Dr. Wembur had not returned to the sickroom; the ill children were left with only their mothers and a handful of volunteer Royal Staff to assist them. Aside from one woman who had studied to be a nurse, no one had any level of medical training. So the Doctor's presence was both welcomed and needed.
Raben, one of the first to fall ill, was suffering from building respiratory distress. The poultice the Time Lord had ordered eased his breathing, but the boy was still terribly uncomfortable. The Doctor knew, too, that the treatment was only a short-term solution. The pulmonary damage, as well as that to the heart and liver, would worsen as the disease progressed. Without an effective antitoxin, the child would very likely die within the next forty-eight hours.
Thus far no survivors of the previous outbreak had been located. There was still hope, of course, but finding someone who could truly help seemed less likely with each passing hour. Much as he cringed at the thought of Rose's taking on the illness, the Doctor still felt some small relief in the knowledge that she could provide the cure. Yet each child's cough, hotly fevered skin, and painful lesions reminded him that she, too, would suffer through the dangerous disease.
The Doctor had been detained in the sickroom for a long time, attending to Raben and a ten-year-old girl who had gotten up from her bed to try to help her toddler brother. The girl's legs had given out and she'd fallen, striking her arm in precisely the wrong way, resulting in a fractured ulna.
Easing the child's pain and then setting the bone had taken considerable time. When she was finally tucked back into bed, sleeping from the mild opiate he'd administered, the Doctor realized that he was long overdue to check on Rose.
He assured the anxious parents that he'd return soon and reminded them that he was still within the building if any emergencies arose. With a final check on Raben's breathing, he hurried from the sickroom and returned to Rose.
She lay against the pillows, her face flushed and damp. Her eyes were closed, and he thought she was sleeping. He moved quietly to the bed to rest his hand against her cheek. Her temperature was up, which was to be expected. He lowered the blankets to expose her arms.
The lesion on her right wrist was worse, as he'd anticipated, and it was now joined by another on her forearm. Her left arm bore two similar marks. He suppressed a groan; he'd hoped that she'd suffer minimal skin damage. The children's arms and legs were peppered with lesions, but as an adult she should bear fewer, if his understanding of the disease was accurate.
He uncovered her legs to find one more weal on the left one and two marring the right. Perhaps these would be all.
"Doctor?" Rose's voice was husky and soft.
He looked up at her. "How are you feeling?"
"Cold," she replied, reaching for the blankets. As she lifted her arm, however, she paused, eyes moving to the angry red sores. Her eyes widened, and she bit at her lip.
He took her hand, tucking it beneath the blankets as he pulled them up. "That's part of the disease," he reassured her. "They're coming on fairly quickly, which should mean that it's progressing relatively fast, and that's what we want."
She nodded. "It is."
"How much do they hurt?" he asked kindly.
"Not much. Hardly at all."
He could see the renewed resolve she was marshalling. Whatever discomfort she felt would be downplayed in his presence. He knew she would be reluctant to admit any regret, and an honest report of her condition would be tantamount to just such a confession. So he simply nodded in reply and handed her a glass of water.
She took it with a slightly shaky hand, beginning to push herself up. He slid his arm beneath her shoulders to help her, and she offered him a small smile of gratitude. She managed to drink most of the contents of the glass, but the effort exhausted her, leaving her skin pale and slicked with perspiration. She sank back against the pillows tiredly.
There was little else he could do for her at the moment. Soon she'd be truly uncomfortable as the disease began to affect her organs. Deep sleep now was really the best course of action she could take.
"How're the children doin'?" she asked as he set the glass on the night table.
"They're managing," he replied.
"Raben an' his little brother, too?"
"Yep."
She eyed him rather skeptically. "How long 'til they're really in danger?"
"Probably about thirty-six hours."
"But I'll be well by then, an' you'll be able to make the antitoxin."
He smiled in reply, concealing his fears. "The more rest you get, the sooner you'll recover. Sleep's the best thing for you now."
She closed her eyes, but she remained restless. "Not sure I can sleep," she murmured.
"Then let me help you." He lifted his hands to her head, placing his fingers upon her warm cheeks. He waited until she'd given a brief nod of acquiescence before he shifted his fingertips to her temples and used his own mind to nudge hers into slumber.
Her eyelids lowered, and in less than a minute her gentle breathing told him that she'd slipped into deep sleep. He began to pull his hands away but hesitated, needing to know what she was truly feeling. He rationalized the invasion of her thoughts with the knowledge that he could understand the progression of the disease more accurately and treat her more effectively if he had a true picture of her body's reactions.
He only required a few moments to assess the extent of her discomfort. Stoic as she remained on the surface, her subconscious reverberated with aches and anxiety. His hands left her temples, one resting over her brow and the other upon her chest. He needed to feel the life pulsing through her, the strong heartbeat that signified her robust youth and the firm hope that she could fight the disease without complication.
But the Doctor knew the real ramifications. He lifted his hands from Rose and ran them roughly through his hair.
"Damn it, Rose, what've you done?" he whispered. "And what the hell have I done?"
He wouldn't speak the words aloud; he didn't dare. But fear gnawed at him. Because if she didn't recover within thirty-six hours, then it would all be for naught. Beyond that point there'd be nothing he could do for the children, at least with the meager supplies available here.
And there was one important point that Rose had failed to consider when she'd offered herself as the cure. Even if her body could fight off the disease within the next day and a half, she'd be left very weak. To make the antitoxin in sufficient quantity to help the children within these walls, as well as the Prince, he'd require several pints of her blood, and for a completely healthy person that was asking a great deal. For someone who'd barely recovered from a serious illness, that was asking way, way too much. And that presumed that she actually recovered…
His thoughts were jarred back to the present by a soft but insistent tapping at the door. It was Ilaine. The baby had grown worse.
Hastily the Doctor left Rose's side to return to the sick children.
To be continued…