.

.

Like always, traveling with the Doctor is not quite what you expect.

Yasmin sticks her head out of the TARDIS's entrance, peering around inquisitively at a gigantic, darkened rooftop in the middle of the night. The city lights and traffic seep down below like a phosphorescence glow. The air here smells like rain and freezing and the smog of exhaust fumes.

"Ah, well," the Doctor voices out, as if slowly realizing her mistake, planting both of her hands on her hips. "Not quite Vienna on the 7th of May, 1824… or was it 1843? I keep mixing those two…"

Graham shakes his head, mouth perking up. "Doesn't look like a grand concert hall to me, Doc."

"I thought we were gonna hear Beethoven perform for the first time in history," Ryan mutters. He watches in downright, mounting confusion as the Doctor struts up a leg and then licks her right index finger, holding it high above her and waiting. As if trying to get a reading of their environment.

"Of course we are!" she declares. Yasmin finds herself smiling widely as the Doctor parades over, clasping Yasmin's hand softly and twirling her in place, and then twirling a nearby and stunned Graham for good measure. "Just got a little sidetracked. Nothing to fuss about." She presents out her sonic screwdriver, gesturing wildly and running for the rooftop's door. "Let's have a peek, shall we?!"

They head inside, marching down a flight of old, steel steps, and then ending up in a hallway. It looks modern with the LED neon-purple and blue lights and the sleek, black carpeting.

Nothing ever seems to unnerve the Doctor though, as she clamors on sneaking into a masquerade ball held by Marie Antoinette — lifetimes ago — and eating her weight in the spiced, candied apples. It's odd. How her pure sense of excitement seems to be contagious and fills Yasmin's diaphragm so quickly with warmth. Or hypnotic. Very hypnotic. In a way, Yasmin hates how obvious she gets around her.

Her own mum, who picked up on Yasmin's bisexuality before Yasmin understood it fully, suspected Yasmin and the Doctor of being in a relationship. Which was not true at all. At least… Yasmin knew that, and the Doctor only appeared faintly intrigued and disappointed. How can… that be right…?

After throwing open enough doors, one of the Doctor's hands grips around a knob and thrusts, revealing stage lights and glittering confetti flying about, sparkling silvery-white in the purples and blues.

"Oi, that's definitely not looking like a concert hall," Graham points out, belly-laughing.

Yasmin blinks. They're all humans, bouncing on their toes to the bass of the music and grinding together. Modern age? Has to be. There's only one time period that has dubstep this loud. "I haven't been to one of these since my best friend's stag," Ryan mumbles, glancing over the Doctor's shoulder.

But there's something odd going on. The Doctor hasn't moved away from the entrance-way leading to the club, frozen unmistakably in place, the light and color of her hazel eyes dulled out.

"Doctor?" Yasmin speaks up, approaching her and touching her elbow. "Doctor, what is it?"

That's when the other woman silently collapses onto the floor, going tense and rigid.

"DOCTOR!"

Her own voice rips out of Yasmin, trembling and screaming out. She drops down to her knees beside the Doctor, screaming again high-pitched, involuntary, and clapping her hands firmly over her opened, gaping mouth. The Doctor starts convulsing, her facial muscles twitching uncontrollably, her neck and her arms and legs. Graham reaches for her and Ryan snatches onto one of his wrists. "Hold it, don't," he tells Graham. "Don't move her around. You could hurt her if you try to. She needs to ride this out."

A low, muffled sob escapes Yasmin's lips. She squeezes her eyes shut, bowing over herself, as Ryan monitors the Doctor's convulsions and how a little amount of foaming, whitish drool leaks from the corners of her mouth. Graham hurries back onto his feet, slamming the entrance-door closed.

"Once she's stopped, we can move her back to the TARDIS."

Ryan sounds so calm. How can he be so bloody damn calm about—? Yasmin lowers her hands, staring in a horrified awe as the Doctor finally goes motionless, breathing shallowly and paler than before.

"Alright, gently—" Graham orders, waiting for Ryan to half-lift their friend. "All together—"

All together. That's right. They're all supposed to be helping each other while traveling. Yasmin's police training kicks in, and she joins Graham's side, hoisting the Doctor up into their arms and maneuvering back towards the flight of stairs. So, so slowly, Yasmin shuffles towards the rooftop with their precious cargo, barely noticing as the TARDIS' doors pop open by themselves, giving them more room to duck inside.

She does hear the frantic beeps and bloops and whirring, from the console and echoing from all sides of them. One of the corridors light up, urgently flickering in and out of existence, and Yas guesses this is where the TARDIS wants them to put the Doctor. It — she's alive, after all.

There's nothing special about the room: a single bed near the far wall, a desk and a chair. But unlike the control-room of the TARDIS, Yasmin can't identify any of the elaborate, alien-like designs.

Blank and pale-glowing walls.

Graham checks over the Doctor, working her heather blue jacket-sleeve up her forearm and pressing two fingers sturdily over her left wrist. "I've got a pulse," he announces. Yasmin does the same thing on the Doctor's right wrist, listening carefully, and not for her own heartbeat pounding within her skull.

"… I can hear the other."

"Thank goodness," Ryan mutters, scrubbing his palms frantically over his face.

She doesn't feel very thankful. Not at all. Blood dribbles out of the Doctor's ear canals, beginning to dry up. Yasmin falls to her knees again, feeling more helpless than ever, exhaling and knuckling against the siding on the bed harshly. Her eyes gathering quickly with hot, unshed tears.

Ryan takes a deep breath, nodding. "She's gonna be alright, Yasmin. She's the Doctor."

"You know what… I think we need more blankets," Graham says abruptly, taking eye-contact with Ryan and jerking his chin, wordlessly asking him to follow out. "We need to… get some more right now."

They mutter to each other, arguing, exiting without their companion overhearing.

How could this be real?

Yasmin gulps down the lump in her throat, apprehensively eyeing the other woman lying down and stroking her fingertips briefly over the soft, warm curve of the Doctor's jaw. As if it's enough to wake her, the Doctor gasps quietly and seems to clench up every muscle in her upper body, eyelids fluttering apart.

"Doctor?"

"Rory… …?" Yasmin frowns, properly confused as the Doctor looks at her as if seeing someone else. The fog vanishes from those big, hazel eyes. "Nnn… not Rory," the Doctor adds, slurring and pleasantly humming. There's even a teeny, fond smile appearing on her lips. "Yas. Hi, Yas."

"Hi?" she repeats, outraged. There's no more warmth inside Yasmin's. "You had a seizure and nearly…"

Nearly lost you.

A hissing, agonized noise. The Doctor grimaces, pushing her hands against her temples, suffering thorough whatever it is affecting her that Yasmin can't fix. And she hates that.

"What happened? One minute you were fine—"

"—and the next I became unresponsive?" the Doctor concludes, breathing heavily, trying to come off as lighthearted. She's sweaty and turning flushed, and Yasmin rubs against the Doctor's shoulder comfortingly. "Yeh, it will happen when encountering low frequency waves. Complete rubbish. I don't like it."

A thin run of scarlet fluid escapes out of the Doctor's nose. She sniffles, and Yasmin does it without thinking, cradling the back of the Doctor's head when the other woman groans and dabs the blood off.

"You scared the daylights out of all of us," Yasmin murmurs.

"Mm'sorry."

Somehow that feels infuriating that the Doctor says this in a thickened, weak voice, smiling again. Gazing over Yasmin like she's the precious one to the whole universe. The one who could never be lost.

"Don't be sorry about it, just…" Yasmin huffs, wiping furiously under her dark, teary eyes. "Don't ever do that to me again, alright…" she says, accepting the handhold as the Doctor gathers Yasmin's fingers into her own, playing with them with gentle intent, holding them securely against her.

"… … I promise, Yas."

(Call it a hunch, but she doesn't think the Doctor keeps her promises. Not always.)

(Like always.)

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Doctor Who isn't mine. Okay so this idea is based on a theory I saw a while back about the Doctor's sensitive ears and how they do well with high frequency noises but someone thought the opposite happened with low frequency like especially bass/dubstep. And I love whump. I had to try this out. MMMMM. I FINALLY GOT TO WRITE THASMIN. I AM OVERJOYED. IT IS SO GOOD. I do not give a single eff about if it is endgame or not,,,, I just wanna bask in my emotions and my gayness and in their softness. you love them too, holler at me! Are you enjoying this season? What do you love about them? And also, if you got a comment or two about the fic, I would absolutely love to hear it! :) You know,,, who doesn't love validation?