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Ninety-four seconds ago, the gun was fired. Eighty-seven seconds ago, he ran to him. Seventy-one seconds ago, he told him what to do.
He refused.
The first tear fell fifty-nine seconds ago; the skin beneath the wet trail itched and flared with irritation, but he did not move his hands from his stiffening body. The first scream came thirty-five seconds ago; the strangled plea struggled against the growing lump in his throat, but it did not move him.
Seven seconds ago, the last word was spoken. It was a gasping question that broke what little remained of his two hearts into fragments, each shard desperate to escape what he knew – but could never accept – was happening—the terminal point drew nearer with every dying moment. ‘The drumming. Will it stop?’ he asked.
Then, exactly six seconds later, the Master closed his eyes.
One second remained. A single, untainted moment of possibility. The Master did not move or breathe, but his body was still warm in the Doctor’s arms, the creases and shape of his suit still malleable; for exactly one second, he was still here and they were still together. For one precious second, the Doctor was freed of the burden of being the last of his kind.
Then, exactly as they always did, the moment passed.
The Doctor was outside of his own body. He could see himself holding the Master; he could see Martha Jones and her family holding each other behind him, steadying themselves after a year of hell; he could see Jack Harkness, caked in grime and fatigue, looking up at the ceiling with the pained expression of a man who had seen this too many times before; he could see Lucy Saxon, her crimson dress the same shade as her unmoving lips and the nails of the fingers that closed around the trigger. He could see the moment the gun was fired ninety-four seconds ago, when he ran to the Master eighty-seven seconds ago, and when he begged him to regenerate seventy-one seconds ago.
He waded through the seconds like quicksand, groping blindly through time as fiercely as he gripped the fabric of the Master’s suit, desperate to drag that precious moment back; as the future possibilities crumbled around him, the Doctor held the Master tighter to him—even if everything else were to fall apart, he could still be close to him, if only for another fleeting second.
He was still warm. He was still here.
The Doctor tried to steady himself with each shaky exhale, a small part of him hoping against hope that the next breath would bring him back. He pressed his chin against the Master’s forehead, the soft hair stroking a phantom hand against his chin. The touch was all he had left; the Doctor shut his eyes and kept them closed as he held the Master’s head against his, their temples almost level but still so far apart. He closed his arms as tightly as he could in an embrace forever unreciprocated.
Contact. Contact. Contact. Contact…
There was no reply. There was only silence; the Master’s question was finally answered, but the Doctor could never tell him: the drumming had stopped.