The Rose & Crown

Chapter Fifteen

There was a hollow emptiness inside the ghostly silent walls of the TARDIS main control room as if the once vibrant feel of her living existence had been disabled and completely abandoned. The red interior lights continued to flash as the ship's current status remained in the same state of emergency power she had last been left in. The gel-like material of her telepathic interface steadily palpitated with energy, providing a direct link from the Doctor's beating hearts to the internal medical scanner. Prior to his departure, its primary function had been set to monitor his pulse in the event his life had become unexpectedly eliminated - ultimately dematerialising herself to a predetermined destination. As she sat idling in her mechanic lull, overseeing the uniquely rhythmical melody of his life force, her interface detected an unexpected rise in palpitations as each beat of his hearts rapidly accelerated. Her safe-guards deactivated, she was unable to determine what potential dangers could have caused such an adjustment to his emotional state. The living machine laid still and quiet with attentive anticipation in the singular hope her Time Lord would soon return to her unharmed. The only thing left for her to do was wait.

Suddenly, her door burst open from the outside as the Doctor rushed through the threshold of his long-time vessel and kicked the door closed behind him. His body was pumped with adrenaline while his breath struggled to catch up. In his tired arms, he carried his unconscious companion tightly to his chest. Her arm dangled beside her thin frame as the look of absolute panic covered her rescuer's face. The jumper and jacket she had last been seen wearing before leaving the ship were now soaked in her own blood. A red stream ran down her hand and dripped onto the metal flooring.

"Medical analysis! Now!" he commanded as he hurried across the grated floor, carrying his best friend's lifeless body towards the centre of the large room. He quickly headed for the work table and gently laid her atop his drafted battle plans. The ship's internal medical scanner activated as instructed and scanned her motionless body, the result being promptly uploaded onto the view-screen. He pulled his arms from under her and bolted towards the console. With his blood-stained hands, he lowered the screen to determine the prognosis. The images were beyond concerning. His hearts felt as if they had dropped from his chest into the pit of his stomach. Where there should have been three distinct heartbeats, there were only two. Though very faint, the child still lived within her. As for Clara, she had not been so fortunate. The readings showed she had suffered a direct trauma to the upper right side of her chest and been killed shortly after impact. He stared in disbelief at the screen. The events leading back to the ship flashed into his mind as if he were trapped inside of a nightmare.

"Run, Clara!" he called as he barricaded himself behind the open armoury door and protected her so she could escape from within. Heavy gunfire quickly filled the narrow corridor originating from a new brigade of soldiers. Their bullets fanned in all directions, intending to eliminate the serious threat they now faced. The continuous sound of metal clanking upon metal rung in his ears as the bullets ricocheted off the armoured door. He leaned against it and watched as Clara made it safely around the corner. His pounding hearts sent a pulsating wave throughout every extremity in his body. His breath was heavy and rapid while he continued to hold the soldiers' attention on himself.

He closed his eyes. The gears in his head spun wildly as he analysed the exact distance from his position to the corner of the next corridor. He calculated the number of seconds it would take to reach safety. There would be only one chance at success. Failure was not an option. 'Five.' He concentrated on drafting a replica of the surrounding dimensions by creating a blueprint of the space in his mind, making certain to utilise every detail of the area as a tactic for survival. 'Four.' He tallied the number of bullets flying by, the capacity of the ammunition clips, the time it took the soldiers to reload. 'Three.' He gauged the exact moment in which there would be the lowest probability of being killed. 'Two.' And then, as if all the planets had aligned with one another, as if millions of singing birds had suddenly gone quiet, he opened his eyes. Not unlike the calming before the storm, his window of opportunity had finally arrived. It was now or never. 'One.' A surge of confidence swept over him as he released himself from the safety of the armoured door and faced the soldiers, man to man.