Title: Blood of Me
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: gen
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: R
Table: 50_darkfics
Prompt: 4, Blood
Author's Note: Spoilers for the Season 3 episode Smith & Jones.
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.

***

The Doctor held up a hand in front of his face, staring bemusedly at the cut on his finger. Such a small thing, such a minute amount of blood. And it wouldn't bleed for long, he knew. He'd put a bit of pressure on it, and it would stop bleeding in a matter of seconds.

There was something about seeing his own blood that always unnerved him a little; perhaps it was because blood was such a precious commodity for anyone. Lose too much of it, and you'd die. And dying was something he didn't want to think of, not for a long time to come.

Of course, he'd faced death more times than he could eer possibly remember. But somehow, it didn't seem so imperative to hold on to life when he was in a situation where he had to make the choice of sacrificing himself for the good of the universe. Then, it seemed worthwhile.

But there were other times when he thought of the inevitable with distaste, pushing the thought away and hoping fervently that it wouldn't come to him sooner than it absolutely had to. Like now ..... he shook his head, wishing that he could get rid of these disturbing thoughts.

He didn't want to think about death. Or regenerating. Or blood. Or any of those disturbing things that seemed to come into his mind lately without the least provocation. He'd prefer it if they stayed away, keeping their distance and not bothering him.

Ugh. Blood was so .... so visceral. He was lucky that he'd managed to avoid having too much of his own spilled, at least while he'd been in this body.

Well .... there had obviously been times when that hadn't been able to be avoided. His mind quickly skittered away from those thoughts; he didn't need to brood on the past, he told himself sharply. It was over and done. No need to bring back unpleasant memories.

That was hard not to do, at times. Strange that cutting a finger -- and only a slight surface cut at that -- should bring all of these things that he'd tried to keep locked away flooding back into the forefront of his thoughts, like unwelcome guests crashing a party.

Not that he would hesitate to sacrifice himself if the occasion called for it -- even if it meant a painful death. He'd long ago accepted that it would more than likely be his destiny someday, and he was willing to face that. But hopefully, it wouldn't come around too soon.

There had been more than a few times in the not-so-distant past when he'd been faced with death. And even a time when he actually had died. At the time, maybe he'd wanted to, he reflected, leaning on the control panel of the Tardis and letting his mind go back to that situation.

It had been odd to be on the moon -- to look down and see the Earth from such a distance. Not that he hadn't seen such sights before, of course -- but he'd been trying to see it from a human perspective, and it had felt .... different.

He'd been between companions then -- just as he was now. But perhaps that was the way he worked best, even though the loneliness got to him at times.

That was neither here nor there. He really needed to learn not to let random thoughts distract him so much, the Doctor admonished himself, turning his mind back to the path that his thoughts had been on before they'd veered sideways so suddenly.

He shuddered at the remembrance of what he'd had to deal with during that time -- the mad dash away from being "categorized" by the Judoon, and that .... creature. She'd looked so innocent, like any little old lady in any city, so innocuous and bland.

But she hadn't been that, not in any way. She'd been a murderous creature who'd nearly caused the deaths of more people than he wanted to think about. And she'd actually brought about his own death -- at least for a short time.

Another shudder traversed his thin body as he thought of what had happened; it hadn't been pleasant, and he didn't want to contemplate dealing with it again.

That had been one of his last experiences with blood, hadn't it? Well, in a way, at least. There hadn't been a drop of his blood spilled -- which had been unusual, to say the least. But the manner in which that thing had drunk his blood hadn't exactly been normal.

A straw. A bendy straw, at that. She'd drunk his blood with a straw. Those guards of hers had held him down, even though he'd struggled as hard as he dared against them, held him against the floor until he could feel nothing but the coldness of the tile against his cheek.

He'd stared at those tiles, trying to prepare himself for what he knew was going to happen. Death -- and if Martha hadn't attempted to bring him back with CPR, then it would have been irreversible after a while. He'd never really properly thanked her for that ....

She hadn't really understood what had revived him, though he'd explained it to her. She'd taken it all the wrong way, just as he'd expected her to do. He shouldn't have been surprised at that.

The Doctor shook his head, closing his eyes. He was getting distracted again. He had to stop doing that. His thoughts might not be the most pleasant at the moment, but it did him no good to go off on a mental tangent. He was diong that far too much lately.

That straw. It would probably remain in his memory forever; he'd certainly seen weapons that looked much more frightening, but that simple, everyday implement had haunted his dreams for a long time after that incident. And there were times when it still did.

He could still remember how it had felt, having the blood sucked out of his body. He'd barely felt it at first, then as more and more blood had drained out of him and he'd felt himself growing weaker, it had grown more painful until he just wanted it to end.

That creature had told him that it would hurt. He'd expected that. He'd known when he'd formulated his plan that it wasn't going to be something he enjoyed. But he'd had to do it, had to sacrifice himself to achieve his goal. He'd merely been a means to an end.

But he hadn't expected it to hurt so much. He'd been unable to cry out, incapable of making a sound. He'd only been able to lie there, feeling his life drain away with each passing moment.

And there had been no blood. None. No mess, nothing to clean up. Just .... his blood, his life force, going inside that ..... that thing. It had been eerie, knowing that there would be absolutely no evidence of what had happened after it was done.

He held up his hand in front of his face, studying his cut finger. It had already stopped bleeding, the cut seeming to mend itself even as he watched. In another couple of days, it would be gone as though it had never existed.

But it had. And it had made him think about something that he'd tried very hard to forget after it had taken place. Strange how something as simple as a cut finger could bring back such memories, even though the circumstances weren't similar at all.

So little blood, both times. But this time, the blood had been visible -- and somehow, much easier to deal iwth than the thought of his blood being invisibly drained from his body.

The Doctor shuddered again, trying to shake off the memory of that day. It didn't bear thinking about. It was in the past, and that was where it should stay. He was spending far too much time with his mind in the past lately; he'd do better to look to the future instead.

There was no reason for him to think about morbid things like death. He was far away from that; yes, he deliberately put himself into danger far too often, but it was what he had to do. He didn't have a choice. He was a Time Lord; he couldn't turn away from his responsibilities. Even if they led him to his demise.

He had no doubt that they eventually would. But hopefully, that wasn't going to happen for a long time -- and there was no reason for him to brood on it. It would happen when it did; thinking about it too much would only turn it into a self-fulfilling prophecy.

He couldn't keep back a small, wry smile as a new thought struck him. Maybe he was more like humans than he was willing to admit, with this fear of his own mortality that seemed to be haunting him these days.

Sighing, the Doctor turned back to the console, focusing his attention on it and trying to decide what would be the best place to go next. Somewhere that he couldn't get himself into trouble -- but with him, that was more or less impossible, wasn't it?

Ah, well, he thought, allowing himself another wry little smile. Trouble seemed to follow him no matter where he went -- it was unavoidable. He might as well spin the proverbial wheel of fortune and see where it might happen to land.

And with that, he closed his eyes, pressed a button, and waited to see where the Tardis might happen to take him next.

***