Chapter Eleven: Meltdown

The Doctor's chest burned as he silently sobbed; he didn't make a sound but was unable to stop his body contorting painfully with every breath. The tears gave very little relief—it felt like his emotions had bottlenecked, with everything trying to come out at once.

There was so much, he wasn't even certain what he was crying for. The loss of his mother, long ago but now acutely fresh. The loss of his family, home and people—ditto. The loss of Jenny—his daughter, so young, with so much potential, who had left yet another aching hole in his hearts. The loss of Rose—the love of his life, happy in an arrangement where everyone won but him. The loss of Donna—the woman who'd helped him so much, his best friend, the sister he never had, and now could never see again. The overwhelming guilt over all of them.

Then there was Wilfred, his father—the kind of father he'd always longed for, and yet couldn't have. The one who, sooner or later, was going to leave the Doctor, alone all over again.

The Doctor knew he needed company. He'd learned that lesson the hard way, recently. If he was messing up that badly before all this, he knew that once Wilf walked out of those doors, it was over. He didn't know if he would lose his head and go back to the Time Lord Victorious, or whether he would just lose all ability to function completely. Either way sounded plausible. And both scenarios terrified him.

"No," he whispered to empty air. "No, Dad. Don't leave me."

Maybe it was the fact that he realised he'd slipped up—he'd said 'Dad' instead of 'Wilf'. Not to his face, but still, the Doctor snapped. The rational voice in his brain that had been saying over and over, 'Make him go, you know it can't work, make him go before it's too late,' seemed to have disappeared. Now he was left with an overwhelming desire to find a way, any way, to keep his father in his life.

If his conscience protested, it was drowned out. The idea had been planted, and the Doctor lay on the medbay floor, staring at the ceiling as his breaths calmed and his mind worked through the problem.

'You can't.' The rational voice was back.

I will, the Doctor thought.

'There is no way. You're a Time Lord. Accept it and move on, like you always do.'

I can't. Not anymore. I can't take another goodbye.

The voice continued to argue, but there more it did so, the more determined the Doctor became.

'You'll get over it.'

My own father? No I won't.

'He'll die anyway.'

Not yet, though.

'If you want to keep him, you'd be making him choose between you and the rest of his family.'

What? No! I'd rather die.

The Doctor froze. His last three words echoed in his head.

'You can't be serious.'

"I'd rather die," the Doctor whispered slowly.

'There's always something worth living for, Doctor. Your own words.'

He knew his conscience was right. But the idea had stuck. As much as he tried to fight it, a downward spiral had begun. The Doctor tried to pull himself out, but the more he struggled, the blacker his thoughts became, until finally his conscience faded out. He was left alone, shaken, and with a plan.

Wilf was falling asleep at the table, his half-drunk tea pushed to one side. He had no idea how long to give the Doctor to himself—it was clear he needed some alone time, and Wilf didn't like to interrupt to see how he was getting on. He would just have to wait till the Doctor came to him.

He wasn't sure why he felt so nervous. It wasn't as if the Doctor wasn't capable of being alone in another room. But he had seemed pretty upset … Wilf bit his lip. Should he go and see if he was all right? Or would the Doctor not appreciate being interrupted?

The circular argument continued until all the lights in the kitchen started flashing. Wilf jumped a mile, splashing cold tea all over the table-top. "Eh? What's going on? Doctor, that you?"

He looked around wildly. There was no sign of the Doctor. All the lights—all of them, including the one in the microwave and the ones on the radio—were going berserk. For a moment Wilf was nonplussed, but then he heard something—a voice in his head, gone as quickly as it had come.

Stop him!

Without a second thought, Wilf jumped to his feet and ran from the room. He had no idea where he was going; he just went left, right, right, middle, as his brain guided him. Or something that was in his head. After a few minutes he skidded to a halt in the door of the console room.

Something was wrong. Wilf could almost smell it. The Doctor was wiring up some kind of headset that dangled from the ceiling. He was working quickly, his hands shaking, a look in his eyes that scared Wilf to the bone. He hadn't noticed he had an audience yet. Before Wilf could call to him, the Doctor withdrew a watch from his pocket.

Wilf forgot to breathe as it clicked. His eyes flickered from the watch, to the piece of paper stuck to the console addressed to 'Dad', and then back to the Doctor's face.

"Stop!"

The Doctor started, dropping the watch. Wilf raced over and made a grab for it, but the Doctor got there first.

"No!—Dad—It's okay, I know what I'm—"

"Are you mad?" Wilf spluttered. "Give me that watch!"

"NO! Dad, it's okay, I worked it out; we can be a family, you and me and Donna and Sylvia, and no-one has to say goodbye," the Doctor babbled, clutching the watch to his chest.

"What—what are you talking about?"

"It's simple, I just have to regenerate, and then—"

"What?"

"—and then turn human!" the Doctor finished triumphantly. "And then it'll be all right 'cause—"

"D-Doctor, stop!" Wilf begged. The Doctor fell silent, looking worried. "Y-you can't. That's—that's—you just can't!"

"But I can! If I don't look like this then Donna can see me again; and if I'm human then—"

"You wouldn't be you," Wilf said, struggling to talk through a lump in his throat. "Come on, Doctor, give me the watch. Please. Don't do this. I know you; I know this isn't what you really want."

The Doctor's face crumpled. "No," he whispered. "But what I want isn't possible, so what's left?"

"You told me," Wilfred said quietly, "that regenerating felt like dying."

"I know. But it would be over quick. I programmed it to happen right before the chameleon arch kicks in."

Wilf held out a hand. "Doctor," he said simply. "Hand it over. Please."

The Doctor's eyes flickered to Wilf's open palm. He trembled. Wilf could see the conflict in his eyes, now shining with unshed tears.

"Dad," he whispered.

It wasn't until then, Wilf realised he'd been calling him that through the whole conversation.

"Yes. It's me, Dad; and everything's going to be okay, my boy," he said in as soothing a voice he could. "Just give me the watch, son."

The Doctor didn't let go of the watch, but his grip slacked, and Wilf gently prised it from his fingers. The Doctor curled up against the wall, tears now running freely down his face, and Wilf—after safely pocketing the watch—wrapped his arms firmly around him.

The Doctor clung on as if Wilf were a lifesaving device, and cried silently into his shoulder. Wilf rocked him gently.

"Sshhush, my boy. It's okay. Everything's going to be okay."

"Dad," a muffed voice said into Wilf's shoulder.

"Yes?"

"Don't—don't leave me." The Doctor shook more, and Wilf clutched him tighter. "P-please don't leave me, D-Dad, I—I can't do it again, I can't l-lose y-you too."

Wilf kissed the top of the untidy brown mop. "I'm not going anywhere, my boy."

TBC …