The road less travelled...

Title: The Most Heeded of Doctors 4/4
Author: katherine_b
Rating: PG
Summary: “Illness is the most heeded of doctors; to goodness and wisdom we only make promises; pain, we obey.” (Marcel Proust)

Part IV

“Doctor!” Donna exclaims fearfully, only partly reassured when the man’s eyes snap open at once in obvious response to her voice.

One of his hands releases its grip on the cup and he reaches across to where her hands are sunk deep into the many layers of fabric covering her legs to keep them warm. His fingers cover her hand, giving it a firm, familiar squeeze. She looks up to meet his gaze and is relieved to find that the expressions there, too, are unchanged.

It’s all right, his eyes seem to say. I understand. Trust me.

He coughs a little, drinks more of the water, and then opens his mouth to speak again.

“How’s that?”

Donna can’t hold back a sigh of relief at hearing familiar words, and the gloom in the Doctor’s eyes lightens at once.

“Told you I knew every language,” he says teasingly, before pursing and straightening his lips several times and adding, “although I’d forgotten how hard some of the pronunciation can be.”

“What, so you’re admitting that the TARDIS does most of the work and you’re just along for the ride?” Donna demands mockingly, relief washing over her in waves.

He sips the water again, but when Donna sees dimples appear in his cheeks, she suspects it’s just to cover a smile. “We-ell,” he admits, his voice sounding stronger, “maybe a bit. Only sometimes, you know.”

“I suppose that probably explains why the old girl packed it in,” she suggests, watching him out of the corner of her eye. “She’s just worn out from covering for you all the time.”

She half-expects him to blow up at her for the suggestion, but instead he looks distinctly sheepish. “No,” he says slowly, dragging out the word longer than Donna thought was possible. “No,” he says again, his eyes fixed on the cup in his hands, “it wasn’t her. It was me.”

Donna narrows her eyes and studies his face, seeing the guilt written all over him. “Explain,” she demands sharply.

“Make me tea,” the Doctor replies, although it comes out as a question rather than an order, “and I will.”

Nodding, Donna gets up and crosses back to the table. This part of the room is darker since she left the flashlight on the bedside table, so she picks up the lantern and winds the handle to recharge the battery.

“What's that?” the Doctor's voice asks from the other side of the room.

“More light,” she tells him, pulling up the handle so that the lantern switches on. “I can barely see the end of my nose over here.”

But where did it come from?” the Doctor persists. “I've never seen anything like that in the TARDIS before.”

“That's because it's mine.”

She kneels down beside the buckets and begins to chip off more ice, making small enough pieces that she can feed them into the opening on top of the kettle.

“Why,” the Doctor asks in obvious curiosity, “do you have a lantern? And flashlights? And - what is that?” he adds as she puts the kettle on the table and begins shaking the stove to warm up the gas.

“It's what's going to give you tea,” she tells him rather tartly as the stove lights and she puts the kettle on the hob. “And it's the only thing that can,” she can't help adding, “considering that the TARDIS has decided to shut us in here away from anything else that we might be able to use.”

“She did her best!” the Doctor objects rather indignantly. “I mean, it's part of the programming - that in an emergency, all living beings in the TARDIS are brought to the console room...”

“The console room?” Donna stops putting tea and sugar into one of the mugs and turns to stare at the man in bed. “Doctor, I'm not sure if you've noticed, but we aren't exactly in the console room right now. Last time I checked, this was my bedroom. Or at least a bedroom with my things in it!”

“You've never walked in a straight line between that table and this bed,” he says knowingly, a faint grin lighting his face. “You can't. Physically. The console is in the way. And the reason you can't see it,” he goes on, clearly understanding what she is about to say, “is that the TARIS created a perception filter in the room to persuade you it was a bedroom. I suppose she didn't want to risk you trying to send her out of the vortex or anything without me there to help. Anyway,” he adds, perhaps seeing the glare she is shooting in his direction, “as well as moving us in here, it also moved your things so that you had what you needed.”

“The TARDIS wasn't the one who moved you in here, chum,” she tells him, deciding not to argue about what the ship had done in her last moments. “I was. Dragged you out of the living room and in here since it was the only room with a light on. Of course, I didn't realise the TARDIS was playing funny buggers at the time. And why did she decide to create a bedroom, of all things, rather than something useful, like the infirmary? In fact,” she goes on, giving him no chance to get a word in, “why didn’t you take yourself there rather than deciding that the floor of the living room was the best place for you to end up?”

The kettle boils at the point and Donna begins to make the tea, but she glances over towards the bed and sees the Doctor studying the blankets, a distinctly uncomfortable look on his face.

“I was heading that way,” he mumbles as she manages to scrape some milk out of the frozen carton into his tea.

Donna snorts so loudly that her nose, still tender from the icy air, actually hurts so that she reaches up to pinch the bridge of it.

“Yeah, right,” she retorts, giving up on the milk and carrying the cup over to the bed. “I’m not that daft, Doctor. The infirmary has never been even close to the living room. In fact, it’s always in the exact opposite direction. So,” she adds coolly, holding the tea just out of reach, “that means you’re lying to me, which means you don’t get this, which you and most likely the TARDIS clearly both want and need judging by your tones before.”

The Doctor sighs, his cheeks pink again, but this time Donna knows it’s not a sign of illness. “Fine,” he admits grumpily. “I was heading for the console room. Happy?”

“No.” Donna hands him the cup, but looks at him through narrowed eyes. “Why?”

He sips the tea and then arches an eyebrow at her, lifting his head off the pillow for the first time. “Why what?”

“Why there?” Donna sits down in the chair again. “You wouldn’t have been able to drive the TARDIS when I found you, so I can’t believe you were in a much better state a few minutes before that. Where were you planning to send the old girl – who, incidentally, would have been feeling as rubbish as you, so I very much doubt we would have got there!”

“Oh, we would have arrived safely.” The Doctor runs an uneasy hand through his hair. “Emergency Program One. It overrides everything else – even a complete shut-down.”

Donna sits back in the chair and eyes him suspiciously. “You told me about that,” she points out. “It takes me - us! - back to Chiswick.”

“Yup.” His tone is abrupt and he stares straight ahead. She waits for him to explain more, but he remains silent and it’s left to her to speak.

“But why?” she asks curiously. “What possible good could Earth medicine have done for you if even the TARDIS couldn’t...?”

She trails off, staring at the Doctor, who is looking increasingly uncomfortable, his hands wrapped firmly around the mug in which his nose is buried as he tries to avoid her gaze.

“Oh. My. God.” As realisation dawns, Donna’s surprised look turns into a heated one. “You bastard!”

She’s about to slap him – he clearly realises what she has in mind and visibly flinches – when she remembers that he is still unwell and restrains herself. Still, her glare seems to unnerve him quite sufficiently.

“You were going to kick me out at home and then go through that all by yourself - curl up into a ball and die!”

“I wasn’t going to die...” he begins almost indignantly, finally bringing himself to look at her, but Donna doesn’t let him finish.

“If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll probably kill you myself!” she threatens, leaping to her feet and - she can’t help herself - looming over the bed. Then a thought strikes her and she sinks back into the seat again, studying the bare concrete floor, a sense of wounded pride filling her. “Would you rather have been on your own? Would that have been better for you? Was I really so useless?”

“No! Donna,” his hand finds hers almost instantly and there is a deeply apologetic tone in his voice, “it’s not that at all! It’s just - I’m physiologically equipped to cope in more extreme environments. Cold, particularly. I know what the TARDIS had to do to get me through this and that it would have been far more extreme than anything you’d be used to.”

“That’s what clothes are for,” she retorts grumpily, unwilling to acknowledge the logical of his argument.

He smiles, the warm expression he gets when he thinks she’s said or done something particularly clever, but she carries on before he can speak.

“Besides,” she points out, “if you’d warned me, I could have been prepared. I mean, you knew what was happening, didn’t you?”

He gives an awkward shrug that tells Donna everything she needs to know. “I had a bit of an idea,” he admits with obvious reluctance.

“So it’s happened before?” she asks, watching him give a slight nod.

“It wasn’t as bad then, but yes,” he concedes. “I had bouts of pain on other occasions, so when I felt it this time, I knew what was going to happen.”

“And you didn’t bother to tell me so that I’d understand what was happening?” she asks pointedly. “You didn’t think that maybe I might be terrified at the thought of something happening to you? Of you dying?”

His face contorts and she wonders if he’s thought about this before. The small picture. A single point of view rather than the greater aspect of everything.

“I’m sorry...” he begins, but she holds up a hand to stop him.

“I don’t want apologies,” she tells him. “I want you to be honest with me. I want you to let me make my own decisions about what I can and can’t do - and to do that, I need you to tell me the truth.”

The Doctor gives her fingers a gentle squeeze. “I’ll always try to keep you safe,” he says softly.

“You don’t do any better with that than keeping me away from spoilers,” she snorts. “Just for starters, should I mention Sontarans? You didn’t even look after your ship on that occasion! ‘The first Sontarans in history to capture a TARDIS’ like they said.”

He gives a rueful grin. “The key word in my previous statement being ‘try,’” he suggests.

“So I suppose that’s why you keep trying to put yourself between me and people with guns,” she goes on, and he shrugs again.

“You did that first,” he points out, putting his empty cup on the bedside table, “trying to stop the Empress from having me killed.”

“The thing is, Doctor,” Donna goes on, ignoring this, “I can usually see a good reason for the things you tell me to do. Even the whole thing with the Sontarans – I get why you wanted me there. But I really don’t see why you were going to leave me behind and go through it all yourself. You could have died! I know you said you wouldn’t, but you don’t know how bad it got here. You stopped breathing!” as this is suddenly dredged out of her hazy memory. “I mean, yeah, you’re an alien, but you’re not Superman!”

The Doctor arches an eyebrow, but doesn’t speak until she runs out of words. “That’s a bit rich, you know,” he says at last, “considering what you did.”

Donna stares at him, wide-eyed. “What’s that meant to mean?”

“Well,” he unwinds one of the scarves from around his neck and holds it up, studying it in the dim glow cast by the flashlight, “is there a reason I’m wearing two of these while you have a t-shirt around your neck?”

She stares at him, for once lost for an acceptable answer.

“And then there’s this,” the Doctor continues, tugging at the single blanket on the empty side of the bed. “I’m being smothered under all these and you left yourself this? So,” he drops the blanket and turns a steady gaze on her, “if I’m irresponsible for not telling you what was happening – and you’re probably right that I was – then you’re just as bad for neglecting yourself in an attempt to keep me alive.”

“Would you have died?” Donna demands, as much to get him away from the subject of her behaviour as because she wants to hear the answer.

His chin lifts slightly and he gives a sigh before answering, “I was probably in less danger than you.”

“Probably?!”

“Mmm.” He gestures at the room around them in a way that suggests to Donna he is trying to change the subject. “The risk would have been greater if you hadn’t been using things that produced even tiny amounts of heat – the stove, that lamp, the flashlights, everything.”

“So if I hadn’t been here,” Donna declares triumphantly, although inwardly recoiling at the mere idea, “you might not have survived!”

“Maybe.” He rubs his cheek with the palm of his hand. “Maybe not. There’s no way of knowing. I didn’t, clearly, but what factors contributed most to that – it’s impossible to say with any certainty.”

Then his fingers tighten around hers again.

“I think it’s possible though,” he confesses, and she knows that’s the closest he will be able to come to saying ‘thank you for putting yourself last and me first so that I could live’. And she’s okay with that, because grandiose speeches of gratitude aren’t much in her line either.

Suddenly the light beside the bed flickers and begins to brighten. Donna sees the Doctor’s eyes light up at the same moment. She suspects he has heard the TARDIS’ voice in his head for the first time since he woke up, but even as she’s about to ask him, he opens his mouth.

Once more, a stream of intelligible gibberish pours out, and Donna arches an impatient eyebrow.

“That better not have been aimed at me, mate!”

The Doctor frowns, glaring at the centre of the room where, so he said, the console had been hidden in a perception filter. Even as she turns to look, she sees the familiar green-blue hues begin to tint the room as the coral-like object flickers into sight.

Donna suddenly realises why the creamy colours of the furniture in this room seemed to strangely familiar as they appear to sprout tentacles and weave themselves back into the struts around the walls. They are still recognisable as furniture. They simply look more organic.

She basks in an unexpected jet of hot air down her neck, feeling suddenly and gloriously too warm in her many layers of clothes.

The Doctor gives a huff and, suddenly anxious, she turns to look at him. He looks almost well again in this light, although still slightly tired around the eyes. But it’s the aggravation on his face that makes her wonder.

“Well?” she demands impatiently. “What is it? What’s gone wrong now?”

“It’s her,” he complains, pouting. “The TARDIS,” he adds as if she hadn’t guessed. “She’s decided – oh, that’s not fair!”

“What’s not fair?”

He gives a sigh that is almost closer to a groan. “She’s agreeing with you,” he explains moodily. “She thinks I should have told you what was happening, too. So she’s decided that she’s going to deactivate the translator circuits.”

Donna’s jaw drops. “But,” she protests, “how will we understand anything on any of the planets we visit? Well, I suppose you’ll be all right,” she adds, remembering his boast about every language, “but how on Earth am I going to manage?”

“Oh, she doesn’t mean all the time,” the Doctor assures her quickly. “Not outside those doors in fact,” he adds nodding at the two white doors that have just appeared in the wall. “But when we’re inside, just the two of us, she’s going to turn them off. She says,” he pulls a face, and she suspects he’s giving her a reluctant translation of the scolding the TARDIS is giving him, “that since I can’t be trusted to give enough information in my own language in a situation where I should have said something, then she’s going to make me work harder when I want to say something!”

Just in time, Donna chokes back a laugh. She even reaches down with her free hand and gives the chair – and by extension the TARDIS – a little stroke of affectionate approval.

Still, she just wants to hear him explain it one more time, so she composes her features into an expression of confusion and demands, “Meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning – oh, this really isn’t fair, you know! – I’m going to have to speak human languages!”