[A/N: For those of you who didn't get it in the last chapter, just a clarification: Clara's secret she's hiding from the Doctor is that she's frightened and unsettled by his new regeneration but she doesn't want him to know because she thinks that would hurt him, and she would hate herself if she did something to hurt the Doctor. Any further questions, message me and I'd be happy to explain! :) Now, on with the chapter. Allons-y! Wait...no...WRONG DOCTOR! Geronimo! Yeah, that's better. GERONIMO!]

Chapter Four—Lonely Hearts

Doctor

He couldn't sleep. He was tired but his mind wouldn't shut down, he kept noticing things and getting distracted and his whole being seemed to be vibrating with a sense of awareness that wouldn't go away. After a while he threw the covers off and sat up with a sigh, pulling on a robe and wandering the halls restlessly. He ran his hand along the walls, listening to the rhythmic hum and buzz of the TARDIS, almost as though she were snoring. He chuckled at the thought and patted the wall affectionately.

He didn't pay attention to where he was going. He just let his feet carry him where they wished as his mind wandered. So when he found himself outside Clara's door, his hand gripping the handle, he was a bit startled. Why on Gallifrey was he here, of all places? What could he possibly want from Clara in the middle of the night?

What he always wanted, he supposed: companionship. He was bored and restless, and he couldn't think of a better way to remedy that condition than to hear her voice, to be near her. But she usually wasn't happy when she first woke up—did he really want her growling and grumbling at him in the middle of the night? He sighed and pulled his hand away from the door handle, tapping it against his leg restlessly, indecisively.

After a moment he turned away from the door, taking a series of right turns, a left, and going down the hall to the big wooden door with the lion-head shaped brass handles. He tugged them open and stepped into his library, wandering among the shelves. He had often found solace in here on late nights, a wandering soul finding peace among other lost souls. Sometimes it was nice to read about others' adventures instead of going off on one of his own. Much as most people wouldn't believe it, he did occasionally tire of running and being in near-constant danger.

Once in a blue moon, Clara would make a cup of tea and join him in the library. He would sit in his favorite chair, she would lie on the couch, and he would read to her. He enjoyed it, but sometimes it also made him sad because it reminded him of his last day with the Ponds. But being with Clara, the ache of losing his best friends became...not less, not better. But bearable. Yes, that was the word. She was good at distracting him. She always seemed to know when he needed her the most and would find a way of pulling him out of his thoughts and making him laugh so he wouldn't feel quite so sad. She couldn't fix everything. He knew that, and she knew that. But she did what she could, and that was more than enough for him.

He sighed wearily, climbing onto his favorite chair, sitting on the back with his feet on the cushion, stretching out his hand to grab a random book from the shelf. He let it fall open and tried to read, but found he couldn't focus on the words. His mind was buzzing, racing, conjuring a million new thoughts that distracted him and pulled at his attention.

He shook his head as though the motion could physically shake away the distractions and allow him to focus. But when he looked at the book, he grew bored because the ending was obvious, the dialogue poor, and the plot rather dull. He shut it with a frustrated sigh and got up, stretching his lanky arms above his head until he heard the satisfying pop! of his bones shifting.

He wandered among the shelves again for a little while, wishing Clara were by his side. Wishing to hear her soft breaths, to feel her small hand slipping into his, to see the laughter in her eyes.

The library wasn't helping. He didn't know why he was here. He shoved the doors open and left, striding aimlessly through the halls. When he came across a door he wasn't familiar with, he paused. He cracked it open—it was practically empty. All he saw was a violin and bow resting on a stand. He started to close the door with a sigh. Then he changed his mind. He left the door hanging open behind as he strode in and picked up the instrument, plucking the strings experimentally. He winced at the sound, tightening the strings until it wasn't so discordant. Then he picked up the bow and ran it across the strings. He closed his eyes and played a series of notes, and found the action oddly soothing. He did it again, experimentally. Playing the music seemed to help calm his mind, to help him not think so much so the buzz of activity in his brain became less overwhelming and he could organize his thoughts more cohesively.

He closed his eyes and started just playing. He didn't know any specific songs, so he just let the bow roam across the strings, creating a strange, discombobulated tune that resonated richly against the walls. He wasn't sure how long he had been playing, or how long she had been there, before she finally spoke.

"That's a strange piece," Clara said behind him. He jumped and turned to look at her, the bow and violin falling to his sides, his eyes widening a fraction. She was leaning against the door frame, a faint smile curling at the corners of her lips, her arms crossed lightly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you—I heard the music and I came to investigate. But please, don't stop," she urged with a smile. "I didn't say I didn't like it, just that it was strange. What was it?"

"It wasn't a piece—I was just...playing," he muttered, his face heating slightly. She laughed softly.

"I see. I never knew you could play the violin."

"Two thousand years, I've been around a bit. I can do a lot of things you probably haven't guessed." He rolled his eyes.

She looked intrigued. "Oh really? Like what?"

He shrugged. "Name something."

She looked thoughtful. "Can you bake? Dance? Sew? Play rugby?"

He nodded. "Yes, yes, no, and yes."

"Really? Show me!"

He chuckled, amused by her enthusiasm. "Right now?"

"Why not?" she challenged, raising her eyebrows. "Unless you made all of it up and can't actually do any of those things."

He rolled his eyes again. "Fine. I'll make us a midnight snack." He gingerly set the violin down on the stand and strode out, gesturing with his hand. "Come along, Clara." He heard her light footsteps behind him, and a slight smile tugged at his lips as he strode into the kitchen. He turned to face her, leaning back on the counter. "What should I make? What sounds good for my impossible girl? And don't say soufflé," he chuckled.

She leaned her elbow on the counter next to him and propped her chin in her hand, looking up at him as she tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Hmm…can you bake chocolate chip cookies?"

The Doctor snorted, offended. "Easily!" And with that, he swept about the kitchen, his robe swishing behind him as he began snatching ingredients from the pantry, preheating the oven as he mixed the dry ingredients in a bowl. Clara sat on the counter, watching him curiously. She occasionally reached out to sample the dough. After a moment he slapped her hand lightly. "Oi! Not after you licked your fingers," he scolded, pulling the bowl away from her. She rolled her eyes.

"We're the only two who will be eating them, so I don't see how it matters," she said, taking another sample. He smacked her hand again.

"It matters because it's unsanitary," he told her, setting lumps of dough on a tray and sliding it into the oven. "What should we do for ten minutes while those bake?"

Clara slid off the counter with a grin. "You said you could dance. Show me." She held out her hand to him. He hoped he wasn't blushing as he accepted it, pulling her close and placing his free hand on her waist. He didn't have music, so he led her around to the beat of his hearts, and she followed. He was grateful when he didn't step on her toes. At one point he decided to be spontaneous and he spun her around, then lowered her into a dip. She yelped and gripped his hand and shoulder tight, her eyes widening.

He chuckled. "Relax, Clara. I won't drop you—just trust me." He grinned when her shoulders relaxed.

"I trust you," she murmured, looking up at him. He could see her pupils were dilated slightly, and he could see her pulse beating in her throat—it was faster than usual. This set his own hearts speeding up, and he wasn't quite sure why. He found himself staring into her eyes, and she was staring back. She was soft and small and warm, and she smelled like flowers…was she wearing perfume? When did she start wearing perfume? It was a light, heady scent he found rather pleasant.

She was short and bossy and she had a funny nose, but he found he didn't mind those all that much.

She wasn't pretty by traditional standards, but he didn't like conventionally pretty girls.

He liked clever, brave girls who could run with him and challenge him and be his companion and best mate when he needed them.

He liked girls whose actions he couldn't predict, who always surprised and puzzled him.

And here was one such girl right in front of him.

Times like this, he always seemed to think of River, and then he always felt guilty. She was his wife…but she was dead. Did that make this okay, him looking at other girls? Then again, it's not like they had never kissed other people, even when they were married. They didn't have a traditional marriage, really. But they had always been faithful to each other.

He didn't know how that applied to this situation, though, and trying to figure it out just confused him and gave him a headache. He pulled Clara upright and let go of her, clearing his throat. "See?" he said, somewhat awkwardly, "I told you I can dance."

"I do see. You're a good dancer, Doctor," she told him. As she nodded, something flashed in her eyes. Disappointment? Frustration? It was there and gone so fast, he couldn't identify for sure what it was. All he was certain of was that it wasn't something happy. He sighed as the oven dinged. He pulled the tray out of the oven, then dropped the tray with a loud swear as the hot metal scalded his fingertips.

"Doctor, are you alright?" Clara asked, seemingly alarmed. Probably by his swearing—it wasn't usually a habit of his to use profanity in the presence of a lady. He gritted his teeth.

"I'm fine, just burned my hand," he muttered, embarrassed by his idiocy. She laughed lightly.

"Let me see," she said, taking his hand and turning it over. She examined his hand carefully, studying the bright pink skin. "You're lucky, it's just a surface wound. Run it under some cold water and maybe put a bandage over it, you'll be fine in a few days."

"Dull," he said, frowning at his hand.

"What is?" she inquired, dragging his hand to the sink and turning the faucet on. He sighed as the cool water soothed his heated skin.

"Healing, the human way. The mundane way," he explained. "Usually I could just use a dash regen energy to fix it…" His voice died, and he frowned. Thinking about his depleted regeneration energy…it frightened and depressed him. He felt so empty without it, like a vital piece of him was missing. He shook his head and found Clara frowning at him in concern. "What?"

"You were off in your own little world again," she murmured. "You've been doing that a lot lately, Doctor. I'm worried about you." She looked down at his hand at the last part, frowning. He frowned and ducked down a bit, trying to look into her eyes, but she stubbornly avoided his gaze.

"Clara?"

…

"Clara."

…

"Clara, for gods' sake, look at me," he said in exasperation. She reluctantly raised her eyes to meet his. He held her gaze with his as he slipped his hands around hers, pulling them to his chest, one over either heart. "Feel that?" he whispered, and she nodded. "My hearts are still going strong. I have a good century left in me, at the bare minimum. So don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."

She bit her lip. "I know you can, but…Doctor, this is your last life. And even when you're trying to be careful, you always seem to get into trouble, and…and…and I don't want to lose you!" she burst out, looking distraught.

"Hey, don't worry. You won't. You'll be gone long before I will," he said with a sad smile, pulling her into a hug. She fisted her hands over his hearts and buried her face against his chest, breathing slowly in and out.

"You don't know that, Doctor," she whispered, sounding so afraid it broke his hearts. He tightened his arms around her, as though he could somehow protect her from anything that might hurt or frighten her. He wished he could. He would always try, of course. He had promised when he took on this name: "Never cruel or cowardly. Never give up, never give in. Thus I swear." He would go to the ends of the universe to fulfill that promise, and he had done exactly that once or twice. He would do anything to fulfill his promise, to protect Clara and all his friends. He buried his face in her hair and closed his eyes, taking comfort from the fact that in this moment, at least, she was safe from harm.

"What would you have me do, Clara?" he murmured back.

"I don't know," she admitted, sounding frustrated. "I could ask you to retire, but you would say no and even if you said yes, you would be miserable and bored and I couldn't do that to you. I could ask you to be more careful, but that never really works out for you. I don't know how to keep you safe."

"Then don't. I'm the Doctor, meaning I do the worrying and protecting. You're just along for the ride."

"I want to help, though," she insisted.

"Well you can't. So don't worry about it. Just let me think and worry about these things. It's my job." He grinned.

She pulled away abruptly. Her eyes were angry and sad and she was clearly very upset.

"You just don't get it," she muttered, crossing her arms and walking towards the door, their evening of proving his skills apparently forgotten.

"Don't get what?" he demanded, catching her lightly by the arm.

"If you can't see it, I'm not going to tell you," she said, pulling away. "Figure it out for yourself, Mr. Clever." With those acerbic words she left him, alone and confused, watching her slight figure disappear around the corner.

Humans! So emotional. He really was growing quite tired of trying to figure out what was going through their heads. And Clara…Clara was the worst of them all. Every time he thought he had her figured out, she pulled a one-eighty on him, leaving him confused and left in the dark.

The one puzzle worth solving and the only puzzle he could never solve.

Frustrated, the Doctor went back to his room, turned off all the lights, and stared at the black space ahead of his eyes until dawn.

For the next several days, he watched Clara, trying to figure it out. He studied her, watched her face. She looked…unhappy. There really wasn't a better word for it. She wouldn't speak to him, wouldn't look at him. It was like they were invisible to each other.

No, this was worse than that. Because if he were merely invisible, she might at least glance his way, if only accidentally. This was just freezing him out, as though a wall had been built between them. He didn't know how to scale it or tear it down. But he needed to—he needed her. He needed to hear her laugh, see her smile, feel her hand slip into his. He needed his best mate, his impossible girl, his companion. He was lonely and miserable without her. He sighed frequently and he rarely slept. He spent most nights awake in the violin room with the door shut, playing melancholy notes to the empty space and wishing he understood humans more.

On one of these nights, he fell asleep in the violin room and slept most of the next day. He was awoken by the sounds of frantic running footsteps and Clara's panicky voice calling out for him. "Doctor, where are you?!" she called. "Doctor!"

He sat up sleepily, rubbing his eyes as he opened the door of the violin room. "Clara?" he said around a yawn. Then he felt something crash against him, felt tight arms around his torso, and he was assaulted by the smell of flowers. He stumbled a couple of steps before catching his balance. "Hey, hey—what's wrong?" he asked, slightly alarmed when he saw her wide eyes and the tears streaked down her cheeks. She was trembling faintly against him. What had happened while he was asleep?

"I couldn't find you," she mumbled. "You weren't in your room or anywhere else, you weren't responding when I called your name…you were just gone. I was afraid you had left." She buried her face in his chest.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised, wrapping his arms around her, savoring the feeling of being close to her again after days of lonely isolation. "I wouldn't just leave you." There would at least have been a note, he thought silently, but he didn't say that because he knew that wouldn't be any comfort to her. In fact she would probably slap him if he told her that, and he had been slapped quite enough for his lifetimes, thank you very much.

"I was just afraid…" she murmured, brushing absently at her eyes as though only just realizing she had been crying.

"I'll stay in my room at night from now on," he said, making a mental note to move the violin to his room when he had the chance.

She nodded and pulled away. He felt her absence as soon as she pulled away from him. It made his hearts ache with forlornness and he felt so alone, he couldn't stand it. He reached out instinctively, like a drowning man reaches for a floatation device, slipping his hand around hers, and—ignoring the startled look she gave him—pulled her to the TARDIS console room, starting to pull levers and push buttons. He needed Clara, needed to be with her, hear her laugh, see her smile. He needed her, more than he needed oxygen or gravity or anything except perhaps the TARDIS.

"Where are we going?" she asked tentatively.

"Somewhere fun," he replied, smirking at her wary look. "After the last several days, we need an adventure, something fun and crazy. Do you trust me?"

She hesitated only a moment before sighing and nodding. "I trust you."

"Good. We're off, then." He hit a final switch and threw them into the adventure that almost ended his final regeneration.

[A/N: So I'm still planning out his adventure and the danger posed to him. I sort of have a general idea but I would love a plotting buddy. If anyone's interested, message me and you get the honor of helping me plan the Doctor's adventure and how sadistic we get to be. :) But I hope you enjoyed this chapter and reading about the Doctor's angst and feels. Do you think I'm portraying him accurately? Am I making him too human? Not human enough? I love feedback and criticism.

Shout-outs and my love to the following people for reviewing:

1) Doctor Frostybuscus
2) neal4grissom
3) Nataly SkyPot
4) in a crown

They are my only reviewers so far and therefore this chapter is dedicated to them. Thanks, guys! Keep it real and I'll update when I'm ready! :) ]

Love always,

Makenna