Clara followed the Doctor into her flat, one hand resting on his back as he stumbled along, shoulders slumped, his aura of invincibility slipping a little. He tossed his jacket over the arm of her couch, revealing the jumper she coveted, the one she was sorely tempted to nick when he wasn't looking. Boots came off next, kicked under an end table. Clara wondered at his attitude of ease in her place, as if it were as familiar to him as his TARDIS. He stopped suddenly while she was lost in thought and she nearly crashed into his back.

"Don't go any further," He spoke in a harsh whisper, holding out one hand in a warning gesture. "Something's gone wrong with the gravity in here. Can you feel it? I'm having trouble standing upright." He took a few staggering steps to the side, bracing himself against the corridor wall, holding on to it with one hand, reaching out for Clara with the other. "It's safer over here, more stable. Come on."

Clara summoned her most patient teacher's voice. "Doctor, there is nothing wrong with the gravity. I think you're feeling dizzy."

"Ridiculous." He spoke without opening his eyes. "Why would I feel dizzy? You need to get over this strange preoccupation you have with my health. I've never felt better in my life." He gripped Clara by the wrist. "Hang on, now the walls are moving."

He scooped her close with one arm, not loosening his grip on the wall. She felt perfectly content to stand there, protected from imaginary dangers, hands resting against his chest. She frowned as she became aware of the twin heartbeats under her fingertips, the normally regular rhythm too fast and erratic. Clara studied the Doctor's face. He kept his eyes tightly closed and a fine sheen of sweat beaded on his upper lip.

"I really think you should sit down," she said. "It's safer. Center of mass and all that."

He gave her an incredulous look. "You know nothing about physics, do you?"

"Nope. Still think you should sit down."

A sudden hard shudder shook him. "As long as this sitting place is warm, I won't argue too much."

"Kitchen, then," Clara said, stepping back and looping one arm through his. "I'll make coffee. A nice hot drink will warm you up."

"Gravity, Clara," he said, a note of alarm in his voice as they began walking. "Don't move too quickly."

"Right, well, maybe you'd better hang on to me then. I might fall and hurt myself."

"Yes, good thinking."

She encircled his waist with one arm and he leaned heavily against her, brow furrowed in concentration as they made their way along. Clara stole a glance at him. He looked paler than usual, his skin gone an unhealthy chalky color. She was seized with a sudden urge to tuck him into bed and let him sleep for a week.

"It's getting worse," he said. "The gravity is fluctuating the closer we get to your kitchen."

"Almost there," she said, hoping she sounded encouraging.

The Doctor braced himself against the doorframe as they entered the kitchen. "Everything's spinning in here," he said. "Can't you fix it? Make things stop moving around?" He gulped once and Clara moved quickly before he could pass out or be sick on her floor.

"Just sit," she said, easing him to the floor. "And put your head between your knees."

He looked to be all knees and elbows from his position under the counter. "I don't see how this will help anything, Clara."

She placed a hand on the nape of his neck and lowered his head, more roughly than she intended. "Shut up and stay down."

The kitchen remained blissfully silent while she filled the kettle and plugged it in and pulled the grinder from the cupboard.

"If you're still making coffee," he said quietly, "You can use those beans I left for you last time."

"The purple ones?" Clara paused in her preparations as she thought. "Yeah, could do, but they melted my press. Had to buy a new one. Out of teacher's wages, I might add."

"Melted it?" He blinked up at her. "A pity, wouldn't have minded trying a cup of that."

"Well, you're going to have to settle for boring, old-fashioned Earth coffee," she said. "Feeling better?"

"I feel exactly the same as before," he said impatiently. "But it seems everything in the kitchen is starting to calm down."

He rose to his feet with a groan, digging one hand into his lower back as he moved across the kitchen. He leaned across the sink and moved the blinds aside to peer out.

""Where is Maxwell?" he said. "Have you seen him recently?"

Clara filled two cups and placed one near him. "Maxwell?"

"The furry orange tabby? Hangs around the courtyard at times?"

"Do you mean Mr. Fluff?"

"I certainly do not mean Mr. Fluff," he said, taking a cup in both hands. "How ridiculous. His name is Maxwell. Does reconnaissance in the area for me."

Clara's mouth fell open and she forgot about stirring her coffee. "Mr. Fluff does?"

The Doctor nodded. "Very intelligent creature, speaks three languages. So, has he been around lately? It's been a while since he's filed a report."

"I usually hear him rummaging about at night," she said. "Wait a minute, you speak cat?"

"Of course I do, Clara, all eight dialects." He gave her a pitying look. "But Maxwell speaks Gallifreyan. No idea where he picked it up, but it does come in handy."

Clara shook her head. Her evening was growing progressively weirder every moment. "Well, I'll keep a special eye out tonight, let you know if i see him."

He nodded, taking a tentative sip of his coffee. He pulled a disgusted face, the cup clinking hard against the counter as he set it aside.

"This is terrible, Clara," he said. "It has no aroma at all."

Clara frowned in puzzlement and took a sniff of her own drink. "Smells like coffee to me." She watched as he massaged the bridge of his nose in a tired manner. "Could just be you. Have you heard your voice?"

She paused then, lost in thought. That voice of his did strange things to her, made her forget for a moment the older face and grey hair, but tonight it sounded blunted with congestion and cracked with fatigue. Between the sound and the look of him she wondered how he was managing to keep himself upright.

"Well, I don't know about you," Clara said, dumping out both cups and rinsing them, "But I haven't eaten all day and I'm gonna need more than coffee. You hungry?"

She turned and poked him playfully in the ribs. He brought both hands up to protect himself.

"I can't tell," he said.

"Let's take a chance." She pulled a menu from the front of her refrigerator and held it out to him. "Raj's," she said as he studied the menu with an upraised eyebrow and a doubtful look. "They make a great chicken pasanda. It's my favorite."

"Nope," he said, flipping it over. "Can't eat chicken."

"Seriously?" Clara crossed her arms and studied him. "Are you a vegetarian?"

"I'm not sure. But I do know once you've shared a meal with a ruling class of sentient gallus domesticus, makes it a little harder to tuck into anything with chicken."

"Gotcha," Clara said. "Then Tikka Masala is out, too. Vegetable korma? I'm assuming you've never gotten to know a carrot personally."

"I have, but he was a complete prat, so it doesn't matter."

Clara sighed and tried to straighten one leg without disturbing her couchmate. The curry had done the trick of clearing his head and although he'd been temporarily pleased at the return of his wondrous sense of smell, the constant sniffling and blowing had put him in a cranky mood. He'd finally worn himself out, slumping against Clara and falling asleep among the detritus of takeaway trays and crumpled tissues. She didn't miss the complaining in the least but she rather enjoyed the solid weight of him against her and the feel of his head resting on her shoulder.

The guttural snore was less endearing. Clara stretched a hand out, reaching for the throw draped over one arm of the couch. She settled it around him, pulling it up to cover one shoulder. He seemed unaware of her attentions, the rhythm of his breathing unchanged, but he did burrow his head in a little more snugly. She smiled and rubbed her cheek gently across the top of his head, unable to resist the feel of all that riotous hair, softer than it appeared. Not the worst way to spend an evening, she thought.

Clara jumped at the strident sound of her ringtone, her mobile just out of reach on a side table. She wondered if she should let it go to message rather than disturb the sleeping Doctor, but she managed to slide out from underneath without waking him. She nabbed the phone and dove into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

"Hey Danny!" she said, trying to keep her voice low. "Yeah, sorry, bit out of breath, just ran in from outside. What's up?"

She turned at the sound of her bedroom door opening. The Doctor stood watching her, wrapped up tight in his blanket, hair sticking up on one side. Clara shook her head and turned her attention back to her call.

"Nah, just takeaway. Got the korma at Raj's. It was good, you'll have to try it next t…." Clara trailed off as the Doctor began coughing, a deep, chesty, and very loud cough.

She made a slashing movement at her throat with her free hand. "Shut up," she mouthed, pressing her mobile into her chest. He gave a guilty start and used the blanket to muffle the sound, bending forward at the waist.

"Oh, the coughing? Nah, just some medical drama on telly," she said, trying for an unconcerned tone. "Some poor soul dying of tuberculosis." She returned the Doctor's pointed glare at that, motioning him emphatically from the room.

She bounced slightly as he threw himself onto her bed.

"I miss you, too. But it's only for a few days, yeah?" She made a futile attempt to shove the Doctor off the bed. "Okay. Night-night."

Clara blew out an exasperated breath as she ended the call and tossed her mobile aside. "I thought you were sleeping."

"I was," he said. "But I couldn't find you."

"Up," Clara said, rising to her knees on the mattress and trying to lift him by one arm. "Back to the couch. I'm a gracious hostess but you're not sleeping in here tonight."

He turned to his side, pulling away from her and scooting himself upward until he was nearly buried in the pile of pillows at the head of the bed.

"You wouldn't make me sleep on the couch when I'm ill, Clara. I know you better than that. You're too kind-hearted."

"Oh, now you're ill," she said. "When it suits you, suddenly you're ill." She sat down again, admitting defeat.

"Of course I am. All the signs are there. Unmistakable. You should learn to be a little more observant."

She resisted the urge to give him a good thump as he continued. "Besides, this bed has lots of pillows. I didn't know I liked pillows, but I do. Honestly, Clara, how am I supposed to know what I like and what I don't like if you keep hiding things from me?"

"You've slept on pillows before."

"Victorian-era pillows stuffed with horsehair," he reminded her, nose wrinkling at the memory. "I like these. They're soft and they smell nice, like you."

"Hang on," she said. Clara wondered about the state she found her dressing table in at times, all her things moved about, and she was hit with a sudden image of the Doctor seated at the table in her absence, inspecting all the different jars and tubes. "Was that a compliment? You must be delirious."

He made no reply, flattening one pillow with a punch and burying his nose in it. Clara heard a sharp inhale and then a sudden muffled noise.

"Doctor," she said, once again summoning her patient voice. "Tell me you did not just sneeze on my pillow."

"I may have?" he said. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice."

"Well, I did. And you were coughing all over my blanket, too. Are you going to infect everything in my flat before you're well?"

"I'm sorry, Clara," he murmured.

"I give up," she said, standing and moving to the closet, pulling out a spare blanket. "I'll take the couch. I hope you're okay with sleeping in your clothes," she added. "All I have are nightshirts and they would never fit you." She giggled a little at the thought of his knobby knees under a frilly nightshirt. "And don't go wiping your nose on my pillows. There are tissues in the nightstand if you need them."

He remained quiet and Clara leaned over him, pulling his blanket up around his shoulders and placing one hand on his cheek before turning off the bedside lamp.

"Sleep well, Doctor," she whispered. "See you in the morning."

She heard only a soft snore in reply.