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They aren't just telepathic. They're a hivemind. The Doctor realises this part a little too late. Not actually so late that the severing of the connection would no longer be possible; no, he would never be that sloppy, or that slow on the uptake.
It didn't actually take the Doctor that long to figure out. Mere seconds. And he can still disengage himself, rebuild his walls, block out the hivemind, escape unaltered. Yes, he can. He can, really. He can. He can, except-
They've touched him in peace. Brushed whispers of thought like a massage to a pained, slowly atrophiying muscle. Tugged him oh so gently out of that crushing silence of lonely sensory deprivation he's been suffering ever since-
There's no use suppressing the thought. They've already read it anyway. They know. They don't recoil. In fact, they're all around him now, steady, solid, steadfast. Embracing him almost affectionately. No, not almost. Actually. It's real, purposeful affection. They're cradling him. They know and they're cradling him.
The Doctor doesn't feel if there are tears streaming down his face or not. But they're rocking him, lightly, carefully, like he's something precious. (He is. He isn't. He could be.)
Rassilion, how is he to give this up? It'll hurt. It'll hurt all over again. It killed him last time, he's sure of it. It didn't kill him enough. Left him in the throes of withdrawal that all too slowly morphed into deprivation. A less engaging type of agony but one without an end in sight. Where does he find the strength to put himself through that a second time, of his own accord, knowing what it'll feel like, knowing it will never truly stop?
(He doesn't have to. Please.)
Distantly, there's a voice, calling- something. It's a sweet voice, a beloved voice. It's a pity he can't make out what it's saying. It's too far away. The reassuring sweet murmurs are all much closer. He could block out the murmurs. He can. He knows the way. But it freezes him with terror. What if he never gets a chance like this again? What if he'll just be missing it forever? Be so devastatingly lonely and incomplete forever?
The swaying doesn't stop. He can only barely feel hands grabbing at him, ineffectual. He's not sure if the hands meant to steady or shake him. He's still being swayed. He doesn't have much time left, but surely he can stay and be swayed just a little longer? (Yes, a while longer. Not much longer. Soon.)
He doesn't feel the hands anymore. Did the person let go? He should know. He doesn't. It should bother him. (Nothing should bother him. This should. What this? Something. Why?)
Things should bother him. Things have always bothered him. That's a long time, a sufficient time. Wouldn't it be so nice, to finally get a reprive? Reprive. Serenity. Peace. He doesn't deserve these things.
What an odd thought. They made it. Of course they deserve it. He's not like them. What difference is there? He broke peace, before. But they don't. He's safe to be one of them because they won't. Safe. Yes, they're safe. Safe, deserving and peaceful. How nice.
They deserve the peace. They deserve the safety. They deserve this world.
●
Everything is spinning. Something is wrong. There's a gaping hole in the middle of- in the middle of- In the middle of him. Oh, so that's what's wrong. There's a him now. Again. But who is he? Who was he? Does he even want to know?
A scraping sound snags his attention. There's someone here. He isn't actually alone, but compared to what he got a taste of, well.
The someone is saying something but the sound of it just hurts his head even further and he lets out an involuntary whine. The someone brushes a hand on his shoulder and he shrinks from the touch, curling up as far into himself as his aching, uncooperative body will allow.
At the same time, his mind is begging for him to lean in, press himself as close as possible, anything to establish a link that could serve as even the palest shadow of what has been ripped from him. The person takes their hand away and he whimpers.
Who are they? He's not sure. But he has the oddest sense that whoever it is is also the one responsible for separating him from the whole.
"Why would you do this to me?"
The words escape him unbidden. He knows, even as he says it, that it's unfair, that he's being unfair. But everything just hurts and it didn't before.
He was so starved he didn't care that they meant to devour him, not feed him, because if they devoured him he'd be part of them, satiated along with their satiety.
It wasn't right but it felt good, felt like enough. Now it's wrong and it sucks. And on top of that he's shaking uncontrollably and might be about to puke.
Why does it have to be so physical now? It wasn't like that, the first time. Oh it was worse, sure, but the burnt of the consequences were mental and emotional, not as bodily as this. This is just inconvenient and undignified and wait who is he trying to impress again?
Oh, Rose. He is trying to impress Rose. As always. He's the Doctor and he wants to impress Rose Tyler, that's him.
...He doesn't usually admit that, does he? But at least he remembers who he is now. Well, more or less. Enough to count for something, probably, maybe. Definitely a step up from before, at the very least.
Rose Tyler is the one in the room with him.
Rose Tyler is the one who broke him away from the hivemind. And he still doesn't even know their species name. Fat load of good his "making contact for the sake of information gathering" did. And so much for him showing Rose Marlana VI's galaxy famous light paintings, for that matter.
Either way, the important bit is, Rose must have somehow boken him out from the hivemind's control. Which he's being spectacularly ungrateful about considering that it very likely equated to not only saving him, but also saving a whole planet in his stead. Oh this is so not good. And speaking of not-good, he still doesn't feel good.
The Doctor retches.
Rose's hand lands back on his shoulder, only steady point in his madly spinning world. And so the Doctor leans into it, this time. Ignores the shame, ignores the part of him that's screaming that Rose shouldn't be seeing him this way, ignores everything but the warmth of her touch.
Rose rubs his back in slow, reassuring circles that he very much doesn't deserve. Weak and useless and a hypocrite besides. But the touch does help. Slowly, the tension starts draining out of the Doctor's body until he's slumped bonelessly on the bed and only trembling a little bit.
"I'm sorry," is the first thing he musters up the strength to say. Because it needs to be said, and sooner than later.
Rose's hand on his back falters and the Doctor cringes, bracing for- maybe impact, maybe just getting screamed at on top of the pounding pain in his head.
But Rose just resumes rubbing his back.
"What for," she asks, voice blessedly quiet but tone entirely too neutral.
The Doctor manages to keep the cringe internal this time. And he does want to answer Rose. To apologise properly. If only it wasn't so hard to think. If only Rose would rest her fingers on his temples and see-
No, he can't be thinking like that. But it's too late to stop now, the longing has already shot through him, destroying what little of his barriers he'd managed to rebuild. His synapses are already firing, reaching, reaching- and sending searing, blinding pain back into his body when they inevitably find nothing.
There's nothing out there. Nothing, no one to latch on to. Just the oppressive, defeaning silence that sometimes he could swear still echoes with their dying screams because he killed them, he killed all of them, and there will never be anyone there ever again.
His respiratory bypass kicks in. Rose is saying something and for a moment it almost cuts into the silence except the Doctor can't figure out what she's saying and the last time he heard her without hearing her he was-
Drowning. Drowning, like the cold water after the Titanic's crash, turbulence tossing him around and dragging him under, except worse, so much worse.
Then Rose has her hands on both sides of his face, tops of her fingers on his cheekbones and the only thing the Doctor can feel is the meagerness of the distance from there to his temples, please, just a tiny bit higher, please, please-
"Doctor? Doctor! Can you hear me?"
The Doctor tries to nod, because he did hear the question, so he does, so he can. The movement sends a fresh pulse of pain spearing through his head and he screws his eyes shut with a noise so wretched Rose will definitely never find him impressive ever again.
And she must pity him now, because she's pulling him into her arms and making those shushing sounds like one would at a crying small child or a scared injured animal. The Doctor tries to warn her that he's still not entirely confident he won't throw up, but all that comes out is a sob.
And oh, he's properly crying now, tears and gasping hitching breaths and snot and all. And Rose isn't letting go, just letting him make an utter mess of the shoulder of her hoodie with her trapped arm gently running fingers through the hair at the back of his head and her free arm rubbing soothing circles on his back.
Too disorientated for his time sense to work properly, the Doctor doesn't know how long they stay like that until his crying gives way to weak sniffles. All he knows is he still doesn't want Rose to let go.
It's probably been too long though. He should probably pull away. But he doesn't have the strength to do that quite yet. Rose saved him once again and much as the Doctor's pride would prefer she didn't have to, who is he to turn her away if she wants to continue with the job?
"What happened? After?" he mumbles into Rose's shoulder. Unable to finish the question properly and grateful for the excuse not to look her in the eyes. But genuinely wanting to know, always.
Rose is still for a while. 6,48 seconds to be precise, so that's the Doctor's time sense finally deigning to come back online.
"Found a way to put things to rights, didn't I? They'll even be throwing a feast in my name," the cheerful tone in Rose's voice is put on, the Doctor can tell. Of course he can tell. He doesn't call her on it.
"Oooh, and quite right!" The Doctor responds in kind.
Rose doesn't call him on anything, either. Instead, she gives him a squeeze and pulls away. And before the Doctor can protest, she says: "Let's just go home. To the TARDIS."
The Doctor's smile at that is a real one, warmth coiling slow but undeniable in his chest. Even the ache in his head feels bearable now.
And so they do. They go home.