Clara woke up slowly, eyes gradually adjusting to the dim lighting. She pulled herself into a sitting position and stretched feeling her muscles pop and crack, wincing as her battered and bruised body screamed protest at her sudden movements. She felt like death. But at least she was alive.
Too tired to move just yet, or to question why she was hooked up to so many machines, Clara let her gaze wander around the room, fingers scratching at the straps of her oxygen mask as her eyes landed on the partially charred soufflé the Doctor had baked for her. She grinned, reaching out an arm to pluck the note off the side of the dish. The fact that the Doctor had taken the time to attempt a soufflé, charred as it was, made her feel ridiculously happy. A warm glow spread through her, gently heating her body from her chest right the way down to the roots of her hair and the tips of her toes. She knew it was madness to think that the Doctor had baked it because he loved her, he only viewed her as a friend, but...the gesture made her feel loved, and nobody had made her feel like that for a long time.
Oh, you clever boy.
She eagerly dug into the soufflé, taking extra care to avoid the sections that were burnt beyond recognition. With one hand she unfolded the note, recognising the Doctor's untidy scrawl, and loaded up the spoon with another morsel as she began to read.
Clara,
I've gone to New New New New Earth. Don't worry, I'm coming back. I'm going to find you a cure for whatever it is that that monster injected into you.
Clara began to tremble at the memory. She would forever live in fear of the man returning to finish her off. She took a deep breath through her mask and shovelled in another bite to calm herself before continuing.
I won't be long, I promise. Two hours tops. Do not, under any circumstances, disconnect yourself from your life support machine. Even if a thousand Daleks are banging down the door. I can defeat Daleks. I can't bring you back to life.
Stay safe.
Love,
The Doctor.
P.S Hope you liked the soufflé.
Clara finished off the soufflé then placed it and the note on her bedside table. What was she to do for two whole hours? It's not like she could explore the TARDIS like she usually would, not in the state she was in with all the tubes connecting her to the life support system. She was weak; the simple action of eating the soufflé had taken it out of her. No, she needed to find something else to do.
Clara yawned loudly, rolling onto her side facing the machinery that was looking after her. It was so peaceful lying here in the TARDIS, all alone. Normally it was chaos, fighting monsters, flirting and running around in heels that killed her feet after about ten steps. She knew that she should wear shoes that were a little more practical, but the Doctor was tall enough even with her wearing eight-inch heels. She sometimes felt like one of those Ompa-loompas, looking up at the Doctor like one of the tiny people would Willy Wonka. Small and insignificant against a man so tall and powerful and alien as him. A candle against his raging inferno.
Clara drifted off into sleep, finally succumbing to the various aches and pains that plagued her body. She had just begun to snore lightly when-
"Psst, Clara. Wake up, sleepy head." A familiar voice half sang next to her.
Clara started awake, gaping at the figure standing next to her.
"Doctor?" She asked incredilously. In the back of her mind alarm bells began to ring. He wasn't supposed to be back for at least an hour yet.
"The very same." Replied the Doctor, throwing her a cheeky wink. Clara froze, her hands outstretched towards him for a hug. Something was wrong. The Doctor almost never winked. Well, not usually; it was only when he wanted her to do something completely insane like distract a horde of angry Slitheen or to reassure her that everything was going to be okay. Which, on reflection, happened quite a lot.
Clara's arms fell to her sides and she frowned. She was neither in danger nor in need of reassurance. So why was he winking?
Then it hit her.
This wasn't the Doctor.
Clara could only watch in horror as 'the Doctor's' skin melted like wax, revealing a face that she had hoped never to see again.
"Hello again girly. Did you miss me?"
The Doctor paced back and forth in the waiting room restlessly, wringing his hands. How long had the doctor said she'd be? Fifteen minutes. He impatiently flicked his wrist up, checking the time on his watch. The Doctor didn't trust hospital clocks. They were always either a few minutes fast, an hour behind or not working. Useless things. You would think that, as it was the 50th Century, humans would be able to make decent clocks. Evidently not.
Twenty minutes and twelve seconds. That's the human race for you, grumbled the Doctor to himself.They tell you one time then turn up an hour late. Or four, he noted, glancing at the clock on the wall, if you use their sad excuses for clocks. At least Clara's always on time.
The Doctor was about to go and find Doctor Whyatt himself when the woman herself bursted through the door panting and brandishing several sheets of papers covered in graphs and statistics.
Clara's results. About time.
Doctor Kim Whyatt leant against the door frame, face flushed with exertion and several strands of dark blonde hair loose from her ponytail.
"Doctor!" She beckoned him over. "You need to see these."
Ignoring the confused and alarmed stares of his fellows the Doctor rushed to the door, snatching the results from Kim's fingers. He rifled through the various papers, reading faster than humanly possible, face becoming more and more grief stricken with every page he scanned.
Oh, Clara...
"That substance in the sample you gave us is unlike anything we've encountered," Kim began, bent over double to catch her breath. She had forgotten how hectic the Doctor could be. "Its composition is insane. No, more than insane- its downright wrong. Its almost as if somebody's thrown in every type of cancer, sickness bug, cold and flu and mixed them together to make one lethal virus. Just one drop of this stuff could potentially be fatal." Kim straightened up, smoothing the creases in her scrubs.
"What species is your friend, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Human," the Doctor murmured, not lifting his eyes from a passage on the final page. "Twenty-first century female. Called Clara."
Kim noticed his anguished expression when he said Clara's name and gently placed a hand on his tense forearm.
"We will help her Doctor. Not everything on that document is a hundred percent accurate. We can at least try to cure her."
The Doctor nodded, then shoved the papers under her nose, pointing to a single passage at the end.
"And this?" He demanded, "is this accurate? A hundred percent?"
Kim shifted uncomfortably under his accusing gaze. She hated seeing him like this, so agitated. And what she was about to say to him was going to whip him up into an even bigger frenzy.
"As far as we know...yes. But as I said earlier, this virus is unlike anything we've ever encountered. Things could-"
The Doctor had long since stopped listening. His fists tightened around the paper, tears blurring his vision.
No. No. It won't happen. It can't happen.
He crumpled the paper and threw it into the bin with so much force it fell over, contents spilling across the floor earning him tuts from several people behind him. He ignored them. He needed to get back to Clara. He couldn't think properly what with all the noise and pain, physical and emotional, around him. He hated hospitals.
The Doctor went to barge out the door but Kim stopped him, placing a hand in his chest.
"You're upset." She stated. "I know I would be, if I were you."
The Doctor glared down at her and tried to pick her up to move her out of his way. One thought was replaying itself over and over in his head:
Get back to Clara.
She was his medicine, a balm for every wound he had. He desperately needed another dose to ease the pain. Just holding her would be enough.
"Please Kim, let me go." He almost begged the woman in front of him. "I need her."
Kim rolled her eyes. "She's not a teddy bear, you love struck fool."
The Doctor pouted and she sighed.
"Ask her first, okay? The poor girl doesn't need you clinging on to her like an over sized Koala bear. Not in her state."
"Alright, alright. I'll ask. Its usually her that hugs me though," he added. "Not that I'm complaining, mind."
Kim raised an eyebrow and gave him the look that only she could do. "Moving on swiftly," she said, "I have something for you." She pressed a paper bag into his hands. "These tablets should slow down the virus. She'll get better, for a while, but she might not be able to walk that well. If that happens, come to us and we'll get her a wheelchair. Got that?"
The Doctor nodded, mumbling his thanks as he tucked the bag away in his blazer.
"No problem. We'll phone you if theres any advances." Kim promised then removed her hand from his chest and stepped away from the door. The Doctor lurched away his now undistracted mind cruelly replaying the final sentence in the document.
Chances of survival: Five percent.