Yowzah Oneshot Collection (2)

81(G)

Doctors Make The Worst Patients

                       leiascully

The Doctor wakes up with a snort and a start.

"Oh, my head," he groans. His voice sounds strange and raspy. His throat is clogged and his nose whistles when he tries to breathe. He really, really hates sleeping. It's never nearly so refreshing as he thinks it ought to be, and a terrible waste of time. Then again, sleep's a bit of a desperate measure for him. Maybe if he had a lie-in at a restful time now and again, he'd like it better.

How did he get into bed, he wonders. The last thing he remembers is a pounding headache and a feeling as if the air had turned to treacle, everything moving at half the speed. He's not quite sure whose bed this is; the TARDIS saves rooms for an age. This bed's got a TARDIS-blue duvet and the shelves are crammed with books and bits of relics. An archaeologist's room. Now he remembers: River, haloed in light until he could barely focus on her, a look of concern creasing her face, asking if if he was all right and him just babbling at her. He hears footsteps in the corridor and in she pops with a cup of tea.

"Oh, good," she says. "You're awake. Bit strange to see you out cold, but I suppose you needed the rest."

"River," he croaks. "I'm dying."

"You're not. You've got the flu," River says without nearly as much sympathy as he thinks she ought to be showing him. She perches on the edge of the bed. "Honestly, you're called the Doctor and you don't think to get a vaccination once in a while? You're not impervious, you know." She helps him up to a sitting position and hands him the cup of tea. He wraps his hands around it and shivers, hot and cold all at once, his bones aching as if he's been running for his life for weeks on end. He lifts his cup of tea to his face. The steam wafts against his sore, slightly dribbly nose and the liquid seems to scald some of the scum from his throat, soothing even if he can't smell it or taste it. She does brew a good cup of tea, his River. There's one benefit to Kovarian tailoring her to know him inside and out. He never has to tell her how much sugar he takes.

"You're certain I'm not dying?" he demands feebly, licking his heated lips.

"Absolutely positive," she says. "Don't be a child. It doesn't suit you." But her soft eyes belie her sharp words, and she leans in and tenderly brushes his fringe off his forehead, pressing her lips to his brow. "You're burning up, my love."

"Get away," he says, the thought occurring too late. His mind feels fuzzy and slow. "You'll catch it."

"If I do, you can be sure I won't whinge about it so," she reprimands him. "Drink up. It'll be Lemsip next. That's a time-honored Earth tradition. Bless the TARDIS, she always knows when to put a kettle on."

"She knows everything," the Doctor mumbles.

"Isn't that who you want caring for you when you're feeling poorly?" River asks. "Those who know you best."

"Urgh," says the Doctor. He takes another swig of tea. "No. Unbearable, the two of you. You know too much. I have an assassin and a time machine peering at me. Call that proper nursing, do you? Do you think Rory would come? Or is he still a bit vexed with me over the whole interfering with every single thing in his life et cetera. On second thought, better not call him. I'd probably get tongue depressors and nasty shots and the Hot Orange flavor of Lemsip."

"Time Lord," she says fondly, patting his leg through the duvet. "It's back to sleep with you. You're delirious with fever. Finish your tea."

"And you'll be here when I wake up?" he asks, pausing with the cup not quite touching his lips. She's getting that halo again and he's left squinting into the brightness of her smile.

"Of course I will," she promises. "Cross my heart."

He drains the cup of tea and gazes at her blearily. She takes it from him, kissing him on the forehead again. "Rest, my love. I won't leave you to suffer by your lonesome."

"River," he says, his voice muffled and blurred as his face sinks into the pillows. His head is so hot and so heavy. "Everything hurts."

"I know, sweetie," she says. "You'll be fine."

"Kiss," he says. "To make it better."

She bends and kisses his cheek, her curls tickling unbearably against his skin. "There now. Best cure in the universe, except for time."

But he's already drifting away again, lost in the strange landscape of the fever dream, but this time River's beside him, casting a keen eye about for any nasty contagion.

"We'll find them all, my love," she says, that manic grin on her face. She hoists a giant syringe in her hand. It's loaded with cartoonish bullets, and she aims it at a distant green glob and explodes it into goo splatters with a single shot. "See there? Better than any antibiotic."

"You're a madwoman," he mumbles affectionately, half-waking himself as he says the words out loud. He can hear her humming to herself as she moves around the TARDIS. If only the universe could see her now. River Song, stirring up cold remedies and scolding him for not taking better care of his health. With that kind of motivation, he'll be up and around in no time. He smiles as he slides into deeper sleep.