When I get out of these catacombs, if I ever do, I’ll change my ways. No more adventuring for me. No more dashing about time and space, taking mad risks, playing blind man’s buff with death. I’ll return to Gallifrey and lead a life of quiet contemplation throughout all my remaining regenerations. I’ve still got a few centuries left. I’ll treasure them, eke them out second by second as if each heartbeat was a diamond, worth more than all the galaxy. I’ll … I’ll donate my TARDIS to the Presidential museum. They’ll appreciate that. Sightseers will point to it and ask: ‘Whatever happened to the madman who used to wander the universe in that thing?’ And the curator will say, ‘He learned his lesson and came home for good.’ Perhaps … perhaps I’ll be the curator.
The Briggs Doctor after running into his future tomb and dead TARDIS in Alan W Lear’s 1985 Cloud of Fear. To summarize, we have “no more”, the madman in a box, the Curator, the Doctor’s future tomb, and the Doctor’s dead TARDIS. Doctor Who is like poetry. It rhymes!