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January 1st, 2005.
It'd be weird to have that on a gravestone, considering he'd been born somewhere around the year 200100, and the time he has had to experiance life was certainly less than the temporal distance between these two points. But that's the life of a time traveler, he supposed.
Of course, noone in the outside world would really consider putting up a gravestone for him, not for a very, very long time (he hoped). The Doctor wasn't really dying for good, just regenerating. He might get a new body, a new face, a new brain chemistry even, but all the memories and core values, the things that truly matter in a person, would stay the same.
So why did it feel like, in just a few moments, there'll be an entirely new timelord standing in his place?
It'll still be just you, his TARDIS, the only true constant in his life, whispered into his mind as the pain of regeneration started breaking down his mental walls. You know this. You've been through it before, and will be again, my dear Thief.
It's true, he had been through it before. It hadn't always felt this scary. Last time he regenerated, he wasn't even thinking about it - whether it's because protecting Rose took priority, or just because he was riding the high of having the Time Vortex inside of himself, he didn't really care. Other times, there was a hint of anxiety about the change. But never on this scale before.
A traitorous thought said he hoped their new brain chemistry will be less terrified when it's their time, that they wouldn't go through this again. And then the possibility that this existential dread, something that feels insurmountable in his current state, could very well be snapped away by just rearranging a few of their neurons. It nailed home just how different they may become.
"I don't want to go," he whimpered. To the TARDIS, to himself, to the universe.
You always were/are/will be the Doctor, his TARDIS reassured once again. She flashed him an impression of faces and mindscapes he used to/is/will be recognised by. All with a special focus on that twinkle in the core that was consistent all throughout.
He thought back on his previous bodies. How, while they didn't quite feel like him, they also didn't quite feel like not him either. He remembered the day he met Rose, and how he still found that memory just as precious as the day his ninth self had been destroyed, if not moreso, now that he had lost her. He remembered being in the Time War, about to use The Moment, and how the cocktail of emotions about that was still mostly the same as it's been that day, the last 24 hours only reaffirming him in the action he's taken. He went even further back, many regenerations ago, to the day Katarina died, and while the pain had since dulled with time and many more lost friends to follow, it wasn't like her sacrifice now meant less to him. He had said, back then, he would never forget her, and he never did, likely never would, because it still mattered all the same, no matter if he preferred to be loud or quiet, or if he preferred spontaneity or careful planning, or any other number of little things that might change between bodies.
When he thought about it like that, he could almost pretend it was like human aging. Sarah Jane, for example, looked and acted slightly different when he first met her in his third body, than when he met her again in this one. And yet, she was still the same woman, at the core. And... he was clearly the same timelord to her, too. Looking and acting more than slightly different, sure, but almost 300 years of aging compared to a human's lifespan was bound to look more drastic, no?
It comforted him, a little bit, and the artron energy overflooding his veins started to feel less like it was actively killing him, and more like it was offering him realignment of a few broken bones - it wouldn't feel good, sure, but it's to ultimately make them better.
Let go now, my Thief. If you hold it in much longer, the energy release may just damage my internal circuits, the TARDIS nudged him, and she was right, he was really burning up.
And with that, the regeneration process truly kicked in, and for a moment everything was just white hot pain of all their cells rewriting themselves. Their jaw bone widening, along with their torso. Their spine becoming just a smidge shorter. And the very distinct moment his brand new brain chemistry fired up, old thought patterns overridden with new ones, his previous reluctant acceptance of an end swiftly blurring away, now just a memory of how he used to feel.
And along with it, came a familiar burst of adrenaline and dopamine that's supposed to accompany the first moments after regeneration - after all, if a timelord has been mortally wounded, there's a non-insignificant chance the danger has not subsided by the time the process has been complete, and letting the timelord fall into a crippling existential crisis over their new body in that critical moment was not exactly an evolutionary advantage. It only made sense that survival of the fittest made sure coming out of regeneration felt extremely energizing.
So, as soon as the burning pain subsided, and the Eleventh Doctor took in the first breath with his brand new, undamaged by radiation respiratory system, he was in a frenzy, taking inventory of his body. Hearts? Check. Legs? Check. Arms? Check. All facial features? Check. All other important internal bits? Seemingly check, given he hasn't collapsed yet, although he was very much riding the adrensline shock right now. Sex? Male, it felt like. Hair? Unfortunately, still not ginger. Was he forgetting something?
The TARDIS brushed up against his newly stabilized mindscape, and impressed upon him the idea of them crashing.
And, oh yeah, they were about to crash!
Steering a burning TARDIS while still in regenerative shock well enough to not break some new record for fastest regeneration cycle ever?
He let out a manic laugh.
Sounds like something he'd be just as pumped for a few minutes ago.