Author's Notes:

This is just a snapshot from a much more complicated story. I've mapped it all out in my mind, but wanted to post a prologue. Don't want to give any spoilers away, but the point is that the 10th Doctor deserved better than what the show gave him, and so did Rose. Quantum theory being what it is, I figured every possibility is worth investigating. We think, therefore we are, right? ;-)

Disclaimer: Doctor Who and all related characters herein do not belong to me. The rights to publish anything relating to Doctor Who belongs to the BBC alone.

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"To be no more, sad cure; for who would lose,
Though full of pain, this intellectual being,
Those thoughts that wander through eternity,
To perish rather, swallowed up and lost
In the wide womb of uncreated Night,
Devoid of sense and motion?"
-John Milton

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Prologue: A Stitch in Time

January the 1st, 2005
The Powell Estate

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"The Universe will sing you to your sleep."

Clenching his fists against the pain, the Doctor poured some of his little remaining strength into easing himself up from the snowy ground. The high, delicate voices of the Ood began a song of compassion, ringing in a quest to ease his troubled mind. Locking eyes on the TARDIS, the Doctor took one step, then another, sucking air in through clenched teeth. Finally approaching the blue box, the Doctor took the TARDIS key from his pocket, fumbled for the lock, and leaned on the wooden door. His lanky, frail form, formerly shadowed from streetlight by the TARDIS, was quickly illuminated by the soft light within. Resting his weight against the open door frame, the Doctor tried to focus on conserving his energy for the final journey ahead.

He looked down at the metal grating, myriad thoughts reeling through his drifting consciousness. Fear of what was to come - anguish at what he had lost - anger at the utter lack of justice in the universe. His own kind had preserved the law for centuries, dealing with any and all tribulations with fair treatment, integrity and just compensation. To whom was he - last of the Time Lords, custodians of the cosmos - to whom was the Doctor to appeal for any pardon?

He had confessed to Wilfred his commitment of genocide. He had slaughtered the very souls that might have granted him retribution for better deeds. Did he deserve any more than this? Shortly after his previous regeneration, the Doctor had experienced what might well have ended in a quasi-sedentary existence. He reached his right hand into an overcoat pocket and felt the fuzzy remains of his Christmas crown - a keepsake from years ago.

Rose.

If he could have chosen any reward... The Doctor had lived too long. He had seen, heard, felt, smelled, tasted, extrapolated, kythed, snorkeled and generally gallavanted around any and all corners of the universe that interested him. When he was not looking for it, he had found something that gave more light to all of these experiences than he'd ever felt before. The Doctor had met Rose Tyler, grabbed her hand and never would have let go. Given a taste of the brilliant, brave and compassionate woman - well, nothing had been, nor ever would be the same. He had seen life through Rose-colored glasses. The Doctor could never look back. If that entailed a life of domesticity, he would hold fast to it - a generic department store could become another planet, if Rose Tyler were with him.

A new spasm of pain clouded his dark eyes, and he made every effort to stand tall. The Doctor shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto the rail, slowly making his way along the metal grating. His right hand began to tingle, and he raised it to witness the first tendrils of golden mist swirling around his fingers. Clenching his jaw, he turned to the TARDIS console and set a course away from the Earth. It would not do to cause any harm to the planet below.

Martha. Mickey. Jack. Wilfred. Donna.

The Ood's song rose in a vain attempt to abate the torrent rising from each atom of his body. It struggled against the regeneration energy building inside him, moving at a slower rate in an effort to ease the rapids of golden light within. The effect gave him the sensation of moving in slow motion, each footstep lasting an eternity. It made him feel helpless. The Doctor walked aimlessly away from the heart of the TARDIS, a lump forming in his throat. He was not ready for this - he felt incomplete, unfinished, and felt a rise of panic as the tingling in his hand flared anew.

Rose.

If there were any benign force in the universe, be it in Shangri-La, Krop Tor or the Planet of the Ood, the Doctor silently cried out for another chance. He had tasted absolute contentment with her - a most welcome reprieve from his usual state of restlessness. The universe had been theirs to explore. What crime had he committed? Was he doomed forever to a life of solitude, to lose the ones he loved in this generation and the next? What hope was there for him?

Eyes full of pain, loss and fear, the Doctor raised his hand and beheld his doom.

It was not enough. He was not finished yet. Realization dawned on him, and he froze in acknowledgement.

"I don't want to go." He felt his hearts beating madly, frantically drew air into his lungs. The Doctor was drowning in a golden mist that was filling him, expanding from his core and rising to the very edges of his body. He concentrated all of his will on keeping his eyes open, a silent affirmation to his home and the people they held dear.

The pressure built until he could contain it no more.

The Doctor exploded into dazzling light, sparks flying everywhere and from everything around him. Outside, the outer hull of the TARDIS shattered, knocking the blue box off its orbit. Showers of fiery sparks erupted from the very heart of the TARDIS, as if in sympathy to the being she had guided through a near millenia.

Unnoticed by the soul in flux, two figures burst into being on either side of the TARDIS console. Both were men, and one - a true-to-life double of the Doctor himself - sped toward the living explosion, pressed his hands into the light streaming from the Doctor's face, and began to scream at the top of his lungs. The second figure retreated to the other side of the room, watching the spectacular display with visible signs of anxiety on his dimpled face. He crouched beside the flight seat, bracing himself with one hand, clutching a red armband in the other. His bedazzled eyes widened as the fireworks continued, raising a sleeve to wipe the rapidly-forming sweat beading his brow.

The Doctor and his doppelganger were locked in a turbulent embrace, particles of light streaming from one into the other in a photonic tug of war. The glow was beginning to recede from the Doctor's face, only to course into his double's body with frightening speed. The pseudo-Doctor howled, light beginning to jet from his hands and his feet. As the Doctor's body started to dim, his counterpart's facial structure began morphing into something new. The man crouching by the flight seat seemed to take this as his cue, and hurried over to the real Doctor, eyes locked on his. When brown began emerging from gold, he wrapped his arms around the Doctor's torso. He seemed to hesitate a moment, then leaned over, placing a gentle kiss on the Doctor's cheek. He abruptly turned away, hissing in pain.

"Guess that's what I get, right Doc?" said the man in an American accent. He shook his head, smiling ruefully. "At least I beat Rose to it."

With one last glance at the other Doctor, he pressed the red button on his arm band, and vanished with the real one. In one last fit of sparks, the pseudo-Doctor's wordless howl gained a steadier resonance, and nearly collapsed in a heap on the grated floor. All light suddenly vanished from his newly formed body, and he looked around frantically, patting himself to feel the differences.

"Legs! I've still got legs," exclaimed the Doctor, hastily kissing a raised knee. "Good!"