The TARDIS floated aimlessly in the vortex. He stood in front of a mirror, looking at his face. He lifted a hand and touched his cheek, reassuring himself that it was real, that it wasn't just his imagination that had restored him. Mustn't put this off any longer. He might have restored his age and appearance, but he hadn't been able to restore the other damage. He hadn't checked or even thought about it (hadn't wanted to) but now they were gone as he had expected, and he couldn't delay any longer. He slowly removed his jacket, and undid his tie.

Strip.

He froze, looking around wildly. The voice had seemed so real, so clear. Then he shook his head. He's dead, he reminded himself. He's dead, and you need to do this. He unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it off, and stared expressionlessly at his reflection. He picked up a small mirror, and turned around, angling the mirror so he could see his back. He finished undressing, and observed the rest of his body carefully. That's a lot of scars, he thought. Stuck with them til next regeneration, I suppose. He was strangely calm about the idea.

What did you and Martha talk about? You can tell me.

He started to shiver, pulling on a dressing gown. Auditory hallucinations, he thought, heading slowly towards the medical unit. Or would you call it a dissociative flashback? Post traumatic stress. And he felt sick, so sick. He couldn't remember the last time he felt well.

He couldn't use the Archangel energy to restore his health. The others imagined he had, but of course they had no comprehension of the massive amount of energy needed just to reverse the temporal distortions to which his body had been subjected. What little remained he needed in reserve to deal with the Master. He had planned to put the other Timelord in a stasis unit (he knew he had one around here somewhere) until he was in a fit state to deal with him. But then Lucy had intervened, and the resulting departure of the Master's presence from his mind had triggered the whole memory of his planet and people burning all over again. They had thought he was grieving for the Master. How wrong they'd been.

He soon realised the energy he had left from the psychic field was still going to be needed for other things. Less than 24 hours after time had reversed Jack had collapsed, and he had needed to link telepathically with him in order to help him avoid a breakdown. (It had taken over seven hours of telepathic support and healing to bring him back from the damage the Master had done). And Martha …. well, she had needed a shoulder to cry on, basically. He gave it to her. He owed them both that much.

He had meant to tell them, would have had to tell them, if they'd stayed. So much of what the Master had done to him had been done in private, so no one else knew the full extent of what was going on. They had asked if he was okay, and he wanted to tell them, but … he couldn't think of the words. That's got to be a first.

Oh come on, less screaming, more talking. What did you tell Martha? What were your instructions? Tell me. TELL ME!

He ran a complete scan of himself in the medical unit, and discovered internal injuries, severe exhaustion, dehydration ... and so on. The Doctor needs a doctor, he thought. Physician heal thyself. Well, no one else is going to do it. Better get started then.