She was walking along the sidewalk, a black bag slung over her shoulder.

It was a fine spring noontime, with a slight nip in the air and a hot sun shining down. The pavement was chilly beneath her open-toed flats. Brushing a brunette lock behind one ear, she approached the street. Her mobile rang as she waited for the pedestrian crossing-light man to wink into a white silhouette.

Danana Danana Danananaaaaa

She rifled in her bag, looking up to see the little man on the traffic pole was now white. Stepping forward off the pavement, she raised her phone to her ear. "Hello?"

There was no verbal reply, only a pained, restricted breathing on the other end.

"Hello? I can't really hear you. Who is this?"

A whine came from the other end, a croaking, a noise of a wounded animal so terrible her heart froze stiff and her senses heightened. Mother bear was waking up.

"Do you need help? Who are you? Where are you?!"

Finally, a voice answered.

"It's…so…" the anonymous being rasped on the other end, sending gooseflesh prickling on her neck. Her eyes widened in fear and confusion, hanging on to every word in the middle of her busy street.

"It's so what? What is it? Where are you?" she pleaded urgently.

"…cold" the voice cracked with emotion.

"I can't feel…I can't see….I can't—" the voice moaned in agony…Clara felt tears burn in the corners of her eyes.

"Clara, help me—"

It was Danny.

Her mouth fell open in a concoction of disbelief, shock, horror…unspeakable grief-

SLAM!

And her body fell, the side of the yellow bus flashing at the edge of her vision. She felt the entire right side of her body crunch against the car, the revolting jerk of the bag-strap on her neck, her head snapping inwards towards the bus, the contact against cold hard metal.

She was flying to her left, knowing it was the end, that it had already ended. Her head swam as the white crosswalk came closer, closer,

And she sat up in her bed.

She released a breath she didn't realize she was holding, adrenaline inflating her pupils and allowing her vision to adjust to that black and blue room. As her quickly sharpening mind contemplated what she'd just dreamt, and why, despair veiled her lids once more. Blinking away the burning tears watering her eyes, she lay back down on the sheets, brushing the blankets far away as possible. Danny. Of course it had been Danny…it would always be Danny.

Wouldn't it?

She sighed and rolled over. Her bedside cabinet was striped with the sapphire moonlight that peeked through the blinds above her bed. A cutting of purple rhododendron stood tall in a slender glass, the petals just beginning to wilt in their plentiful bunches. Her peripheral vision almost read the digital clock, so she rolled onto her back and stared at the textured ceiling of her flat.

Even though the emotional hurt would linger in her mind for an unknown while, she classified this dream as just that: a dream. Nightmares were conceived of terror. Some thing so twisted and wrong and beyond creepy, something darker than the realm of all things okay that burned through your eyelids and remained in your vision no matter how many times you blinked. Something so sick and inexplicably wrong. Danny's call was a dream, and she'd handled her fair share of nightmares. She'd bested them before, so she could overcome a dream, no matter how heart-wrenching it was.

Maybe she needed to talk more about Danny. The brain has subtle ways of telling us what we need, but it usually breathes its secrets in a language we don't know anymore. Calling her gran was always an option, but she'd rather have her mum…she'd always rather have her mum, and she felt guilty for admitting it. Her gran was the only one who understood how Clara worked—her and the Doctor. So, 1 human. 1 human that she never wanted to bother, and 1 timelord who holds himself above domestic things and tries to avoid sentiment. She needn't bother the Doctor with her sympathetic, pudding brain's dream further along the week, in 2 days' time.

Anyway, he'd had it far worse. She had no place to even begin to complain knowing what he'd seen and done, what he carried on his conscience even now. He had more nightmares than she had nights.

Stealing a deep breath of her cool, absent bedroom, she closed her eyes languidly and settled deeper into her pillow. Exhaling, she felt herself sink deeper, deeper, closer and closer to sleep. The deep thrum of her heart lulled her into the abyss.