Long things with nails. They’re the first thing the Doctor notices. He, unknowing, sends a signal their way.
Nerves plop into arrangement; blood pools and fills and floods and flows. There are drippy slices on the things with nails. They sting, belatedly.
With an abruptness those who are properly disembodied should, markedly, be blissfully unaware of, the Doctor realises he is still in the dream of the jungle. He’d been trapped inside, with himself, himself, himself, himself and himself. And then there had been himself. And himself again. And again. And again.
God, but for that dreadful colored coat.
He fiddles with his thoughts, remembering the dust that had come before. There had been something strange, about that dust. But what had come before that? He remembers a bowtie. A blue box…
Ah, the TARDIS, yes!
A girlish simpering squeak forms in the back of his brain.
Ooh, he has a brain! Good to have a brain still, actually.
Still a pain in the neck, but that isn’t to be helped.