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He awoke feeling...sick. Pressed against the floor of the TARDIS, he felt like a fairly large planet had decided to roll him over a few times. As he pushed himself off the floor a wave of dizziness swept over him, and his stomach lurched.

Was something...burning?

What had happened?

He opened his eyes. The room seemed very blurred, but he could see the floor clearly. There was a crack. Why would there be a crack in the fl....

Oh.

Oh.

He felt sick, but forced the feelings away, standing shakily as pain pulsed in the muscles and bones, leaving him to feel every moment of his long life. He coughed, and his ache flared in his chest.

Smoke.

So something had been burning.

He raised a hand to his collar, pulling at it almost frantically. His clothes...they felt as if they were pulling inwards, tighter and tighter, choking him. The cravat was thrown blindly, landing near the books that had lept from their shelves.

Neurons jumbled, misfiring, he all but fled the smoke-filled console room.

A trail of clothes - torn and singed and stained in places - followed his path to the wardrobe.

He fumbled through the racks of clothes, not used to his fingers and legs too long to walk properly and brain still trying to sort itself out. The TARDIS hummed faintly, just as damaged as he but still offering what comfort she could. Something caught his eye.

It was a jacket.

A familiar jacket.

He knew he should know the name attached to it, one so very important to him, but the image and the name refused to connect. He pulled it free of the pile it was slightly buried under; the dark leather felt cold under his hands.

Something clicked into place as he stared at it.

The rest of his chosen wardrobe was quickly collected.

He looked down at himself, the mirrors shattered from...What-Had-Happened. Black boots, black jeans, black leather...the only splash of colour at all was his red jumper, and even it was dark. Seemed tragically fitting.

The very inside of the jacket was light though, almost white.

Though he didn't think he'd ever actually let them see that - whoever 'they' were.

He took a breath, mind just a bit clearer than before. Clear enough to give him purpose, to not let him wallow in the misery he felt leaking from the edges of his consciousness.

The TARDIS was a mess.

And the universe never stopped moving.