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Someone once said that Death is the Doctor's constant companion.
There is some truth to that statement, I will admit. Death has followed the Doctor before we even met; before he even chose to name himself the Doctor.
Still, I like to think of myself as the Doctor's constant and most loyal companion. I'm always with him, even when we are separated, like right now.
The Doctor is a few streets away, but I can feel him still. I always do. He's running away from someone. I can hear his footsteps on the wet pavement, his old trainers splashing on puddles of rainwater as he runs back to me. As he gets closer, my connection with him strengthens. I can feel his hearts hammering in his chest, his heavy panting, the rise in temperature in his body.
This Doctor is one of the fastest ones, and it only takes him a couple of minutes to reach the alleyway where I landed. I hear him before I see him. He's laughing delightedly, no doubt enjoying the chase despite the danger. He always finds joy in the most unexpected situations. It worries me sometimes, but it's also infectious and I can't help sharing the rush with him.
I finally see him coming into the alleyway; long, nimble legs almost becoming a blur by the speed at which he's running, his spiky quiff trembling in the wind and a wide, boyish grin spreading across his face.
The individual chasing him is close behind – too close for comfort. Leave it to the Doctor to turn a leisure trip to a peaceful planet into a life-threatening situation. The Doctor has almost reached me when he turns around to take a look, still running backwards towards me. That's when his smile fades.
The arrow finds its target on the Doctor's lower abdomen, just above his hip bone and eight centimetres to the side of his navel. He staggers backwards, his back hitting my front door as he presses a hand around the entry point of the arrow. Blood is already emanating from the wound, staining his brown suit and pouring through his fingers. Before the assailant can shoot another arrow, I open my door and let gravity do the rest.
The Doctor falls backwards inside. I tilt the console room just enough to make him slide across the grilled metal floor until his whole body is inside, and then I shut the door just in time as a second arrow flies swiftly and slots itself into the wood.
I dematerialise shortly after, leaving the assailant knocking at the air and falling face-first into the stone pavement. Serves them right.
The Doctor is still lying on the floor as I take flight, his face contorted into a pained expression. A hiss comes out through his gritted teeth as he presses his trembling hand harder against the wound. The arrow stands tall at an 82-degree angle from the Doctor's lower abdomen. Any attempt to remove it now without proper medical attention would only make things worse. I know this, and I know the Doctor knows this. I can only hope he doesn't do anything stupid now, but this Doctor has proven to be quite reckless on many occasions. Especially when he's sad. Especially when he's alone. And he's both right now.
I ride the waves of the time vortex and come out a few aeons and light years away from the planet we have just left. As my engines power down and I drift calmly through empty space, the Doctor rises from the floor. He grabs the metal railing with his free hand for support and makes his way to my console with difficulty. Every step seems to be agony for him, so I perform a full body scan just to be on the safe side. It confirms my immediate concerns.
With a final grunt of effort, the Doctor reaches my console and places his hand on the edge of it to lean his weight. The monitor attached to it comes to life and I show him the results of my scan.
POISON DETECTED, it reads.
The Doctor nods and exhales in exhaustion. He had suspected it, but reading the results seems to calm his mind a little. The poison is not lethal for him thanks to his metabolism, but that doesn't make it any less unpleasant. He won't die from it, but he could lose consciousness any second and that would make matters worse.
The logical course of action for anyone in his situation would be to seek help. I'm already going through the list of medical facilities in my database in search of one that could treat the Doctor without putting him in danger, but I know this search is in vain. I could take him to the most medically advanced hospital in all of time and space and he would not set foot in it. He wants to take care of this himself, I can see it in his eyes. I can't really blame him – he's had bad experiences with hospitals in the past, so I respect his wishes this time.
“I'm going to need your help, old girl,” the Doctor mutters with difficulty, his face scrunching up with ache. I let out a low rumble in response; it pains me to see him like this. He has to swallow to clear his throat before he speaks again. “Could you bring the med bay closer to me?”
He needn't ask twice. With another rumble, I begin to rearrange the rooms. The Doctor pats my console as a ‘thank you’ and begins the short yet torturous walk towards the door leading to the hallway of rooms. By the time he reaches it, I've already finished readjusting and I open the door for him. Instead of opening into the long, winding corridors with countless doors and rooms, the door takes him directly to the medical bay, and I can see the momentary relief washing over him as his shoulders sag slightly. But this is not over yet, and there's still much to do.
With much effort, and still clutching his abdomen with the arrow protruding from it, the Doctor walks the small distance to the bed at the centre of the room and plops down heavily on it, letting out a pained grunt as he does so. He wiggles a little to lie down properly, and takes a moment to catch his breath. His head is swaying lightly as if the room is spinning out of control for him. His complexion has adopted a paler hue, and he has to close his eyes for a few seconds, most likely to stop the nauseous feeling from overpowering him.
I take this time to do the little trick of tilting the room again and bring a small bedside table with wheels closer to him. On its surface rests a tray with everything he would need to treat his injury: a metal basin with clean water, gauze, sterilising wipes and an assortment of surgical instruments and medical equipment. With half-lidded eyes, the Doctor turns his head and smiles weakly when he finds the little table next to him.
“Thanks,” he whispers, his voice strained and tired.
I don't need to take another scan to know the adrenaline of the chase is wearing off, making the pain more acute. Thankfully, the Doctor seems aware that he doesn't have much time before he loses consciousness, so he stops his stalling.
The first thing he does is grab a jet injector with a protein that will stimulate his enzymes and get rid of the poison in his system faster. He had worked on this solution after the last time he got poisoned, and his foresight is coming in handy now.
After injecting himself with the jet injector, he reaches for a button on the side of the bed that moves the upper half to a more comfortable angle, helping him to sit slightly upright. He removes his other hand from his abdomen with a little pained grunt and grabs one of the scalpels from the tray. There is a moment of hesitation, as if he's taking a second to mourn what he's about to do, but the arrow leaves him no other choice. Without wasting any more time, he finally cuts the fabric of his blood-soaked suit and every layer of clothing covering his torso, hissing as he unpeels the fabric of the final t-shirt from his skin little by little to reveal the wound underneath.
The Doctor lets out a trembling exhale, his abdomen rising and falling along with his shaky breathing as he watches more blood pouring out. He places the scalpel back on the tray and grabs some gauze to stop the bleeding. While the gauze soaks up the blood, he washes his hands with the water in the metal basin and cleans them with the sterilising wipes for good measure.
He's doing well, all things considered, and I feel a sense of relief as I watch him. The Doctor may not be a proper doctor, but he's always prided himself in knowing a bit of everything, and that includes medical knowledge. He can take care of this. I know he can.
With his hands clean and sterilised, the Doctor is as ready as he can be for what comes next. He removes the gauze first, now completely soaked and dark red. The bleeding has stopped for now, but it will get worse in a moment, so he keeps more gauze next to his hip. He grabs another jet injector, this time with an anaesthetic that he injects directly into his abdomen, close enough to the wound to dull the pain in that area. He then presses gently with his fingers around the entry point of the arrow, whimpering softly and baring his teeth in a grimace. Once he's located the arrowhead, he grabs another clean scalpel from the tray and prepares himself.
If I could physically breathe, I would be holding my breath right now. I watch him expectantly, waiting, but there's something wrong. The Doctor has stopped completely, scalpel hanging above his abdomen in his quivering hand. His hesitation is different this time, not prompted by the grief of ruining an old suit he's fond of. Just by looking at his face, I know immediately what is happening.
I've seen this expression before. The Doctor has been wearing it a lot lately ever since he started travelling on his own. Those hopeful glances at his side, as if he's expecting someone to be there. The pursing of his lips into a pout when he finds no one standing there. The creases of his brow pinching in confusion and embarrassment when he catches himself talking to a person who isn't there; a person who left because she had to; a person he left so that she could have a happier life; a person who left because he made her leave.
The Doctor is now looking around the empty medical bay with that same expression, as if looking for someone, anyone that would keep him company. The fingers of his free hand twitch slightly, not because of the pain or the remnants of the poison in his bloodstream, but because of the longing for a hand to hold.
It's in moments like these when I wish I could hold him.
In this moment of vulnerability, the realisation of how lonely he really is finally dawns on him, bringing tears to his eyes; tears that he's been trying to hold for a long time.
Even though he's never truly alone, even though I'm his constant and most loyal companion, even though I'm both his friend and his home, I know the Doctor needs more than the companionship of his old and battered ship.
He needs touch, he needs laughter, he needs someone he can run and share the wonders of the universe with.
He needs a hand to hold.
I'm aware of my limitations, and I would never hold his needs against him. I am and always will be there for him, even if it isn't in the shape and form he wants and needs.
I watch him cry, and I'm proud of him for allowing himself to do so. He's alone, and there's no reason to keep this inside and pretend he's okay. So he lets it happen. He allows himself to have a good cry, to let the tears streak down his cheeks and his sobs fill the room until his eyes are reddened and swollen, his face completely dampened with tears and his throat sore.
It only lasts for a few minutes, but it must have been cathartic for him because as his sobbing begins to subside, his strength returns to him and he gets back to the task at hand.
Between sniffles, the Doctor steadies his hand and makes a couple of incisions on his skin, just wide enough to remove the arrowhead safely. He discards the scalpel and grabs the base of the arrow firmly while using the fingers of his other hand to open the wound a little more. Carefully, he begins to pull, and his eyes squeeze shut and his mouth hangs open in an expression of silent agony. A gasp forces its way out of him when the arrowhead finally comes out, leaving a gaping wound that the Doctor hurries to cover with the gauze he had left at the ready. The arrow falls from the bed, tiny red droplets splattering everywhere as it hits the floor with a clink.
The Doctor exhales in relief, taking a moment to catch his breath before he moves on to the next step. Tears are still streaming down his face, but his expression is not one of grief anymore. A chuckle bubbles to the surface, and a couple of seconds later he's laughing. Whether it is out of relief or because of the madness of the whole situation, I'm not entirely sure, but if I could, I would be crying and laughing with him.
I watch the Doctor as he takes the needle driver and the thread from the tray and begins suturing the wound. He winces every time the needle perforates his skin, but the anaesthetic must have taken effect because the pain seems more bearable than before.
The Doctor lets out a little grunt as he tightens the thread and cuts the excess, then proceeds to cover the wound with a square bandage that he keeps in place with some medical tape. A spot of crimson begins to form on the white bandage, but the worst of the bleeding has stopped now and the Doctor can finally lean back on the bed and relax.
“Remind me not to set foot on that planet for a couple of centuries,” the Doctor says after a little while of silence. Adjusting his position on the bed makes him hiss uncomfortably. “Or a millennium or two.”
I take note of it and deadlock the coordinates in my navigational system. Plenty of other planets for us to visit.
I take one more scan of him and feel relieved at his improving condition. The poison has almost entirely dissipated, and although he's lost some blood, there is no need for a transfusion. He's still fairly weak and he'll need a bit of rest, but I know he doesn't have the patience for it, so I tweak with the lights in the medical bay, lowering their intensity, and raise the temperature just a little to create a warmer atmosphere. The Doctor notices immediately, of course, and a tiny smirk flits over his lips.
“Fine, I'll sleep for a bit,” he murmurs, feigning annoyance. I lower the upper half of the bed for him, allowing him to lie down more comfortably. He smiles fondly again, grateful for the gesture.
“But when I wake up, we're going to… that purplish planet. What was it called?” he trails off, fighting to keep himself awake a little longer and losing that battle. “I want to see the… the…” He’s overcome by a yawn that interrupts both his sentence and his train of thought, and shortly after he drifts into sleep.
The Doctor is not the prettiest sight at the moment: the front of his suit jacket and every layer underneath completely tattered and soaked in red, his abdomen stained with his own blood, his hair more dishevelled than usual, and his face still dampened with tears. But despite his appearance and the recent traumatic experience, his expression remains peaceful as he finally gets some much needed rest.
In a few hours, the Doctor will wake up. He will slip into another suit and hurry back to my control room, running around the console against any medical advice and ready for another adventure.
In the meantime, I watch over him, letting my warmth envelop him – the closest I will ever get to embracing him. I watch over his dreams and let the gentle hums and vibrations of my systems calm him in his sleep – the closest I will ever get to holding him. I accompany him through the night, letting my non-corporeal presence offer the comfort he needs. It's all I can do, and I hope it's enough.