A/N: Takes place between Name of the Doctor and Time of the Doctor. I drew heavily on lonelyoldtardis's "Dear Doctor" from her project Making the perfect Whoufflé: one shots. I suggest reading that, because it's REALLY good. While writing I listened to a lot of music, but a majority of the time I was listening to Young and Beautiful by Lana Del Rey, Habits (Stay High) by Tove Lo, or Worn by Tenth Avenue North. I felt these songs really captured the tone I wanted (especially Young and Beautiful) so I listened to them obsessively while writing. The video above is by luthiens and is AWESOME. Anyway, please vote, comment, and above all, enjoy!!

Clara sat cross-legged on the carpet floor, staring dully at the wall. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying and lack of sleep; her throat raw from screams, silent so the neighbors wouldn't hear. Her mind was numb. Empty. The pain had been with her for so long it no longer felt foreign. The tears that constantly coated her face felt familiar, the warmth they brought to her cheeks almost welcome against the constant coldness that enveloped her.

Her whole body, frail from lack of food, was constantly wracked with shaking fits, where she couldn't stop trembling. A dull ache lay in her stomach. She didn't sleep, just lay, staring at the wall, trying to get warm. She could barely stand, weak from hunger. She had long ago quit her job, knowing she could never go to work in the state she was in.

The Doctor hadn't returned since he had dropped her off at her request those few weeks ago. They already felt like months. Her TARDIS key lay forgotten on the kitchen counter.

Her arms were covered in slashes from where she was cut herself, desperately trying to feel something that wasn't numb, even if it was more pain.

She sat now, staring at the wall that was blank like her thoughts. The cool metal of a gun, borrowed from a friend (who had never suspected what her intention was), pressed against her palm. A note, written just a few minutes earlier lay beside her:

Doctor, I don't know if you'll ever find this, if you'll ever come back to find me. I hope you do. I hope you know that your Impossible Girl died like all her echoes before, and after her. Yet instead of dying to save you, as so many of them did, I died to save myself. To save myself from the pain that has made its home in my heart.

But please, don't remember me this way, broken as I am. Remember me as the girl whose doorstep you turned up on, dressed as a monk. Remember me as the girl who you would pick up every Wednesday and whirl away into the stars. The one who scattered herself through your time stream to save you, though she knew she would die in the process. Remember me as Clara, your Impossible Girl.

Run you Clever Boy, and remember me.

-Clara Oswald

Clara's fingers twitched slightly on the gun handle, and she gritted her teeth, preparing for the tremors that would soon seize her. They were quick in passing, but violent none the less. She sat, hunched over, gasping for air. Hearing nothing but the pounding in her ears.

Her mind had so effectively blocked out all her surroundings that she never heard the faint vworping coming from outside, nor the pounding footsteps on the stairs or the sound of her door being thrown open, and only faintly registered the sound of her name being frantically called.

As the pain passed, Clara raised the gun to her temple, her fingers tightening on the trigger.

Someone was suddenly on their knees by her side and her hand was wrenched aside. Her fingers reflexively pulled the trigger and she jumped as the gun went off, a bullet burying itself on the wall.

Gasping, Clara turned her attention to The Doctor, who knelt by her side, gripping her arm, hands already covered in the blood that poured from fresh cuts.

"No," Clara choked, her voice hoarse, "Just this once, you could've let me die. Just this once."

"No, I couldn't." He whispered back, catching her in his arms as she collapsed, exhaustion and blood loss overcoming her.

He gently lifted her, carrying her fragile body down the stairs, out the door and into the TARDIS, setting her down on a bed with infinite care. He found bandages and bound her arms with them, cursing himself for ever letting her inflict this kind of damage on herself.

***

The rest of that day she slept and he sat on a chair by the far side of the bed, fiddling with his screwdriver as he watched over her.

As night came she woke in fits, feverish from malnutrition and dehydration. He managed to get some broth into her, having heard that was a cute for all ailments. He paced, worrying for her. She muttered in her sleep, sometimes crying out for him. He'd rush to her side whenever she did, gripping her small hand in both of his. But every time she merely lapsed into more mutterings and he'd press his lips to the back of her hand or her forehead and resume his pacing.

After hours of this she fell into a deeper sleep and The Doctor excused himself to warm more broth for when she woke. But when he came back, bowl in hand, the bed was empty.

Clara was gone.