leave me here to die
[ He shoulders the door and it doesn't open so much as nearly crack with the force of an angry Time Lord slamming against it, and the Doctor pays no attention to the battered wood.
It's impossible to. Not when Clara's lying on a bed and the Doctor swears he can feel the life seep out of her, feels an odd chill in the air despite the fact that the temperature might have risen. He's not sure.
It's hard to focus on things like the weather when one of the closest companions you've ever had is sick and likely to die.
He doesn't realize he's shaking--the Doctor swoops in, grabbing her shoulders, paying attention to how fragile she is, suddenly painfully aware of how young even the future Clara is. ]
Clara, hold on. Hold...
[ A hand had gone to clasp hers. There's fabric there, silk, but The Doctor doesn't even have to look at it to realize what it is.