedes. Frankly, Methos is skeptical that the Doctor is truly listening to him, now, so soon after his actions. He feels the faint tendrils of the TARDIS in his own mind, and suspects she is aiding the Doctor in a way he cannot. Maybe, between the two of them, they can help the Doctor heal.
Approval flashes across his mind, a hint of humor tinged with sorrow. Methos knows his work here is not complete, but the Doctor needs to rest. "Come, Doctor. Let's get you to bed. We can talk more in the morning." He rises to his feet, graceful as ever, and stretches a hand out to the Time Lord. He waits, patiently, for a response. He can - and will - remain here as long as it takes, even if it takes hours. And yet… he knows, somehow, it won't, and he's rewarded when the Doctor takes his hand, allows Methos to pull him up and lead him to the room the TARDIS has prepared for him.
"Rest, Doctor. I will keep watch," Methos assures him. The Doctor nods, too exhausted - emotionally, physically, mentally, to protest any further. He lays down, feels the hum of the TARDIS in his mind, a comfort in the silence, stretching to fill the emptiness left by the loss of his people, and lets himself slide into the darkness. He doesn't know what tomorrow brings, doesn't even know if he wants that knowledge. "Sleep, Doctor," he hears and… he does.
Author's Note: According to Russell T. Davies, the force behind New Who, the Time War referenced in the Eight Doctor novels and audios is not the same Time War that Nine refers to in New Who. Since I have not read the novels/audios, I have based descriptions and assumptions on the Time War from what Nine and Ten have said in the show.