This came to me quite suddenly as I was working on something else.
The sudden shake of the TARDIS is so violent and unexpected that The Doctor is thrown back from his ship's console, off his feet and onto the metallic grating. Sputtering curses in 16 different languages, he quickly stumbles to his feet and brushes his floppy brown hair from his face. Finally standing upright, he gives his shoulders a shake and straightens his bowtie. His relief lasts only a moment because seconds later, there is a stab in his hearts so painful that he lurches over, clutching his chest as the pain shoots from his hearts through his core and down to his fingertips and toes.
In his distress, he barely notices the TARDIS glowing an angry red and continuing its shake, though with less violence than before. He drops to his knees, letting out a cry of pain as fire seems to shoot through his veins.
The TARDIS engines start up without him, flying where she needs to go rather than where he wants to go. As she moves, The Doctor continues to gasp in pain as it surges through his body. He wasn't regenerating, he through briefly through labored mind, and nothing had happened to him, he'd simply been walking around his TARDIS, fixing parts. Clara is nowhere to be found, dropped off at home and unable to help. Even if she were, he wouldn't want her to see him like this.
He knows there can only be one explanation for his pain.
One of his previous or future selves was in so much pain that it was rippling through his timeline.
It wasn't death.
Death didn't hurt this badly.
The TARDIS lands harshly, knocking him to the side again, and, gently as she can, nudges him towards the doors. Even through this brief contact, The Doctor can feel that the fire in his veins is in her core as well, hurting his ship as much as it was hurting him.
He stumbles out the doors to meet two familiar faces and a sky filled with zeppelins. "You," he gasps out as pain continues to rip through his heart. Neither responds.
His ninth incarnation is standing stoically, back stiff. His eyes are wide, his mouth drawn in a tight line, and his face expressionless. The Doctor can feel his own pain emanating from his past self, and feel the depression and hopelessness crowding his thoughts. This is a Doctor born too soon after the war that had destroyed their people, and the Eleventh Doctor can feel his past self receding into the man he'd been immediately following his birth, as well as his fight to stay afloat, to avoid that dark and unforgiving man.
His tenth self is standing as well, though he seemed to have no control over his body. His eyes are brimming with tears and his mouth hangs open in complete anguish. His mind is a jumble of past and present mixing together to form one unbearably pleasant film of himself leaving a young blonde girl on a beach in Norway, not once, but twice. The current Doctor feels like an unwelcome intruder on the scene of their last goodbyes, seeing the tears on her face and feeling words stick to his own throat as he tries to keep it together for her. He knows that seeing him fall to pieces would only hurt her more.
But he doesn't have to worry about that anymore.
Because before the three Time Lords, there is a half-human, half-Gallifreyian on his knees, shouting wordless cries to the sky with tears that streamed down his cheeks and pain bursting from his chest. His blue suit is stained with blood, both his own and his.
And in his arms is her body, limp and unmoving. She is half on the grass, her torso and head being clutched desperately by the wailing Doctor.
Realizing who he is looking at, The Doctor drops to his knees, welcoming the pain that shoots from his knees because anything is better than the feeling of seeing her like this.
Her hair is longer than when he saw her last, matted with blood and dirt but still a golden blonde that shines like the sun. He can't see her face. Her shirt is torn is several places, and the bloodstains mark both skin and fabric as well as her hair. Her pants are the same black as the shredded shirt, though significantly more intact though just as covered in her blood.
None of them know how long they stay like that, with two Doctors on their knees and two standing upright. None of them say anything to each other, both too caught up in their own pain and knowing that the fire spreading from their hearts is a shared sensation.
After he doesn't know how long he's been on his knees, and he doesn't know when he'd started crying when he hears his own voice say, "Let me see her."
No one seems to hear him. His half human self continues his cries of anguish, and neither full-blooded Time Lord has acknowledged his presence since his arrival. None of them can take their eyes off of her.
He crawls forwards on his knees, reaching blood-soaked pair and hesitantly reaching forwards.
His hands meet the skin on her shoulder where her sleeve has been torn, and he lets out a chocked sob because it's her and it's not an illusion and he'd hoped never to see her like this. He reaches over to take her into his arms because he has to see her face, he'll never fully believe it's her if he doesn't just see her face.
The human Doctor doesn't ease his grip on her, still holding her to his chest and hoping that by some miracle he'll feel her wrap her arms around his chest and whisper that she's all right, they're all right, and that everything will be fine.
She doesn't.
Green eyes meet anguished brown, each filled with tears that free themselves with ease. The brown-eyed human manages to relinquish his grip on the body of the girl he loves, passing her off to the ancient alien that kneels before him.
Her body rolls as The Doctor takes her into his arms, unbothered and barely noticing that blood from her body and clothes was staining his own tweed jacket because he finally sees her face.
It's scratched and bloodied and her eyes are still wide open, exposing the empty hazel eyes that had once glowed a warm honey-brown and sparkled with mischief. A cut has bloodied her full lip and The Doctor wipes it away using a shaking thumb. When her lips are sufficiently clean, he cups her round face in his hand, stroking her cheek and trying his best to ignore the blood that tainted her face.
It was her.
Rose Tyler was dead.