Chapter 1
He was falling through time and space. He didn't know where he was going or what he was doing. He only had one thought: did someone leave the kettle on? No, that wasn't it. Wasn't it something to do with reversing the polarity of the neutron flow, or how sticks of celery tied to your lapel are insanely cool? He tried blinking hard, and produced a corridor of shimmering sparks before his eyes that his astral form fired itself through like a photon cannon ball.
Trying to right himself he jolted himself forward only to receive a glancing blow to the forehead before splashing back into the bath of soothing water. That's when he remembered: the isolation tank. It was a present from one of Clara's more eclectic friends. The present had actually been for Clara herself, but she had received an emergency call at the last second; class 11F had an extra session that afternoon, but their teacher hadn't arrived. She would have rather taken on a host of Weeping Angels than a group of hormone laden 16-year olds asking her about her personal life, but if these bright sparks were to become the decision makers of the future, they would need to understand the intricacies of President Roosevelt's Alphabet Agencies first.
So when she took off on her cute little motorbike, which wasn't disguised as a police box, and didn't make a "whooshing" sound upon materialising (in fact it didn't materialise at all), the Doctor just had to step in. Literally. If nothing else, just because the isolation tank would be all booked up for the next eight weeks.
It was just as he began to realise that, if he had to drift through the cosmos, he would rather be in the comfort of his own TARDIS, that the illusion of stars began to give way. The glowing matte of flashing pin pricks began to melt in front of him, but it was the smell that he noticed first. It was like the smell of flicking through the pages of a dusty old book and wondering what nuggets nestle within its pages. As he savoured his first deep breath, he became aware that his feet had sunk into a heavy carpet. He snapped open his eyes to see where he was. It was a library. He was in front of two bookshelves of dark mahogany laden with tomes that frankly looked older than himself. The shelves were split apart by a roaring log fire above which was a painting. It took a moment for him to realise what it was as his eyes became accustomed to the dark. His mouth dropped open as he realised it was a skilled painting of a blue police box: the disguise his TARDIS had been wearing for the last millennium. Almost without thinking he took a step towards it, reaching out his hand. But before he felt the dried brush strokes, he heard a voice, an eerie, familiar voice behind him.
"Well what did you expect to find here?" The voice had a superior, patronising tone. As he whirled around, he knew exactly who would be standing there. Yet still, his left heart skipped a beat. There before him was the man who had seen the early caveman discover fire, who had fought back the Dalek invasion of earth and had met with the Azteks. It was the Doctor. The first Doctor, with a withered face, silver hair, and leaning on his cane. He went on. "Don't you remember what it said in the advertisement?"
The eleventh Doctor folded his arms. "I remember exactly what it said. Word for word".
The first Doctor raised a chastising finger. "A rhetorical question, my dear boy. Any Gallifreyan would be able to remember every last detail or he would hardly be deserving of his heritage, now would he? The purpose of my question was not to test your memory but your reasoning ability".
The eleventh Doctor was beginning to feel glad he'd only experienced this grumpy chap from the inside as he recalled the advertisement. "'Aceteck Isolation Tanks. Cut yourself off from the outside world to find your true self'".
The first Doctor smiled. "Which, for a human, is a very simple matter. But to a Timelord, who can have many true selves…"
The eleventh Doctor cut him off and pointed to his own head. "So that means you're all in here? All ten of you? Rocketing around my head like ball bearings in a giant pinball machine?"
"My dear boy, I have no idea what you're rattling on about. Nonetheless, it is true that your experience in this clumsy human device has revealed parts of you which you had thought long forgotten".
"So you're all still there somewhere?"
"Tell me, who do you think it is that dreams your dreams?"
The eleventh Doctor slapped his own forehead. "Okay, that's it, I want out! If I knew that a session in the tank would mean a lecture with Old Grumpy, I'd have found a nice little knitting class to go to!"
"Or perhaps you could humour me".
"What do you mean?"
"My dear boy, most of your travels and vicissitudes are still in my future".
"So?"
"So I would like to see what the men that followed me have done with my legacy".
The eleventh Doctor took a deep breath. "You mean you want to meet them? All your other selves?"
"Quite, quite. After all, wouldn't you be interested in meeting your next regeneration?
"Well, that's where we differ, because I'm the last".
The first Doctor could only smile and gently shake his head. "My dear boy, have you not yet grasped the notion of future uncertainty? The future isn't writ. Not for anyone. And certainly not for you. Now, come on, let's establish some rules. After all, what have you to lose? It's not like your surrendering to a horde of Daleks".
"No, I'm surrendering to a man who wanted to crush a caveman's skull".
"Oh, please, let's not keep going back to that. After all, our ability to change is the whole point of this discussion, is it not?"
The eleventh Doctor ran his hand through his hair. "All right. You get one session. With each of your lives. When you want to go to the next one, click your fingers".
"I'm afraid I no longer find that so easy, young man. Give me a password, something to say".
The eleventh Doctor smiled. "Okay. How about 'fish fingers and custard'?"
The first Doctor screwed his face up in disgust. "What a revolting idea. Next you'll be telling me I develop a penchant for those horrible jelly babies".
The eleventh Doctor sighed even as the older, more cantankerous man pointed a finger at him. "So to you, my future self, I say 'fish fingers and custard'!"
With that the eleventh Doctor vanished from his own hallucination. There was no puff of smoke, no energy signature to mark his passing. Only that in his place was now a smaller, seemingly middle aged man, wearing a thick brown fur coat tied about his waist with a piece of rope. He lowered the recorder he had casually been carrying. "Oh, confound those teleportation devices, I can never seem to get them to work!". He raised his head to notice the silver haired man facing him and took in a deep breath. "Oh, it's you. And I suppose I'm in for a severe telling off?"