Chapter 3

The Doctor woke up at some point in the night. He felt so heavy, like pure dead weight. His mind was hazy and he couldn't think straight. All he could think of were meaningless strands of obviously larger sentences—happening to me? Where am. . . I get here? In my mouth?

None of it made sense to him, but neither did the reason he was thinking these things. He didn't understand how these thoughts were happening in his subconscious.

His eyelids felt so heavy. He couldn't move a single muscle in his body. He tried so hard, but every effort he made to move even his thumb was in vain. All he wanted was to be able to move. He just couldn't stand it, he couldn't stand feeling so. . . So trapped. He'd give anything to be able to move again. His thoughts swirled as he tried harder. He'd been trapped more than a dozen times in his long life, and it was the most panic-inducing experience.

He had no other explanation for it, though. He must have been trapped. But if he was trapped. . . Where was Clara?

The second time the Doctor woke up, he was able to open his eyes. They flickered, just once, twice, all of their own accord, before they shut again. He wasn't able to get anything useful out of those couple of glimpses, only whiteness. Maybe he had been imagining it.

Then again, the last planet he had been to was exclusively white. Maybe he was still there? But why wasn't Clara with him? Oh, god no.

Everything came back to him, and he was once again filled with self-loathing and -hatred. Why was he still alive? He should have been dead, now. He should have been gone from this world by now, so as not to bother it with his existence. He should have been dead, with Clara, his last love.

He was a burden to everything—why on earth was he still alive? He was as good as dead when he was last conscious. That meant that someone must have saved him. But why would they? He wasn't worth saving. There were so many more people who needed assistance more than he did. That was the human race—such a silly, irrational race; always needing to help anyone and everyone for the sake of self-assurance. Everyone wanted to be the better person.

Humans were such a stupid race. Why did they always have to save everything they could? Obviously he had wanted to die, so they should have just let. Who even was the person who had saved him? The fact that he couldn't even move aside, he wanted to meet this person and give them a piece of his mind. Then, maybe go someplace where he'd be able to die and actually stay dead. So essentially, far away from that bloody TARDIS.

He'd been so busy growing angry at the person who had saved him that he hadn't been bothered listening to what was actually happening. Wherever he was, someone else was in his room. He heard solid footsteps, growing closer and closer. It was so near—probably right next to him now. He wanted to get as far away from the person—or creature, at least—as possible.

No matter how much he struggled, he still couldn't get any further than a miniscule amount of thrashing that probably looked quite hilarious, had he been in a better mood and actually able to open his eyes.

He heard breathing. It was clear, consistent, and so obviously human. Of course, he must have been in a hospital on Earth. It had been so stupid of him to doubt where the TARDIS had dumped him. The person cleared their throat, undoubtedly about to speak.

"Why?"

Hope you enjoyed that one! Tell me, what do you think should happen next? What should Martha say to the Doctor?

Please review! I'm literally writing this update right now purely due to a few specific review s asking for more :)))) Reviews really do make me update quicker!

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