A/N this one's early for all your beautiful reviews you've given me for the last couple of chapters! LOVE YOU ALL TO DEATH YOU CUTIES
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He should not have been shocked. He should have prepared for this kind of outcome. He should have thought about this possible- even probable- eventuality. But he hadn't.
He was so set on how he wanted things to be, his own wishes, his own ideas. That was a fatal flaw of his.
Quite a god complex.
He didn't want her to love him, so he didn't see it. He didn't want to believe he would lose her, so he thought she would be safe. He didn't want to think she would do something so stupid as sacrifice her life for him, so he pretended that she wouldn't.
Until it was too late.
And it was his fault. He had asked her to come to him. He had asked her to say goodbye.
He'd thought it would be his goodbye.
Not Clara's.
Then he was running, running, he couldn't even remember reprogramming the TARDIS, or landing, or anything. He was sprinting, slipping a little on the jagged ground. His waterlogged clothes dragged against the winds, so he pulled off his coat, throwing it aside along with the new-made Eye Drive contraption. All he could see was the horizon stretching out before him and the smooth line where the cliffs dropped away.
He stopped at the edge, looked down at the whipping grey-black water.
He couldn't see her.
He jumped. Fell.
The cold hit him for the second time, the sea just as fierce and tearing as before. Or more so. Like it knew the desperation in him. Like it was feeding on fear, using it to pull him under.
He did not fight against the current, and instead swam with it, deeper, deeper, deeper. The water stung in his eyes, searching the darkened surrounds. Where was she? Where was she?
The water pushed and pulled at him, bubbling and white, hindering his vision. He lashed and kicked, deeper, deeper, deeper.
And then he saw it, a flash of red. A flash of brown. Clara.
He fought harder against the whirlpool, felt his limbs straining and protesting. He needed air, he needed air.
Sweet, clear, glorious air.
Deeper, deeper, deeper into the water. He was so close, so close, so far.
His fingertips brushed her skin, she was barely moving, her body was drifting along with the sea. He grasped her wrist, she didn't react, didn't grab at his hand. No.
The water seemed to be clutching her, pulling Clara down and pushing him up. Forcing them apart, tearing his fingers away.
And then a rush of the current turned her head, he could see her gazing up at him. Or just imagine it, as her eyes were closed. Not even fluttering, not one bit.
Was he too late?
Had he lost yet another?
Had he lost Clara?
His hearts beat faster, harder. His lungs seared, burned. His mind raced, flew.
He wasn't afraid anymore.
He was angry.
He struck out at the water, willing it to cease its raging. He was the Doctor, and an unimportant little alien sea would not stand before him. No. Nothing would.
He was the Doctor. The Time Lord Victorious, the Predator, the Oncoming Storm. He was the last of the Time Lords, and nothing, nothing- not time, not space, not anything- would stop him.
Nothing could stop him. And he would not stand to lose anyone else, no matter the cost.
Not Clara.
The next stretch of time- seconds? Minutes? Hours? His acute sense of these passing seemed to fade and distort- was not clear in his mind. There was water, so much water, thrashing and swirling and drowning. There was pain, heaviness, a violent need for air, cool air. There was rage, heat and cold, everywhere, everything. And there was Clara, and his tight grip on her wrist.
He thought, maybe, he would rather drown with her than let go.
There was light, soft grey light, reaching down through the black in shafts. There was the thinning of pressure on his chest. There was Clara's arm slipping between his fingers, a second when his every nerve clenched. There was a blurred, warped image of the bottom of the TARDIS, hovering just above.
And then there was air. And with it, relief so potent he wanted to laugh.
But instead, he hoisted Clara up above the waves- still pounding around them. She was still unconscious. Unconscious or...or nothing.
Or nothing.
There was a gentle flutter of a heartbeat at her wrist, and relief melted through him again.
But only for less than a second.
He felt more than saw the colossal wave rising before them. It rose high, high, higher even than the cliffs themselves.
He had only the minimum of seconds to pull Clara to his chest and lock his arms around her before the tempest of water struck down upon them.
Air-shaken white foam forced its way down his throat, the strong weathered hands of the ocean were a vice around his chest, ripping, tearing at Clara in his arms.
They spun and twisted and twirled, upside down, right side up, sideways, crossways, every way there was.
He very almost let go.
Another surge pushed them another way, was it up? Was it towards the sky? Or further, down to the depths and the dark?
And then there was air, light again, and the TARDIS. It stood there, doors open, waiting.
He tread water, could feel the very last dregs of energy being leeched from him. He snatched at them, gathered them, and loosened his grip on Clara just for a second, long enough to lift her out of the water and thrust her weakly onto the TARDIS floor.
Looking up, he saw the second looming wave as less of a threat than a death sentence. He frantically yanked himself after her, muscles screeching, coughs hacking at his chest.
The doors swung shut behind him.
And he breathed.
Again.
Again.
He squinted at Clara, slung across the ground beside him, and breathed again.
Again.
She didn't.
Clara didn't.
Choking down the cold cry in his throat, he limp-ran down the object-strewn stairs, not at all caring what he stepped on or kicked aside. Not looking back even when he heard a smash that could only be some priceless relic.
The TARDIS was feeling helpful, he supposed, and produced what he was looking for in the first cabinet he opened. Oxygen mask from a New New Earth hospital. Bit big, but he wasn't being choosy.
His feet crunched on the shards of the glass and scraps of metal, ascending the stairs in two leaps to where Clara still lay.
Still lay.
Lay still.
He fit the mask around her mouth, desperately adjusting the straps and turning it on to let pure oxygen flow.
This was the most advanced piece of technology he had encountered that could help her. At least without side effects more drastic than her present condition.
It had to work.
It would work.
It would.
He remembered thinking, before, that he would not have enough life left in him to cry. If he lost Clara. That any of the remaining happiness, and joy, and love would be sucked away. And all the other things would fill in the void left behind.
He was half right. He didn't cry. He couldn't cry.
He hoped.
He couldn't bring himself to touch her, not even take her hand.
What if she was cold?
What if he felt her pulse under his fingers as it faded to nothing?
What if he touched her skin as it grew slowly cool and grey?
What if he looked into her eyes as they lost their shine?
What if he stood by her as she died?
What if? What if?
So the Doctor straightened, muscles burning, eyesight wavering, mind dizzied.
And he looked away.
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Oh sh*t that's kind of a cliffhanger isn't it.
I don't know how else to end a chapter? im sorry :(
Review and receive virtual Doctor hugs! (just picture the end of the name of the doctor with you instead of Clara and i promise it will make you happy)