Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who. However, I do adore whoever came up with that idea. (Heh. Whoever. I didn't even mean to do that.)


So long. In the light. In the dark. In a small space with nothing and no one but himself, trapped for longer than anyone could stay sane. Quite frankly, it was a claustrophobic's worst nightmare.

Well, it was a good thing he wasn't claustrophobic, then! Or sane, for that matter.

"Isn't that right," he said cheerfully. "It is," he added. "It's always right. It's alllll . . . right. Don't argue with me. You won't like me when it'll turn out you're wrong. And I'm always right." His face fell. "Oh, dear. You must hate me, then." He paused, frowning. "But you're me. And I already don't like myself very much. Must I hate myself twice?"

Yes. This . . . was him. The Doctor.

Ever wonder how the Doctor got out in the first place, when he wouldn't have otherwise if he hadn't given Rory the sonic screwdriver, and how could he have given him the screwdriver if he hadn't gotten out? This. This was how.