Legal disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the character(s) or background. I'm just writing this for sheer pleasure and no profit. Hope you enjoy it.
DOCTOR WHO
Patterns, Within Chaotic Sequences
Part 1
The Doctor opens his eyes for the first time and sees geometry of straight lines and sharp angles. Dark colors surround him and smother all sense of time and place. He struggles stand upon legs that both are and are not his own, only to slip a moment later and fall.
He sees a pool of red staining the hardwood floor upon which he has awakened.
Something terrible has happened...but he cannot think what.
Uncharacteristic and unnatural panic spikes in his mind as he struggles once more to his feet. A voice that both is and is not his own screams out "Run!"Therefore, the Doctor runs.
He flees through corridors too solid and vulgar to be endured, mind and senses awash and unable to process any one thing.
Somehow, he gains egress from the place he has awakened within and manages exactly five steps before all strength deserts him and he falls again. This time he lands in soft earth. Lethargy returns and overtakes the urge to flee. The loose soil is too comfortable a bed to rouse from.
The Doctor closes his eyes and lets himself fall into darkness.
It is raining when the Doctor opens his eyes again. He feels no panic this time. Neither does he feel the urge to immediately jump to both feet and confront the universe. This is the first clue, given he knows such lethargy is not like him.
The rain is gentle upon the skin of his face and hands, which are the only part of him that he feels it upon. The rest of his body is covered with something rough and heavy. It is no struggle this time to regain his footing and stand.
The Doctor stands still for a moment and surveys his surroundings. He has awakened to a green and pleasantly calm land, rolling grassland bordered by a wide swath of forest. The sky overhead is a dull gray, not entirely unexpected given the light rain that is now falling. The air carries scents both pleasant and not so pleasant, both natural and otherwise.
The Doctor turns a full circle, visually catching and cataloging all he can see. Behind him is a house, large, solid, and unmovable. It is his house, his sanctuary in the fields of Kent. It looks in far better shape than he remembers it, something not entirely unexpected. The old attached greenhouse is long gone; as is the terrible shade of blue on the garage. The TARDIS is not immediately in evidence.
He takes another moment to re-orientate himself, looking around once more and concluding he is in the back of the property. What prompted him to flee into the garden eludes him and he decides against forcing the memory. If it is important, he will recall when it is time.
A small frown hits. This sudden passivity doesn't seem like him at all. Neither for that matter do the clothes he's wearing. For one thing, they are easily a size too large for him, and all a shockingly uniform shade of dark red. Since when had he taken a liking to red velvet?
The Doctor looks down at himself and frowns again. Red and badly stained, the lot of it. His once-white shirt is now so encrusted with blacks and green he could likely sell it to UNIT as surplus.
The thought is so supremely odd it has him scratching his chin in thought, his hand jerking away in surprise when it encounters the rough texture of his skin. He quickly rubs both palms over his cheeks and chin.
Precisely how long has he been unconscious that he has actually managed to grow a beard?
This discovery is another clue, one his mind dutifully files away for later consideration. There is nothing unusual or indicative in the shape or composition of his hands to offer further confirmation of the terrible truth he has come to suspect as the case.
The Doctor walks back to the house, intent but not eager to find a mirror and confirm his suspicions. His steps are slow but sure, his mind in turmoil over what to make of himself. Panic is one thing, but blind flight? Awakening without immediate concern to his surroundings?
He enters through the kitchen, which is pristine and smells of dust. Clearly, it has not been used in some time. The Doctor declines to follow the very practical thought of making himself a cup of tea. He's still stubborn enough to refuse to accept the inevitable.
Instead, he moves down the corridor to the front foyer. This is in part a test of himself to see if it was simply trauma or some newly developed claustrophobia that sent him fleeing earlier. To his strange relief he traverses the narrow hallway and its many closed doors without reluctance or fear. Must have been trauma, he decides to himself. Just as well, given how useless he would be if he suddenly developed a fear of enclosures.
The foyer is as pristine as the kitchen and hallway. What little dust has collected on the wood and walls has been disturbed and resettled. The Doctor again wonders how long he was lying outside as he stares at the vague outline of a body in repose there. The blood he slipped on when first awakening has dried to a dark stain.
At least it wasn't over that damned scarf he'd taken to wearing.
Scratching his chin, the Doctor wondered how he should feel right then. He wondered equally if he would ever get used to an unshaven chin.
An oval mirror hung on the wall a short step away. Gathering his courage, the Doctor took this short step and greeted the stranger staring back at him with such curiosity.
"Hullo," the Doctor says to his unfamiliar reflection, accepting the inevitable.
It's not a bad face, Thank Rassilon. Scratchy chin notwithstanding.
His nose is smaller. His mouth is a little thinner and seems permanently cast in a frown, an experimental smile appearing too forced to be anything but false. His hair is still brown and thick, but straight and only barely covers the top of his flat and unexceptional ears. He spies more than a few gray hairs here and there, both at the temples and around his mouth.
There seems to be...less...of him this time around: fewer years, fewer wrinkles, skin paler than normal, less energy and less mass.
The only exception or noteworthy thing now are his eyes, which are a vivid blue and look as if they could stare through a Dalek's casing.
The Doctor wonders what kind of man he will be now. Doubtless something different thanbefore. He hopes he is something more practical-minded and lacks affection for over-long scarves.
That thought firmly in mind, the Doctor turns from the mirror and decides a change of clothes is in order before he ends up tripping over his coattails. He doubts his minimal dignity would survive such a mishap right now.
TBC...sometime soon.
So, dear reader, is it interesting enough to continue?