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The Doctor is so cold. His mind is fuzzy and he's distantly aware that everything hurts, especially his leg, but somehow the cold is the worst part of it all.
He doesn't remember anymore, the name of the substance they dozed him with. He doesn't remember who they were, either. The Doctor wasn't even looking for trouble, just wanted to go to a planet where his two hearts weren't an anomaly. Why do things always have to end up this way?
He worked out what was poisoning him, when his mind was still working right. Something lethal to the locals and through a twist of fate lethal to Time Lords as well. They probably didn't even know he wasn't one of them, definitely didn't know what he was. He doesn't even know what he did to make them want him dead. He came in peace, he meant well.
The Doctor tried to run, when he realised. He has an antidote on the TARDIS, if he could have only got there. Why did he have to park so far away?
They didn't let him escape. He thought they would, for a glorious moment. No one was running after him, just following at a sedate pace, as if led by curiosity and not an intent to stop him.
He'd made it past the mansion gates, then a bit further, into the woods but still within sight of the road. They shot him through the kneecap. Didn't even bother walking up to him, didn't think him important enough to make sure he'd stay down. They left as soon as they saw his blood stain the snow. And now the Doctor is going to die alone.
Night is falling, the fading daylight taking with it his hope of being found in time. It's not fair. There weren't four knocks. He was supposed to have more warning, more time. It wasn't supposed to be meaningless, painful and lonely, on some planet he's only been to less times than he can count on one hand, a planet he came to for a semblance of comfort.
It's so wrong it doesn't feal real. Nothing feels real. The world is white and dark and hazy like some static-y nightmare because surely that's what it must be. All sensations blur. Fading light, fading into numbness. The boundaries of his body become indistinguishable. The passage of time loses meaning.
And then, then, touch. Shocking him into feeling. Pain and pain and a precious tiny lick of warmth. A figure painted in thready, flickering starlight.
Rose, the Doctor tries to say, or maybe thinks. He hears no sound. A movement and red hair flashes. Movement again and kind, rich brown eyes he's never been able to hold for long enough.
"... sorry... couldn't... seen..."
He can't place the voice or parse the meaning. The form keeps shifting, changing, beloved to beloved.
More touch and he tries to lean in, to make it easier, to plead. His body doesn't respond, brings back only pain and points of contact. Mercifully, he is swept up, tucked close. That's when he hears it. Double heartbeat, out of sync with his own.
The Doctor gives in.