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He couldn't breathe.
Well, he could- but nothing useful. His breath ripped from him in shallow heaves, his vision blurring at the edges. He felt like both of his hearts were pounding out of his chest.
What was he doing? What has he done?
He slammed the door of the TARDIS shut, closing his eyes, trying to concentrate his breathing. This kind of thing only happened to humans. He thought, almost bitterly. He reopened his eyes, looking down at his trembling hands. He wasn't going to die. It wasn't time yet.
Right?
He reopened the door and looked out again. It made him feel worse. He slammed the door again.
He wasn't going to die. He didn't have to. It wasn't time.
But what had he done? What was he?
He wiped his hand against the back of his dewy forehead and walked- nay- marched to the control panel.
He had to leave. That was it.
As he slammed down buttons and pulled levers and that distinctive whooshing began, he couldn't silence his running thoughts. He couldn't calm down. He needed to breathe.
What would Rose think? Or Martha? Or Donna?
Rose…
What had he become since Rose? He was so different now. He was literally created out of his love for Rose. What had losing her done to him?
Something, he'd figured. Something… potentially horrible.
Martha would've been very dissapointed, too. Donna would've slapped some sense into him. Rose was right. The Doctor really needed someone to be able to stop him, to not let him do everything.
Because whatever happened when he was able to do anything he wanted…
It was bad.
Horribly bad.