The Doctor watched Rose's lethargic movements as she neared the fire. At first her shivering hadn't particularly concerned him; he knew that humans were easily chilled. But her pallor was atypical, and when she'd dropped down into the chair he feared at first that she'd lost consciousness.

"Rose?" he asked just a bit sharply, watching her eyelids lower.

She did not respond. He knelt before her and spoke her name again. She appeared to be in deep slumber. He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. Her skin was quite cool. He noted that her coat was damp, the result of melted snowflakes, and he knew he needed to get her out of the cold garment before it chilled her further.

"Come on, Rose," he said, pulling her forward, "let's get this wet old thing off you."

She barely stirred as he tugged the sleeves over her arms. More concerned than his rational mind could justify, he patted at her cold cheek. "Rose. Rose!"

She sighed and opened her eyes. "Mmm. Wha' d'y'want?"

"Are you all right?"

"Tired."

"I can see that."

"Wanna… sleep."

Her eyes were glassy, and he caught the hint of fruitiness in her soft exhalation. They'd shared a bottle of wine with dinner, but she'd had most of it, hadn't she? He couldn't quite recall; the waiter had kept the glasses topped off quite efficiently.

"How much wine did you have?" he asked.

She shook her head wearily. "Dunno. Glass or two."

"Or maybe three," he added.

He lifted her and managed to get the coat completely off of her. He maneuvered her toward the bed closest to the fireplace and eased her down. Immediately her eyes closed.

He sighed. Humans… So extraordinary in so many ways, yet so fallible. He pulled off Rose's shoes then brought the thick down duvet from the other bed and tucked it around her. She was asleep again.

The Doctor settled into the chair by the fire, suddenly aware that he felt a bit chilled, too. Snow was falling heavily outside. He was glad they hadn't attempted to walk back to the ship. A tipsy, sleepy Rose was ill equipped to manage the slippery, slick road that led up to the TARDIS.

Mesmerized by the falling flakes, he grew drowsy, too, and the Doctor's eyelids lowered. In the quiet tranquility of the thick snowfall, he slept.


When he woke, the fire had died down to embers, and the room was chilly. The Doctor rubbed at his arms and added another two logs to the fire. It was nearly dawn; he could sense the slight change in the light. He peered outside to find the streets heavily blanketed by snow as the white flakes continued to fall.

Rose was huddled under the duvet; he could see only the tip of her nose. However, as he stoked the fire, one of the logs crackled loudly, and she seemed to rouse. She made a small murmur then curled up a bit more.

"Rose. You awake?" he asked.

"Mmn," she responded.

"It's still snowing," he told her.

Slowly she sat up and blinked blearily at him in the firelight. "'S still night," she slurred.

"Almost dawn, actually," he corrected.

"It's cold."

"Fire died down, but I've added some more logs. It should be warm again soon."

She gave a little groan as she shoved back the quilt.

"Getting up?" he asked. Now that he was awake, he wanted company, someone to talk to.

"Gotta pee," she said, lurching upward and stumbling toward the bathroom.

Alarmed by her jerky movements, he began to move toward her, but she made it to her destination and shut the door. He waited, and finally he heard the toilet flush. The door opened, and Rose stood gripping the knob. Her face was ashen.

"Rose? What's wrong?" he asked.

"Don't… feel good," she began haltingly.

"I think you had a bit too much wine last night," he reminded her, though not unkindly.

She shook her head. "No. Only had… one glass. Bottle was… half full… when we left."

With those informative words, she suddenly dropped to her knees. He shot forward, grabbing her shoulders before she could slide down to the floor.

"Rose, what's the matter?"

Her eyelids fluttered but did not close. "So tired…," she gasped.

He pulled her up gently and helped her back to the bed. She sank down, beginning to shiver again. He touched her cheek to find it alarmingly cold. He reached for her wrist; her pulse was thready and weak. He spared a moment to listen to her breathing, noting shallow respiration. Damn it, why hadn't he noticed the signs earlier?

He should have performed all the scans. Why had he permitted Rose to leave the infirmary before he'd had a chance to evaluate her thoroughly? Clearly she was hemorrhaging internally, slipping into hypovolemic shock; the only question was the source of the injury.

"Cold," she whispered plaintively, attempting to reach for the blanket.

"I know," he acknowledged, stilling the lethargic movement of her hand. "But I need to have a look at you. Something's wrong, Rose, and I have to figure out what it is."

He reached into his pocket for the sonic screwdriver and automatically switched it on. He glanced at it cursorily then gave it a shake. "Damn," he muttered, setting the useless instrument aside. He'd forgotten that it was damaged.

He pulled up Rose's jumper, exposing her belly. His eyes moved over the pale, waxen flesh. He still saw no overt signs of injury. She whimpered as the cool air touched her skin. He ignored the noise and focused his attention on his task. Methodically he pressed his hands over her abdomen, feeling for any distension or rigidity that would indicate internal bleeding.

She tried to turn away from him, from his cool hands, but he admonished mildly, "Stay still. I have to have a look."

But he found nothing. He slid his hands up to her chest, feeling the ribcage, assessing the movement of her lungs, but still he perceived no sign of injury. He rolled her onto her stomach. There was a bruise on the lower left side of her back.

"Rose," he said, taking a moment to rest his hand against her cheek to ensure her attention. "Was there blood in your urine?"

"Blood?" she repeated sluggishly.

"Yes, blood. When you used the bathroom just now."

"No… no blood."

Still he moved his hand carefully over each kidney. She did not cry out or show any indication of pain. He checked her spine and her ribs but all appeared uninjured. So what the hell was it? Where was she bleeding?

"Oh."

It was single sound, escaping his mouth with surprise and disappointment. She'd broken her leg. There had been swelling, increased pressure. Yes, he'd repaired the fracture and scanned the bone, but what if he'd been careless and missed a torn ligament? What if pressure had continued to build, leading to compression syndrome?

It was the only plausible explanation. Without pretense, he rolled her over and pulled off her jeans. Immediately his hands moved to her leg, but he found nothing amiss. There were no signs of swelling, no indications of increased pressure within the enclosed space. The pulse behind her knee mirrored the one in her wrist. He pulled off her socks, despite her squeak of frustration, checked the pulse at her ankle and ran his hands over her foot.

In growing frustration and concern, he checked her other leg, in case he'd failed to note an injury there. But the limb was perfectly intact. He removed her jumper, ignoring her mild protestations, and examined both arms, her shoulders, her neck… but there was nothing.

He turned on the bedside lamp and held the naked bulb before each eye, but her pupils reacted perfectly. She was able to obey his simple commands for various motor movements, too. An intercranial bleed was thus highly unlikely.

Finally, he pulled the quilt back over her. She tugged at it weakly, trying to gather more warmth. He stood tiredly and took another blanket from the other bed. Her toes were sticking out, and he reached down to adjust the cover.

"I'm sorry, Rose," he said.

He knew he'd caused her considerable discomfort, but there'd been no way around it. He gave her ankle a comforting caress. His thumb brushed over a bit of roughness, a single anomaly amid all the normalcy he'd found. He lifted the end of the quilt to study her ankle.

Just beneath her calf he found a small rash. The affected area was about the size of a bottle cap. No wonder he'd missed it before. He'd been so intent on finding some major injury that he'd barely noticed this tiny patch of irritated skin. He pushed his glasses up onto his nose and bent to study the rash.

"Foot's cold," Rose informed him softly.

"Sorry," he replied, "but there's something here."

He touched the irritation, and she winced. Upon closer inspection, he found over a dozen tiny punctures in her skin. It wasn't a rash at all. The question was, what was it?

He thought back to those frantic moments in the water, remembering that he'd brushed something away from her foot, away from her ankle… It had been a bit of seaweed.

Seaweed. He repeated the word to himself, rapidly scanning through the extensive database contained within his mind. The small injury was like a sting, so maybe the cause wasn't a plant at all. Perhaps it was some sort of animal.

And then suddenly he understood. He blinked as the information coalesced. If he was correct—and he usually was—there was very little time to put things to right. Rose's weakness would increase exponentially. Her body's ability to produce energy was already compromised, and soon the cellular processes would shut down entirely. He had to get her back to the TARDIS.

He stood, swaying unexpectedly as a wave of dizziness washed over him. He was tired, exhausted, even after nearly a full night's sleep. Sleep. Time Lords rarely required slumber. His hearts beat faster.

His hand shook as he unbuttoned his cuff and pushed up his sleeve. He turned over his wrist to find ten miniscule punctures peppering his pale skin. He'd brushed the seaweed away with his wrist, with this wrist.

For a moment he stood, frozen with fear. He raked his hands through his hair. He doubted that Rose would last until noon. He could fight the effects somewhat more successfully, but it would only be a temporary fix. Eventually he would succumb, too.