"Clara," his voice rang in stillness as sinewy fingers drummed upon the doors of the Tardis. A new cut, gray hair standing slightly array, and his traditional black jumper were all the effort he made for their regularly scheduled adventures. The outer limits of space and dawn of time awaited them, and he had something particularly wonderful planned for the day.

The Doctor was met with silence and answered his own echo, her name fresh on his tongue since the last time he gave voice to it in her company. A simple goodnight, drawn from the hasty farewell she bid him as she rushed off for another date with Pink. His lips almost curled at the thought of him, an old snarl building in his throat.

He swallowed, stepping across the threshold of his blue box and into the untouched disarray of her bedroom. Glancing around, he called her name a third time. Nothing. He absently smoothed his hands over the wrinkled sheets on her bed, vacant of her duvet and the frilly pillows she insists are comfortable. He's felt them before, and disagreed.

"Spending the night with the soldier, then?" He questioned the plants by the kitchen sink, noting the pathetic state of their leaves as he rummaged around her apartment. Abnormally pathetic – he corrected – Clara's ability to tend to the greenery suspect at best. The soil in the pot was flaking and bland, crumbling to the touch and arid. The lines of his brow pinched together in concentration. Abnormal.

Long strides brought him back to the Tardis, the doors closing with an over embellished snap. Even alone he cannot help the eccentricities, his fingers played unwritten symphonies as he walked circles into the floor. Though he often intruded on plans she previously made, it was unlike her to not even leave a note.

The Tardis hummed familiarly as he adjusted the date for Friday evening. It took only seconds for the five day transportation into the past, but he lingered at the levers. He was aware of his own presence, his breath, the spot too close to the bedroom door where the Tardis customarily appeared. He saw her entering the doors that once kept her from within, the smooth gloss of her skin warmly complementing the way he redecorated. Unintentional, of course.

Of course.

Eyes blank and he feels detached. She was no longer there, smiling before him. He was alone. He did not consciously keep track of how long he stood there; looming over the books and round things he could not find enough of. Subconsciously, he registered that two hours passed. Come and gone. Days to children. Moments to adults. Barely a second to the Time Lord.

When he finally emerged from the Tardis he was hopeful at the sight of the pillows and duvet intact on her bed. The plant, on the other hand, was less welcoming. The soil was more lively, the scent of the tap clinging to the drying roots, but there was still a lack of daily care. There was, however, a scent he did not come across Wednesday, a warm and sickening smell which rebounded off of his senses. He spun in place, limbs as loose as a willow in winds, blue eyes drawing in the room. Nothing was perversely out of place, the relative cleanliness indicative of her schedule. Between himself, her career, and her private life, Clara did what she could with what free time she allotted.

Clara's kitchen was smaller, but a decent enough size for her wants. He opened everything with hinges, cursed at those things that appeared to open and did not, and distractedly colour coordinated the spices in the pantry. It was only when he felt satisfied to have left an impression on the room when he noticed the package on the counter. Concealed perfectly in plain sight, it was too easy for The Doctor to have seen first. Deft fingers unwrapped it, the scent stronger with oxygen rushing across the contents.

Meat. It wept red after hours of neglect, and was malleable to the touch. His mind raced as he rinsed his hands clean of the blood, impossibly dark or unfortunately tender scenarios flashing in front of his eyes. He lingered on the latter, perhaps too long, entertaining the idea that a surprise holiday with PE was in progress. Clara was, after all, in love with him.

The sound of running water attracted the attention of another, and The Doctor became acutely aware that he was no longer alone.

"Cla - what are you doing here?"

"I am the one who should be asking that question," Danny Pink snapped back, his tone matching that of the snippy Scot as he entered the kitchen. There was a bag at his feet, and a hint of the duvet peeking from the top of it explained its future disappearance. Pink pushed past him with the posture of a dressed knight, his armor resilient save for the look in his eyes. "Do you just pop in whenever you feel the fancy to, Doctor? In her bedroom?"

"Where is she?" He spoke barely above a whisper, the severity gone from his face. He recognized the expression Pink wore. He saw it before in another time, through different eyes, on different faces. "Clara. Where is she?"

Danny avoided the question for a moment, sliding the spoiled meat into the bin, strangling the liner closed with a violent knot. There was a time when his exterior could easily bury the turmoil which brimmed just below the surface, but after a few years of civilian life, Pink was less inclined to maintain the stony façade soldiering required of him. The marble of his shoulders crumbled as if he was withdrawing into himself; hiding from the eyes he felt so heavily on the back of his neck.

"Royal London Hospital," he exhaled, glancing over his shoulder at the volatile presence in the room. He saw this man violent and reckless, veins coursing with shouts of frustration and insult, fury brimming on every line of his face. Danny didn't have the energy required to deal with another onslaught, and he knew it showed in his face. "She was admitted last night. The nurse said she was attacked. I came to get some things to make her more comfortable, they don't think she'll be home for some time."

The Doctor was still. He tasted harsh words perched on his tongue, insults he could easily land on the soldier to mask the overwhelming things he felt. Never before had he considered the plausibility that Clara would come to harm without his being there. She trusted him, and he was always there to assist her should the situation arise. But where was he last night? It was difficult to remember, his own patterns of keeping time as distracted as a child's. Mentally, he was swimming in a relentless current, drowning in it, suffocating from the inside out.

"Bring the frilly pillows," was all he could muster as he stared through Danny, his hands twitching, "she likes those."