The dead don't remember, but he does.
It has to be the most humiliating way to die, becoming a smoothie to an old, decrepit plasmavore with a straw, but he knows it has to be done. He knows he has to do something, anything to get her caught. And Martha won't let him down, right? She'll bring the Judoon here and...
Time, Death, and Pain, but it hurts. She's draining him dry, not even bothering to cut open the skin, just pulling it all through his pores with that stupid little straw. It's everything in him not to cry out, even as his skin goes tight and his eyes water with effort.
She's assimilating him. She'll be caught. It'll be worth it. Half the world will die if he fails. The people in this hospital will die if he fails. Martha (he likes her already, he won't admit it, but she's like him, she's smart, she's adventurous, and she's willing to make him stop) will die if he fails. It's worth it, it's worth it. If he cries out now, the game is up.
A blood vessel breaks in his right eye, but there's no blood to spill out. Everything goes dark.
Air is forced into his lungs, and his body begins to repair itself. O2, what little of it there is, melds with his Timelord cells, and red blood cells are replicated, white blood cells are borne anew, and fill his veins. His hearts are pressed, one after the other, and the muscles begin to work on their own.
He gasps. Coughs. It hurts. He can't see out of one eye. His body curls up into a fetal position as he tries to will himself to live. He can't lose another regeneration, not like this. Not when...
"The scanner...she's done something to it."
She's collapsed from air loss, gave all of the oxygen she had left to him. She's brave. She trusts him, trusts he can save her. He can't even stand, but her eyes close.
He would risk everything for that kind of trust.
His muscles are stringy and tight, but he wills blood to fill them, and he stumbles towards the control panel, lets himself collapse next to a large array of buttons He knows what she's done, he knows how to stop it. It doesn't take too many muscles to press the button on a---
His arm moves to his pocket, but it's empty.
"Oh, the sonic---" His voice is scratchy, and he rolls over towards the cables. Blue. Red? Blue. His arm muscles can't pull it apart. He focuses his energy to his hands, to his arms. No. Red. He pulls the red cords apart. The electricity fizzles and dies.
There's still a lot of magnetic energy in the room, though. It's far from safe in here. Blood to legs. Come on, come on. No time to lie around. His feet work, if only barely, and he gets himself into a standing position. One step. Two. Where's your bloody willpower, Doctor?
Blood to back. He leans down. Blood to arms. Picks up Martha. Blood to legs. Why isn't his body recuperating faster? There's no time, there's no air. Great big lung reserves in a Timelord and two hearts, but he hadn't collected enough oxygen before she revived him.
One step, two. Have to get her out of harm's way. She saved him, he needs to save her. She's in a rather limp fireman's carry. He'd hold her more securely, keep her neck from slumping so awkwardly, but he can only just carry her. He can only just get her out of the room.
No more air. Everyone is unconscious, except him. Martha's lungs aren't taking anything in. He turns them both to stare out the window. The Judoon are leaving. Are they just...leaving?
"Come on, come on," he mutters through cracked lips, "Judoon, reverse it."
Water pours down the window. He finds enough blood in his face for a smile.
"It's raining, Martha. It's raining on the moon."
Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 676