The conversation with his best friend lay heavily on his hearts. The Doctor had asked Frobisher to come back with him, but the PI was currently beak-deep in a rather perverse Hydralian murder case where the main two suspects were the victim's other two heads. His presence would have made what was to come so much easier.
He pushed both doors of the TARDIS aside. Mel was nowhere to be seen, thankfully; most likely in the kitchen, processing more carrot juice. He had always believed that infernal concoction would be the death of him. If only that would be the case.
The wardrobe room was not far, a mere two hallways and three left turns from the control room. The Doctor loosened his necktie and stuffed it into his pocket. He felt like it had been choking him as of late.
"So now that you know what's gonna happen, you can change it, right?"
"You forget, Frobisher, I'm his past. Even though I know what's coming, so did he. And he still became… that."
"But… you can decide not to become him!"
"How does one anticipate their own moral decay, Frobisher? How does one stop a rot when the rot spreads from the inside?"
His wardrobe had become quite a collection from his travels across time and space, but amongst the cacophony of textiles, one suit screamed out above all the others. The patchwork coat, designed on the planet Dernier Cri in the thirtieth century, had given to his third self as thanks for modeling it on the runway. (Lots of planets had an 80's.)
Vest, spats, and pants, he stripped down and exchanged them all. The Doctor placed his blue coat on the rack and pulled its avant-garde counterpart out.
The accoutrements had suited him during the start of his life: Loud, brash and unapologetic. Age and moral outrage had mellowed him, but it had been a long process. Appropriately, time and entropy had worn the suit thin too. Rather than replacing it with an exact copy, as his boring previous persona had been apt to do with his ensemble, he had adopted a more conservative palette of blues which reflected his newfound sobriety.
"I think you know what you gotta do, Doc. You gotta change your own future."
"And how do I do that, you birdbrained gumshoe?"
"There's a chain of events which lead up to him, right? You gotta break that chain."
"You mean…"
"I'm afraid so, Doc. I'm… well… I'm… y'know…"
"I know. …Thank you."
Blast the penguin, he was right. The shadow of the Valeyard and the Time Lords' corruption had hung over him for too long. It was time to step out of the shadow and into the light… no matter how much it burned. No more brooding in the darkness; it was time for a final gambol in the spectrum. The coat's chromaticity served as a reminder of the vigor he once had.
He was the Doctor. He would never stop being the Doctor.
He had never triggered the process voluntarily before, always nursing each life for as long as possible until it could not be avoided any longer. With just the slightest mental push, he could feel the light inside him beginning to flicker. It was easier than he thought.
The flicker had grown into a glow by the time he returned to the control console. Mel was there, carrot juice in hand. For once, the Doctor drank it without complaint. He would need the energy. He smiled and thanked her. She didn't even notice the change in his behavior, bless her.
The Doctor threw the switch, and the TARDIS began its flight. Without a word, the Doctor wished Frobisher goodbye. Wished Mel goodbye.
He chatted idly with his companion, wishing to make the most of these last few minutes as himself, but he only gave her half his attention. Morality. That was the word he meditated on. More disciplined Time Lords could control the change, mold themselves to their desires. The Doctor had never really attempted it before, but if there was any trait his successor needed to have, it was fervent righteousness.
As the glow grew into a matchstick flame, he finally plucked up the courage to warn Mel about the coming change. He noticed his hands were trembling, but it was not just his hands. It was his whole body. No, it was the ship. An attack!
No, no, not now! Not-
The Doctor fell and felt a sharp shooting in his head that did not come from the renewal. His skull resonated from the blow, disrupting his concentration. Darkness claimed him, then a streak of light, the fire raging out of control.
He hoped his successor would be able to handle whatever was coming. If only he had made it to Blackpool…