From the moment she collapsed he knew something was wrong.

He didn't mean to get distracted and caught up in the events afterwards. He didn't have much say in the matter. If he had his way, Clara would always be his number one priority, through and through. Looking back, he wishes against reason that he had've fixed her then and there, and let the universe solve its own problems.

But it didn't work out like that. He had lied to himself. He had lied to Clara. He said everything was going to be fine. He'd said she was going to be fine.

Looking at her now, he'd obviously never been so wrong.

This was all wrong. All of it. He couldn't lose her like this – no, he couldn't lose her. Not ever. This couldn't be real.

What he couldn't comprehend (and he didn't think he ever would be able to admit it) is that he'd been slowly losing her all along. Ever since she stepped into his timeline and she collapsed into his arms for the first time.

Now she was barely there at all. It was like looking at the blazing sun and feeling the familiar heat warm your skin but slowly, before you even know what's happening, the fog starts to steam up the horizon until your skin is left cold and you're staring at a blank canvas with only memories to convince you that the warmth of its rays had been real.

Yes, it was like that. But so much worse.

And he couldn't even begin to think what it felt like for Clara.

Chapter One: How It Started

Every time his fears were confirmed, his figurative heart broke a little more, gradually creating a spider web of cracks ready to fall into pieces.

He monitored Clara, secretly, after the events of Trenzalore. Just to make sure she was as healthy and fine as she promised him she was – it's not that he didn't trust her. He didn't want to lose her.

The first few nights on the TARDIS weren't good at all.

Clara was more shaky and jumpy than usual, but otherwise, she appeared to be completely herself. Perfect Clara. He led her to her bed that night and made sure she was comfortable. Her hand lingered on his a fraction of a second longer than it usually would as he went to turn away. Noticing the small gesture, he stopped in his tracks.

"I can stay," he offered, hoping for selfish reasons that she would say yes.

Clara rubbed her eyes tiredly. "I'm fine, Doctor. Really. Stop worrying. I'm fine."

He nodded, not completely convinced but understanding she was exhausted of his fussing. "I'll be down the corridor if you need me."

He left.

But he didn't return to the console room like he said he would. No, definitely not. He sat on the metal ground outside her door, his head leaning against the metallic wall as he stared up at the ceiling. The TARDIS was listening in, he was sure of it. Perhaps it was a sign of how serious their recent situation had been that the TARDIS wasn't teasing them like she usually did, by hiding Clara's bedroom or doing something similar. She was quiet and patient, waiting if the Doctor needed her urgently – a bit like what the Doctor was doing with Clara.

A few hours later he started to hear a shuffling and a muffled sigh from inside Clara's room. The Doctor sat upright and pressed his ear against her door. Was she okay? Was he being too over protective?

It was the hushed and shaky breath that made him open the door.

There was Clara, so small and lost in her bedcovers, crying silently into her hands, while giving her pillow a gripping, desperate hug. The Doctor was by her side in a matter of moments, gently pressing her head against his chest and stroking her hair in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. He was whispering kind words of support as he struggled to hold her together, afraid that if he were to let go, she might drown in her own tears. Her tears were aplenty for such a small thing.

"What's wrong?" he finally whispered. "Do you want to tell me?"

There was a long pause.

"Bad dream," she muttered, burying her face deeper into his waistcoat.

He rested the hand that was stroking her hair onto the small of her back. "It wasn't real, Clara," he reassured her. "It was just a dream."

She pulled away from him at that. Her eyes were rimmed with red and still leaking unending tears. It contrasted harshly against the warm brown. Her lips were slightly parted and her eyebrows raised, as if in an epiphany. "It was, though. A long time ago that dream was real."

For once, the Doctor was lost for words. She was dreaming about her echoes, so it seemed. Doesn't mean anything, the Doctor told himself, it's only natural. No need to look into it.

"It wasn't you, Clara," he attempted, "just remember that. It wasn't you."

She agreed, he could tell by the way her shoulders relaxed and her eyes glanced downwards. "It felt like me. It felt so real. All of it."

"But you're here, okay? You're safe."

"I'm with you," she added. "Not running to you."

He smiled at that. How could he not? His hand brushed against her cheek until she glanced up at him and met his eyes. He was glowing inside; all she needed was a little reassurance. That was all. Nothing else was wrong.

"Yes. You're with me. And nothing, ever again, is going to change that. I promise. You're fine."

A shadow of a smile played on her lips. Her own hand strayed into the air before hovering over his chest where her head once lay. She gently pressed her palm against one of his hearts. "And you're fine?"

It was a question with a hint of insecurity. He pulled her into a tight hug, breathing in her perfume and closing his eyes tightly, completely absorbed in Clara. His hearts raced as he felt her respond and loosely wrap her arms around his waist.

"Yes," he told her, honestly. "I'm fine as long as you're fine, Clara Oswald."

And as he let himself fall into a fake sense of security, that was when he made a major mistake: he believed in his heart over his head.

He stayed with her that night as a guest in her bed. She curled up under his arm with her head resting on his chest, falling asleep to the sound of his double heartbeat. It was the only way he could convince her to get back to sleep. If he was being perfectly honest, however, he was far from complaining. He could never explain why he felt like Clara owned a part of his soul, as if she was paying private rent and when she missed a payment; it was like his world would end. Or why his hearts irrationally fluttered every time she took a step too close. Perhaps there was some sort of humany explanation, but he'd rather live in bliss and enjoy these little moments without an annoying label attached to them.

The Doctor didn't sleep as much as a regular human. In fact, he barely needed to sleep at all. Although, with Clara's warmth against his body and feeling the most comfortable he had felt in years, he could really see how he would fall asleep like this and actually, the more he thought about it, didn't want this moment to end. He could get used to it.

No. He shook himself. No. Such thoughts would not do – this was completely innocent on Clara's behalf. She needed someone and he was there, that was all. It meant nothing more.

To her, at least.

They had a casual day in the TARDIS. Clara woke up and pretended like nothing happened. The Doctor tried to ignore the faint blush on her cheeks when she noticed he had stayed awake all night looking over her. Everything about her was adorable; from the way she tried to slide away from his protective grasp to the little flicker of her eyelids as she looked towards the door. He found that he was staring at her, marvelling in her presence and the very fact that she was still alive. It wasn't until she nodded pointedly to the exit that he realised she was trying to signal for him to leave.

"Do you mind if I get ready? I think I can manage that on my own," she said, light-heartedly.

The Doctor lurched to his feet as if her words had electrocuted him. His arms flailed in the air and he nearly tripped over his feet in his haste. "Yes – yes, of course. I didn't mean – I know what you – yes, I'm leaving. I'll be in the kitchen. Yes, the kitchen. Doing something… kitchen-y."

Once the door was closed behind him, he leaned against the wall to catch his breath. Idiot, he told himself, idiot, idiot, idiot.

Breakfast, he decided. He could make Clara breakfast while he was in the kitchen. Something to wake her up properly and hopefully cheer her up in the process. Everyone loved it when someone made them breakfast. He could already imagine her beaming face and teasing retort when she arrived in the kitchen to find him cooking for her. Yes, that was the trick. This would surely make her better.

With a smile on his lips and an excited bounce in his step, the Doctor headed towards the kitchen, optimism already convincing himself to remain ignorant to the truth.

Clara was more than a little embarrassed when she woke up that morning to find the Doctor still lying in bed beside her. As much as she appreciated and wanted his company, she thought it best if she could get ready as quickly as possible to avoid any further conversation on what had happened last night. She really didn't want to talk about it.

Clara insisted she felt normal this morning. To the Doctor, and to herself. In all honesty, she did. As soon as she was on her own she reached up and stretched her muscles, despite the amount of sleep she got she still felt achy after the events of the previous day. Then she headed to her private bathroom, leaving some clothes on her bed which she could change into after her bath.

When she entered the bathroom everything came to her in a rush. Voices she couldn't recognise, images she couldn't explain and people she couldn't name replayed themselves in front of her eyes. A red mountain, a boy with thick brown hair, a teardrop landing in the dust, a spaceship burning on the horizon, a soft hand pulling her forward and a terrified scream escaping her lips.

No. That wasn't a memory. The scream was real.

She was lying on the bathroom floor, her head in her arms and hunched over in on herself. Warm hands were rubbing her back, muttering her name over and over, doing anything he could to calm her down.

Of course it was the Doctor. Who else?

Her eyes were crying again and she was shaking and she looked up to the Doctor with wide, frightened eyes as the world around her spun in endless circles and she was lost in the motion of the universe, all of her lives dying at once, crying at once, living at once, remembering at once. But which one was she? Who was she?

"I – I was running and his hand slipped – Matthew, his hand, I was holding it and then – then it was gone. Matthew. He l-let g-go. I went back for him, Doctor, I went back for him…" her hands clutched his jacket as her tears mixed with her confusion. "Doctor I… I was…"

How did that sentence end? She stayed quiet, searching. She couldn't read his expression, but then again, she couldn't make sense of anything anymore. Not even herself.

"Clara, Clara, listen to me. Clara." He was desperate. His hands held her head and forced her to look up at him. Were those tears in his eyes? Were they both crying? "That wasn't you. Clara. This is you. Right here. In my arms. Okay? Do you understand? Those memories are not from the real you."

She continued to stare at him, lost in his eyes, but her tears stopped running.

"Do you remember your childhood?" the Doctor prompted, registering her reactions. "Do you remember your first Christmas? Your first love? Your first day at university?"

It took all of Clara's remaining strength to think up the silent answers to these questions. As the Doctor cuddled into her, Clara's mind rationally cleared. Her first Christmas – of course she remembered her first Christmas; she was sitting in between her mother and father in fluffy white booties, unwrapping an ironically large present in her tiny little hands. She held onto that thought and everything in association with it; the smell of the sparkling tinsel, the light kisses pressed to the top of her head, the frost tinting the living room window. That was her. How could she think any differently?

As she closed her eyes and reopened them, the Doctor leaned his head against her forehead. He maintained his grasp on her like she was the most precious thing in the whole world. She was the only mystery worth solving – now she was the only person worth saving.

He watched as Clara's eyes drained away from teary and confused and turned to clear and level-headed. She became aware of her surroundings again, and as she did so, let out a soft laugh as she noticed a stain on the Doctor's waistcoat.

"Doctor, why are you covered in egg and… butter?"

"Breakfast," he answered quickly, in distaste, "I was trying to make us breakfast. But for some reason the eggs wouldn't stay in the saucepan and the toast wouldn't let me butter it. Sorry."

She patted his chest fondly. What would she be without him? "Cereal will do the trick for me."

He smiled and looked down at her. What would she be without him? Living a normal human life without being endangered because of him. The guilt was almost unbearable. But his smile grew anyway, because well, she was Clara. He was the Doctor, and he loved everything about her.

It's only natural, the Doctor told himself as he helped Clara to her unsteady feet, she needs time to heal. After that everything will be like it was.

It had to be. It just had to.

Disclaimer: Doctor Who is not my own, all rights belong to the original sources of the BBC.