I know I have loads of unfinished stories. I know you should be mad at me, so go ahead. Be mad. *dodges flying fruit* Anyway. I am insanely excited about the fifth season of Doctor Who starting, and to keep my excitement at bay I have been story then, is my take on the Eleventh Doctor's regeneration and first adventure, made up before I knew ANYTHING of the new series. Later on I pull stuff from the trailers, but at the time of writing his meeting with Amy I only knew that Matt was playing 11 and that Amy Pond was his companion. That was all. So here is my take.

Forgive if it sucks. I tried to keep bits of 10's personality for the transition faze, but also tried very hard not to make 11 a copy of 10.

The Doctor was crashing.

He didn't know why, but he felt an inexplicable euphoria at the feeling. Crashing just seemed……right. Like that's what was supposed to happen in that exact moment. So it came as no surprise to him when he found himself brutally thrown to the floor as the TARDIS came to a rough stop, somewhere in the galaxy at some time. He had no idea when or where, but that was hardly out of the ordinary.

What was out of the ordinary was his inability to stand right away. Though hitting one's head against the TARDIS consol usually wasn't a good thing, the Doctor found himself even more incapacitated than he was used to.

"Blimey, feel like I've had the whole of the Time Vortex flushed through my systems a few times over." He muttered, trying to push himself to his feet. Once upright, he found himself swaying unsteadily and he gripped the consol, frowning as a strange heat began to build in his chest. Breathing out in an uncontrollable motion, the Doctor felt the heat fill his lungs and throat before being expelled from his mouth, a rapidly fading golden mist the only clue to his confusion.

"Oh, so it was the Time Vortex" He muttered, squinting at the cloud right before he lost consciousness completely and fell heavily to the floor.


Amy Pond was busy.

Her life went from work to online classes to house work back to work. She felt so rushed, and yet she felt empty. Sitting heavily down at her kitchen table, she rested her head in her hand, coffee mug sitting close by, steaming but so far untouched. It was very early in the morning, and the sun's rays had only just begun to stream through her bay window. The stain glass that hung in the frame glittered and threw the light. She lost herself in them, imagining something else, something she couldn't quite place. The same something that she'd known she wanted ever since she was a little girl. Something………more.

Sighing and letting her head drop from her hand, she reached wearily for her coffee cup, a sudden crashing noise causing her to jump and knock the cup on it's side. Jumping up and righting the mug, she cursed softly before looking in the direction of the sound, padding her bare feet across the kitchen floor warily, her pink robe slipping off of one shoulder and revealing her Smurf shirt.

Peering around the doorframe, she had to cover her mouth to keep from shrieking in surprise as she saw her living room was destroyed. Looking up, she was amazed to find that the ceiling was intact, but the rest of the room absolutely was not. Her telly was shattered, her furniture splintered, and her rug torn up so that the staples stuck out at odd angles from an unfinished floor. Smack in the middle of the chaos was a giant blue police box, the wood looking worn, and the paint looking faded. One window was broken, and a light at the top blinked weakly, as though about to go out.

Against all better judgment, she moved closer, her fingers settling apprehensively on the beat-looking handle. To her further surprise the door swung open of its own accord, and beyond it lay a space far too large to be contained within a four by four police box. Circling the structure with her mouth open and her sanity steadily slipping, Amy found herself right back where she started, her eyes telling her that the space inside indeed was, bigger. And stranger. Though it was damaged, the inner structure was quite clearly not of her world.

Her hand resting on the splintered door frame, Amy was trying to steel her resolve to walk away and check herself into a mental hospital. She was seconds away from doing just that too, when she heard a sound of pain, a sound like someone groaning. No matter whom she was or what the box contained, Amy could never leave something to suffer.

Drawing a deep breath, she stepped inside, her head spinning with the sheer impossibility of it all. It really was bigger on the inside. By quite a lot.

Her wits returned quickly, however, when she saw a man lying unconscious in the middle of broken material.

Rushing over to him, she knelt down, placing a hand on his chest and leaning her head near his mouth, praying that he was breathing. Absently she noticed that his suit was ill-fitting and his skin felt strangely cool. He was breathing, but barely, and there was a strange vibration? No, rhythm? No, a strange something coming from his chest. She couldn't place it for the life of her, and human instinct would tell her to call 911, but she decided that if this man was a figment of her imagination she had better care for him herself.

Feeling along his neck and shoulders carefully, she tried to ensure he had no spinal injuries before she attempted to move him. He seemed intact enough, and with a great effort she heaved him up over her shoulders and staggered into her bedroom, laying him on the bed a little less gently than she would have liked. He had a thin build, but he was by no means light.

Hands on her hips, Amy tried to decide what to do next. The man was obviously quite thoroughly unconscious, bruised, and perhaps concussed. She should check for a concussion and make sure his pulse was stable.

Running the simple objectives through her head repeatedly, Amy ran from the room to fetch a flashlight and stethoscope. She had one from when she was a little girl, when she used to play doctor. She just never could let go of it, the memory of receiving a real stethoscope on her seventh birthday was too fond to throw away.

As she left, the Doctor's body continued to try and heal, a procedure proving much more difficult than it should have been. Fighting a regeneration was never good. As another wave of heat and silent pain flowed through his body, the Doctor's consciousness buried itself deeper, hiding in the cold recesses of an attempted healing coma. In the few moments that it took for Amy to fetch her supplies and check his eyes, one of his hearts faltered and stopped altogether. The Doctor, however, was too far gone to know.

Amy worriedly pressed the bell of her stethoscope to her patient's chest, wishing she actually knew what she was doing beyond 'if they're breathing and have a pulse they are alive'. When she had checked for a concussion his eyes had reacted so slowly at first she felt she was staring into a dead-man's eyes. As it was, even when the dark irises contracted she felt with a shuddering realization that whatever soul possessed this body was buried very deep.

Listening to his heart, she felt his radial pulse as well; alarmed to find that while she could hear his heart beating she could not find a throb at the wrist. Shaking her head and chalking it up to nervous fingers, she then realized how very cold he had become. His skin was pairing with his eyes-if it weren't for the slowing pulse she could hear she would think that she was caring for a corpse that was gradually cooling.

Feeling utterly useless, Amy plopped down on the bed next to him, not knowing what to do, or what would be helpful, or what wouldn't be helpful, or that she wasn't just taking care of an imaginary corpse in the first place.

So, is the TARDIS in flames because of my writing, or is it half-way decent? Lemme know if you wish!