A/N: I know a lot of people will probably be writing stories about the regeneration of the 10th into the 11th now we know who the 11th Doctor is going to be (I have to admit though I'm a bit sceptical, although I'm reserving judgment until I see him in action) but I really had to write one lol. If the 10th died in this manner in the actual show I would be really, really pissed off but, you know... I couldn't be bothered to think up of anything fancy :P So enjoy anyway! And good luck to Mr Matt Smith! :D (Oh and apologies for the crappy title Dx)


Goodbye Ten, Hello Eleven

Saving civilisations or enacting some elaborate escape was no fun without someone to show off to, and for most of his life (his travelling life, anyway) the Doctor had had someone to show off to. The less they knew about time or space travel the more satisfying it was to gloat to them. Not in a bad way of course, the Doctor had never been a bad gloater. At least, in his opinion he wasn't a bad gloater. Yes, the Doctor was the kind of person who needed an audience whatever the occasion.

Even when he was dying.

He dragged himself over the threshold of the TARDIS and managed to kick the door shut with one dusty converse before the large group of razor-backed Rylars could follow him inside. Rylars… he had known that one day they would be the death of him. They were a savage and ruthless race with no morals and only one motive in life: to devour anything even remotely edible. The Doctor had landed on the planet by mistake, thinking he was actually in a nicely mellow planet called Reagon 12 who generally specialised in nicely mellow things like crochet and excellent tea shops. Somewhere he must have gotten turned around. The Doctor had been outside for no longer than five minutes when he had been ambushed. The fatal wound was a long, barbed spear that pierced right through his abdomen. It was going to be ridiculously painful to remove.

He wished for an audience. Mainly because it was going to be hard to remove the spear by himself but mostly because he wanted someone to see how fantastically brave he was being by pulling a spear out of his own stomach.

His face was white and ashen. His whole system was failing and he knew he had to remove this spear or his new regeneration was going to have a strange addition to his person in the shape of a five and a half foot pole. Teeth clenched and every muscle in his body contracted, the Doctor rolled onto his side and wrapped his sweaty hands on the spear.

'Okay… you can do this…' he told himself, breath hissing through his gritted jaw. 'You've removed some nasty things from yourself from the past… much nastier than this… Remember that Scarab Beetle? Yes of course you remember the Scarab Beetle… that was much worse than this and that didn't even kill you…' He heaved in a deep breath and winced at the pain it caused him. 'On three… one… two…' He closed his eyes tight and tugged on the spear. He screamed in agony as it tore free, taking a small amount of him with it. He tossed it aside and clutched the awful wound.

It wasn't long before his injuries did their job and finished him off, but not before he had the opportunity to be bitter about his unforeseeable death. All those foes; all those perilous situations, and he had been killed by a bleeding metal stick. Typical. His eyes began to close, and then the regeneration process got well into way.


The Doctor's eyes snapped open a while later. How long later he had no idea. Actually, he had little idea of anything. He stared up at the domed ceiling of the TARDIS control room impassively, like he had been fully expecting to wake up on the floor sprawled out like the town drunk. Had he been drinking? Seemed unlikely taking that he didn't drink. So what happened? What possible reason would there be to him lying on the floor in his TARDIS when there were much important things to be getting up to? Like not lying on the floor in his TARDIS, for instance.

Then he remembered and he sat up abruptly. 'I just died!' he announced to the empty console room. 'Blimey I just…' Brown hair flopped over his face and silenced him. His eyes crossed as he looked at the invasion on his vision and then he blew it out of the way. It fell back so he blew it again, this time a little more impatiently. When it refused to move yet again he pushed it back over his head with his fingers.

Apprehension mounting, the Doctor allowed his new fingers to explore his new face. It felt strange. Slightly lumpy. What was… where was his nose? Oh there it was. Well his nose didn't feel as big anymore… although it still felt slightly lumpy. The skin was smooth enough though, which meant he hadn't regenerated into a wrinkly old prune – much to his relief. He prodded again at that peculiar feeling nose, and then looked down at himself.

The blue pinstripe suit had a hole in the front, and he already knew there was a matching hole in the back. 'Aw, this was my favourite suit!' he moaned, and then quickly realised what that meant. His finger popped up like a cartoon character with a new idea and a small smile crept on his face. 'Yes, it was my favourite suit… Oooh young voice… Am I younger? I feel younger… my last regeneration looked quite young to start with so…' He sat for a moment, trying to figure out how young he felt, and then realised there was probably an easier way to find out what he looked like instead of sitting and trying to guess. He scrambled to his feet and moved for the console, but abruptly fell right back down on his front again.

'Smaller feet.' He told himself. 'I'll have to practice running again.' He began to get up, but the mop of brown hair flopped in front of his eyes again. He frowned. It was beginning to annoy him already.

Finally he got to his feet and kicked the dusty converse from his feet. He didn't wait to see where they landed and ducked beneath the console, grabbing a large metal crate and hauling it out.

'I know I'm not ginger this time, so that's one disappointment over with already.' He flipped open the lid and rummaged around frantically. 'But I'm not goofy, so that's okay. So not ginger, not goofy. Balances out, I think.' He finally found what he was looking for and pulled out the handheld mirror with a grin. 'There you are! Now then… Mirror, mirror in my hand…'

He looked at the unfamiliar face staring back at him, and his grin froze. He stared, then he blinked, and then his mouth dropped open.

'What?' he cried, prodding at his face with a ruthlessly prejudiced finger. 'What!? No! I'm a child! Look at me! This is supposed to be my eleventh regeneration, not turning me back to being eleven years old! What the… How the…?' He trailed off when he caught the sight of his hair. 'Oh now… oh now hold those pretty little horses just a moment longer, what is this?' He shook his head from side to side. His hair bounced animatedly. Slowly, a grin spread across his face. 'Just when you think a hairstyle can't get any better…'

The Doctor stood up and grinned at the handheld mirror. It could be worse. It could be a lot worse. With a loud, sharp 'ha', he tossed the mirror aside and did two complete circuits of the console room while whooping and cheering, before racing out to find himself something new to wear. Preferably something that complimented his hair.

Sometimes he forgot just how fun regeneration was.