Hullo. Well, I've actually written a serious Who story! No, don't turn off, it's not a joke! Anyway. Here I am, with a dark and moody story, which I think contains some of my best writing.
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who. I don't even own this version of the Doctor. Blame- er, I mean, thank- Calla of The Scarf Warriors. Well, here goes...
"All residents: a public execution will be held in the main gallery in half an hour. All wishing to be publicly executed, please report to the supervisor's office."
The tannoy system was drowned out as a new, different sound echoed around the sterile white corridor of the aged centre. A sound of engines forged at the dawn of time. Engines of a ship that was on its final voyage with the current inhabitant. The sound of the TARDIS. The Timelord emerged from the battered, worn blue doors. Pulling a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, the Doctor dusted the police box exterior with care.
"Hmmmf. Sounding a bit rough, old girl," he muttered. He turned, raising an eyebrow at the oncoming sound of footsteps. Two people rounded the corner, a tall, wispy individual with translucent skin wrapped in white robes, accompanied by a diminutive, cringing hunchback. The tall, graceful woman bowed. The hunchback affected a strange curtsey. The shortish man in the frilled shirt, the velvet waistcoat and the out-of-place blue hat leaned back and bellowed "HULLOOOO!"
Both staff members took a step back at this cheery greeting. Neither looked as if they had experienced much cheeriness in this place. The woman inclined her elongated head. "May we help you?"
The Doctor suddenly looked grim. "Yes," he said, looking into her eyes. The woman involuntarily shuddered at what she saw there. "I've come here to die."
The doors of the library swung open, slamming hard against the oaken walls- but mysteriously making no noise. Sister Magwhylde floated in, the Doctor striding calmly in her wake. The hunchback had, worryingly, taken to stroking the Doctor's leg. His unchecked giggles had echoed throughout the myriad corridors, but the echoes shut off the minute they passed into the library.
"As you can see, we have an extensive collection of books for your pleasure while you prepare yourself... for the end," said Magwhylde. The Doctor leaned towards a low shelf.
"Do I espy Black Orchid?" he asked. Magwhylde sighed. It had been difficult keeping the strange man in check on the tour. Just as the Doctor pulled the large volume from the shelf, an old woman with a long white beard rounded the corner. Booting the midget hunchback across the room, she threw her arms around the Doctor's waist.
"Doom! DOOM! DOOOOOOOM!" she screeched.
The Doctor beamed. "How lovely. Any particular doom?"
Magwhylde tugged the ancient female away. "Back to your cell, Agatha. Come along."
The Doctor watched the hunchback tug away the weeping crone. He turned, a frown playing on his face. "Do I get a 'cell'?"
Magwhylde laughed off his sarcasm. "Each to what suits their own species, Mister Doctor. Come. I will take you to a suite."
He hears them approaching in his dreams. He hears their stomps coming towards the last citadel. He hears the gunfire, bouncing harmlessly off their bodies. He re-lives, every time he dreams, every one of his deceased companions' last moments. He feels the wind ripping Katarina from the spacecraft. He feels the heat burning the flesh from Adric as the freighter explodes. He feels Kamelion shutting down, C'rizz disintegrating, K-9 getting torn apart as the school explodes. One he does not feel is Roberta, erased from time for all eternity. Funnily enough, this is no consolation. Only tw- one person remembers her at all. And back again, full circle to that final, desperate struggle for the planet. In front of his eyes, the scenario plays. Those who are too weak to fight back dragged away for conversion. The few that remain still firing all types of weapons, trying in desperate vain to break through the forcefield around the Cybermen. He is on the front line now- how did that happen? The cyberweapons blast down Jason's wife, his friends, his baby son. The Doctor sees, over and over again, Jason hurling himself upon the Cyberleader, so that the gun discharge destroys them both. Jason's lifeless body drops to the stone floor. The Doctor is alone. But that does not alter his terrible retribution. The almighty weaponry of the TARDIS, never deployed until now, wiping out everyone in that system. Not that there were any non-cybermen left.
The Doctor sat up in bed, sweating profusely. The dreams had never stopped. Every night he had spent in this, his penultimate incarnation, he had had those dreams. But they had intensified as late. And after Jason had fallen at the hands of the Cybermen, he knew that the end had come. He couldn't go on. Everyone he met found misery, pain and death. The only way to halt the stream of death that he left in his wake was to halt himself. That is why he was here. He got out of the bed and crossed into the kitchen of his suite. He reflected on his position grimly. It wasn't the worst way to go, waiting for the end in a place built for people to choose the own nature and time of their demise. After eleven increasingly violent and sudden deaths, the Doctor found knowledge of his own end... relaxing. It felt good to be master of his own destiny for the first time in... well, it must be almost a millennium. He hadn't chosen the method yet. Obviously, it would have to be one of the few things that meant that there would be no regeneration- he couldn't risk his new, final persona having a change of heart about his death. Cruel on the unborn thirteenth Doctor, but the timelord's decision was final. He couldn't risk any more death because of him. Everywhere he went, people died. In the end, he did more harm than good, despite his intentions. So, here he was, tired of the death he caused, tired of losing the people dearest to him. So tired.
There was a strident knock at the door. The Doctor padded through the apartment where he had been meditating for the past week, and responded to the hail to find one of the sisterhood in the doorway. The Doctor adopted a Gallifreyan bow.
"Sister Syren," he began. "What brings you this way?"
"Just checking up on you," said the youthful nun, walking into the abode.
"Really? I must say, it's very nice to have these visits from you and your colleagues," the Doctor smiled peaceably.
"So, have you yet decided when you would like to... pass on?" Syren asked.
"Erm, not yet," mused the Doctor. "Put me down for sometime in the next week, will you? Oh, and I'm tempted towards cremation for my method of passing- under sedation, of course."
Sister Syren bowed, but looked anxious. "Erm, Doctor, I hope you respect the fact that there are others, also tired of the burden that is life, who would pay a great deal of money for this suite."
The Doctor frowned. "Something wrong with the galactic credits I paid in?"
Syren blushed, her blue blood quickening through her translucent skin. "No, not at all, sir. It is just-" she smiled coyly at the Doctor. "We merely aim to please."
"It's not a task most people would relish, your job," the Doctor said. "But I think you do it admirably."
"Why, thank you, sir Doctor," muttered Syren shyly.
The Doctor smiled indulgently, and opened his mouth.
Suddenly the unlocked door was slammed open, and in staggered Agatha, the ancient woman who had confronted the Doctor in the library on his first day at the Death Centre. She was soaked in blood, which the Doctor quickly realised was her own. She held in her shaking hand a large ornamental dagger. The Doctor tried to work out how she came to have it with her.
"Agatha!" gasped Syren. "You were due to die today, weren't you? But why-" Agatha lurched drunkenly towards them, more blood trickling down onto her shift. She tripped and fell towards Syren, plunging the dagger up to the hilt in the soft, fragile flesh. Syren didn't scream, only softly sliding to the patterned marble floor. The Doctor tried to catch the dying young carer, but was shoved out of the way by Agatha, who pushed him up against the wall. The Doctor stared into the violet eyes, and there saw insanity.
"DOOOOOOOOM!!" screeched Agatha. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, she began to laugh. It was a terrible, pained sound, as if that throat had not been made for laughing, but there was genuine joy in it. "I'm happy!" Agatha announced. She laughed and laughed, a sound of relief. "Oh, oh! I'm so happy!" She smiled at the Doctor as she swung the outstretched knife downwards...