"No."

A tiny plea.

"Not again. Not ever again."

Anger dyes his words now. The Master would laugh if he had have had more strength. As it is, he meets the Doctor's eyes with a smile.

A twisted, cynical, tight-in-the-teeth smile.

"I-" He begins, but his skeleton flashes through his flesh with a vengeance, and it takes a few seconds so that he can breathe properly. His respiratory bypass has shut down already, and he is left to the irregular flutter of one heart. "I'm dying," He says, incredulously.

There are no Timelords to resurrect him. Gallifrey is gone. His head is silent; a yawing silence has replaced the drums.

One-two-three-four.

The Doctor's eyes turn agonizingly cold at the sound. The Master inhales deeply, and feels emotion lap at his chest. Icy fear.

"Doctor?"

The Master relaxes immediately at the human's voice, but the Doctor tenses, staring him in the eye with an expression filled with agony. He will knock four times. This time, the Master manages a small burst of laughter, weaker, because it doesn't have the support it used to.

Agonizing silence.

"Doctor, can you get me out of here?"

Wilfred's voice is pleasant; he has no idea. The Master smiles, because the Doctor knows. It haunts his face, and he knows. The noble fool. The Master sees him counting the years in his head, coming to the logical conclusion, and then rejecting it with horror, even as he clung to it tightly. The rage begins to seep into his agony.

"It's only a body." He whispers, and the Doctor's mourning spirit flickers back into his empty eyes. He swallows.

"I don't want to die." The Doctor says in a broken voice. The Master smiles tiredly, and closes his eyes from the effort. He can't repress the shudder; he understands.

"The Dark." The Master murmurs, and all of a sudden he's eight years old again and seeing what the drums bring. His physical body is becoming a tangle of unresponsive synapses, but somehow, the distant pressure of the Doctor's hand in his sinks in. He smiles again, falsely, so bright it hurts. "I'm starving." The Master announces, realizing suddenly that he's empty and light and-

And it hurts.

"Doctor?" Wilfred presses, and it seems to have finally sunk in his brain that something is wrong, because terror has crept into his tone. "What's wrong?" The Master gains the sudden strength for another exhausted laugh. The Doctor's teeth clench together and he sucks in a harsh breath.

"You're going to die too." The Master tells Wilfred. There's a shocked silence in response, except for the Doctor's ragged breathing. The Timelord is shaking with rage at the universe, and perversely, deep in his dimming soul, the Master forgives him.

"What?" Wilfred asks first, lost. "What's he saying?" He demands, accusingly staring at the Master.

"The nuclear warhead." The Doctor explains, voice solid, even though the terror rolling off of him is so thick that the Master can smell it. "It-" His resolution wears off, and his voice begins to shake. "It's going to flood that chamber with radiation to keep it from harming anything." He stops, but the Master squeezes his hand back suddenly.

"What does that mean?" Wilfred says, not sure if he should be alarmed. The Master swallows before speaking.

"Doctor I'm starving." He says, brightly. The Doctor looks at him sadly.

"I'm sorry, I can't-" He breaks off, and they share a smile. A smile born of everything that used to be. Perfect understanding. "Oh, yes," The Doctor says, even as the Master feels his eyesight blur.

"Quickly, quickly." He urges, and loses his sense of balance as the Doctor half-drags him to the chamber. They pause as the Doctor fumbles for his screwdriver and the Master reels backwards almost drunkenly.

"Wilf, when I open this door," The Doctor begins, and the Master tries to steady himself unsuccessfully by clutching to the Doctor's shoulder, "get out, quickly."

"But, what are you-"

"Quickly!"

At this point the Master cannot see, but he can sense that they've entered a smaller space. The glass is warm against his back, and the Doctor's breathing quick in his failing hearing. It galls him that they so close together he can smell everything.

The fear, the tears, the sweat, the smell of the Doctor's blood, and the stench of his own skin, everything he's consumed for this dying body, until it is too much, much too much.

The Master screams and writhes, but the Doctor holds him tightly and presses the large red button.

0o0o0o

Oh yes. It had to be done.