Emerald Green

Chapter Thirteen

Sick Day

Molly turned back to the Doctor, who was already getting them out of the university. She held the console again until the shaking was over. He placed his hands on the edge of the console, spread, and leaned forward, and hung his head.

Molly took a few hesitant steps towards him. "Doctor…"

He didn't move as he said, "Molly. I know. Just…not now, okay? Not now."

She nodded her head, but still walked up to him and placed a hand on his arm. "Okay. I need to go change into some pajamas and crawl into bed anyway."

He turned toward her now with a weak imitation of his smile. "Do you need anything? Soup? Maybe some soup?"

Molly shook her head. "I'll be fine; I just want some sleep. I'll get a glass of water by my bed."

The Doctor nodded, then wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Sleep well," he said, and gave her a quick kiss on the head and gently pushed her towards the door. She smiled back at him, and began up the stairs, feeling warm for a reason other than the fever. She'd made "random kiss on the head" status.

Opening the door to her room, Molly sighed. Now absent being able to worry about what the Doctor was feeling, she now had to face what she was feeling herself. It wasn't the first time she'd seen someone near death, she told herself, and this time the death was from a distance. But still, Dalek Sec's face was burned into her eyes, and the explosion echoed in her head, though all they'd really heard was a rumble. He'd died helping them. He'd been there one moment, thinking, feeling, speaking – and then he wasn't.

And River was gone now, she was sure. Meeting her twice after he hadn't been meant to see her again was a miracle, there was no way it would happen again. As her heart ached for the Doctor, she acknowledged that it hurt her, too. She'd liked River, and would have liked to see her again.

She collapsed on the bed, exhausted, dizzy, sick. She didn't bother to take her shoes off. Instead, she buried her face in her pillow, and cried. Later, she couldn't remember if she'd stopped crying before she'd fallen asleep.

It still felt strange, waking in a room without sunlight streaming in. She felt disoriented. How long had she been asleep? Molly wanted a clock, but knew it would be useless. Maybe she could set a timer or something.

She turned her face back into the pillow, wanting more sleep, but knowing she should get up for a little while first. Her throat was sore, and she wanted some tea with honey, and she was sure the Doctor would have a place to make tea stashed somewhere on the TARDIS.

Finally, she turned her head and blinked her eyes open. Then she blinked again. On the bedside table beside her sat a lit candle and a silver tray, with exactly what she needed: a white porcelain pot of tea, still steaming, with a white mug upside down beside it. Next to it was a small white plate, with a circular pyramid of jammy dodgers. She also saw a bag of honey lemon cough drops, a box of tissues, and, thank heaven, a box of Dayquil. What surprised her most was the ceramic vase filled with yellow begonias. The show must have mentioned her favorite flower at some point, and he'd gone and found some. Just looking at them cheered her, as they always did, but with the extra warmth of knowing that the Doctor had gone out of his way to find them.

She sat up to find that the Doctor had also taken off her shoes for her, and had gone through the trouble of finding another blanket to put over her after she'd fallen asleep on top of hers. She hated it, but she found her vision blurring with tears. No one had taken care of her when she was sick like this since…

Molly reached to the tray and poured herself a mug of tea, and blew on it before taking a sip. Chamomile with honey. It was exactly what she needed right now. She took a tissue and dabbed at her eyes, refusing to cry, though she knew she'd always been a bit of a crybaby.

As she sipped at her tea again, the door opened, and the Doctor came in holding a sleeve of Saltines. "Oh!" he exclaimed, surprised. He turned on the light, and Molly blinked a few times to adjust. "You're awake. Sorry, I forgot the crackers." He held them up and waved with them.

Molly grinned. "Thanks. You didn't need to do all this."

"No, but I wanted to." He walked around the bed and set the crackers on the edge of the tray, the only place there was space left. He placed a hand on her forehead to check her temperature. "You're sick, being sick is miserable. The only good thing about it is being able to eat in bed, order someone about to take care of you, and watching lots of telly." He snapped his fingers. "Oh! Do you want to watch something? I can get a television in here."

"Okay." Molly remembered days of lying on the plastic-covered couch, watching the Price is Right with a wet washcloth on her forehead. "That would be great."

"I'll be right back," the Doctor said as he headed for the door. He turned and pointed at her. "Don't go anywhere."

Molly frowned. "Where would I go?!" she shouted at him as he took off down the corridor. Molly couldn't help smiling, and took another sip of the tea. She reached over and opened the Dayquil, and took a few with another gulp. By the time she was setting the mug down, the Doctor came back in the room, a large flatscreen in his arms, with a base. He set it on top of the dresser across from her, and moved one of the hampers to plug it in, then brought her the remote.

"There we are! Proper sick day now," he said with a smile. "Want some company?"

"Am I going to get you sick?"

"Nah. Never been sick a day in my life." His face fell a moment. "No, wait, I'm lying. But it's been at least a couple hundred years, I think I'll be okay."

Molly scooted herself over to the left side of the bed beside the tray, and patted the space next to her. After setting the pillows against the wall, the Doctor slipped off his coat and set it on the bedside table on his side, then took a seat next to her, legs outstretched and crossed in front of him.

She aimed the remote at the TV and turned it on. "Do you have Netflix?"

"I have everything."

"Of course you do," she laughed. "Anything you're in the mood for?" She paused. "Not the…the show. I'll absolutely ruin that for you."

"Impossible."

"I'll point out every single thing that's wrong, and all the misinterpretation, and complain about everything they got right, and say 'I can't believe thousands of people watched my life' about every three seconds."

"Millions, actually," he said. Molly decided not to dwell on that. "But excellent point. Never would have suggested it, anyway. Besides, you're the one that's sick. What do you want to watch?"

She thought about it a moment. Her go-to was obviously out of the question. "…do they have Sherlock in this universe?"

"Yes!" exclaimed the Doctor. He took the remote from her hands and navigated the menu to something that seemed like a futuristic Netflix. "Love a good Sherlock story."

"You know, Moffat wrote your seasons of the show."

"Did he?" replied the Doctor, a note of pride in his voice. "Did he show that time I dressed up as Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah," Molly laughed. "Complete with the hat. I think Matt Smith loved the hats even more than you do."

"Not possible," replied the Doctor. He pressed another button and the show began.

Molly spread the blanket over herself better, and handed the Doctor the edge to tuck around himself, then settled in to watch the show. It'd been a long time since she'd last watched it, and as she watched the scenes flicker in front of her, she started to wonder if it was a mistake to watch such a cerebral mystery with the Doctor.

It was, of course. It seemed every few lines he pointed out better ways every character could have done or said something, obviously showing off. But after the fourth 'shhh!', he finally quieted down some. They watched the first episode together with both only making a few more comments, the Doctor objecting to some of the ways the deduction was done (though with the occasional compliment), and Molly making her usual snarky comments, though no one else had ever heard them before. They went into the second episode right after the Doctor went to get his own mug for tea. Their comments had settled throughout episode three, as they both became more and more engrossed, though they were both familiar with the story.

Episode four began, and Molly thought about the little crush she'd had on Irene Adler, and the possibility that she, too, existed in some other universe. How strange it was, that of all possible universes, the infinite number of universes, she'd ended up here, after a wish on a crack in a ceiling that looked like the TARDIS, almost. Here, in bed with a mug of tea and her comfort character, watching a TV show. She hadn't even watched Sherlock with anyone before, and here she and the Doctor were watching it, together.

"You know," she began, "I haven't sat and watched this with someone before. It's fun, having someone actually hear my brilliant commentary for once."

"You haven't watched Sherlock with anyone before?"

"I've never watched anything with anybody before, not since before I left home at thirteen. I mean…Isla and I sometimes watched those videos on cryptids and urban legends and such, but usually more half-watching while working, and she wasn't really into regular TV shows, so...yeah. Not since I was twelve." She quickly thought of another remark, hoping to cut him off wondering about what had happened when she was thirteen. "I never really had a real friend before, just friendly acquaintances at school, other dancers I was friends with only while dancing, a friendly roommate. I don't even really know how friends act."

She'd gotten more personal than she'd meant to, and nerves built in her veins when the Doctor didn't respond right away. But then he said, "Like this," and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She looked up at him and saw him smiling affectionately, and smiled back before leaning her head against his shoulder. They watched like that for a time, when Molly had an idea. She reached down and took his hand, and pressed it against her forehead. The coolness of his skin was instant relief against her own feverish skin.

"Feels good," she muttered, when out of the corner of her eye she saw him look at her curiously. He turned back to the screen, and she held his hand there a few moments longer before letting his hand go and leaning into his side closer. The show continued on.

As they remained settled in that position, Molly's mind wandered back to River's words, her mistaken reading of her relationship with the Doctor, and the potential of it. She understood River's fear of the Doctor loving someone else, of seeing the threat of it everywhere. And if she were River, knowing that Molly had a crush on the Doctor as a fictional character, maybe she would feel the same way.

But none of River's fears were going to happen, and there were so many reasons why. For one, she certainly wouldn't be there long enough. She had no way to understand how long it took to find a pathway to a specific universe, but surely it wouldn't take months or years, or however long it took the Doctor to fall in love.

For another, more importantly, they weren't their fictional selves. Molly hadn't seen her show, and the Doctor hadn't seen his, but they already knew there were differences. And these moments, these little moments, like sitting and watching a TV show – they would never have appeared on screen. Shows skipped the little domestic moments; they had to. But the little domestic moments were what made a person who they were. A person wasn't what they did at work, or in dangerous situations, or witnessing a tragedy. That was only part of them. The bigger part was who they were while they sat in a room with their friends, while they did the laundry, when they drove in a car or read a book or went to lunch or threw a party. The Doctor didn't know her in those moments, and she didn't know him.

And, most important of all, the idea that romantic feelings would develop between them was minimizing the importance of their friendship. It was new, just born, just starting to grow, but Molly already valued it above any other relationship she'd had, romantic or otherwise. Despite all the danger – how many times had her life been at risk in the last few days? Three? Four? – and their few arguments, she felt safe with him, with his arm around her shoulders. She felt seen and understood, as much as she hated that he could see those parts of her that weren't always, completely confident in herself. She felt valued. She felt respected. And they hadn't needed romance to make any of that true. A platonic relationship was just as important as a romantic one, perhaps even more so. A friendship could be just as beautiful. And she treasured theirs. There didn't need to be anything romantic between them to be important to each other; their friendship was what mattered most.

Plus, he was the Doctor. The thought of someone like him - how ancient he was, how incredibly clever he was, how powerful, how much he'd seen and done, all the secret things he knew, all the wonder that was him – falling in love with her, was ridiculous. He loved romantically so very rarely, at least according to the show. It was absurd to think she'd make that exclusive list.

Besides, she'd made a promise. If anything did happen – and it wouldn't – it would just lead to pain. She'd have to go home to her universe. He'd have to stay here. And everything to do with the Doctor became complicated; all she had to do was look at the Doctor and River to see just how complicated it became. No, they would both be happier with this simple, lovely friendship.

Molly felt her eyelids getting heavy before she even realized she was sleepy. She decided to rest her eyes for a moment, and slowly the sounds of the show began to blur together, then fade away.

A knock at the door woke her, who knew how much later? She yawned and stretched as she opened her eyes. "Yeah?"

The door opened and the Doctor walked in with a new tray, two bowls and two mugs, the Dayquil beside them, with her flowers sitting in the center. He set it beside her. "I have soup," he announced, as though she didn't see the bowl of chicken noodle soup beside her. "Just what you need, a good bowl of soup."

"Thanks," Molly said with a smile, adjusting the pillow up against the headboard to she could sit up comfortably. "Sorry I fell asleep on you."

"That's alright," he replied, picking up the flowers to put them on the table. "You aren't feeling well; you should be sleeping." He set the tray on her lap, then picked up his own bowl and mug and moved to the other side of the bed.

She stared at his bowl. "You're going to need to eat that somewhere else. I'd gag looking at it even if I wasn't sick."

The Doctor gave her an offended glare. "What's wrong with fish fingers and custard?"

"It's fish fingers and custard," Molly replied, scrunching up her nose.

"Don't scrunch up your nose like that! It'll get stuck," he objected, and poked the tip of her nose. "Have you even tried it?"

"Don't have to. Again, it's fish and custard."

The Doctor picked up one of the fish fingers from an end, swirled it around the custard, then held it up to her. "Try it before you turn your nose up to it, at least." In response, Molly stuck a finger in her mouth and faked a gag. "Oh, come on," he insisted.

Molly sighed. "Fine. I'll give it a shot." Her whole mind, not to mention her queasy stomach, begged her not to, but she still leaned over and took a bite. The greasy taste of the fried breading mixed with the sweet, creaminess of the custard in a way that wasn't pleasant but wasn't terrible, but then the fish came in. She hadn't even attempted to chew it, but the cheap fishy smell filled her nostrils as the flavor assaulted her mouth, clashing with the dessert in a way that her brain told her was pulverized fish pudding.

Her eyes started to water as she held the fish finger covered in custard in her mouth. The Doctor watched her for a moment, then said, "Okay, now chew." Molly shook her head. "You need to chew it in order to swallow it." Again, Molly shook her head. She felt lines form around her eyes and forehead as she winced at holding it in her mouth. The Doctor sighed, then held out the bowl. "Alright, fine."

Molly opened her mouth and let the bite of fish stick fall out. The Doctor made a disgusted sound as he set the bowl back on the table beside him, and Molly reached for her tea. "Careful, it's hot," the Doctor warned her.

"Good," Molly replied. "Maybe it'll burn these taste buds off, I don't want them anymore." She took a few quick gulps, and immediately regretted it. "Ow, ow, ow!" she exclaimed, and even that movement hurt her burned tongue. She set the mug down and then stuck her tongue out and tried to fan it with her hands. Realizing it wasn't going to help, she pulled her tongue back in her mouth, and sucked in cool air a few times.

Molly looked back at the Doctor. He was looking at her with a blank expression, but she saw the laughter in his eyes. Her eyes began to show the same sentiment, and together they slowly grinned until they broke out in laughter. Every time they started to settle, Molly thought of the ridiculous moment again, and it set her off, and the Doctor followed.

Eventually, Molly wiped tears off her face. "Okay, next time, you listen to me about fish fingers and custard, and I'll listen to you about the tea."

"Deal," the Doctor agreed. He settled in with a mug of tea beside her, while she began tentative sips at the broth in the soup, trying to avoid the burned parts of her tongue.

After a moment, he glanced over at her. "Tell me more about my show."

Molly looked back at him curiously. "What do you want to know?"

"You're sure they never say my name? Not once?"

Molly observed the tenseness in his shoulders. Despite the attempt at a casual tone in his voice, he was serious. He was afraid. "Never. Not once."

"They never hint at it?"

"No."

"No one ever mouths it?"

"River does in the library," Molly explained, "But it doesn't show her. Even if it did, the actress was just whispering things in David Tennant's ear to try to get him to break character." She paused, to make sure her next words were clear. "I swear; all they ever do is tease your name. There isn't so much as a hint as to what it could be."

The Doctor took a sip of his tea, too. He looked thoughtful as he looked down into his mug. "…you've never asked me what it is. You must wonder."

"Of course I do. But even if I didn't know better, which I do, I wouldn't ask."

"Why not?"

"You never gave it to me. Clearly, you want it kept a secret," she said. "I have secrets, too. Some of which have been keeping my real name a secret. And while it was never as dangerous to share myreal name as sharing yours would be – not to mention how much more private Time Lords keep their names – I know what it feels like to have to protect it."

The Doctor nodded, and slowly his thoughtful expression turned into an appreciative smile. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she chirped, and took another sip of the soup. However much it made her tongue burn, it felt good on her throat.

The Doctor set his mug aside, then pulled his feet in to sit up, and turned his body towards her. Something was coming, so she set the spoon down. "I'm not asking you to tell me, but…" he hesitated. "You know, you must know, the things I've done, the things I thought I did, that I was willing to do. The bad things. The ruthless things. The…the genocide." He paused, and Molly waited patiently to see where this was going. "What is it you could be keeping from me that makes you think I'd have any right to judge you? What could be so terrible that you can't tell me?"

Molly felt the air leave her lungs, and turned away from him as she fought to fill them with oxygen again. Of all the things he could have said, she never expected this. The tears came before she could stop them, but she tilted her head back until they settled and wouldn't spill. This, now – just when she'd said she respected his privacy for its own sake?

It was worse than that. He'd seen straight into her. Of course he had. The Doctor knew the reason she kept her secrets so locked up inside her was because the thing she was most afraid of was to see his disappointment in her. To see any trace of disgust, any trace of being rejected, any trace of shame. She never wanted to talk about it with anyone – but least of all, least of all…him.

She cleared her throat and turned back towards him. "You kind of are asking me."

"I am kind of asking you, yes," he admitted, but his eyes were earnest. "But I'm not trying to make you tell me your secret. I just want to understand why you won't. You know why I can't."

Molly released the air in her lungs, this time willingly. What could she possibly say that wouldn't make him look at her differently, anyway? But how to deny him the same knowledge she had of him? It wasn't any fair, none of it was fair. She found herself wishing neither of them had been a television show.

She couldn't look him in the eyes. Instead, she focused on shifting the tray on her lap to the table beside her. "You know why. You just said why."

Molly felt the touch of his hand on her arm, and forced herself to turn back to him. He didn't seem to have the same trouble looking in her eyes. "It can't possibly be so terrible-"

"It can," she said, but with those words knew she risked what she was afraid of. Just knowing that much, that her secret could change the way he thought about her, might fester in his mind and turn him away from her.

But he still looked at her in earnest. "I know that whatever it is, if it's really so terrible as you think it is, it isn't who you are now."

"No," she said, giving a gentle shake of her head. "You don't." She placed her hand over the one he rested on her arm, and settled it back into his lap. "This is the problem with watching each other on television. We both know each other too well, and not well enough."

They sat in silence a moment, finding themselves at yet another impasse. Finally, the Doctor said, "You don't have to tell me anything. I don't have any right to any of your secrets. I already know so many of them, just like you know mine."

Molly held her breath. She knew why he couldn't tell her his, at least about his name. She knew his secrets were mostly dangerous. Hers was from fear of judgement. He at least deserved to know why she couldn't tell him anything, any of it. But how could she possibly explain that without telling him too much? He was unimaginably clever. Too much information, and he'd figure it out.

She released the breath. He deserved to know something, regardless of the risk. "There are two parts to what happened when I was thirteen," she began slowly. It was almost physically painful, but she forced herself to meet his eyes. He waited patiently for her to build up the nerve to continue to speak. "One is what was done to me, more or less. The other is what I did. I can't tell you one without telling you the other, and the names are tied up in both." She paused to swallow, her throat dry with anxiety. And it occurred to her now that she'd been so busy with the Doctor that for the first time since she'd started doing it, she'd forgotten to recite the names first thing when she went to bed, first thing when she woke up. Guilt echoed in her chest. "If I could tell you about the names, about what happened to me, without telling you what I did, I would. But it's not possible. And I don't have the courage to tell you what I did just now." She closed her eyes and took a breath. "I don't know that I ever will."

It was the Doctor's turn to sigh and look away. "People's fear of disappointing me seems to be more than universal," he said, though it seemed mostly to himself. She could read the frustration on his face before he raised a hand to rub at his eyes. "People take risks to impress me, they keep secrets because they don't want to disappoint me." This was another comment that had stuck in his heart, like Amy's: Rory telling him he was a danger to people, because they wanted to impress him. "I am much more concerned with disappointing them." With another sigh, he lowered his hand and looked at her. "You can't disappoint me. I swear. Even if you believe differently. But I won't ask again. When you see you can trust me, you'll tell me."

Molly pressed her lips together for a moment. "It's not about not trusting you. Of course I trust you," she said, and felt a flutter in her heart when he smiled. "It's about me. But thank you." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

He winced and ran a hand over his cheek as though to wipe it off, then wiped it off on the sleeve of the jacket she was still wearing. "Germs."

Molly looked down at the jacket. "Oh. Gross. I really should change my clothes." She touched her forehead, which was still warm, and a bit sticky from the sweat. "And take a bath."

The Doctor patted her on the head and stood. "I'll get it started while you grab something to change into."

Molly raised an eyebrow as he headed to the door that connected to the bathroom. "You're going to, what…draw me a bath?"

"Why not?"

"How very Victorian of you."

He stuck his tongue out at her. "It just so happens I know exactly the perfect water temperature for someone with a fever."

She rolled her eyes as she threw the blanket back off of her. "Sure you do."

He pointed at her. "You're going to apologize for that later," he said, and disappeared into the bathroom. She chuckled and shook her head, and carefully stood. She felt a bit shaky, and her muscles ached. She wasn't sure if it was from staying in bed for an undetermined amount of time, or from being sick, or from the running, or from a bit of all of the above. Changing her elevation made her nose run, so she blew her nose quickly, and then pulled a long purple nightshirt and short black pajama shorts out of the drawers.

The Doctor came back out to the bedroom. "All set," he announced.

"Great. I'll go be the judge of your mystical water temp setting skills."

"You'll see," he replied. He walked by and out of the room as she headed into the bathroom.

She set the clothes on the sink counter, closed the door, and started peeling off the grimy layers of clothing. She set each on top of the closed dirty clothes hamper: the jacket, the tank top, the shorts, the underclothes, the socks, each in a layer on top of the lid. She considered opening the hamper to put them inside, but then dismissed the thought as too tiring.

Molly approached the bathtub, filled with steaming hot water. She winced. She should have known the Doctor would set the temperature too warm for a human with a fever; after all, his natural temperature was so much colder than hers, how could he measure something like that? She knelt beside the tub and slipped a hand in then and quickly pulled it out. What was it – feed a cold, starve a fever? Or starve a cold, feed a fever? Were you supposed to try to heat up to break a fever, or try to keep it cooler? Was that what the phrase meant, or did it mean food?

Molly stood. Maybe the Doctor did know what he was talking about, and the bath would break her fever, even if it was unpleasant. Either way, she had to get the layers of sweat and grime off of her. Just thinking about the ship with the Vashta Nerada made her skin crawl as though they were all over her.

She took a breath and tentatively put a foot in the tub. It was hot, yes, but only just made her skin tingle with how warm her body was. She stepped in fully, then got into position to lie back – and immediately sighed as the tension began to leave her body. It really was perfect; warm enough to feel her fever rising and maybe break, but also like a warm hug. He'd used two of the oils she'd bought at the World Market – her signature honeysuckle, and something else that helped her breathe better. Eucalyptus, that was it. She sank in deeper and closed her eyes.

Molly wondered, for a moment, how he'd learned this trick. Of course, he was old enough to have figured out the best temperature for a bath, but something about how it was hot enough to maybe break a fever stood out to her. She remembered, then, that once upon a time the Doctor had been a father, and a husband to a woman on Gallifrey that he actually got to live with, unlike with River Song. They'd probably had fevers before. He really must have been a great dad. It was one of the saddest thoughts she'd ever had. His family was gone now. No wonder he was running. Her family was gone, in some way or another, and she was running, too.

She needed something else to think about, something to distract her.

It occurred to her, now, that that was what the Doctor was doing. That must be why he was so focused on taking care of her; the more focused her was on her, the less he had to think about Dalek Sec, about River, even the Vashta Nerada. She was a distraction tactic. As much as she knew it was healthier to process the bad things, she couldn't blame him. She did the exact same thing. And while he offered it, being taken care of while she was sick was such a nice feeling, she would take advantage.

It must have been an hour she soaked in the tub before she finally got tired enough to want another nap. She was sweating, too, which she thought maybe was supposed to be a good thing with a fever. She got out of the tub, toweled off, and changed. She ought to brush her hair, but that was such a difficult task even when she was healthy, so instead she just went back into the bedroom.

He was still in there, seated on the bed, watching something she didn't recognize on the television. He was doing something with the sonic screwdriver, pressing the button and then adjusting something in the metal she didn't see. "I really should figure out a setting for wood someday," he said, then looked at her expectedly. "Well?"

Molly rolled her tongue against the inside of her cheek and frowned for a moment before she said, "Yeah, okay. Maybe you're good at drawing baths. Whatever, Jeeves."

The Doctor pointed at her, giving her the kind of grin that wrinkled the corners of his eyes. She'd always liked that smile. "Ha! See?"

Molly walked up to the bed and collapsed on it. Then frowned. "This feels different."

"Yes, I changed the bedding while you were in the bath," the Doctor replied.

She tilted her head to the side to look at him for a moment. He really was desperate to not sit quietly and think. So long as he needed the distraction, she'd do her best to help. "Want to watch a movie?"

"Yeah," he said. "What do you want? I hope something funny."

"You pick," Molly replied, adjusting in the bed and pulling to covers up. "I'm probably going to fall asleep on you again."

"Alright," the Doctor said, and reached over to tuck the blanket around her before reaching for the remote. "Time for a comedy."

It was the first time anyone had tucked her into bed since she was maybe five years old. Molly felt another rush of happy warmth, and leaned her head against his shoulder.

Then the Doctor sneezed. Molly sat up again to look at him with an accusing look.

He looked back sheepishly. "I'm fine. Probably fine."

Molly reached over to the table and grabbed a tissue, and offered it to him. He took it just as he sneezed again.

"Want some Dayquil?" she asked.

"…Yes, please."