"What is it?" Clara asked, not expecting an answer from him. "It's not the cloister bell, I've heard that before."
She turned around, eyes searching the door, hoping for some kind of clue. The light visible through the cracks seemed no different than usual. The Doctor muttered something unintelligible to her, head tossing restlessly on the pillow. She brushed back damp curls from his forehead, removing her hand from his grasp.
"I'm sorry," she said. "but I have to check this out, something's wrong. I'll be right back."
Clara hurried to the door, flung it open, wincing against the blare of the alarm echoing through the corridor.
She didn't need a nudge from the TARDIS to find her way this time, the clamor was leading her in the right direction and the closer she drew to the source of the sound, the louder the alarm tone shrilled. She clapped her hands over her ears.
"I'm not like him you, you know," she shouted. "I'm not going to get distracted and wander off halfway there, so you can lower the volume." She lifted her hands cautiously, prepared to cover them again but found the noise greatly reduced. "Thanks."
Clara localized the alarm tone to a single room at the bend in the corridor, a reddish glow visible around the door frame as she approached it. She took a deep breath, weighing whether or not to step in. If it were something dangerous beyond that door, she was on her own.
She brushed her fingers against the metallic surface and the door slid open revealing a dimly-lit and windowless room. Except for a grouping of large screens dominating the back wall, it looked like every GPs office she'd ever found herself in, everything white and chrome and clinical, a low table set in the middle of the floor.
She stepped into the space, attention drawn to the middle monitor filled with circular script and figures, flashing red in rhythm with the rise and fall of the alarm. This was the medical bay, then, and whatever triggered the warning had to do with the Doctor.
"None of this makes any sense at all," she said, voice rising in frustration. "And he's not here to help me. I thought you were supposed to translate everything."
Clara emphasized her words by stabbing a finger at the screen. She made a noise of surprise as everything on the screen flickered, the background color changing and familiar English words replacing those of the circular script. Touchscreen, she could understand that.
She took a deep breath to clear her mind. Respiratory system, cardiovascular system, immune system...she recognized the words but the figures still meant nothing to her. Might as well still be untranslated for all she understood. Elevated cytokines?
From behind she heard a faint click and the whir of the door panels sliding open but she was too distracted by the screens to think much of it. At the sound of his raspy voice behind her, she whirled toward the door. The Doctor was leaning against the wall for support, squinting over her shoulder toward the monitors.
"The alarm, Clara," he said, each word sounding like an effort. "It's the medical scanners."
"Yeah, got that much, thanks," she said. She divided her attention between where he stood and the information flashing on the screen. "But what does it mean? What's wrong with you?"
He pressed a hand to his chest, shoulders straining as he tried to draw in a breath.
"Secondary infection," he gasped. "Respiratory, progressing rapidly."
Clara crossed the room toward him. "Doctor, how in the hell did you make it here?" She studied his face closely. "You were barely conscious a few minutes ago."
"Looking for you," he said, swiping at his forehead with the back of his wrist. "I didn't know-"
The rest of his sentence was lost as he gave a hard shudder, eyes rolling back as he slumped. Clara caught him around the waist, grunting as she felt his full weight fall against her.
"Oh, no, you don't," she said, half-dragging him the short distance toward the middle of the room. "I've had about enough of scraping you off the floor today."
She lowered him to the edge of what appeared to be a standard examination bench, all one unit, thinly padded with no pillows or comforts. His head lay heavy against her shoulder, his breathing raspy and labored. She eased him down to the surface, struggling to lift his legs to the table then positioned herself at his head, cupping his face between her hands. She stroked his cheeks with her thumbs, looking for any sign of consciousness. He was pallid, lips pale, completely drained of color except for slashes of purple around his eyes. He gave a slight moan, turning toward her touch.
"Hey you," she said softly. "Still with me?"
He murmured his assent. "What happened?"
"You nearly passed out again. Need to stop doing that, okay?"
He grasped the edges of the table, making a move as if to sit up and Clara stilled him with one hand.
"Yeah, step one in not passing out?" she said, "You lie still and let me help you. I know this infection is serious or the scanners wouldn't be freaking out, so just tell me what I need to do."
His fever-bright eyes focused on hers briefly and he lifted his chin, making a slight gesture toward the bank of cabinets along the back wall. The cabinets had no handles Clara could see. She ran her fingertips along the edges, trying to find a hidden latch, then pushed at the corner of one door, sighing in relief when it popped open at her touch. A survey of the interior revealed intimidating medical equipment, tightly-stoppered clear and amber bottles and sealed boxes labeled in unreadable circular script.
"But what do I need from here?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder. "I can't tell one thing from another."
Then at the corner of her vision she saw an inset light illuminating the middle cabinet. Without even understanding what she was doing, Clara popped the latch and opened it wide. A small diode, pulsing with the alarm, indicated an amber bottle on the topmost shelf. As soon as she lifted it from its spot, the alarm stopped.
Her ears ringing in the sudden silence, Clara carried it over to where he lay, trying to read the script engraved in the side.
"Doctor?"
At the sound of her voice, his eyelids fluttered, but he was too tired to keep them open for long. He nodded to indicate he was listening.
"I think you're supposed to take whatever this is," Clara said holding the container carefully between both hands. She lifted it into his line of sight and he squinted at the proffered bottle. Clara worked the stopper free and held the bottle to her nose, taking a deep sniff of the liquid inside. It didn't smell like much of anything.
"It's not that bad," she said, then she caught the full scent and coughed, her eyes watering. It smelled like the stuff she used to clear the drains but she wasn't going to tell him that.
"I know I told you to lie still a few minutes ago," she said. "But you need to sit up so you don't choke."
He nodded, bracing himself with his arms. Clara watched with heart pounding as he struggled to lift himself, a rivulet of sweat working its way down his cheek. She reached out to help him, wincing as his strength gave out and he thudded back to the table.
"Sorry," he whispered.
Clara frowned. "It's okay," she said, sliding one hand under his head and raising it as high as she could. With her other hand she held the bottle to his lips. The Doctor jerked away from her, nose wrinkling at the scent and she gasped, fumbling the container and nearly dropping it.
"I know it smells terrible," she said, "and it probably tastes worse, but you still need to take it."
He kept his head turned stubbornly to the side. Her arm was starting to ache from holding him up and her palm was growing slippery with his sweat. She brought the bottle up again.
"Doctor, please," she said. "You're so ill and I don't know what else to do for you."
She tipped the bottle slightly. He sighed, rolling his head back toward her, lips parting. The greenish liquid began to trickle into his mouth slowly, thick and viscous, and Clara averted her gaze, feeling a sudden wave of revulsion. Anything that looked and smelled that horrid couldn't possibly be helpful.
She couldn't tell from her position, but he seemed to be holding the liquid in his mouth without swallowing. She didn't blame him, but the medicine would do him no good if it all trickled back out again. Just when she was afraid she'd have to stroke his throat like a stubborn cat to get it down, he gulped and started coughing.
"I know, I know," she said, setting the bottle aside. "I know it's awful, I'm sorry."
The coughing grew more violent, his hand flailing in the air. Clara caught it in hers, supporting him around the shoulders with one arm as he turned, clutching the edge of the table. He continued coughing and spluttering and gave a painful-sounding retch.
"Are you going to be sick?" she asked, searching around frantically for a bin or anything else he could use. Oh god, what if she'd chosen the wrong thing from the cabinet? He'd never had a chance to look at it before she forced it down his throat. And if he was having a reaction, it was too late to do anything now. She rubbed frantic circles on his back while he shivered, throat working as he struggled to keep the medication down. After a moment he relaxed, collapsing back to the table's surface.
Clara retrieved the bottle and swirled it gently, trying to determine how much he'd ingested.
"There's still about half left, Doctor," she said, not wanting to put him through it again unless she had to.
"Enough," he said, voice quavery and hoarse. "I've had enough."
She frowned, using her thumb to wipe away a drop of the liquid from his chin. She was rewarded with a faint smile and she swallowed against a lump in her throat.
"You feeling any better?"
Her voice sounded very young and frightened to her own ears. She knew nothing could possibly work that quickly but she was desperate for some sign, anything to take away the creeping dread in her belly because he didn't just look ill, he looked like he was shutting down, dying in front of her, his breath slowing. She startled when he whispered her name.
"Clara," he said, voice weak and beginning to slur, "Wha'ever happens-" His brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to force the words out. "Don' be...frightened-"
"Why? What's going to happen?" She straightened quickly, not sure whether to keep an eye on him or watch for danger in their surroundings. "Doctor?"
His head rolled to one side, face going slack. Clara lifted one of his hands and placed it in her own, hoping to feel his fingers intertwine with hers. She would even welcome an irritated twitch as he snatched it away, anything except this nothingness, his hand unmoving and limp in hers. He looked peaceful at least, the strain gone from his face, and although she tried to tell herself he was sleeping, he seemed in a state beyond sleep, lying absolutely motionless.
He wouldnt just die, would he? He wasn't that ill and if he were, he'd regenerate. Clara knew this, but fear overrode her rational mind and she couldn't keep the horrible thoughts away. But he couldn't just slip away, slip out of this life while she stood unknowing and helpless to do anything about it.
She circled the table, gaze drawn to the overhead screen, the silence filling the room more ominous to her than the alarm had been. The numbers on the display were dropping rapidly.
"I don't know if you can hear me or not, Doctor," she said, turning back to him. "But you'd better hope that medication had a whopping big dose of sedative in it and you're just sleeping it off because if you regenerate now, just when I'm getting used to that face of yours, I will never forgive you, do you hear me? I will walk out that door and I'll keep walking and I won't come back."
Anger steeled her voice and straightened her spine, but it gave her strength only momentarily and as minutes passed with no movement, cold fear clutched at her again. She touched his face with her fingertips, hoping for warmth, even the heat of fever but his skin felt waxy and cold to the touch. Clara snatched her hand away as if burnt.
"Please be okay," she whispered. "I know you told me not to be frightened but I am, I can't help it."
She gathered him up, placing her head next to his, a sob catching in her throat when she couldn't feel his breath against her skin.
"Don't leave me, Doctor."