When exam period rolled along, the marking became impossible. Homework was fine; it was regular and relatively quick to mark. Exam papers, on top of homework, was a different story. Especially when the handwriting was atrocious.

The Doctor, of course, was oblivious to this particular dilemma. When he found Clara asleep at her desk, resting her head on a stack of Year ten papers, he unceremoniously grasped her shoulder and shook her until she woke up.

"What?" Clara mumbled sleepily. She blinked a few times and picked up her red pen, only to have the Doctor snatch it from her. He grabbed her hand and began to pull her towards the Tardis.

"Gough Whitlam, Prime Minister for Australia. Incredible election campaign: 'It's time' became a slogan that would be remembered by generations of..."

"Doctor, I have marking to do!" With great effort, Clara freed the Doctor's grip on her wrist and tried to go back to her desk.

But the Doctor wasn't having it. "Bring it with you, then! It's a time machine."

Despite her tiredness, Clara couldn't resist. She shoved the papers into a folder and followed the Doctor in to the Tardis.

...

Clara was usually in the staffroom by seven in the morning, getting in some marking or lesson preparation before roll call at a quarter to nine.

By five to nine, Clara's year 8 roll call class was still waiting patiently. Or rather, enjoying their freedom from supervision a bit too much. A couple of the boys managed to get a paper aeroplane stuck in the ceiling fan, and were trying to get it free when Mr Pink walked in.

"All right, what's the racket?"

"Miss Oswald didn't come to our roll call, sir!" Bradley said defensively.

Danny frowned. Clara was always on time. No, Clara was always early.

"Get off the table, boys," Danny said. "I'll go and find Miss Oswald. What's your first class?"

"English, sir. In this classroom."

Danny picked up a whiteboard marker and paused. There was a reason why he taught maths. Figuring that Clara was smart enough to deal with anything the kids came up with, he wrote down the first task that came to mind: "Write a cinquaine poem about your favourite TV show."

"There," Danny was rather pleased with himself. Poetry definitely constituted English. "That'll keep you occupied until I find Miss Oswald."

...

Danny found Clara asleep at her desk, a pile of marking (thankfully complete!) stacked neatly beside her.

"Clara," Danny said, shaking her gently. "Clara, you missed roll call. And you've got year eight now."

This woke her up immediately. "I missed roll call?" she sounded devastated. "Oh no, year eight! I need to go, or they'll be vandalising the classroom. They haven't caused any trouble yet, have they? Bradley is going to-"

"Clara." Danny placed his hands on her shoulders and looked at her carefully. She looked tired beyond belief. Dark shadows hit under her worried eyes and, in that moment, Danny wanted nothing more than to drive her home and make her sleep for a week. "I gave them something to do."

"You did?" Clara's eyes widened in surprise and relief. "You're amazing, Danny. But I've got to-"

"You look exhausted, Clara," Danny couldn't help but let the suspicion creep into his voice. "Didn't the Doctor let you sleep before he brought you back?"

Clara averted her eyes briefly, but that was enough of an answer for Danny. His eyes darkened, and Clara hastened to explain. "He didn't realise, Danny. He's alien, remember? He doesn't get tired as easily as humans."

Danny wasn't appeased, but he didn't pursue the matter further because he knew if would upset Clara. "Clara, you need to rest. Go home - I'll take your classes for the day. They don't clash with mine." Danny knew Clara's timetable off by heart.

"You can't take English!"

"You don't think I can teach English? I'll show you..."

...

When Clara woke up, it was seven in the evening. She felt refreshed and full of energy, and only then did she realise how exhausted she had been that morning. This realisation was followed by a rush of gratitude for Danny. Reaching for her phone, Clara called Danny.

"Clara! How're you feeling?"

"Much better, thanks to you. Did you really take my classes?"

"I did, indeed!" Danny sounded rather proud of himself. Clara leaned back on her pillow, smiling, eager to hear what Danny had to say. "Your students are really talented, Clara! I had them write poetry. Listen to this:

Miss Oswald Kind, caring Funny, clever, lovely I love her very much Clara

Isn't it great?"

Clara laughed. "Who wrote that one?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Danny said, trying to sound mysterious. "Anyway, every student wrote at least three poems for you to mark."

"At least three!" Clara had thought she'd seen the worst of it during exams. But Danny meant well, so she didn't really mind. "Anyway, don't change the subject. Who wrote that cinquaine?"

"You wouldn't believe me."

"Try me."

"Well...I did."

There was a pause, and for a horrible moment Danny thought that he might have upset her in some way.

Then Clara's musical, magical, wonderful laugh came through the phone. "Oh Danny, I do love you!"

"I love you too!"