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"I feel more alive than I have in, oh, centuries," the patient says.
The Doctor smiles, because a. funny and b. what else was there? He knows what’s going to happen, what always happens. First thing on the schedule today is testing Sir Estram’s white blood cell count. If the joking is any indication – it usually isn’t – it’ll be good news. He disinfects Estram’s arm and inserts the needle, letting the alcohol wipe fall on to the black and gold sheets. The momentary smell of alcohol stings the back of his throat and he uses it to sharpen his focus as the other’s life’s blood makes its sluggish way into the tube. Estram is a strong man, often in good health, but the Doctor knows he’ll take his turns for better and worse again and again, and there’s no point in drawing more blood than necessary; not one drop more, because he’s done enough.
Sliding the needle out, he congratulates himself on breaking the skin so neatly, and puts a band-aid on Estram's arm. He’s a care giver, so that’s what he takes pride in. Sarn Assisted Living is becoming a home away from home, the people he’s taking care of more familiar than old friends, because they are: there’s Professor Thascalos, with the lung cancer; Mr. Melkur with the many wounds; Estram, fighting his own immune system; Bruce, who had fallen from a height; Professor Yana with the headache; and Harry Saxon who was simply wasting away, as if there was anything simple about that.
He gathers all the bloody things on his tray, peels off his gloves and tries not to startle when Estram grabs his hand, not joking anymore, but demanding and or pleading. "Don't leave me," he says, his eyes wild. They both know what’s going to happen now.
The Doctor doesn’t know what to say. He’s never figured that out. He can’t leave, in any case; he has to make his patients better, how ever many tries it may take.
Estram is the worst of them. Because he burns. Because flames rise over his sheets and his tailored pajamas and his well-kept beard; he screams and screams; and he lets go of the Doctor’s hand. And then he’s gone, him and his sheets, band-aid and alcohol wipe.
This is usually when the Doctor wakes up, sweating from the heat of a remembered fire, of the real Sarn, of the Master burning. He’s been sleeping, and he’s been dreaming, and many dreams have been recurring. When the reaction caused by the psychic pollen wears off, he thinks, they’ll stop.
He changes Thascalos' sheets, fresh soft gray cotton. He gives Mr. Melkur his pain medication and makes sure he’s comfortable. Attempts to stem Bruce’s anger at his own helplessness with an impromptu stand-up routine ending in a waltz with a broom. Tries to get Yana to put words on what that headache feels like. Takes care to not wake Saxon up, but places an extra meal on his bedstand just in case.
Holds a glass of water at Melkur’s lipless mouth.
Checks up on Bruce’s elevated leg and makes sure the eyedrops hit his curious eyes.
"Don't leave me," says Estram. His teeth are bared. "I'll make you a king, I'll give you anything-"
Makes sure none of Melkur’s many wounds have reopened.
Returns from the laundry room with Thascalos’s gray sheets and Melkur’s rough black blankets, and makes Estram’s bed with them. “Yours won’t be ready just yet, we’ll have to make do with these,” he says, making his most apologetic face.
Estram smiles and slides under the duvet, without help. “I can manage, just this once.”
He still burns.
There are so many other care homes in this place, and it feels like he’s staffing them all.
He sits on the edge of Saxon’s bed, holding a thermometer with one hand and sealing Saxon’s lips around it with the other. Saxon burned, too, but on the inside, and constantly. The thermometer beeps and Saxon releases it into his hand with a pop and a spray of bloody saliva.
The other man is staring with an intensity that is beyond feverish, sweaty blonde hair sticking to his forehead. His temperature is – as usual – much too high. The Doctor smothers a sigh, wipes the spit off on his waistcoat, and reaches for the plastic cup with the antipyretics.
"You know,” says Saxon, with a voice that should have been asking for water, and eyes dancing with mirth, “I wonder what I’d be without you.”
This time, the Doctor wakes with a start on the stairs in the console room, folded over his knees. If she’s found her bedroom, Clara’s asleep, and there’s time he has to spend to himself. He gets older, and thus, not surprisingly, he gets more tired. His subconscious is in disarray, and the more it’s stirred up, the more vivid his nightmares become. He thinks of iron maidens and mythological horrors from childhood. He’s tried to forget for so long, and he’s so tired. I've done a lot of bad things in my time, he thinks. Waking or sleeping, he knows them all by heart.
Forget the fact that Time Lords don't dream. The Doctor does, now.
"I'll make you a king, I'll give you anything-" Skin tears and sloughs off, and he’s gone.
"You can't keep me like this forever," says Thascalos.
"Change is always for the better," says Melkur.
"I'll give you anything-"
“Drums,” says Yana. “Drums...”
Estram grabs his hand and won't let go, his nails sharp. The expression in his eyes is especially pleading.
The Doctor stretches out on next to him on the black and gold sheets, still not knowing what to say. The fire, when it happens, isn’t warm, not to him; it licks and flickers but he doesn’t feel it, but he certainly does the screams. There’s nothing he can do to stop it; because he did nothing when it happened.
His right knee gives out – it does that sometimes, or perhaps it’s a heart, or a little bit of both – as he’s carrying some used tea things away, and the next thing he knows he’s looking up at the ceiling above Estram’s bed, and a quick slide of the hand confirms he’s lying on top of the black and gold sheets he’s changed so many many times. He shouldn’t be at Sarn right now, as familiar as it is, shouldn’t be asleep; he has other things to think about. His mind needs to rest, and instead it’s full of pained faces, of agonies he’s caused. Of all the things he’s done wrong. Of feeling helpless. His ability to compartmentalize, to push things out of sight out of mind run away has failed him.
The Doctor’s been having this recurring dream for centuries. He dreams a lot now, being very very tired, because he’s very very old. He’s thinking of Gallifrey, of the orange and the red and the silver, memories of family and friends resurfacing all over, and when he closes his eyes he can see them – so he does.
Someone’s spoonfeeding him too-hot tea with a small hard spoon, knocking it against his teeth and sliding it just a bit too far down his tongue.
Then next time the Doctor opens his eyes he’s looking into Thascalos’ face, watching his nostrils widen as he takes his difficult breaths. “Don’t leave.”
The time thereafter, he’s roused by Saxon sitting on his mattress. “You can’t forget, can you?” says Saxon, with a pout.
“I’ll get there, don’t you worry.”
“I can help you.” He takes the Doctor’s arm and puts it across his lap, and he presents a syringe with a bit too much flourish. Eyeing the column of fluid, he says, “This looks like a lot. Is it a lot? I’ll let you say when.”
The Doctor adjusts his glasses wearily. No occlusions, no bubbles. The tip of the needle slides across several of his veins, and he has to stop himself from making a fist to present them better. “No. But thanks.”
Saxon looks quite happy after that, leaves him alone quite quickly.
He doesn’t lift a finger to attract attention. He’s perfectly still, and he listens. Soon enough there’s the sound of steps; slow, soft, calculating steps.
“Well, hello,” says Sir Estram, appearing in his neat grey pajamas. He seems strong, impossible to harm. “How’s my favorite patient?”
The Doctor finds the badly-concealed look of relief on the other’s face both exciting and terrifying; and he feels really very old. “Me? Favorite? Next you’ll be telling me I seem like such a nice old man.”
“Are you surprised?”
Somewhere, he can hear Thascalos coughing. The odour of disease and smoke and the gloopy compresses he’s been putting on Melkur’s wounds and thousands of burned sheets hang in the air. He grins and digs his fingers into the sheet; he’s an old man repenting in a care home. Where else should he spend his last years?
He’ll wake up soon enough anyway.