Why He Runs
This was sparked by a little throw away line from "The Unquiet Dead".
It's quite angsty, as Nine generally is, and a little dark in spirit. I'm not sure I'm completely satisfied with how it turned out, but am putting it out here nonetheless. Any constructive criticism would be appreciated.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Doctor or the TARDIS. They come out and play sometimes, which gives me great joy.
The Doctor hurried from the docks, anxious to get away from the cheering crowds. He entered the alley, glancing around to make sure he wasn't followed or observed, and walked quickly toward the blue box. He unlocked the TARDIS and slipped in, swinging the door shut behind him.
Striding to the central console, he twirled dials, pressed buttons and flipped levers, sending them into the Vortex and away from Earth. That done, he continued on into the kitchen, where he tossed the tricorne hat he still wore onto the table. Placing the small crate he carried on the counter, he leaned back and sighed. He felt a slight twinge of guilt about walking off with contraband, but it was his favourite tea. And he really didn't think the colonials would mind, considering they would never have gotten that second hold open without a little surreptitious "sonic-ing" of the lock.
By habit, he filled the kettle and set it on the hob to boil. Sitting down at the table, he scrubbed his face with his hands. He picked up the tricorne hat and turned it over and over in his hands as he thought, 'So. What's all this then? Why all the runnin'?' he said to himself.
In the short span of time since his regeneration, he had rescued an entire civilization from virtual extinction on Seti Alpha VII. He had stopped a revolution on 42nd Century Bellerophon, and just helped start one on 18th Century Earth. 'Oh, and there's the Titanic,' he thought. 'Can't forget the Titanic, now, can you? What were you thinkin'? You had no business bein' in Southampton, especially in 1912. Remember what happened the last time?' He dropped the hat on the table and sighed. 'They were a lovely family, though. Had to save someone. Can't be faulted for that.'
The quiet of the TARDIS was suddenly shattered by the piercing whistle of the kettle. The Doctor started at the sound, having no recollection of turning it on. Getting up from the table, he switched it off, and reached for his mug. His hand waivered over the wooden crate on the counter, but his scruples got the better of him and he settled for an unidentified bag of tea from the back of the cupboard.
Taking his tea into the control room, he settled himself in the pilot's chair, put his feet up on the console, and continued his inner monologue. Thinking over his brief life in this current regeneration, he leaned back and shook his head. 'Any first year at the Academy could see what you're doin', mate. Compensatin', you are. Think if you save enough people it'll make up for Gallifrey?'
At the memory of his home planet, the Doctor's breath caught in his lungs. The guilt and devastation were still too fresh, to close to the surface. He hadn't had time to develop sufficient scar tissue to diminish the pain and sense of loss.
He surged to his feet, his forgotten tea scalding his hand. He dropped the mug on the metal grate below, shattering it. And he began to pace.
The War. The Last Great Time War. 'Sounds rather poetic, don'tcha think?' he thought sarcastically.
The Doctor strode back and forth around the console, arguing with himself. 'Poetic? Oh, that's bloody brilliant, that is. There's nothing poetic about war. Especially *this* war. Two species annihilated, erased from Time and Space forever. A planet destroyed; its entire population obliterated; its cities, its mountains, its forests burned to ash and dust. Yeah, some poetry.' He felt a wave of anguish overwhelm him and he groaned in grief and pain over the loss of his home and family, realizing that he was the last of his kind.
'Oh, shut it' he berated himself, his mind and his hearts in conflict. 'You're acting like you're some kind of victim here. Survivor's guilt, they call it, right? You really think you're a survivor? That you survived the Time War? Well, mate, you're not the last of your kind because you "survived" the War and the destruction of your people. You're the last because you *caused* it, remember? The Nightmare Child? The Moment? Sound familiar?"
The Doctor abruptly stopped his pacing, as the realization hit him. "Oh, god," he whispered aloud. "It's all true. It *is* all my fault. I am responsible!"
He sagged against a nearby coral strut, his face in his hands. He wept, as grief, shame and overwhelming guilt consumed him. "What was it all for, anyway?" he cried. "All that death. All those lives. My family! Why was I spared? Why should I have to live when I've lost everything! By all rights, I should just aim this thing into the heart of an exploding sun and rid the universe of the Time Lords for good!"
Suddenly, the control room was filled with a mournful voice. The TARDIS sang wordlessly, weeping as her Doctor wept, filling his ears and mind with her fear, her sorrow, and her sadness at his despair. She had often sung to him in the past, but he had never heard such pitiful sounds as these. It filled him with shame to think that he caused his ship such pain.
Taking hold of himself, he straightened and put both of his hands on the coral and said softly, "I'm so sorry. Don't be frightened, old girl. I could never do that to you. You're the only family I've got now." He stroked her strut gently. "Look at us. The last of the Time Lords and the last TARDIS. A fine pair we make." She crooned back to him in agreement.
He stood there for quite a while, communing with his ship, his friend. Finally, he took a deep breath and started walking back toward the console. Spotting the remnants of his mug on the floor, he stooped and gathered the pieces, shaking his head at his carelessness and smiling ruefully at the obvious symbolism. Setting the pieces on the counter in the kitchen, he sat back down at the table and picked up the tricorne hat, looking at it curiously.
The Doctor stared at the hat in his hands, thinking about the colonials and their struggles, and why he felt compelled to help them. He thought about the Seti Alphans, and how he couldn't abandon them when it was in his power to save their lives.
Maybe that's why he was still here. Maybe it is his fate to wander through Time and Space, helping any and all, in the vain hope that he could atone for his sins.
And so he would run. Run because it is the only way he knows to keep the pain and guilt at bay. Run so he can help as many people, planets and species as he possibly can, to make the sacrifice of Gallifrey mean something. Run because, in the end, he really has no other choice.
He was the only Time Lord left. He had a responsibility, after all.