Chapter 9: Going Mad


Afterwards, the Eighth Doctor would barely remember the walk back to his console room, humming to himself to keep away the cold that seemed to radiate from the inside out. Something in him felt broken, and he couldn't figure out what it was. He'd given a part of himself away, again, and in its place was knowledge, and ice, and nothing else, as though he'd never feel anything again.

He checked the console, verified the readings he knew he would find, convinced himself once again. Then he stepped through the outer doors and into a console room that seemed the opposite of his. Probably on purpose, he mused. Both were large, expansive, in comparison to some of the other console layouts, but while his was dark, a gothic romance of wood and stone and candles, this was bright and gleaming, brass and glass and clean, sensual curves. He was at the top of a landing, looking down on his future, on the person he cared about most, and the ones he would care about tomorrow. Could he sacrifice all of them? Kill them all? Was that why they would all be so ashamed of him one day, because this was the sort of thing he was capable of?

"Doctor!" Fitz said, waving at him excitedly. "I was wondering where you'd wandered off to."

Fitz kept his tone casual, but the relief in his expression was obvious. He always worried about him so.

"Hello, Fitz," the Eighth Doctor said with a small smile as he walked down the stairs.

He could tell Fitz wanted to approach him, wanted to hug him, touch him, reassure himself that his Doctor was really safe. But Fitz knew his moods too well, knew him too well, and so he kept his distance.

Another thing to apologize for later. Except there wouldn't be a later, and right now he was too numb to care, trapped in the sort of frightening coldness that overtook him whenever he needed to do terrible things. At the moment, the only thing that mattered to him was ending this disaster. If he died, if they all died, then so be it. Maybe it would be for the best. Maybe if he died now, then all the nightmares to come could be prevented. Either way, he had nothing left to lose.

"We can't pull the TARDISes apart," he announced as he approached the console, hands clenched tightly in his pockets.

Nine immediately approached him, with an expression of absolute loathing. "What have you done?" he spat.

"I know who's trapped in here with us," Eight went on, ignoring him, refusing to meet Nine's glare.

"It's your fault, isn't it?" Nine shouted.

"The Faction has trapped the White Guardian inside a space time causality loop, spread across our four TARDISes," Eight replied softly. "Unless we all merge into one, she'll never be able to escape."

"That would kill all of us," River argued. "And destroy three populated star systems!"

"And if we try to separate, with the power of the White Guardian holding us together, we'll tear the vortex itself apart, shattering the entire Web of Time," Eight replied.

"They told you that?" Nine growled, stepping even closer. "What sort of bargain did you make?"

Eight met his stare. "I did what I had to do."

Nine punched him in the face. Kept punching him, as the Eighth Doctor tumbled backwards to the floor, unresisting. Letting it happen. Almost welcoming it, because at least pain was a sensation he could understand. Jack and the other Doctors were on Nine in a second, struggling to pull him back as he kept attacking. Fitz was at his side, protecting him, trying to get between them, then cradling him in his arms with such tenderness as Eleven pushed Nine back and shouted at him.

The Eighth Doctor didn't bother to listen, because suddenly, in Fitz's arms, all the coldness frozen inside of him seemed to melt away. Fitz smelled of cigarettes, and Old Spice, and he felt like home.

"You're all right," Fitz said in a shaky voice, pulling the Eighth Doctor's own handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket to wipe the blood from his face. "You're gonna be all right."

He clutched Fitz, wracked with dry sobs for a moment. It felt as though a spell had been lifted, and he was finally warm again.


Fitz and the Eighth Doctor sat together on the swing under the glass floor. Fitz idly wished the girls were wearing skirts. Overhead, they all argued about stuff Fitz could never hope to understand. He simply held his Doctor's blood-spattered left hand in his lap, rocking in the swing slowly back and forth. Fitz kept biting his lip, unsure what to say.

"I'm sorry, Fitz," the Eighth Doctor said very quietly.

"Don't be," Fitz said.

Fitz simply hugged him. He was never any great at words, never great at anything, really, except maybe playing guitar. And this. Making people feel better. He was good at that, he knew it. Learned it from his mum, then perfected it after his father died, taking care of her as the madness took hold and twisted her into something ugly and unrecognizable. When she was strapped down and raving in the hospital, only he could calm her down.

The Eight Doctor sighed and leaned closer into his touch.

"I think you scared the shit out of them," Fitz said.

"I scare myself sometimes," the Eighth Doctor whispered, nuzzling against him. "More so, lately. I just... I feel like I'm becoming someone else, being dragged far away from the person I was so determined to be in this lifetime."

"Happens to all of us," Fitz replied.

"We can't! How can you even consider trusting him?" Nine shouted from above, and Fitz looked up and glared.

"Fucking nutter," Fitz muttered.

The Eighth Doctor pulled away, and looked into his eyes. "I think he has every reason to hate me, Fitz. They all do."

"But he's right," Eleven argued. "We have to bring the TARDISes together, even for just a single moment. We can't wait about here, the TARDISes are already rapidly fusing together into a big gooey mess and destabilizing this entire section of the vortex. If we can come together once, perfectly in sync, just long enough to set the White Guardian free—"

"How?" Ten asked, then shouted wordlessly in frustration. "It'll drive her mad to be in the same place at four different points in her timestream. It's driving her mad now!"

Fitz half-listened and rubbed his Doctor's back soothingly.

"They say I killed the Time Lords, Fitz," the Eighth Doctor said softly. "Every single one of them."

Fitz froze, too shocked to even breathe.

"And now I fear I'm going mad," he whimpered.

"What if one of us connects with the TARDIS, guides her through it?" River asked. "I could do it, I've flown her plenty of times."

"It has to be more than that, a much stronger connection. I think only one of us could do it," Eleven said.

Fitz looked up and saw the Doctors pacing above, like cats trapped in a cage.

"But we can't," Nine argued. "We'd all need to be piloting the TARDIS at the same time."

"I can pilot her," River offered.

"No, I'm sorry, River," Eleven said, and Fitz saw him take her hand in both of his. "All four of us need to be connected to our own TARDISes on a psychic level."

"I could do it," Fitz said suddenly, louder than he expected, and the Eighth Doctor pulled away to stare into his eyes.

Above, the conversation went deadly silent.

Fitz took a deep breath, kissed his Doctor on the temple, then left the swing to meet the rest of them upstairs. The Eighth Doctor trailed behind him, looking lost.

"I can do it," Fitz said, trying to sound brave. "You know I can. She put me back together, remade me from her memories. She knows me better than anyone else here. And she listens to me."

He tapped the side of his head. "I can hear her sometimes. We talk to each other. If anyone can guide all four of her through this, keep her calm, keep her from falling apart, it's me. And you know it."

The Eighth Doctor took his hand, but said nothing. So Fitz knew that he was right.

"It'll be dangerous, Fitz," Eleven finally said. "Even if you survive, you could burn your mind out completely. There's no guarantees."

"Naw, I'll be fine," Fiz said defiantly. "Still got all those times ahead, right, Doctors?"

"The future doesn't work like that, Fitz," Ten said sadly.

"I know," Fitz said, trying to keep from panicking and running away and hiding in the butterfly room for the rest of his life. However short that life might be.