The Doctor was back in the sickroom when Rose stumbled through the door. She was flushed, and her damp hair clung to her cheeks and forehead. Her glassy eyes roamed with little focus over the faces before her. She swayed and reached for the wall to steady herself.
"Rose!" He stood immediately and wrapped his arms about her. "You should be in bed," he chided gently, concerned that she'd felt the need to get up.
"Need to tell you somethin'," she whispered hoarsely.
He was already turning her toward the door to lead her back to her room. "Yes? And what's that?"
"Hurts," she said in a tiny, apologetic voice.
He could feel the heat of her skin and knew that her fever was much higher. The lesions on her arms had worsened, too, and he was sure they were one source of her pain. Keeping an arm around her, he reached for a jar of salve and dropped it into his pocket.
Ilaine was now standing next to them, expression full of concern. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked.
"No, just stay with your children. I'm going to take her back to bed." He didn't intend to be brusque, but his words were curt. He almost expected Rose to rebuke him good-naturedly, but of course she wasn't really listening.
Her eyes roamed around the room. "Sick," she mumbled. "They're sick."
"Yes, dear," Ilaine said kindly, "and so are you. But the Doctor's taking care of everyone, and they're all…" She swallowed and drew a breath. "They're all going to be fine. And you are, too."
Rose nodded weakly. "Fine. 'S why I'm sick, so they'll be fine." Her voice was barely audible.
"Come on, Rose, back to bed now," the Time Lord said, lifting her weak body easily into his arms.
Ilaine held the door for him then hurried back to her sons. The Doctor carried Rose to the suite and set her carefully upon the bed. The sheets and blankets were in disarray; she'd clearly been tossing and turning for some time. He cursed himself silently for failing to provide the comfort he'd promised. But recriminations weren't going to help her now, so he shook them away in favor of more useful activities.
With a few words of explanation, he applied the salve to her arms and legs, sparing a few moments to ensure that his hands were warm before touching her. She watched him languidly, eyes barely focused. Although he kept his touch light, she winced as his fingertips moved over the lesions.
"I'm sorry, Rose," he told her. "It'll stop hurting soon, I promise."
She nodded, her belief and trust in him unwavering. But was in warranted? Did he deserve it? Because he could have prevented this, kept her well and focused his own efforts upon finding a survivor who carried natural immunity.
He unbuttoned her nightgown and smoothed a bit of salve over the lesion on her belly. He almost permitted himself to feel a tiny measure of comfort as he noted that the rest of her skin remained unblemished. But when he moved his hand up to press it softly over her liver, the condition of the vital organ crushed the small degree of hope he'd felt.
Forcing a calm exterior, he pulled the blankets over her and offered her a tight smile. She was still looking at him, albeit it rather blearily, and she smiled in return.
"Thanks. Feels better," she murmured quietly.
"I'm glad." He managed to keep his voice steady, and his hand did not waver as he ran the sonic screwdriver over her chest then changed the setting and shone it into her eyes.
She blinked and tried to turn away, but he held her head gently. "Let me see, Rose."
"Bright," she croaked.
"I know. I'm sorry." He tucked the device back into his pocket, relieved that there were no overt signs of jaundice. He'd been frightened of that; if her liver failed, there would be no turning back, no recovery without his and the TARDIS's assistance.
He checked her heart and lungs, and was left feeling concerned but knowing that neither presented a grave danger to her at the moment. He judged her to be entering the most dangerous stage of the disease, however. The next few hours would be critical.
Rose's eyes closed, and the Doctor sank back in his chair. He took her hot hand in his, lifting it to his lips to press a soft kiss over her knuckles. He wondered how many times he'd held this small hand and led it from danger. Just as often, though, he'd led her into peril, and today was no exception. But unlike many other instances in which they'd escaped by some quirk of fate, there was a guaranteed salvation from this situation.
He had powerful medications in the TARDIS that would improve her heart, lung, and liver function in a matter of minutes. Or he could create an antitoxin in less than an hour and cure her completely, as well as the children, before sunset.
Curing Rose presented no risk to the timeline; there was no premonitory prickle deep within his mind when he considered this option. But the thought of giving the children an antitoxin created in the ship's lab caused a slight psychic tremor, and he strongly suspected that this option would have adverse effects upon all involved.
The Prince, Raben, Wess, the other ill toddler and his sister would not survive without the antitoxin. He was certain of this. The other three children's chances seemed incrementally better, but their successful recoveries were by no means assured.
The Time Lord closed his eyes, trying to hone in on his vision of Time, but his mind reeled with sensations of Rose: her raspy breathing, her hot skin, the whoosh of blood from her laboring heart. But maybe it was all intertwined; maybe he was meant to wait, to allow her to accomplish what she'd set out when she'd unselfishly offered herself as the means to a cure.
Problem was, he'd never been much good at waiting, particularly when someone he cared about was in danger and he had the ability to help.
"All right, Rose," he whispered, "we'll do it your way for now. But if I think for one second that you're in real danger, that there's any chance you won't…" He couldn't speak the word aloud. "Well, I won't let that happen," he continued softly. "I'll do whatever I have to do to make sure that doesn't happen. You're going to be all right."
He felt certain that Rose's mind was willing to comply with his edict, but her body appeared less cooperative. Just as he'd suspected, her condition deteriorated over the next three hours.
The children, too, were much worse, and he was compelled to devote some of his time and efforts to their care. Each moment that forced him away from Rose was wrenching, but the rational part of his mind knew that the young patients needed him more.
Still, when Rose began to show clear signs of respiratory distress, the Doctor determined that he would do all that he could to ease her discomfort. He lay a pungent poultice over her chest and rested a cool compress against her fiery forehead. He sat anxiously at her side until he was summoned back to the sickroom to attend Raben. The boy's condition was grave; without the antitoxin, he would succumb to the disease in less than twenty-four hours. Even with the medication, full recovery was highly unlikely, but his life might be spared.
Again the Doctor longed for the TARDIS, for the wondrous drugs and equipment stocked within the ship's infirmary. Every one of these children could be cured with no lasting effects—except for those wrought upon the timeline.
When he returned to Rose, she was moving restlessly, making small noises that reflected her discomfort. She wasn't fully conscious, but when he spoke to her she seemed to quiet slightly. As he'd done for several of the sickest children, the Doctor placed his fingertips against her temples and sent soothing signals to her fevered brain.
He hadn't intended to sense her thoughts, but they washed over him suddenly. Fear and pain were strong, nudging at him almost of their own volition. Beneath them, nearly buried yet flickering weakly, was determination. Some small part of her still knew that her efforts weren't in vain.
He wasn't so sure. There was so little time, and she was so ill. Fever raged through her, and the next hour saw him laying cold cloths over her body and coaxing her dry lips to part and her raw throat to swallow some water. He thought he'd have given one of his remaining lives for a single saline IV. Proper hydration would go a long way toward enhancing her body's ability to fight the disease.
As she lay writhing beneath the damp towels, breaths ragged and sharp, and heart toiling to keep up its steady rhythm, he clasped her hand to his chest. "You're going to be all right," he told her in a quavering voice. "You can fight this, Rose. It's what you set out to do. You're going to save the day, just like always, 'cause that's what you do. Those children—" His voice caught.
Those children, in fact, were almost beyond help. Raben had perhaps twelve hours before his liver and lungs shut down completely. There would be no turning back from that, not with the meager supplies and equipment here. The boy's fever, too, was dangerously high, and there was a risk of neurological damage. He wondered briefly how the Prince was faring.
When Ilaine burst through the door, not even bothering to knock courteously as she had before, he knew that the situation had turned very grave.
"Raben," she uttered through ashen lips. "Doctor, please—"
He stood, his fingers unwilling to release Rose's hand. He forced them to unclasp then turned to the distraught mother. "I'm coming."
The boy was having a febrile seizure. More cooling cloths were packed around his frail body, and the Doctor instructed Ilaine to continue to give him fluids if possible. He rummaged through the infirmary's cabinets, tossing items aside without care in search of something, anything to help.
He could make a crude IV using rubber tubing, a large needle, and a jar. Creating saline wouldn't be difficult, either; the lab had the proper equipment. And it might just buy Raben a little more time. He'd make one for Rose, too.
He dashed into the hallway, pausing for a moment before the exterior doors. He could make a run for it, push past the guards and disable them with the sonic screwdriver. If he ran, he could reach the TARDIS in just over an hour and bring it back here.
The door swung open, and Marden stepped inside. "Doctor. You must come to the palace now. Dr. Wembur needs you."
Fear, anger, and fatigue made him completely candid. "No. I need to get back to my ship and get proper medical supplies."
"Your ship?" Marden repeated. "No, you can't leave. You've got to come to the palace—"
"It's the only way. I can't save them otherwise." His hand raked through his hair; his eyes were large with desperation.
"But Ilaine said you could. She said Miss Tyler would be able to—"
"There's not time. She's very ill, and she might not…" He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. "You have to let me go."
"I can't."
"Where does you loyalty lie?" he spat.
Marden opened his mouth. "It's…"
Three other guards pushed through the door. "Well? What's taking so long?" one asked.
"He says he needs to go back to his ship," Marden explained succinctly, "to get the right medicines."
"No one leaves," the guard said firmly. "Doctor, you're needed at the palace."
The Doctor shook his head. "No."
"This isn't open to discussion," retorted the Sentry.
"What are you going to do? Shoot me?" He held out his arms. "Go ahead! See how much good that does!"
"We can force you," the guard began.
The Doctor laughed shortly without mirth. "Oh, I suppose you can, but you can't force me to help the Prince once I'm there."
Hands moved to weapons, and the Doctor realized that he's lost the battle to return to the TARDIS. However, he wasn't prepared to lose the entire war. He took a breath and straightened. "I'm going to the lab to begin some medicine that'll help until I can create the antitoxin. There's nothing I can do for the Prince if you force me to go to the palace. But as soon as I've finished here I'll send the supplies to Wembur. They'll help."
The guards hesitated, hands still poised upon their weapons. But when the Time Lord turned abruptly and stalked off to the lab, no one tried to stop him.
To be continued...