Title: Manipulation of the Mind

Author: Trustno1

Disclaimer: Doctor Who related things property of the Beeb. Story, other characters and the Voice property of my disturbed little mind 

AN: We're nearly at the end! Thanks to everyone who still reads and reviews!

Chapter XX

He heard her exhausted sobs before he even entered the room. Heard how close she sounded to just giving up. But he also sensed, rather than heard, that she still held onto the hope that he would return, and that she was now exhausted simply for crying – and waiting – for so long.

The room smelled faintly of disinfectant – not the kind found in human hospitals that everyone instinctively associated with the ill and dying, but one laced with an aroma not unlike a fresh morning breeze, or the alpine smell of a spring forest – and of Rose. His keen sense of smell also detected the sweat and very faint iron tang of blood. He swore he could almost taste it as he made his way over to the cot.

Her hair was in disarray around her pallid face, spreading out messily on a pillow that was soaked in tears and the odd drop of blood. Moving more closely to the bed, he saw she had bitten her lip, and a small trail of crimson blood, now dried, travelled from mouth to pillow. Her head was turned to the side, towards him as he entered the room, and fresh tears slid slowly down her cheeks and nose from behind closed lids. Her eyes moved restlessly beneath them, as if she were deep in R.E.M. sleep, but at this time it was the only part of her that did move. Her arms and legs were still restrained, but barely. Her hands lay limply on the dishevelled sheets and open slightly to reveal deep, bloody cuts on her palms where her hands had been clenched tightly. He drew in a sharp intake of breath at that sight.

He took out the cool glass vial and syringe from a black pouch in his pocket, and tore his eyes from her unconscious form momentarily so as to prepare the needle. He ran a cool hand up her hot arm, finding a vein in the crook of her elbow, wincing slightly as he felt first the needle enter, then the antidote. Putting the needle aside, he rubbed the tiny puncture wound, feeling the too-slow pulse beating beneath his fingertips, feeling her life literally in his hands. Gradually he moved his hand towards hers as she moaned softly and jerked her head. He held his breath for five seconds that felt like a lifetime until she settled, then reached for the sonic screwdriver to clean up her hands. Once finished, he smoothed her damp hair from her face, suddenly needing to see as much of her as possible, fingers stroking her soft, hot skin more times than part of him knew was necessary. He silenced it. Then he took her left hand – the one that wasn't as badly cut and bruised – in both of his, every so often glancing down to see his thumb rubbing light circles across the top of her hand. He let it continue, and settled down for a long night, with only his thoughts and Rose's unconscious form for company.

Hope, hopelessness, guilt were fighting to take precedence inside of her amongst the pain. At the moment, hope and guilt were neck and neck, with hopelessness falling behind, and pain way out in front.

And then something happened to allow hope to obtain a renewed vigour, and charge ahead like a sprinter on the final straight. She was aware of something cool and… alive, pressing gently on her arm. Being yet again in the place where it seemed she purely existed without any tangible form, she couldn't look down and see, or even open her eyes, but if she concentrated really hard it became more and more real, more physical, and after a moment she identified this pressure as a hand. Sure, she was still unable to move, or see, or feel much more of her body than the arm being touched by the hand, but, she thought, it was a start.

And it wasn't just any hand.

After tens of times, maybe even hundreds of times, of holding his hand, every diminutive detail of the action had burned itself into her memory, and she recognised him now. The owner of the hand that seemed to float in this vacuum. The Doctor.

In the place where Rose merely existed, she felt as though she were floating; similar to the drunk kind of floating, only without the haze of alcohol. And she was sure she could feel a strange pulsing beat in the nothingness that surrounded her. As if she was sensing someone's pulse beating around her. But it was a strange, alien pulse. Nevertheless, it comforted her like nothing had yet managed to.

Then it was gone, and now she could feel a warmth spreading over her hands, healing cuts she wasn't aware of – at least not in a physical sense. The other agonising pains shrouded a few meagre cuts on her palms in its deathly grip.

All of a sudden Rose felt as though she had been plunged mercilessly into ice-cold water, and the pain stuttered momentarily, as if the Voice were breathing pain into Rose's body – her nerves, bones, her very existence – and hiccupped. Rose felt a mad giggle in what would have been her throat at this insane thought and imagery. But then the Voice caught its breath, and the pain returned with a vengeance. Though something must have winded it slightly, for Rose was sure it wasn't as strong as previously.

Fingertips brushed lightly across her cheek, and she did feel this with surprising clarity. Tiny electrical sparks that were pleasant and welcoming and sent miniature bolts of lighting and butterflies racing to her stomach reminded her of what happened the first time the Doctor took her hand, and numerous occasions after that, and of the warm pleasant feelings swirling inside of her when the Doctor gazed intently at her, and she at him, and she allowed herself the tiny pleasure of imagining there was more to his glances and stares, and gave in to the butterflies fluttering madly. These feelings now took superiority over the sparks of fire that shot down her spine that were agonising and unwanted.

And then a new kind of darkness overtook her; one that hadn't been revealed to her by the Voice, and judging by the screams she knew weren't hers, it had never been revealed to the Voice either. Until now.

End Chapter XX