Title: Ripped Inside
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: gen
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: PG-13
Table: 100moods
Prompt: 20, Crazy
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.

***

Whatever the Master had injected him with, it would wear off soon. It had to. He couldn't go on like this much longer, feeling as though his mind and his perceptions were turned inside-out.

The Master had said that he wanted the Doctor's mind, and that he would have it at any cost. At least he'd managed to escape from that madman and make it back to the safety of his ship. But he had no way of knowing how long this would last.

He'd been drifting in and out of what felt like a land of insanity for the last several hours, but at least he wasn't screaming incoherently the way he'd been when he was strapped to a table in the "laboratory" that the Master had set up for himself.

He'd managed to hold his senses steady long enough to squirm to the side and free one wrist, then reach for a wicked-looking steel instrument to pry the strap from his other wrist. He'd just been lucky that no one was around to stop him from leaving.

That concrete complex of rooms had seemed like some sort of maze as he'd stumbled through the corridors; fortunately, he'd been able to find his way out.

And now he was safe, in his own ship, far away from that place. He had no doubt that the Master would have tortured him physically in some way if he hadn't been able to get away; he didn't want to contemplate what could have been done to him.

But his mind still wasn't his own. The Master and his two cohorts had made jokes about the Doctor being driven crazy, and he'd been sure that was what would happen. He'd felt his mind being yanked back and forth, as though it was being ripped apart from the inside.

The memories of that room were fading, receding as though they'd only been a bad dream. Was that the effect of the drugs wearing off, or was it only a temporary respite? Would that disorientation, that feeling of losing his mind, come back stronger than ever?

His brain felt as though it was jumping around in his head, refusing to stay on one track of thought. Glancing up, he was sure that the door of the Tardis was opening .... No! his mind screamed. Keep it closed! Stay safe!

He stumbled towards the door, stopping only a few feet away from the three short steps leading to it. The door wasn't opened. It was firmly closed and locked.

What had he been thinking? If he opened the door of his ship, he'd go tumbling out into space -- and even the Tardis wouldn't be able to rescue him. It would be a fate worse than death -- for a while, it would be a living death.

The Doctor gripped the console, looking down at the array of switches, buttons and lights. What did they all mean? Was he capable of piloting this ship? He'd done it for years -- for centuries -- but would his mind clear enough for him to continue doing so?

He looked up at the door again, his mouth falling open and his eyes widening in shock. There were Daleks entering his ship. Daleks. In his place of sanctuary, the place where he'd always been able to feel safe and secure.

The Doctor blinked, starting to back away, feeling a scream start to bubble up inside him. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to see .... nothing.

There were no Daleks in the Tardis. There was only himself, and the presence of his ship.

He took a deep breath, leaning against the wall and sliding down it to land on the floor with a soft thump. Burying his face in his hands, he tried to marshal his whirling thoughts, to get a grip on himself and who he was before it was lost.

The Master wasn't going to take his mind. Already he could feel the vision of the Daleks receding, his mind settling back into its familiar patterns. Hopefully, the hallucinations would stop, and he would be able to settle himself back to normality.

How long that would take was anyone's guess, but if he stayed here on his ship, he should be safe. It didn't seem that the Master had followed him.

It wasn't possible for the Master to follow him, he reminded himself. Not unless the other man had somehow managed to procure a Tardis -- which he didn't think could happen. Of course, there was a possibility, but a very slim one.

No, he was safe here. The Master couldn't get to him. But the drugs that he'd injected were still doing their work, cycling through his system. They were fading more rapidly now, but he still felt crazy, out of himself, as though he was looking into his own body.

That was exactly what the Master wanted. That madman wanted to take his mind, leave him an empty husk of who he had been. He wasn't going to let it happen. He was going to fight with all his strength -- and it was a fight that he was determined to win.

It was passing. The drugs were wearing off; hopefully, that last vision of what wasn't there would be the last one. He couldn't keep seeing his enemies all around him.

If he gave in to visions like that, then the Master would have achieved his objective. And the Doctor wasn't going to give in that easily, no matter what his ancient enemy might think. He wouldn't let the Master have his mind.

He might have to surrender his body. But his mind was sacrosanct.

The drugs were leaving his system. He could feel himself systematically calming down, the craziness that they'd inspired going out of him. His hearts were beating less rapidly, and his mind was starting to clear from the mists of illusion that the Master had created.

The Doctor took a deep breath, closing his eyes and resting his head against the wall of his ship. The Tardis felt sturdy, strong, comforting. His bond with her was solidifying, almost becoming a tangible element. She would keep him safe.

He had his ship. He had his safety. And he still had his mind, thanks to the fact that he'd been able to get away when he did.

The Master would have to work much harder to drive the Doctor crazy, to rip his mind away from him. But this had been yet another narrow escape -- and the Time Lord had the uncomfortable feeling that his next escape might be much more difficult to achieve.

***