Chapter Five: Types of Pain

As the Doctor slowly regained consciousness, his head was still swimming with vertigo. There was a lingering nausea threatening and he kept his eyes firmly shut, his face pressed sideways into the pillows, for a long while before the room felt like it wasn't moving.

As his senses righted, he became aware that someone was gently holding his hand. He decided to try opening his eyes. The light was dim, but seemed bright to him, clearing away the remaining grogginess.

"Doctor?"

"Wilf? That you?" The Doctor struggled to keep his eyes open.

"Yeah, it's me. How you feelin'?"

He considered. The last vestiges of the drugs felt like nothing compared to the pain now returning to his back. "I've been better. Have you … have you been there all the time?"

"Yeah."

Brilliant, loyal Wilf. The Doctor couldn't help a small smile. "You've been looking after me?"

"Of course; you didn't think I'd just leave you, did you?"

"Thank you," the Doctor said sincerely, "but you shouldn't have—your family must be going out their minds—"

Wilf shook his head. "Nah, I called Sylvia, and we cooked up a story to tell Donna. I can stay s'long as you need me for."

The Doctor shifted slightly, trying to ease his discomfort, but all he ended up doing was aggravating the remains of his injuries. Wilf's grip tightened on his hand as he let out an involuntary moan.

"Doctor? Does it still hurt?"

He wasn't going to get away with lying this time, so he gave a tiny nod. "Coma won't have healed everything," he said shortly.

"Let me see," Wilf said gently.

The Doctor didn't have much of a choice but to lie still while Wilf changed his bandages. It was a credit to the old human that he kept silent while he did it; the Doctor suspected that it took him an effort, he knew the gashes must still be bad. He was certain the healing coma wouldn't have affected them, only his internal injuries—the system had its limits, or at least, his did.

"How many?"

Wilf's hands paused. "What?"

"How many times did I get—I, I lost count, in there."

"Six," Wilf said.

That had been close then; one more, he'd certainly have been a goner. He didn't share these thoughts with Wilfred; the man must be traumatised enough. "Wilf?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not entirely certain I understand how I got out of there, but I know it was you. Thank you."

"Hey, don't thank me," Wilf said, now applying a soothing cloth to one of the gashes. "I only undid the chains, the rest was—" He broke off. "Er, Doctor … how much do you remember?"

It was a fair question. The Doctor had a clear memory of being forced onto the slab, and he knew he was in the TARDIS now; the bits in between were rather fuzzy. He strained his memory and nearly sat bolt upright as he remembered.

"Ouch!"

"Doctor! What'd you try 'n sit up for?"

"I remember—" The Doctor swallowed. "She … she was …" He took several deep breaths, trying to steady himself. "Wilf, the woman with you, she—"

"I know," Wilf said gently. "Who she was. Pennine." He took hold of the Doctor's hand again and squeezed it. "Your mother, right?"

"She said … she said she'd come back," the Doctor said shakily. "Did—"

"Not yet. My guess is she's waiting till you woke. Come on, try and rest, I can't do this when you're all tense."

The Doctor tried to obey, but it was difficult; the prospect of seeing his mother, while he was lucid, was making his head spin again. He wanted to see her so badly, but at the same time he was dreading it.

He loved his mother. He'd lost her twice, both times to his own hand. Now, he might be able to say a proper goodbye—but after all these years, he'd still have to watch her disappear into the Time Lock again, to die. If there was any chance of saving her, he knew, she would be here by his side now. There was only one option ahead, and he hated it.

He didn't even know what he would say. He knew she had supported him from the beginning, but that didn't make it any easier. They both knew her fate. How was he supposed to make up for that?

A couple of tears slipped from his eye, and the Doctor swallowed, a painful lump in his throat. If Wilf saw the tears, he chose to pretend he hadn't. Both men remained silent while Wilf finished tending to the Doctor's gashes.

"There. That should be okay," Wilf said, sounding slightly anxious. "I don' have medical training, so it's the best I can do."

The Doctor reached behind him and gingerly ran his fingers over the bandages. "That feels fine. Thanks, Wilf."

"You're welcome."

"You should go now."

"Don't be stupid, I'm not leaving you on your own like this. Who's gonna change your bandages for you, eh?"

The Doctor hesitated, unable to answer the question. Wilf had a point. The Doctor couldn't actually see the wounds on his back, or do anything to them. He needed another person until they'd fully healed.

"All right, you can stay a while. I've got clothes in the wardrobe—"

"I know; where's you think I got this clobber from?"

The Doctor gave a soft chuckle as he registered the loud Hawaiian shirt.

"I also found the kitchen," Wilf continued. "You must be hungry?"

He was, but the Doctor didn't think he could stomach anything yet. "Maybe in a while," he said. He was tired of lying on his front, and tried to turn over, letting out a gasp of pain. Wilfred was back at his side in an instant.

"Doctor? If there's something you want to get, I can fetch it—"

"No, just—trying—" The Doctor sighed; he hated feeling this helpless. "Could you help me, please—turn over—"

With help, the Doctor managed to lever himself onto his back instead, with minimal aggravation of his injuries. It wasn't the best position to be in, his back pressed against the mattress, but he no longer had to choose between a crick in his neck or suffocating in his pillow.

"Is that all right?" Wilf adjusted the pillows, allowing the Doctor to prop himself up a bit rather than being horizontal.

"Yeah—much better. Thanks."

"Can I get you anything? A cuppa maybe?"

The Doctor chuckled. "Tea sounds good. If you're offering."

Wilf got to his feet. "Milk and five sugars, isn't it?"

"Yeah—how do you know?"

A slightly pained look crossed Wilf's face as he said, "Donna."

"Oh."

"Which tea is it? She said you have a million different kinds."

"Fifty-seven different kinds actually; middle cupboard on the right-hand side as you walk in. And it's the big red tin with a Union Jack on the top." He paused. "No, sorry; Union Flag. I think. Well, it is in a ship …"

"Eh?"

"Never mind."

Wilf found his way to the kitchen again, and located the right tin of teabags. While the kettle boiled, he had a closer look around. For the most part it seemed to be a normal, if pretty big, kitchen—but there was a banana tree growing in one corner, a shelf filled entirely with jars of marmalade, and the freezer was as big as Wilf's own bedroom. The kitchen also had every modern appliance Wilf thought a kitchen could have, and quite a few gadgets that defied identification.

Although the Doctor hadn't wanted any food, Wilf found where he kept the biscuits and arranged some on a plate in the hope he could get him to eat something. He'd been unconscious for hours, if not days—Wilf had completely lost track of time, but knew that it had been a long while.

He returned to the Doctor, who was staring at his hands.

"Tea up. Something wrong, Doctor?"

"Nothing." The Doctor clenched his hands, before gratefully taking his mug. "Thanks, Wilf."

"You're welcome." Wilf kept an eye on his friend as he drank. The Doctor's hands were trembling slightly. The trauma, maybe? Or nerves, at the thought of his mother returning. Probably both.

Wilf wished there was something he could say, to make it all better. But if there was a right thing to say, he didn't know what it was. So he settled for the only thing he could think of.

"Biscuit?" He offered the plate to the Doctor, who gave a weak smile and took one with chocolate chips in. He opened his mouth to thank him, but the words never came out.

"Sweetheart?"

TBC …