This is just a drabble thing about what I always thought would be the Doctor's worst fear. Thanks to girlbubble7991 (who has written an awesome Dr. Who story – go read it!) who said that this idea wasn't as awful as I thought it was. I don't think he's very in character in this, but... Yes. I own nil. (If I did, Rory wouldn't have died so many times, I mean COME ON!)
Eleven is inscribed on a wooden plaque. His hand tightens on the doorknob. Just one peek... It could hardly hurt. All he would have to was open that door, and he would have the ultimate knowledge. Knowing what would bring a person down to their knees... Well, that couldn't be a bad thing, could it? What doesn't kill you makes you stronger...
He pushes on the door, and it swings open with barely a rusty creak. There's a figure standing at the other end of the room, gazing out the window at the star spangled sky. The Doctor takes a step further into the room, and the figure at the window turns. Not too fast. It's a pondering movement, like the shadow knows that he (the Doctor) will wait. He does – one hand on the doorknob, the other in his pocket, fingers closed over the sonic screwdriver.
The light coming in from outside illuminates the figure – highlights the cheekbones, touches the messy hair with silver, and dapples the pale brown jacket.
He's staring at himself.
"Of course," he whispers. It could never have been anything else. What else could destroy the Doctor but himself. His ignorance, his pride, his unfailing loyalty, his kindness... His flaws, his character... The things that make him will be the things that undo him.
Praise him.
A voice in his head – hoarse and guttural and alien. He shakes his head, and backs out of the room, slamming the door in his wake.
Praise him.
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