PART ONE—New Doctor
Chapter 1—Regeneration
Doctor
The Doctor was afraid. It had been so long since he had experienced that particular sensation—being afraid. Even when he was scared, he had always managed to act brave, to be bold and sarcastic and clever. But now, he had no courage—he was so, so afraid.
He was dying. This was his last life.
A mere moment ago, everything had been fine. Better than fine! He'd just saved the world again, and was strolling back to his TARDIS with a merry whistle. Clara was already inside—as soon as the invasion had ended, she had practically skipped back to the blue box. He paused to look back, to survey the destruction—that was his fatal mistake. Never look back. When he looked back, it happened.
There was one Dalek—he had presumed dead; it looked dead, with its metal body torn open, exposing a rainbow of wires stained by…blood? No—it was oil. But apparently, it wasn't dead, because it tilted its eyestalk, cried a gargled "Exterminate!", and weakly lifted its whisk-looking device. Blue-white light, the color of lightning, came straight at him.
He was ashamed of what he did next: he froze. How many times had he escaped death, cleverly talked his way out of dangerous situations? How many times had he defied the odds? For almost two thousand years now, that was what he had been doing: breaking rules, defying death. Now he panicked, didn't even try to duck or run.
The light connected right over his left heart.
Pain: blinding, searing agony. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, he couldn't seem to do anything except drop to the ground with an agonized cry. His right heart began to work double time as his left one stopped, trying to compensate, but he knew it wouldn't be enough.
He was dying.
Again!
His blood was burning. His molecules were tearing themselves apart. He was familiar with the process—this was his twelfth time doing it, after all. But the pain never failed to astonish him. He wanted to scream, but all he could muster was a low groan. Gold particles, the rawest form of energy in the universe, floated around him as his body tore itself apart and re-wrote itself. The next sensation, he could only describe as eruption. Every atom, every molecule, every cell that made up his existence exploded at once, destroying him. And he died.
Then came the healing. His heart restarted, blood pumping back through his veins. He was no longer burning inside. He breathed a long sigh of sweet relief and sat up slowly. He looked at his new hands—they were long and pale, his fingers almost delicate-looking. He felt along himself, trying to guess what he would look like now. He was thin again. He would have to look in a mirror, soon—perhaps he was finally a ginger. He had to hope.
He looked at the Dalek—it was definitely dead now. The blue light of its eyestalk had faded. Its final act had been an attempt on his life. He snorted in contempt—what a typically Dalek move. He shook his head as he got to his feet, calling for Clara.
"Clara!" he called, and his voice came out different. Deeper, sharper, and with a vague hint of sarcasm, though he had no idea what he would be sarcastic about. "Clara, new development! Come and see!"
She poked her head out. "Doctor?" she called, looking around. Of course, she didn't recognize him—new face, new voice, new everything—she would have to get used to that. So would he, as a matter of fact. He was rather taller than before, and he saw more. He had always looked, but he had never truly seen before, not like this. Information flooded his senses, seemingly unconnected bits and pieces of information stringing together to form conclusions he would never have assumed before, forming a large picture of a shiny new universe for him to observe, to dissect and study and analyze.
The Doctor shook his head—he would have to get used to this new brain, with how it thought and processed information. For now, he focused only on Clara, his impossible girl, tuning out the other information so it didn't overwhelm him.
He cleared his throat. "Clara, it's me—I'm right here." Her eyes snapped to him and widened incredulously.
"Doctor?" she said, uncertainly. He felt sympathetic—it must be disconcerting when someone changes completely in front of you. He smiled.
"Yes, Clara, it's me. I've just regenerated—a Time Lord's way of…well, cheating death, basically." He ran a hand through his hair, startled by how rough and curly it had become. Yet another thing he would have to get used to.
She peered at him, puzzled. "Cheating death? So…you can't die? You'll just keep regenerating, forever?" She looked sad, for some reason. He recalled a time, long ago, when she had said, "We must be like ghosts to you—we're nothing." She'd had that same look in her eyes then as she did now: loneliness, sadness, hurt, even a faint trace of anger, and a lot of fear…fear of what—of him? No, she'd never been afraid, not of him, at least. What, then? He studied her for a long time, forgetting she had asked him a question and he was supposed to reply. His attention was consumed with trying to understand what was bothering her so.
His mind started to race, presenting him with several possibilities, one right after the other, each quickly dismissed. There was nothing romantic between them—well she had kissed him before, but those had been to prove points, nothing else, so surely they didn't count—so he doubted that was the cause of her hurt. She wasn't one to hurt easily. Why, then did she appear so upset?
He recalled her last words to him—they were always the same: "Run, you clever boy. And remember." She wanted him to remember her. Did she think she was so unimportant that he would easily forget her? Is that why she was so upset? He shook his head incredulously.
"Humans!" he murmured. "So sentimental, and so stupid sometimes." He grinned at her look of offense, poking her forehead. "Such tiny little brains, I don't know how you get around in them. Dear me, what is it like in there?"
"Doctor!" she snapped, startling him a bit. She was rarely cross. "You're not answering my questions." She crossed her arms huffily and he sighed, trying to remember what she had asked him…ah, yes, she had been asking him about regeneration.
"No. We don't regenerate, not forever. We have a set limit, thirteen lives. This…is my last one. This is my last body, my last life, my last chance." He stuck his hands in his pockets as this new thought struck him—this was his last life. After this, when this body died, there would be no more Doctor. He was dismayed—who would save these frail humans he was so fond of when he couldn't do it anymore? Who would prevent wars across the universe? How could he just…end, just stop existing? He'd lived so long—death seemed more like a myth than a fact: Possible, but not something that necessarily had to happen.
Clara looked devastated. "You mean…if anything happens to you…" She trailed off, looking stricken.
He nodded grimly and finished her sentence through cold lips. "I'll be dead. Permanently dead." A shudder of fear skittered through him at the thought. It had been so long since he had been afraid. He'd been alive for so long, he'd subconsciously begun to assume he was invincible. I'm a winner, he'd boldly proclaimed once, ages ago, Time Lord victorious.
He wasn't thrilled about this reality check. He didn't want to be reminded of just how easily his hearts could actually be stopped, how quickly his existence could end. He didn't want to die—he wasn't ready to! There was still so much to do, so much to see. The universe was always growing, changing, always full of new ideas, new possibilities—forever couldn't possibly be enough time to do and see it all. Forever was what he thought he had, but now he didn't even have that. He shivered again.
"Doctor, are you alright?" Clara looked at him in concern. "You're so pale, and you look…" She trailed off again, biting her lip thoughtfully.
Do I look afraid? Or perhaps pathetic? he silently supplied, because that was how he felt: terrified and pitiful. Really, when had he turned into such a coward that dying scared him witless? He had been willing several times to sacrifice his life, for friends, for enemies, for entire races. Where was that courage, that willingness, now? Had it been an act?
Rule One: the Doctor lies. Had he become so good at lying he could even fool himself now? The thought chilled him. Dear lord, something really was wrong with him if he was thinking like this. Was it because of this body? Did it just think this way, all the time? If that was the case, it might drive him mad. Or was it just because this was his last body, and he was paranoid and afraid in his old age? He couldn't tell. There was too much going through his mind, too many thoughts, too much to process. It was incredibly overwhelming.
He shook his head as though he could shake loose these scattered thoughts and attempted to focus. "I'm alright, Clara," he managed. "Just getting used to the new me."
"Well…" Clearly, she didn't know what to say. Sirens started wailing in the distance. How long had they been standing there? It felt like hours had passed, but in reality, it must have been only minutes. The Doctor looked around himself, at the dead Daleks, the human bodies, the wails and screams, the smoking street. Of course the police had been alerted, even if human police were incredibly incompetent. Still—he had been in prison once—a simple misunderstanding involving a gun, an accidental marriage proposal, and a banana—and had no desire to repeat the experience.
"We should go. Come along, Clara." The Doctor went and pushed the doors of the TARDIS open. He stepped up to the console, stroking his hands lightly along the edge. Hello, old girl, he thought fondly. The TARDIS practically purred under his hands in response, and he smiled fondly. "Where should we go next, Clara? Somewhere fun, I think." As he spoke, the TARDIS started showing him possibilities, planets, events, people, anything she thought he might enjoy. He was delighted, but he wanted Clara to choose—it was always interesting when he let his companions decide what to do. The outcomes never failed to entertain him.
"Before we go anywhere, I think perhaps you should go change, Doctor," she said, eyeing him critically.
The Doctor looked down at himself, and realized his clothes were torn, stained with oil, and burned. "Ah…right. I'll see to that. You two—" He waggled a finger at Clara and the TARDIS, an amused warning in his voice as he continued, "No cat fights while I'm not here to supervise you."
Clara's face heated up in indignation, and he grinned as she muttered huffily, "Oi! That was one time, Doctor, and you know she started it!"
The Doctor laughed. "Just play nice for a few minutes while I go dress." He strode off into the halls, whistling softly under his breath as he went.
[A/N: Note that this is the Doctor's last regeneration, technically Capaldi, but I will not be following that timeline at all because this is a fanfiction and I am screwing with the plot. I guess it's AU? Whatever, point is this Doctor will not follow the show's plot at all so don't be expecting that. Although I will bring up quotes and old scenes and things from the show. There will be several chapters as the Doctor, then Sherlock, then the Doctor again. And there will be kind of a mix of Johnlock and Whouffle, still undecided on how it will end so I'm open to requests and advice. I hope you guys like it! Let me know BY LEAVING A REVIEW! Keep it real, guys.]
—Makenna
