I've continued this fic upon a couple requests :) I hope this is what you were looking for. Reviews welcome, enjoy!
Locating the TARDIS in a nearby cell was easy enough. What was not easy, however, was knowing what to do with Clara. Her eyes had drooped shut, but he knew she wasn't sleeping. That's it, Clara is sleeping, her body's just not cooperating. She's on autopilot, but the captain is safe. Convincing himself she was alright underneath everything was the first step. He had decided he was going to win, yet again. Another victory.
Now he just needed to find exactly how he was going to do this.
Her physical injuries were the most pressing matter—her lacerated and inflamed back, shoulders, and neck were still oozing thick blood as clots began to form. Each shift cracked the delicate attempts of renewal. The Doctor's arms stung as he treaded smoothly to the TARDIS' med bay, his mind reeling with the most efficient treatments for acid burns. A procedure blooming to life in his mind, he gently lay her face-down on the cushioned white slab.
With the utmost care, he raised her head with firm hands and positioned her more comfortably, so she would face him if WHEN, he corrected himself, WHEN she woke up her usual Clara-y self. All full of passion and kindness and bravery and anger, and that smile that lit up his lonely time machine and made everything worth it.
Everything was worth it, when she was around.
Strapping a nebulizer mask to her face, he toyed around with various medicines in the cabinet until he concocted a safe mix of something for pain, for sleep, for general well-feeling, and a heavy relaxer. Inserting a vile of his homemade narcotic, the Doctor ran a steady hand through his silvery fluff, ruffling it a bit.
A sigh escaped his lips, and his brow rose in deep thought. "What do I do?" he inquired of his TARDIS. His ship pounded a low knell that echoed comfortingly in the sterile, white room. "Library," he repeated. "I'll fix her up and then have a good read about sleep deprivation, yeah?" His ship released another moan of agreement before he set to work. God, he was tired, but Clara was more important than an old man's nap.
All was fine until he attempted to clean her decaying flesh. Something about the sting of alcohol on vulnerable flesh always made humans recoil, hiss, invent expletives, or screech.
The damp cleansing pad was still pressed into her back when she cried out in a muffled gurgle.
"Clara, it's okay." He rested a hand on her arm and rubbed his thumb against the crook of her elbow. To his dismay, it wasn't Clara who answered. Not really. Not Clara. I'm not done yet.
"Breathe deeply. It'll be—" he tried to continue but a weak whine interrupted him. Tears were beginning to burn in his eyes. He'd never lose track of time again, not ever. "Don't you fret…" her exhausted voice sang feebly. The Doctor hurried. The faster he could read up on this, the faster she would be back. "Sleep Clara. Deep breaths. Just sleep." He knew using his dad-skills could be too risky. What she was didn't count as awake anyway. "M'sieur Marius…"
The Doctor was nearly finished dabbing at her wounds. Despite the dire situation, his face cracked into a grin as he reached to stroke her hair. Le Miserable. She'd been ecstatic when the musical came to Earth's film industry. "I don't feeeeel any pain…" Smiling to himself, the Doctor began to administer ointment and nanogene-infused bandages.
"A littlllee fall of raaaain….can hardly hurt me now" she breathed through the lyrics, her voice inflection just enough to break his hearts. That is, if he let it get to him. But, he had a job to do. He still had to win. "Clara," he spoke above her mindless song, "Clara, this might hurt a bit. The pain will stop, so don't—" but her volume increased, and her tone demanded an audience.
Wait. Wait. Her tone. "Clara can you hear me?" The Doctor flew to her eye level, cupping her face in his hands. Her song had restarted. She'd never restarted before.
"I don't feeeeel any pain…a little fall of raaaain…can hardly…hurt me now. You're here," she faltered slightly.
"I'm HERE Clara, I'm here, you're in the TARDIS, you're safe now. Trust me," he spoke lowly and quickly. She was still in there. He'd thought…..but no, he mustn't think of that now.
"That's all I need to know…" she continued, her blank face flashing the smallest smile in a minute, millisecond-twitch of the corner of her mouth. Or not, maybe he imagined it.
"And you will keep me safe."
"Always Clara, as best as I can." He smiled, the flare of hope in his heart now crackling once more.
"And you…will…"
A harsh beeping from a nearby monitor (that looked comically similar to the original Star Trek Enterprise's) shocked him out of the moment. His brow furrowed into attack mode and the Doctor flew to the screen, his ragged coat catching on a tray of instruments and sending them scattering to the floor in a metallic cacophony. "nonONONOOO" he growled, grasping the screen as he watched her vital signs begin to fall.
"keep…me close." Her voice faltered. The Doctor flung himself to Clara's side, upsetting the hovering lamp and fumbling with a butterfly syringe and a small vial of clear liquid.
The machine's beeping grew more obnoxious, and the TARDIS began to panic. The deep thrum of her lament sent shudders through the bay.
"And rain…"
Stopper in mouth, the Doctor's black figure loomed over his patient as his weathered, steady hands completed the vacuum of the syringe. The lamp swung manically and cast dizzying, frantic shadows around Clara's immobile form.
He injected the liquid into her arm and faced the monitor again, stoic and serious. The lines on his face seemed more prominent. He waited.
Her haunting voice became distant in the tension of the moment. "Will make the flowers…"
"….grow…."
The doctor could physically feel the weights being lifted off his chest as the monitor's beeping slowed and quieted to a background bleep no different than a clock's sure tick. A breath escaped him and he placed a hand on Clara's shoulder.
Bandages now secure, he silently cleaned the area. Silence. She must have finally fallen asleep.
With the aid of the medication, Clara should sleep soundly for a minimum of 12 hours.
2 days later.
A fuzziness greeted Clara Oswald. Giving herself a moment, she began to resurface. The feel of the padded mat beneath her, a thin blanket above her, and something unknown pressed against her wrist slowly began to sink into her conscious mind. She felt, mentally, that she could breathe again. She could breathe, and it was good.
Focusing on the unknown, she recognized the gentle pressure of fingertips on her pulse. Inhaling deeply, she felt her ribs crack into place and she maneuvered her hand so that it held the stranger's. No, hang on, not stranger. Definitely not stranger. She smiled inwardly. Safety.
She opened her eyes and peaked out from behind the covers of the maroon blanket. "I see you," she sung childishly.
"Oh, Clara Oswald, it's nice to see you too," rumbled a familiar voice. She could hear the smile of her best friend near the end, and she knew that everything was going to be fine, that it already was. She could also hear one of her favorite tones in his voice—the tone of a hard-fought victory.