Whew, this one is even longer than the last one! I had nine people request this, so I really really hope I've done it justice. I hope you all love it. I made it super fluffy:)

Thanks for reading; please leave a review if you can. It will really brighten my day when I get back from my mini-vacation tomorrow. Thanks so much for supporting this story. Now let the Whouffaldi fluffiness begin! Enjoy!

The Doctor growled determinedly under his breath and pushed his spindly body off the TARDIS console, swaying precariously for a few seconds and then righting himself. He pressed a hand to his forehead, wincing as the lights seared his eyes, suddenly much brighter than normal. Something was wrong with him. He didn't know what, but he could tell that all was not right. He had woken up that morning feeling all funny - his whole body had been quivery and achey. Now his head was pounding, and it sometimes felt like he had just been spinning around. The Doctor recalled that humans called it 'dizzy'. But he had never been dizzy before. Why was he dizzy now?

A tingly feeling suddenly erupted in his throat, and the Doctor instinctively sucked in his breath. Panic bloomed in his hearts. What was happening to him? He suddenly had no control over his body... just like a human.

Even as that horrifying thought struck him, the tingle in his throat turned into a tickle. The Doctor suddenly realized what was coming. "No-" he croaked, his eyes watering from the effort of suppressing the tickle. "No-get back in- I will not-"

But his efforts were futile. He erupted into a hacking cough, almost bent double from its force. He leaned against the console, coughing relentlessly, his eyes streaming. When the coughing fit finally subsided, he slumped even more heavily against the console, panting and gasping. His eyes were vacant, bloodshot, and red-rimmed, and his limbs were trembling slightly. Coughing like that was a new experience for him; he'd never done it before, and it terrified him. Those awful choking sounds had scared him enough when Clara was making them, but it was somehow much more frightening when you made them yourself.

The Doctor's brain felt hazy and slow, which was rather annoying, because his brain was one of the best in the universe (which was not boasting. It was just stating a fact. Clara seemed to think otherwise, though, whenever he said that to her). He lowered a hand to his chest. His hearts were still beating, so he wasn't dying... yet. Then what was happening? Was he malfunctioning somehow? This sort of thing had never happened to him in all of his two thousand years. Maybe it was routine for Time Lords to malfunction when they reached this age.

All of a sudden the pain behind his eyes increased sharply, along with his dizziness. The Doctor spun around, searching for the TARDIS door, but his vision was filled with pulsing black dots that completely obscured his sight. "I need-" he murmured croakily, beginning to slump to the floor as he dimly realized that he was about to pass out. "I need-"

A cool hand suddenly grabbed the back of his curly head as he began to fall, and another one slid around his waist, holding him steady. The Doctor didn't know or care who it belonged to; he was just relieved for the support. Closing his eyes in relief, he crouched a little bit and rested his head on the person's shoulder, gripping the hand around his waist in case he started passing out again.

As the Doctor swayed exhaustedly, his nose against the person's bare shoulder, he felt his dizziness beginning to recede, and a familiar warm scent suddenly hit his nostrils. Vanilla and raspberries.

The Doctor's eyes popped open. Clara. Of course it was Clara. Honestly, why was he surprised? He had needed her, and here she was, even though it seemed impossible. But then again, she was his Impossible Girl.

Clara drew back and stared searchingly into his blue-grey eyes, pressing her slim hand to his waist. "Doctor, are you alright?" she inquired, her warm, wise eyes filled with concern. "I came in and saw you falling over."

The Doctor stared at her odd little nose and felt a wave of relief wash over him. Clara was here now. Everything would be okay, and perhaps she could tell him what was happening to him. Already he was starting to feel better - he still felt drippy and achey, but he wouldn't be passing out again any time soon; his head had stopped spinning. "I'm fine," he told her shortly, stepping backwards to escape the close contact. "Just fine. How did you get here?"

Clara's eyes twinkled mischievously as she tossed her French-toast hair over her shoulder. "Oh, you know me. I'm like a bad penny, always turning up when you least expect it."

A lucky penny, the Doctor corrected her mentally. My lucky penny. Out loudly, he asked,"No really, how did you get here? I landed the TARDIS in the middle of nowhere."

"Well, if the middle of nowhere is the supply closet near my classroom, then yeah," Clara chuckled, the dimple in her left cheek deepening as she smiled. "I went in to get notepaper and found the TARDIS instead. Nice surprise."

The Doctor felt a surge of love, both for Clara, who had an impeccable sense of timing even if she didn't know it, and for the TARDIS, who had probably landed in Clara's school on purpose.

Clara stood on her tiptoes to pat the top of the Doctor's riotous locks before lowering her hand. "So where are we going this time?"

He opened his mouth, not quite sure what he was going to answer, but as it turned out, he didn't have to. For at that exact moment, he let loose a giant sneeze that made his entire body shudder.

When his eyes stopped watering, the Doctor glanced up and sheepishly met Clara's unamused gaze. She was standing with her arms crossed, covered with the remnants of his sneeze. The Doctor didn't know what to do. He had never sneezed before; what was the proper human etiquette for such things? "Erm... my deepest condolences," he mumbled, wiping his nose on his velvety coat.

"I am officially disgusted," Clara announced flatly. "Also, the term is 'excuse me'. And I think you're sick."

"I'm not sick!" the Doctor protested. "I can't be sick, I just can't. Time Lords are hardly ever sick." And then he sat down with a bump on the floor as dizziness overtook his whole body for the second time that day. His throat hurt when he swallowed. Despite himself, a tiny sliver of doubt wormed into his mind. If he wasn't sick, then what was he? This was the most alien thing that had ever happened to him.

"So, Time Lords don't get sick, eh?" Clara crouched down and rubbed his back sympathetically, apparently having forgiven him for sneezing on her. "Cos you definitely sound sick to me, Mister."

"I'm not sick," he snapped. "I'm -" His words were drowned out by another giant sneeze that rocked his entire body. The Doctor felt his hearts pounding much faster than normal. It wasn't natural for him to be making noises like that. That was a human thing.

Clara pulled out a handkerchief from her dress pocket and handed it to him. "Doctor, you're definitely -"

"Clara, I'm malfunctioning," he gasped, his eyes streaming. "Like you were malfunctioning last time I saw you. All gaspy and sneezy and coughy and dead-looking. I'm malfunctioning!"

A tiny frown creased her brow at the word 'dead-looking', but she made no comment. "Okay, if that's what you want to call it."

"Can you fix me?" the Doctor asked desperately, leaning against his companion's chest and gazing into her eyes. "Please?"

Clara's lips twitched. "I can try. But you have to do whatever I tell you to."

"Don't you make me do that anyway?" the Doctor grunted wearily.

"You aren't half rude!" she fired back indignantly. "Okay, shut up and let me take care of you!" She helped him get to his feet. "Here, give me the sonic so I can take your temperature. Since you lost my thermometer..." She turned an annoyed stare on him.

The Doctor scooted away and turned his head, sliding a protective hand around his sonic screwdriver. "Temperature? I'm only malfunctioning; that can't make my temperature go up. I'm not sick, Clara; I'm fine!"

"Doctor, just give it to me!"

"I'm fine; I'm only malfunctioning a little!"

"Give. Me. The. Bloody. Sonic!" Clara couldn't believe his stubbornness. The Doctor was sick and he knew it, even if he was too stubborn to admit it. Why did he want to keep pretending he was fine?

"I. Am. Fine!"

Clara let out a noise between a growl and a shout, dived at him, and wrested the sonic from his grasp. The Doctor had to resist the urge to panic - there was no scarier sight than that of Clara Oswald charging at you with a murderous glint in her eye.

"I said you have to do everything I tell you," she reminded him, panting slightly from the exertion of tackling the Doctor, who was much heavier and broader than she was. "Now hold still." She twisted the end of the screwdriver to change the setting, held it up to his forehead, and scanned him.

The Doctor marveled at the ease with which Clara handled the sonic. She was as adept with it as he was himself.

Clara frowned as she shut off the screwdriver, allowing the buzzing noise to die out. "Um, this says your temperature is seventeen degrees Celsius."

The Doctor's face paled even more than it already was, and his hedgy eyebrows drew together. "Really?"

"I'm guessing that's bad?"

"I'm supposed to have a core temperature of fifteen degrees. So yes, that's bad." He coughed weakly and sniffled, feeling a sharp pain behind his eyes. "I suppose I am sick. Being sick is so overrated."

"What do you mean?" Clara wanted to know, taking his hand and guiding him over to the console in case he needed something to lean on.

"I mean being sick sounds fun - you're supposed to get pampered with blankets and ice cream and whatnot - but it's really just awful!"

"It's not that bad," Clara replied consolingly, "it's just your first time being sick, that's all."

"And," the Doctor continued, pretending that he hadn't heard her, "I probably got this thing from you, after I was taking care of you last week! I told you not to make me take care of you!"

Clara drew back. "Excuse me," she snapped waspishly, a dangerous glint in her eye, "you said no such thing. Your exact words were, 'Get sick? Me? I'm a Time Lord. I have much better resistance to disease than you pudding-brained, weak, frail people.'"

The Doctor's sigh turned into yet another sneeze. "I was counting on you not remembering that."

He looked so pathetically ill, with the dark bags under his pale, tired eyes, his rumpled hair, and his drooping, spidery body, that Clara decided not to get mad at him. Instead, she placed a tender hand on his shoulder, and rested her other one against his chest, feeling the frantic beats of his double hearts. "No matter how you got sick, Doctor, the fact remains that you are sick, and I'm going to take care of you. Don't even think about trying to stop me." She glimpsed a hint of wariness in his eyes, followed by grudging acceptance, and smiled. "Good. Let's get you to your bedroom then, shall we? Where is it?"

The Doctor realized with a jolt that he trusted Clara completely and wholly; that he was both unconsciously and unhesitatingly trusting her with his life and his body now. Why? he asked himself. He had suffered more pain and loss than anyone in the universe, and he was more alone than anyone ever could be. How, then, could he trust this woman, this beautiful, amazing woman, so much; enough to give her charge of his health? Even as he asked himself this question, he instinctively knew that Clara, and only Clara, would be able to nurse him back to good health. Yes, anyone at any hospital could probably help him. But only Clara, he knew, would give him her full and unwavering love and attention; would treat him like he was an extension of herself. Perhaps that was why he trusted her so much. Perhaps he knew that she cared for him more than anyone ever had before, or ever could.

The Doctor's eyes must have seemed very distant and dreamy, because when he came back to reality again, he found that Clara was waving her hand in front of his face. She sighed with relief as his arms stirred and his eyes flicked down to her face. "Oh, good. I thought you were passing out on me. I asked where your bedroom was."

"Next to yours," the Doctor answered without thinking.

Clara groaned, clapping a hand to her pale forehead. "Ugh, that means it'll be as far away as possible. The snogbox always makes sure I have to walk at least an hour to get where I want to." Then the Doctor's words registered, and her chocolatey eyes widened. "Wait, did you say next to mine?"

A dull flush colored the Doctor's weathered cheeks, and he glanced down at the metal grating that comprised the floor. "Yes."

"Why?" Clara asked, half-amused, half-freaked out.

There was no point lying to her. The Doctor wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly feeling cold and shivery, as he answered. "Because I have very good hearing, and I can hear you breathing through the walls, and it comforts me because I know you're still here." He continued to stare studiously at the floor, too embarrassed to meet Clara's gaze.

But when he finally couldn't stand the silence anymore and looked up, there was a tear shining on Clara's cheek, and her smile was watery. "Do you know, I think that's one of the nicest things you've ever said to me," she murmured softly, squeezing her hand against his chest so that the fabric of his shirt scrunched up.

The Doctor tried to offer her a smile in return, but it morphed into a wet cough, which reminded Clara of his predicament. She shook herself and quickly took her hand off of his shirt - the Doctor felt unreasonably sad, like he had just lost something dear to him, as she did so. "Okay," Clara mused aloud,"the snogbox - I mean the TARDIS - knows you're sick, so she might put your bedroom closer to us. It's worth a try."

The Doctor cleared his throat. "No. My bedroom is messy."

"Since when has that ever stopped you from doing anything?" Clara demanded exasperatedly.

"Since you. I don't like showing you messes, Clara Oswald, because you can't pull yourself away until you've cleaned them up."

"That is not true!" she protested heatedly. "Well - sometimes -"

"Is this really the time to be talking about this?" the Doctor demanded. He was sad to end the conversation, since he'd actually just managed to make her admit that he was right, but he really wasn't feeling great.

Clara pursed her lips. "You're right. Okay, since we don't actually know where your bedroom is -" she cast an annoyed glance at the TARDIS - "it'll have to be my house. It should be an easy flight, since we're already close by."

"Won't the school miss you?" the Doctor questioned, absently fiddling with the buttons of his jacket as he tried and failed to prevent an enormous bubble of snot from dripping out of his nose (fortunately, he managed to wipe it away before Clara saw).

"Yeah, but taking care of you is more important!" she chirped. "I'll just tell them my students mastered the concepts I was teaching them early, so I didn't see any point in staying at school."

"And did they?"

"No, of course not. But the other teachers don't need to know that." Clara smiled slyly.

Although it would admittedly be fun spending time with Clara in her flat, the Doctor was still clinging to the hope that he wasn't actually sick. He didn't want to be treated like he was sick, and given plain toast and pills, and have absolutely nothing to do while he stayed in bed. And so he made one last desperate attempt to get out of going to Clara's house. "I'll probably be a huge bother, you know. I'll probably complain and be fussy and I won't stay in bed when you ask me to."

Of course, Clara saw through this ruse instantly. She reached up and rested her both of her hands on his cheeks, tracing her fingers along the faint stubble that covered them. "Doctor, you idiot, let other people do something for you for once! You've given us so much; now let us take care of you! Let me take care of you." She saw that he was wavering and decided to employ her final and most effective tactic. She gave him her biggest doe eyes. "Please?"

"One day I'm going to outlaw those eyes," the Doctor mumbled, annoyed at himself for caving in so easily. He just couldn't say no when Clara turned those big eyes on him - he had never been able to. His last regeneration had been even more susceptible to Clara Oswald's charm. At least this time around he seemed to have some ability to resist her. But he still couldn't bring himself to not do everything she asked of him. "Fine. Let's go to your flat."

Clara beamed, and the happiness shining in her eyes was enough to make the Doctor forget his irritation. "Great! Let's get going. And stop giving me those droopy basset hound eyes."

"If anyone has droopy basset hound eyes," the Doctor muttered under his breath, "it's you." But he had the sense not to say so aloud as he followed Clara over to the console. Slowly and methodically, he walked around the console, pushing buttons and inputting coordinates. But as he reached out to pull the final lever, he glanced down at his hands and noticed that they were shaking - either from fear of sickness or from his sickness itself, he didn't know which.

Clara noticed this as well, as he knew she would, because she noticed everything. She stepped nearer to the Doctor and wrapped her slender hands around his larger one, which was hovering in the air over the lever. "Together," she breathed, her breath warm against his cheek, as she helped him pull the lever.

They stepped out into Clara's living room a few moments later, the Doctor being careful to take slow, measured steps so as to avoid another attack of dizziness. Just in case, Clara had one arm slung around his shoulder and another around his waist. She surveyed her living room as they entered it and sighed apologetically. "Sorry about the mess. I was looking for something and I haven't got around to putting all this back yet."

The Doctor grunted, feigning disinterest. Secretly, however, he was delighted. If he ever traded his TARDIS for a house, this is what it would look like: comfortably messy, warm, inviting, lived in. Books were strewn all over the floor, stacked to precarious heights. The coffee table and the sofa were barely visible beneath hordes of items including more books and even some souvenirs from Clara's travels with the Doctor. The Doctor surveyed the living room with satisfaction. Evidently, he and Clara were kindred spirits. Her taste in possessions matched his exactly.

Clara began to lead him to the left. "Where are we going?" the Doctor asked, punctuating the end of his sentence with a cough. "Aren't you putting me on the couch?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Well, you know. People are always put on the couch when they're sick. It's just... a thing."

There was amusement in Clara's voice as she replied. "Well, it's not a thing in my house. Also, if you hadn't noticed, my sofa is kind of a mess. And I think you're sick enough to get to stay in a proper bed." She nudged open her bedroom door with her foot and guided the Doctor inside, lightly humming a vaguely cheerful tune under her breath. She was clearly happy to have the Doctor around, even if she had to nurse him back to good health.

Since there was no point in protesting, the Doctor allowed himself to be hustled into Clara's bed. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender, but the pillows carried the same soothing vanilla fragrance of her hair. Clara was in her element now, bustling around propping up pillows behind him, tucking the covers under his elbows, and, in short, doing everything she could to make him comfortable. The Doctor was not particularly enjoying being babied like this, but he didn't want to offend his best friend, so he bore it patiently with his eyes closed... although he couldn't resist emitting a few weary sighs, which Clara studiously ignored.

When Clara had finished, she stood back and stared thoughtfully at the Doctor. "When I was sick," she told him, "you made me dinner. It's about dinnertime now, but I reckon you don't want a soufflé?" She said this hopefully, like she was hoping he did.

The Doctor's resolution not to offend her did not extend quite that far. "No," he answered hastily. "No, I'll pass, thanks. I don't want to get even sicker." He opened his mouth to sneeze and found that Clara had already pressed a tissue into his hand, as though she had predicted that he would need it. He sneezed into it, cringing - he still wasn't used to this business of being sick.

Clara pursed her lips. "Alright, Mr. Grumpy. No soufflé. I guess I'll call in some takeout in a bit then."

"Italian sounds good," the Doctor offered.

She stared at him incredulously. "Are you mad? Nothing else guarantees a stomach upset as certainly as Italian food does, delicious as it is. No, I'll get something else. Speaking of which," she added, somewhat doubtfully, "can you even get an upset stomach? What do you people do when you get sick?"

"I already said, Clara, we rarely get sick!" His nose was beginning to feel stuffy. "Time Lords get sick so rarely, it's something you can usually only read about in books. I have no idea what'll happen to me. I honestly don't know, and I don't like not knowing. So let's find out."

"Guess I should give you some medicine," she mused. "It can't hurt."

"I beg to differ. Overdosage on pills is probably what's given you your questionable height and overly large eyes."

"I'm going to choose to ignore that," Clara answered. "I'm going to get the pills. Stay right there. Don't even think about getting out of bed."

"How will you know if I'm out of bed or not? Have you got a set of giant eyes in the back of your head as well?"

"No, but you will by the time I'm done with you if you don't shut up," came the snarky reply from the bathroom. "Keep quiet." She returned a minute later with two pills cupped in her hand and a glass of water. After the Doctor downed them, she bounced onto the bed, brimming with tireless energy, and gracefully swung her legs over his. Then she wrapped her small hands around his elbow. The Doctor frowned at her. "Why are you sitting next to me? What if you get sick again?"

"Well, I've already had it, haven't I?" Clara countered. "I might not be able to get it again."

"Or you might."

"I'll take that risk,"Clara replied softly, tracing the sharp contours of his bony fingers with her smooth ones. "If it means I can be with you."

He was too touched, and too glad of her company, to protest, so he simply patted her hand.

Their companionable silence lasted for about thirty seconds before the Doctor began to fidget. He discovered, to his annoyance, that his headache was returning. "So what do humans do when they're sick?" he asked, in an effort to distract himself from his illness.

"We take stupid personality quizzes, sleep, and watch bad TV. What do Time Lords do? Oh wait - they don't get sick."

There was a jest hidden in her words, and the Doctor picked up on it. "Yes, Clara, very funny."

"I know," she giggled.

He rolled his eyes. "I don't think you do. So is that really all that humans do when they're sick? No time traveling? No - no poncing about? No fun things?"

"Sorry, Doctor. You're strictly limited to a diet of boredom and bad TV."

Wrinkling his nose, the Doctor leaned against the headboard of the bed and frowned. "Somehow that doesn't sound appetizing."

Clara scanned his apparent misery for a second and decided to take pity on him. "What if I read to you?"

"I would like that," he said slowly. "Yes. That's infinitely better than the alternative."

She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged herself. "Okay. What do you want to read?"

There was a stack of books on the floor by the window; the Doctor quickly perused their titles, but none of them appealed to him. Then his gaze landed on a small book with a black leather cover that was resting on Clara's nightstand. It intrigued him instantly: there was no title; no mark that could possibly give a clue as to what sort of book it was. "That one looks good," he decided, pointing at the mystery book and coughing into his elbow.

He felt Clara stiffen beside him. "... That one? Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. What is it?"

"It's... my diary from when I was six," she mumbled, looking down at her clasped hands. "I said earlier that I'd been looking for something. This is it."

"Can I read it?"

"I - it might be embarrassing. Or inappropriate. I don't really remember."

"Well, why did you get it out if you didn't want me to see it?" The Doctor scoffed. "You know I can't resist little black books with no titles."

Clara snorted. "Doctor, I didn't know you were even coming when I got this book out! I don't live under the constant assumption that you're going to be coming to my flat! The universe doesn't revolve around you."

"I know that! Well - I do now," the Doctor added dubiously. "But I'd still like to read that book."

Clara fiddled with her thumbs. "I don't know. I... just wanted to see how I thought when I was six. I wasn't counting on you being here."

"Clara," the Doctor whispered hoarsely, gently sweeping a curl of her hair behind her ear, "is there really anything so terrible that you can't tell me? I want to get to know you better. You're... you're my best friend, and I know so little about your childhood. Please."

She was wavering; he saw it in her eyes. "I shouldn't," she responded hesitantly.

"You should."

"I really shouldn't."

"You really should."

And then Clara looked into the Doctor's eyes, her Doctor's eyes, and saw the sincerity in them, and her uncertainty vanished completely. "I will," she said simply, smiling enough to make her left cheek dent inwards, but not enough to make her whole face light up.

The Doctor handed her the book, and, despite his dislike of close contact, found himself scooting a little closer to his companion. Clara felt the shift in his body, slight as it was, and rested her head on his shoulder, allowing her dark waves of hair to tumble over his strong shoulders. Then she opened the book and began to read, her smooth, broad voice resonating in the Doctor's ears.

It became evident almost immediately that six-year-old Clara Oswald possessed as much grace, intelligence, and strength of mind as present-day Clara did. Once you could decipher the barely legible, six-year-old's messy scrawl, it was clear that she wrote clearly, logically, and with frank honesty. She could also spell unusually well for one so young. No wonder she grew up to become an English teacher!

One entire page was devoted to a list of swear words that Clara had known at that age. Clara blushed so hard at this point that the Doctor honestly thought her head was about to transmute into a tomato (he had seen something similar happen before on the planet Axiron, and it was not a pretty sight).

For the most part, though, Clara's writing was absolutely charming. After a time, Clara simply stopped reading aloud so that she and the Doctor could read silently at their own pace, occasionally pausing to laugh or comment. The Doctor was enjoying himself so much that his sickness barely bothered him.

Two hours later, they reached the last page in the book - a list of Clara's cheating methods for various games, numbered according to how well they worked. The Doctor let out a triumphant laugh. "Ha! You cheater. I knew it. Clara Oswald, I knew it. You're a cheater."

"Oh my stars," she giggled, staring at the book. "I can't believe I actually made this. I could have made money off some of these techniques. This is incredible."

"So you admit to being a cheater."

"Hey, this book is from when I was six. I haven't cheated recently."

"What about that game of chess we played on the TARDIS?" he challenged her. "You switched the pieces around when I you thought I wasn't looking."

"Sleight of hand."

"Cheating."

"Semantics," she countered, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "Okay, I'm going to get my phone so I can order takeout. Stay here." She planted a quick kiss on his forehead and left.

The Doctor smiled fondly at Clara's retreating figure and then glanced at the diary. He handled it almost reverently; it was a treasure to him, a tangible piece of Clara's childhood. Perhaps he would ask to keep it - a testament to the wit and creativity of the woman he loved.

Something caught the Doctor's eye as he began to close the book. Was that... another page? After checking that Clara wasn't coming back, he flipped to the newly discovered page and started to read. As his eyes scanned the weathered paper, his face grew grimmer and grimmer, sinking into a maze of lines and wrinkles.

I saw a man today. I was at the playground and Mummy wasn't there. I was on the swing when I noticed the man. He was watching me from behind a tree. I got up and went to see him and he tried to hide behind the tree, like he wasn't there. But I saw him anyway. He had really curly gray hair, and a big nose, and black clothes. He seemed kind of scary at first, but then I looked into his eyes and saw that he was kind. "Hello," I said.

"Hello," he said back. He never looked at my face. He just kept looking at the ground. His voice sounded all weird, all the r's came out curly.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I'm a doctor," he said. But the way he said it sounded like it should be an uppercase D. Doctor.

"What kind of Doctor?" I said. Daddy always tells Mummy not to trust doctors, so I thought I should find out if I could trust him or not.

The man finally looked up. His eyes were blue and wet. Like there were tears in them that didn't want to come out. "Just a doctor. And not a very good one."

I asked why he wasn't a good doctor, and why he was crying.

"I just lost someone," he said. "Someone very important and special. Someone I loved a lot. And I couldn't do anything about it. That's why I'm a bad doctor, and that's why I'm crying."

I asked who he lost but all he said was, "no one you know just yet."

Suddenly he seemed really familiar, like I had seen him before but couldn't quite remember who he was now. I just knew I couldn't let him cry. So I smiled at him and said, "I think whoever you lost has gone to a better place." (That's what they say in church.)

Then the tears came out of his eyes and ran down my cheeks. He took my hand and kissed my forehead and said,"Thank you, Clara Oswald." And then he turned and walked away.

It's evening now and all that happened a few hours ago. I'm never ever ever going to tell Mummy and Daddy about it. I don't know who that man was but I hope he feels better now. I wonder who he lost.

The Doctor's breath hitched. He shakily closed the diary and shoved it away from him, wanting nothing more to do with it. There was no question about it, it was him in that story, him from the future. A sudden weight seemed to press down upon him: the weight of the future; the weight of the sadness that would overtake him if anything happened to his beloved Clara. For it was Clara, he was sure, who was the person that he had just lost in the story. At some point in the future, he would lose Clara, and then go back in time for a final glimpse of his Impossible Girl before he came into her life and eventually destroyed it, like he had destroyed the lives of so many other people. The Doctor's hearts pounded erratically. Clara; his precious Clara; he was going to lose Clara in the future. No, not her, anyone but her, please... He swiped a tear from his eye, cursing the burden that all Time Lords were forced to bear of always inevitably finding out how their loved ones would leave them. Now, whenever he looked at Clara, he would remember this seemingly innocent diary entry, and his hearts would well with terror, both for his sanity and her safety.

Of course, Clara chose that very moment to walk into the room. "I found my phone!" she announced triumphantly. "It fell behind the sofa again... what's wrong?" Having caught sight of the look on the Doctor's face, she rushed over and felt his forehead with her hand. "Oh my stars, you're burning up. I'm such an idiot, I'm so sorry, I should have done something about this ages ago... be right back." She ran off to the bathroom.

The Doctor touched a hand to his forehead - he was, indeed, burning up. In his distress, he hadn't even noticed. A wave of sadness crashed over him as he listened to Clara cursing her own stupidity in the bathroom. Should he tell her what he had read, or keep it a secret?

Then the Doctor felt a surge of fierce protectiveness. If Clara was fated to be taken from him, then so be it. But he would fight for her with every fibre of his being. He would do everything in his power to ensure that they stayed together; to ensure her safety. He would do anything to keep her safe from harm. The Doctor would wrap his arms around her and hold her tightly, and he would never let go. If necessary, he would follow her into death itself. Besides, who knew when he would lose her, if he ever did? That moment could be a long ways away. He would travel with her now, and show her the stars, and when the time came for him to let her go, he would hold her tighter than ever. Because that is the meaning of love - love isn't an emotion, it's a promise: a promise to hold tighter when you're supposed to let go; a promise to fight back instead of giving in.

The Doctor resolved not to mention anything to Clara. There was no need for her to worry. So when she reentered the room, with several wet washcloths draped over her shoulder, he pasted a feeble grin onto his face. "Hello again."

Clara leaned over him and carefully pressed the washcloths to his forehead and cheeks, the ends of her hair tickling his eyes. "Do you feel better now?"

"Much. In fact, I'm kind of hungry. Not," he added hastily, in case Clara was getting any ideas, "for home cooking."

"I wasn't going to make anything, as you very well know," she replied indignantly. "I'm ordering Italian."

"But -"

"Yes, I know. I changed my mind."

"I thought you said Italian would upset my stomach."

"It will. But it won't upset mine."

"But..."

"Don't worry, I'm ordering you a salad," Clara assured him. "The place I'm calling has really good salads. They're so good they make you almost start to like salad. Almost."

"Salad?" he demanded, his Scottish burr very loud and very angry. "I don't do salad. Salad is a disgusting invention. One of humanity's most awful achievements. I would rather eat one of your soufflés."

"That can be arranged," Clara said darkly.

He gulped. "Salad is fine."

Seeing the disappointment in his eyes, Clara relented somewhat. "If you're good you can have some of my pasta."

"That sounds much better." He hesitated, and then continued, "Do you need any cash or... something?"

"Sweet of you, but no. I've got this." Clara held up the Doctor's universal credit card with a sly grin on her face.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Nicked it from that 'secret' compartment in the console room. Better hide your stuff a little more carefully, eh?"

"Have you used it before?" he demanded. He couldn't believe her audacity.

"Lots," she replied evilly, winking and scooping her phone out of her pocket. "Keep quiet now. I'm going to be on the phone. I don't want to have to listen to your voice in the background."

"What's wrong with my voice?" His voice came out as a harsh croak.

"Well, what with the congestion and the accent, I practically need subtitles to understand you."

"Are you kidding?" The Doctor snorted. "I've needed subtitles to understand you for years."

"Excuse me, my voice is gorgeous. Just as gorgeous as my face. Now hush up." Clara stuck her tongue out at him and turned away. "Hello? Hi, can I place an order?"

As a barely audible voice answered, the Doctor, bored, cast around for something to do, mainly to distract himself from his headache. He caught sight of Clare's alarm clock, a heavy piece of metal with a digital front. The idea of Clara owning such a device amused him, since she had a blatant disregard for waking up on time and if she was ever late to something, she just said, "Queens are never late. Everyone else is simply early." With these words of wisdom ringing in his mind, making him smirk, the Doctor picked up the clock and promptly dropped it. It struck the bedside table with an abnormally loud clatter.

The silence that followed, as Clara stared at him in disbelief, was so absolute that the Doctor distinctly heard the man on the phone asking, "Ma'am, are you alright?"

"Fine, thanks," Clara answered, coming back to her senses after shooting the Doctor a glare of death. "My friend over here is just being an idiot..."

The Doctor gulped loudly and quickly buried his face in the wet cloths so that he didn't have to face his companion, pretending to muffle a sneeze. When he chanced a peek at his companion, she looked like she was about to explode with rage. Her face was all red and tomato-y and she looked like she was refraining from screaming at the unfortunate man on the phone with very great difficulty. "I said salad number thirteen," she repeated in a scarily calm voice. "Not three. Not twenty three. Not even thirty-three. Thirteen."

The Doctor trusted her to order a salad that she knew he would like, so he kept his mouth shut. His heart went out to the poor pudding-brain over the line, though. Evidently he had misheard Clara not once, but three times. And the Doctor knew very well how potentially dangerous it could be to mishear her at all. For such a tiny woman, she was remarkably feisty.

"Yes, that'll be everything," Clara was saying, pacing the room as she normally did while talking on the phone. "Yes."

"Did you order a pizza?" the Doctor asked.

"I said not to talk to me!"

"Did you?"

"Yes!" she hissed.

"And what about the churros? You can't have Italian without churros."

"Churros are Mexican," she whispered dangerously. "I think you mean cannoli."

"Same difference. Those little wrapped up things. Did you get any?"

"No."

"What about -"

"Doctor, shut up!" Clara threw her hands in the air in annoyance and accidentally sent her phone flying. It hit the wall with a crack.

"Ma'am!" the person who had taken her order shouted. "Ma'am, are you sure everything's alright?"

Clara dived across the room, grabbed the phone, and quickly gabbled something into it. "Yes, everything's great, thanks, keep your hair on, be here as soon as you can and bye." She quickly ended the call and turned to face the Doctor. "What," she demanded, her arms crossed, "was that?"

Various excuses presented themselves to him, and the Doctor chose the one that he knew was certain to make Clara relent. That was one of the things he had learned about Clara Oswald: exactly how to manipulate her, exactly how to make her give in. He had her wrapped around his little finger.

But not quite as much as she had him wrapped around hers.

"I'm sick," the Doctor protested innocently, spreading his arms. "It's muddling my brain."

Sure enough, Clara's eyes softened instantly. "You idiot," she said affectionately, smoothing back his curly hair. "Okay, I'll let it go. But as soon as you're feeling better, I'm giving you some more lessons in earth etiquette. Lesson number one: don't talk to people when they're on the phone."

"I can hardly wait," the Doctor continued dryly, in a tone that implied the exact opposite.

"Lesson number two," Clara continued, winking as she peeled the wet cloths off his face and wiped away some droplets of moisture, "Always make your guests tea." With that she turned around and left the bedroom. The Doctor's eyes crinkled as he smiled fondly, his gaze riveted on the little spring in her step that she always executed unconsciously. It marked her as a bubbly, bright, cheerful person, which couldn't be more true.

She came back a few minutes later, bearing two mugs of steaming hot tea. "Drink up," she ordered, placing one of the mugs on the Doctor's lap and wrapping his fingers around it.

The Doctor eyes it wearily. "Is it going to poison me?"

Clara rolled her eyes. "No. Just because I can't make a decent soufflé doesn't mean I can't make tea. It has all sorts of good herbs and whatnot. It should make you feel better."

The Doctor suddenly broke out in a coughing fit. Looking concerned, Clara set down her mug and slipped her slim hands around his back, rubbing it sympathetically and holding him as he choked and hacked. Finally the tickle in his throat died and he looked up at his companion, sniffling pathetically. Clara tilted her head, regarding him with sadness and pity. Suddenly she leaned in and enfolded her arms around his neck, resting the side of her head against his lined cheek. "There," she murmured softly. "See? A good hug can make anything better." As the Doctor felt her single strong heartbeat pounding against his chest, he had to agree.

Clara pulled away and tapped his nose. "Now drink up. The tea will make your throat less sore. I think."

That wasn't particularly reassuring, but the Doctor followed her advice anyway, arching his eyebrows in doubt. He took a large gulp of the tea and instantly broke out into another coughing fit. His tongue felt like it was on fire. "Hot, hot, hot," he croaked. "Never again - you're trying to kill me-"

Clara seemed torn between amusement and exasperation. "Doctor, it's hot tea! You can't take such large sips; you'll burn yourself. I thought that would have been obvious."

His eyes were streaming, and he was panting too hard to answer, so Clara decided to take pity on him. She brought him a glass of cold water, which worked wonders. The Doctor's tongue was soon back to normal again. "Try again," Clara encouraged him. "And how about a small sip this time."

He warily obeyed her instructions. To his surprise, the tea was actually... good. It was the perfect blend of sweet and tangy. Just holding the mug seemed to make his sickness swirl away in a cloud of steam - he could practically feel his nose drying up and his headache receding. "You can make tea," he conceded with surprise. "Probably the only thing you can make. But still. It's good."

Clara slowly sipped her tea, her liquid eyes watching the Doctor over the rim of her cup. "For your information," she began, "I can also make -"

And then the doorbell rang.

"That would be the 'churros'," Clara commented wryly. "I'll be right back, hang on." She flicked on the bedside lamp, casting a warm circle of light into the Doctor's face. Her breath hitched a little as the light hit his skin: he suddenly looked handsome, strong, and powerful, with light crisscrossing the web of faint lines that covered his face, casting part of it into deep shadow. A fierce love welled in her heart.

The Doctor frowned at her; she looked about to say something. But then she shook herself and turned away. "Erm," she mumbled. "Okay. Right back." She slipped through the doorway and left the room, her footsteps seeming slightly unsteady.

The Doctor stared after her in bewilderment. Clara was very odd sometimes.

She returned a few minutes later balancing a pizza box and a container that was presumably full of salad. She tossed the Doctor his universal credit card with a proud smile on her face. "There you go. Thanks for not noticing when I stole it."

"How much did you tip?" the Doctor asked warily.

"You don't want to know," she replied mischievously. "Let's just say it made the delivery guy really happy." Clara dragged a chair over to the Doctor's bedside and arranged the food on it. "I'm trusting you not to spill," she told him firmly, "but if you do, I'll have to get you a bib. So don't spill."

The Doctor flipped open the plastic container. It was, indeed, full of salad. Clara's meal looked much more appetizing: margherita pizza decorated with a ring of fresh basil leaves. She caught him eyeing it sadly and laughed. "If you eat all your salad I'll give you some pizza."

"Why aren't you having salad?" the Doctor demanded crossly. "Didn't you hear that spinach makes you grow tall and strong? Lord knows you could do with some more height."

"My height is fine how it is, thanks very much! And besides, I'm not sick. You are, so I'm trying to make you eat healthy."

"Poppycock," the Doctor grunted, unenthusiastically swirling his fork around in his salad.

"Just try it," Clara pleaded. "It's not bad, really."

Of course, she was right. Again. This salad was done to perfection. Not that he would ever tell Clara that; she didn't need to get a big head. Well, she didn't need to get a bigger head than she had already. "It's not very good," the Doctor complained, lying through his teeth. "I can't -"

Suddenly, to his immense horror, the Doctor felt a trail of snot descending from his nose. He hastily reached for the tissue box and firmly stuffed two of the tissues up his nose.

Clara took one look at him and burst out laughing. "Oh my stars, you look like an elephant."

"I'm glad to see," the Doctor said in a dignified voice, made hilariously nasal by the presence of the tissues, "that my being sick is such an occasion for hilarity."

Clara's laughter subsided. "Sorry, I shouldn't be laughing. But -"

"Don't," the Doctor warned. "Not another word, Clara Oswald."

Biting her lip to repress more giggles, Clara glanced down at her pizza.

Their dinner passed in a companionable silence. The Doctor was relieved that he could still taste. Clara, impressed that he'd finished his salad without further complaint, allowed him two slices of pizza.

Finally they finished eating and Clara cleared all of the dishes. The Doctor passed a weary hand over his eyes, feeling tiredness overcome him.

Clara's sharp eyes caught the motion. "Bedtime," she ordered, clapping her hands. "You won't get better unless you rest."

The Doctor sighed. He'd known the moment was coming when he's have to say goodbye to Clara, but he had been delaying it as long as possible. "Can you help me get to the TARDIS, then?" he asked reluctantly, stretching out a hand.

Clara stared at him incredulously. It was the look she gave him when he was being oblivious, and the Doctor thought that perhaps he was missing the obvious. "Erm..." he cleared his throat uncertainly, "The TARDIS is still here, right? She hasn't... left, or anything?"

"No, she's still here." Clara sat down on the bed and took one of the Doctor's hands, squeezing it tightly. "But do you honestly think I would let you leave? You're staying right here in my bed until you're feeling better."

The Doctor suddenly felt ridiculously happy. He had just been given a few more days with his best friend! "Yes ma'am," he answered, barely suppressing a grin from breaking out across his lips.

Clara removed the tissues from his nose and tossed them into the bin. "Now stay here while I get ready for bed. Doctor's orders."

"Perhaps," the Doctor murmured, his voice low and murmured, "perhaps that's what I've needed all along. I've been poncing around the universe, taking care of everyone, with no one to take care of me when I needed it. No one to remind me why I kept taking care of the universe. No one to remind me why I took on the name 'Doctor'. Clara, I've needed a real doctor for so many years, countless years. I needed you. I still need you." He paused, savoring the words he was about to say, and then added, "I need a Doctor."

Clara smiled lovingly and brushed a wayward silver curl behind his ears. "You've got one," she murmured softly, her eyes moist. "Oh, Doctor, you've got one."

The Doctor rested his cheek against her hand, and his eyes drifted shut. He was so tired...

The Doctor's eyes popped open. The lights in Clara's bedroom were off; it was lit only by moonlight now. His nose still felt stuffy, and his throat hurt, but his headache was gone. He was lying down on Clara's bed, facing the ceiling. Clara was curled up next to him, watching him silently. Moonlight glinted in her eyes and on her face, tracing a shimmery pattern on the square tip of her nose. "You're awake," she breathed drowsily. "You dozed off fifteen minutes ago."

The Doctor said nothing. He had never been this close to his companion before - her hair was resting on his cheeks and her arm was thrown across his chest - and he was rather enjoying the sensation. He began to absently trace a pattern on Clara's bed sheets, drawing large sweeping circles and lines with his fingers.

"What's that?" Clara inquired sleepily when he had finished. Her eyes were now half shut.

The Doctor realized, with some surprise, that he had unconsciously written "I love you" in Gallifreyan. "Nothing," he answered, passing a hand over his drawing to erase it. "I'll tell you later." And he would. He would tell her. Someday he would work up the courage to take her in his arms and say those words.

But not yet.

He could destroy his own people, he could topple civilizations, he could condemn himself to death; but he couldn't figure out how to express his love.

Clara was too sleepy to argue. She buried her head in his waistcoat. "You should really get pajamas," she mumbled.

"I've got pajamas," he whispered back. "They're just -"

But she was already asleep. A peaceful smile flickered on her lips as she unconsciously curled her hands around the fabric of the Doctor's shirt. The Doctor stroked her hair and reached for her hand, running his fingers over her knuckles. "My Clara," he murmured in a choked voice.

Perhaps... just perhaps... if this was what getting sick was like, he would try to get sick more often.

Let me know what you think. I sincerely hope it was wonderful. See you next time. And for those of my American readers, have a great rest of your three day weekend!