It's fine. It's grand. He's on an adventure. Donna isn't here, but that's okay. There are other people coming instead. It's brilliant, really. Molto Bene. These fantastic humans, going to see something rare and extraordinary for the sheer fun of it.
The lights are out. The drivers are dead. There's something out there, in the deadly starlight. He thinks he sees a flash pink-and-yellow in the corner of his eye.
He doesn't turn, doesn't search, there won't be anything there. He can almost hear her, he's sure. It's this feeling. If he turns around she's going to be right there with that smile and an outstretched hand. But she isn't. She can't be. He knows she isn't. But his heart fractures a little more every time he looks. So he doesn't. There's a mystery to uncover, people to save, an adventure to be had. He was needed. He. Needed. He couldn't. If she wasn't. When she wasn't. No.
He has a mystery and imminent danger, everything's absolutely brilliant. Molto bene.
These stupid, stupid, hateful humans. Where's their sense of wonder? They weren't listening, weren't seeing. Every one of them, couldn't they see what was happening? This is a brand new species, something even he's never heard of!
She would have laughed if he said that, teased him and his Timelord superiority before tearing into these idiots. It could be so brilliant. If these people would stop shouting and let him think. He is trying to help. Trying so hard to stay calm in the face of this… petty irrationality.
But Donna isn't here right now and Rose is gone and her absence still feels like a physical blow with every breath. And he can't help thinking that these hateful cower-ers make for a poor substitute.
It's all spiraling. His breath comes hard and fast. Everything is happening too fast. They're spitting out nonsensical accusations before their minds can churn them up. They blame and twist and it's all he can do to breath, harsh and uneven. They're not even trying to understand and he can't acknowledge the festering pool bubbling up inside him. It won't help anyone if he releases it now. So he won't. Even though it's clawing, eating at him with constant litanies of 'Why? Why? Why?'.
He tries to calm them, to explain that they'll be okay. He promises that everything will be fine even as they scream over his reasonable tones and a dark feeling oh, so close to dread overtakes the churning miasma in his gut. He eyes what had been Ms. Sky Silvestry and can't help but to start to wonder if whatever had done this could truly be an innocent.
He snaps. Just a little. He was right. It doesn't help.
But he wouldn't be the Doctor if he didn't try. He crouches close and looks with questioning eyes. Is Sky still in there? Does whatever replaced her understand what they did? He looks Ms. Silvestry in the eye, and maybe, if he just explains, if he offers his help, she'll be more understanding than these humans who broke his hearts just a little bit more with their fear and their hatred. But her eyes, they shine with something dark and familiar that he doesn't want to name or know. He doesn't want to admit it, but he knows, this one, like so, so many others will not be reasoned with, won't let him help.
But he's The Doctor, so of course he still tries . He does what The Doctor does best. He talks and he hopes. Because maybe this time, maybe now, if someone would just listen. He searches her frozen features for anything, an iota of willingness or understanding to fan his hopes.
In her eyes he finds a triumph, dark and broken. And hungry. It's drawing. Pulling. Tearing him away from himself with cruel claws. It hurts, it hurts so much he wants to scream. But It's taking his ability to do that as well.
The first thing she takes is his movement. It's practical really, make sure your prey can't get away before you strike the killing blow. This him is always moving, bouncing, running, touching, reaching out to embrace the universe like a long awaited meeting of dear friends. He's always been running. Running gives him options, running keeps him safe, running has been his oldest and most faithful friend. Everything in him is screaming to run as fast and as far as he can. But he can't.
It's mere moments and she's digging into his mind and he can't move. Can't speak, but his mouth is moving, a broken record, and he can't stop.
He can't run. Can't move. Can't talk. Can't think.
She's taking him, bit by ragged, ravaged bit, tearing pieces even as he scrabbles and lashes out in his own mind. She's taking his words now. Only echos. Do we have a deal? She's winning. Everything's gone. Oh, look at that. He's shaking now. Can't help it. I'm ahead of you. He can't move. Can't stop.
It's creeping in. Now that there's no keeping it out the constant, frenetic ripping, pulling, shredding slows. It's wandering through his head, settling in, picking and choosing what would hurt most for it to take. I think it's moved. It's mocking him. It's having fun. I think it's letting me go. It's in his memories now and he can't catch his breath. Yes. Yes. It's me. It finds Rose. He can't breath at all. I'm coming back. He's losing her all over again.
It's insidious and twisted, knows just where to tear. Listen it's me. He can't remember the sound of her voice. what she sounded like when she was all breathless, running with him. It rips away her eyes, dancing with mirth and joy after an adventure. Look at me. How did her smile curve? I can move. It cuts with surgical precision and twists slowly, slowly so he's so horribly aware of every moment of what's happening. He's lost how her hand fit in his, what it felt like to have the two of them intertwined. I can feel again. What she said at the end of the world, their first date. I'm coming back to life. How she took her tea. And look at him. Those almost kisses, that weren't quite, but were the closest thing he has. Had. He can't move. Her words. "I'm not leaving him." "I love you." Help me.
He thinks he's crying. There aren't any tears, but he's crying. Professor. She's almost gone. Get me away from him. He knows. Please. What he's losing. Oh, Thank you. It finishes with him. It was so cold. He can't think. His words and his world are gone. I couldn't breath. His everything is nothing. He can't breath. I'm sorry. He doesn't just echo now. I must have scared you so much. He is an echo. It's inside his head. It is. It's pushing, drowning everything else, so all he can think is It killed the driver. And the mechanic. And now it wants us. He's waited so long. These are the only words he has. He can almost reach the part of himself that can want It out. Want It to stop. Almost. But not quite.
These people still aren't listening. They want to kill him. They fear its poison on his tongue. The shaking won't stop. He almost lets them. But he's been running and surviving for so long he doesn't know how to stop. He's grubbing. Hunched over and scrabbling. He doesn't care. There's no room for humiliation at times like these.
It's satisfied, the thing is practically purring inside his head, lazily pushing out any remnant bits and pieces of him it happens to come across.
He's scared. Not of the beast in his head. Of these terrified people who he had laughed and smiled with mere hours before. He still can't move. His body twists with the people's panic and his leg catches on a chair leg. Tethering himself even as deadly encouragements drip from his broken lips.
It's given Itself away, over extended. But they still aren't listening.
Except… one does, and she burns. So it burns.
And he can breathe again and it's gone.
He can move.
It's gone.
He can talk. His own words rush off his tongue in a mantra, a breathy re-assurance that they can.
It's gone.
He can think, he calculates the exact fibrous composition of the floor he isn't ready to get up from.
It's gone.
He can remember. Oh thank Rassilion, he can remember.
It's gone.
The fire in her eyes when faced with injustice.
It's gone.
Her smile, that brilliant smile.
It's gone.
Her hand in his.
It's gone.
He has all he has of her back.
It's gone.
Everything's back.
But it's all jumbled and mixed. What is Rose's favorite color? Her hair … blonde, right? Or was it brown? He doesn't know. He can remember, she's back in his head. But he really can't. All of it snapped back at the recoil, overlapping each other. Did Platform One or New New York have the cat nuns? What exactly had she said when he regenerated? He doesn't know. He needs to know. It's all in his head, he knows it is, but he can't find it. He can't find it and he can't look. Not now. It isn't over yet.
Is it ever?
He looks at these terrified humans and one says that she knew it was in Ms. Silvestry the whole time, her eyes for clemency and absolution, for reassurance. He opens his mouth. He plans to give her just that. She's scared and he can help. But there are some things he can recall with perfect clarity.
The curious assistant repairman who saw a place no man had seen before. Terror when they yanked his foot off the chair leg, his lifeline. The look on that steward's face when she stood counting in front of the open door, determination and bravery. He fails to remember how Rose takes her tea. Screaming and bloodshed, all the things he could have stopped, people that could have been saved if they had. Just. Listened.
He says nothing.
Not to her or anyone else until the rescue arrives 20 minutes later.
But he's absolutely fine. Molto Bene. Really.
Aren't you listening?