A/N: Based on this wonderful post: post/37653167489/the-doctor-visits-old-donna-noble-in-the-hospital

'As usual', I've been 'forced' to write by my lovely friend Christina. You can send the thank-you notes/flowers/chocolates/complaints to her.

Title from Katy Perry's Wide Awake. I'm not even sorry.

Falling From Cloud Nine

Some days start with pain—a dull, throbbing ache that blossoms in your bones, tears your joints apart and crushes your chest. On days of pain you lie very still in your cold, uncomfortable bed, look up to the dirty-white ceiling and hope for it all to end.

You don't die on days of pain, although you sometimes wish you did.

Some days are bright, sunny and warm, and when the nurse takes you out to the garden you angle your face towards the sky and close your eyes, feeling almost good, almost comfortable with yourself.

You wouldn't mind dying on a bright, warm, sunny day.

You don't, of course not. That would be too simple.

Some days are quiet, dull and gray, and you spend them in your bed, staring blindly off into space, imagining you can feel the stuffy air pressing down on your lungs like a weight of iron. Some days never end.

You don't want to die on a day like that, but you suspect you will. That's what always happens to you: first a long, dull stretch of nothing, then an abrupt, noisy ending. Nothing in between.

It's on a quiet, gray day that the doors to your room open one last time.

"Donna Noble," the woman says as she slips inside and sits down on the end of your bed. "We finally found you."

You narrow your eyes, trying to focus on her face, but the only thing you can see with some clarity is a cloud of golden hair surrounding it. "Who are you?" you ask hoarsely, perplexed by her presence. She doesn't look like a nurse, not with that mass of hair and a colourful dress. You remember something: a vague talk about calling a specialist, a consultant, as if there were still any doubts as to the nature of your sickness. "Are you with the doctor?"

The woman covers her mouth with one hand; you don't have to see her face to know you startled her. "I am," she answers, turning back towards the door. "I brought him here."

Only now do you notice him—a tall, lanky figure by the door, shoulders slumped as he leans forward, grasping the metal frame of your bed. "Donna," he says, and the pain in his voice, otherwise so terribly young, chills your blood. "My Donna Noble."

"I don't know you," you whisper, wishing your body was pliant enough for you to curl into a ball, press your hands against your ears and just stop listening. "You're not my doctor."

The woman sitting on your bed releases a muffled sob and leans forward, grasping one of your hands. You wince at the touch of soft, warm skin: something you can hardly recall between IV needles and calloused fingers, marking you, prodding you, bending you, scrubbing you. "Oh, but he is," she says, and lifts your hand to rub her cheek across your knuckles. It's a caress—at least you think so. It's been so long. You're no longer sure. "Let him show you, Donna. Let him help you."

I don't need help, you want to scream, want to shout at both of them until your lungs collapse and your gums bleed. I don't need anything anymore, do I?

I'm dying. So unless you can help with that…

The man kneels by your bed, his shoulder touching the curly haired woman's leg in a way that tells you everything there is to know about both of them, even with your degenerated senses and feeble mind. He's letting her see his vulnerability. He's letting you both watch his uncertainty and perceive his fear. You almost cry in frustration. "I don't even know you," you protest weakly, closing your eyes against the harshness of emotions. "Why me?"

The woman chokes on another sob, but the man's voice is warm and steady as his fingers touch the sides of your face in a way that should frighten you. "Because you're special. You're brilliant, Donna Noble. The most important woman in the whole wide universe.

"And I can't let you go without showing you."

And then his fingertips press into your skin, warm and somehow familiar, and his lips brush your forehead, and you remember.

Just one family. Not everyone . Just…

I command it to be otherwise.

Take it away!...

Agatha Christie? what about her?

I'm not having any of that nonsense!

I'm going to travel with that man forever.

Where am I in the future?

Sometimes you need someone to stop you.

"Doctor?"

River Song, the strong, proud River Song, grasps at your hand like a lost child. The Doctor smiles. You try it, too—a smile—and your face hurts a little as you pull on muscles long disused.

"You've changed, spaceman."

"And you're still the same."

"You don't have to lie to make me feel better," you protest, squeezing River's fingers but seeing only him. Your friend, with a face so young but eyes so old.

"You are. To me."

You draw in a shaky breath, feel the press and burn on your brain, close your eyes against the flames of time. "This is it, then?"

"Yes."

It hurts so much more than old joints and rattling bones.

You wouldn't have had it any other way.

You can no longer say who is crying. Perhaps all three of you are.

It won't be long now, you think as you let him rest his head on your lap, and cradle it in your hands. You want to look at him again, commit every detail of that new face to your memory, but you can't—it hurts too much—and anyway, it's not like you're actually going to need those memories, is it?

The edges of your consciousness blacken. The whole universe rushes through your brain, leaving pain and conflagration in its wake. "I don't want to go," you manage to say through clenched teeth, and your friend—your best friend—shivers under your touch.

"I'm here," he tells you, grasping your hands as the first spasm envelops you, thrashes you, all but throws you into River's calming embrace. "The last adventure, Donna. You don't have to go alone. I'm here. I've always been here."

"Who will be there for you?" you protest, awed and scared and a little excited to see what's waiting for you. "You shouldn't be alone, Doctor."

"I'll be with him," River whispers, and you know that's impossible, but you still believe her somehow.

"Just… stay safe," you warn them, although you know better than anyone they never will.

"Donna," he says, or perhaps she does? You no longer know anything, and yet you also understand everything. You're safe, with your friends, who will never, ever let you fall.

You slip away.

You're gone.

End