Do not approach the patient. (Narrative or OPEN.)
It had taken the hospital staff a while to decide what to do with the Doctor. He wasn’t the only unusual patient in Arkham – they’d seen everything from supervillains to the undead - but when it came to anatomy, he was unlike the others. The Doctor was not human, or at least not a variant that the medical staff recognized. He’d woken the first night after his abduction, confused but lucid, hours earlier than expected. He metabolized the normal dosage for his height and body weight in half the regular time, so they’d increased the medication.
It had almost killed him. On the table, the delirious patient confused his present with his past and muttered frantic warnings to the medical team – warnings about his physiology and someone named ‘the Master.’ Meanwhile, Arkham’s staff attempted to keep his hearts beating. Both of them. He was luckier this time than he had been when Grace Holloway had operated on him; the medical staff in the City had experience with inhuman patients. They may not have been able to identify the Doctor’s species or predict how he would react to medication, but they knew enough to trust what their equipment was telling them.
After the Doctor stabilized, they were much more careful in dealing with him. The doses were dialed back and, until they could find the right chemical cocktail to keep him docile, they housed their patient in the secure wing. The Doctor spent the next day or so in varying states of consciousness, strapped into a straightjacket and tied to a chair. As his body burned off the near-overdose, he became vaguely aware that something was wrong. At first it was a sense that he wasn’t where he ought to be. Then, he began having wild dreams of a magnificent blue box. Other worlds. Other people. The fairy-tale resolved itself into cold reality: the TARDIS. He’d been in the TARDIS, and anything with the power to pluck him out and sedate him --
Outside, on the door, was a sign that warned staff and visitors alike. ‘Do not approach the patient.’
It was a wise warning; the staff didn’t know if they could rely upon the sedatives. Worse (for them), as he came out of his daze, the Doctor knew that they didn’t understand him. Whatever power was behind all of this could not be actively involved with the doctors and nurses; if it were, it would have known that it could not hold him with canvas and leather. Not if his mind were clear. Physically, the Doctor had no magnificent strength, but given full control of his faculties?
They didn’t know what they were up against.
By morning of the third day, the Doctor was the closest to clear-headed that he’d been since his arrival. He had a plan, or something close enough to it – the start of a plan and a willingness to improvise from there. As insufferably boring as it may have been, he faked higher levels of sedation than he felt. Once the medical staff was convinced, they removed the straight jacket and let him move down a few levels into one of the low-security wards.
From there? The Doctor went out to scout the wards and common spaces. He needed information. He needed allies. He needed his personal effects and, perhaps most importantly, he needed a proper shirt. His tenth incarnation may have been content to save the world in his jim-jams, but Eleven wanted trousers. Trousers, shoes made of something besides rubber and fluff, and possibly a fez.
He started popping into rooms, affecting the zombie-shuffle that he mistakenly thought made him seem ‘drugged.’ One of them had to hold something useful, surely.