Wounded, but not dead, the civil servant struggled to pull himself up off of the floor. "This was never meant to happen," he hissed through the pain, trying not to look at the bodies of his wife and children. "I'm so sorry." He was hit with a sudden urge to go back to his study and find the old, battered pocket watch that he had gotten from a friend several years ago. What that had to do with anything, John had no idea, but it was important. Could even save his life.
But at that moment, John Frobisher wanted to die. There was nothing for him in the world anymore. He had been fucked over by his country, the same people he had served year after year in hopes of... what? A reward? Or was obedience its own reward? It sickened him. Because in the end, there was no reward. Everyone he cared about- his own daughters, the woman he loved- had died at his hand, and millions of children were on their way to a fate worse than death.
But something about that watch was calling to him. Tugging at the corners of his mind. Steadying himself, he followed the gentle tugging and walked to his office.
The tarnished silver watch with its strange circular engravings lay on his desk next to a stack of unfinished paperwork. "It's time," whispered a soft female voice from inside. He vaguely recognized it as the voice of Bridget Spears. But why her? "Open the watch."
Tentatively, he reached out and picked up the watch. He turned it over once, twice, three times in his hand, then opened it, causing the office to fill with golden light.
The children of Earth were in terrible danger, and the future seemed hopeless. But the Doctor was nowhere to be found. "Sometimes he must look upon this planet and turn away in shame." And he was ashamed. But not of humanity. The Doctor was ashamed of himself for being an accessory, and for letting it go this far.
So the Doctor did the one thing he was certain he could still do.
He ran.