Concentrate
The Doctor finds Clara sitting on her sofa, wrapped in a colourful fluffy blanket and looking all sort of floppy. This will not do, he thinks to himself.
"Well, what are you sitting there for?" he asks her. "It's a beautiful day outside."
She raises an eyebrow at him. He turns to the window, sees at the hail bouncing off the windowsill.
"...Somewhere," he finishes feebly.
He approaches the sofa. She watches him warily. After a moment's hesitation, he takes her hand and attempts to pull her up. When this doesn't work, he goes to pull her blanket away, but she holds on all the tighter. She still hasn't said a word—perhaps she is experiencing a malfunction. She mimes writing something down with her hand. He spins on the spot, locates a pen and notepad.
Lost my voice, she writes on the page.
He stares at it, squints at it, reads it upside-down.
"...How can you lose your voice? You're always talking. I only listen to about fifty per cent of what you blabber on about—something to do with socks and mortgages, most likely—but it's your voice. How can you misplace it? It's like if I lost my TARDIS—which—okay, that may have happened a few times..." He tails off, thinking, and doesn't notice Clara's heated glare. "It's like if I misplaced these eyebrows. I just—I can't. I'm using them all the time. Look, I'm even using them right now."
He waggles his eyebrows to demonstrate. When he glances at Clara again, her glare is surprisingly effective, given that the lower half of her face is hidden behind the blanket. Glaring seems to take up a lot of her energy, though, and she gives up to sniffle meekly.
He's practically bouncing on the spot. "Oh, come on! You don't need your voice to have an adventure. In fact, it might make my life easier..." He dodges the projectile cushion with ease. "Throwing things now, are we? That's not very nice."
Curled up in a ball on the sofa, Clara is the very picture of misery.
"Your voice, it's got to be around here somewhere..." he says, making a decision. He checks behind the books on the shelves, under the rug, in the fridge and in Clara's handbag, but he doesn't find her voice. He does, however, find a concert ticket stub, seventeen pence in change and a half-eaten cheese pizza.
"My, your voice really is lost," he says as his search brings him back to the living room.
Clara has switched on the television since he's been away, the volume on low, and there's a second box of tissues open. She grabs a tissue just in time as she sneezes violently.
"Don't lose your nose too," the Doctor warns her, accent slightly harsher with frustration. "I'm not going to help you look for that." He was sure he was good at finding things, but now he's not so certain.
When Clara has finished sneezing, she droops, breathing heavily.
The Doctor stands awkwardly, watching her, and then says, "Maybe I should just come back next Wednesday."
Clara's eyes go wide, and she doesn't have to write it down; her eyes say it for her: Stay.
"Okay," he says slowly, and she relaxes again. He fidgets with his hands. She coughs into her fist. "Do you—do you want a glass of water or something?" he ventures tentatively, unsure of what to do now that he does seem to be hanging around. She sniffles, nods gratefully.
He goes into her little kitchen, discovers that he's better at finding glasses than he is at finding Clara's voice. Then he checks inside the microwave for Clara's voice, just in case. Nothing.
She takes a greedy sip of the water, and when she's done she pats the sofa cushion beside her.
He shakes his head, backs up a step, almost knocking over a lamp in the process. "Oh, I don't think—"
She pats the sofa more firmly.
"Fine," he snaps, and sits down beside her.
He faces the television, but in the corner of his eye he can see Clara sink further and further into her cocoon of cushions and blankets. She blinks lazily.
After a few minutes the Doctor's right leg starts to bounce. Clara shoots him a look that clearly says: Stay still.
He tries, he really does, but the television doesn't hold his attention. After another few minutes, he shifts. Clara swallows a few times, and with an effort, grates out, "Concentrate." Even so, her voice is so quiet he can barely hear it over the television.
He wills his leg to still, leans back into the cushions a little. Clara notices, flicks a corner of her blanket over his knee. It's dominant colour is magenta. "I don't need a blanket, I'm fine," he says. "What am I supposed to be concentrating on, anyway? Doing nothing?"
He doesn't get an answer. He stiffens when Clara rests her cheek on his shoulder, her breaths evening out. She is asleep.
He realises with dawning horror that there are no books within reach, and he refuses to watch the television.
She starts to dribble onto his sleeve; he can't help but try to shift away, but she moans at him for moving and he sighs.
"Come on, Doctor," he says quietly to himself, "concentrate."
He closes his eyes, thinks one thought very hard: "Pillow, pillow, pillow..."
THE END