AN: I wanted to write this after finding myself drowning in a swimming pool of my own tears at Eleven's regeneration, especially the bit where he did what he did with that bowtie, which caused a tornado of feels that still hasn't fully subsided till now. Just that freaking part. Ugh.
Okay, first DW fanfic (that I've published, usually I just delight in reading other people's fics) here so I really hope you enjoy it, especially if you were as heartbroken as I was. Basically just a short rewrite of the ending but focus on the bowtie. So it might be rather obvious that Eleven is my Doctor. And that I may be a rather emotional person. Enjoy and review please!
He raised his hand to his neck. There it was, as it always should've been. Popping out from beneath his tweed jacket was an indispensible accessory of great importance to him. To everyone, really. Everyone needed one of these.
It sat comfortable round his neck, not too tight, but a rather relaxed fit. Comfortable and maroon, with tiny white polka dots. Well, sometimes red. And blue. But for the occasion, he'd chosen a darker shade, to match his mood. He fingered it gently, almost afraid to damage it. He recognized the soft feel of the fabric between his fingers, he knew every ridge and bump of the woven threads, where they felt new and smooth, and where they were even a little tattered and torn from centuries of wear and tear. Yep, he knew every one of them, even the blue ones, which he'd worn only sometimes, like when he visited Vincent van Gogh and saw all those wonderful paintings. They were like his babies, absolutely essential, utterly imperative. He even had a little wooden box with velvet fittings inside for his favorites.
Raising his head to the TARDIS ceiling, the Doctor smiled a sad smile. His eyes shined – were they tears? Clara wondered – but with a definite look of nostalgia, stirring quietly somewhere behind those sad, sad eyes. He continued to gaze up for a while, and time seemed to stretch on longer than it should have. The familiar creases on his forehead appeared, giving way to the cogs and wheels turning in his head. Clara could almost hear them grinding – to her it usually meant 'Doctor thinking'. But now, she didn't have a clue on what he was up to.
The Doctor knew, though. His rational and logical mind, usually reserved for the purpose of dreaming up physics theories of the timey-wimey nature and for inventing last-minute plans, was at once flooded with a tirade of echoes of voices, memories of past adventures, faces… Familiar faces, of beautiful people. His companions, his friends. Every smile, every moment of adventure flickered across behind his eyes. The image of a pretty redhead flashed momentarily, followed by that of a young man in a nurse's uniform. He thought especially of a lady with a curly mass of blonde hair with a knowing smile. He stood there reminiscing every second of his nine hundred years in his eleventh body. The Doctor struggled to choke back rising tears and held on tightly to the TARDIS railings, one hand still longingly fingering the cloth around his collar.
Clara stood, watching him silently but intently. She didn't want to disturb him, especially considering the expression on his face. It hit her like a brick. He'd described it to her vaguely before, but she never really gave it much thought. But now, here was reality, slapping her in the face in full force. New body, new face. At once she felt a great sadness swirl in the pit of her stomach, worse than she had felt when she saw her aged Doctor's old and frail frame. But something about the memories. The memories.
"Times change, and so must I." The Doctor spoke with quiet certainty, his expression a strange mixture of sadness and comfort, directed to both Clara's apprehension and himself. Though light, it masked deep sorrow and a river of tears.
He raised his hand, which now began to glow with a beautiful, luminous golden ray. Clara knew it was supposed to come out in times of mortal injury or sickness, but now, it just seemed so… elegant. So graceful, so radiant, and most importantly, it symbolized change.
He spoke again, this time even smiling a little.
"We all change." He grinned at the back of his hands, raised eyebrows creasing his forehead into a thousand little folds. "When you think about it, we're all different people all through our lives, and that's okay, that's good, you've got to keep moving, so long as you remember" he emphasized, "all the people you used to be."
His past selves flashed rapidly across his mind like scenes in a movie, transitioning from one to another, but somehow still keeping the same look, the one that showed love of adventure.
"I will not forget one line of this."
The Doctor blinked back a tear or two. Yes, there would be the heartbreak of letting go. But the joy of embracing change –
"Not one day."
- made it worthwhile. He would live, as he always had, with no regrets. He would promise himself.
"I swear."
He opened his mouth to utter one last sentence, which he couldn't help – he had to say this, to shout out to all the universes and beyond to declare this promise:
"I will always remember when the Doctor was me."
Only air. His hand cupped only a ghost, an echo, residue of his imagination. Amelia Pond was not there physically, but at least she was to the Doctor, as a sculpture of his memories. It gave him closure.
The laughter still rang in his ears, like little silver bells, the laughter of the young girl with the inquisitive eyes and the reddish hair. Running along the railings of the TARDIS, carefree and joyful, with that familiar spark of ambition. Because she was only a figment of his imagination that little girl looked slightly blurred at the edges
or my tears?
but she was present in spirit, dancing and laughing and running inhibited. Then she came forward to him, this time with more years under her, looking at him with an expression of fondness. She wished him good night. Then she was gone.
The hardest part was saying goodbye to those that have stuck around with you the longest - companions would leave, even the best of friends would go someday. The hands of the clock were inching closer and closer; there was a time for everyone. So now was his turn.
He saw this was coming and he didn't want to do it. With a flourish he pulled his bowtie off, almost as if he had rehearsed it. It was time to say goodbye to his most cherished possesion. He never thought he might have to do this one day, and it broke both his hearts.
The Doctor gazed at his treasured bowtie. It symbolised everything he was, and represented everything he did. He almost felt like it embodied him perfectly, like all his other past selves who had their own in one way or another. What was the word? Icon. His trademark bowtie.
River, once, had called him a 'sentimental idiot', and for good reason, but this time it was more than justifiable. This guy had been with him through thick and thin. He nodded at it in aknowledgement of this, in a way that might have made Clara laugh (if only she understood) but he was dead serious, and dead sad. But for a little moment he smiled at it, as if saying, 'Thank you for all the brilliant times we had together!'
You know what?
He searched his mind for the adjective.
Cool.
Reality dawned on him and he did it before he could even comprehend his actions. His hand trembled. No, he couldn't do this. Wait, no! Not yet! No!
He let go and his bowtie dropped to the floor. It would leave together with him.
With his last task checked, it was time and he was ready. In a sudden camera flash of bright golden light and in a split second of a sneeze, it happened.
The Doctor was a new man.