Disclaimer: I own neither Doctor Who nor any of its characters.
The Doctor ran down the halls of the labyrinthine hotel, until a sudden chill stilled him in his tracks. He turned and stared at the door that was like all the others doors surrounding him, only with one difference: this door belonged to him. It called to him silently, beckoning like a whispered siren-song. The plaque read "11" and he could see his distorted reflection in the brass. He grabbed the knob and twisted, peering inside to find out what awaited him. "Of course," he said, a sad smile forming on his face. "Who else?"
It was like looking in a mirror, watching his own eyes staring back with equal intensity. The one person from whom he could never run away, never hide, inhabited the space before him. The one man who knew all of his failings and judged him on the most honest of terms. It was no surprise that out of every regeneration, every persona he ever embodied, it would be his latest; not the man he used to be with all that ambition and sense of justice, but the man he had become: Icarus, deluding himself into invincibility before plummeting to his demise through his own vanity. He wanted to be a god. Equally, he wanted to walk among mankind. He failed at both, hovering somewhere in between in an unsatisfying state of rest. His own pride had led way to disappointment on its grandest scale for, before him, he only saw a life of eternal loneliness and regret.
But the despair did not overpower him; if it had that ability, he would have succumbed to it long ago. No, he knew this was not his time. Carefully, he closed the door again, placing a "Do not disturb" sign over the knob, and continued on his way.