The Doctor paced along the hallways of the TARDIS, breath coming fast, hearts pounding. He wasn't sure where he was going, only that he couldn't stand to be in one place anymore. His steps were as quiet as he could manage; Donna was sleeping, somewhere, though he supposed she probably wouldn't think anything of his wandering around at the late hour. Regardless, he didn't want to wake her up. He wanted to be alone, and he didn't want to stand still.
Sometimes, when he got like this, the TARDIS would try to keep him in a loop between the console room and his bedroom. Tonight, the Doctor had told her strictly to leave the hallways as they were. She had listened and left him alone—not without objection—because she knew he couldn't always deal with being trapped like that, but he could tell she wasn't happy with it. He just hated for her to see him in such a state. That was the downside of having a sentient ship, he supposed.
The dreams had gotten worse, lately, and she knew it. Many nights he found himself unable to sleep at all, and when he did sleep he would unerringly wake up in a panic, exhausted but terrified to sleep and see the same things all over again. He could run on much less sleep than a human, but even he had his limits. He'd been jittery and irritable, and he worried that Donna had noticed. How could he begin to explain himself, if she did ask why?
As he strode deeper into the TARDIS he found the dreams replaying over and over in his head. The images were scattered and plotless, but they made his breath hitch with each new memory. This time it was his home. Gallifrey. The Time War. And fresher memories too, though the old ones felt no less vivid: the end of the universe, Professor Yana, the Toclafane. The Master, bleeding to death in his arms. Martha.
His hands hadn't stopped shaking, his chest and throat still felt tight. The initial panic was fading, finally, but what came after always bothered him more. At least he knew that the fear was unjustified. The blame… not so much.
The Doctor came to a stop, standing in the middle of the hall. Anger bubbled up in his chest, anger at himself. The old, familiar rage he felt when he was reminded of such things, even when he reminded himself. He didn't want to think about it; he wanted it all to never have happened. Most of all, he didn't want to be responsible anymore. He was furious and scared and helpless, and he didn't know how to fix it.
Then he was walking again; he wasn't sure when he'd started moving, or how far he'd gone, but he knew where he was going. In the back of his mind he heard the TARDIS questioning him. He pushed her away.
Up a flight of stairs, past the observatory, a long ways down the hall opposite the simulation room, he came to an old spare bedroom. This part of the TARDIS was often blocked off, from him and anyone else who happened to be wandering around, but as clever as she was his ship still answered to him, more or less. As such, the room was rarely used, and he trusted that Donna didn't know it was there. It looked much like any other bedroom, with a bed, a nightstand, a small desk and a chair, and an en suite, all perfectly neat and tidy.
The Doctor checked over his shoulder, making sure he had not been followed, slipped into the spare room and shut the door behind him. He went for the nightstand and pulled open each drawer; finding them empty, he shot a glare at the wall, stormed over to the desk and began rifling through each compartment there, to no avail.
"Dammit!" he shouted, intending that the TARDIS hear him. But she had listened, and left him alone.
Trying to keep from tracking her down and having a talk about touching his things, he took a deep breath. He wasn't mad, not really. She was trying to help.
He walked to the bathroom, desperately hoping she'd left all the usual stuff alone. His hands trembled as he searched through the cabinets, and he let out a shuddering sigh of relief when he found what he was looking for: a simple shaving razor.
Heartbeats picking up in anticipation, he detached the handle from the head and discarded it. He worked his nails under the back plate and pried it off, grimacing as the blades nicked his fingertips. Caution abandoned, he used his teeth to break the plastic holding them in place and peeled one blade out, dropping the remains to try to bend it back into shape. It gleamed in the dim light, menacingly, wickedly sharp. Far sharper than the old blade he'd been looking for.
His whole body was shaking from a bewildering mixture of fear, anger and excitement. Hurriedly, he rolled up his left sleeve. Scars, some old and pale, others still an angry red, criss-crossed his wrist. On any other occasion, he would despise looking at them—they were a reminder of his own weakness, and just how alone he really was—but right now, he revelled in it. It brought him a terrible, vicious satisfaction to have the proof that he was getting what he deserved.
"Oh, shut up about it," he muttered to himself.
Almost gently, he laid the blade against the back of his hand and ran it across, testing its sharpness. He felt the tug of the metal on his skin, and a thin trail of blood welled up immediately in its wake. Easy enough to explain away, he reasoned. By now, Donna was surely used to him acquiring random minor injuries.
Confident it was more than sharp enough, the Doctor pressed the razor blade to his wrist, slicing open a fresh wound. The pain hit him a second later, leaving him gasping. Even so, relief blossomed in his chest; it had been a little while, and it felt good. Like jumping into freezing water after too long in the sun.
Further up his arm, he dug the blade in twice more. The blood quickly welled up and dripped down his wrist and onto the counter, sticky and warm against his cool skin. He watched it for a while, breathing hard, until the wound started to close and the blood dried up. He'd really only intended to make a few minor nicks, but he was left unsatisfied. Go deeper, whispered a little voice in the back of his mind. And he did.
He did it again, and again, cutting at his wrist in scattered, skewed lines, barely even watching where he put his blade. Even so he went slowly, pressing in as hard as he could bear, making very sure he felt everything. The shaking increased as he went, his body straining under the onslaught of chemicals in his bloodstream, but it was no deterrent. He focused on the pain, noting the thoughts that surfaced in his mind. Keep going, they whispered. Finish it off. It's no less than you deserve.
"No," he whispered out loud. The thought scared him, pulled him back to the present ever so slightly.
Coward.
He slammed the blade down on the counter, anger boiling beneath his skin. The white stone was smeared with red, blood running in rivulets down his arm and dripping from the gashes. There wasn't an inch of skin untouched, and his whole forearm was stained with blood. While some cuts were closing by themselves, others bled profusely and seemed unlikely to stop. Horror at himself slowly crept over him; he couldn't believe what he'd done.
"Oh God," he whispered. Suddenly, the pain was no relief, and he felt terribly guilty for giving in like this. Drawing deep breaths to calm himself, he rinsed the blood from the blade, the sink, and his hands. Tentatively, he washed his torn-up wrist with cold water. There were no bandages in this room, and he couldn't bear the thought of asking the TARDIS for some, so he rolled down his sleeve and pressed it tightly to his arm, hoping it could staunch the bleeding long enough to get to the medbay.
From the fading adrenaline or the blood loss, he found himself growing lightheaded as he hurried down the corridors, now lacking the discipline and sense to make any attempt at stealth. He felt awful. He hadn't meant it to get so out of hand, honest. It had been so long since he'd done something like this. When had he gotten so weak?
"Oh, shut up!" he hissed at himself.
"Who're you talking to?"
The voice came from behind him. He froze, heart plummeting, and turned around. Donna stood in the doorway of her room, staring at him curiously.
Silently, he cursed the TARDIS for rearranging the hallways to make him pass here. "No one," he replied, begging his voice to stay steady.
She took a step towards him, a trace of concern on her face. "Is something wrong? Why are you up?"
"Nothing's wrong. You know me, always busy. The real question is, why are you up?" he countered, speaking a little too quickly.
She didn't answer. Her eyes flicked downwards; he realized he was still gripping his forearm. He dropped his hands, suppressing a wince, and clasped them behind his back.
"Doctor, what is wrong?" she asked, more forceful this time.
He started to explain. "I–" Then his voice failed him. All the strength seemed to drain out of his body. He let his gaze fall to the floor, and couldn't bring himself to continue.
Donna hurried to his side, eyes wide with worry. She went to place her hand on his arm, but he jerked back. His heart twisted at the look on her face.
"Are you alright?" She frowned. "Are you hurt?"
The Doctor looked away, unable to meet her gaze. "I just–" he whispered, and stopped again, stepping back so she wouldn't see the tears in his eyes. He turned away from her and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed shut.
"I'm sorry," he said, barely more than a whimper.
Hesitantly, Donna placed her hand on his back. When he didn't draw away, she moved closer again.
"Doctor, you're scaring me," she said quietly.
He took a deep, shuddering breath.
Gently touching his trembling left hand, she asked, "Can I see?"
After a long moment of steeling himself, he nodded. Donna took his hand in hers and ran one finger over the now-closed cut on the back of his hand. His breath hitched; he swallowed hard, fighting to stay in control. The guilt he felt for putting her through this made his chest hurt, and his breaths came shallow and fast. He was afraid, and ashamed, and the pain was beginning to get overwhelming.
As if she were scared to do so, she eased the sleeve of his suit jacket up. He heard her sharp intake of breath, and felt her withdraw, letting go of his hand.
"Oh, Doctor…" she breathed.
Something inside him broke. Tears spilled down his cheeks and buried his face in his hands, ignoring the burning pain it caused in his arm. He'd never wanted this. He'd never wanted to hurt Donna. He'd hurt enough people already; this was never supposed to be her burden as well. Stupid, selfish coward, you are. You don't deserve her. You didn't deserve any one of them.
Her voice cut through his thoughts.
"C'mon, Doctor, let's– let's go to the medbay," she said, almost pleading with him to agree. "You're still bleeding, you need–"
"No," he interrupted, voice raw with emotion. "No, it's my fault, I'll deal with it. I can deal with it alone."
"I'm not leaving you alone!" Donna protested. "I'm sorry, I won't. I'm– I'm worried about you. Why won't you let me help?"
"Because it's not your job to look after me!" He finally met her gaze, willing her to understand.
"Oh, God, Donna… I didn't–" He paused to turn and take a couple steps away, gathering the little composure he had left. "I didn't want you to see me like this. You shouldn't have to deal with me, I can't… I can't believe I would put you through this."
"Hey, hey, it's alright. You don't have to worry about me." She glanced at his arm, spots of blood starting to show through his sleeve. "Why don't we go get you bandaged up?"
The Doctor still didn't move, eyes fixed on the ground.
"Doctor… please, just come," she urged, voice wavering.
His lip quivered, and he hid it by rubbing his hand down his face. "I don't– I don't want to go," he whispered.
Donna looked like she was using every ounce of patience she had to resist dragging him to the medbay, but she didn't push him. "Why don't you want to go?"
It was a moment before he could bring himself to respond, but when he did the words came tumbling out.
"I don't want to feel better, Donna! I don't deserve that, and I don't deserve your help, and I don't deserve you!" She stared at him in stunned silence, and he kept going. "You know me. You know what I've done, you know what happens to the people who travel with me. They get hurt, every single time. I hurt people. And I can't stand it, I can't watch one more person get hurt because of me. I will not just sit back and watch the same thing happen to you that happened to Rose and Jack, Martha and her family, my entire world! I won't! I–" His voice broke, and he fell silent. He realized that he'd dug his nails into his wrist, and wrenched his hands apart in a surge of anger and disgust. Suddenly he was almost—almost—glad that Donna had refused to leave him alone, because he couldn't stand himself right then. It scared him, he realized, that he didn't know what he might do.
"I am not a good person, Donna," he said slowly, shakily. "How can you not see that?"
Donna shook her head, speechless. Tears filled her own eyes, and it broke his heart to see her upset because of him.
"Why would you ever say that?" she whispered finally. Her voice grew stronger. "You know, for a genius, you can be so bloody thick, Doctor, it's hard to believe sometimes. You really think all that?"
The Doctor did not answer, but she didn't need him to.
"You couldn't be more wrong. Now you listen to me, mister," she snapped, "you are the single most selfless, kind, well-meaning person I have ever met, and the best friend anyone could ever ask for. And I do not care whether you think so, because it's the truth. I won't just sit back and let you believe those things about yourself. You think you don't deserve help? What you don't deserve is to be in pain, alone, thinking you have to suffer for things that aren't your fault, things that you did when you were put in an impossible situation."
Donna stepped closer, putting her hands on his shoulders. "I am your friend," she insisted, no longer forceful with her tone. "I'm helping whether you like it or not."
The Doctor struggled for a moment with what to say. What could he say to that? He sniffed, trying to compose himself enough to speak, but he couldn't. A sob shook his body, and then he found himself gathered up in Donna's arms, face buried in the crook her neck. He held her close as she stroked his hair, whispering words of comfort in his ear. Whether he believed everything she said, he wasn't sure. But mustn't it something that a person as good as her could see good in him?
After a long while, Donna took him by the good arm to the medbay and sat him down on an examination table.
"Where's the first aid kit?" she asked, keeping her voice soft.
He nodded vaguely towards the cabinets in one corner, and returned to staring at his hands. Donna eventually located the kit on the top shelf, and a cloth which she soaked in warm water before going back over to the Doctor. She set them down next to him and tried to get his attention.
"I'm going to roll up your sleeve now, is that alright?"
He sniffed, and nodded after a moment.
As delicately as she could, Donna peeled the red-stained fabric away from his arm, drawing a stifled gasp from him. She felt a pang of pity, and she could understand why he hadn't wanted her to know. He'd really cut himself up; there were gashes spanning the whole length of his forearm. With the cloth, she cleaned the excess blood from his wrist and hands as he tried not to show how much it hurt. At least, however, the pain seemed to pull him out of his thoughts and back to reality.
Once she had finished, she opened the first aid kit.
"What does all this stuff even do?" she asked, hoping he'd be willing to tell her what to do.
The Doctor picked out a small spray bottle labelled in circular Gallifreyan. "Disinfectant," he told her. "Shake it first."
She gave him a small, thankful smile, and did as he instructed. He winced as she sprayed it all down his arm, coughing a bit as some of the chemical got in the air. It was all utterly foreign to him, to have someone else care for him and dress his wounds. The last person to see him so vulnerable would have been… Martha. On the Valiant, as the Master died in his arms…
"Doctor? Does it hurt too much?"
Donna was looking at him, concerned, and he realized he was crying again. He didn't want to explain—didn't think he could—so he shook his head.
"No. It's fine," he choked out.
Clearly unconvinced, Donna set down the bottle. "We can stop," she offered. "Or I could find some painkillers–"
"No, no. Really. It's not so bad."
She eyed him for a moment. "Alright, if you're sure." She retrieved a roll of what seemed to be a sort of gauze. "Is this for bandaging?"
He nodded, wiping the tears from his cheeks. As she gingerly wrapped his arm in gauze, he noticed that her body was tense and her hands trembling. Fresh guilt washed over him; as if he hadn't done enough already, he couldn't have just held back, just taken a different path to the medbay, refused to let her babysit him…
"All done," Donna announced, taking his hand between both of hers. "Are you doing okay?"
No, he thought. But that was stupid.
"Yes," he said. "Fine."
Fixing him with a look that told him there was really only one acceptable answer to that question, and he hadn't got it right, she sat herself down next to him.
"You don't have to tell me what's on your mind," she said bluntly. "But… I am here for you, alright? You can tell me anything. If you like."
The Doctor looked down at his hands, intertwined in his lap. "Thank you," he murmured. Taking a shaky breath, he willed his voice to stay steady. "I was just having a dream, that's all."
"They've gotten worse," Donna stated, more than asked.
He nodded. "Whenever I try to sleep… I just have nightmares."
"Is there a reason?"
For a long moment, he debated whether to tell her. He didn't want to think about any of it—but he supposed that meant he should. Taking her hand tightly in his, he slowly started to explain.
"Before we met again at the Adipose factory, there was… I had this friend. The Master, his name was." He bit his lip hard, trying to keep his composure. "He was a Time Lord, and he came back. He didn't die with the others, he hid from them, during the war. Of course, he had to come back and take over the Earth, that's just like him. And I stopped him, of course. I tried to give him another chance, I just– I just wanted us to…" He sighed deeply, resting his head in his hands to avoid meeting his companion's gaze. "I don't know. Not that it matters. He was injured, and he refused to regenerate. He just… died. Just gone."
He could feel Donna's eyes on him; he felt stupid to be bothering her with this. His arm was aching horribly, and he was torn between the desire to be alone and the fear of what he might do.
"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I can't even imagine what that's like." After a pause, she said, "You shouldn't blame yourself, you know."
The Doctor sniffed, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "What else am I supposed to do?" he asked hoarsely. "I can't just forget about… everything."
"You can't keep torturing yourself with it either! Look what happens, I mean–" She swallowed. "You could have really hurt yourself," she whispered. "What if you'd died?"
"I wouldn't have died," he protested, though it sounded weak even to him. He'd wanted to. For just that brief moment, he'd wanted to.
"How do you know?" she challenged. "And don't start on some nonsense about alien biology, I know you make that stuff up all the time."
To his dismay, he had no answer for her. Looking back down at his hands, he noticed that blood was starting to seep through his bandages, and he shifted his arm to hide it.
Donna sighed deeply. "You're just so reckless sometimes. Sometimes… sometimes it's like you don't even try to save yourself. It's always other people."
"Well, if I didn't try I wouldn't be alive at all," he grumbled warily.
"Doctor, half the time it's me dragging you away from another stupid, self-sacrificing plan 'cause apparently you think the only way to save the universe is to–"
She stopped abruptly, as if struck by a thought. The Doctor did not want to know what that thought was, not even a little bit, but that didn't seem to matter much.
It was dead silent for a moment. Then, almost inaudibly, Donna said, "Doctor… were you trying to–"
"No!" he snapped, wincing at the harshness in his own tone. "No, I wasn't."
She drew away from him; he heard her sniff, and he regretted how he'd answered. It was a minute before she spoke again.
"Do you want to?"
The Doctor froze.
"I– no. No. I mean…" He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, fingers tangled in his hair. "I don't– I don't know. I don't know, oh, Donna…"
Donna pulled him into a crushing embrace, and he let his head fall on her shoulder, shaking as he broke down again.
"I don't know!" he repeated between sobs. "I don't know."
Tears spilled down her cheeks. She didn't know how to respond. She was completely out of her depth, but she couldn't bear to see the Doctor in such pain.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to upset you, I just–"
He was shaking his head. "It's alright," he said. "I shouldn't– I shouldn't have bothered you–"
"No, no, Doctor, I'm glad you told me. It's gonna be alright, okay? I'm here, it's alright," she hushed, eyes stinging all the more.
"Listen, okay? You– you're so kind, and you do so much good, and so many people love you. I love you, so much, and…" She broke off, gathering her self-control. "And you deserve to believe that! I don't want you to feel like it's not true, and I never, ever want you to feel like– like you're alone. 'Cause you're not." Her voice failed her, and she just rested her head against the Doctor's shoulder.
He didn't speak for a moment, but for the first time in a while warmth spread through his chest. "I love you, Donna," he mumbled, feeling fresh tears well in his eyes. Oh, what had he done to deserve her?
Eventually, after they'd both settled down, they pulled apart. Donna's hand lingered on the Doctor's shoulder before she stood up and busied herself with replacing all the medical supplies in their original spots, more to give him a moment to himself than anything.
"You should get some sleep," she advised, "you look exhausted."
He sniffed and wiped his cheeks. "Yeah, probably should."
Standing a bit shakily, he picked the blood-soaked cloth from the table and dropped it into a laundry receptacle. He held his left arm stiffly against his body; it ached fiercely, but he wasn't about to complain. Figuring he'd do better if he could forget about the pain for a bit, he found a bottle of painkillers in a cabinet. He felt Donna's eyes on him, wondering whether he was doing anything she needed to stop him from doing, and he made sure she could see clearly that he was only taking one.
As he put the rest back and shut the cabinet door, she came to his side and took his uninjured arm, leaning against his body. "You doing alright?" she asked quietly.
He took a deep breath and nodded, looking down at her.
"Promise? You're really okay?"
There was a beat as he thought about it. "I will be," he said.
Donna gave a small smile. "Are you ready to try to sleep?"
Fighting the impulse to refuse, to say he didn't need it and go find some repairs to do, the Doctor sighed. "I'm not sure," he admitted. He didn't think he could stand having another nightmare; he wasn't sure how he'd deal with it if he did.
"Would you rather I kept you company?"
He was shaking his head before she had finished speaking. "I couldn't let you do that."
"Oh yes you could," she retorted. "Well, if you want, that is."
After a moment, he said, "If you're sure… I wouldn't mind."
"'Course," Donna said. "C'mon. You look terrible."
He laughed weakly, feeling terribly grateful to have her, and allowed her to lead him out of the medbay.
"You know, Doctor," she said quietly, solemn again, "you can always talk to me. About anything. Maybe… maybe I can't understand all of it, but I'll always try to help."
The Doctor stopped in the middle of the hallway and met her gaze, seeing sincerity and concern and kindness plain on her face. So much kindness. He wrapped her suddenly in a tight hug.
"Thank you, Donna," he whispered.
She smiled. "Don't mention it, spaceman."