A/n: So sorry for the wait! Thanks for reading and reviewing xx
Vastra returned from recreation that next night pale and sickly looking.
Clara sat beside her and tended to her as best she could, but there wasn't much she could do. She tried to go get a screw to call for a nurse, but there were none to be seen, and no matter how loudly she called for one she was ignored.
She assumed Vastra had food poisoning from something, an assumption that was later verified when the woman began vomiting into the sink. She was going to stay with her and skip showering, but Vastra urged her to go.
"Jenny will be concerned. She'll want an update on how I am." She croaked. "Go on."
Clara hesitated at the doorway. She shot one last look at her cellmate, but then she realized she couldn't do anything to help but what Vastra had asked.
She informed two screws of her cellmate's condition while waiting for Jenny. The first ignored her and the second muttered something about "possibly" sending for a nurse "if she felt like it". Clara felt violence knocking around inside her heart, but she forced herself to stand down.
"How is she?"
Clara turned back around in the queue. Jenny was almost as pale as Vastra had been, but Clara knew it was from emotional sickness instead of physical.
"Not so great. I tried to get someone to go see her, but they're all being pricks."
Jenny was certain.
"I think she's been poisoned. The child abusers we've been targeting, they've…proven to be a lot nastier than any we've dealt with before."
Clara stared at Jenny for a long, horrific beat. And then she spun around and walked back over to the last screw she'd talked to. She worked down her sudden worried tears. She let her voice grow as hard as she liked.
"There is an inmate who's possible severely sick and needs to see a doctor. I demand she be taken to one. Immediately."
The screw's laughter was snorting and hysterical.
"Oh, Christ," she gasped. She turned. "Marv, you've gotta hear this. She thinks we actually care about this filth."
Clara felt her spine prickling as the screw continued to laugh. She clenched her fists as others joined. And then she broke. She would get help for Vastra and she would not feel bad for whatever she'd have to do to make that happen. It was easy again, like it'd been in the army.
"Fine," she bit. Her voice was hardly louder than a whisper. She turned around. "Stick your fucking shower. I'm going elsewhere."
Marv's hand latched onto her shoulder as she went to walk forward. So far, she'd been gritting her teeth and counting. But she didn't even try to do that this time. She reached behind her—her face still faced forward—and grasped his middle and index fingers. She jammed them back hard until she heard him gasp with pain and then drop his hand.
"Don't touch me," she reminded them evenly.
And then she took the time to slowly turn around and stare them all in the eye. She'd learned in the army that eye contact was dominance, and sure enough, every one of them dropped their eyes before she'd even considered doing it. She smiled, and perhaps the oddity of that smile was what locked them in place. Because when she turned back around, no one followed.
"Clara," Jenny called, her voice strung with anxiety. "Where are you going?"
"To get a doctor."
The problem was—she had no idea where his cell was.
She might've felt frightened to walk through the men's area during shower time, knowing they'd all be roaming about free, but her anger kept her fear suspended far above her. She stared forward with a hard stare that made even the brashest rethink crossing her path. She walked until she spotted a familiar face.
"Oi," she snapped her fingers. "Where's the Doctor's cell?"
The man who'd harassed her in the outside area what felt like years ago now blinked.
"I ain't talking to you, bi—"
Clara leaned in and grasped the collar of his shirt. She tightened her fingers.
"Where—is—the—Doctor?" She repeated, her words measured.
"I'M NOT TOUCHING!" He yelled. "SHE'S TOUCHING ME! FOR EVERYONE AROUND, I DIDN'T LAY A FINGER ON THE BIRD!"
Clara scoffed, humored.
"Do you really think the Doctor would need a reason to smack you? I'd only have to tell him. And right now, you're really pissing me off." She admitted.
He turned his eyes back to hers. Fear flashed across his face.
"He's in F. Walk straight, take a right, take a left, and then take another right. He's in solitary, last cell in the back."
Clara let up the pressure on his collar.
"Solitary? Why? When did he get in trouble, it had to have been just today."
He stared, confused.
"He lives in solidary."
Clara blinked.
"For twenty years?"
"For twenty years."
Suddenly, his strangeness made all the more sense to her. Devoid of a cell mate, with inmates who wouldn't even speak to him…perhaps she was the first person who'd had a genuine conversation with him in two decades. Perhaps she was the first person he'd touched in that time. He'd sat in here alone and aged and he'd lost twenty years of his life and—she let go of the man and retreated back, her hard features softening with pain. She hadn't known. He hadn't said. But to him, it must not have been news. She turned her face.
"Thank you for telling me."
She was little Clara again, with soft edges and a gentle walk, so she had to move quickly through the rest of the wing to keep people away from her. She was too startled to revert back to Wing Commander Clara. And she was suddenly certain she didn't want to find the Doctor as that girl, anyway.
She knew it was his when she spotted the large door with glass behind the bars. She hurried over and gave the door handle a pull, but of course it was locked. She went up onto her tiptoes and tapped her fingers against the glass impatiently.
"Doctor," she called. "It's Clara. I—"
She heard the buzzing of his instrument only a moment later. He yanked the door back, his tired features creased in concern.
"Clara," he blurted. He reached out and gently grasped her arm. Clara could hardly protest as he promptly pulled her right into his cell and shut the door after them.
"Hey—!"
"Not safe. You don't want a screw to see you here." He explained.
Her anger peaked.
"The screws can choke on—!"
"Shh! Shhh!" He insisted. His palm settled over her lips, rough and warm. She bit back her insults and nodded.
He spoke in quick whispers.
"They're starting to catch onto my sneaking out. They've been keeping an eye on me, to figure out how. If they hear you in here, they'll know I've somehow opened the door recently. They'll scan the cameras. If they take my sonic away, God only knows how long it'll take me to make another, if I can even get all the parts again, it took six years to get these in and—"
"Doctor," Clara interrupted. Her urgent tone got his attention. "Vastra's sick. Jenny thinks she's been poisoned. The screws won't send for a doctor."
His shift was instant. He looked down at her seriously, his brow pursed.
"What are her symptoms?"
"Lethargy and vomiting right now. She looked awful."
He turned and hurried over to his single bed. It looked worse than even hers, with a threadbare mattress and only three thin bed slats. The mattress sagged some between them. Clara noted the chill then, and as she rubbed her upper arms and turned around to examine his space, she felt that same chill settle in her heart. There were no small touches here, no personal belongings to bring comfort. He had a toilet, a sink, a metal dresser, that rickety bed, and one ceramic mug. She didn't see anything else; no clothing items, no paper, no pens, no watches that used to belong to a loved one that'd been lost in a fire. No books to sleep with at night. Even his blanket was thin and worn.
And, despite that, when she turned to seek him out with her eyes once more, she found him typing on a tablet, of all things.
"What…where did you get that?" She demanded.
He didn't even look up.
"Made it. All right, I searched the inmate database for those with medical training. There are one hundred doctors and nurses here, but you don't want to let just anyone come into the room, so—searching for the inmate with the least behavioral citations currently. He's all right—oh, no, his wing is too far away. There's—oh, wait. Yes. Dr. Martha Jones. She's only a wing down from yours, no behavioral strikes." He looked up. "We're paying Dr. Jones a visit."
With that, he soniced the door and strolled out, indifferent to his previous panic over losing his technology. It seemed he was more concerned for the wellbeing of Clara's cellmate, and that in itself was enough to convince her that he was good deep down. He had to be. He couldn't be in there for the same terrible things she was.
"But isn't there a prison doctor?" She hissed. She struggled to match his pace. "Why can't we just take Vastra to him?"
"There's a prison doctor, all right. But he thinks of himself as a less ambitious and dimmer version of Mengele."
Clara felt her stomach clench. She reached out and grasped his forearm, hoping he'd slow down. But he only reached over and set his hand over hers, as if ensuring she'd stay by his side no matter the pace.
"You can't be serious." Clara argued.
"I've got a butchered kneecap that'd beg to differ."
Clara glanced down automatically, as if she could see through his trousers.
"Perhaps I'll show you one day," he muttered offhandedly.
Clara felt her lips curl up wickedly. She looked away.
"Perhaps." She agreed lightly.
Dr. Jones was readying for sleep when they showed up, but she dropped everything the minute she heard.
"I know Vastra," she said, startled. "I came in the same day she did. What's wrong with her?"
"Her wife thinks she's been poisoned—I don't know. She's been vomiting, she's pale…"
Clara didn't even have to finish her sentence. Martha pushed her feet into her shoes and walked from her cell, without even bothering to see if they were following. Clara and the Doctor exchanged a quick look. Clara felt his hand settle on her lower back as he ushered her through the narrow doorway, intent on following Dr. Jones' path.
They made it all the way to Clara's wing without someone questioning their out-of-bounds traveling group. Clara didn't even spare the screw a moment's glance.
"Move." Clara ordered.
The screw lifted an eyebrow.
"Pardon?" She challenged.
Clara gestured at the doorway Dr. Jones was attempting to get through.
"My cell mate is ill. This is a doctor. You would not provide one, so we got one. Now move." She reiterated.
The screw stooped over and stared Clara dead in the eye.
"I don't know who you think you are, RY2227."
"Clara Oswald. This is the Doctor. And this is Dr. Jones." She moved forward and stepped past the screw. "Nice to meet you."
Dr. Jones and the Doctor were in her cell before the screw replied. She caught up to them and reached out, grasping Clara's forearm. She swung her around.
"You're making a series of poor choices today." She whispered.
Clara knew she should've been worried. But it was difficult to focus on that when she was so anxious and infuriated.
"So are you." She eyed the screw carefully. She took in her blonde ponytail, her pasty cheeks, her cracked lips. "I know all about it."
The screw furrowed her brow.
"What?" She barked. Her eyes darted quickly to the wall and back to Clara. "All about what?"
She knew she had her in that quick, panicked glance. Clara leaned forward. She invaded her space, knowing that'd make her feel vulnerable, and small. She'd mastered the art of making herself seem bigger than she was.
"Leave us be, and you'll never have to find out."
They held their tense, combative postures for another five seconds. And then, gradually, the screw shrank back. She adjusted her shirt afterwards, like she'd only moved for that reason. She cleared her throat gruffly.
"Your visitors better be out of your cell by lights out. Or it's straight to solitary for the three of you."
Clara watched her walk away, never once moving from the spot she'd claimed as her own until the screw was out of sight. And then she deflated. Her shoulders went down as she exhaled heavily and her hands went to her head. She cradled her scalp and shivered. It should've felt good to be home in herself again; it should've felt right to have sent that manipulative, dangerous part of herself away to hiding again. But it didn't. It felt barren, cold. Like she'd stripped herself down to her bare bones. (Like perhaps her true self was the bitch, and this self was the farce). John told her she was the greatest force of goodness he'd ever known. She wondered if he was a liar or if she'd really been changed that much.
Regardless, it all didn't matter right then. What mattered was Vastra, and when she entered her own cell, she was alarmed by what she saw. Vastra shaking uncontrollably in the Doctor's arms from her spot on the floor (she must've fallen), Dr. Jones frantically peering into her dilated eye with the light from the Doctor's door-opening sonic device. Clara felt woozy.
"Someone's put eye drops in her food," Dr. Jones decided. She turned the light off and sat back, peering worriedly at Vastra. "I don't have the tools at my disposal to do much. When did you last see her vomit?"
She aimed her question at Clara. She walked forward, arms wrapped around herself, and hurried to answer.
"Maybe fifteen to twenty minutes ago?"
Dr. Jones looked back down at her patient.
"She needs charcoal. She needs to be in hospital. The best we can do is give her something with laxative properties."
Vastra's tremors continued. The Doctor looked from her to Dr. Jones.
"She does need to be in hospital." He agreed. He was quiet for a moment, leaving Clara and Dr. Jones staring at him blankly. He looked to Clara. "Clara, could you pull Vastra's mattress onto the floor? I don't want her rolling off the bed again."
Clara exchanged a quick look with Dr. Jones. She obliged a moment later. She lifted the thin mattress and laid it horizontally in front of their cell door. She pulled the covers back and fixed the pillow right as Dr. Jones and the Doctor lifted Vastra up. They settled her down and Clara tucked her up, her hands quivering. She didn't want to admit how dependent she'd become on Vastra, but the truth of it was eating away at her heart. She stared down at her green tattoos. She fought the sudden, affectionate urge to trace over them with her fingertips, the way you touch something right before it disappears forever. Her fingers found her wristwatch instead. Her fingers thought about John. She did not. She forced her hand to let go of her watch, to find Vastra's cold fingers. She held them and realized the comradery she'd begun to feel with Vastra was more like a budding friendship. She always realized things too late.
"Where are you going?"
She reluctantly tugged her attention to Dr. Jones. She was staring towards the Doctor. And he was stepping over Vastra's bed, heading towards the door, his lips pursed. He stopped before he answered, his eyes finding Clara. They stared at each other for a long couple of seconds, and then he scanned his eyes down to her hand, latched around Vastra's. He looked back up.
"She's important to you?" He asked.
Clara looked down.
"She doesn't deserve to suffer."
She could feel his eyes still on her. His voice was low, brimming with something Clara couldn't put a name to right then.
"Is she important to you?" He echoed impatiently.
Clara looked up. She held his serious gaze as she nodded once. She licked her dry lips.
"She will be. Maybe she already is. I don't know. Even if I'm not to her, she is to me." So are you and so is Jenny. She did not say it, though. They had to have known. They had to have known how tightly and quickly you could wrap yourself around people in here, when you had literally nothing else. Perhaps not Vastra and Jenny, because they had a vast social circle. But the Doctor? He had to feel that same desperation, that same need to keep them.
It was like she'd just given him the answer to every question he'd ever had. His face flooded with understanding. He nodded decisively.
"All right, then," he said curtly. "That makes it very simple."
He didn't spare another word or glance as he turned from her cell. Dr. Jones jumped up, horrified.
"Oi!" She called after him. She hurried to the door and peered out at his retreating back. "Where're you going?! I need some assistance!"
Clara felt herself sinking down underneath her panic and confusion. She didn't understand. Was he letting her die because she was important to her? Had she been wrong about him—was he really as dangerous and psychotic as everyone made him out to be?
His voice echoed down the hall, returning to Dr. Jones.
"I'm getting your assistance."
Clara met Dr. Jones' confused eyes, hers broadcasting something similar.
"What?" She demanded. But he offered no other words. Clara was stuck at Vastra's bedside, so she wasn't sure, but she figured it likely he was already out of their wing.
"What is he going to do?" Clara demanded. "How's he going to get assistance?"
Dr. Jones shook her head. She sank back down beside Clara, her eyes on Vastra. She pressed her fingers to the pulse point in her throat as she replied.
"There's one good way to get the attention of the outside," she started. Clara glanced up at her questioningly. Dr. Jones lifted an eyebrow. "Escape. Or should I say—unsuccessful escape. You move outside these gates and you've got police, news reporters. Ambulances. We're the worst of the criminals, after all."
She'd begun shaking her head before Vastra even stopped speaking.
"What will they do to him for trying to escape?" She demanded. She knew she should've asked a million other things. Like can he get the medical assistance to actually come into the prison? Will they let him speak to reporters if he can't get to them? Will he be able to save Vastra? But nothing seemed as pressing for a terrible moment. Her mind was a horrid reflective pool. She tried to look down into her thoughts, but all she saw staring back at her was the memory of the Doctor's body pressing hers against the bookshelf, his lips working hers, his fingers on the edges of her clothing. She blinked rapidly to refocus.
"He'll go to Hell—Hell being the solitary cells in the basement level. We've only had three people attempt to escape. They stay for about a month." She responded. She lowered her fingers from Vastra's neck. "She's practically bradycardic. Do you know where Jenny Flint's cell is? She should be here."
Clara rose, eager to be helpful in some way.
"No. No. But I'll find it."
And really, she meant it. As she said the words, she had no intention of doing anything but finding Jenny and bringing her here. She had no intentions of doing anything else as she left her cell. She had no intentions of doing anything else as she sent Jenny to her cell. She had no intentions of doing anything else even as she turned and walked in the opposite direction. But then again, she'd become a master at manipulating even herself.
She ran through the wings, checking each side exit, only to realize he wouldn't try to sneak out if he wanted to make a scene. He'd just stroll right through the front doors. What could be more unnerving than that?
She hadn't even known she knew him so well. She was out of breath when she came to a shuddering stop in front of him. Her hand reached up and grabbed his bony shoulder. She held tight.
"What are you doing here?" He snapped. He pushed her hand off his shoulder. "Go back to your cell."
She clenched her fists as her hands fell to her sides.
"No."
He looked exasperated.
"Clara. I'm trying to help Vastra. I'm trying to help you. Now go." He ordered.
She narrowed her eyes slightly.
"No." She repeated. In a rush of recklessness, her next words swelled between them. "If you go out there, I'm coming."
It stunned him. She watched his impressive eyebrows rise high on his face.
"Pardon?"
They didn't have a lot of time. She could feel that antsy realization crawling over her skin, over the back of her neck, down her spine. She practically bounced impatiently on her feet as the words spilled rapidly from her lips.
"You've been living alone in that awful cell for twenty years, and I don't know what you did to get here, maybe you did something terrible, maybe you did something worse than me, I don't know. But I know that you helped me and you're trying now to help my friend—and I know that someone who would do those things doesn't deserve to spend a month in a basement, living in terrible conditions that I'm probably severely underestimating in my expectations. I don't know you, but I promised I'd stick around to change that, and I can't very well do that if you're locked away in "Hell", can I?"
He looked away. His voice was gruff, uneasy.
"Go back to your cell, Clara." He repeated.
"Don't make me break my promise. Don't turn me into a liar." She waited until he glanced back to her. She nodded towards the door. "We'll walk right out of here together—won't that just leave the Senior Prison Officer in a state?"
"Clara Oswald," he snapped. She lifted her eyebrows. "You have no idea what you're getting yourself into. Solitary isn't a joke. It isn't something to subject yourself to on some grand, sweeping, noble gesture. It's horrible. I would know. It makes you different. Darker. It makes you see parts of yourself that you didn't even—"
He looked down and away. Clara scanned her eyes down to his chest. She counted his panicked, heaving breaths. He was so skilled at hiding those emotions from showing on his face, but his body gave him away.
"It would devastate you." He finished. He looked back up. "I'm doing this for you, you foolish woman. Say thank you and go."
"Make me." She bit. Her challenging words were grinding. The first set of rapidly approaching footsteps gave her such a rush of adrenaline that it was almost pleasurable. She turned back and resisted the urge to grin.
"Clara—" he growled.
She skidded right up to his side. She reached over and she wrapped her hand around his elbow tightly.
"They're coming, it's now or never." She pointed out needlessly. In her rush of energy, she winked. "See you in Hell."
"No you won't, that's the poi—"
"OI! HEY! WHAT'RE YOU DOING DOWN HERE, GET BACK FROM THE DOOR, RIGHT NOW! Where're the guards?!"
"Fucking hell, it's those two—call Hanson! And the authorities!"
The Doctor pressed down on his device right as the guards bore down on them. The minute the lock clicked, they took off running through the door. Clara had to tighten her hand on his elbow so hard she was sure her nails were digging into his skin. She gasped, struggling to keep up with his long-legged pace.
"I thought—you said—it wouldn't do the outside doors—" she shrieked.
He turned and glanced behind them at the advancing guards. His eyes were wild as he replied.
"It's the gate it doesn't work on!" He gestured in a panic towards the towering wooden fence ahead of them. "The fence! Doesn't do wood!"
"Oh for God's—sake!" Clara panted. Her calf muscles were burning. She hadn't realized how long she'd been out of the army till that moment. "Let's ram it!"
"With what?!"
"Well, it's a wooden gate—it's got to have a simple locking mechanism, it's obviously for looks and not to keep us in, since the actual doors are supposed to do that, so—"
She had no time to catch her breath as they stopped in front of the gate door. She eyed the intricate carvings until she found the latch. Her arms felt light as she tuned and reached over, snatching the Doctor's device from his hands.
"What—"
She lifted it above her head and brought it down on the iron handle. She beat over it ceaselessly, even after her arms felt heavy and weak, until it finally ripped just barely from the wood. She tossed the device back towards the Doctor blindly. He caught it and watched her with an almost spellbound expression.
"Kick it with me!" She ordered.
"Sure your legs can reach?"
"Now is not the time!"
They kicked at it until it proved futile, and then they took a step back and ran forward, ramming it hard with their shoulders. On the fourth hit, it gave a pathetic snapping sound, and the latch sprang free. The force of their hit sent them spiraling forward through the opened door. They fell down hard onto the pavement, and it knocked the breath completely and utterly from Clara.
She felt a screw's boot press down over her lower back. The skin on her cheek broke open from the rough texture of the pavement. She had been in this position too many times now.
"Get up," the screw growled.
She could hear sirens in the distance. She turned her aching face to the side. She stared at the back of the Doctor's face.
"We were so close," she lamented. She painted tears onto her tone. She reached over and she caressed his hair. He was genuine in his farce as he reached over and grasped her hand, turning his face towards hers just in time to press his lips to her palm. He kissed over the scrapes on her palm once, twice, and then he flipped her hand over and kissed the inside of her wrist. In the midst of all the pain, adrenaline, and chaos, she shouldn't have felt a thing. But her heart jumped in her throat and her body pulsed with unexpected, quick arousal.
She estimated the authorities were only half a minute away at max. She slid over to him and paid no mind to the worrying pressure the screw placed on her back as she did. He stepped down harder, but she was touching the Doctor's scraped up face. It was a necessary thing, she told herself. She had to do this. For Vastra, to maintain their lies. But when she pressed her lips to his, she forgot to be dedicated to anything but the taste of him.
They allowed it to happen for perhaps three seconds. And then a screw reached down, grabbed Clara's shoulders, and yanked her upright. The Doctor received equal treatment. But it didn't matter, because police were flooding out of opened vehicles.
Clara went limp in the screw's arms at first. She waited until he adjusted the pressure of his hold accordingly—and then she struggled ferociously. She sprang free from his hold and bolted forward.
"Listen," she cried. She held her hands up and stopped as soon as she was near enough that they'd be able to hear her. "My cell mate is poisoned. They refuse to give her medical assistance. She's going to die!"
She didn't know if that was true, but she had to say it anyway.
"Likely story, you—"
Someone stepped forward from another vehicle.
"Wait," he called. "Let her speak."
She reached up impatiently and wiped at the blood dripping down into her eyes. "We just want a doctor to look at her. She needs medical assistance. Please, come look at her. Send someone to look at her. You'll know we're not lying."
"Mickey Smith."
Clara turned at the sound of the Doctor's voice. He struggled against the officer's hold halfheartedly, but it was obvious his words were weapon enough. The man who'd been listening to Clara stopped and turned. He stared uneasily at the Doctor.
"How do you—"
"Right now, her cell mate has the best doctor there is. But without her tools, the doctor cannot help. She's had to put so many people out of their misery. So many patients who were beyond help. She's in prison now for the rest of her life for helping to end all that suffering—don't make her responsible for another death." He urged. His words turned soft. "You know she doesn't deserve that."
Clara wasn't sure why, but those words profoundly affected the man, Mickey Smith.
"Stand down." He ordered the men around him.
"What—"
"Send for a doctor from the closest hospital." He looked to the screw standing behind Clara. "I want to see your SPO. Where's your on-site doctor? You're required to have twenty-four-hour care available for these inmates."
The screw looked floored. He floundered for words.
"I—he's—ill. He's ill right now. So we couldn't send him. We were in the process of—filing for—a transfer for this inmate's cellmate."
All the screws expected Clara and the Doctor to argue. She only had to look back at him once to understand they were going about it differently.
"We wanted to speed things up," she added. "We're so worried."
Mickey Smith stopped.
"So they are sending for someone?" He asked.
"Yes. But sometimes they have a hard time getting through security at the front of the road. Could you stay and make sure they get in all right?" The Doctor asked.
Clara glanced at him slyly from the corner of her eye.
Mickey Smith turned and glanced back at the way they'd come.
"It is a bit extensive. Sure, I will. And I think I'm going to be paying special mind to this place when I see the Director-General of HMPS."
Clara turned and spotted three screws hurrying back into the prison, mobile phones pressed to their ears. No doubt frantically calling a doctor to show up to back up their story. While they did that, the two screws who'd been restraining Clara and the Doctor were looking at them in confusion. Which is how Clara preferred it.
"Thank you," she whispered. She flooded her voice with genuine relief. "Thank you so much, Mickey Smith."
"Dr. Jones will be grateful, too," the Doctor called. Something about his tone made Clara certain it was a code of some sort, but she didn't know enough to even begin to break it.
Satisfied that Vastra would be all right, she didn't even fight as she was restrained again. She let them shove her roughly into the prison.
"You've really done it now," the screws whispered nastily to them. "I'm rushing a citation as we speak. You're to go to lower solitary immediately."
For the first time that night, Clara remembered Danny. Her heart tumbled brutally to her toes. She hadn't remembered—in her rush, in her concern, she'd forgotten. She had no idea when he was coming. It could've been tomorrow for all she knew. She wouldn't be able to phone or write him—she'd just…not be there. Her chest ached with regret, but she wouldn't let them see it.
"Let's go then," she ordered.
"You're boring us," the Doctor added.
She knew he—like her—would've rather died than let them get to them. And as they approached dark, stone steps, she thought perhaps they might.