Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who is starting follow! I admit, this is really dull and depressing content, but Dark Water through Last Christmas, plus Clara's blatant recklessness throughout S9, got me thinking a lot. Anyway. WARNING ABOUT THIS CHAPTER: MAJOR TRIGGER FOR SELF-HARM, AND SOME FOR SUBSTANCE ABUSE. PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.


I don't know where I am…I don't know where I am…I'm breaking…Danny…where is Danny…no…NO…come back…help me…where is the Doctor…DOCTOR! Where are you!? HELP ME!

Clara's eyes flew open and she awoke with a start at the sound of her own screams in her head, sitting upright in bed. Her entire body was rigid, frozen in terror, barely able to breathe. Her face felt stiff, and as she regained movement she touched her face, finding newer tears streaming down, as well as dried ones clearly sticking to her skin.

Whatever that nightmare was, it had gone on for awhile this time. If she could only remember it, maybe she'd know why she was having it.

With shaking hands hardly able to grasp, she reached for her phone to check the time. Three-thirty. Seriously?

No point returning to sleep now, especially since she would have been waking up a mere two and a half hours later. The last several times she'd had a nightmare, she had been able to quickly soothe herself back to sleep. Not so tonight. Though her body was still exhausted, her mind was wide awake, racing, her pulse pounding violently in her ears. She swung her feet off the edge of the bed, kicking underneath it (just in case), and lurched to standing. Wrapping her robe around herself, she pushed open the door to her room and headed down the long corridor to start her day with a splash of cold water to the face.

Of course, while pouring herself a large mug of coffee fifteen minutes later, the hair on the back of her neck rose trying to remember her nightmare. Most people would be thankful to not remember a nightmare - but not Clara Oswald. Nightmares tended to have distorted premonition quality for her from time to time - a sort of deja vu effect, which was why forgetting them was terrifying. All she could remember from this one was crying out for both Danny and the Doctor - which meant, thankfully, that it most likely wasn't something she would be facing later.

But it still unsettled her nonetheless.

Her hands were shaking again, and she very nearly spilled coffee all over the counter. With a quick glance over her shoulder, making sure the Doctor was, in fact, nowhere near the kitchen, she pulled the lower cabinet door open with her foot and ducked down, grabbing one of the smaller bottles that, again, she could not read, but she knew that this one had a sweet taste to it and would take the edge off her nerves. She quickly topped off her coffee with a few shots from the bottle before shoving it back in the cabinet and exiting the kitchen. Hopefully, a few moments of peace would be had in the control room…if the Doctor wasn't already planning their next near-death experience.

The Doctor wasn't awake yet, as she soon discovered. She hadn't figured much out about what he got up to at night, but she knew he only slept about three hours and usually didn't go to bed until well after midnight. She probably had plenty of time to compose herself, to let the caffeine and the alcohol kick in before she needed to put her bubbly face back on.

Not so. Moments after she had sat underneath the control panel and started on her coffee, she heard one of the doors from the upper floor whoosh open. Quick strides down the stairs. He's awfully sprightly for being over two thousand years old…she thought absentmindedly, before curling up closer into herself and hoping he wouldn't notice her right away.

"Clara? What are you doing awake? Is it six already? And why are you under there?"

Damn.

"No, no, it's only four," she replied with a sigh as she slid out from under the panel, making sure not to spill her coffee. "I…woke up and couldn't sleep anymore. Thought it might be nice to relax for a few minutes."

He looked her over before his eyes settled on hers and his lips pursed with knowing concern. "Nightmare, eh?"

How did he know her so well when he was so very clueless?

"Well…yes. I think so. I don't remember it. It's not a big deal. Nothing to worry about." She stretched and yawned, trying to be nonchalant, only to have him catch her wrist and look her in the face with even more concern.

"Clara, nightmares are a 'big deal,' especially when you're you. Or me. People like us, we've seen it all. Monsters, the bogeyman…they don't scare us. If something is to be considered a nightmare, it has to be beyond monsters. Something deeper that needs discussed. You may not remember it. But your face says more than you remember." His nose wrinkled as he smelled the coffee wafting up to him. "Also, I think you burned the coffee. It smells odd. Like one of those revolting drinks River stashed in the red kitchen."

She froze, reaching desperately for an answer, a subject change, anything to throw him off. "It's, uh, it's fine - it may have gotten a little overdone. It tastes fine to me, though." She took a huge gulp from her mug, and before he could speak, she began to chatter uncontrollably. "So, where might we be going today? I was thinking we could try that one planet you told me about that is completely obsessed with Disney in the 5300s and has built their own version of Disney World. Or we could go revisit Jane Austen. Or maybe we could go to 1920s America…I saw a lovely flapper costume in the bedroom next to mine and-"

She stopped when the tips of his fingers covered her lips. She watched his jawline tighten and her shoulders slumped a little in defeat, knowing she had failed to be nonchalant and had him either angry or worried.

"Clara Oswald…what are you not telling me? You just panicked over the coffee. There is something, and don't lie. There has been for awhile. You didn't make soufflés for a year, but you now dash off to do it every time something goes wrong. You have said so many times that you'd never lie to me. Yet you're hiding something. You aren't you. The eyes…they aren't what they used to be, and I can't figure them out. What in the hell is going on?" He grabbed her mug away from her and sniffed again before his eyes widened. "Is this partly one of the drinks in the kitchen? Don't think I haven't noticed things being moved around in there."

So he wasn't completely oblivious.

"I'd like my coffee back, please."

He held it away from her. "Not until you tell me what's going on."

"Fine - you want the truth? Yeah, I've been taking from the cabinet. It's not like you'll ever drink anything out of it. I need something to take the edge off my mind, and sometimes adventures just don't do the trick!"

"Clara." Just the sound of her name from his lips made her freeze. Not even her name - but the way he said it. Emotion boiling under the word. "How much is 'something?'"

"A few shots when my soufflés are flat. If I have to cook dinner. If I make coffee. If we almost die on some random planet and I need a moment to breathe."

"So…every day, at least three times a day."

She bit her lip nervously. "Yes."

The Doctor inhaled slowly, appearing to count to twelve.

Then he chunked her mug to the ground, causing it to shatter and making her yelp as she jumped back. Tears filled her eyes. "Doctor-"

He held up his hand, quieting her, as he flipped switches on the console. The TARDIS slammed itself into gear, knocking Clara to the floor, before materializing…somewhere. The Doctor snapped his fingers, opening the TARDIS doors to reveal her bedroom. "Get out."

"I…I'm sorry?"

"Get. Out." His words were clipped. "Clearly, traveling with me is a danger to you right now, and you need to spend time at home. I will not have constant drinking and life-threatening behavior on my TARDIS - why do you think she doesn't translate the bottles? - and you have developed a death wish with your penchant for both. Get out. Go to bed. Get up. Go to work. Live your life for awhile. I would rather lose you to a normal life than have you get killed from being drunk on the job!"

"Doctor, please." She was crying now, though she wished she weren't. "Please…I can make it stop…I just don't know how else…"

"Clara. Begging will do you no good, and you clearly won't stop." He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of the TARDIS. "Goodbye, at least for now." He slammed the door shut behind her, and within seconds, the TARDIS de-materialized, leaving her a crumpled, sobbing mess on the floor.

Just as I expected…everyone leaves, Clara…everyone you love leaves…you're a curse on all who know you. They'd all be safer without you!

"No…no…NO! SHUT UP!" she screamed at the voice in her mind, covering her ears, though she knew it was right, and the kitchen knife and sleeping pills were in her hands before she could control her body…


And just like that, she started awake and shot up in bed, droplets still pouring down her cheeks. The sheets were soaked with an icy sweat. Her mouth hung open, as if she had been actually dreaming out loud, and the tremors moving through her body were more violent than she thought possible.

Her eyes darted from one side of the room to the other, taking in the scenery as they adjusted to the darkness. TARDIS bedroom. Not flat bedroom. Two-thirty in the morning, according to her phone. Just a dream. Just a really, really bad dream. The Doctor had not abandoned her in her flat.

But he will, if you don't get your act together. You're a pestilence to him - just another human who gets in his way. It's only a matter of time…

She dreaded the thought as it came, not because she couldn't control it…but because it could very well be right. And suddenly, it all began to boil over. The tremors worsened as her anxious mind raced, none of her thoughts coherent, but all equally awful nonetheless. And then the craft knife from her nightstand was in her hand, sleeve rolled up (soon it would be both sleeves - she was running out of room). She saw the blood from the freshly drawn lines before the pain even registered in her mind, which slowly began to clear as the adrenaline and endorphins rushed in. With deep, deep breaths, she grabbed the peroxide out of the same drawer, as well as the clean cloth she had washed the morning before and gently began treating the new marks to avoid infection. In the middle of doing so, reality - and guilt - punched her like a clenched fist to the gut.

What am I doing? How did I get here?

How much longer can I keep this quiet?

Endorphins wearing off already. She then proceeded to reach for a tiny bottle in the second drawer - the same bottle from the nightmare - and take a long, long drink. The unreadable neon alien writing on the bottle mocked her internal struggle, seeming to laugh at her fears, just like the voices in her subconscious.

The alcohol didn't take long to kick in, and thankfully, it made her eyelids heavy this time. After wrapping her arm gingerly with gauze, Clara slid herself back under her duvet, she closed her eyes and was asleep within moments.

And I've grown familiar with villains that live in my head - they beg me to write them, so I'll never die when I'm dead…


A/N 2: Final italic is from "Control" by Halsey. It seems to be a favorite for Clara videos on YouTube, and I've gotten obsessed with it.

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