Fic: Fractured Reality 7/?
His hearts were thundering; correction one of his hearts was thundering. The other one was strangely silent in his chest. He was breathing was erratic and he struggled to get it under control. His head was pounding; it felt as though it was stuffed full of cotton wool and it took him a few moments to realise that it was all just a dream. It had all seemed so realistic; the picnic with Rose; he could still feel the emotions he had felt just by being with her; the relief, the overwhelming love for her, and the absolute desperation of watching her vaporise before his very eyes as he watched on helpless. He felt a wave of nausea engulf him and he was unable to do anything other than dry retch; doubled over with spasms of pain in his gut.
When he regained composure he looked around, trying to focus his eyes; he was in a small room. The floor was soft; padded like the walls. Stained with splatters of dried blood possibly, and several more bodily excretions that the Doctor didn’t even want to try to name. On the ceiling was a single bare light bulb, the glare emitting from it was painful to his eyes. There was a single line of spider silk trailing from the ceiling to the bulb, dust had gathered on the entire length. The only exit from the room was a door opposite him, with a wired glass window and a slightly smaller letter box type opening. There was a tray over in one corner with an empty cup and a dish with the remains of what looked like mashed swede. A white plastic spoon was the only thing that could have even resembled anything looking like a tool or a weapon to aide his escape from the cell.
It was a cell; no doubt about it. The Doctor struggled to sit up from his foetal position in the corner. He was shaking and felt as weak as a newborn kitten; probably the result of whatever was causing his right heart to fail. His left heart was thundering at what seemed like a thousand beats a minute in an effort to compensate and he could feel his pulse thundering in his temple. He rubbed his face and then ran his fingers through his hair; he badly needed a shave and had what must have been at least a weeks worth of growth on his chin, his hair felt greasy and itchy and he realised that he stank. He was dressed in nothing other than a white hospital gown; the flattering type that left a persons arse hanging out. It was badly soiled with droplets of what looked like blood, vomit and something yellow that could only be urine.
The Doctor tried to stand up, a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him and he leaned heavily, panting against the wall until his head cleared. He was having great difficulty coordinating his movements and thoughts; it felt like he had been drugged. He pulled up the sleeves and inspected his arms. Sure enough there were the tell tale signs of needle pricks. The Doctor tried to focus his mind to remember what had happened. He remembered picking Martha up; he hadn’t seen her for months. Donna was visiting her family so he thought he’d catch up with Jack in Cardiff. He took the TARDIS to the rift and parked it up, then going to the hub. Jack wasn’t around but Martha had been, she’d taken him up on his offer of keeping him company and off they’d gone; once more into the fray.
To 4007, or so he had thought, but what had happened next? He wracked his brain to try and remember, but couldn’t. It was as though the memories of what had happened next, how he had come to be in this particular predicament were locked away, inaccessible. For the first time in his life he felt unable to judge the amount of time which had past; when he took a rare nap, or as he had on occasion been rendered unconscious, he was always able to judge how long he had been out of the loop. Not this time; he felt bewildered, confused, unable to organise his thoughts; which for a mind such as his was a very big deal, images from his nightmares were still at the very front of his mind and he was finding it very hard to suppress them. They were leaving him on edge and hyper alert to the extent that his attention, struggling as it was, was unable to differentiate between something that was essential to resolving the current crisis and something that was just entertaining to the average time lord brain.
The Doctor mentally forced himself to put the pieces together. Cardiff; catching up with Jack at Torchwood, meeting his team. Toshiko; that was her name, somehow she seemed so familiar to him; as though he knew her from somewhere. Owen Harper; now there was a psychiatrists dream if there ever was one, and Ianto; someone who tried to hide his feelings for Jack but failed miserably; they were written all over his face. The Doctor mused on this for a moment or two; it wasn’t like Jack to pass up on an opportunity like that. Perhaps he had grown up a little after all. One hundred and fifty years and immortality do tend to change a man.
Martha!
Where was she? He had been with her; he could remember that much. The Doctor shook his head to try and clear it and concentrate his thoughts. Martha at Torchwood; things were quiet, Jack had okayed her going off in the TARDIS. They’d all had dinner at that little restaurant on the quay and then Jack had waved them off. Martha had taken her things to her old room on the TARDIS and then taken to sprawling out in the library reading until the Doctor had finished repairs. He could remember finding her laid out on one of the sofa’s reading Gallifreyan Anatomy of all things and had dragged her off to the control room after announcing repairs were finished while grinning with delight like a schoolboy. He’d asked her where she had fancied going, and she said something about going to the future but everything after that was fuzzy. He had odd images of walking out of the TARDIS, mixed in with images of Rose, Gallifrey and the Time War. He couldn’t work out what was a real memory and what was part of his nightmares.
Panic threatened to overwhelm him. He wasn’t the type of man to panic under normal circumstances; but with only half his cardio-vascular system working, his brain fuddled and his motor skills leaning towards drug induced Dyspraxia, he was having a hard time forcing himself to remain under control. His fight or flight responses were hyper alert; he had a suspicion that his brain chemistry had been messed around with; his catecholamine levels were highly elevated, he was shaking, sweating, had cramps, similar to the symptoms of a drug addict going through withdrawal. The Doctor closed his eyes and tried to will his body to calm down. He was actually succeeding until the locks on the cell door were drawn back and several men entered.
When he regained composure he looked around, trying to focus his eyes; he was in a small room. The floor was soft; padded like the walls. Stained with splatters of dried blood possibly, and several more bodily excretions that the Doctor didn’t even want to try to name. On the ceiling was a single bare light bulb, the glare emitting from it was painful to his eyes. There was a single line of spider silk trailing from the ceiling to the bulb, dust had gathered on the entire length. The only exit from the room was a door opposite him, with a wired glass window and a slightly smaller letter box type opening. There was a tray over in one corner with an empty cup and a dish with the remains of what looked like mashed swede. A white plastic spoon was the only thing that could have even resembled anything looking like a tool or a weapon to aide his escape from the cell.
It was a cell; no doubt about it. The Doctor struggled to sit up from his foetal position in the corner. He was shaking and felt as weak as a newborn kitten; probably the result of whatever was causing his right heart to fail. His left heart was thundering at what seemed like a thousand beats a minute in an effort to compensate and he could feel his pulse thundering in his temple. He rubbed his face and then ran his fingers through his hair; he badly needed a shave and had what must have been at least a weeks worth of growth on his chin, his hair felt greasy and itchy and he realised that he stank. He was dressed in nothing other than a white hospital gown; the flattering type that left a persons arse hanging out. It was badly soiled with droplets of what looked like blood, vomit and something yellow that could only be urine.
The Doctor tried to stand up, a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him and he leaned heavily, panting against the wall until his head cleared. He was having great difficulty coordinating his movements and thoughts; it felt like he had been drugged. He pulled up the sleeves and inspected his arms. Sure enough there were the tell tale signs of needle pricks. The Doctor tried to focus his mind to remember what had happened. He remembered picking Martha up; he hadn’t seen her for months. Donna was visiting her family so he thought he’d catch up with Jack in Cardiff. He took the TARDIS to the rift and parked it up, then going to the hub. Jack wasn’t around but Martha had been, she’d taken him up on his offer of keeping him company and off they’d gone; once more into the fray.
To 4007, or so he had thought, but what had happened next? He wracked his brain to try and remember, but couldn’t. It was as though the memories of what had happened next, how he had come to be in this particular predicament were locked away, inaccessible. For the first time in his life he felt unable to judge the amount of time which had past; when he took a rare nap, or as he had on occasion been rendered unconscious, he was always able to judge how long he had been out of the loop. Not this time; he felt bewildered, confused, unable to organise his thoughts; which for a mind such as his was a very big deal, images from his nightmares were still at the very front of his mind and he was finding it very hard to suppress them. They were leaving him on edge and hyper alert to the extent that his attention, struggling as it was, was unable to differentiate between something that was essential to resolving the current crisis and something that was just entertaining to the average time lord brain.
The Doctor mentally forced himself to put the pieces together. Cardiff; catching up with Jack at Torchwood, meeting his team. Toshiko; that was her name, somehow she seemed so familiar to him; as though he knew her from somewhere. Owen Harper; now there was a psychiatrists dream if there ever was one, and Ianto; someone who tried to hide his feelings for Jack but failed miserably; they were written all over his face. The Doctor mused on this for a moment or two; it wasn’t like Jack to pass up on an opportunity like that. Perhaps he had grown up a little after all. One hundred and fifty years and immortality do tend to change a man.
Martha!
Where was she? He had been with her; he could remember that much. The Doctor shook his head to try and clear it and concentrate his thoughts. Martha at Torchwood; things were quiet, Jack had okayed her going off in the TARDIS. They’d all had dinner at that little restaurant on the quay and then Jack had waved them off. Martha had taken her things to her old room on the TARDIS and then taken to sprawling out in the library reading until the Doctor had finished repairs. He could remember finding her laid out on one of the sofa’s reading Gallifreyan Anatomy of all things and had dragged her off to the control room after announcing repairs were finished while grinning with delight like a schoolboy. He’d asked her where she had fancied going, and she said something about going to the future but everything after that was fuzzy. He had odd images of walking out of the TARDIS, mixed in with images of Rose, Gallifrey and the Time War. He couldn’t work out what was a real memory and what was part of his nightmares.
Panic threatened to overwhelm him. He wasn’t the type of man to panic under normal circumstances; but with only half his cardio-vascular system working, his brain fuddled and his motor skills leaning towards drug induced Dyspraxia, he was having a hard time forcing himself to remain under control. His fight or flight responses were hyper alert; he had a suspicion that his brain chemistry had been messed around with; his catecholamine levels were highly elevated, he was shaking, sweating, had cramps, similar to the symptoms of a drug addict going through withdrawal. The Doctor closed his eyes and tried to will his body to calm down. He was actually succeeding until the locks on the cell door were drawn back and several men entered.