Author's Note/Disclaimer: This story came about because I noticed that the Doctor is off-screen for large swaths of the episode "Rose". I was curious about what he is doing when we aren't watching him, and how he keeps crossing paths with Rose. I debated long and hard about whether to post the story, but in the end, I decided that, between the "off-screen" scenes and the Doctor's thoughts when he is "on-screen", it contained enough original material to justify its existence. That being said, anything you recognize belongs to Russell T Davies and/or the BBC.

Light. Heat. Pain. A billion suns, bursting from his skin, pouring from his throat, searing his eyeballs. The first impression to reach the consciousness of the Doctor's ninth regeneration is one of overwhelming sensation. The second impression, as the furious energy ebbs away, is one of overwhelming lack of sensation. Something is gone, something is missing. His head feels as if it were stuffed with cotton wool.

"Maybe this body is deaf." No, that isn't it – he can hear his own voice, hear the words spoken in a curious and unfamiliar accent. He can hear the hum of the TARDIS, comforting, soothing, both in his ears and in his head, and – wait, that is it. In his mind, he can hear the whispers of his ship – and nothing else.

His people! Where are the Time Lords, the billions of Gallifreyan voices always floating in the back of his mind? What has happened to them?

To nerves still buzzing with regeneration energy, the jolt of adrenaline that accompanies this panicky question is exquisitely painful. But it does help to burn away some of the mental fog that always follows a regeneration. He presses the heels of his hands against his temples and forces himself to breathe deeply and evenly whilst he struggles to recall his last moments in his previous body.

He remembers his discovery of the High Council's plan (or, more accurately, Rassilon's plan, which he bullied the High Council into accepting) to end the war by burning the entire universe whilst transmuting themselves into beings of pure consciousness – the ultimate scorched-earth policy. He remembers his decision that the Time Lords needed to be stopped just as much as the Daleks, that the madness had to end now, no matter what the cost. He remembers breaking into the Panopticon and stealing the Moment. He remembers the long, hot, dusty trek back to his childhood refuge, seeking one last shred of comfort in the face of the horror he was about to perpetrate. And he remembers…nothing else.

"Did I go through with it? Did I deploy the Moment? Did I destroy them all?" he asks the empty console room. The TARDIS pumps the time rotor slowly up and down, and seems not at all inclined to reveal the truth of his missing hours. But it doesn't matter. The emptiness in his head is answer enough. He has no idea how he survived, no idea how he ended up back on his ship, but those details are unimportant. The silence proclaims his guilt. He gags on the knowledge, sinking to his knees, curling into a ball on his side. And then he sleeps.

When he awakes, he feels…well, not all right. He doubts he will ever describe himself as all right again. But…resigned. He didn't intend to survive, didn't want to survive. But survive he did, and he isn't so far gone as to rectify that mistake.

Well, if he isn't going to lie down and die, that means he has to get up and move forward. He hauls himself to a sitting position and surveys his new body. The hands look younger. He is taller than before, by several inches if the expanse of bare shin below his trouser cuffs is anything to go by. "Right then, first stop, wardrobe," he says as he pulls himself upright on the console.

He strips his clothes off as he walks through the corridor, and dumps them all down the chute that leads to the incinerator. Normally, old outfits, no matter how out of favor with his new self, make it back onto the wardrobe racks, souvenirs and mementos of the men he had been. But these…they stink of dust and sweat and blood and death. He wants no mementos of the man who ended the Last Great Time War.

He arrives in the wardrobe stark naked, feeling horribly exposed, feeling the urge to cover himself, feeling foolish for his embarrassment when there is no one there to see him. He rifles through hangers, desperate to find something to cover his shame, quickly growing frustrated with his previous selves. Garish coats and outsized scarves, cricket gear and evening wear...it all looks so frivolous, so ridiculous. He suddenly hates all those men, carefree, flitting about the universe, having a jolly old time saving worlds full of strangers, blissfully ignorant of the fact that they would one day destroy their own. He seizes an armful of clothes and flings them to the floor with an inarticulate cry of rage.

The TARDIS hums her disapproval of the mess he has made. But she doesn't seem to hold it against him, because when he turns around, there are shelves where he has never seen shelves before, filled with heavy-weight black trousers, and T-shirts and jumpers in a somber rainbow of muted shades that match his mood. "Fantastic!"

Once clad in a pair of trousers and a maroon jumper, his feet encased in a pair of sturdy boots he found beneath the shelves, he feels immeasurably better. He knows this is just as illogical as his earlier feeling of vulnerability. After all, it is just thin fabric – nothing armoured, nothing bulletproof, nothing that will protect him from the dangers beyond the TARDIS doors nor from the dangers of his own psyche. Nevertheless, he feels more prepared to face the universe as he strides back to the control room and throws open the door to the outside.

Time there was in a past life when he would have checked the scanner to get an idea of the conditions awaiting him, checked the instruments to ensure that the atmosphere was breathable. Not now. If he is stepping out into a vacuum or the heart of a volcano, so be it.

It is neither of those. It is London. He leans against the TARDIS, one leg cocked back against the door, watches the city swirl by, and wonders how he got here. He certainly doesn't remember setting the destination. But his ship has a mind of her own sometimes – oh, who is there left to kid? Most times – and she has apparently decided to bring him to the closest thing he has left to a home. He can't complain. Twenty-first century London is always good for a distraction, and it has been a lifetime since last he was here.

So he spends the day playing tourist. Breakfast is a 99 in Piccadilly Circus; lunch is chips in Trafalgar Square, watching a young black man amuse a blond girl with his goofy dance moves. But always, everywhere, he can't shake the sense that something is wrong. Flashes of movement in the corner of his eye as he passes by shops; some vague disturbance of the electricity in the air; a nebulous feeling that timelines are being tugged out of place. War has made you paranoid. You don't know what normal feels like anymore. But no matter how many times he tells himself this, he can't shake the uneasiness that dogs him.

As evening falls, he finds himself back at the TARDIS. The key already in the lock, he takes one last look around. And then pockets the key when he sees a strange glow on the roof of the shop across the street. "Hello, that doesn't look right."

A few minutes and several applications of the sonic screwdriver later, he is stepping onto the roof of Henrik's department store. He isn't alone. A grey-haired man in olive work trousers and a battered leather jacket is kneeling on the tarpaper, his back to the Doctor. One look at the luminous ball the man is examining, and the Doctor knows exactly what he is up against.

"Oi, watch it! Get back from that thing! Sharp now!"

The man whirls to face him, and now the Doctor can see under the jacket a collared shirt, olive to match the trousers. A janitor perhaps, then, or a maintenance man. "Sorry, sir, but you can't be up here. Employees only."

The Doctor waves the psychic paper – one of the few good things he took from the war. "No worries. I'm the city inspector. Just doing a routine…roof inspection. What have we here?"

"It's a…it's, uh, it's a…"

Okay, maybe inspector wasn't such a good cover story. He can't very well admit to the official who could shut down his business that he's got some unknown technology floating around his shop. He spares the man further floundering. "It's fine, you don't have to tell me. I already know what it is." He drops to his haunches next to the advance guard of the Nestene Consciousness and fishes the screwdriver out of his trouser pocket. The ball is just a relay device, probably one of many scattered about the city. The Consciousness itself is what he needs to worry about, what he needs to find.

"Well, if you know, then by all means tell me. Because I've been electrician here for 40 years, and I can tell you I've never seen that thing nor anything like it in all my days." The man has apparently decided that honesty is the best policy.

The Doctor grunts in reply as he considers the Nestene device, as he considers his options regarding the two issues he faces. First issue: how to find the location of the Nestene Consciousness. The most reliable method, he judges, is to get inside the casing of the relay and reverse the polarity so that it will send signals to its parent rather than receive them. Then he can track the signal backwards. His hands start implementing this plan whilst his brain moves on to the second issue: how much of the truth to tell the human hovering over his shoulder.

"See, this little contraption here is – oh!" He is distracted by the opening of a small port on the front of the ball. "Got in already. I haven't lost my touch." He crouches down to peer inside – and realizes immediately that it wasn't any skill on his part that opened the device. He wrenches himself sideways, but not quite fast enough. A laser beam sears through his arm, and a throaty cry tears through his clenched teeth. He is back on his feet in an instant, propelling the stunned electrician towards the roof access door as the ball rotates to track their movements. He slams the door shut behind them just as another laser blast hits the doorframe.

"What on earth was that?"

The Doctor is breathing hard. "Blimey, it comes with a self-defence mechanism now. I didn't expect that." He twists his neck to examine the damage. It is a surface wound, a gouge along the deltoid, with little bleeding thanks to the cauterizing effect of the laser, nothing that the dermal regenerator can't fix right up. The new jumper, on the other hand, is a complete loss.

"Here." Before the Doctor can look up, the human has his leather jacket off and is draping it around the Time Lord's shoulders. "We'll need to get you to hospital, but in the meantime, you should keep that covered and protected."

"No, really, I'm fine, I'll just…" The Doctor tries to shrug out of the coat, but the other man is having none of it.

"You saved my life just now. Way I reckon, if you hadn't come along and interrupted, that thing would have been firing at me. And I don't think I could have jinked as fast as you. So lending you a jacket is the least I can do. Now tell me, what the blazes is going on?"

The Doctor returns to the question the contemplation of which was so rudely cut short by Nestene weaponry. The man in front of him is frightened, that is obvious. Well, no surprise there. I'm scared too. But he isn't blubbering or running away. He can handle the truth, the Doctor judges. "That thing on the roof is a communications relay, passing orders from an alien…oh, high command, I suppose you could say…to its invasion force."

The electrician blinks. "You do realize you sound like a nutter."

"Oh absolutely!" the Doctor replies cheerfully. "Nevertheless, those are the facts. The relay device is – oh, stupid Doctor, stupid, stupid Doctor!" He smacks his forehead with the heel of his hand. "We've got to leg it, right now. And evacuate the shop. Everyone in here is in danger."

"Well, the shop is closing now, so everyone will be out anyway." A tinny female voice over the PA confirms this statement.

"Fantastic. That means we only have to worry about ourselves. Of course, we're the ones it really wants."

"But it's out there and we're in here. Or can it come after us, can it get inside?"

"I don't think so, no. If it were equipped with motive capabilities, it would be knocking on the door by now. But that device, its main purpose is to relay commands to its troops. So if its self-defence system can't reach us directly, it's perfectly capable of calling in reinforcements to handle the job for it. Which means we've got to get moving."

They are halfway down the stairwell when they are confronted with two pale faceless humanoids, plastic skin gleaming dully in the dim security lighting, marching side by side up the stairs towards them.

The Time Lord stops abruptly, hands raised in surrender. The human can't react quite so fast, and bumps into the Doctor, jostling his injured arm. The Doctor hisses in pain before pasting on a bright smile for the Autons' benefit. "Wait, hold on now. I think we've had a bit of a misunderstanding. My friend and I didn't mean you any harm up there on the roof – we were just curious."

"Wait, you think these are the 'troops'?" says a low voice in his ear. "They're just plastic dummies. What are they going to do, pose at us?"

"No," says the Doctor with exaggerated patience. "They are going to shoot lasers from their fingers."

"You're taking the mick!"

The Doctor doesn't reply. His eyes flick around, evaluating the situation. They are on an exit landing, and he estimates that he could probably make it through the fire door in time, but he doubts that human reflexes would be able to keep up. He will have to improve the odds.

He begins edging almost imperceptibly closer to the door, muttering over his shoulder, "Stay behind me. And get ready to make a break for it." To the Autons, he waves his hands placatingly. "Listen, I know you belong to the Nestene Consciousness. What I'd really like is a parley face-to-face…so to speak. Do you think that can be arranged?" Their only reaction is to take another step closer. The Doctor goes on, "Aw, come on! I just said 'Nestene Consciousness'! Aren't you the least bit curious about how I knew that name?"

The blank faces don't look curious. In tandem, the dummies raise their right arms stiffly in front of them.

The Doctor knows he is running out of time. But he is now close enough to the exit that his new friend might be able to escape, if the Doctor can distract the Autons, keep them focused on himself. "You probably don't recognize me, but we've actually met before. I am the Doctor." They freeze for a moment, then take another threatening step forward. He grins. "Ah, you remember me. Fantastic. So if you could just –"

Conjoined fingers swing down on hinges, revealing plastic laser barrels, and the Doctor knows that time is up. "Run! Now!"

He hasn't counted on the human having a heroic streak. Instead of diving for the door, the electrician throws himself in front of the Doctor, arms splayed protectively, just as twin laser beams light the air. All the Doctor can do is catch the body that falls heavily against his, stare down at the two neat holes drilled right through the single human heart. There is no time to rage or to mourn, not if he doesn't want the man's sacrifice to be in vain. He lets the body slide to the ground and throws himself out the door, feeling the tingling charge of laser bolts passing a hair's breadth from his skin.

Somehow he manages to find another exit across the floor and escape from the building without encountering another Auton. The TARDIS is right across the street, and he heads straight for the storage room. He casts a longing glance at the med bay as he passes it, his arm burning, but he can't spare the time. The priority right now is to stop the Consciousness. Breaking the link between the Autons and their controller will not stop the invasion, but it will slow it down, hopefully buy him the time that he needs. A little Nitro-9 should do the trick.

It is while he is wiring the detonator to the explosive that he realizes he never introduced himself to the Henrik's electrician. The man laid down his life, and the Doctor can't even dignify his memory with a name. "I won't make that mistake again," he announces to the console room as he heads back out to face the foe, adding this bit of shame to the heavy pile weighing down on him.

The sonic screwdriver makes short work of the now-locked door in the alley. He starts to head for the roof, then hesitates. This explosion is going to take out most of the building, and if there is some workaholic window dresser or a night cleaning crew still inside… "I don't have time to be tracking down stray humans. I have to think of the greater good, of the main objective." But the words ring hollow in his ears. That is the credo of a general in war. But the war is over, and he has never been a general. And what is the good of trying to save any of them if he doesn't try to save all of them? With a sigh, he sets the screwdriver to scan for human life signs.

Sure enough, he finds one, down in the basement. "Of course, it would have to be the complete opposite direction of where I need to go. And that far away from the blast, they'll probably be fine." But his feet carry him down the stairs, almost without his realizing it.

As he enters the basement, he can hear a voice, female, high and sharp with fear, and he quickens his steps. She is claiming to think that someone is playing a prank, but the timbre of anxiety tells him that she doesn't truly believe it is just a joke. He sees her at last through a doorway: a young blond woman, pressed up against some pipes, eyes squeezed tight, surrounded by a cadre of Autons who have apparently abandoned the lasers in favor of a more manual approach to the elimination of the human element. He slides his hand into hers just as the leader raises his arm for the deathblow; her eyes pop open, her head snaps in his direction. He feels almost as startled as she looks; he hadn't expected the frisson of energy that runs through him at the contact. How long has it been since he touched another living creature? Too long to remember. Surely not since before the Time War. Very few sentient species can thrive without some degree of companionship and affection, and Time Lords, for all their formality and strictures, are not among them. He can't help a daft grin at the girl whose touch feels like the first raindrops after a long drought. And then he remembers that they are still in mortal danger. "Run!"

They jog down the hall at the human girl's pace. She's got to learn to run faster; this speed will get her into trouble, the Doctor thinks – somewhat irrationally, since he has no intention of ever seeing her again once he gets them out of this situation. If he gets them out – behind them, he can hear the heavy stomps of plastic feet, and he expects at any moment to feel a laser blast between his shoulder blades. When it doesn't come, he can only conclude that word has reached back to the Nestene Consciousness that the Doctor is in town, and that it wants to capture him alive.

The Doctor uses the sonic screwdriver to summon the lift and then to disable the safety mechanism on the doors. Good job, too, because an Auton manages to stick an arm into the lift, but the doors refuse to reopen, blocking out the half dozen other dummies crowding up behind their leader. The Doctor wrestles with the intruding limb until he wrenches it from its owner, the doors finish sliding closed, the Autons are shut out, and Time Lord and human are on their way to the ground floor.

The girl is standing well back in the car, but, the Doctor notes with approval, she is not cowering. "You pulled his arm off!"

"Yep. Plastic." He tosses her the arm and a grin, then folds his arms across his chest, ignoring the way the movement tugs at his damaged skin, and faces the doors. It wouldn't do to get too used to having a connection with another being. If the last hour has proven anything, it is that this regeneration is just as hazardous to those around him as previous ones had been.

"Very clever. Nice trick. Who were they then, students? Is this a student thing or what?"

The Doctor glances over his shoulder, puzzled. "Why would they be students?"

She shrugs. "I don't know."

"Well, you said it. Why students?"

"''Cause…to get that many people dressed up and being silly, they got to be students."

The Doctor smiles his approval. Her conclusion is completely wrong, but at least it is logical, given the limited facts she has to work with. "That makes sense. Well done."

"Thanks." She looks rather chuffed with herself. Which of course means that he has to burst her bubble.

"They're not students."

That doesn't slow her down much. "Whoever they are, when Wilson finds them, he's going to call the police."

"Who's Wilson?" the Doctor asks as he feels the lift halt at their destination.

"Chief electrician."

Wilson. The Doctor stores the name away. No one else would ever know of the man's heroism, but the Time Lord will never forget. Still, he refuses to go all sentimental in front of this girl. "Wilson's dead," he says bluntly, as the doors slide open.

"That's just not funny. That's sick!"

Funny? Does she think he is joking about a man's life? He ignores her comment, waves her away from the lift control. "Hold on. Mind your eyes."

"I've had enough of this now," she goes on as he burns out the control to keep the Autons from following them down. "Who are you then? Who's that lot down there?" As he heads down the hallway without answering, her voice rises. "I said, who are they?"

His frustration and tension boil over. So she thinks she wants to know what is going on? Wilson wanted to know as well, and look where that got him. But since she won't leave it alone… "They're made of plastic. Living plastic creatures. They're being controlled by a relay device in the roof, which would be a great big problem if I didn't have this." He waves the cobbled-together bomb at her. "So I'm going to go up there and blow them up, and I might well die in the process, but don't worry about me. No, you go home. Go on. Go and have your lovely beans on toast. Don't tell anyone about this, because if you do, you'll get them killed."

Ah, fantastic, I see this new me can still do melodramatically mysterious. He supposes it should be a comfort to have a trait that follows him so consistently throughout regenerations. He has managed to usher her out a fire door during his little rant, and he slams it closed now and starts back down the hallway. He hasn't made it more than two steps when he realizes that he has repeated the mistake he just said he would never make again. He leans back out the door; the girl is still standing in the same spot, looking a bit dazed. "I'm the Doctor, by the way. What's your name?"

"Rose," she manages.

"Nice to meet you, Rose. Run for your life!" He waves the bomb to emphasize his point, and then shuts her out, for good this time.

To be continued...