Beta: natural-blues
Chapter 1
Prison
He woke up and all he knew for certain was that he was cold.
Freezing, really. The temperature had to be at least… at least… well, that was strange. Why couldn't he tell the temperature, down to the last degree? Something must be affecting his Time Lord senses. Maybe something in the room he was in? Speaking of that, where the hell was he? He sat up, blinking groggily and trying to sit up. His stomach churned immediately at the motion and he rolled over, grabbing the conveniently located bucket from the floor and throwing up the contents of his stomach over the iron bed frame. Once he was finished he backed away, gasping for air and grimacing at the foul taste in his mouth. What the hell? Whoever it was that was keeping him here would have had to slip him an explosively powerful drug to get him to vomit like he was some… some human or something! Sniffing and shuddering, he realised that he was in a small room — too small in his opinion, about five metres by six — and that he was dressed in the skimpiest hospital gown ever invented. Another thing— he was handcuffed to the bedpost.
"Magnificent," he muttered delicately, giving it a useless rattle.
He examined the room with great care— any detail could be crucial. Unfortunately, all he saw were a heap of blankets, a rather clean looking sink and a metal toilet. There was a door at the far end of the room, locked from both the inside and the outside (which was redundant in his opinion) with fencing on the window, and provided no means of escape whatsoever. So he did the next best thing: he yelled.
"OI, YOU LOT, ALIENS!" he shouted, rattling his handcuff again as he craned his neck to try and see through the fenced-up window the exact same length and width of a standard piece of paper. "I'M THE DOCTOR, I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW!" He paused for a moment. "YOU PROBABLY ALREADY KNEW THAT THOUGH! WHERE AM I? WHO ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU KEEPING ME, AND WHERE ARE MY COMPANIONS?" He waited another second or two. "AND IT'S BLOODY COLD IN HERE!"
He felt momentarily triumphant when a wrinkled green eye peered through the fencing and the sound of the door unlocking met his ears. A plump, almost kind-faced older lady entered, a younger man with a goatee and moustache in her wake looking skittish as an Akren hare. Both of them were dressed as nurses— looked human, although appearance could be easily changed.
"What are you shoutin' about now, John?" said the woman kindly, voice high in pitch. She spotted the bucket of sick and gasped, "Oh, you've gotten sick! Well, your meds'll do that, won't they dear?"
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, taking as defensive a stance as he could while dressed like a patient and chained. Well, cuffed. "Why're you keeping me here? What species are you?"
"Oh dear, you've forgotten again," said the older woman, looking put out.
The man behind her just looked annoyed. "What is that, the sixth time in three months?"
"Shush, you," fussed the lady.
"You listen to me, whoever you are!" he said, giving them his best Oncoming Storm face and trying not to look confused when they didn't react in the slightest. Usually that sent aliens bolting. "Let me out of here this instant! Give me back my sonic, and my ship!"
"Poor lamb," cooed the woman. Placing a hand on her chest, she said earnestly, "I'm Sharon. Remember?"
The Doctor shook his head. "Mental," the man muttered. "Look mate, my name's House. We've met, remember? We're your nurses?"
"Nurses?" he spluttered. "What on Earth would I need nurses for?"
"God, I'm sick o' this," said House. Hands on his hips and ignoring Sharon's protests, he snapped, "You're not a bloody Time Lord or whatever you called it— you're a human. We're all human. You don't have a ship, or a 'sonic', whatever the hell that is. We didn't kidnap you and you're name's not the Doctor— it's John Smith. You're in the loony bin, mate, and have been for five years."
Things go a bit blurry after that, and he wasn't sure whether or not his recollection of trying to attack House was a dream. The former seemed more likely, so he went with that one.
The next time the Doctor woke up, he wasn't cold. Unfortunately he was also in what looked unpleasantly like a padded room, and he was wrapped in what was probably not an uncomfortably tight blanket.
The room was dimly lit with one of those industrial, 'ecosystem friendly' type lightbulbs, which made him wonder if this really was Earth and not just some elaborate hoax done by aliens. Still, the latter seemed the most obvious— what with House's blabbity-blab about him being human and having been crazy for five years and all that silly piffle. He specifically knew where he came from— the planet Gallifrey, located in the constellation of Kasterborous, on the Continent of Wild Endeavour near the Mountains of Solace and Solitude. He was from the House of Lungbarrow, graduated the Academy as a Prydonian and took off in his type-40 TARDIS with his granddaughter Susan. And he was a Time Lord, by Rassilon, not a human no matter how much he looked it! He had two hearts and a respiratory bypass and the ability to regenerate, and while he may be on his last body, he wasn't going to waste it sitting around in this fake facility!
The Doctor started to wriggle the way Harry Houdini had taught him once, manoeuvring himself expertly to try and regain the use of (and feeling in) his arms. The straightjacket was halfway up his chest when the padded door swung open again and Sharon came tottering in. Her nurse clothes were forsaken for a shapeless pink cocktail dress, but she was nonetheless motherly as she yanked it back on gently, tutting her disapproval.
"Naughty Johnny," she chastised. "You've pulled that trick before— it's just lucky I was on my way home and spotted you in time."
"Listen to me, you giant Zaal balloon," the Doctor replied irritably, glaring another Oncoming Storm face at her. "Let me the hell out of here now and maybe I won't trap you all in the Howling."
All he received for his efforts was a light smack on the forehead, like he was some kind of dog getting punished for stealing scraps off the table. "Don't talk to your nurse that way," she said. He noted that when she was upset, her mouth pressed into a thin line. "You should thank me for getting you back in your jacket before you got into more trouble. You're already in here for the rest of tonight and tomorrow, you know. Gave House a nasty scratch when you attacked him."
"That…" he swallowed, "that wasn't a dream?"
Sharon looked at him with pity, as though she knew exactly how upset he was feeling. "No dear, it wasn't." Standing up properly and smoothing out her dress, she gave him a warm smile he felt he didn't deserve and said, "See you tomorrow, Johnny," and closed the door behind her.
The Doctor was left to his own devices, trembling in horror inside the straightjacket and staring wide-eyed at a housefly climbing one of the cushions on the floor. He, whose name was the universal definition of helping people, not harming, had honestly attacked someone, even if that someone was holding him in this cell and trying to convince him he was crazy. What sort of drugs were they giving him, anyway, to have him fly off the handle like that? Time Lords had a built-in resistance to any sort of violence except when it came to self-defence or the defence of others. Whoever was keeping him here must have suppressed it.
The Doctor relaxed for a moment, since if his theory was true then it really wasn't his fault, and started to wriggle out of his jacket again. It took less time than before, since Sharon hadn't pulled it down properly, and once he was out he scrambled up as best he could with the floor being like that of a bounce house, stumbling over to the equally padded door— which of course had no handle. He examined the seam, seeing if he could somehow jiggle the lock open. Unfortunately the lock was one that required a key, from what he could see, and since there was nothing at all in the room and they'd taken his sonic screwdriver, the Doctor couldn't see any way of getting out of here.
So he resolved to do the only thing he could— he armed himself with the straightjacket in case he had to defend himself and waited until somebody arrived.
"Good morning, Johnny," trilled Sharon's high-pitched voice, jerking him out of his restless sleep against the wall. "Medication time. Oh, look at you, you got out of your jacket again."
The door was only a crack open and light was spilling in, momentarily blinding him, but it was enough to snap him out of his groggy state and remember his plan from the previous night. The Doctor scrambled up from his post and made a beeline for the source of the light, but a pair of hands grabbed his arms— those, he was certain by the annoyed grunt, of House.
"Don't be stupid, John," House growled in his ear. "Or you'll get more than just another day of solitary confinement."
"Let me go, now," the Doctor snapped, trying to rip himself from House's grip.
"Johnny, you sit still now and take your medicine," said Sharon sharply, rattling the small plastic cup of pills in his face.
"No," he snapped, struggling against House's grip as Sharon approached him with the pills. "Let me go!"
"Hold him down, House," Sharon said, voice thick with almost motherly exasperation. "Johnny, stop struggling, or you'll be in here 'til the end of the week."
"MY NAME'S NOT JOHN!" the Doctor yelled, aiming a kick in the direction of House's male areas. "IT'S THE DOCTOR!"
"Week it is, then," House grumbled, forcing the Doctor against the wall and pinning him down with his knees.
Sharon approached, forcing his mouth open and shoving, along with three stubby, painted fingers, two sour tasting pills down his throat. He tried to choke them back up, but ultimately his gag reflex won and he swallowed them, coughing against the unpleasant false sensation of the pills getting stuck in his oesophagus.
"There you go, Johnny," Sharon said, releasing his face and giving his cheek a gentle pat. "Not so bad, was it?"
"Better not give us this much trouble this evening," House grunted, releasing the Doctor and watching him stumble and fall back into his corner. "You do this every few weeks, you know."
"You're not gonna convince me I'm crazy," the Doctor gasped around the pills, still sticking to the inside of his throat.
"Here, dear," Sharon said, ignoring his statement and handing him a bottle of Earth-brand water, pre-opened.
He swallowed down his urge to both thank her and swear at her, taking the bottle and sniffing it to see if he could detect any poison or drugs— although that would be redundant, since they'd just forced medication down his throat, and had no reason to have hidden it in a drink. With a reluctant nod in Sharon's direction, he swallowed down several mouthfuls of water, grateful when the pain from the pills subsided when the water washed them down.
"Good boy," Sharon said sweetly. "Breakfast is here. Eat up— you're a stick. We won't put you back in your jacket if you eat it all."
"Try not to throw it against the walls," House added irritably, and with that he and Sharon left, leaving behind a tray of greyish-looking scrambled eggs and a fruit cup.
The Doctor's stomach grumbled at the sight of it, and as much as he wanted to lob it at the walls just to piss off and inconvenience the ever-annoying House, he needed his strength if he was ever going to escape. So, with a grimace, he tucked into his breakfast. Once he was finished, he put the tray next to the door and tried to think up a new plan. He'd let them think he was cooperating, so they'd let him out of solitary… although he'd have to wait a week, apparently.
Suddenly his eyes began to grow heavy, making him panic— had they really actually drugged the water, or his food? Maybe it was just his meds. That was his last serious thought before he slumped against the wall, mentally remarking about how the floor was a giant pillow.
Three days into his week of solitary confinement felt like a mere hour. His meds kept him groggy and either half-asleep or fully unconscious, making him feel doped and stupid. The Doctor's only coherent thought throughout the duration was that this was probably their endgame— make him too stupid to fight back. This theory was forgotten in the next split second, replaced by childish awe when the lights flickered on and a sluggish murmur of, "Pretty…" tumbled from his mouth. The meds allowed him a few moments of moderate coherency to eat sometimes, and whenever Sharon or another faceless nurse came in to give him his meds, he was too sleepy to remember to try and reject it.
In the evening of the fourth day, the door opened as usual. The Doctor was lying on his side at the far end of the room, facing the wall, not sleeping but not quite awake at the same time. The nurse stepped into the room almost silently, so he didn't notice them until whomever it was placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Mr. Smith?" a gentle, female, southern-London accent said. "Are you awake?"
"Hmm," he managed to hum out, letting her turn him over onto his back. In the dim lighting he got a good look at the new nurse's face, and in his doped haze he widened his eyes. Curls of lovely blonde hair tumbled around her face and dark, thick lashes framed her warm, chocolate eyes. "Ooh…" he breathed, reaching a hand clumsily in a newfound need to touch her. His thumb skimmed the apple of her cheek. "Are you an angel?"
She smiled down at him, cheeks plumping and eyes sparkling. "No, I'm not an angel." She held up a cup, which he frowned at. "I've got your meds."
"Don't want t'meds," he murmured, trying to sit up.
Her face went out of the range of his vision, and he opened his mouth to complain but her hands slipped underneath him, pushing up his back and then keeping him propped up in a sitting position by using her own body. He hummed and snuggled into her, craving contact that didn't include fingers shoved down his throat and hands restraining him. "What are you on?"
"Dunno," he mumbled, trying to gather his thoughts and having a fleeting moment of coherency where he remarked that she smelled like roses, vanilla and time. "Dun like it though."
"Hold on a mo', gonna check your chart," she murmured softly, hands gently pushing him up again.
The Doctor mumbled protests as she propped him up on the wall instead, immediately missing the little warmth he'd only gotten a taste of. He forced his eyes open to fully see her, taking in a petite woman in her twenties flipping through a chart, with the loveliest of bodies covered by the ugliest of nurse scrubs. He had a moment of amusement when he attempted to picture her in something more flattering, and the first thought that entered his mind was her donning not a stitch. Ooh, he was a pervert now.
"Why on Earth are you on pimozide?" she mumbled confusedly from the end of the room. "That's far too strong."
"S'what it is," the Doctor mumbled. "Yep. Comp'etely."
"I'll have to get Kovarian on that," she said quietly, glancing between him and the cup. "You've still got to take these, though."
"No…" he whimpered, shaking his head and nearly unbalancing himself. "Don't wanna."
"You have to, sweetheart," she said, sounding truly regretful as she approached him with the cup and the bottle of water. "Just until I get in touch with the Head of Department so they can change your meds, 'kay? Just for a couple more days, I promise."
She was close to him again, and even though he was vaguely aware his face was screwed up in devastation he leaned forward and buried his face in her shoulder, lifting his arms up and sluggishly wrapping them around her waist. She didn't push him away, and something inside him sobbed with gratefulness. "C'n I know your name?" he asked earnestly.
Her chuckling hum made warm breath hit his neck. "How about a compromise— I'll tell you my name when you get your new meds, yeah? Provided you take these 'til then." She rattled the cup full of pills again.
In his doped state, that sounded like a magnificent idea. He obediently opened his mouth and let her gently place the pills on his tongue, before holding the bottle up to his mouth and giving him three generous mouthfuls of water, enough to make him forget he'd even taken pills in the first place. She whispered that she'd be right back, but he barely heard her, and he had absolutely no idea how long she was gone (or, if he was being frank, that she'd been gone at all) but however promptly or non-, she returned with something big and blanket-like and draped it over his form, which had since slumped back into its original place only facing outward.
"S'at?" he asked as best he could, trying and failing to open his eyes.
"Blanket," she said kindly, tucking him into it properly. "Keeps you warm, yeah?"
"Know that, silly angel," he hummed fondly. "G'night."
Her laugh and her responding, "Goodnight, Mr. Smith. See you tomorrow morning," was the last thing he heard before the tide of exhaustion dragged him back into the sea again.
He waited out his sentence in awful sleepiness. Being one hundred per cent Time Lord — he didn't care what those goddamn nurses said — spending hours upon hours of horrid stupidity, barely able to keep his eyes open, was hell and then some. The only instances of peace were during the moments between medications, just before he got new pills and when the first ones were starting to wear off. The kind blonde angel-nurse was there, at first only in the mornings— until, of course, Sharon, House and some other nameless nurse got the hint that he'd only cooperate — and not try to bite them — if she was the one handling him. Then she started to come every day, and he'd prolong taking the pills as long as possible by attempting to talk to her, ask her questions. Most of the stuff out of his mouth was sluggish gibberish, and she'd always silence him with a gentle hand through his hair and a promise that she was working on changing his meds. Since he could barely talk without falling asleep halfway through a sentence, she propped him up on her shoulder and helped him eat the mystery food that she brought for him. He noted at one time of brief, magnificent clarity that the food they served tasted like the underside of a Llamaxi blood leech, and she giggled (he'd thought to himself that that's what should be classified as 'music of angels') and asked him what that was. He jumped at the chance to go off on a scientific lecture, but pouted to himself when he couldn't seem to gain control of his tongue.
Once, because he ate his whole meal by himself and took his meds without complaint, she slipped him a wrapped piece of gum. "S'at?" he'd asked, frowning at the thing in his hand.
"A treat," she told him. "Good for your teeth, too. It's spearmint."
"Venusian spearmint?"
"No, just spearmint," she smiled. "Reckon it'd be nice to taste somethin' other than that leech thing you were talkin' about."
"Llamaxi blood leech?" he suggested.
"Yep, that was it."
The Doctor managed to stay awake long enough for the gum to lose its flavour— Rose hung round to make sure he didn't fall asleep chewing it and choke, making him spit it out when he was done. As the sleepy haze took over him again, he smacked his tongue happily at the lovely taste and fell asleep dreaming of lying with her in a field of mint plants.
At the end of the week, nearing medication time when he was staring at a spider crawling over the lightbulb with the utmost interest, the angel came back into his cell, holding a tray and a cup of pills and donning a brilliant smile on her face. "Good morning," she said excitedly, and before he could answer — however unintelligibly — she burst out, "Got your new meds. You're on chlorpromazine now. S'weaker and won't make you all wonky."
"Good," he mumbled, not making any motion to sit up so that she'd come over to do it herself, and he'd have an excuse to get her to touch him again.
She did just that, lifting him up again and making no comment when he lolled his head against the pillow of her breasts. "Go on then, Mister. Eat up."
"Yes, Miss Angel," he mumbled, reaching for his fork.
As he carefully lifted what looked like cranberries to his mouth, she said, mouth right next to his ear, "D'you remember the promise I made you at the beginning of the week?"
"No," he said around a mouthful.
"Said I'd tell you my name if you took all your old meds 'til you got these new ones."
She rattled the cup and he nodded, remembering hazily. "Can I know now?"
"Rose," she told him.
"Rose the angel," he hummed happily, forsaking his eggs so he could grin stupidly. "Magnificent."
"Glad you think so," she chuckled. "Now eat, Mister. You're outta here this afternoon, yeah?"
"No more s'eeping in a giant pillow?" he asked hopefully.
"No more sleepin' in a giant pillow," Rose grinned.
The Doctor hummed happily— maybe now he'd be able to see her beyond the confines of his 'giant pillow'. He ate his whole meal without complaint, and even reached for the pills himself just to prove he could. When she bid him goodbye until nighttime, he responded with a happy, "Buh-bye, Rose the angel."
The remnants of his old medication made him slip back into fitful sleep, but when he woke up, he was lucid and felt like he'd slept enough to last him for another thousand years. Sitting up, he rubbed at his eyes and saw the thing that had woken him— a delighted-looking Sharon, who was the last person he wanted to see.
"Hello, Johnny," she cooed.
"Zaal balloon," he replied dismissively.
She'd apparently chosen to ignore the insult (if she understood it) and instead focus on his blank tone, because she beamed at him. "Solitary's over. You can come out and see the other patients now, get yourself cleaned up an' all. You'll get your meds at lunchtime, which is in about an hour, yeah?"
"Yep," he muttered. The quicker he was out of solitary confinement, the quicker he'd get to finding out a way out of here, getting back to his TARDIS and/or discovering who it was that was keeping him here in the first place. And maybe see Rose again. He cringed, hating how stupid he'd sounded around her— angels didn't exist, nor was she one (although not a far cry from it) and hoped that if and when he did see her again, he'd be able to tell her everything about Llamaxi blood leeches down to their atomic structure. Maybe he'd take her with him travelling too, if his Ponds didn't mind.
Sharon let him use one of the showers, and he gratefully washed away a week's worth of sweat and grime, muttering to himself about how real Earth asylums were obligated to let patients shower more often than once per bloody week. To his utter delight, Sharon — though she didn't give him back his sonic — handed him his jacket, braces, trousers and bowtie, although upon further investigation he discovered his jacket and trousers had been tampered with, since his pockets on both garments were empty and no longer dimensionally transcendental.
He followed another nurse down a long metal corridor, with doors similar to the one he'd been trapped behind for a week. Through the small 8 x 11 window he caught glimpses of faces, dirty and either wide-eyed or monotone, and the Doctor wondered if they were just part of the act or if they were really prisoners here as well— if the latter was the case, then he'd have to bring them with him when he escaped.
The nurse led him into a large room, which appeared to be some kind of activity room. There was a pool table in the corner along with a locked piano and a cracked television set — still functional, since one of the patients seemed to be watching the football match despite the fracture — a table where a couple of people were playing cards, and several chairs. A counter behind which several other nurses were bustling sat at the back of the room.
"Doctor, m'boy!" boomed an older man's voice from the corner, startling several of the patients. "Never thought I'd see you again!"
The Doctor turned to see a balding man in his fifties walking towards him a beam on his face. Relieved that someone had finally called him something other than 'Mr. Smith' or, Rassilon forbid, 'Johnny', he said, "Do I know you?"
"S'me, Brian," said the man good-naturedly, seizing his hand and giving it a tight squeeze. "Go on, then, you can't have forgotten again!"
The Doctor bit back the annoyed scowl— another effing ruse to get him to think he'd 'forgotten' what reality was. "Sorry."
"S'all right, mate, ya got your pal Brian to remind you," Brian beamed, clapping him on the back. "How about a tour, eh?"
"Sure," the Doctor said reluctantly. As much as he wanted to little his interaction with Brian, learning what was where would be crucial.
"All right-y then, this is the main activity room, then, where we have group," Brian began cheerily, sweeping his arms out dramatically before pointing out a window (padlocked, the Doctor noted). "Out there's the yard. Unfortunately you were in solitary when we went out about an hour ago, so you'll have to wait 'til tomorrow to go outside. Down the hall is the cafeteria, and upstairs is the head honcho's office — I'd recommend never goin' up there, meself, 'less you want to die painfully — and the basement is where all our rooms are, and the laundry room. And these are your new mates, Doctor, or old I should say," he added with a chuckle, sweeping his hand out again to indicate the patients.
The Doctor got a good look at a ginger-haired girl in the corner, who seemed to be chattering to herself, and his hearts did a samba. "She's one of my—"
"Companions?" Brian interrupted with a chuckle. "You say that every time I give you this tour. That's Amy Pond. Or 'Prisoner Zero', as we call her, 'cos nobody seems to know how long she's been here. She's got this thing in her head, yeah, that's she's waitin' for her 'raggedy man'. Says that her 'raggedy man' showed up in her house when she was seven and promised to 'be right back'. Mistook you as that raggedy bloke before, actually." He then pointed to a dark-haired person slowly edging towards the chattering Amy. "That's Rory. We share the same last name, ironically, so he thinks I'm his dad. He claims that he and Amy are supposed to be married, and that he went back all the way to Roman times to find her, only he 'got stuck' and waited for a thousand years to come back to her. 'Course he's never said two words to her, in reality."
"I don't belong here," said the Doctor at once.
At once Brian grew dangerously quiet. "I didn't say I was done." The Doctor swallowed, nodding for him to continue since he was pretty sure that one of Brian's problems was liking the sound of his own voice too much… and pummelling those who told him otherwise. "That's 'River Song', as she calls herself," he continued happily, as though nobody had interrupted him. Brian pointed to a frizzy haired, older woman who seemed to be eyeing everyone in the room as though expecting them to attack her. "Bloody nut job, her. Calls her cell 'Stormcage' and calls all of us the 'Shade Proclamation'— no wait, Shadow Proclamation, that was it. When she's not trying to slit all of our throats with pens, she's shoving us up against walls and snoggin' the stuffing outta us." Brian looked pleased. "Did that to you a couple o' times, actually, an' sent you into a right fit."
"I don't have fits," said the Doctor at once, yet again making Brian upset. "Er, continue."
"That bloke's called Winston," said Brian at once, pointing to an older man in the corner. "Actually thinks he's Winston Churchill— don't blame him, meself, since his speeches are excellent… when he's not diving under the table at every loud noise and shouting 'the Germans are bombing us!' And that bloke we only know of as 'the Gunslinger'— acts like the world's a Western film. That's Kate Stewart— her grandfather's in the military…"
Once the Doctor was completely certain Brian was finished, he added, "What about the nurses?"
"Well, there's Sharon— right old dear, her," said Brian, smiling wistfully. "Then there's House, who's got a stick up his bum — which is funny, 'cos of that show House, about that arsehole doctor named House — Clara and Solomon. An' there's two new ones; one's called Mickey, I think, an' he's been here only a few months… can't right remember the other's name, but she's a beauty and just showed up last week."
"Rose," the Doctor murmured. "Her name's Rose. I remember," he added, blushing when Brian gave him an odd look. "She's my nurse, apparently."
"Rose, then," Brian said. "And then there's Kovarian, the head of the department. Crazy bitch, her."
"What'd she do?" he asked, frowning.
"Well for one thing, she's the reason you got switched to the strong stuff, and the reason why it took so effing long to get new meds," Brian said conversationally. "But that aside, she runs an airtight facility, here. Puts you in solitary if you so much as sneeze in her direction. She's got Solomon as her bitch, actually— he practically worships her like she's Queen Nefertiti or summat."
"How did I get put in solitary again?" the Doctor said airily.
"Kovarian caught you trying to free Amy and Rory out of their cells when they were in solitary," Brian said, with another good-natured chuckle and a pat on the shoulder. "Honestly, Doctor, what were you thinkin'?"
"Dunno," said the Doctor vaguely. An alarm sounded from the counter at the edge of the room, and everyone in the room immediately got up from their seats and started shuffling in a single file line towards the counter. "What's going on?"
"Meds, m'boy, meds," Brian said, grabbing the sleeve of his coat and hauling him into line behind Rory.
"Hi Dad," said Rory vaguely.
"'M not your dad," Brian replied dismissively, keeping his attention on the Doctor. "Then it's off to the cafeteria for lunch, mate. Think Sharon's serving hamburgers today."
Brian was forced to stop chattering when they finally reached the counter, and a sweet-looking, young brunette nurse smiled at him and handed the Doctor his meds with a, "Nice to see you again, Mr. Smith."
He frowned at her, mostly for calling him 'Mr. Smith', and caught sight of her nametag. "Hello Clara," he said aloud, tossing the pills back and swallowing them sans water.
She looked thrilled. "You remember me?"
"You're wearing a nametag, sweetheart," said someone from behind her, and she flushed pink in remembrance and looked a bit disappointed.
The Doctor's frown deepened, but before he could comment the chuckling Brian steered him away from the line. "She fancies you."
"What?"
"Clara. She fancies you."
Despite knowing full well he hadn't been here long enough for any nurses to fancy him, he grinned to himself, tugging on his lapels, ignoring Brian's eye roll and saying, "Well I am brilliant."
"'Course you are, then," Brian snorted, leading him towards the stairs along with the rest of the shuffling crowd. "Come on then, Mr. Big Head."
The Doctor scowled but obligingly followed Brian and the throng up the steps, led by two bulky, guard-like men into a small cafeteria, about the same size of the activity room. The patients lined themselves in front of a long counter, rather like those seen in school cafeterias, and Brian and the Doctor followed them, each taking a tray for himself. Nurses were acting as serving ladies too, a few of whom the Doctor recognised— Sharon was the first, followed by a still-grumpy House, a black man and a nurse he recognised as the one that had led him from his cell to the activity room.
"Hello Sharon," Brian said, voice lascivious.
"Brian," cooed Sharon, and the Doctor nearly hid behind his tray, choking down vomit. "Here you are, sweetheart— just how you like 'em."
"Thanks," Brian grinned, as she handed him a plate with a mustard-covered hamburger on it.
"Good to see you, Johnny!" Sharon positively gushed when it was the Doctor's turn, missing the sick look on his face.
"Zaal balloon," he greeted impassively, reluctantly accepting a bare hamburger from her as well.
"Ah, she's a dear," Brian sighed, when they retreated to a table next to Rory, the Gunslinger and Winston.
"She's a giant Zaal balloon," the Doctor muttered, poking his hamburger as though expecting it to grow legs and scurry off, like on the nonsense planet Trfrgr.
"You've said that before, but you never told me what it meant," said Brian interestedly.
"Nothing," he replied quickly, not wanting to send the older man into a fit by insulting his (sickening) fancy.
The Doctor pushed his hamburger away and listened to Brian chatter away about nonsense, eventually including the Gunslinger, Winston and Rory (provided the latter didn't called him 'Dad' and stopped flicking his eyes in Amy's direction). After a half hour of listening to drivel, the Doctor tuned it out and sat back, taking in the room carefully and committing every detail to memory as best he could before spotting something. His hearts leapt and lodged themselves side by side in his throat— the nurses were now all taking their own breaks at a special table situated in the corner of the room, positioned so that they could keep an eye on the patients at all times, and at the corner of the table, surrounded by Clara, Sharon, House, the black man and three other nurses, was Rose. She had thankfully forsaken those hideous standard scrubs, instead now wearing a white lab coat over a lovely office-like ensemble of a pale pink blouse and tight black skirt, and she was in mid-laugh at something Clara was telling her.
"Stop staring," Brian snickered, jerking him out of his reverie.
"Wasn't staring," he defended with a flush, tugging at his suspenders. "I don't stare. Time Lord, me."
"Right," Brian grinned. "Well, what if I told you, my Lord, that the lady you were just starin' at is comin' this way?"
The Doctor's head snapped up, flushing crimson when he saw that Rose was in fact walking towards him, a brilliant smile on her face. Brian waved towards the other three to scoot over to the far end of the table, giving them privacy as Rose sat down next to him.
"Hello," she grinned, tongue between her teeth.
He was well aware of several things— his face was red, Brian was sniggering behind him, and the black man at the other table was frowning at him. "H-hello." Why was he stammering?
"You should eat that, by the way," Rose added, with a sideways glance at his now cold hamburger. "I know it's awful and Sharon can't cook for shit—" he chuckled despite himself, "— but you need to eat somethin', Mr. Smith."
"It's Doctor, actually," he corrected at once.
She cocked her head to the side, and he blushed— damn it, why did he keep blushing? "Doctor who?"
Finally, something familiar. He smiled at her. "Just the Doctor."
"The Doctor," she repeated, eyes twinkling. "That's an odd name."
"I'm an odd bloke," he shrugged, wagging his eyebrows.
She laughed, making him straighten up almost triumphantly just as the black bloke from the nurse's table scowled and called, "Oi, Rose— break's over, let's go!"
Rose sent the Doctor an apologetic look, missing the look of annoyance he sent in the other bloke's direction, and said, "Sorry, I've gotta go. See you tonight."
"Tonight?"
"Meds, remember?" she grinned, tongue at the corner of her mouth again.
He felt his cheeks tingeing pink and cursed himself in his mind— what was it about this woman that turned him into an awkward, blushing idiot? "Er, right." As she sent him one last grin and started to walk away, he remembered something and called after her hastily, "Th-thank you!"
She turned around and frowned confusedly at him. "For what?"
"Getting my meds changed."
Her smile returned at once, lighting up her eyes. "You're welcome."
Brian snorted, forcing the Doctor to tear his eyes away from her. "What?"
"This is the first time I've ever seen you remotely smitten with anyone," Brian grinned, elbowing him in the ribs suggestively.
"I'm not… that's… you're…" he spluttered, face flaming scarlet.
"I think you broke him, Dad," Rory sniggered.
"I'm not smitten," the Doctor finally managed to say furiously, ignoring when Rory happily leaned over and snatched his untouched hamburger. "I'm a Time Lord. Time Lords don't get smitten."
"You are clearly besotted with the newest caretaker, Mr. Smith," said Winston eloquently, sending Rory a disgusted look when he chomped down into the Doctor's nicked hamburger.
"Thank you for the valuable input, Winston," Brian sighed.
"Oh, and I suppose you with your unprecedented observational skills also noticed that Smith's point of vision was directed unswervingly at her backside?" Winston argued.
"What?" Rory frowned confusedly with his mouth full.
"It was not!" defended the Doctor.
As Brian and the Gunslinger burst into raucous laughter, gaining annoyed looks from some of the other patients and even a death glare from River, Rose turned her head over her shoulder as Mickey and the rest of the nurses started towards the door, a small smile blossoming over her face. "Looks like he's adjustin' again, yeah?"
"What, you mean the bloke who thinks he's the Lord of Time or whatever he calls himself?" Mickey grumbled.
"The Doctor, he said his name was," Rose said, turning away from the laughing group and following Sharon and Clara into the hall. "You never told me about him, Micks."
"That's 'cos he's annoying. Every time ya think he's separating from his fantasy world, he has some sort of episode and ends up forgetting everything all over again. Can't tell you how many times I've gone into his cell only to have him demand where I've taken his 'tar-diss'."
"What the hell is that?" Rose raised an eyebrow.
"I have no clue," Mickey said. "You've only been here a week, babe, an' I know he's taken a shine to ya, but I've been here a while. I've seen the Doctor try the most outrageous shit to try and escape this place — genius shit, I'll give him that — an' I've seen him try to talk Prisoner Zero into 'remembering their adventures'. Once he even threw a custard-covered fish finger at my head and told me to 'let him out of here, you stupid alien!'" His tone grew mocking when he imitated the Doctor. "Trust me babe— this ain't gonna last. He's gonna be plotting an escape plan sooner or later."
Rose frowned at the floor, pausing her walking and forcing Mickey to stop as well lest he leave her behind. "What've you been doing for his therapy to try and separate him from his fantasies?"
"Standard stuff, really," Mickey shrugged.
The corner of her mouth quirked up and she resumed walking again. "Well, maybe we should try a more creative approach with him then, yeah?"
"You can give it a shot if you want, babe— 'm done with him. And River Song. Did you know she tried to snog me, again? Why can't the bloody woman keep her tongue in her mouth?"
Rose's giggles echoed through the hall.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent in what Brian simply called 'group'— the Doctor's first impression of 'group' was that it was painfully droll, since he spent the first hour listening to Kate sob about her cat, and the second listening to River rage about Stormcage and how if they didn't let her out of here at once, Kovarian was going to come and murder them all, and other nonsense. After group was over everybody was led back to the cafeteria for dinner — a kind of lumpy meatloaf — served by a new round of nurses. He decided he'd had about enough when somebody accidentally knocked their knee into the table, making a loud banging noise and causing Winston to crash to the floor with his hands above his head, screaming; this prompted several other people to start panicking, Brian trying to rectify the situation by yelling 'it's okay' over and over, River watching the chaos with an almost thrilled look on her face and Kate huddling in the corner wailing for her grandfather.
Sharon eventually ran out and calmed everybody, and by then the Doctor had already slipped out during the bedlam, sneaking quietly through the halls to try and locate the stairs. He debated which way to go first— he itched to head to the ground floor and escape the asylum's confines, but Brian had said upstairs was the 'head honcho's office, and if he headed up there he had a better chance of finding his sonic, his ship and the person responsible.
"I wouldn't go up there, if I were you," Rose's voice said amusedly from behind him.
The Doctor's hearts lodged in his throat and he whirled around in a panic, seeing her leaning provocatively against the side of the wall. "Er—"
"Relax," Rose giggled, pushing herself off the wall and walking towards him. "I won't report you. If you follow me to your room," she added, cocking her head to the side.
As much as his instincts told him to take off towards where his ship might be, his peculiar desire to be in her company and not upset her won over. Grinning in what he hoped was a smooth way, he hopped over to her and extended his arm. "Lead the way, then."
Rose grinned up at him, tongue in teeth again as she hooked her arm around his and pulled him towards the downward staircase instead. "So, why the sudden wanderlust?"
"Oh, y'know… sightseeing," he said airily, waving at the bleak grey walls.
"Right, 'cos this place's a real Costa Rica," Rose snorted disbelievingly.
"The cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling are lovely this time of year," the Doctor grinned, overly pleased when his comment made her laugh.
"You think you're so impressive," she said.
"I am so impressive!" he replied, using his free hand to adjust his bowtie as though that finalised the matter.
"Prove it." Before he could flush and wonder what 'proving it' implied, they arrived in the basement, where patients were shuffling into their rooms. "Which number's yours?"
"I dunno," he shrugged. "I've only been here a week."
Even though her tone sounded sincere, he could tell she didn't believe him. "That's not what Sharon and the others told me."
"Bet they've said I've been here for ages, and that I just keep forgetting 'cause I'm bonkers," the Doctor said bitterly.
"Well, I've heard something like that, yeah," Rose said. He could just tell what she was doing— tiptoeing around the subject, trying to make him 'see the truth' without outright confronting him with it. If he didn't like her company so much, he'd hate her for doing it. "I wouldn't know though; I've only been here a week myself."
He just couldn't be angry, not when she was sending him that tongue-touched smile again. "There you are, Johnny!" fumed Sharon's voice from behind them, making Rose turn and the Doctor grimace. "Oh, you're with Rose," she added, a simpering smile curling over her face. "Well that's all right then, dears. Headin' off to bed?"
"Nah, just sightseeing," he said lightly, holding back a triumphant grin when Rose giggled behind her hand.
"It's nearly nine, you know," Sharon said knowingly, missing the friendly exchange.
"Yes, Sharon," sighed Rose. "What's his room number?"
"Eleven," Sharon said dismissively, catching sight of something in another room to her right and turning her attention to that with a, "Did you nick another pen, Melody?"
The Doctor entered his bedroom upon Rose's steering, taking a good look around. It was pretty standard issue — there were two beds, although one was clearly vacant and one was unmade and messy (ooh, he had his very own room!) — a nightstand in the middle and a desk off to the right; all in all, rather barren and unlived in. He paused when he spotted something, frowning at the walls. There were three pieces of paper with words written in Circular Gallifreyan: 'Theta Sigma', 'Arkytior' and his true name. He gaped at them, utterly shocked— how could those be there? He didn't remember writing them, and not only was he the only person who could write in Circular Gallifreyan, he was the only person in the universe who knew his true name, let alone who could write it.
"What are these?" Rose cooed from beside him, leaving his astonishment unnoticed.
"It's my people's written language," he mumbled, frowning at it. "Circular Gallifreyan."
She stared up at him in wonder. "It's a language? It's so beautiful."
"Is it?"
He'd never thought of it as 'beautiful' before— the only thing he'd really regarded the language as was a pain in the arse in his Academy days. But she nodded, running her fingers over the charcoal over the 'Arkytior' one. "Yeah. Like clockwork or somethin'." Hm, now that she mentioned it, maybe it really was lovely. "What do they mean?"
"That one says 'Theta Sigma'," the Doctor said, pointing to the first.
"Theta Sigma?" she repeated confusedly.
"My nickname from when I was in the Time Lord Academy," he said, looking for signs of disbelief and finding nothing but awe. "That one says 'Arkytior', which, ironically, means 'rose' in High Gallifreyan—" her grin widened a little and he found he adored it, "— and that one spells my true name."
"Your true name?" Rose said confusedly, eyes alight with amazement. "An' what's that?"
"Time Lords never reveal their true name, unless it's to their spouse or they're seconds away from death," the Doctor explained, blushing slightly under her entranced expression but happy to go off on a lecture nonetheless.
"Then what's 'Doctor'?" she asked.
"When Time Lords graduate the Academy, they choose a different title for themselves," he told her, before realising something and frowning. "You don't think anything I'm telling you is actually real, do you?"
The Doctor almost regretted saying it, since the magnificent look of marvel in her eyes died at once, but thankfully it was replaced by the gentlest smile he'd ever seen. "S'real to you. And it's amazing."
"Bedtime, everyone!" trilled Sharon's voice from the hall, making them both jump.
Rose laughed and reached into her pocket, pulling out a small container, in which were two pills, and a small bottle of water. "Eat up, or Sharon'll do more than just startle us."
He grimaced at them but obediently tossed them back, washing them down with a sip of water. She graciously left the water bottle on his desk and, after bidding him goodnight, shut the door behind her so that the only light in the room was that of the dim lamp on the nightstand. He smiled sappily where she'd disappeared, only to have expression slowly fall into a contemplative frown as he sank down on the bed. Rose seemed far too sincere to be an evil, manipulative alien trying to convince him he was crazy— as a matter of fact, she seemed to be doing the opposite by focusing solely on his sanity and steering the conversation strictly away from anything that suggested he wasn't in his right mind. Maybe she was the only nurse that had no idea what was actually going on. In that case, he decided happily, stretching out on the bed and kicking off his plimsolls, he would only cooperate with her. And when he was out of here, he'd take her with him on the TARDIS, and he could tell her everything about himself just to see her eyes light up again.
The Doctor's first official week of false institutionalisation was mostly spent in annoyance. Twice he tried talking to Amy and Rory, trying to reach beyond what mental damage the aliens had caused them, and twice Amy had gone into a fit and started sobbing for her raggedy man, and Rory had thought at one point that the Doctor's motives were to send him back to Roman times and nearly attacked him with the nearest object (Winston's notebook, heavy and filled with speeches no doubt). Eventually he gave up, deciding he'd get to them once he got back his TARDIS and his lab equipment. Meanwhile Brian chattered his ear off the whole time — the bloke was kind, but he loved the sound of his own voice more than the Doctor did, and that was saying something — and group therapy was a pain every time, whether or not Sharon was asking the Doctor to share something about his troubles. He made absolutely certain that if she were ever to call on him, she'd regret it, and spent his time talking about how he just couldn't seem to solve the Skasis Paradigm until even Brian, who'd previously been roaring, looked bored as well. She also encouraged him to meet weekly with the facility psychiatrist, which he steadfastly refused— he was already forced to 'share his feelings' with everybody else in his unit, and if he had a choice not to share with someone else he'd take it.
In mid-morning, the nurses ushered them all outside into a dingy, fenced-off area of the courtyard, which had nothing but a rusty basketball hoop with no net and a dirty bench situated directly under a beehive, so nobody went near it.
What may even be worse than group was arts and crafts. Arts and bloody crafts. Everybody's age in the asylum ranged from late twenties to (counting him) nearly a thousand, and they were sitting there doing arts and crafts, making origami and houses out of Popsicle sticks, gluing them together with a kind of pungent glue that the Doctor saw more than one person sneak into their pockets to huff later. During that period, the Doctor asked for pieces of paper every time and drew words in Gallifreyan to give to Rose later.
Rose was about the only thing about the whole place that wasn't mind-numbing or annoying. She'd greet him every morning and every night with his meds and he'd coax her into talking, managing to get her to stay longer and longer each day. At one point when she brought him his meds just before bed, she also slipped him a book. It was just a ragged, dusty old copy of The Time Machine that she'd found underneath a cupboard, but he got a bit overexcited and may or may not have used that as an excuse to yank her into a giant hug that didn't end for a full five minutes. And, despite having read it a million times (well, one million two thousand and twenty-four to be precise) and memorised it, he read it over and over again every night.
He tried various times to escape— every time Rose caught him, and every time he surrendered willingly and happily, until he was only escaping just so she'd have to leave the other patients to go and fetch him. It was a childish game, but this regeneration was as childish as it got, so Rassilon be damned, he was going to keep playing this game of hide-and-fetch whether or not it was silly. Once someone other than Rose had almost caught him, and he'd been about to hide when Rose grabbed his hand, whispered, "Run," and took off with him down the hall, their laughter getting intermingled. She was always there at lunchtimes and chose to sat with him instead of with the other nurses (much to Mickey's chagrin, although that had less to do with Rose and more to do with the fact that he clearly didn't like the Doctor, for some reason) but didn't oversee group or 'outdoor time' as Brian called it.
She did, however, oversee arts and crafts every afternoon after the first week. The Doctor had been slumped back in his seat with boredom watching Rory sniggering at Brian's wobbly, dripping stick man (they were doing watercolours) when Rose's hand slipped over his shoulder and her voice said amusedly, "Y'know, to paint, y'need a paintbrush in your hand."
He started, jumping high enough to make Rory, Brian and even Winston snicker. "Er, right," he said embarrassedly, blushing scarlet and reluctantly reaching for a fine-tipped paintbrush.
"What're you gonna paint?" she asked, wedging herself between him and Amy, who was idly painting a near unintelligible doodle of what looked a bit like a messy haired, ruffled bloke.
"Dunno," he shrugged, looking up at her. It was a lie— he wanted to paint her as she looked now, the sunlight spilling from the window making the skin of her face glow slightly white, eyes half-mast and full of that signature compassionate look, mouth curled up in a gentle smile — no wonder his doped up self had mistook her for an angel — but he was pretty certain that would come off as odd. "Suggest something."
She bit her lip contemplatively, and his eyes drifted towards it for some reason. "Paint me… I dunno, a butterfly?"
"Right-o," the Doctor said at once, grabbing a palette of watercolours and setting out to paint her the best alien butterfly that he could.
He wasn't even certain if this regeneration could draw or paint at all — he vaguely remembered his last regeneration, while liking himself too much, had been skilled with a pencil — but he wielded his paintbrush as skilfully as he would his sonic, carefully outlining the shape of a bright gold, transparent Selketi flutterer. He discovered that yes, he was a good artist— magnificent, actually, since his hand swept over the page like he'd been doing it all his lives, making it so detailed the transparency of its wings was visible even without a background. Rose had to circle around the room while he was painting to see to the other patients, but the moment he finished and leaned back, she was back by his side in an instant.
"S'gorgeous," she murmured, far too close to his ear. "What's its story?"
"It's a thahab flutterer from the planet Selket," he explained quietly, resisting the urge to turn his head towards hers. "They're considered holy spirits of people that've died, and reside only in the oases scattered over the planet. Well, not only."
"Where else?"
"I've got a few in the butterfly room in the TARDIS. My ship," he elaborated at her look of confusion.
"You have a ship?" she smiled at him. "Like, a spaceship?"
"Time-and-spaceship, actually," the Doctor grinned.
"A time machine that can travel through space too and has a room with only butterflies in it?" Rose said. The look of wonder in her eyes was back— he wanted to paint that too.
"The TARDIS has lots of rooms with only one thing in it. There's a banana tree room, a lightbulb room, a jam room and a toaster room too."
"Paint it."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "Paint the toaster room?"
She laughed. "No, the butterfly room. Paint all the species in there."
The Doctor knew there were thousands of species collected from all over the universe in there, but since he could only remember a few of them (probably because of his meds) he neglected to tell her this and set to work at once, starting first on the grassy field and simulated blue sky in the butterfly room before starting on the butterflies, explaining each and every one's origin whenever he finished one. Brian had only been half-listening to what the Doctor had been doing, mostly smirking over how he was fawning over Rose, but he soon caught sight of his nearly finished painting and gaped at it before ushering everybody else to gawk as well.
After a brief half hour, his first painting was finished and other people were requesting paintings as well. Rose seemed delighted by it, and encouraged him to do it— which, beside the fact that it made it look like he was participating, was the only reason he did it in the first place. That day, the Doctor finished Brian's requested painting first — which of all things was of dinosaurs on a spaceship, for lack of any better idea — and ended up taking on more requests.
Two months passed and his time was consumed with drawing and painting. Winston had requested a portrait of himself giving 'a grandiose discourse before all of London', while Amy's was of her vivid description of the 'raggedy man' (who looked suspiciously like him) Rory back in Roman times as a gladiator and the Gunslinger in a Western desert town, which he named 'Mercy' and proudly announced that he was its protector from now on. River was the only one who stayed quiet, and when he'd asked her if she wanted something, she told him quite specifically, "I'm gonna murder you, bury you, dig you up again and put your muddy arse on display in a museum," so he drew her a quick sketch of her as an archaeologist, because that was the closest thing he could come up with that was remotely like her 'suggestion' without making it too graphic and making the nurses think he had murderous thoughts.
At Rose's request he also sketched and painted scenes of Gallifrey, Time Lords in their Prydonian and highborn attire, his TARDIS console room and exterior ("Bigger on the inside!" she'd exclaimed, pleasing him to no end… and then she burst into laughter when she discovered the TARDIS was stuck in 'police box mode') as many planets as he could think of, and all of the faces of his incarnations save for one.
And he did dozens of Rose.
At first it was just a hasty doodle of her as an angel (their inside joke, meant to make her smile) but she was inspiration incarnate, so ideas kept coming. Rose in a Victorian era gown, hair up like a governess; Rose in a brilliantly pink dungaree dress — she'd liked that one especially, asking how he knew she loved pink. He couldn't of anything but, "It suits you." — Rose in a Union Jack shirt, of all things; Rose in mid-laugh in the butterfly room; Rose with her tongue-in-teeth grin and compassionate smile; Rose with every outfit and hairstyle and backdrop that he could think of. She positively adored them — they were rather lifelike, if he was being honest and not remotely braggy in the least — and constantly requested more, taking them all home with her.
She ended up getting him a sketchbook and a little pocketsize case of pencils so he wouldn't have to wait for arts and crafts to draw, and that was where he drew most of the sketches he wished to keep to himself. The face of his granddaughter, the war-born incarnation he'd tried so hard to forget, and more pictures of Rose. Only these ones were dangerous.
At first it was just things he was mildly fantasising about— her as his companion, the two of them having adventures, things like that. They grew in severity, starting to turn into scenes where they were doing slightly mushy stuff like holding hands or snuggling on the couch in the TARDIS. Then he woke up one night, tangled in the sheets, hair plastered to his face with sweat and an erection tenting his jimjams, and not only did his sketches turn into something that embarrassed even him, but the majority of his dreams did as well.
The Doctor tried not to feel ashamed, since the meds he was on had been suppressing his Time Lord superiority ever since he'd arrived, so having such human responses wasn't his fault, really. But he was pretty sure that his human responses were triggered in turn by the fact that he was falling in love with her, which he had never done. Sure he'd loved before, but never loved, especially after the Time War. Hell, he hadn't even had any sentient contact besides the TARDIS for a full year after he'd destroyed Gallifrey, until he'd healed a little from the pain of the Time War. Wait…
How had he healed from the Time War?
Mickey, after listening to Rose talk about nothing but John Smith — a.k.a. the Doctor — for a full two and a half months, had had enough. Stopping Rose mid-excited rant, he scowled at her over the counter and said, "What the hell has gotten you so worked up over this nutter, Rose?"
"He's not a nutter, Mickey," said Rose sharply.
"Everyone in here's a nutter— it's an asylum!" Mickey said incredulously. "An' he's no different! He thinks we're all aliens, that he's the Lord of Time—"
"A Time Lord," she corrected.
"— and that we've stolen his time machine and are trying to convince him he's mad! That's nutty to me, no matter how brilliant you think the shit he comes up with is."
"His fantasies aren't like normal ones, Micks," Rose insisted. "They don't focus on a single part in his life— his entire life is this fantastic story, and the detail is amazing. It's like he's really tellin' the story of this extraordinary alien who saves the universe. They're not fractured and he remembers almost everything about them."
"So his psychosis is worse than other patients, so what?"
"I'm just sayin'," Rose said earnestly. "Can you get me his file from Kovarian? I'd like to see what his real life was like before he was admitted."
"Can't," Mickey said smoothly.
Rose frowned. "Why not?"
"I already tried months ago. Kovarian went against me. The government's sealed his files."
The Doctor continued to scribble in his sketchbook absent-mindedly, both so he'd have an excuse not to talk to Brian and to make the nurses think he was normal as ever, when in reality he was drowning in his own thoughts. Big chunks of his memory were missing— all of his ninth incarnation's adventures and recovery post-Time War, a little bit of his tenth's and even his current's; the moment precisely when he'd made the decision to destroy his home planet; and silly things like why Ace decided to leave him and when he'd first met Liz Shaw. It worried him, to the point where he even kept his nightly conversation with Rose as brief as it had ever been— although that hadn't stopped him from dreaming of her. Thankfully she wasn't naked, writhing or touching him in any way, as his dreams about her usually went. Instead, he was old, scraggly and war-torn, holding what he knew to be a weapon of mass destruction but what looked like a simple clockwork box.
He wouldn't realise this until later, but the clockwork symbols on the box were the words 'Bad Wolf' and 'Arkytior' woven repeatedly across the expanse, never ending, eternal, forever. When he woke the next morning, a stupid beam blossomed on his face, and he threw himself out of bed, tangling in the sheets in his haste and crashing to the floor. Scrambling up without a care, the Doctor snatched his sketchbook off the desk and began scribbling furiously, a gleeful look on his face.
Rose unlocked his door and entered the room, holding her usual morning paper cup of meds and a water bottle. "You're awake."
"Rose!" he gasped excitedly, throwing down his sketchbook and hurling his arms around her uncoordinatedly, picking her up and twirling her around. She gasped out in alarm, which quickly turned into an amused giggle. "Rose, I dreamed something magnificent!"
"What was it?" she laughed, looking up at him when he set her down but kept his arms on her waist, beaming down at her.
"I didn't destroy Gallifrey!" the Doctor said happily. "I remember now— I didn't destroy it! And it's all 'cos of you, you magnificent woman!"
He yanked her into another impromptu hug, making her grunt when her chest hit his abruptly. "Er, how's it 'cos of me?" she asked, patting his shoulders and then obediently hugging him back when he showed no signs of letting go.
"'Cos you were there!" he explained elatedly, humming into her neck and rocking them slightly. "You were there, only it wasn't this you— it was another you. I tried to use a weapon called the Moment to destroy Gallifrey, only they'd told us it had a consciousness and its consciousness was you, Rose, and you stopped me!"
"How'd I do that?" she grinned.
"You kept telling me 'the Moment is coming'. You said that, Rose, that the moment to choose was coming, only in the end you gave me a better idea to save Gallifrey. I suspended it in a single moment in time and sent it to another universe!"
"That's brilliant!" she said, laughing when he twirled her again.
"Yep!" he beamed. "You were the Moment— well, you also called yourself 'Bad Wolf' too."
Her smile fell off her face at once and she frowned, pulling back a bit and tilting her head. "Bad Wolf?"
"Yeppity," he said eloquently, wondering what was the matter.
Rose's expression turned from a frown to a gentle look of consideration. "Bad Wolf is what this place is called," she told him softly.
He frowned as well, stepping back from her but keeping his hands on her shoulders. "What?"
"The name, 'Bad Wolf'," she explained slowly. "That's what this institution is called. The Bad Wolf asylum."
"It is?" he said, frown deepening. Confusion made him lower his head a little— in his few months of being here he'd never bothered learning the name of the asylum. Doubt crept over him, replacing the confusion; how could the name have leaked into his dreams if he didn't know it? Unless… he really was psychotic.
"Doctor?" Rose said quietly, but he barely heard it. His mouth was dropped open in horror, his hands were shaking on her shoulders and his eyes were blown wide and locked on her neck. She tried giving him a shake and saying his name again, but he still didn't respond— sensing that he was receding into his mind, she grabbed the sides of his face and forced him to look at her, saying, "Doctor, listen to me."
The Doctor seemed to jerk from his stupor, eyes finally reaching hers but still round as coins, breathing coming out ragged. "Am I insane?" he whispered shakily.
"No," she murmured. One hand rose up and carded through his hair, forehead pressing against his; he calmed down a little, tense muscles relaxing as he gravitated towards her, wrapping his arms around her again, this time for comfort and not in excitement. "No, sweetheart, you're sick. Not mad."
He could list off hundreds of elements and their atomic weight, he could recite the function of every section of the brain in several different species and he could name thousands of mental illnesses and their treatments— was it possible that all the scientific information was the product of his own ropey imagination? Was he sick if he didn't know what was real and what wasn't? He tightened his grip Rose, inhaling deeply both to calm himself with her scent and to stave off tears of terror— the only thing he knew was true was her, so he was going to cling to her for dear life.
He practically fell asleep on top of her, lost in the haze of her perfume and his own fear, and when Sharon came bustling over to check on them, he was forced to pull back and Rose, however reluctantly, had to leave to tend to the other patients. He took his meds, and for the first time it was because he wasn't sure if he needed them or not as opposed to only taking them to shut the nurses up, and started to head out into the hall.
He jumped a little when River Song stepping in front of his doorway stopped him; her face was twitching and her arm was partially concealed behind her back. At once a feeling of caution started up in his gut, and he said in his quietest voice, "What's the matter, River?" She didn't answer, merely staring at him with an almost curious look. Her eyes were rimmed with a splotchy purplish-red colour, like someone had hit her in both eyes. "Is there anything I can help you with, River?" he tried again.
Her head twitched to the side, sending her frizzy hair bobbing slightly. "Kovarian raised me to kill you."
A flood of fear, a flash of suicide blonde and a searing pain in his stomach rippling through his body like a gas-fuelled fire. Suddenly the only thing within his visual range was the dusty grey of the carpet and something warm and wet was pooling over his torso.
"DOCTOR!" Rose's voice shrieked, echoing strangely like it was bouncing around inside his head.
He started to smile — if there was ever a voice that he wanted in his mind, it was hers — but her voice was drowned out by what sounded like River's reverberating screaming, coupled with Sharon's worried wailing, House's swearing and Rose's shaking breath next to his ear. The grey of the carpet titled away from him, replaced by a blurry yellow colour.
"Doctor, s'gonna be all right." Rose was crying. Why was she crying? "Sharon's gone to get the paramedics, an' you're gonna be fine. Just… look at me, yeah?"
He swivelled his eyes obediently, trying to focus on her face, but despite his efforts his eyelids grew heavy almost at once and the only thing he saw was darkness.
A/N: Eleven's first chapter :) Can't believe the series is almost done. I just LOVE writing insanity/mind fics so yes, you will see more. This idea was stemmed from the feeling I always got watching Eleven; idk if it's just me but I feel like he's the most mentally unstable, even more so than Nine and HE was post-Time War. I did my best with the meds and the psych ward protocol; I've never been in one myself but I did plenty of research, so please forgive any discrepancies. The character of 'House' is the actor that did House's voice, so just imagine that guy :D and although Kovarian's the 'villain' in this story, we'll never actually see her. Also, the word 'thahab' is the Arabic word for 'gold'.
PS I've recently taken up drawing again :) and all I've mostly been doing is doodles for Forever and More. The only one I have uploaded is Ageless, Timeless, so if you guys want to take a look, head over to my profile where the link is (since ff despises links here -_-)