Welcome back, my amazing readers! If you have any ideas for a new chapter, just review this story or PM me! Reviews are appreciated, flames are not tolerated! Thank you and enjoy!
Again, I do not own Doctor Who in any shape or form (Although we all wish we could own it…) Doctor Who is ©BBC.
An angry, blaring noise awoke Clara. She groaned, lifting herself up from her position on the floor of the TARDIS. She winced as she felt a sharp, searing pain shoot through the left side of her forehead. She hissed quietly in pain. Clara felt a liquid slowly drip down her face. She gently put a finger on the most severe point of pain, pulling away her finger to find it stained crimson with her own blood. As she sat up fully, she noticed Mr. Clever was still unconscious on the ground; the most noticeable wound on him was a large gash that ran down his right cheek. It was still bleeding a bit. She shakily stood on her feet, using the TARDIS motherboard for support. She adjusted the screen of the telly (She called it the telly for some reason, the Doctor never told her what to actually call it). There was just… static. Her eyebrows furrowed.
"Huh," She said. A small frown etched itself into her face. "That's weird."
She turned around to face the bruised, limp heap of unconscious Time Lord/Cyberplanner on the floor of the TARDIS.
"Now what the hell am I supposed to do with him?" She muttered to herself quietly.
She was tempted to just leave him there, as she was still a bit ticked from Mr. Clever's previous behavior towards her. But, her conscience being the annoying nag it is, told her that if she wanted to get on his good side it would be best to get him to the Med Bay and treated.
Groaning inwardly, she grudgingly grabbed the unconscious male's feet and began to drag his limp form across the floor. She entered the hallway she hoped would lead to the med bay, grunting with effort as she tugged the full weight of a full grown man by his feet.
'Where is it?!' Clara thought irritably. She turned around, quickly realizing that she lost sight of the control room. She groaned miserably.
"Come on, you!" She shouted at the TARDIS.
"I don't want to treat him any more than you do. But, treating 'im with kindness is the only plausible option!"
The TARDIS hummed, wordlessly questioning Clara's thinking.
"Well, the hand pulser thing I found in the control room won't work. There's nothing on his face."
The humming sound continued, the TARDIS still not satisfied with her answer.
"Sonic Screwdriver might work, but we need to know how Mr. Clever survived the detonation, and most importantly, how he avoided Porridge's scans and how he ended up back in the Doctor's head. And he obviously can't tell us if he's passed out!"
After a few seconds which seemed almost like an eternity, the TARDIS grudgingly opened a passageway which lead to the Med Bay.
"Thank you," Clara said, once again dragging the limp body of her former friend through the hallway. After a minute and a half of tugging, she managed to drag the two of them into the infirmary. Clara immediately dropped his feet, massaging her sore hands. She figures that she'd have little to no chance of hauling him onto a bed, so she'd have to make do with tending to The Doc- er, Mr. Clever's wounds.
Clara rapidly collected some antiseptic, some bandages, gauze, and a green tube full of some strange cream she figured was some sort of burn treatment. She placed it all on the floor, rubbing her hands together. Time for operation "get the Doctor back" to begin.
Thankfully, Clara was able to decently tend to Mr. Clever's wounds, partially because of her necessary training as a schoolteacher and some prodding from the TARDIS here and there. She dusted off her hands, satisfied with her handiwork. After a few seconds of silence, Mr. Clever began to stir. He released a groan.
"Ugh…" He said, wincing as he tried to sit up. "What the hell…?"
That was actually the first time Clara's heard any sort of vulgar language come from those set of lips.
"Easy there," Clara remarked. "Got a few bruised ribs."
"Like I haven't realized that!" He spat venomously.
"Well, so sorry, I was TRYING to help!" She retorted.
"Well, I don't need it!" Mr. Clever shouted at her, angrily unfastening the bowtie around his neck and throwing it on the floor.
He tried to get up, but Clara grabbed his arm, holding it fast.
"Too bad," She said.
Mr. Clever yanked his arm from her grip. He stood up, barely being able to ignore the burning hot throbs of pain in his ribcage.
"I DON'T CARE!" He shouted at the top of his lungs. "NOW LEAVE ME ALONE!"
He stormed out of the room and down the hallway most likely to the control room. A single question burned in his mind.
Why did she help me?