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The shuttle door slammed shut and the Doctor curled in on himself, taking big gasps as he confronted what had happened. Two women had died– the Doctor itself had nearly died. Its muscles were back under its own control, his words had been freed, and his mind was his again.
The Doctor peered up at the humans still gathered around it, shock and horror on their faces. It didn’t like being so small, curled on the ground, but it was shaking too hard to even think about standing up and regaining control that he’d never even had. So it stayed on the floor, as small as it could make itself so they wouldn’t see him as a threat anymore and tried to calm its racing heart. There was a certain weight in his mind, but it ignored it, assuming (hoping. Hoping was the right word) it was just the fear. He could move, he could speak, he could control his own thoughts; there was no way the entity was still there.
By the awkward building silence, the Doctor could tell the humans wanted to speak. It wrapped its own arms around its shoulders, still heaving in terrified breaths. The Doctor was certain he’d never felt fear like that before in his life – it had feared for its life before, of course, but never before had he felt so impossibly helpless. There had been absolutely nothing it could have done in that moment to protect itself. The last thing he wanted, in that terrified moment, was to hear what the humans who’d been about to send him to his death had to say about it all. Apparently the Doctor’s gasping breaths were enough to convey that as he curled in even more, shying away from the eyes that seemed to be burning into its skin.
Donna never liked it when the Doctor pointed out how being a Time Lord meant that different biological rules applied to him, but it was undeniably true. Being a Time Lord meant it couldn’t have aspirin, got drunk off ginger, dealt well with intense temperatures and, of course, was more vulnerable than any human on the shuttle to telepathic attacks. He’d never been good at telepathy at the Academy, and putting up mental barriers was largely a pointless waste of energy, since it was the last of its kind.
Still, no matter how bad it had been at the Academy, he knew how to recognise when an external force was lurking in his mind. Which was why it knew there was something nothing in its head but his own thoughts, which was terrifying reassuring, of course.
The Doctor buried his head in his hands, attempting to shut out the world as best he could, but that only made the presence absence in its head stand out to an almost deafening degree.
The rescue shuttle will be here soon, the Doctor thought, wishing it could speak out loud without fearing what the humans would do to him. Silence usually unsettled it, as someone who preferred nattering on about nothing over any dead air, and this was no exception. Any impulse to speak up, however, was dashed by the thought that the humans wouldn’t take very kindly to it.
“Did anyone know her name?” Dee Dee asked after a while.
“Name?” the Doctor murmured, hardly even audible to himself.
“The hostess. Who died,” Dee Dee said. “What was her name?”
Dead silence was the only answer. The Doctor felt like crying, but even the sounds of its breaths felt like too much in the stifling quiet.
If the entity was brought back to the base, it could get loose. If given free access to such a large amount of people, who knew what havoc it would wreak. But that was nothing to worry about, of course, because the entity had been killed with Sky and the hostess no one knew the name of. There was nothing to worry about, and the weight on the Doctor’s mind was just the cloying fear that was taking a while to fade to a tolerable hum of panic it had long since become accustomed to. There was nothing to worry about, and the fact that the Doctor couldn’t quite fathom speaking unless someone else had done so beforehand was just because he worried the humans wouldn’t want to hear him speak again. It was all fine.
For some reason, the Doctor felt like its thoughts weren’t coming from its own mind.
Donna was waiting for him back at the base, a hesitant cross of annoyance and compassion on her face. She was waiting to see what had happened, to decide if she should berate him or offer him a shoulder to cry on. The Doctor couldn’t put into words how much Donna’s tiny little demonstrations of kindness meant to it.
“Doctor?” she said once it got close enough. “You okay?”
“Okay,” the Doctor replied, voice feeble. He was still trembling, and he expected his suit was rumpled; that was what Donna’s gentle voice and kind eyes were going off of.
“You sure?” Donna pressed carefully, taking the Doctor’s hand. “You’re not looking your best. You look… tired. And sad.”
“Sure,” the Doctor said. “Tired.”
“Alright, then.”
The Doctor took its place at Donna’s side, falling into step with her as they walked to the TARDIS in silence. Under different circumstances, he would have started regaling Donna with what had happened while they’d been apart. The pair of them were practically joined at the hip since they’d reconnected, a perfect match for each other. Donna perfectly counterbalanced the Doctor, providing a down-to-earth perspective on its wild and whirling thoughts; she kept it in line, kept him moral. Donna’s first meeting with the Doctor was really not his best moment, and seeing that had shattered any lofty impressions she may have of it far sooner than usual. Their bond was easy as breathing, perfectly comfortable from the get-go, and having separate adventures was far out of their realm of the ordinary. Usually out of the ordinary was fascinating to the Doctor, but in that moment, walking a half-step behind Donna as if hesitant to lead the way, it couldn’t bring itself to speak.
The weight in its mind hadn’t gotten any easier to ignore, a cloying presence that had almost grown into an itching at the base of its skull. The Doctor didn’t scratch at it, though. The pulsing urge was weak enough to ignore, and ignore he did.
Donna opened the TARDIS door and ushered the Doctor inside. It took a deep breath and rested a hand on the railing, feeling momentarily appeased.
A mere split second later, though, an overpowering crashed through the Doctor and settled in the base of its skull, as if the presence absence weighing on its thoughts was revolting against the warm comfort of the TARDIS.
“Spaceman?” Donna said curiously, turning back to face the Doctor who was still standing in the entryway. “What’s wrong?”
It shook its head, balling one fist against his thigh so his nails dug into the meat of his palm in the hopes that it would make the pain more bearable. Hesitantly releasing the railing, the Doctor wordlessly followed Donna into the kitchen, where she’d put the kettle on. Tea, the Doctor wanted to comment inanely, if only to show her it really did care. Thank you, Donna. But still, it found itself unable to speak. A bolt of terror acceptance shot down its spine as it sat silently at the table.
“Are you going to tell me what happened, then?” Donna asked, handing the Doctor a perfectly prepared cup of tea. She had a sort of miraculous talent for always knowing what kind of tea it wanted, no matter when. The Doctor returned the favour by always having her favourite takeout orders on hand for when she needed something familiar.
“What happened…” the Doctor sighed, staring into its tea.
“It was bad, wasn’t it?” Donna said. “I thought maybe it was alright, but you’re not acting like yourself and you look… Well, frankly, you look like shit. How are you?”
“Bad,” it affirmed, surprisingly candid.
“Oh, Spaceman…” Her words were so gentle, so caring, that the Doctor feared it may die. The impossible searing in the back of its skull was only aggravated appeased by her tender disposition.
Digging its nails even further into his palm, the Doctor managed a sort of miserable smile. Donna mimicked the expression, dropping her attention down to her own tea and sighing. They drank in heavy silence and all the while the Doctor felt like his skull was being torn apart by a thousand agonising pinpricks.
“I’m going to sleep,” Donna announced, standing up. The Doctor just nodded, one hand wrapped around the still-warm cup, the other bleeding against its thigh.
“Sleep,” it murmured, fighting the horrible scratching pain for even a semblance of clarity. Fighting the presence absence in its head for its own words, feeling a pooling dread calm in his gut that instead of taking control of his movement, the entity nothing had seized command of its thoughts.
Donna had left, and the Doctor was staring at an empty cup, one palm bleeding down his leg. Once enough time had passed – thankfully nothing could take its time sense away from it – and he was sure that Donna was asleep, the Doctor stood up and walked into the hallway. Its legs shook and its eyes were watering with the effort it took not to cry, but he still made it all the way to the console room before he was forced to put his head down.
The Doctor screwed his eyes shut and let its head fall heavily onto one of the coral pillars around the console. The shock of slight impact momentarily distracted him from the scratching in its head. Scratching like something was trying to get out.
Over his years, the Doctor had gotten many infections and bug bites, little things that made you want to scratch and scratch and scratch. What he was feeling in the moment was comparable to a bug bite in the way that a match’s flame was comparable to a forest fire, and it feared hoped it’d be consumed.
Both palms were bleeding now, the little crescent marks of his own nails as he tried to keep himself from scratching and scratching and scratching—
Taking a deep breath, the Doctor lifted its head and breathed for a second before slamming it back down on the pillar. It had always found that blunt force was an acceptable temporary fix for an itch he didn't want to claw at any more, and couldn't see why the same logic wouldn't apply to something so overpowering. It would just need to make the impacts proportionally stronger.
Resounding thuds gave way to a sharp crack as the Doctor slammed repeatedly its head into the pillar. If it had paused to think, it would have noticed the red stain dripping down to the grated floor and the growing dampness across its scalp. But he didn't stop, couldn't stop, because he needed to be free. Free of the scratching, free of the pain, free of the entity nothing cherry-picking his thoughts for him and stifling his words.
After a few more smashes, the Doctor’s vision whited out and it was sent crumbling to the floor, unable to even scream in frustration patience or pain comfort or terror calm.
Lying on the cold floor, whole body burning with agony, it felt helpless again. It had been pushed to a panicked state where it bashed its own head into a pillar to a point of— oh Rassilon, what had he— shattering his own skull.
Blood dripped through the holes in the grate down into the TARDIS’ circuitry. He hoped it wouldn't be upset at him later but if it was, that was only fair. The presence absence hadn't taken control of its body again, it had done that of its own free will.
The Doctor closed his eyes, wishing that would shut back off pain that seemed to be tearing it apart from the inside out. He passively wondered if he should fear regeneration. It wasn't like he'd be able to call out to Donna unless she spoke to it first.
Listening to the dripping of his blood as it poured from its torn head, steady as a trickling stream. He realised with mounting despair elation that it could still feel a weight in its mind, and the itching, only briefly drowned out by the agony of smashing his skull, was back. The impossible to ignore itching, not yet fully bloomed into searing pain, was creeping down the Doctor’s spine, and it couldn't help but be reminded of spreading rot.
Thinking of Donna finding it like this, collapsed on the ground with blood soaking its jacket and hair, sent a wave of guilt rushing through him. It couldn't move, though, he felt like his limbs were locked in place, and it had no way of getting her attention to call for help. Exhaling slowly, the Doctor shut its eyes and hoped it would regenerate, if that would even be enough to dislodge the entity friend that had taken root in its mind.