PLAGUE
FIFTEEN
Wil had finally talked Rose into getting some rest and was sitting by The Doctor's bedside.
The lights had been turned down low and she was alone in the room with the Time Lord.
He was no longer mumbling. Before leaving, Rose had one last time smoothed the hair back from his forehead with a damp cloth. Wil studied his pallid face. His soulful brown eyes were gently closed and the slightest of smiles graced his lips.
Wil thought him beautiful in an ethereal sort of way. He looked peaceful.
From the moment she had met him – and she realized she was remembering the second time she'd actually met him, having decided to have the first purged from her memory – she'd been captivated by his aura of energy, grace and confidence.
She considered herself beyond fortunate to have encountered him; to have encountered any of these extraordinary people.
Even though from the earliest of times she'd been told continually that she was 'special', she'd never completely felt that way. The attributes that her parents, teachers and others thought made her unique often felt like liabilities to her.
There'd been many times when she had craved normalcy.
Having become acquainted with The Doctor, Rose, Jack and the rest of the Torchwood team, she now knew what 'special' really meant and was honored anyone believed she should be included in that category.
Personally, she often doubted she belonged there with them; she was not nearly as exceptional as they thought.
As he thought... She examined his face closely and wondered what The Doctor was thinking at that moment; or had that remarkable mind of his gone dark?
She looked down at his hands, folded elegantly over his breast.
He had the long, slender fingers of a musician. When she'd asked he had denied having any musical abilities beyond being an appreciative audience – at least in his current regeneration – but she suspected he could most likely play whichever instrument he set his mind to.
She recalled the cast of Chopin's left hand she had once viewed in a Prague museum. It had been made shortly after his death and the memory continued to fascinate her. To look at a three-dimensional object like that – a thing that had once been a person's hand – Chopin's hand, which had played for the very first time some of the most beautiful music ever composed, had been an astonishing experience; The Doctor's hands reminded her of Chopin's…
'Wait,' she said to herself, momentarily confused. 'I've had this thought before…'
She shook her head to clear out what she believed were cobwebs of fatigue and reached out to softly stroke one of The Doctor's hands.
As she did, she felt something like a tiny electrical charge – an emotional thrill – run through her, and she turned her head to look at his face and saw…
She saw that his eyes had opened.
Wil froze in embarrassment, or surprise, or both. But she continued to stare into his eyes, and as she did she heard him speak without speaking.
'The TARDIS,' she heard. 'Take me to the TARDIS.'
She looked around, frightened. She was still all alone in the room with the Time Lord.
'It's okay,' the voice said. 'Don't alarm the others, but do it now.'
Was there urgency in the voice? She thought so.
She stood up, leaned over, moved the covers away and picked up The Doctor like a child in her arms, resting his head against her shoulder.
His eyes were closed once again.
She worked out religiously every day, and wasn't by any means a weak woman, but he seemed incredibly light to her and was no trouble at all to lift. His skin was cool to the touch and she felt a chill through her clothing where he pressed against her.
'Good,' she heard. 'Now go.'
She padded out of the room, The Doctor's body secure against her own.