The Doctor had no choice but to take Rose out into the freezing snow. He bundled her up and helped her downstairs, half-carrying her limp, enervated form. He asked the desk clerk to call a taxi, only to be informed politely and apologetically that the roads were closed due to the storm.
He couldn't wait for the blizzard to end. Time was of the essence. So he hauled Rose outside into the cold and searched for a vehicle to borrow. He found a likely candidate in the alleyway and used his coat-clad elbow to break the glass in the side window. After brushing armfuls of snow from the car, he shoved his wilting companion into the passenger seat. With trembling fingers, he tore out the wires beneath the console, connecting the necessary ones to start the vehicle. The car rumbled sluggishly, and he had to resist the temptation to slam his foot against the gas.
Slowly he coaxed the car from the alley, letting the engine warm. Finally he was able to drive out onto the snow-covered street. He fought his way through the drifts, forcing the chugging vehicle to plow through the dense whiteness.
The car stalled more than once, and the Doctor had to fiddle with the wiring for what felt like hours. Objectively, it was probably less than five minutes each time, but Rose's silence stretched the minutes inexorably. At first he'd attempted to keep up his usual chatter, but she did not respond, and there was no time to try to rouse her. After a short while, he didn't possess the energy to talk; simply controlling the car required all of his strength.
Finally he reached the edge of town. The path they'd taken from down from the TARDIS might have been accessible to an automobile on a sunny, warm day, but the snow rendered it impassable by vehicle.
With a groan of frustration, the Time Lord hauled himself out of the car and trudged over to the passenger side. He opened the door and tugged Rose out, attempting to set her on her feet. But she was only semi-conscious, barely registering his presence or his urgent words. She sagged against him.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air, sending a small burst of energy to his body. He knew it was only temporary; his cells would not recharge indefinitely, but perhaps it would be enough to get Rose back to the ship.
He lifted her into his arms and began to plod up the hill through the snow. She was a dead weight; she'd lost consciousness now, and his feeble attempts to awaken her were unsuccessful. Snow clung to her hair, and her beautiful skin was ashen. Her lips were tinged with blue.
He slogged on, willing his legs to move, to drive through the thick drifts. Finally he saw a hint of blue through the nearly blinding white. If he'd had the energy to smile, he would have, but now such an expenditure was a luxury that neither he nor Rose could afford.
He shoved open the door with his shoulder and stepped inside. The interior was blissfully warm, and he hoped that the increase in temperature would stave off Rose's hypothermia. He dropped to his knees and set her upon the floor then crawled up the ramp to the console, not yet bothering to spare the energy needed to stand.
He pulled himself up; he needed to see the console in order to set the coordinates. And it was crucial that he set them perfectly, for precisely the right moment, because he had to get her back to the source, and the window was very narrow. His hands trembled, and he noted idly that the beds of his fingernails had a bluish cast. Funny, he hadn't even felt the cold.
His fingers were stiff, and it was difficult to depress the necessary buttons and turn the dials properly. His legs felt like jelly; he had to lean heavily against the console to support himself. Finally he rested the heel of his hand over the dematerialization switch. He took a breath then leaned into his hand. The ship shuddered violently; this would not be his smoothest journey or landing. But that didn't matter. Reaching the destination was all that he cared about, for it was the only way to save Rose.
He was flung backward, abruptly finding himself sprawled upon the floor. He got to his hands and knees and crawled down the ramp. Rose had been jostled sufficiently to roll her listless body closer to the doors. Well, he supposed that was good: It would save him the effort of dragging her those extra few feet.
He stood on quavering legs, grasping Rose's wrists on the way up. He shoved open the door and pulled her out into the bright, warm sunshine. The sand shifted beneath his feet. At the base of the cliff, the water glittered in the sunlight. He lifted his face to the sky, assessing the positions of the suns. Yes, he'd made it at the proper time. He had about ten minutes now to get Rose back into the water.
He shrugged out of his overcoat and suit jacket then dropped to his knees to divest her of her heavy coat and shoes; he wasn't sure he could manage the excess weight. Her lips remained blue, and her skin was frightfully cold. Her pulse beat sluggishly beneath his fingers.
For just a moment a glimmer of an ironic grin twitched against his lips. Hypothermia slowed down the body's processes, by definition reducing the need for cellular energy. It was possible that being in such a cold environment had prolonged Rose's life. But now the air was warm, and her heart would begin beating faster, other organs accompanying it. At least they would try. He doubted she had sufficient energy to do more than take a few shallow breaths and keep her heart functioning at a dangerously low level.
But he needed ten minutes. That was all. Just six hundred seconds—less than the blink of an eye in his lifetimes. Yet for Rose, those ten minutes could be the extent of her remaining existence.
He pulled her up into his arms again. "Hang on, Rose. Just for a little while, just for a few minutes."
Her head lolled against his shoulder.
He dragged himself over the sand, stumbling more than once as he made his way down the cliff. Rose was a dead weight against him, tugging him toward the ground, using the last reserves of his own energy. But still he continued on, counting the seconds, willing her to remain alive for another minute, just one more…
When he got to the water's edge, he lowered her to the damp sand. She'd ceased breathing about thirty seconds ago, but he hadn't dared to stop for fear of missing the tiny window of opportunity. He rested his hand in on the wet earth and allowed the foamy water to swirl against his skin. He concentrated, sensing the slight ionic fluctuation. It was nearly time.
He hoped that the energy discharge would be sufficient to restart Rose's heart. He simply could not waste the seconds required to do it himself. He had to get her into the water, into contact with as many of the fleshy leaves as possible.
Quickly he stripped off his shirt and trousers then worked to remove Rose's clothing. The effort was exhausting, but he kept moving, kept pulling at the clothes until she lay limply on the sand, arms and legs akimbo, clad only in her bra and panties. He gathered the shreds of his remaining strength and dragged her into the water.
He could now feel the ionic charge building; his skin fairly crackled with it. Wrapping one arm around her chest, he ducked under the water. Several large strips of seaweed floated languidly near his feet, anchored far beneath the sand by their long, deep roots. He kicked up a strand and wrapped it around Rose's torso. Now his entire body was tingling, and he could see the tiny hairs on her arms standing up.
He groped for another rubbery tendril. This one he clasped tightly against his own chest, then he pressed himself against Rose's back and waited.
When the shock came, it was harder than he had anticipated. The force threw him backward, submerging his body and hers beneath the surface. He was momentarily disoriented; water forced its way into his open mouth. He expelled it, suddenly alert as his limbs prickled with the remnants of the energy discharge.
He thrust his head up, water streaming from his hair, briefly blinding him. His arm remained around his precious companion, however; he groped up to press his hand over her heart. It was beating erratically. Even as he assessed her condition, he was splashing toward the shore. He needed to get her out of the water, back onto dry land.
He tore the leaves from her body and his. They pulled painfully away, each leaving a small peppering of burn-like wounds in their wake. Yet he barely registered the discomfort. His focus was entirely upon Rose.
He dragged her from the warm sea and sank down upon the fine, white sand. His first task was to remove any water that she had ingested. He lifted her torso against his own and thrust his clasped fists against the base of her diaphragm. She coughed weakly, expelling a small amount of water. He bent his head, keeping his ear close to her mouth to assess her respiration. With alarm, he suddenly realized that she had stopped breathing.
"Rose, come on," he urged, shifting around so that she lay upon her back. He bent over her, breathing into her mouth then pressing the heel of his hand over her heart in firm, rhythmic thrusts.
For a few moments he did not think; he simply worked by rote motions, delivering a breath then resuming chest compressions, checking for a pulse, and repeating the process, again and again and again… But Rose lay cold and still beneath him.
