Chapter Fourteen: Lost and Found

When Clara lost her mother at sixteen, she felt as though a promise had been broken.

Of course, she knew it wasn't her mother's fault. Strength had drained from Ellie Oswald's once-able body like water spiraling down a tap, and her daughter could do little but sit there and watch it happen. Even the people who studied years of medicine couldn't contribute much to her family's case. Clara never relinquished her fierce grip on her mother's hand throughout the routinely sessions of chemo and cold cap therapy. She felt as if the tighter she held on, the more she was anchoring her to life. As if Ellie already had one foot out the door.

Losing her was like Bank Holiday Monday all over again, except this time, Clara was never found. Forever trapped in a horde of strange faces and murmured conversations, she would turn in circles before realizing that there was no way out. Schoolmates regarded her as if she had suddenly turned fragile. Their families smothered her broken one with several unhelpful condolences. And life became this navigating quest she never once asked for. People were rooting for her, but would never want to embark on such an expedition themselves.

"What's the biggest lie you've ever been told?" Nina once asked her.

It was an ungodly hour in the morning, and they were sprawled out across Clara's mattress with their legs propped up against the adjacent wall. Their voices were hoarse after discussing her recent breakup with Danny in full detail. It was clear that the question was aimed towards romantic relationships—even more so, intentional lies. But her mother's words immediately came to mind.

"It doesn't matter where you are, in a jungle or the desert or the moon. However lost you may feel, you'll never really be lost. Not really. Because I will always be here, and I will always come and find you. Every single time."

Clara had never been to a jungle or a desert, much less the moon. In fact, her university was only about an hour away from home. But even though she knew exactly where she was, she'd never felt more lost. Her mother wasn't coming to save her with a warm smile and fiercely protective embrace. She couldn't even feel her in her heart, which is where every deceased relative seemed to go. Illness not only tore Ellie apart, but the words she once gave to her daughter years ago. Clara was fully convinced she would never believe in them again.

But life had a way of proving her wrong. Even if she didn't realize it at first.

"Miss?" a voice called out to her through the fog. "Miss, can you hear me?"

A strangled groan escaped from the back of her throat. Her eyes fluttered open, the scent of grass and wet earth filling her nostrils. It took her several seconds to adjust to the darkness, and even then, all she could make out were tall, looming silhouettes against a nuanced night sky. Not even the stars were poignant enough to pierce through the dense canopy of trees.

"Miss, are you alright?"

Lifting her head from the grass, Clara felt the weight of her helmet strain her neck and shoulders. A dull pain pulsed between her eyes. Where was she? Where had they parked the TARDIS? She couldn't recall agreeing to sleep on the forest floor, but given her strangely impulsive decisions these past two days, she wouldn't put it past her.

Suddenly, memories began to resurface. The sputtering TARDIS engine. The thick odor of gasoline enclosed in the walls of an auto-repair shop. The unkempt hair of a nineteen year-old boy, smiling at her from the corner of a biker's license. The Doctor's license. His name alone was enough to careen her back into reality.

Clara shot up like a bullet, nearly colliding with the stranger who was hunched over her. From what she could discern, it was a woman. Her face appeared muddled behind the visor of the helmet, more specifically the grime streaked across the tinted plastic like warpaint. Every breath she took was heavy and amplified.

"W-Where am I?" she asked first, her voice barely audible. Using the remainder of her strength, she reached up to unclasp her helmet; the stranger immediately rushed forward to help her remove it. The biting wind alleviated the heat clinging to her face and neck. "What happened?"

A pair of grey eyes suddenly became the center of her focus. Cautious and filled with worry, they regarded her for a moment in deliberating silence. It was at that moment in which Clara felt the pain seep into her skin like a bed of needles. She bared her teeth and tried to contain her whimper as it traveled down the rest of her aching body.

"We're about forty minutes west of McKean County," the woman replied, the rest of her features filling in slowly. She wore a dark blue coat lined with wool, and her hair was a chestnut brown, parted in the middle by a thick fringe. She sat back on her heels and wrung her frail fingers in her lap. Confusion must have been clear as day on Clara's face, because she added, "Pennsylvania state."

Her eyes scanned the terrain with a disoriented perception, making out the faint rays of moonlight bending around the trees, until they eventually saw the helmet in her now-trembling hands. A crack was carved deep into its surface, spindly branches reaching out in several directions. Had she chosen not to wear it, her skull would've suffered far worse. The helmet tumbled into the grass.

"I found your motorcycle on the side of the road," the woman explained, her calm disposition a balm for the rising terror in Clara's stomach. "You must have blacked out from the crash."

The crash. Bloody hell, she thought to herself, trying to remember what had happened but struggling to retrieve her own thoughts. Dark red scrapes adorned her fingers. Her denim jacket was destroyed, bloodied flesh pooling out of each elbow. A tear in her jeans revealed a ghastly wound where she'd last seen skin. It hurt to move, to think. Every square inch of her body was burning.

"How long have I been out?" she croaked, digging the heels of her filthy palms into her eyes. She could feel the stranger's gaze on her regardless.

"I don't know. I only just got here. You're friend, he's—"

"Where is he?" Clara interjected, her eyes searching the perimeter in a panic. She could suddenly recall the moment her arms had let go of him, as if gravity itself had grabbed her with its vicious hand and yanked her backwards. That one memory was enough to make the bile rise in her throat. "Is he hurt?"

The woman drew her lips into a thin line as she pointed a finger towards the shadows ahead. "I tried waking him up, but he wouldn't stir. He's alive, however—"

Clara let out a pained cry as she bolted upwards from the ground, head pounding as her blood rushed from the sudden movement. Her damaged skin stretched and tore as she stood, but she managed to balance on her two feet without collapsing entirely. The woman shot her a surprised look, which Clara disregarded as she squinted into the darkness and began walking.

"Doctor?" she called out, her voice still fragile and hoarse. Clearing her throat, she yelled, "DOCTOR!"

She heard the frantic footsteps of the stranger a few paces behind. "There are no doctors here, miss. But we need to get you to one right away—"

"No," Clara spoke over her, shaking her head. She was limping at an excruciating slowness. "That's not what I meant. I just...I need to find him. I need to find The Doctor."

"Who on earth are you talking about?"

Not a second later, a faint outline of a body emerged from the shadows. She didn't need to come closer to know who it was. Her wrecked knee suddenly became the least of her problems as she broke out into a sprint towards The Doctor, every part of her body barking in protest as she fell beside him.

A web of cracks stretched across the visor of his helmet lying a few feet away. His entire right side was scraped to ribbons from the accident, warm blood oozing onto the purple tweed of his coat. But nothing was more heart-stopping than his face. Shadows pooled around his eyes, and the hollowed-out expression he wore was startling and wholly unfamiliar. Clara couldn't help it. She burst into tears.

It didn't matter that there was a stranger there watching her unravel, or that every direction she faced was met with unending darkness—the fact that The Doctor was hurt ran through her like a blade. Was he in pain? Was he awake when it had happened? Or had his world disappeared the moment he chose to bank right? Her mind tried to grab hold of any possible answers, but it was impossible. She couldn't even control her own tears, and her shoulders refused to stop shaking.

"Surely, you don't need to cry over me," she envisioned him telling her, a cheeky grin on his face. "You know all unconscious people come back. Save the tears for something more important—like your best mate's wedding, or a soppy film."

"Y-You're gonna be okay, alright?" she managed in between sobs, resting her ear to his chest. Hot tears soaked the front of his shirt, and the blood in her ears was now screeching—but despite the orchestration of chaos that surrounded her, she could detect The Doctor's heartbeat through the thick of it all. Steady and ongoing and alive.

Bless the stars, you're still alive.

"We need to get you two out of the cold," the woman said after a moment, resting a gentle hand on Clara's back. "The nearest hospital is an hour away, so it would be easier to take you back to my place. A good friend of mine is a family physician; he should be able to see if anything's broken."

Clara drew in a sharp breath, lifting her head from The Doctor's chest and wiping her runny nose on her sleeve. She felt as if she were navigating blindly, plunging her faith into the hands of this grey-eyed stranger. But she hadn't any other choice. And it certainly wouldn't be the first time she had sought help from someone she knew so little of.

"Yes, of course," she replied in a whisper, lifting her eyes to meet that of the stranger's. She was so unsettled by her surroundings that she had forgotten how to behave properly. "I'm Clara, by the way. And what is your name?"

"Emma," she replied briskly, well aware that formalities weren't important at this moment. Gesturing towards the red convertible parked several meters ahead, she said, "Come on, now. I can have my husband go back for the motorcycle tomorrow morning. We need to lift your friend into the car."

Carrying The Doctor was a cumbersome task, especially since Clara's strength was comparable to that of a newborn doe's. He was undoubtedly lanky and took up the entirety of the backseat. Emma had to tuck his legs in before closing the door. While Clara winced at how cramped he was, she refused the passenger seat and instead sat with his head in her lap, squeezing his scratched-up hand with her own. Just as he had done back in Sherrodsville. To think that was a mere few hours ago was mind-boggling.

The ride to wherever they were headed was mostly silent, which Clara was appreciative of. Emma very much understood the severity of the situation, only breaking the silence to make a phone call. Her hand tightened around her cell phone as the other calmly guided the steering wheel, her eyes clear as day and focused on the dark road ahead.

"Alec? Yes—I'm coming home, I need you to phone Dr. Docherty for me...no, I'm fine. I passed a motorcycle incident along the Interstate, and there's a young couple who are in need of help." Her gaze flicked to Clara's in the rear-view mirror. "Do you have a place to stay?"

She shook her head. "No, we're not from here. Sorry."

"No need to apologize," Emma reassured her, returning to her call. "We need two guest rooms prepared, please. Okay, I love you. See you in a bit."

Clara ran her thumb across The Doctor's cheek, desperately searching for a response from him. She pulled his coat more tightly around him to staunch the blood flow from his rib injuries, and in the process, noticed a lump beneath the thick purple tweed. Carefully pulling back the material, she reached into the coat's inner pocket, and retrieved The Doctor's cell phone. Its screen was shattered, remnants of his blood filling the spaces where glass once held intact. She pushed aside her nausea and tried turning it on. A distorted image of a red battery blinked back at her.

Reaching for her backpack that Emma had collected from the bike, the young woman fumbled with the zipper and blindly searched for her portable charger. Even when her mind was racing, a small, practical part of her was outlining the steps ahead. She needed to call Amy and tell her what had happened. The Doctor's best friend deserved to know of his condition at the earliest opportunity.

Especially since it's my fault he ended up here, she thought to herself, but refused to feel the weight of her guilt until later. Now was not the time.

She was grateful her charger had remained in one piece, though her laptop had suffered a far more damaging fate. The device she had used to write hundreds of blog entries and English papers now lay in pieces at the bottom of her backpack. Had this been any other situation, she'd go ballistic over the several weeks' worth of lost work, of articles she'd never be able to rewrite with the same quick-wittiness as before. But staring at the ruined piece of machinery provoked nothing within her now. In fact, all she saw were shards of glass and plastic.

Nothing was nearly as valuable to her as the person lying in her lap. The only person on this entire bloody continent that she cared about.

How can you sleep—a voice inside of her asked—knowing it was your foolish decision-making that ultimately got you into this mess? The Doctor warned you about this. You hurt him, Clara. You locked him inside his own dreams, and it's your doing.

"We're almost to the house," Emma said, saving Clara from the snares of her own thoughts. "We should be there in about ten minutes. Has he shown any signs of stirring yet?"

Blinking back her tears, Clara looked from Emma's pale eyes to The Doctor's closed ones, as if expecting him to open them at any moment and stare at her quizzically. But there was nothing. She bit down on her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

"No, not yet. Is that normal?"

"I've seen cases where victims lay unconscious for hours, if not more. So we're not in the clear quite yet, but give him time. He'll come round."

Clara nodded. Her hand returned to cusp his face, his warm skin now drained of color.

"His name is John. John Smith," she told Emma. "I don't think I've told you that yet. He's a doctor, fresh out of medical school. Kind enough to invite me to travel along with him." She quieted, her rapid heartbeat drowning out the sound of her own voice. "I...I can't lose him. It's my fault that he's hurt."

"Were you the one driving?"

"Well, no. But—"

Suddenly, The Doctor shifted beneath her hands, a low murmur escaping him. All eyes in the vehicle cut to him as he cautiously turned within the confined space, his expression adopting pain, confusion. Clara pushed the sweaty locks of hair away from his forehead, wanting nothing more than to hold him close and will away his injuries. Pain is good, she tried to convince herself. It would be worse if he felt nothing at all.

"Clara..." The name was but a whisper of breath on his lips, but the young writer heard him nonetheless. "What...what's going on?"

It took her a moment to locate her words. "There was an accident," explained to him quietly, hoping her wobbly voice held enough clarity for him to understand. "We crashed, but we're going to get help. You're going to be okay, alright?"

A flicker of anguish passed along his face. It was clear he hadn't fully returned to her. His eyes, glassy and dazed, latched onto Clara's through the shadows cast upon them. As if she were the only recognizable thing amidst the dark trees flitting past the car windows. Why on earth was he in the backseat with her? And who was in the driver's seat?

"And you?" he wondered, despite all this. Because nothing else was worth asking about. "Are you okay?"

The question caught her by surprise, and she laughed. It came out as a strangled cry. Would it kill you to think about yourself once in a while?

"Good," she reassured him, squeezing his hand with both of her own. He didn't have the strength to squeeze back. "Better."

"...good," he replied, traces of a grin appearing on his face. "That's good."

Clara held onto that look long after it faded from his expression, after sleep had come to claim him once more. But this time, it was as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. Simply hearing his voice, with its sardonic edge and unending humility, eased the majority of her worries. Still, her eyes refused to leave him for the remainder of the trip, even when the pine trees made way for the tall, historical houses of Smethport, Pennsylvania.

A little more than a thousand people resided in the town's quiet streets, the county it belonged to nestled just along the border of New York State. Often times, people settled in Smethport because settling was exactly what they sought out to do. After a lifetime of jet-setting and overseas adventure, it was the perfect place for aging couples to rest their bones and grow old together. Seldom did young adults yearn for its solitude and quaint culture.

"My husband and I, we own a bed and breakfast. So I do apologize if there are a few guests wandering about at this hour," Emma explained as she turned into the driveway of a four-story Gothic manor, where the cobblestone pavement snaked back into a courtyard equipped with a garage and garden. Warm hues of the porch light danced upon The Doctor's features as the woman parked close to the back entrance and killed the engine. The two travelers' labored breathing and the chirping of crickets were the only discernible sounds.

"Alec!" Emma hissed once she got out of the car, craning her neck upwards to spot her partner balanced on the topmost rung of a ladder. "I told you—no more construction on the house after sundown. You can barely see a thing up there!"

"Well, I couldn't have had our guests arrive to a half-mangled rooftop, that'd be a travesty," he murmured back, quickly descending from the ladder to greet his wife with a swift kiss on the lips. From what Clara could spot of him from the backseat window, he wore a brown coat and a pair of spectacles.

Emma managed a small, if not grim, smile. "I think our incomplete rooftop is the least of these people's concerns."

"...I think it looks nice," the young writer interjected, having kicked open the door to let some fresh air in. The owners of the bed and breakfast immediately turned to look at her in surprise. She smiled, grasping The Doctor's hand. "I'm Clara Oswald. And this is my friend, Dr. John Smith."

"Ah, yes. The young travelers themselves." The man's eyes widened in urgency as he came forward to take Clara's bloodied hand in greeting. "Alec Palmer. Welcome to our home. Do forgive our incessant bickering. Emma and I are growing old, you see."

Despite herself, Clara felt a grin spread across her face. She appreciated his composure—he didn't cringe or shy away from the blood caking her clothes and skin. Instead, he instantly helped her out from the backseat and asked if she were strong enough to help carry The Doctor inside. It was as if these people were no strangers to misfortune. Either that, or they were just incredibly kind.

"Living in such a remote area has its fair share of responsibilities," Emma explained once they had transferred The Doctor onto the parlor couch, where a fresh linen sheet had been draped over the musty yellow cushions. Before Clara could even open her mouth, a colorfully-threaded blanket was placed into her hands by an awaiting employee. She gave her thanks and fussed over tucking it beneath The Doctor's chin. "As I mentioned before, the nearest hospital is in the next town over. Some people are better off treated here, so we rely on one another when needed."

"That's really admirable," Clara said, twisting around to face the woman. The thought of having an entire town, however small, at your back in sickness and in health made her smile. But surely they had to have some form of medical care, even out here between the large masses of trees and abandoned road. Who provided the knowledge to care for all these people?

The doorbell broke apart her thoughts. Ancient and poignant, it traveled through the hallways of the manor, reverberating off of the walls adorned in tapestries and richly-colored paintings.

"That must be Dr. Docherty," Alec announced, excusing himself from the parlor to go attend to the family physician. Clara nibbled on her thumbnail in apprehension. Would Dr. Docherty be able to explain things as effectively as John had back in Sherrodsville? She knew better than to compare—after all, this man had agreed to come in the dead of night to care for them—but she couldn't help it. She'd been surrounded by two physicians her entire life: her pediatrician, and the one currently in a deep slumber to her left. It was impossible not to feel the least bit worried.

"I'll go fetch hot water and towels, get you two cleaned up," Emma offered, laying a hand on Clara's shoulder in reassurance. "Can I get you anything while I'm at it? A cup of tea, perhaps?"

"A cup of tea does sound nice, thank you," she replied, trying not to let her smile falter as the woman disappeared into the shadows of the adjacent corridor. Clara heard Emma exchange pleasantries with the approaching doctor just a few meters away. He sounded younger than the young writer expected. It wasn't until he entered the room that she realized he was a lot younger than expected.

It was the hair she noticed first. Much like The Doctor's the first time she saw him, it gravitated towards several different directions, except this time, it looked as if it was meant to behave in such a way. His outlandish attire was also a cause of speculation, as he was dressed in a pinstripe suit, the collar of his shirt folded haphazardly over a patterned tie.

But the thing she found the most profound about him wasn't his stick-thin figure, or the sand-shoes that crossed the threshold of the parlor. It was the fact that each and every one of his features aligned perfectly with that of a certain character in her book. 'Withering Rose.'

You're dreaming again, she told herself, thinking it couldn't be true. She had seen people who resembled characters in books, but her imagination was never this accurate before. It was as if Rose's unearthly counterpart had stepped out of the pages of the novel itself. The uncanny similarity between fact and fiction was enough to make her eyes widen to saucers. This was either a sheer coincidence, or the anonymous author to 'Withering Rose' was closer than Clara might have thought.

Her mind was racing so rapidly that she almost didn't hear the man introduce himself.

"Hello. I'm David Docherty," he said politely, extending his hand out for a shake. "I hear you're in need of a physician?"