The Doctor wasn't good with people - not really. He was immensely fond of them and usually wanted to offer comfort when he recognized that it was needed, but the subtle nuances of human behavior escaped him. So, when he heard Fred getting ill in the other room, he got up to investigate. How could he not? He just wasn't sure what to do. Would she be more comfortable if he were or weren't in the room? Should he put a hand on her back until the illness passed? What were the proper actions in this sort of situation?
In the end, he decided to lurk in the doorway to the bathroom, uncertain but nearby in case an answer presented itself.
"The drugs." It was more of a statement than a question; the Doctor wasn't trained in human medicine, but it wasn't hard to to make a reasoned guess. "No, you're not dead - do you need water?"
He'd found proper clothes. No bowtie, just the corduroy trousers and tee-shirts left behind by the previous occupants of their hiding place. In them, he looked even younger than he did in tweed and button-downs. He crossed his arms over his chest and a look of concern spread across his face.
"I let you sleep. It's been less than a day - the medication may not yet be out of your system."