The Doctor comes to with the slow leisure of waking up after a long sleep—not something he does often, sleeping for any more than an hour or two at a time, but he has slept the equivalent of entire nights before, usually after regeneration or after pushing dangerously close to one.
It takes him the first few moments of proper consciousness to realize that he's lying on the floor—not a couch or a bed or slumped over a desk or table. Hm. The floor. He doesn't usually fall asleep on the floor. He's pulled an all-weeker now and again, woken up in the middle of glassware or books, but he distinctly remembers falling asleep in his bed...
And waking up with himself next to him.
"Doctor!" He pops up to a sitting position, propping himself up on his hands, and then instantly wishes he hadn't. An odd feeling, not nausea but more like disconnection, disembodiment, swims at the back of his mind. He's watched humans play video games—first-person shooters, he hates those—and it feels like that, like he's the little avatar on the screen and the player watching from behind and above, both at once. Except the view isn't from just behind and above, it's from all around and it's not really a view because it doesn't involve vision.
He pulls his legs into a crouch and then stands slowly, uncertain of his balance. It's fine, steady, but the feeling doesn't go away. He can "see," with that omniscient unvision, the entirety of the room, from all angles—even objects within other objects, sensitive tools tucked away in foam padding or surgical instruments cabineted in autoclaves. He shakes his head, and the sensation becomes less intrusive, but it doesn't fade away entirely.
Streamers of the energy with the second spin and the purple-shifted spectrum twist in the air—the entire room shimmers with it, an aurous haze. Well. It looks like the experiment was a success.
But why was he unconscious on the floor? And where's the other Doctor?
...That wasn't all a dream, was it? A hallucination, perhaps? Brought on by some silly error, a slip-up with chemicals or telepathic stimulation, here in the lab?
No. Something happened. He knows something happened, and it was real, and because of it, the drums in his mind purr quietly now, as quiet as they've ever been since they established themselves, and because of whatever happened, his other self is hurt, and he needs to find him and help him. It's what he does. He helps the Doctor.
The Doctor frowns. No. What? He just helps. Anyone who needs it. Why did he think "the Doctor?"
"Doctor!" Where is he? The Doctor in black pushes off from the counter he's leaning against, to start searching through the room for his other. He's here, he can feel him, now that he thinks to pay attention, but...
There. The omniscient space-sense shows him where his other is. In a corner made by the join of a counter and a rickety old metal desk, close to the door. That's where he is, slumped down. Unconscious? Why?
He vaults over the tables in the way, swings around the bulk of a synesthesian sense converter, and finds his other exactly where his new sense indicated he should be.
The other Doctor looks terrible, pale and drawn and shaking, sweat slicking his skin, staring unblinking at his hands resting in his lap.
"Doctor, what happened?" He kneels down in front of his other, and as he does so, he feels the space-sense slip away, and he can only see with his eyes again. That's wrong/right, good/bad, and he has to take a moment to sort his reactions out, put them away to examine later, because they make very little sense. "Doctor. Doctor, can you hear me?" He puts a hand on his other's shoulder, and feels the shuddering running through his other's body.
no subject
It takes him the first few moments of proper consciousness to realize that he's lying on the floor—not a couch or a bed or slumped over a desk or table. Hm. The floor. He doesn't usually fall asleep on the floor. He's pulled an all-weeker now and again, woken up in the middle of glassware or books, but he distinctly remembers falling asleep in his bed...
And waking up with himself next to him.
"Doctor!" He pops up to a sitting position, propping himself up on his hands, and then instantly wishes he hadn't. An odd feeling, not nausea but more like disconnection, disembodiment, swims at the back of his mind. He's watched humans play video games—first-person shooters, he hates those—and it feels like that, like he's the little avatar on the screen and the player watching from behind and above, both at once. Except the view isn't from just behind and above, it's from all around and it's not really a view because it doesn't involve vision.
He pulls his legs into a crouch and then stands slowly, uncertain of his balance. It's fine, steady, but the feeling doesn't go away. He can "see," with that omniscient unvision, the entirety of the room, from all angles—even objects within other objects, sensitive tools tucked away in foam padding or surgical instruments cabineted in autoclaves. He shakes his head, and the sensation becomes less intrusive, but it doesn't fade away entirely.
Streamers of the energy with the second spin and the purple-shifted spectrum twist in the air—the entire room shimmers with it, an aurous haze. Well. It looks like the experiment was a success.
But why was he unconscious on the floor? And where's the other Doctor?
...That wasn't all a dream, was it? A hallucination, perhaps? Brought on by some silly error, a slip-up with chemicals or telepathic stimulation, here in the lab?
No. Something happened. He knows something happened, and it was real, and because of it, the drums in his mind purr quietly now, as quiet as they've ever been since they established themselves, and because of whatever happened, his other self is hurt, and he needs to find him and help him. It's what he does. He helps the Doctor.
The Doctor frowns. No. What? He just helps. Anyone who needs it. Why did he think "the Doctor?"
"Doctor!" Where is he? The Doctor in black pushes off from the counter he's leaning against, to start searching through the room for his other. He's here, he can feel him, now that he thinks to pay attention, but...
There. The omniscient space-sense shows him where his other is. In a corner made by the join of a counter and a rickety old metal desk, close to the door. That's where he is, slumped down. Unconscious? Why?
He vaults over the tables in the way, swings around the bulk of a synesthesian sense converter, and finds his other exactly where his new sense indicated he should be.
The other Doctor looks terrible, pale and drawn and shaking, sweat slicking his skin, staring unblinking at his hands resting in his lap.
"Doctor, what happened?" He kneels down in front of his other, and as he does so, he feels the space-sense slip away, and he can only see with his eyes again. That's wrong/right, good/bad, and he has to take a moment to sort his reactions out, put them away to examine later, because they make very little sense. "Doctor. Doctor, can you hear me?" He puts a hand on his other's shoulder, and feels the shuddering running through his other's body.