He claws his way into his other's mind; it's not as easy as it should be, to come up with the level of concentration mental contact usually requires. But then his other helps, he opens up and suddenly, there are pictures in the Doctor's mind.
They're wrong, though, they're not his. They wouldn't be, of course, they're his other's, he's seeing what the other Doctor is seeing, but the other Doctor is looking at him, and that's different. Because the Doctor can also feel his other's worry, and his confusion, and there's also something like repulsion and anger, and the Doctor can understand all of these notions because when he sees himself in his mind, pale, wide eyes staring vacantly at nothing at all, blood smeared all over his face and his clothes, it's repulsive, and worrying. And confusing, because he doesn't know what happened, either.
You took them away, and he doesn't know what that means, either, he just knows that his other changed, grew bigger, and then he took something away, and it hurt, it hurt so much but it was right, it was good, it was necessary -
The not-memories are too strong, though, they barge in and sweep everything away, disintegrating as well in the process. He tries to control them, tries to hold on, but conscious thought is falling apart. The images in his mind, of himself and of his other's console room, melt; they start flickering in and out as darkness eats away at their edges. He's desperate to hold on; they've not made it yet, he still has to get to his own TARDIS before he can rest, but it's a losing battle. His fingers slip off his other's temple, and his knees finally do give way. The Doctor pitches forward against his other, unconscious.
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They're wrong, though, they're not his. They wouldn't be, of course, they're his other's, he's seeing what the other Doctor is seeing, but the other Doctor is looking at him, and that's different. Because the Doctor can also feel his other's worry, and his confusion, and there's also something like repulsion and anger, and the Doctor can understand all of these notions because when he sees himself in his mind, pale, wide eyes staring vacantly at nothing at all, blood smeared all over his face and his clothes, it's repulsive, and worrying. And confusing, because he doesn't know what happened, either.
You took them away, and he doesn't know what that means, either, he just knows that his other changed, grew bigger, and then he took something away, and it hurt, it hurt so much but it was right, it was good, it was necessary -
The not-memories are too strong, though, they barge in and sweep everything away, disintegrating as well in the process. He tries to control them, tries to hold on, but conscious thought is falling apart. The images in his mind, of himself and of his other's console room, melt; they start flickering in and out as darkness eats away at their edges. He's desperate to hold on; they've not made it yet, he still has to get to his own TARDIS before he can rest, but it's a losing battle. His fingers slip off his other's temple, and his knees finally do give way. The Doctor pitches forward against his other, unconscious.