Disclaimer: I own nothing...duh. A.N. Happy Birthdyay, Chrwythyn, love! So, I would have sworn up and down that I would never, ever in my life write RPF, and this is. Okay, my excuse is that it's not porn. You won't ever catch me writing RPF smut, there are enough fictional characters to slake my thirst, and one has to draw a line somewhere. For this...I blame a mix of reading Spark (by Improbable Press, so much awesomeness within) and seeing Tennant (as Fogg, but still) and old ideas surged out. And yes, this is Eleven anyway because he's still my favourite. Hope you'll laugh, at least!

Doctor's orders

The Doctor has a weakness for Earth. It might not be his planet (not even in the same sector of space, actually), but hey. They don't really deal well with loneliness. Who does, especially when there's enough trauma to fill multiple lives with? Even if sometimes they get the chance to correct anything that's not a fixed point..and sometimes, if they're they very, very lucky, they discover that even these can be bent a little.

Point is (it's easy to lose one's thread, with a brain so full) humans make for great companions. Close enough to their species that the Tardis doesn't need major changes to accommodate them, smart enough to have conversations with, adaptable and durable enough that they're likely to survive most events, even when Sexy tosses them all in the middle of yet another crisis. And of course, so many feelings – enough to pull the Doctor out of it, when they're stuck on a rut in their own brain. Really, that's the main function of a companion. The universe is full of wondrous life, but no other beings hit the spot so well.

Yes, humans will eventually spread through the whole wide universe (and a few parallel ones, too). Not quite as widespread as crabs, but close. Still,the Doctor needs to keep an eye out on the species' home planet. It wouldn't do, if history changed and some creature or another managed to enslave them, wipe them out, farm them or whatever the issue du jour is, before they can reach out to the stars.

Coming to fetch Clara and finding trouble already brewing? Not exactly surprising. She's a magnet for chaos, and he's still trying to figure her out. Mainly, for someone who's not a Time Lord, she sure seems to resurrect too many times. Ok, maybe resurrection is the wrong word, but – that's the thing. He doesn't understand, yet. People are fascinating, wonderful, complicated, even. Mysterious? Usually not.

Now, Clara is entitled to having moods. All humans are, even the ones that are usually energetic enough to match them, and – one could even say – fierce. But they knows blues, they know grief, they are intimate with the whole painful array feelings can morph into...and they know drained, when they see it.

She curls up on the sofa, exhausted, ashamed. Not herself. "This is...stupid, really, okay? I'll come along, just give me a minute," she huffs, at their gentle prodding.

Sure, maybe taking her away will be enough to fix her . They're not having her die on them again, if at all possible. Not until they understand. But in their experience, someone – or something, who knows – never just stops and leaves if their target is gone. And that's assuming it goes after one person at a time. First they neeed to figure out method, species, and then – hopefully – they will be able to make their point. Earth is protected, you've picked the wrong quarry. Twice over, by touching Clara specifically. Crossing annoyed Time Lords isn't healthy for you.

"Oh, sure, we'll go, I have so many places in mind..." they assure her. "Tell me what got you like this, though. I promise, I won't judge." They're sincere, and she must feel that.

"It's just...a show, okay?" She shows them the wallpaper of her phone. "And I know that in the grand scheme of things, well, it's nothing, but – they completely destroyed everything. The characters, their dynamic, the – happiness. Got me hooked, everything was perfect, and then. Fuck 'em, actually."

"Give me just a minute, huh? I'll be back."

It wouldn't even be the first time someone used the media to destroy people, even if in the past it was much more blatant. Besides...no, they' need to stop thinking about Rose right now. Problem. At. Hand. Tracking down the writers of that show is easy. Well, one first, because they're not busy in the writers' room yet. No next season to plan. Of course not, he's like a python right now, in the process of gorging themselves. Swollen. Letargic.

"Mr. Moffat?" The Doctor swans in, as usual. The creature blinks up at him from the sofa he's lying on, human skin stretched almost to the point of slipping off translucent, fishy scales. Its actual nature is peeking out, but still. If someone didn't know, they might assume some sort of jewelry. To someone who does know, it's so painfully obvious. "Or would you prefer o give me your actual, Dakryan name?"

"Someone's well travelled," so-called Moffat remarks. "Enough to know it's impolite to interrupt a meal."

"I'd apologise, but you see, I'm in a rush to bring you home."

"Why me?"

"Because your meal is my friend. And thousands, perhaps millions more, I realise. But still. In your planet, you evolved in armony with the rest of it. Feeding off the distress you cause is peculiar, but it actually keeps your usual prey balanced. People weren't made for it, and you're not going to inflict harm for a snack."

Moffat shrugs. "No, I'm asking – why me? Do you know how many of us work in the media? How long we've been here? That I was born here, and there's another generation ready to take up the mantle? You could send me to the homeworld, sure. But do you expect to find us all? Maybe you will, at least the adults, with a good stroll through the studios..and a few publishers...and, you get me... Guess how many "genius boys" will snatch their sires' jobs then? You don't expect just finding our address will be enough to find them all, will you? To use this world's understanding, we're r-selected."

The wave of guilt almost drowns them for a second. How have they missed this for so long? He should have paid more attention. Then again, unless they literally stumble on something (which, frankly, happens too often – thank Sexy for knowing what to do) it's not like they ever really stop...not even that one time with the Ponds you could get their attention span to settle...

"Point taken. Sending you away would not solve the issue. Still, something will have to be done." With a nod, they swan off.

This is turning to be a major operation. They could call in UNIT, of course. They still have Martha's number, and you can say what you want about her, but she's effective. How many people face against the Master and win?Still, they're reluctant to pull that card. UNIT is part of the armed forces, and if at all possible, they prefer to avoid murder. They're already to blame for enough deaths.

They could try to go back and track the first generation of Dakryans to settle down. Surely there can't have been too many. Dig the root out. But how many creations in the last decades are the result of these aliens looking for a meal? How far are the changes going to ripple? Too complicated to calculate. Still, leaving people to be drained is not an option. What to do, what to do... Could there be an antidote, of sorts? The Dakryans are a necessary part of their planet, but the environment there isn't the same as here. Maybe importing something more...no, that won't do, their usual prey wouldn't thrive on Earth, or – probably – survive. Too easily hunted by far more than the Dakryans, and not as good a mimic. They wouldn't last. There might be something there, though. The reason they can feed the Dakryans and bounce back...Things could be adjusted, maybe. They need to fetch Clara. She'll be their test subject.

"Where have you been?" is her welcome.

"Investigating. The way you feel? It's not stupid. Or natural." That got her attention, puncturing her lethargic melancholy.

"Isn't it now."She sits up straighter.

"I mean, I could introduce you to the cause of that, let you see for yourself. But I'd rather not have you in the same room until you get better."

"Which I do by?"

"Break the connection to what they used to harm you."

"Would that be, like, stop caring for – because I do know that it's silly, I told you already, but. It's surprisingly complicated to just...ignore."

"On purpose. And no, that's not what I was suggesting. It got its hooks in you, it won't be easy to just shrug."

"What then?"

"Send something else over the connection. If it's unpalatable, they'll be the ones closing contact. Running away. They poisoned you, in a sense, but you can do it right back." It won't kill the Dakryans, if they have the sense to stop engaging. Let go. Probably seek new prey, but if they can spread the solution, these aliens won't be able to do serious harm. Little snacks here and there, at most. These misery-hungry carps might even be left hungry enough to eventually decide to leave on their own.

"I'd like nothing better, but how?" She frowns.

"Keep hold of that story...and twist it until it gives you joy instead. Again. At the start, the connection is still small, and so the Dakryans don't mind it, if it allows them to take hold of you. Once they're in the middle of feeding? They're not going to appreciate that."

"Well, I'm not feeling very appreciative of them. Wait, twist the story? Do you mean, like – a fanfic?" Clara is back on her phone, and what she shows them this time is fascinating. "I was planning to anyway, but I didn't know it was literally Doctor's orders."

How have they missed this? Oh, right. As much as they love Earth, its entertainment of this era – and the way people engage with it – never seemed riveting enough to investigate.

"You know," she says "I heard somewhere that these started back with Sherlock Holmes. Well, people always played with others' stories, of course, but – I guess there was a lot to fix already." She laughs. "Kinda fitting, isn't it?"

"That's when it started, huh? ...Want to see it?"

"Yeah!"

The TARDIS brings them faithfully to late December 1893. The Doctor can't swear that Doyle is the very first Dakryan landing on Earth, but if the history of fanfiction says that...Surely, if people died in droves of storytelling-related melancholy before this time, someone would have mentioned it.
Clara gasps seeing ACD in his full scaly glory. People knew better than to let themselves in unannounced at the time, and so the - not man thought nothing of letting the camouflage drop while enjoying his meal.

Some shouting and a quick exit later, they're wandering London's newsstands, chatting up people – especially some wearing a mourning band, bless the Doctor's sharp eye to tell apart actual grief and emotional leeching. Dropping hints. Offering suggestions. And when more than one person says that they'd love to, but they don't feel confident in their own writing prowess..

"Well, I'm a teacher," Clara lies, with a smile so confident you'd never know she's lying. Or at least, she is as far as the Doctor knows. "So, if you want, I'd love to look over your story and make sure that, no matter how fantastical your ideas, they'll be expressed the best way. Say Sherlock survived the falls by shapeshifting into a fish...you want Watson to catch him back with a writhing worm, not a writing one."

A few startled laughs later, they've organized a system. Yes, the Doctor is going to take care of the time-jumping part of it, not that the enthused future writers will know. The Doctor didn't need more than a look from her to be convinced, and as fickle as the Tardis can be, they trust her to come through when it 's about saving people.

The Dakryans will stay. Not the first nor the last aliens to blend in. Binge-eating, though? Any doctor will tell you it's a bad habit anyway. This Doctor won't condone it, either.

A.N. (again) Thank you so much for being my Clara, Chrwythyn, love. I don't know what I would do without you. And if there are harakiri-worthy mistakes in this...well, I couldn't make my beta beta her own gift, could I? This is all mine, people. Be very, very grateful to her. I know I am!