Chapter Text
The Doctor shuddered as the executioner behind him slipped the thick rope noose over his head. It was tightened, the rough material pulling at his long hair and scratching the skin of his neck.
The sentence of execution had been announced only an hour earlier, while he had been sitting in a prison cell. If only they would listen to him when he said he wasn’t the criminal they were looking for. But his unfortunate habit of being seen in the wrong place at the wrong time had again gotten him into trouble.
“Any last words, Doctor?” asked the person in charge of this.
“I’ve said all there is to say. You haven’t believed me. You haven’t listened to me.”
“Because you are lying!” Their shout was accompanied by mostly wordless ones from the large assembled crowd.
The Timelord simply sighed and closed his eyes. “Then I have nothing left to say. Go ahead.” But he hadn’t resigned himself to this fate. Besides, what would they do when he regenerated after his death? No, he would not die here. At least, not if he pulled this off correctly. It would be painful, but he wouldn’t die.
The Doctor opened his eyes, watching the person on the podium for what would certainly be the signal.
Without any warning, the executioner kicked out the small stool from under the Doctor’s feet. Thankfully, the resulting jerk was short, only a couple inches, not intended for breaking the victim’s neck. It seemed they wanted their victims to suffer through slow strangulation.
The rope dug into the Doctor’s throat, no way for him to relieve the pressure with his feet dangling inches above the platform.
Despite his earlier mental preparations, he had to fight back the panic. He’d been counting on a visual signal, and without that…
He struggled to breathe, needing a few more precious lungfuls of air. His feet kicked out slightly with the effort and the pain. His hands tied in front of him grabbed and twisted his shirt.
“What happened to your calm accepting demeanor, Doctor?” the person on the podium taunted.
Spots began to swim in his vision. He didn’t have long before he lost consciousness, and possibly this life. He couldn’t get any more air in, and could only hope he had enough needed to survive.
Not long after, his body completely stilled, his eyes closed, and he couldn’t feel anything any more. He simply hung there, body slightly swaying in the breeze.
********
The Doctor’s eyes shot open, and he immediately began sucking in hard breaths. His panicked motions made him fall off the small bed and down to the floor. He grunted at the impact to his shoulder and hip.
He shivered at the coldness of the floor, realizing he was naked. But he simply laid there for some moments, focusing on breathing and regaining his strength.
“Right, clothes…” His voice came out hoarse and quiet. He pushed himself up to shaky feet. It took him another moment to get his senses to register properly to figure out where he was. Morgue. “Not the first time…”
Thankfully, he quickly found his clothes not far, and dressed. He left the cold storage room and looked for a way out the morgue proper.
On his way out, he stopped at a half-mirror on the wall. He raised his chin to see his neck, and grimaced. The thick deep purple bruise wrapped around his throat. Small raw breaks in the skin dotted it, made by the rough material of the rope. He gingerly raised his fingers to the edges, still feeling the residual severe aching pain in his skin and muscles.
“Certainly a mark.” He wondered how long his voice would also be affected.
Then he urgently found his way out, not wanting to be found and possibly executed again.