Title: Guilty As Charged
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: gen
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: PG-13
Table: 100moods
Prompt: 48, Guilty
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the Tenth Doctor. Please do not sue.

***

This was his favorite room on the Tardis, the Doctor thought as he leaned back in his comfortable armchair, staring up at the ceiling of his ship. It was one of those places that had always made him feel calm, no matter what state of mind he was in.

He hadn't changed the room much, in spite of the fact that he'd been through three new bodies since he'd originally arranged it. There must be some remnant of the personality he'd had when the room had first come into being for him to still like it this much.

Or maybe it was just that it was a place for him to feel safe, a place where he'd always been able to go when he'd wanted to be alone with his thoughts. All of his companions had respected that; they'd given him his personal space when he'd needed it.

This had always been his private place; that was probably another reason why he always felt a bit calmer and more in control when he was here. It was a place that he could come to and relax, be himself without having to put up any barriers or wear a mask.

That was unusual in itself, he thought, sighing and closing his eyes. Even with the people closest to him, he spent so much time feeling that he wasn't being completely honest with them about who he was -- never letting them see his true self.

The only person who'd really seen that was Jack -- well, the only human, at least in this body. No one else had been allowed to get that close to who he really was.

The one person who still remained in the universe who had really known him was the Master -- and he was gone now. He'd died in the Doctor's arms, died in spite of the Time Lord's pleas for him to regenerate.

Would he ever be able to purge himself of the guilt that he still felt over that? The Doctor's hands tightened on the arms of the chair, gripping until his knuckles whitened. That was a subject that never failed to agitate him.

He should have been able to talk the other man into regenerating. It was impossible not to feel that he'd somehow failed the Master -- failed to keep him alive and in this world. He should have been able to convince him to hold on to his life, rather than throw it away.

But he'd made his own choice, a choice that the Doctor would never be able to understand. No, he hadn't intended to let the Master go free to wreak more havoc upon the world -- but would life with him on the Tardis have been so bad?

He almost snorted at the question. It was one that he didn't have to ask, really. Of course that life would have been intolerable to the Master. He would have felt that he was the Doctor's prisoner, and that was something he would never have tolerated.

In fact, he would have done his best to make sure that things ended up being the other way around -- with the Doctor subservient to him. There was no doubt of that.

Why did he feel so damn guilty for what had, ultimately, been the Master's personal choice? He hadn't forced the other man to his death. He'd offered him a way of life that he didn't want, true, but that didn't mean that he had to choose death as a way out of it.

No. He hadn't forced the Master in any way. He wouldn't believe that. He couldn't, not if he wanted to keep his sanity. Not if he didn't want to let himself drown slowly in his guilt, the memory of the Master dying in his arms continuing to haunt him for the rest of his life.

If only that little insistent voice that kept repeating over and over that the Master's death was his fault, that he'd told the other man he would continue his life in a situation that was intolerable to him, would just go away.

But it wouldn't. That voice would always be there; that was another thing he was sure of.

He'd tried to silence it in the days after the Master's death; it had been easier then, when he'd had other people around. But now that he was alone, he had much more time to brood, to look back at the year that would always be stamped onto his memory.

It didn't matter that there were only a few other people in the world who would remember that year. He would always remember it as one of the worst times of his entire life, a time that he'd like to be able to forget completely.

If only he could do that -- but it would never be possible. He would still have nights when he would awaken in the dead of night from what had been a sound sleep, gasping for breath, feeling that he was still in that cage, still helpless against the Master's enmity.

No, forgetting wasn't an option for him. There were others who wouldn't be able to forget, either -- but they hadn't suffered what he had. It hadn't affected them in the same way.

Of course, everyone who had gone through that horrible experience with him had suffered -- he wasn't discounting that. But none of them had been through what he had, and he was glad of it. He wouldn't have wished anything like that on his worst enemy.

Even as much as he'd hated the Master for what he'd done, he wouldn't have wanted the other man to go through what he himself had. Maybe that was strange, considering that the Master was the architect of all he'd been through -- but he did have somewhat of a forgiving nature.

And, although he almost hated to admit it, at one time he and the Master had been friends. When they were children, they'd been almost inseparable; and they'd gone through a great deal of their lives together. At one time, he'd thought that friendship would last.

He'd been proved wrong about that -- horribly wrong. But that didn't stop him from feeling, in some place deep in his soul, that the Master's madness wasn't incurable. He had still harbored some hope that the renegade Time Lord could change his ways.

Even when he'd been so horribly aged, even when he'd felt that there might never be a chance for him to escape, that Earth would be destroyed and that he would end his days as a wizened, helpless captive, he'd hoped for that.

When he'd been able to escape the Master's plans for him and turn the tables, he'd been sure that it could happen. He'd thought that he had a solution, that it would all work out.

But he'd been proved wrong in that, as in so many other things throughout his life. The Master had been the one to turn the tables on him in the end, preferring death to being with him. That had cut him more deeply than he would ever be able to express.

It was then that the guilt had started. Guilt that would never be assuaged, never go away.

He'd have to learn to live with this -- the memories, the guilt. He couldn't keep lying to himself. He was responsible for the Master choosing to die. Him, and no one else. He was guilty as charged. If he'd just kept his mouth shut .... then the Master would still be alive.

Yes, the other man had been his greatest enemy. But he was also the one other person in the world who could remember Gallifrey -- the only other person who knew what it was like to be what he was. The only one who could understand.

And he'd taken that person out of his life. He'd thought that he was making things better -- and all he'd done was condemn himself to spending the rest of his life carrying a burden of guilt that was even greater than what he'd already amassed.

The Doctor sighed, opening his eyes and finally making himself relax his grip on the arms of the chair he sat in. Sitting here brooding wasn't going to do him any good. It wasn't going to change anything. It would only sink him deeper into depression.

He couldn't keep doing this to himself. He'd have to learn to live with this guilt, to come to terms with it as best he could.

That, he knew, was going to take a long time. But, he told himself wryly as he got to his feet and headed towards the control room of the Tardis, time was something that he, of all people, certainly had more than enough of.

***