A/n: Please note that the rating has changed to M.

"Which circle of hell do you think we'd go to?"

John looked up from his communicator. He looked adorably baffled to Clara, sitting in his boxers and opened button down. His uniform was hanging neatly on the front of the wardrobe, waiting for the man who seemed in no rush at all to move. Clara watched him smack the side of the bulky contraption a few times before he processed her question.

"Oh, I don't know, Clara," he muttered dismissively. He hit it a few more times. "I wouldn't really care as long as we were together."

Clara lifted Dante's Divine Comedy higher, shielding her face as she smiled. She crossed her stretched out legs and shimmied somewhat impatiently. The smooth sensation of her loose silk pajamas bottoms against her bare skin threatened to put ideas back into her head, but she cleared her throat and refocused on the page before she let her body go there. They had briefings to go to. She had to ignore the fact that all she wanted was to pull his underwear back off him.

"Well, I know which one I'd go to." She continued.

He began muttering angrily underneath his breath, frustrated with the tech in his hand. Clara shifted down lower on the bed, so her feet were closer to him. She watched him huff and fiddle with the handheld radio device for a moment longer.

"Yep." She said. She pressed the arches of her feet against his hip. She slid her left foot up and over to the top of his upper thigh. He was oblivious. "I'd go to the second circle."

"The second?" He jumped as the radio made a fizzing noise. He quickly turned the volume down, something Clara found humorous. As if he needed to hide anything on that radio. She was his superior.

"When are you going to give me one of those?" She asked. "I'm your commander. Why do you have better tech than I do?"

He turned to look at her finally. His eyes lit up as they always did. She watched his lips curl up slowly with a warm smile, hers echoing the action.

"I told you. This is a personal radio. Not an air force thing." He sighed.

Clara snorted. "Who're you going to talk to on that thing? We've got mobiles now, you know."

"What can I say," he commented lightly. "I'm old-fashioned."

Clara scanned her eyes down from his disheveled hair, to his strong but lanky build, and then finally to his wrist. She stared affectionately at his antique wristwatch.

"That you are." She couldn't stop herself. She edged her foot over slowly, carefully. He was oblivious until she gently moved it into his lap.

"Clara," he warned.

"The second circle would have great company at least,"

He swallowed hard, his hands stilling. He lowered the device and let his eyes flutter shut for a brief moment. Clara was particular about where in his lap her foot was rubbing.

"Dido, Paris, Cleopatra…" she trilled off. She watched him swallow hard. "Oh, and Helen of Troy. The face that launched a thousand ships. I'd love to sit on that."

He sputtered, his eyes going wide.

"ClaraOswald!"

Her lips twitched against the desire to laugh. But she'd decided to toy with him, and it wasn't a decision she was willing to go back on anytime soon. She turned her focus to her own hips. She yanked the waist of her pajama bottoms and slid them easily down to her calves. The soft sound of the silk against his duvet got John's attention. He turned to look at her, cheeks already pinking. The sight of her naked—save her loose camisole— was enough to finally free him of his "personal radio communicator".

"We'll be late," he reminded her. But the way his eyes were consuming her skin made Clara certain he was only saying it because he felt it was expected. Clara waited until he'd turned fully towards her, and then she deliberately parted her legs.

"Not if you stop gaping and get over here."

He paused for a moment, and in that moment, Clara could feel the time they'd spent apart weighing on her. They'd reunited for the first time in three weeks last night, but Clara still missed him. Still felt the desire to devour him like he was due to die at any moment. She smiled as he yanked his boxers off and came to her side. He reached for her, first and foremost, and Clara melded easily into his hug.

"I've missed you," she whispered. She pressed her nose into his neck and kissed his skin. She ran her hands down his back, to his bottom. She closed her eyes as he pressed against her. "Don't go away again."

He exhaled against her hair as she lifted a leg and hooked it over his hip.

"I've missed you too, Clara Oswald," he breathed. She ducked her head and ran her nose over his collarbone as he stroked his hands over her skin. "But, you know, you're the one who sent me off." He reminded her.

"Not by choice. Arnold and I fought viciously. Next time, he won't win. If he thinks I won't turn against him, he's wrong. He's—oh, Jesus—"

John's fingers wandered and sought. Clara felt pleasure course through her as he dotted upon what he'd found. His words were delivered quietly into her hair.

"Frightening. Are you sure the second circle's for you? Are you sure you're not thinking of the ninth? You can be a treacherous little thing."

"Mmmm, I'm sure, I'm sure," she murmured. She reached down and batted his hand away impatiently. "I want to fuck you, not your hand. I've got one of those."

"Bossy!"

"Well, I am your boss."

"True. So what do you want, boss?"

She pushed against him until he went off balance and flopped over onto his back. She slid over and perched on his upper thighs, her hands finding his shoulders. She could feel him digging into her abdomen as she leaned over.

"I want you," she started. She paused.

"…yes?"

"To open your mouth…"

"Yes…"

"And…tell me what circle of hell you'd go to. It's very important to me."

He watched her hand grip him. His eyes went wide as he cast them to the ceiling. He licked his lips.

"Uh…well," his breath left in a groan. "Well. I'd have to say. Uh. I'd say….the eighth."

Clara stopped her hand.

"The eighth? Fraud?"

"Yes. Why'd you stop?" He whined.

"Why the eighth? Which bolgia?"

"I'm not the literature lover, Clara. That's you."

"Well, are you a seducer, a flatterer, a simonist..."

He sighed. "Clara, do you want to have sex or do you want to discuss Dante's Inferno?"

"I was kind of hoping we could do both."

She was only half-teasing. She felt his hands grasp her waist, and before she could say a word, he flipped them over. She squirmed underneath him as he kissed down the left side of her neck, her laughter building fast in her throat. He knew how ticklish she was there.

"I've never read it," he admitted between kisses.

Clara felt her eyes go wide.

"Wha —"

Her cry of outrage crumbled before it ever saw the morning light. His downward path of kissing was the culprit.

"You have to read it," she managed to breathe. She moaned loudly. "As soon as—as soon as you're done with this."

The warmth and vibrations of his words affected her physically, but the tender tone was what pulled her heart apart.

"I love you, Clara. "

It sounded like an apology. Suddenly, his ministrations felt like an apology.

"What?"

"I love you." He repeated, this time softer, gentler. She was sure she'd misread his previous admission.

Clara lifted up onto her elbows. She reached down and she grasped his funny chin.

"Kiss me."

"I am."

"My lips, I mean. And that's an order."

She felt pleasantly warm as he lowered his body back over hers. She kissed him slowly, taking time to really appreciate the sensation. In the rush of love, she forgot that he'd known what the ninth circle was. Which might've tipped her off to the fact that he wasn't as oblivious to the concepts as he pretended.

"Eighth circle," she laughed. "You just picked a random number, didn't you?"

He didn't respond. And at the time, she thought nothing of it, because they were getting caught up in something else rather quickly.

But it stuck in her memory.

Eighth circle, eighth bolgia.

Deceivers.

Are you sure you aren't thinking of the ninth circle, Clara?

She had a lustful heart. But she was a treacherous soul.

If there was one person who saw that clearly, it was the SPO. He looked at her and the Doctor like they were shit caked on the bottom of his shoe. There was no other way to describe the way he curled his upper lip and glared.

"I'd say I'll feel bad for you two, but I won't."

It was his greeting and his parting words. He didn't tell them how long they were to be down in "Hell". He didn't tell them what the official charges in their files would be, or if Vastra was okay, or anything. Clara watched him go and felt, had her wrists not been bound in handcuffs, that she could've made her death count twelve.

She and the Doctor had just enough time to exchange a disgusted look, but then they were being tugged to their feet. Clara turned and stared over her shoulder as they pulled her down the opposite end of the hallway than the Doctor. She wouldn't have admitted she was scared, but her heart was quivering. The last thing she saw was the Doctor's quick, reassuring nod. And then she was shoved headlong into an impossibly tiny cell.

Before she could say a word, the steel door slammed shut. She was thrust into complete darkness.

"Great," she murmured. She turned and took two steps to the right. Her shoulder made contact with a wall. She walked along the short walls for a few moments, and then finally, she heard the crackling of the lights fizzing on. Light flooded the tiny cell a few seconds later. But really, it wasn't much of an improvement.

Clara stared at what was supposed to be the mattress. It was lying in the middle of the room on the floor and it was scarcely thicker than a camping mat. There was no blanket, no pillow. She turned slowly on the spot and took in the incredibly tiny room. The only other thing was a toilet and rusty sink. It was her home for the next month or so, maybe more.

She thought she'd be lucky to make it a week.

The days went like this:

The groaning of the prison pipes woke her every morning at five. She tossed and turned for two hours, trying to find a position to sleep in that wouldn't aggravate her aching spine, but she gave up by breakfast. At seven, the door opened long enough for a screw to set a tray down atop the rusted sink. It had a piece of toast and an apple. She received no tea.

She tried to keep herself busy until lunch. She closed her eyes and recited all the stories she knew by heart. She sang every song she could remember the lyrics to underneath her breath. She thought about pleasuring herself to while away the time, but the mood never stuck long enough to get very far. She was angry and frightened and frustrated, but not in any way to bring about any pleasure. Just enough for her to sit and simmer. By the time her lunch tray appeared—laden with the reliable combination of soggy vegetables and beans—she was ready to scream. She received no tea.

The last part of the day was always the most torturous. It was then that she thought of all the men of her life in a chaotic tangle. She thought of John first, always, with aching sadness and longing. In her search for comfort, her mind moved to Danny, to her other best friend, to his broad shoulders and calm, reliable heart. But then she felt so incredibly awful about him coming all the way to the prison only to hear she couldn't even see him that she was eager to cast him away for the time being. And then, somehow, her mind flew to the Doctor. Like he belonged there. She thought of him in his cell. She wondered what he was doing, how he was coping. She wondered what he was doing to while away the time. She wondered if he was plotting, or sleeping, or being a bit more successful with self-pleasuring than she'd been. Mostly, she wondered if he was wondering about her, too.

Dinner came and she usually felt too sick to eat it. She received no tea. She'd leave it on top of the sink. If she was lucky, she'd fall asleep. If she was not, she'd think about her mum and John, and she'd miss them terribly until she cried herself to sleep.

On the third day of this, she caught herself mumbling to herself.

On the fourth, she woke up from nightmares, uncertain for a while whether or not they'd really happened.

On the fifth, a folded up piece of paper arrived with her breakfast, along with a pen and flimsy notebook.

I've got it worked out. Osgood—our new food deliverer—is terribly kindhearted and way too trusting. She'll deliver letters with our meals. How are you doing? How is your cell?

That was all. It was a mere five sentences. But Clara was so relieved she wept. She hadn't realized how weak she felt until she went to compose a reply and found her fingers shook a lot more than they ought to.

I'm okay. Or, well, I'm alive. I'm going mad with boredom—how do you do this every day? I've run out of things to do. I've even ran out of things to think about. And it hasn't even been a week. I don't know how I'm going to make it. How are you holding up? Please write back soon. Thank you for the note. You can't imagine how much I needed it.

She thought about editing it before she sent it to make it sound less needy, but she was afraid to do so. She was worried if she came off as too tranquil, he'd think her all right and not even bother to reply. She didn't know if he needed the correspondence as much as she did. She couldn't risk losing it.

But perhaps he was just as lost as she was. Because she received a reply with the next meal.

You get used to it. You learn how to think without thinking. I'm all right, though my entire body is ruined because of the sorry excuse for a mattress. And these bloody pipes keep me awake all night long. If you're bored, tell me something. Anything you like. It can be as long as you like. Stay calm and take it hour by hour.

Is it legal for them to leave us in conditions like this? I don't think it is. And those pipes do the same to me—it's banging all night long and all morning long. Drives me to the edge, I swear. I've been thinking of Dante's Divine Comedy, which I suppose is fitting given our hellish standards, but it's got me thinking again about where I'd go. It was simple before all this. I could place myself easily. But now, after having done so much wrong, I feel I'd have to split myself into three parts and go to three different circles to atone for it all. What about you? What circle would you go to?

It's decidedly not legal. But you'd be surprised at just how much they can get away with.

Theoretically, I'd probably have to do the same. Though perhaps more parts than yours. What circles will you be in? Perhaps we'll run into each other.

Today I'm atoning for lust, treachery, and violence. Will we spot each other?

We will absolutely spot each other. Though part of me will spend time in the sixth circle as well.

Wrath? That's quite the repertoire you've got. Lust, treachery, deception, wrath. We could start an uprising.

We're the only ones who could. (But, to any prison screws reading this, we mean strictly metaphorical and in Dante's version of Hell.) I'm well aware of what you've done to get labeled a betrayer and a liar, but I have to admit I'm a bit interested in what you've done to get thrown in with the lust-ridden.

I'm interested in what you've done to get landed here. You tell me, I'll tell you.

I will tell you. But not like this. Besides, doesn't take much to guess what sort of deeds get you thrown in the second circle. I wonder: how's the lust been so far?

How's yours been?

Practically nonexistent. Until you got here.

Bit forward of you, Doctor. Should I even bother asking what you've been doing to keep yourself busy?

There's that egomania I love so much. I might ask you the same thing.

It is genuinely disappointing and unfortunate to report that I have honestly and truly been doing nothing. I've got to be happy to want to give into lust, and this environment isn't exactly thrilling.

Oh, the body wants what the body wants, Clara. You might just need some assistance.

You offering?

I can't believe I waited four hours for a two-worded reply.

I can't believe you didn't even reply.

Were I there, it'd be a serious offer. It'd be a proposition. I'd already be touching you.

How?

She waited. Lunch came without a note. She waited. Dinner arrived with nothing to offer. She huffed and she paced for hours, frustrated with him in every way a person could be.

"Fine," she muttered. She tugged impatiently on the hem of her shirt. "It's not like I cared anyway."

But of course, there was no one there to save face for. She was faced with overwhelming emptiness once more.

She woke up briefly in the middle of the night to the sound of water trickling.

She assumed it was the rubbish toilet and rolled over.

She woke up three hours later to the sound of gurgling.

And she assumed it was the rubbish pipes and rolled over.

By the time she was gasping awake, half-way submerged in water, her cell was a pond and she was swimming. Had she an actual bed, instead of a mat on the floor, she would've been fine. But she wasn't, and the water had risen above her far quicker than she would have anticipated.

She sprang up from the mat and stood on the sodden, floating mess that had been her bed, the freezing water chilling her to the bone. Her uniform clung tightly to her body and she began shaking almost immediately, feeling her body temperature plummeting from the water she'd been lying in. She looked to the toilet and sink, but they weren't spouting any water. She turned her head and followed the sound of running water. She stared at the vent right below the banging pipes. Something had burst during the night; water was pounding from the vent at an alarming rate. She waded across the room and slammed her fist into the door.

"Hey!" She screamed. "It's flooding in here!"

She beat her hands against the door a few more times, but after two minutes passed, she realized it was fruitless. If they were going to come, they would, and nothing she did could change that. The water was mid-calf now. She scanned her eyes around her aquatic cell before making an action plan. She moved over to the sink and sat atop it, trying to stay out of the ice cold water for as long as possible. She twisted the excess water from her clothes and rubbed her arms, trying her best to heat up. She must've sat on that sink for at least fifteen minutes, quivering and chattering her teeth, before a screw finally opened the door. It seemed the water was universal; the hall was halfway flooded as well.

"Out!" The screw ordered. She had on tall Wellies and her top half was miraculously dry. She even had a coat on. "Now!"

Clara hopped off the sink and treaded through the deep water. It felt like needles stabbing into her thighs, and by the time she was halfway down the hall, her lower half was completely numb. The screw led her to the holding cell at the very end of the hallway and pointed towards the open doorway. Clara looked down at the water and back up at her.

"Seriously?!" She demanded. "You're keeping me down here?! It's flooded! I'm going to get hypothermia!"

"In." The screw commanded.

Clara stared at her. She was debating whether or not to comply; she sized her up with her eyes and did quick predictions in her mind of the consequences to each action she could take. She was highly considering telling the screw to stick it when she heard loud splashing from inside the room. She turned, her attention divided, and peeked in. The Doctor waved back from the halfway submerged bench he was sitting on.

Clara licked her lips and turned back to the screw.

"All right," she said. "In I go."

"Good choice. The water will be drained soon." The screw snapped.

Clara suddenly didn't care so much. The prospect of being with another human for the first time in over a week had excited her to the point of tears. She practically swam over to him, indifferent to the frigid water now. She moved over and sat on the bench beside him. The water reached her knees. She and the Doctor looked at each other and both seemed to know to wait. They didn't say a word until the screw shut the door behind Clara and secured it.

Clara turned fully towards the Doctor. She reached down and tugged in annoyance at her shirt plastered to her skin.

"You never wrote me back." She greeted.

His eyebrows rose high on his face. He stared at her impassively for a beat, but then a gradual smirk worked itself up on his face.

"Clara," he began. Her name fell from his lips almost musically. "What do you think this is?"

"A rubbish reenactment of the second half of Titanic?" She tried.

"No. This is your reprieve." He gestured around them. "Granted, I didn't actually plan the pipes, but I convinced them to place us both here so the people working on the pipes could work safely in our cells. Without worrying about us harming them."

Clara glanced down at him. His uniform was stuck to his skin just as hers was, and she was certain he was freezing too, but he'd never looked happier to be somewhere (that Clara had seen). She turned her head slightly to the right as she mulled over his words.

"Thank you," she told him genuinely. "How long do you think it'll take them to fix this?"

"Hours. Those pipes should've been replaced decades ago. It was only a matter of time." His eyes went soft. It was a special sight Clara hadn't seen very often. "You look exhausted."

She studied the circles underneath his eyes.

"You do, too."

They stared at each other for a beat longer without saying anything. Clara looked down at the water around them.

"So," she began. She licked her lips. "Here I am. You get to write me back in person."

"I don't want to tell you." He said dismissively.

Clara gave him a mildly annoyed look. "Okay? We'll talk about something else, then. God, it feels so incredibly good to hear someone else's voice, I was getting so sick—"

"I want to show you."

She stopped. She stared at him, eyes wide. She listened to the constant roar of the water.

"Show me…what?" She asked. Even though she hadn't forgotten for a moment.

"I want to show you how I'd touch you."

He was waiting for something. Clara could see that now. It was in everything he did: from the tense way he was sitting, to the way his eyes examined her every move and expression carefully. She wondered if he'd thought she was teasing him. He looked almost frightened of rejection, of all things.

The lower half of her body was so cold it was almost numb, but somehow, that only made the surge of excitement she felt even more jarring.

"I'd like for you to." She admitted carefully. There was a wordless but tacked onto the end of her statement, but he skimmed past it.

She watched his face open with surprise.

"Really?"

She shifted closer.

"How long has it been since you've been with someone?" She asked curiously.

"At least six years. There was a woman—River Song. She was here on transfer. She's in some Russian prison now."

Clara wasn't sure why those words made her feel a rush of negative emotion. She didn't want to call it jealousy, but she had to admit she felt a bit annoyed. As if she'd taken fully to the idea that she was his Only One. There was a certain power to being the only person someone had. There was so much control to be had there. She'd known that subconsciously from the moment she first realized he'd been protecting her.

"Was it nice?"

He considered her question. His eyes drifted down to her lips. Her breath hitched as he lifted his hand from the water and reached forward, pinching the material of her wet shirt. He pulled it out, unsticking it from her skin. It took her a moment to realize why he was staring at her shirt with such an expression. She was cold, after all.

"It was all right." He finally said. His eyes met hers. "But I think being with you would be worlds better."

She wished she could've just accepted the flattery and moved on. But it stuck in her mind.

"Why?" She wanted to know.

"Because I already know I love the feel and the taste of you."

She shivered again, but this time it wasn't so much from the water.

"What would you like to do with me?"

"Fuck you."

She leaned closer.

"How?"

He countered her movement with his own. She could feel the warmth from his breath on her face.

"However you'd like."

"Hard?" Her voice tucked lowly, suggestively.

"Do you like hard?"

"I asked you first." Clara countered.

He grinned wickedly. "Oh, you are quite the control freak. Yes. Hard."

"Good. Because that's how I'd like it."

His hands moved to her upper thighs. She resisted the urge to look down and follow his touch with her eyes. She stared back at him and she reveled in the chills erupting throughout her body as he moved his hands closer and closer to the waistband of her trousers. She allowed her eyes to flutter shut for a moment as his nails drew lightly over the sensitive skin just underneath the band of her underwear. And then she reached down and cupped his hands in hers.

"When I trust you, when I know you," she began. She thought about all he'd done for her already, about all he'd done for Vastra. She held his hands tightly. "I'll fuck you like you deserve. And I'll enjoy every moment."

A part of her was afraid he'd be angry. But his eyes bore into hers the same as before, intense and controlled.

"What about what you deserve?" He asked. He stroked his thumbs over the backs of her hands, as if determined to touch her wherever she'd allow it.

"I don't deserve anything." She forced the right side of her lips up in a half-hearted smile. "I'm a permanent fixture in hell."

He frowned deeply. Lines carved in his forehead as he did. Clara watched his eyes flutter about the room as he seemed to be mulling something over.

"I don't agree. But I understand."

Clara smiled.

"Well, that's very mature of you."

"It's almost like I'm a fifty-year-old man."

"Almost." He moved his hands from hers and settled them on the bench beside him. She watched them and realized as her stomach dropped that that wasn't exactly what she'd wanted. "Do you know what I want?"

The second circle was beckoning. It had been a long time since she'd heard the welcome tune.

"No, what is that?"

But his eyes were dancing with knowledge.

"I want you to give me something to think about when I'm back in my cell."

"I can do that for you." He said. He arched an eyebrow slowly. "What would you like?"

"Surprise me. Within reason." She ordered. And then—in a terribly new and almost uncharacteristically submissive manner—she shut her eyes. She had never put herself in the dark before. She was always the one with open eyes, always the one in control. She felt her heart beat pick up as she heard the bench creak beneath them. She could sense he was nearer, and for a moment she was frightened-why should she trust him? She had been vague about the boundaries. She had been vague about everything. She shouldn't assume he'd just know what to do or how to satisfy the aching she had without taking it too far and shattering the slight trust she held. But then again, she was at rock bottom. She was without all her control. And she was still breathing.

And yet, she wasn't surprised when she felt his hands cupping her cheeks. He swept his thumbs over her cheekbones. She didn't understand why it felt so wonderful.

"You feel beautiful. Did you know people could feel beautiful? It's in the bones of your face. It's in the curve of your nose. The shape of your lips." He shared. Her heart crawled up her throat and beat incessantly as she felt him looming nearer. His face was in front of hers, she was certain of it, but his lips never made contact with hers. Not even when she parted them. Instead, he pressed a soft kiss to the bridge of her nose. It twitched by instinct. "Especially your nose."

"Rambling now," Clara whispered. As if she wasn't enjoying every bit of his attention.

He hummed. "Well, after going so long without talking to anyone, it tends to happen."

She could feel his breath against her lips. He was achingly close, so close she shifted on the bench impatiently, her muscles drawn tight with tension. After a horrifyingly frustrating thirty seconds, she broke.

"Kiss me," she demanded.

"That's too easy."

"You built a tablet in a prison cell. Everything's too easy for you." Clara complained.

His fingers moved to her hair. He ran his nails lightly over her scalp and leaned forward. His cheek rested against hers. Each word was a burst of hot air against her ear.

"I know exactly how I'd touch you." He admitted softly. Clara briefly registered the sound of approaching footsteps, but she was too caught up to care. She pressed her cheek against his. Each deep inhalation and exhalation caused her breasts to brush softly against his chest. He purposely moved closer. She told herself it was the sticky air that made her breathing rate increase. "First, I'd trace down your spine. It's a lovely spine." She swallowed as his right hand dropped from her hair. It snaked up the bottom of her shirt. His fingers moved to her spine, stroking gently. "Like so."

"Good introduction," Clara murmured. "What's your body paragraph?"

"Your navel. It's the midway point, the home port. And it's so easy to trace my fingers from here—" he tapped over her spine gently—"to here." He drew his hand around to the front of her body. She clenched her thighs together as his fingers took interest in her lower stomach immediately. "It's sensitive, I take it. Ticklish?"

"Not the word I'd use."

"Brilliant." His fingers inched lower, and lower, and Clara's legs grew shaky. She was about to tell him to forget what she'd said before. She was about to eat her own words in her rush of lust. But he stopped his hand precisely where she'd stopped him before.

"Like so. Shall I continue with words?"

Words were suddenly all she had. It was better than nothing.

"Yes." Her voice was tighter than she would've liked. She felt her arousal was too transparent.

"I'd push my hand beneath those regulation knickers and I'd cup you, the heel of my hand at the top, fingers applying pressure over you but never entering. And I think I know exactly what you'd do. You'd rock into my hand. You'd take control, and you'd cry out, and then—I'd pull away."

Her eyes fluttered open. Her cheeks were pink and her tone was flustered.

"No!" She argued. "Why? Keep going."

She hadn't expected it. She'd just moved to lean back, so she could see his face, when his mouth pressed to hers. His tongue brushed past her lips and pushed against hers. She squirmed, thighs still pushed together, pulse throbbing in her ears. He stroked his fingertips lightly over her navel as they kissed.

She was left wanting when he pulled away.

"Because I'd never make you do my work for me." He finally answered.

"They've freed up two solitary cells on main for the night. Up. Detach yourself."

The screw's voice had never been more unwelcome. Clara turned, horrified. She'd forgotten how cold she was for a moment. She'd even forgotten the fact that she was in sopping wet clothes. She just knew she wanted to stay with the Doctor.

"You'll give Clara a dry uniform, right?" The Doctor asked. She felt his hand moved to her hip. "She's definitely going to need it."

Oh, the bastard. His implications were plenty clear to her, even if the screw just assumed he was referring to the water situation only.

"Perhaps." The screw replied dully. "Come along."

"Perhaps?" She demanded. "You can't leave us in soaking wet uniforms all night."

"We can do what we like. And you know what? We will. Who's going to stop us?" The screw sneered.

Clara considered smacking her across the mouth. The Doctor's hand settled on her shoulder as they stood.

"We should carve that on her headstone," he whispered. "Famous last words of an idiot."

Clara's lips curled up.

"What are you smiling about?" The screw sneered. She walked over and reached down, grabbing onto Clara's wrist tightly. She gave her a hard tug. "Get moving."

Sweet Clara sulked away. The ugly part of herself surged forward. She reached out and grasped onto the screw's wrist. She held tighter than she'd been held.

"Do that again and you won't have a hand to touch me with."

The Doctor's hand came out of nowhere. He grabbed the screw's other wrist and squeezed.

"Do what you like to me. There's nothing more you screws can take from me. I have nothing to lose—so when I tell you I'll kill you for harming Clara Oswald or any of her friends, know I mean it."

The screw didn't struggle against their holds, but her face compressed with hatred.

"RY2227, you're already without canteen for two months for your physical strikes against a guard earlier. You're just making things worse for yourself."

She knew she'd regret it later, but at that time, she wanted to say fuck you in every way there was.

"It's like the Doctor said. I have nothing to lose. So don't you dare underestimate me. There are loads of graves filled with people who learned that lesson the hard way."

The screw snorted.

"Oh, love. Is that supposed to frighten me?" She asked. "I've been in charge of the Doctor's cell for five years now. You think your body count is impressive? Eleven is nothing. Eleven's a bad day. If the man who's body count includes a prime minister doesn't frighten me, what makes you think you will?" She jerked her arms roughly. Clara and the Doctor's hands slipped. "You're a joke with a pretty face."

Clara had just enough time to look up at the Doctor in surprise before the other screws arrived and removed her from the room.