Every night they got worse. Ironic, really. Now his conscious should be guilt-free. He saved them. He saved all of them. Yet the nightmares persisted. In the past he could avoid them by only sleeping an hour or so occasionally. But now his body demanded rest. The experience was too much, even for him.
Clara had never stayed in the TARDIS overnight. After all she had a life, job, and family. Now, though, she made an exception. The TARDIS herself was helping in her own way, too. She put Clara's temporary bedroom right next to the Doctor's, in case he woke up screaming.
He did that far too often.
They would usually start off with the harshest days of the Time War. Children crying and being shot dead left and right. It was impossible to tell what was red grass and what was blood. It only got worse.
He found himself staring right into the face of his mother. She shook her head in shame and spat out his name. His real name. And then she was burned up by fire and replaced with Braxiatel, who repeatedly kicked him in the face, shouting his contempt. Then he was gone too. And then—
Koschei. Young little Koschei, before the drums drove him insane. "Theta!" he screamed in agony, tears and blood smeared across his face. "It hurts! Make it stop! Theta!"
At this point the Doctor would start to thrash and scream and sob until Clara rushed in and shook him awake. He sat there shaking. Sometimes he would vomit, sometimes his bed would be wet, but very often it was both.
Clara would rub his back as he continued to cry. At last his breathing became more even as his shaking subsided. He looked at her, hoping his eyes could convey his thanks as his throat was raw from overuse.
She understood. She gently helped him out of the bed to get cleaned up. When all was said and done she kissed his forehead and went back to bed.
He would go out to the console room, trying to distract himself before the exhaustion claimed him once again.