He should have held her hand. As the ringing in his ears grew deafening; as the pain of shrapnel embedded in his calf began to register; as the dust settled, coating him grey and he blinked into the chaos on that street, it was his only thought. He should have held her hand.
Settling his palms into the ground, he felt the tremors of other bombs as they landed, and he felt the rumble of footsteps of those rushing to safety. The Doctor managed a small smile. Humans, ever-hopeful that there could be safety, even when their cities were burning and crumbling around them. Shifting to his knees, he grimaced and looked to the blood staining his trousers. He reached and touched the bit of metal, bracing himself before plucking it free and deciding with a read off his Sonic that it wasn't a wound worth concentrating on.
There were more pressing matters, his hearts reminded.
"Clara," he breathed.
She'd been caught up in the crowd as soon as she was on her feet. There'd been no time to assess damage, but she could feel the sting of her injuries with each hurried step she took, registered the dampness of blood soaking her blouse at her side around a spot that screamed for her attention. Her ears were buzzing and she tried to listen as best she could, knowing if he were able to, the Doctor would be calling for her. All she heard were the muted shouts of those around her, urging her along.
Her body pleaded with her to stop, and she tried her best to weave through the crowd in the street towards the sidewalk, all the while knowing if she fell, she'd be trampled. When she finally stumbled out, elbow cracking a panel of glass of a shop window with the force, heart thudding angrily in her chest, she took a moment to catch her breath.
There had been a bomb – she could hear others exploding further away – dropped from a set of planes, she knew. Clara watched the people rushing into buildings and around corners as she tried to remember what the Doctor had told her before they'd landed. They were supposed to have landed at the end of it all, at another great re-birth of civilization, but of course they were too early. Wincing, she raised a shaky hand to that spot that burned in her side, body shivering when she felt the hard edges of two small shards of metal there.
"Doctor," she gasped.
His Sonic lit up the debris floating in the air, creating a green cloud in front of him and he measured the time between the muffled sounds of impact and the ground trembling beneath his feet, calculating the bombers movements away from him. They would be safe, unless another set of planes swept through. He knew it was a possibility and he limped forward, shaking his head and wiggling a finger into his left ear to try and clear a better path for sound.
He called her name, moving towards the sidewalks and stepping carefully over cinder blocks and signs scattered there. One glance at his leg told him he should be seeking medical attention, and he laughed lightly at the thought, scanning the air again to detect the humans inside the buildings, still and probably distrustful of his device. It would be easier if they were on an alien planet, he knew. Her genetics would lead him straight to her.
"Clara," he called, hearing his own voice subdued and distorted.
Could she hear him? He wondered. She'd been just as close to the blast. He muttered a curse under his breath and thought about going back to the Tardis. The Tardis would be able to find her, he knew, but he also knew the Tardis used her HADS to get to safety. With a groan, he added the Tardis to the list of important people he had to find. And then, he noted, he had to reprogram the HADS.
"Clara!"
Head coming up, she looked through the now-empty street, watching the curling smoke and ash roll over debris and abandoned cars to settle somewhere down the road. She moved slowly, breaths taken carefully, because she didn't know the extent of her injuries – didn't know how deeply the objects in her side had embedded themselves. Clara only knew she'd heard her name and she made her way towards that sound, hand reaching out to steady herself as she went.
She could see curious eyes here and there, peering out at her from windows, and she was tempted to go inside. To ask for water, and help, and a place to lie down because she was beginning to feel faint. Clara knew it was more adrenaline than blood loss, and she smiled at the notion, telling herself, nope, definitely blood loss. Possibly, she added, other internal injuries.
Well done, she commended herself, good job.
She fell forward and landed against something warm that buzzed and gasped and trembled. Clara felt his body drop and she whined when they hit the ground together, gesturing as best she could to the shrapnel in her side, hearing him emit a noise that instantly froze the blood in her veins.
"No worse than mine," the Doctor lied.
"You got hit?" Clara managed.
"Nicked, really," he responded lightly, carefully pulling up her blouse and dropping his fingertips to gently test her skin as the Sonic buzzed. "Might need a cane," he whispered comically.
"Please don't, you'll never stop poking me," she whimpered back, trying to sound light and amused.
She heard him knock and then knock a second time, calling out, "If it's not too much trouble, my good friend here has bits of bobs trapped in her side and I'm in need of a washcloth, clean water, and, if possible, someone with suturing skills?" The door squeaked and then she heard softly, "Clara?"
"Mmm?" Blinking up at the Doctor, face hovering over hers, she could see the worry there, caked in ash. She raised a hand and touched at a tear that had made it halfway over his cheek, finger sliding a muddy streak as it dropped back into his lap.
Clara blinked and she was inside some place warm, the coughs and murmurs of strangers oddly comforted her as she registered the pain of a needle slipping through her skin once and then again and then again. She blinked again and she heard laughter and a buzz, a hand gently stroking her cheek. Blinking a third time, she realized it was dark now, and quiet, and she was lying in a bed. Was it a bed, she questioned, hands reaching to test the sheets beneath her before finding the bandage at her side, just underneath the soft shirt of new clothes.
"Doctor?" She managed.
"Your friend's out like a light," came a soothing female voice from beside her, "So worried about you, he wasn't thinking about his own wounds. Passed out just as soon as your last stitch went in..."
Her eyes shot open, searching in that darkness for the face hovering at her bedside, illuminated by a dim light and she gasped, "Is he alright? Where is he?"
The woman chuckled and gestured, "Brought you in together, thought you wouldn't mind sharing a room."
Clara looked to her side to see the Doctor lying quietly in the bed beside hers. She laughed because he wore a green hospital gown, but that laughter tapered to a simple smile as she carefully pulled herself up to sit to get a better look at him. It was so rare to see him sleeping, she thought, and he looked so innocent. The woman told her to try to limit her movements, told her to call if she needed help, and then departed to look after others.
"Doctor," she whispered once they were alone.
He heard his name softly, thrice, before opening his eyes to look at the ceiling. It was dark, he considered, probably from power loss, and then he turned towards the voice that said his name once more, smiling lazily at the woman seated on the bed next to his. In his delirium he allowed himself to admire her, before he shook away the blush staining his cheeks and sat up slowly, throwing aside the sheets that covered his bony legs.
"Ah," he sighed, "New stitches for me as well."
Clara groaned and laid back down, asking, "So, bit early?"
"Bit early," he responded, turning to let his legs hang, feet wiggling to test their feeling. "I'm sorry, Clara, but we might be stuck here a bit until we're recovered enough to get moving to find the Tardis."
"HADS," she muttered, eyes closing.
"HADS," he repeated, dropping off the bed carefully to grimace as he limped to her side.
She opened her eyes as his hand fell lightly atop her head, stroking back her hair as she told him, "You really shouldn't be walking about. You'll tear your stitches."
On a sigh, he turned and pulled himself up into the space beside Clara, sitting there calmly and searching out her right hand to hold between his, bending to kiss her knuckles before admitting, "You gave me one helluva fright."
"Keep you on your toes," she teased, but he didn't laugh.
In the darkness she could see the fear still there, wetting his eyes as he watched her. The Doctor massaged at her hand and he turned away after a moment, sniffling roughly before whispering, "Get some rest, Clara."
Clara never questioned what happened to settle that look in the Doctor's eyes, and he never offered an explanation. They healed up just enough to walk off in search of a time travelling box they would find two weeks later in a pub in Amsterdam and through their journey she noticed his reluctance to let go of her hand, even after they were safe within those blue doors.