Immediately after his box had picked him up, he doused himself in blood and demanded, pleaded, insisted, that she take him to exactly the same place and time so he could finish the illusion, seamlessly and effortlessly. She, miraculously, complied. He hit the pavement, winded, and shut down his respiratory system, the bypass kicking in.
Breathing, breathing is boring.
He had been so out of it, after that. They had buried him. Thank the stars for that. The second the box was in the ground he fumbled with his transporter, an earlier model of Jack's that he had...acquired some time ago. One turn left, one turn right, click.
Back in his box, he was laying on his back, staring at the high ceiling that loomed high above his head; glowing with some strange illumination. It had changed since he had regenerated last and it was unfamiliar to him, as perfect and homey as it still was. It was more of a warm fireplace glow and the struts were swirled metal, wood, and coral; they rose up like wrought iron spires into the gloom.
Standing slowly, he made sure everything was still in the same place and worked the same way; his eyes still blinked, his mouth still made the usual shapes required for speech, his legs had let him stand, his arms still swung at the shoulder, his hands still clenched. He wiped the blood off his head, running one of his delightfully long-fingered hands through dark curls to keep them from matting together. His hand came away sticky and red; the Doctor wrinkled his nose.
"Thanks, old girl. Do you think you could-" the box gave a shudder, and made the familiar noises of an engine starting to life.
His beautiful blue box had brought him back to the streets of London, some back alley where no one but cats could find him, and he had knicked a paper from some store. Twenty-thirteen. He had been gone for...maybe a year at the most, give or take a few months. It would not be enough.
He had had to learn about emotions from his human companions and it that not been easy; there were so many little nuances, little ticks in the human psyche that, at first, he found it impossible to distinguish between emotions. Of course, he had his own reactions to things that were unusual, but equally appropriate in numerous situation. This divergent thinking had gotten him into trouble before: there were different kinds of smiles, different kinds of tears, different kinds of sighs.
Eventually, after eons, ages, millennia, he could read humans like most of them read books (he says most because there are those awful television shows, the literacy of the cast members dubious even to his keen mind and sharp ear). Now he knows the difference between shoulders slumped in exhaustion and shoulders slumped in defeat, in grief, in sadness. Now he knows the difference between stares of thought and stares of sad memories.
Now he knows that John is not ready for him to be back, not yet.
He noticed, as he followed him, that the man was haggard, tired, the black smudges under his eyes indicated a severe lack of sleep, the resurgence of nightmares. It took a moment to remind himself of why and he only remembered because of what he was looking at.
John, shoulders rolled forward against grief and memory, stood above a sleek granite headstone that rested at the head of a grave. An empty grave, but he did not know that, he thought it held the body of his first friend, best, closest, only friend in London. In that grave, so John thought, was the still body that had once run across the city at such a breathtaking pace, had thrilled with an abundance of life, had frustrated him to the core and made him want to punch the dark-haired man's teeth in. The doctor was speaking softly, but he heard his name uttered in sadness and frustration. "One more miracle, just for me."
From where he stood, he could see John huddle in on himself more, running his hand over the smooth surface of the stone. "Anything John, name it."
"Don't be..." he choked, and he could hear the swallowing of tears. "Dead."
He pursed his lips, turning away to give John a moment of privacy before striding away.
He would come back, when John was ready.