They were going to die. Miranda almost laughed. All her worrying and plans for leaving; none of it was going to come to fruition. She was going to die.

She frowned. No. Not here. Aspirin shouldn't kill her. She was human, or human enough. The nausea swept over her again, silently reminding her otherwise. But still, the Doctor…

He looked poorly indeed. He was breathing deeply, trying to decide whether to run back to the TARDIS or not. It would just push it into his system faster. And Miranda… all those theories of her becoming increasingly similar to him biologically were looking true. She was a little green, and the look of worry went deep. Over and over they had saved each other, and now done in by an apple. The cold smile brushed her lips - those beautiful lips that he had kissed how many times? – and he knew she realized how desperate they're situation was.

He reached out to her, pressing his forehead against hers. "Miranda," he breathed. "Oh Miranda."

She'd heard him say her name like that before, with the weight of other words he couldn't bring himself to say. This time, perhaps it was meant to be "I love you." Or "Don't worry." She sensed, though, it was all of that, but mostly "Goodbye."

That wouldn't do. Her resolve snapped in like a steel trap. Goodbye wasn't like this. She hadn't looked into time and space and known she was leaving – leaving TODAY – in order to watch him die. Or to die herself. She wouldn't let him. She would get him back to the TARDIS.

"Come on then. Back to the TARDIS with us." She tried to sound reassuring, and to be honest, she almost felt it. She almost felt that they were going to survive, and that this would just be another adventure to discuss.

At least he would regenerate. The thought crept in when she wasn't ready for it, and she tightened, even as she pulled him into her arms. He would survive this. His whole body would renew, and he would wear a different face and a new personality. Another thought surprised her. Would she?

It didn't matter. She felt more of the Doctor's weight fall down on her as a groan escaped him. Aspirin. It was such a silly thing. So benign in humans, so stupidly deadly to Time Lords. He groaned again, and she forced her knees to hold underneath their combined weight. She remembered the last time she'd carried him back to the TARDIS, and shiver of cold dread moved down her spine.

No. She would not let him die here.

She kissed his forehead, but his eyelids were already fluttering. It was working fast. She gathered his weight onto hers as best she could and whispered. "Just walk with me a bit, love. Just back to the TARDIS. We're almost there. Almost there." His feet moved with hers, but it was with none of the conviction that normally filled his body. He was dragging. He was dying.

She tripped, almost losing him off her shoulder, but clung to his arm. She wasn't going to make it with him like this. Her head was spinning now, and she almost felt the strength sapping out of her body. She wished the TARDIS was closer, or that she had transportation. All the running they did wasn't preparing her for this.

But she could feel it, curled up inside her, in the place where she tried to keep it – terrifying and golden, it swirled and filled her. She needed this strange source of power right now, and she begged it to come and lend force to her arms. It needed little more than the call. Golden flecks tinged her vision, and she felt both infinite and sick at once. She was both power and weakness. She was all-encompassing.

She bolstered the Doctor's body against her hip, moving with him now, quicker, her efforts more pronounced, the strain on her face evident. Time flowed away from her, and she felt life slipping away too, from both the Doctor and herself.

The TARDIS door opened with a worried hum, but Miranda didn't even have her own energy to respond with. She fell, just inside the door, dropping the Doctor unceremoniously. The gold ebbed and flowed within her, but it was no longer hers to control. She felt as though all the moisture in her had dried up. Her lips were cracked, her eyes were painfully sore, every joint hurt. She ran chapped hands over the Doctor, feeling for heartbeats. Two. There were still two. He could still live.

"Help me," she managed to croak out. "Help me get him what he needs."

She felt the TARDIS rearrange itself in her mind. If she could just get the Doctor into the next room, the medbay, it would be enough to save him. As for her, there could be no guarantees. She was too compromised as a human, and not strong enough as a Time Lord. But she had to try. The TARDIS begged her, nudged her mind, prodded her to use every ounce of her strength to save him.

Her baser instincts argued. She could survive this. And survival was so much. Wouldn't he want her to survive? Hadn't he always said that her safety was more important to him than his own?

She silenced them with the raspy groan torn out of her throat by the sheer effort of getting up. Looping her arms under his, she pulled. His body, now completely unconscious, slid across the grating. Another tug. Another few inches. A few more. And then the door.

She stumbled, and the Doctor's body fell heavily on her. "Come on!" She was almost crying, if there were tears left in her body to shed. "I don't want to do this; I don't want to leave. I don't want to leave you to wake up alone in the TARDIS. But I have to. I have to do this. We have to get into that room. Please. I can't let you die. I can't. I love you, you know. You stupid, daft man. I love you, do you hear that?" Angry, she pushed hard on him, rolling him across the threshold. She felt the TARDIS's relief, and slumped in after him.

The door closed, and something filled the air. Something calming and that felt like bathing and drinking all at once. She lay there, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath. She managed a smile. He was going to live. She was certain of that. His golden streak was growing stronger every second, and the possibilities for his life filled her head again.

She closed her eyes. She breathed. He would live.

#

She finished packing her things, zipping the pack shut. She'd moved the Doctor to the couch when she'd woken. Whatever part of her was still human had let her metabolize the aspirin faster than the Doctor, and she'd stayed with him a few moments after making sure he would be ok. Now, the last part, the final preparations. She took a deep breath and strapped on the Vortex Manipulator. She'd been fixing it in her spare time, and this was the test run. A great big test run.

She entered the library and set down her bag. Stretched out on the couch, the Doctor looked as handsome as ever. She ran her eyes over him, almost regretting her decision. She kissed his forehead, running her fingers through his hair, then down the collar of his jacket. She'd considered taking it with her, but decided against it. He'd miss it – there was no way to put that memory into his head.

She caught her own image in the mirror for the second time since she'd woken. It was so different. The golden light tinged her memory, and lingered even on her breath. It was Miranda's first regeneration.

#

The Doctor woke, groggy and a little sore. The familiar buzz of the TARDIS seemed louder than normal in his head, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose to clear the sleep from his eyes. He'd slept heavily, and more than that, he'd dreamt. He didn't dream often. He'd dreamt that the girl had decided to come with him, the girl Miranda.

He sat up then, silently querying the TARDIS. The dream had felt different than others. Real. Like the nightmares, only far more pleasant. She wasn't really here, was she?

Almost sadly, the TARDIS replied… no.

Shrugging, the Doctor stood up and brushed off his jacket. The trip back across the dimensions must have taken a lot out of him. He was a bit disoriented, as though he couldn't quite get his thoughts straight. Ah well, there were worlds to see, and people to meet. He approached the console, throwing a lever. Out of the Void, and into the Vortex.