The hotel continued to mock him, the bland melody that played over the speakers did little to sooth his annoyance. If he didn't find this monster, and stop it, they would all die. What was worse is that they all would eventually stop running, all of them. It was just a matter of time. Once they found their room, it was as if a ticking clock was set in their mind. There was no way to stop it, no way to change what happened. Their time would come, and then they would die. And he had the sneaking suspicion that Amy had already found hers.

He kept chasing the echoes of the monster down the hallway. He just had to find it, he must. The halls stretched and contorted, almost as if they were endless. But he knew they did, the hotel twisted itself around him to confuse his sense of direction, but he was no common prisoner. He was the Doctor. Try as it might, the smoke and mirrors did nothing to his inner compass. And yet he couldn't force himself through the trickery to reach the halls he really needed. Never lost, but never where he needed to be.

Every hair on his body stood up as he slowed his jog, and he knew he had found it. Not the monster, but his room. He turned slowly in place, and then there it was, waiting for him at the end of the hall. His room of bad dreams, room eleven. How perfectly fitting. It looked just like all of the other rooms, the same yellow door, the same brown plaque. But he knew it was his room just as surely as he knew he shouldn't open it. Shouldn't even look at it. But then, where was the fun to be had in that?

His hand pressed against the flimsy metal knob, that voice at the back of his mind screaming at him, shouting for him to listen. Just listen! It had never worked on anyone else; he didn't know why he had hoped it would work on himself. He pushed the door open with a surprising lack of resistance. The air wasn't stale like the dusty carpet within the hallways. It was fresh, and it was cold.

He saw himself, sitting alone in the TARDIS, the scanner screen flickering through a thousand images a second. The TARDIS shook and groaned around him, the cloister bell sounded, the TARDIS was crashing. Instead of his usual frantic movements to pull off a last minute miracle landing, he just sat there. His arms rested on his knees and he stared into nothing.

He looked up as the light from the hallway spilled into the scene in the TARDIS. The Doctor found that he was staring himself straight in the face. But there was nothing of the plucky adventurer in those empty eyes, none of the carefree days were left. There was just anger, and hopelessness. He was the last. He was the broken shell of the man he used to be, or he once strived to be. He was completely and utterly alone. He had been the last of his kind, and now, he was the last of everything else.

"Of course," He smirked at the tragic man on the floor, though nothing in him felt like smiling. "Who else?" He couldn't bear to keep looking into those haunted eyes, too afraid that he would recognize himself in them. So he stepped back and clutched at the other side of the door, the 'do not disturb' sign conveniently waiting for his grasping hand. He tucked it onto the handle in the hall and closed the door quietly, letting out a slow breath. That might be him someday; he had to admit that much, but not today. Today Amy Pond needed him, and he wasn't about to let her down.