Hello, again. Glad to see that you're still reading. Chicken soup for my soul. Thank you.

I would have updated earlier this morning, but Teen Titans: Trouble in Tokyo was on this morning. (sniff) It was so much better then...

Alright, I made chapter from the Doctor's, or in this case John's, side of the story. AAAAANNNNNDDDDD, I decided to add a little whump. Don't be mad at me.

I do not any of the Lana del Rey songs. However, if you know which song of hers I have quoted, leave your answer with your review. (Well, you don't have to.) And if you're correct, I'll feature you as the winner in the next update! I know its not much, but you also get virtual cookies! (::)

I do not own Doctor Who. All credit goes to BBC.

John had suffered from insomnia as long as he could remember. Given the current circumstances and his condition, sleep was not something that was in the very near future.

He was on his back, staring at the white ceiling while thoughts swam around in his head. In one section of his brain, he was reviewing all of the lines and lyrics for the next show that was going to be released next month. In yet another corner, he was thinking about the dinner he had eaten with Clara. The stunning image of her in that dress was not about to leave, and he was glad.

However, the memory that was dominating his mind was not one of pleasure and peace.

In an instant, he had gone from a standing position to a decrepit state on the asphalt. The world around him seemed to blur, each second passing as if it were a full minute.

There was only one man committing the crime, but he had the strength of ten. John tried his best not to whimper, lest something gruesome happen to him. The bat in the man's hand cast a menacing glance over John, despite the fact that it had no physical eyes.

"Empty your pockets," the man ordered. His voice was hoarse and weak, but the tone was commanding and absolute.

"I don't have anything," John whimpered. It was the truth, but the man did not accept that answer.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the wood come down through the air in his direction. If only his reflexes were just slightly faster, John could have avoided it. He let out a cry of pain, and he had enough common knowledge to know that a few of his ribs had not doubt been broken.

The man, deciding to take matters into his own hands, quite literally. He rolled John over onto his back and rummaged through every pocket in John's clothing. He was in his Doctor get-up, and all of his belongings were back in his dressing room. The man found nothing.

The criminal was obviously angered by the lack of supplies John had on him at the time. "What a waste," the man muttered. He took a few more swings and kicks to make himself feel better about the situation before running off.

John rolled over in his bed, the sheets traveling with him.

"Oh my god!"

John knew that voice too well, and he welcomed it. The vision of Jenna was blurry, but it was good for him to see a friendly face.

She ran her fingers through his hair. "Don't worry," she whispered. Her tone was comforting, but it quickly turned into one of panic.

"HEY!" If John was not currently injured, he would have winced from the noise. But, since he was already wincing from the pain, it was not necessary.

"HEY!" Jenna was using all the air in her lungs to get the attention of someone at the theater. "IT"S JOHN! GET HELP!"

Someone must have heard her. She turned her attention back to rubbing his scalp and murmuring things such as "Everything's going to be alright," and "Help's on the way."

He was sweating now. Maybe the reason he suffered from insomnia was because of his brain wanting to replay his life story every time he went to bed...

He hated hospitals. But here he was, in the back of an ambulance with an oxygen mask over his face. They were taking him to place that he dreaded the most.

The walls of the ambulance seemed to be closing in on him. Even with the mask, he was short of breath. The chaos between the first responders around him... had he been able to move without being in severe pain, he would gotten out of that vehicle as fast as he could.

"Tea," John said as he got up from his bed. "Tea sounds good."

He had never really taken much to late-night television. In his mind, all it consisted of was shows full of off-color jokes and comedians poking fun at every thing in international news. But, here he was, listening to absurdly filthy words come out of a cartoon character's mouth.

Not that he refrained from saying some of those things in real life, but someone was always there to stop him before censorship was needed.

Like Clara did.

He sighed, and stirred some milk and sugar into his cuppa. Had she not been there earlier that night, he was sure he would have had a breakdown. Technically, he would not have been near the restaurant had it not been for her. John had the day off, anyway.

But you chose that place. Because you have to get comfortable around there. And Clara deserved a good dinner.

John took a sip of his tea. It was scalding hot, and it was causing his mouth quite a bit of discomfort. But he kept drinking; it was just the way he preferred. Besides, it was more soothing to his throat than it was his tongue.

The television cut to a commercial for canned soup. Taking the hint from the universe, he turned off his television.

"Time for part two of the remedy..." He searched through his quite extensive CD collection for the one that was suited for the situation. John would have never, in a million years, traded his book and CD collection for a digital device that could hold them all as accessible media. No eReaders or MP3 players for him.

He pulled out his Born to Die album. John slipped the disc into the stereo system. The neighbors were going to complain about the noise, but they should have been used these late-night sessions by now. John flipped through the songs until he found the one he was looking for.

"No one compares to you. I'm scared that you won't be waiting on the other side." Her voice had the flair that John liked. Well, the style was similar to his singling lines at the theater that were actually written by the staff.

And, just for the fun of it, he selected a book from his measly bookshelf, which was not near big enough to hold all of his novels. As he settled down onto his sofa, he deemed these three things adequate for keeping his memories at bay.

For that night, at least.