Untitled Hallucination Sequence
He drifts along the street as if he's being carried by a cloud. Its darkness, the weight he feels rising in his core, indicate to the Doctor that it is not a fluffly, billowing cotton cloud that aids him in his travels, rather a dark and dingy one. Storms rumble and reverberate, churning in its endless and swirling grey depths. Nevertheless he feels weightless under his feet despite his led heart, and he is a bystander to his own actions as his feet carry him along.
He is tired…Not in the way that a human would need sleep to rejuvenate, no, much more complicated than that. He is weary, sick of his loss, of saving the world just so the following day can be ruined once more.
Clara has stopped chatting from her place next to him, and he is thankful that she seems to understand his need to be alone in thought. Instead, she grips his hand in comfort as she walks and he glides, keeping him rooted to the solid earth.
The world around him seems to have a strange, residual glow, as if it carries some godly, beautiful and golden radiation. He glances around in awe, as if everything is new and bright. Suddenly, Clara feels his hand push her own away, and a look between worried and purely delighted crosses the Doctor's features.
"What if she saw, if she thinks…" He whips around to face her and stares right in her eyes, making sure she'll understand what he's about to say. "You're my friend, just that, and if she asks you just say you're a companion. I don't want to ruin things again…"
She knows, but she cannot tell him that. He's wandered away, stopped at the window of a café; a run-down joint with a sign bright in its window on neon paper. Condemned. He's muttering under his breath. She sighs.
"Was this place…was it important to you?" He presses his hand against the dusty glass; his eyes wandering, searching.
Through the glow of his vision he's spotted the head of blonde hair, a woman sitting alone at a table and poking absentmindedly at a basket of chips. Her hazel eyes are wandering, as if she's waiting for someone. A rush of emotions crash into his gangly limbs; their favorite place, their same basket of chips…Rose Tyler is waiting for him just as he's been hopelessly waiting for her!
He runs to the door and begins to pry it open, gripping its handle with white knuckles. It's locked. He's tugging furiously, listening to the rhythmic BANG BANG BANG of resistance as the door refuses to budge. He hastens back to the glass, pounding on its grimy surface and shouting her name, eyes watery and voice pleading.
As Clara pulls him away from the building the world loses its gold haze, and he stumbles blindly back into reality with absolute refusal from his own mind. He cannot believe the dissipation of his world, the bright 'condemned' sign glaring down at him.
"There's nothing here," Clara coaxes, leading him to a bench so that he may sit and collect himself. "She's not here, she was never here. She's safe, you've told me she's safe!"
"You don't know her!" The Doctor glares up at her, eyes as golden as the haze they'd rimmed his world with, ablaze with fresh accusation. "You never knew her, never got to be with her the way that I did." His voice cracks and he quiets, stunned by the noise and the violence his voice had taken. He'd been using words as weapons, shooting them at this doe-eyed girl merely because she hadn't seen what he had; and what had he seen, really, but a hallucination of what once was, what should be.
"I loved her once," He chokes, and it's not until the soft and feeble words hit the stale Earth air that he realizes what he's said.
"Once?" Clara asks, sitting next to him with the same concerned expression his Rose would have. He shuts his eyes before her, unwilling to face the wide eyes so much like the ones he's missing.
"A long time ago." He casts his head down, moving to fix his bowtie before fiddling with his hands in his lap. "I suppose I still do."
"And what happened?"
"She's gone. She's happy." As Clara talks, her voice attempting to soothe and console, he shuts his eyes tight, blinking furiously, but the gold-rimming will not come back into his world. A hallucination where he can see his Rose, although he cares for Clara dearly, is where he needs to be.
The gold-rimming does not return, and it is only an hour later that Clara is able to drag him from the bench and back to the TARDIS. He flips the switches half-heartedly, bringing them to yet another adventure. His companion cannot help but notice, however, the increasing sorrow in his eyes. The gold is gone. He is alone with his company, the way fate dictated for him, in time he could not change.