The road less travelled...

Title: Nightmares 5/8
Author: katherine_b
Rating: PG
Characters: Donna and the Doctor (Ten)
Spoilers: All of Season 4 up to the end of Forest of the Dead
Summary: Donna has nightmares about the Doctor.

Part V

The Doctor wakes with a gasp from a nightmare that fades from his memory as soon as he opens his eyes.

He moves, perhaps to sit up or roll over, he's not quite sure, but stops immediately as a wave of pain and nausea washes over him. He can’t stifle the groan it prompts from him and he closes his eyes again.

He feels as if he’s been beaten with clubs and he moans as he cautiously opens his eyes again to gaze at the ceiling. Medical bay, he realises after a moment. How did he get here then? The last thing he remembers is setting the co-ordinates for Midnight.

So what happened?

He tries to sit up, but falls back with a cry as pain stabs his shoulder. That’s when he realises that he can’t move his left arm and he looks down to see that it’s been tied across his chest. Dislocated shoulder, he realises after thinking for a moment.

There’s something wrong with his leg, too. He can feel the fracture in his left tibia. And his ankle’s a bit wonky. Another dislocation, he understands quickly. He can’t even begin to imagine what might have caused the range of injuries. Did he go out drinking with Jack or something? Fall down a flight of stairs? Lose a fight with a Cyberman? Okay, so that one’s the least likely of them all.

And was he – is he – alone?

No, he’s sure that’s not right. He’s got a very hazy memory of a soft voice and a hand in his amid a cloud of sharp pain that he’s certain has something to do with his present predicament.

And then the door of the medical bay opens and a figure enters the room. He notes the wild mop of ginger hair and relaxes, swallowing to try and clear his throat so that he can speak.

Before he can get out a sound, however, she glances at the bed and sees that he’s awake. She steps towards the bed, but her voice is strangely wary.

“Doctor?”

“Donna…”

He’s puzzled when she relaxes visibly at the sound of her name, only half of which makes it audibly out of his mouth. He swallows hard, his mouth painfully dry, and is about to try again when she turns and picks up a small cup.

“Want something to drink?”

He nods mutely and she reaches over to raise the head of the bed before holding the cup to his lips.

He gulps down some of the water, reaching up with his right hand to take the cup, but she captures his fingers in her free hand.

“I’m not changing the bed when you spill it everywhere, mate. Just work with me here.”

He lifts his chin so that she moves the cup away for a moment and he swallows several times to clear his throat. Then he dips his head down for the rest of the water, gratefully gulping it down as she holds the cup to his lips again, feeling better almost immediately as the nausea subsides.

“What happened?” he asks as she turns to put the empty object aside.

There’s a half-smile on her face as she turns back to the bed. “If you’re asking sensible questions in that voice then I know you’re feeling better.”

He eyes her face, with dark spots in various places that he’s positive are bruises, her stained and torn clothing, and her hair, which is standing up every which way, his eyebrows darting upwards at her overall dishevelled appearance. “But what did happen, Donna? You look – ”

“Oi!” she warns, holding up a finger to silence him. “Watch it! I’m not putting up with negative comments about my appearance, thanks. You’re no oil painting yourself right now.”

“Are those bruises?” He pulls himself into an upright position, ignoring the aches and pains, and reaches out to brush the fingers of his right hand over the darker patches on her face. “What happened to you, Donna?”

“Oh, I’m all right,” she says briskly, stepping away, although not quickly enough for him to avoid seeing the tearstains on her cheeks. “No broken bones for me. Unlike you.”

He reaches out and grabs her wrist, pulling her back to him and seeing that bruises are also apparent on her arms. “Donna, tell me what happened. To both of us.”

Her lips twist and she sighs. “It was your ship,” she tells him, sinking down onto the side of the bed as he keeps hold of her hand. “Suddenly went barmy. Threw us around like a pair of rag dolls. You ended up under the jumpseat – it’d broken off and flipped – and I was lying on a pile of stuff that you never bothered to tie down.”

“The TARDIS?” He stares at her in confusion. “Why would she do that?”

“Why don’t you ask her?” she snaps, and he can’t even begin to imagine what he said to deserve that response. However she shakes her head as soon as the words are out of her mouth, and shoots him an apologetic look. “Sorry, didn’t mean to bite your head off.”

“It’s okay.”

He can see lines of exhaustion around her mouth, as well as dark shadows under her eyes, and wonders how long he’s been unconscious. It feels like the equivalent of a couple of Earth days when he thinks about it. If she’s been looking after him for all that time, no wonder she looks so tired.

“Why don’t you go and get some rest, Donna?” he suggests, loosening his hand from her grasp so that he can smooth a lock of hair and tuck it behind her ear.

“You need me,” she argues, although she has to pause and stifle a yawn. “Can’t do a thing for yourself,” she reminds him. “You certainly can’t get of bed, not with all your injures.”

He sinks back against the partly raised bed head, weariness returning in full force, and arches an eyebrow. “Who says I want to do anything? Right now, the best idea I can think of is to stay here. Maybe go back to sleep. Almost certainly, in fact.”

“Mmm.” She eyes him for a moment and he can almost see her weighing up the idea. “Oh, all right,” she says in the end. “If you’re sure you can do without me.”

He takes her hand again to give her fingers a reassuring squeeze before letting go. “Promise,” he assures her. “I’ll be fine.”

She gets up off the bed rather abruptly and moves towards the door, but stops to cast one last look – a tentative smile – back at him before leaving the room.

The Doctor sighs deeply when she’s gone and then winces at the pain from his shoulder. He throws off the blankets that are making him rather too warm and looks at his leg, encased in a splint, with the bandage visible on his leg.

It’s at that moment that he realises she’s cut his clothes and he yelps in indignation. His good suit!

Still, he understands at once, short of her undressing him completely, she’d never have managed to fix him up without it. He wriggles out of his jacket, eventually succeeding in easing it out from under the strapping without ripping it. Then he rolls it into a ball so that the contents of his pockets won’t go flying, and flings it across the room.

He draws up his right foot to undo and remove that shoe – he struggles with the laces, but manage them in the end – wondering where the other one went as he yanks it off. The trousers are more difficult and he has to wriggle in a rather ungainly manner before he gets them over the splint. They follow the jacket.

The TARDIS can fix them, he thinks grumpily, glaring around himself. If she caused the problem in the first instance – and the Doctor has no reason to disbelieve Donna – then his moody blue police box can just make up for it now!

He covers his bare legs with the blankets, pulling them up over his stomach to counter the cooler temperature of the room. What’s ridiculous is that even this simple act tires him out. Reaching up, he finds the controls and lowers the head of the bed so that he’s flat. As he does so, the lights in the room dim.

“So even you think I should sleep, huh?” he tells the TARDIS. “Well, don’t think you’re getting out of it that easily,” he warns her. “You and I are going to have words about this later!”

He hears the TARDIS engines hum as innocently as they can and he can’t help grinning, although it’s an effort.

Closing his eyes, he lets his thoughts drift.

He can’t remember anything about the events Donna described and wonders if he hit his head. Reaching up, he probes his scalp with gentle fingers until he finds a painful place on the left side, above his ear. That must be it.

His hearts are gradually slowing as he relaxes and he finds that, if he doesn’t move, he can ignore the aches from various parts of his body. He focuses on slowing his breathing, knowing that it will help him sleep.

In and out.

Thoughts become hazy.

Only one seems to be clear.

The lightest touch of a kiss on his forehead.

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