"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I fear no evil,
for thou art with me;
thy rod and thy staff,
they comfort me."
– Psalm 23

Martha was having the most amazing dream. She wasn't exactly sure what it was about, but she was sure she felt fantastic about it. And Christ, why shouldn't she after that week at work? She'd been assigned three new patients which would have been more than enough, but one of the other doctors had left the institution, and with no immediate replacement, the Chief of Medicine had assigned four of his cases to Martha as well. Between staff meetings, getting to know her new patients and making sure they all got care consistent with what they were used to and what they needed, she'd barely had time for coffee and half a sandwich for lunch. As a result of her new, insane schedule, she'd let some of her old patients fall a bit to the back burner. She believed they were all doing pretty well, making steady improvements. She even had high hopes for John. She was feeling good about the change in diagnosis and increased regular therapy, he'd put on a little weight while on the antidepressants and didn't seem in danger of losing it. It was all going to be fine.

Of course, he chose this week to be an absolute horror. Why, why, why was Rose out sick this week? The man's recovery seemed impossibly tied to the presence of this orderly. She felt bad about her dismissal of him, she knew he needed more information, but she told him everything anyone knew. Apparently Mrs. Tyler had been very short on the phone. She wished she could've looked into it on her own, but every time she sat down to do some digging, another crisis would occur and somehow it never got done. God, she was just looking forward to a nice, slow weekend so she could come back on Monday with renewed energy to tackle this John problem. And everything else.

Mickey texted her every night, usually after she'd crawled into her bed after a microwaved dinner, and then she'd fall asleep halfway through their conversations. She was so exhausted Friday afternoon she almost cancelled their date.

She hadn't, and she was so fucking glad of it. Dinner at a small pub was blessedly short, and at the end Mickey stammered if she was really tired she could sleep at his place since it was closer, he'd sleep on the sofa. She hesitated at first, because wasn't this only the third date? But he was so nice to talk to and to be around and she was having such a lovely time she said yes, that would be great. Mickey insisted the entire way to his flat that he had no agenda, no intentions, he would never do anything she wasn't comfortable with.

However, Martha eventually decided that she definitely had intentions. It had been a bloody long week, and she really liked him, so she said, "You don't have to sleep on the sofa," and smiled at him suggestively.

He looked sort of stunned and stuttered, "Okay."

And now, Martha was having a wonderful dream. It was the kind that made you want to stay asleep forever and just bask in the feeling of perfect happiness.

At it most certainly did not include the loud ringtone of her mobile.

Martha groaned and peeled her eyes open.

She heard Mickey stir beside her. "'S that yours, babe?"

"Yeah. Sorry." She reached down and glanced at the caller ID. It was work. That couldn't be good. "Hello?" she said quietly, standing and shrugging on a t-shirt she was pretty sure was Mickey's and walking into the living room.

"Is this Dr. Jones?" said one of the night nurses.

"Yes."

"One of your patients, John McCrimmon, broke out of the facility tonight."

"What? How?"

"Um… we're not exactly sure yet. In fact, I don't know when we would've discovered he was gone except… he came back."

"What?" It was way to late for this. Martha struggled to wake up and say something intelligent.

"Yes, it seems he broke out to go see someone, then called his cousin, and she brought him back."

"Wha–?" Martha shook her head. Snap out of it. "Is he okay? I mean– is he stable, mentally?"

"Seems so."

God, Martha hated the night staff. "Give me twenty minutes, I'll be right over." She snuck back into the bedroom and gently shook Mickey. "I'm sorry, Mickey. There was an emergency at work and I have to go," she whispered.

"'S'okay," he murmured. "I'll see you again, right?"

"Definitely. I'll call you." She kissed him again as another apology, then pulled on her clothes and slipped out the door.

She met John in his room for the first time. He was in bed but not asleep, sitting on top of the duvet against the head board staring at the wall.

"Hello."

He didn't say anything.

"You've had quite an exciting night, haven't you?"

He shrugged, but he met her eyes, which was something.

"They wondered how you got the screen out in the HR offices."

"I told you I could do anything with a screwdriver."

"So you did. The real question is, why did you climb out a window in the HR offices?" She thought about it for a minute. "Were you looking for something in there?"

"Excellent deduction, Dr. Jones." He seemed to be in a good mood. It was weird.

"Thanks. What were you looking for?"

"An address."

"Right, because that makes perfect sense." Martha rolled her eyes and took the bait. "Why did you need an address?"

"Well I wouldn't escape without a destination in mind, would I?"

"I dunno, I wouldn't put it past you."

He clucked his tongue.

"Fine. Where did you go?"

"Oh come off it, you're dying to know."

God, how was he still so irritating? "Enlighten me."

"The Powell Estate."

Martha was too tired for this. "What's that?" she said shortly.

He sniffed. "Calm down, doctor. I just wanted to see Rose."

Shit. She knew her lapse in that department would come back to bite her. "I'm sorry, John, I wish I could've found out more–"

"It's fine, doctor. Really." He wiggled his bare toes. "I found out for myself. Barefoot at the Powell Estate."

You're completely mad. Yikes. She couldn't say that out loud. "About that– are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes. Brilliant. Molto bene."

"Really?"

"Like I said. Brilliant."

Martha narrowed her eyes. He didn't look happy, per se, but he also didn't look sad or angry, which was quite a significant difference. Perhaps he really was stable. "Is there anything you need?"

"Yes. I'm having trouble sleeping. Can you give me something for that?"

Martha raised her eyebrows. He'd never asked for medication before. "Um. Yeah. Sure. I'll have a nurse bring you some Benadryl." She stood up.

"No."

"Sorry?"

"I'd like– something stronger than that. Please."

Martha blinked. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Please. I just want to sleep. For a solid eight hours, no nightmares."

He'd never mentioned nightmares before, but Martha should have guessed. She didn't really have the energy to question him about it now, though. "I'm sorry, John, I don't like prescribing strong hypnotics to patients with symptoms of depression."

"Because I might try to kill myself?"

Why does he have to know everything? "They can be very addictive and– well, yes. Strong hypnotics have been linked to an increased risk of suicide and self-harm in at-risk patients."

"And you'd consider me at-risk?"

Martha sighed. "Of course. Would you like me to list all the reasons why?"

John pursed his lips. "I won't kill myself, I promise."

"You know I can't take your word for it. I'm sorry." She turned towards the door.

"Martha."

She stopped with her hand on the doorknob at the familiar name. She turned around. "Yes?"

He got up and came towards her. "I won't commit suicide. I would never even consider it, not for a second."

Martha nodded. "I'm glad to hear that, John, truly. But these drugs can really mess with your head. I'm sorry, it's just too risky. Are you sure you can't make do with the Benadryl?"

John glared at her. "Fine." He returned to his bed, muttering, "Not that it'll do anything."

She opened the door and turned back. "John, I'm really sorry. We can talk about it more on Monday, yeah?"

"Whatever." He pulled the duvet over his head.

Right. Very mature. Martha closed the door behind her and tried to put it out of her head. Every time she thought he might be improving, there was another problem. She wanted to help him, she did, but it was frankly exhausting. She rubbed her forehead irritably. Get out of your head, Jones. Get some sleep over the weekend, deal with it later.

Rose was eager to pick up right where she left off when she returned to work, seeing Amy released and John look alive again. But her hopes for the former were shattered when she saw Amy had been removed from her breakfast rounds. She hoped that it was because Amy was eating at the patient canteen now, or better yet, that she'd been released, but soon discovered her favorite patient had been found catatonic and transferred to the intensive care ward on the fifth floor. She begged to be allowed to visit her, and allowed on the condition that she finish her breakfast rounds first.

This meant she wouldn't have time to spend with John, who was at the bottom of her list again. She felt bad about it, especially when his face lit up when she entered his room. He looked awful, very pale with deep shadows under his eyes, but he gave her the widest smile when he saw her, and despite herself she smiled back.

"You're back."

"I am."

"How are you feeling?"

She almost laughed the concern on his face. "I'm okay. How are you feeling? You didn't catch a cold after your jaunt in the rain on Friday?"

He shook his head and peered at the food. "That's an old wives' tale. I'm fine."

"You look tired."

He frowned at his toast. "Haven't been sleeping well. Dr. Jones won't give me sleeping pills."

"Why not?"

"I'm a suicide risk."

"Oh. She's probably right, then. If it's not safe, it's not safe." Rose's heart pounded in her ears at the thought of John killing himself. Everyone can be helped, she thought. Everyone can be helped.

"I won't kill myself." He looked up at her when she didn't respond. "Dr. Jones doesn't believe me."

Rose rubbed his shoulder. "Dr. Jones is a psychiatrist, John. I don't think she's in the habit of trusting her patients."

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course I do." Rose glanced at the clock. "I have to go, I'm sorry. Promise me you'll finish your breakfast? You've put on some weight recently, and it looks good on you. I wouldn't want you to lose it again."

John looked upset. "You're leaving?"

"I'm sorry, I can't stay today. I'll see you later though, promise."

"Promise?"

"Of course." She glanced at his breakfast. "You'll finish that, yeah?"

He sighed. "Yes. I'll finish."

"Good." Rose cast him a final apologetic glance before hurrying out. It felt wrong to rush out on him after everything that happened on Friday, but she couldn't bear the thought of not seeing poor Amy.

Rose hated the fifth floor, which had padded rooms and beds with restraints and a lot of medical equipment that made horrible, ominous beeping, hissing, and whooshing sounds, but over the next few days she ventured up there every chance she got. Amy's condition didn't improve, and at the end of each visit Rose felt more hopeless and distressed. She hated to see Amy like that, staring blankly at the ceiling and perfectly still no matter what happened around her. It looked a part of her had died, leaving the rest of her in this terrible limbo, and it broke Rose's heart.

On Wednesday, Sarah Jane told her that the doctors decided the drugs weren't working, and were weaning her off of them in preparation for electro-convulsive therapy. Rose knew it was supposed to help, and methods nowadays were meant to be gentle and humane, but she hated the idea of ECT. It was difficult to imagine how intentionally shocking someone's brain could be anything less than cruel.

Rose stayed late that night, long after her shift was over, and sat by Amy's bed, feeling helpless. Yesterday, she'd grasped Amy's cold hand and raised it a little off the bed, as if pleading with her. When she let go, she expected it to drop limply back on the sheets, but Amy's arm didn't move, just stayed like that, elbow slightly bent and hand a few inches away from the bed, fingers slightly curved from Rose's grip. It scared Rose and she quickly moved Amy's arm back to the bed and pushed her fingers so they were flat again. There was a term for it, according to Sarah Jane. Waxy flexibility.

Rose shuddered. It was freaky, if she was honest. She didn't like thinking that of Amy, but this frightened her. "Please wake up, Amy. This isn't you, I know it's not," she said.

Amy continued her blank contemplation of the ceiling.

Like talking to a corpse, Rose thought suddenly. She shook her head and pressed her hands to her eyes. Stop it. Don't think like that, Amy will be fine. She'll come out of it. Calm down. She took a deep breath. She should probably go. She wasn't doing any good just sitting here.

"I'm going now, Amy. I'll come see you again tomorrow, I promise," she said as she stood up. It felt wrong to leave her without saying goodbye. She walked down the stairs as if in a daze, then stopped when she realized she wasn't on the ground floor.

"Christ," she muttered under her breath. She'd accidentally walked halfway to John's door. What was wrong with her? He was just another patient, not someone she could just talk to when she was upset. He had his own problems. No need to burden him with hers, too.

She glanced up and down the empty hallway around her, and suddenly wave of guilt crashed over her. Standing in this hallway reminded her of John's crestfallen expression every time she left early after delivering his meal. This is what he got after he broke out of here and rushed to her flat just to make sure she was okay. He's not just another patient, she admitted to herself. He deserves better than this. She wondered if it was crazy of her to knock on his door and apologize right now. Would he consider that an intrusion? Would that be inappropriate?

She never came to a firm conclusion in her mind, but found herself staring at his room number with her hand raised to knock. Oh, sod it. She knocked, belatedly hoping she didn't disturb his valuable sleep.

"Who is it?"

She raised her head at the faint voice from inside. "R-Rose." She reached for the handle but the door abruptly swung open before she could do anything and she was face-to-face with John.

"Rose," he murmured. "Are you okay? What are you doing here this late?"

He still wants to know if I'm okay? He looked positively exhausted and as unkempt as she'd ever seen him– his clothes were wrinkled and his hair was greasy and sticking up in all directions, but he still wanted to know how she was doing. "I– I'm fine, I just– How are you doing?" she said ungracefully.

He stared at her, then said quietly, "I'm fine. Would you like to come in?"

She nodded and he ushered her into the small room, closing the door behind her like he was inviting her into his home.

"What are you doing here?" he said again.

"I– I was looking after Amy. She– she's catatonic. And she hasn't woken up. I keep waiting for her to wake up." Rose felt tears spill onto her cheeks but she couldn't stop them. John guided her to his bed and she sat down next to him. "I keep thinking if I sit with her long enough, if I talk to her enough, she'll wake up, or come out of it, or something. But she just stays like that, staring at nothing." She shivered. "She looks dead, John, and I feel so helpless and–" She cut herself off and wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to do that. Dump all this on you. It's not fair."

"It's okay," John murmured. She felt his arm around her shoulders, and she felt herself relax under his touch. His fingers traced strange, circular patterns on her sleeve and she focused on their rhythm to take a deep breath.

"No, it's not, and I'm sorry," she said again. "I'm just– I love working here, because I get to help people but I can't help her, it's just not possible and I hate it. I hate feeling so hopeless."

"I understand."

"Crap. God, I'm so sorry I didn't mean– of course you do. Oh my God, I should go, I'm so sorry–" She was babbling but she was too tired and emotional wrung-out to stop herself.

"Please don't." He suddenly gripped her shoulder to keep her from standing. "I'm glad you're here. I've missed you."

She leaned slightly into him. "Thank you for listening."

"I'm happy to."

She put an arm around his waist in an awkward half-hug. "It feels good to talk to someone about it."

He suddenly tensed and Rose realized what she'd said.

"Not that I'm– I don't have any agenda, I promise. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to…" She looked up at him and trailed off.

He was staring at the hawthorn tree again, its branches reflecting the moonlight and giving the appearance of an ethereal cloud in the middle of the courtyard. He'd been looking better, younger recently, but in that moment his eyes looked so old she would swear he was a thousand. She knew he was in pain, he'd been in pain since she'd known him, but she'd never seen it this way, raw and written all over his face.

She watched him in silence for a long while, felt his ribcage expand as he took a long, deep breath, as if bracing himself.

"My university theater department performed The House of Blue Leaves while I was there."

They were still holding each other, and Rose didn't let go. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," she said again softly.

"No, I want to." He gripped her shoulder. "You're right. I should tell someone about it. And I want to tell you."

Rose's heart pounded in her chest. She nearly stuttered something about how honored she felt he was choosing to open up to her, but stopped herself. Just listen, she thought. You owe him that much.

"A friend recommended it to me," John said softly. "She said she thought I would enjoy it, but I think she was also trying to tell me something– but I never understood…" He trailed off and was silent.

Rose gently prompted him, "What was her name?"

"Adelaide," he whispered. "Her name was Adelaide Brooke."