He stepped into the Tardis, footfalls reverberating against the solid walls and floor. The lighting in the control room was softer, dimmer than usual, as though the ship were trying to comfort him. It didn't help.
Slowly, the Doctor approached the center of the room. He flicked a small switch to his left without even realizing what he was doing, his body operating on pure muscle memory. For several long minutes, he just stood there, blankly staring at the controls before him. Finally, he raised his heavy head. "Well, old girl," he murmured with a weak, wistful smile. "Where to next?"
The Doctor ran a finger slowly down to a small, blue button that he couldn't really remember the purpose of. Stabiliser? Voice control? No, he recalled after a moment. Autopilot. He could let the Tardis take him wherever she wanted to, which– he shook his head fondly– she usually did anyway. Not particularly caring one way or another, he pressed the little button.
It was as if he'd caused an explosion. Instantly, the Tardis's unusually gentle lighting turned to a fiery red and her low alarm sounded. Before the Doctor could do anything, he was flung to the floor as the ship plummeted into the Time Vortex at an alarming rate. Feeling more alive (and worried) than he'd felt in hours, the Doctor scrambled to his feet and began flipping switches, pressing buttons, braking– but to no avail. Nothing could stop her. Panic setting in, he pushed that little blue Autopilot button, but it was jammed. Before he could even curse himself for using it to begin with, the Doctor was thrown back again. This time, though, he must have hit his head and been knocked briefly unconscious, for when he opened his eyes, the Tardis was still. Her lights had returned to their usual glow and the alarm had quieted. Slowly hoisting himself to his feet, the Doctor peered about him. "Geronimo," he murmured to himself.
Everything looked as it should; the blue, uppy-downy thing in the center of the control panel was motionless and not a thing in the ship had been displaced. The Doctor, upset though he may have been, could not contain his curiosity. Carefully, for his legs were unsteady, he approached the Tardis's door. He hesitated for just a moment, then opened it and peered outside.
London. How very strange. Of all the places in time and space, why had the Tardis chosen to bring him here? Judging by the cars speeding down the street in front of him and the airplanes above, it was sometime in the early 21st century. 2015, perhaps? It couldn't be 2012, for, though it was similar, it was subtly different from their London. The Pond's London.
As he looked about, he noticed a young couple walking hand-in-hand on a sidewalk across the road from him. They weren't far off, but they were walking away from where he stood. The man was thin with light brown hair and the woman was tall, long-legged and... ginger.
His hearts leapt into his throat and for a fleeting moment, he didn't care that it was impossible, didn't remember that he'd knelt at their grave earlier that day. All he cared about was reaching them. He darted across the street, away from the Tardis, running at full speed until he was only a short distance from them. He'd just opened his mouth to shout her name when... No, he realised, his spirits sinking. The man had turned his head just enough to reveal a rounded, somewhat flat nose, so unlike the thin, pointed one that had protruded from his friend's face. Upon seeing this, the Doctor noticed other, slightly less-obvious details about the couple which made it clear that they were not them. The woman's hair was a dark, fake-looking red that could only have come from a bottle. Nothing at all like her vibrant, orangey locks. The man's clothes were simple and slightly athletic, not bearing any resemblance to his usual plaid-shirted, skinny-jeaned ensemble.
Quickly wiping away the moisture that had appeared in his eyes and straightening his bow tie, the Doctor collected himself. Of course it wasn't them. There was no way it could possibly be them, he told himself firmly. They were gone.
He glanced once more at the young couple, who had now become nothing but silhouettes in the distance. So lucky they were, he thought, to never have met him. So simple, so safe, so normal without that mad old Doctor as their friend.
Dejected, he sat down on a nearby bench for the second time that day, not even registering that there was someone sitting next to him. He buried his head in his hands and let out a soft groan.
"You alright there?" Came a woman's voice from beside him. He started at the sound but didn't bother to look up.
"I'm always alright." He muttered dishonestly. His hands were pressed so tightly against his eyes that he'd begun to see spots.
"Funny," she mused. "I know someone who says that."
"Hmm," he said, half-listening to her.
"He never is, though, when he says it. Just lies so he won't have to explain how he feels to anyone."
The Doctor made another indistinguishable sound to indicate that he was, in theory, listening.
"I reckon you're the same way, yeah?"
At that moment, something was triggered in the back of the Doctor's mind. Some tiny, locked-up drawer had been opened and suddenly, a flood of familiarity surged through him. All at once, the woman's voice beside him gained a face, a life, a spirit... a name. A name he'd thought he might never get to say again.
He looked up, unable to trust his own thoughts. For the first time, he looked at the woman seated beside him, saw the golden hair, the smooth skin, the warm brown eyes. He felt his own eyes widen in wonder as he spoke aloud the name that belonged to that face.
"Rose Tyler."