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Silence.
The Doctor, in his black jumper and navy plaid pajama bottoms, leans against the frame of his TARDIS.
"Clara? Fancy a stroll in the finest garden on the barren planet of Apollieus? A planet so close to the sun that the flora and fauna…" his voice died away. Something was not right. There was a horrible ringing coming from the kitchen, an excessive bundle of blankets splayed over the couch, and used saucers and mugs littering the perimeter of any object of furniture meant to be sat on. "Clara?" he called, sticking his head around the corner to her bedroom. "Clara? I believe you've left the kettle on!" he called desperately over the din. Something was definitely, very off.
As he approached the kitchen, his insides froze. A small human hand lay curled upwards on the tile of the kitchen, and further observation informed him that the whole human was attached. "CLARA?!" he shouted warningly, rushing forward in a low crouch. She looked like a forgotten marionette, splayed out on the tile in a tangled mess of arms and legs. Her face was pressed against the ground, eyes shut, her lips parted slightly in that deafening scream—his hearts lurched in his chest and he furrowed his eyebrows in untampered agony at her screech, the lines on his face unfolding themselves in horror. Hearts racing, his brain took over and had the sense to turn off the stove and shift the insulting kettle off the burner, the scream gurgling to a hiss.
The Doctor's knees hit the tile with a crack and he grasps Clara's unresponsive face in his cold palms, supporting her torso as he searches for a pulse. His cold fingers rest on her neck, and wait. Ba bum, ba bum, ba bum…It was only until he could feel the steady thrum of her single heart that he allowed his own to pummel his ears once more. Sighing through a selfish grin, he felt her temperature—a simmer too hot for his naturally burning companion. Placing a kiss on her forehead, he lay her back to the ground and rummaged in his pocket for the sonic.
A quick whirr and a bleep later, he confirmed a severe case of some forgotten Zukronian virus that had caused quite a scare the years before the Olympics had begun. With proper care, she should be right as rain in no time, as long as she hadn't been like this for too long, then…
He barricaded the thought from his mind, reassuring himself that his Clara was a smart girl, and would have told him the moment she felt unreasonably off. Especially after the brief history he'd given her during the Olympics…Silly humans. Snaking two arms beneath her shoulders, he dragged her easily round the kitchen and into the TARDIS.
In no time at all he'd gotten her on a small, memory foam hospital bed in the infirmary. It was a sterile, white room, perfectly normal until you glanced at the ceiling. There was none, just the immediate space outside of the TARDIS, whether it be a Cardiff street or spider cloud nebula. As of the moment, it sported a cotton-candy nebula glittered with metalloid asteroids.
A monitor in the wall flickered on, expressing his companion's vitals. His face dropped. His Clara was, in short, dying. Degrading. Lips parted in disbelief, he squinted at her temperature again…40.5 degrees Celsius. His brain barely had time to register this information before he was scampering about again, preparing an ice-bath and plunking her in it as fast as inhumanly possible.
She gasped, her face animating instantly into a mess of confused cinnamon eyes and a contorted, silent screech. "Clara, Clara it's okay, you've nearly boiled your brains out—"She looked at him incredulously, taking in her horizontal environment in one swipe that made her head even more frazzled. "I don't know where I am" she cried out, wincing as her throat rebelled. "Clara—"
"I don't know where I am!" she cried, her eyes fighting to make tears, but failing desperately.
A soothing voice rumbled softly, authoritatively, beside her. The intensity of the low tones cut through her burning mind and the agonizing freeze, and she felt grounded, as though she had been tethered to something sure and real and immediate.
"Look at me Clara"
Her red face turned to him, seeing him, whoever "him" was.
"I can show you exactly, where you are, and where I always will be." He lifted her hand from the icebath and held it gingerly with his own, smoothing his thumb over the still-burning skin. "Look up." It was more of an invitation than a command.
Clara raised he wild eyes to the stars and felt relaxed. She wasn't confined in a little bathtub in some strange room she'd never seen before, she was free. Eyes dancing along the millions upon millions of crystalline stars, she felt her heart slow to a comfortable tempo, a smile toying on her lips. She squeezed the man's hand beside her, the man with the comforting, low voice and that Scottish accent she knew so well…hang on…Scottish...
This man was the Doctor, and she was in the TARDIS.
This man was the Doctor, and she was his companion.
This man was the Doctor, and she had dreamt of his sexy, beak-like nose.
Clara lurched forward in the tub, gagging at the thought
"Nice to have you with us. You're quite boring when you're not chattering about."
"You're not going to be sick, are you?" grimaced the Doctor.
"No, no, I'm fine. I was lost for a moment, and then I remembered." She glanced upwards at a blue moon off in the distance. "Doctor, how did you know to come? I was reaching for the phone…and I missed."
"I think that's quite apparent," he said, turning her blue wrist to the light. "It's a good thing you don't call for help often. You're rubbish at it." He stood and continued. "By the way, why didn't you call me sooner? If I hadn't come 'round your pudding brain would actually be a pudding. A nasty pudding. A pudding of the utmost nastiness imaginable, with another heaping tablespoon of nastiness."
"I…dunno…forgot? I couldn't exactly think straight." She blinked innocently
"Forgot? For two blinking days you forgot?" she bit her lip. "Rubbishy human memory…" and he grumbled away, searching the cabinets for a towel.
"Actually Doctor, it's Wednesday. Today is. I've been like this since last Thursday…"at his glare she attempted to fix her obvious mistake. "But it wasn't this bad! I promise! Thursday was an intense cold, Friday was more like the flu…and I don't really remember Saterday or Sunday…or Monday….or…..Tuesday." She faltered under his attack eyebrows and settled for staring at the stars.
"Clara. Oswin. Oswald. Do you mean to tell me you let your brain poach for 5 days without medical care?! YOU'RE NOT IMMORTAL CLARA!" his voice reverberated and cracked like a thunderstorm.
She mumbled in the tub. She hated when he was cross with anyone, especially her. He was so good, she couldn't bear it to see him so…not good.
"Speak up when I'm talking to you." She could feel his glare on the back of her neck.
Eyes flaring, Clara whipped around and spat "Poaching and freezing my arse off!" The movement made her woozy. She wished she could clamber out of the tub, but she'd lost feeling in her legs ages ago.
She had expected him to fling some nasty remark against her species, to meet the terrifying gaze of her best friend, or to sit through some speech about her life choices…but she met an equally visage of the horror she felt, directed at her. "What." She demanded.
"I need you out of that tub. Now. Hurry up. HURRY" he shouted, launching himself across the room and hoisting her up painfully by her shoulders, supporting her. "How do you feel?" he demanded.
"My legs and arms are numb, killer headache, freezin'." She listed succinctly. Something was wrong with her thoughts. They were…half-formed, slow, like they needed to cross a sea of molasses before being allowed to surface.
Her knees buckled and she found her head lolling awkwardly on his chest. It wasn't that she couldn't control her limbs, it was like she didn't even have limbs. Not a good feeling.