In the old society of Gallifrey, a forced regeneration was not illegal, but it was treated with utter distaste.
A regeneration, the life of a time lord, was the single most valuable thing in the known universe. To waste that, to throw it away, was, to some, the ultimate crime.
Too bad they were all dead now.
The Doctor closed his eyes and flicked the switch. Instantly, a thick, foggy gas permeated into the air of the control room. A maniacal smile etched across his face, he sank to the floor.
However, this peace was temporary. Just a few minutes later, the Doctor was jerked awake and barely had the time to get to his feet before his hands began to glow. As if a swarm of fireflies had flew into the room, it was lit with a hazy light. His head jerked back, and, suddenly, he was new.
Slowly, painstakingly, the Doctor pulled himself to his feet. "Old. I'm older now." That's the trouble of regeneration, he thought to himself. It's a bit of a gamble. He laughed dryly.
Now, where have we landed this time?
He pushed open the door just a crack, to a place he barely recognized.