Lost In Time: A Doctor Who Fanfiction

Chapter 25 - As Long As I Have You

A/N: The warning from the previous chapter still applies for approximately the first third of this chapter, do what you need to do, and as always, feel free to PM me.

She didn't know how long they sat there, trying to block out the rest of the world as she stared blankly at some meaningless point on the carpet and he scrubbed gently at her hands. But eventually he sighed, pulling away the reddened handkerchief and squeezing her stained hands with his own.

"Do you want to go back to the TARDIS?" he asked softly, voice near unbearably kind. She struggled to lift her gaze from the floor to meet his, and found him watching her, eyes filled with some surge of emotions she had neither the strength nor the ability to read. She leaned her heavy head against his chest and nodded mutely. He paused before asking in that same, gentle tone, "Do you want to walk or do you want me to carry you? Whichever one you choose."

She stared at him blankly for a moment before the question registered through the fog that had wrapped around everything and dulled her senses. She blinked slowly, wondering if she would even be able to will her shaky legs to hold her. She felt so weak and tired that it seemed to take a great deal of effort just to reopen her eyes every time she blinked. She glanced down at her feet as if to assess their strength, only to flinch at the sight of her blood soaked jeans. She clung to his coat, an involuntary whimper slipping out in place of the words she meant to say.

"It's all right, Lyssa. You don't have to say anything," he reassured her, voice pained. Shifting his grip so that she rested against him, he carefully stood to his feet with a grunt. A small, shuddering sob slipped out and she turned her head to bury it in his chest as they began to move. She kept her eyes firmly shut as he carried her through the maze of hallways to wherever Torchwood had put the TARDIS, somehow knowing exactly where the ship was. 

He didn't pull out his key when they arrived, simply rested his hand against the door for a moment before it popped open. He managed a weak flicker of a smile at the ship before nudging it open further with his shoulder and carrying her in before shutting it behind them, the lock sliding closed on its own with a firm click. 

He hesitated at the top of the ramp, glancing at the jump seat and then her before his jaw tightened. Moving up to the console, he set her down on her feet beside him, slipping his arm down to wrap around her waist to steady her when she swayed. Lacking his usual flair, he started up the TARDIS and sent them somewhere - anywhere - besides Canary Wharf. 

He waited until the ship landed, jaw tight and eyes dark, before turning back to Lyssa, though his grip was gentle as ever as he pulled her into his arms once more, her hand automatically coming up to grip his coat. They walked in silence as they passed through the ship's hallways, though she noticed that her room was a lot closer than it had been when she'd left earlier that day. Her door opened as they approached, and he brought her through her room and into her bathroom, turning to keep her from being able to look in the mirror before carefully setting her down on the edge of the spacious bathtub and kneeling in front of her.

She tried to let go of him, but her fingers seemed frozen to his coat, every instinct screaming at her not to let go of her only sense of safety. He didn't seem offended or irritated with her clinginess, instead resting his hand atop hers with a compassionate glance and giving it a gentle squeeze before carefully prying her fingers away from his coat. 

She curled her shaking hands into themselves, hiding the palms from sight as he quickly unbuttoned his coat and tossed it off to the side before turning back to her. She sat there numbly as he removed her boots and socks, careful not to jostle her or brush against the still damp blood staining them, before placing them with his coat. 

A stack of black washcloths appeared on the tub ledge next to her, and he reached over and grabbed one, wetting it with soap and warm water from the faucet before crouching beside her and running it over her hands and up her arms, scrubbing away the remnants of the blood until the only pink that remained was from her flushed skin. He didn't bother rinsing out the washcloth when he was done, instead tossing it over the other dirty items, and she found herself pathetically grateful for the dark colors that hid any stains.