Disclaimer: Rights to Doctor Who go to the BBC
Author's Note: For the longest time, I believed the Doctor had truly died at Lake Silencio. Now, despite knowing that this was not the case, Miracle Day rooted a dark and dangerous seed in my mind. A little horror story to chill your bones on a cold October evening, and please, remember to leave a review.
NOTE: This story has been previously published. It is not new. In a fit of stupidity, I deleted the old story. #authorproblems
[Greetings from Lake Silencio]
WelcomeToLondon
The boat had burned to the waterline long ago, and now he was sinking, sinking below the surface, to be taken by the currents down, down, down to the deep. He supposed that if his skin didn't float from him like dead bark from a tree, he would have felt the chill. But he didn't. He couldn't. There was nothing left. He wasn't even certain if he was thinking anymore. He vaguely recalled a spaceman, and basking in starlight, and a schism that might have driven him insane, once upon a time.
Had he died? Was that why he was lying in the sand, tons and tons of water pressing down on top of him, worming their way into his tattered lungs? He certainly remembered burning, forced to lie still despite the pain-
The pain.
In all aspects, it hadn't been that bad, truly. There had been terrible pain, blistering, popping, crippling pain for what had seemed like eternity, but then his nerves had been burnt beyond all recognition, and there was nothing.
Nothing.
It was dark, at the bottom of the lake- for he was relatively certain it was a lake, now- and the fish swarmed about him, gossiping as their little sharp mouths picked at his remaining skin.
Wrong, wrong, they tittered, disgusting. A stain to be cleaned.
Thoughtful, he raised his slightly less damaged left hand to cup them, and the fish took the pad of his thumb.
He felt a ghost of irritation, and thought, well, that just won't do, will it?
With a great heaving effort, the man at the bottom of the lake shifted, flakes of charred skin coming off of his bones in the process, leaving them pearly and shining in the dim light, filtered through forty feet of water. A ghost of a smile flitted across his ruined face, and the last air from his body escaped him in a flurry of bubbles.
No matter. There was air to be had, past the membrane of the water. There was a box, somewhere. Somewhere close, he could hear it calling in what was left of his brain. The box was his, he was her madman.
The Doctor, thinking and rotting, began to heave himself to the surface.
~end