Clara always met the Doctor on Wednesdays. That was the agreement - that was 'his' day. He never questioned her on what she did the rest of the week, or asked for more than Wednesday. Which was good. Fine in fact. Because her Tuesdays belonged to another doctor altogether.
It had started, as these things did, with a chance encounter. An appointment at her local surgery for a repeat prescription, a locum instead of her usual doctor, who turned out to be a kind looking man, with sandy blond hair and intelligent blue eyes, and a hint of hardness about him - someone used to danger. She was still unsure why she had said anything to him... she'd mentioned something flippant about adventure and running as he was checking her blood pressure... she'd looked up at him and his wry expression had told her that he knew all about running around after a madman, saving the world on a regular basis.
It was completely unethical, but he gave her his number. He'd seen it in her too. She'd texted the next day, suggesting coffee, and before they knew it they had a regular Tuesday afternoon date for coffee, gossip, and the occasional slice of cake.
It took a while. There were weeks of small talk and chatting about themselves, getting to know each other. They lived such different lives on a day to day basis, but there was a spark between them, despite the age gap. It was the same as in the surgery that day - an acknowledgement of a kindred spirit - one among thousands who really knew what it was like.
Soon they started talking about their personal madmen, and swapping stories. Cautiously at first, testing the water, seeing whether the other would baulk. But neither did. Even when he told stories of severed heads in the fridge, and fingers in the tea caddy. Even when she talked about police boxes that contained whole worlds, and of the man with two hearts. She liked this doctor - he never doubted her even when she herself wondered if she could possibly have seen some of the things she had.
Some of the stories made them laugh - the stupidity of very clever men, the lack of common sense that left these two mere mortals having to rescue their own personal idiot on an all too frequent basis. And the running, always the running.
Some of the stories made them sad - the whispered stories of real and faked deaths, of enemies too dangerous to talk about, of fearing for your life so many times you stopped even noticing it. Of fearing for their life even more. Those Tuesdays were never cake days. Those were the days they sat in the corner of the cafe in the semi dark, holding hands, hoping the warmth of the cup and of each other would help.
One week his madman paid a visit. It was just a regular Tuesday. Conversation had slipped easily from an interesting documentary they had both watched the night before, to an anecdote about a planet with orange skies and brilliant magenta oceans, to stories of Afghanistan and the beauty of the mountains. He was sitting with his back to the door so didn't see the man enter. She did, and watched with interest as this tall imposing gentleman with ridiculous cheekbones, black curls and an impressively badass coat scanned the cafe then swooped down on them.
"Sherlock?" her doctor queried as he looked up at the visitor. "Is there a case? You didn't text?"
"John" he said in greeting, raising one eyebrow as he turned to look at her with piercing eyes, "This is Clara." She wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement so she merely nodded in agreement.
She felt his gaze scan over her with interest, and held her head up, amused, an eyebrow of her own raised in response. It took more than that to intimidate her these days. He caught her eyes and looked at her with, hmmm, begrudging approval she thought. He turned, hooked a chair from a neighbouring table and sat down with them.
"I apologise in advance" her doctor said with a groan. "He's going to be insufferably rude to you now and you are going to either slap him or storm out. Sorry."
She laughed, unconcerned, and touched his hand in reassurance. "I'm sure I won't." And she turned to Sherlock and smiled at him, welcoming him into their space.
To their mutual amazement, he wasn't rude - or at least not excessively so, and she didn't take offence or find him difficult. Because what made John dear to him was the same undefinable element Clara also had in her - she was interesting. He could see there was something more to her. She wasn't trying to hide anything from him, but she was difficult to deduce. She should be normal and boring - a vapid young woman. Or she should be a threat to him - someone who might take his John away from him like his endless girlfriends. But she was neither. She was warm and responsive and neither intimidated nor falsely impressed. There was an unexpected depth to her. She was young but appeared to be decades older. Lifetimes older, in fact. Much to his dismay he found he liked her.
So now sometimes on Tuesdays there would be three of them meeting for coffee, discussions (never 'gossip' when he joined them) and occasional slices of cake.
There was never anything romantic about it, although she thought they had both debated at one point or another whether it would go that way, given how they had clicked. She kissed her doctor on the cheek when she left each week (and one week, when she was feeling especially brave and vivacious she'd kissed Sherlock too, and had been gratified at his slight flush of colour and how he hadn't seemed to object at all, not in the slightest). They held hands occasionally too - but that was more about providing comfort than anything else.
It was an unspoken understanding that the madmen in their lives took up too much for there to be space for anyone else around them. That it was nothing short of miraculous to have managed to carve out these precious hours for coffee. There could be nothing more.
It was good though. To have a friend. One who understood the attraction of being the companion. One who understood how it was to be dazzled every day by the brilliance of the person you were with, and how you could never tire of being that close to the sun. Of how others assumed you must be standing in the shadows when in fact you were basking in their light and felt grateful awe at being chosen. Even if being that close did mean getting burnt on a regular basis.
He got to meet her doctor too. She'd asked if he had wanted to, given that she and Sherlock were now acquainted. He'd readily agreed - curious about the one she admired so much. He wasn't quite sure what he had expected, but it wasn't what he got. This gangly, clumsy man-boy with his outdated clothing and alien physiology would be easy to dismiss on first impressions but he had spent far too long with Sherlock to do that, and he very quickly saw the fierce intelligence and the parallels between the two eccentric geniuses. They too had forged a friendship, her Tuesday doctor and the Doctor, built on the mutual understanding of men who have gone to war and done terrible things for the greater good, and who had come out the other side and would always, always be grateful for that.
The Doctor too enjoyed meeting John, Clara's other doctor. He had heard a little about him, and was pleased to discover he approved and didn't feel the need to threaten him much at all. This doctor was a soldier too, and understood that things, people, were precious, and should be protected at all costs. This doctor also understood that Clara was his, and didn't try and take her away or dissuade her from the wonderfully insane adventures he offered on his Wednesdays. He had an easy unassuming way about him that was deceptive and hid the steel core inside. The Doctor liked this - it reminded him a little of himself.
Besides, when did the Doctor ever turn down the offer of cakes and companionship?
So now, some weeks, it was the three of them. Coffee would become tea, there would be cake, and it was never discussions and always whimsical tales of faraway lands.
For some reason it never became the four of them. Neither of them said it out loud, but they both felt that it might be too much of a good thing. That one madman in a cafe (in a city even) was more than enough. That the delicate balance might tip and those men might size each other up and find the other wanting - too sentimental, too cold and unemotional.
It wouldn't really be about that, of course. It would be about them, the friends, the facilitators and encouragers, the ones they cherished the most. For if they saw the other, they might be afraid that their chosen one might find them wanting, now they had a choice. They didn't see what she saw in the doctor, and he in her - that they were unequivocally devoted and it would never occur to them to leave.
And so, Tuesdays came and went. Some weeks they laughed, some weeks a conversation turned into a passionate argument, some weeks the tears threatening to fall. They had their madmen - with blue scarves and blue boxes; violins and sonic screwdrivers; bloggers and companions. And they would continue. Fearlessly helping to defend their worlds from the evils that threatened, protecting the madmen from themselves and from those who wished to darken their blinding light. And then share stories of it, over coffee and occasionally cake, in a quiet London cafe, on a Tuesday afternoon.