Mister Tyler needs a Doctor- RL
On his bed, Sam Tyler shivered; he felt like he was burning up with fever, but the sweat that dotted his forehead and stained the collar of his vest was cold and clammy. He hiked the blanket up further around his shoulders, hunching over the incongruous silver laptop that sat before him. Typing was an effort, with the way his fingers shook, and
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So he landed in what he hoped was a corner of Sam's flat and pulled open the door, leaning against it for a brief moment. "Hello," he said quietly.
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The TARDIS was parked neatly next to the bed, in some of the only clear floorspace Sam had in his flat, and there was the Doctor. He leaned against the doorjamb of his ship, pinstripes and coat and mad hair and all of it. Sam felt like laughing again, but he held himself back.
'Doctor,' he managed, his breath leaving him in a huff at the end of the word. 'You really here, or 'm I hallucinating again?'
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He stepped towards the bed and sat down on the edge. "How have you been holding up, then? Feeling any better...?" He hazarded a guess, looking at Sam's face, and then his own face fell. "Or feeling worse I suppose, though I hope not."
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'Been better. Keep seeing things- everything started going in slow motion a while back, but-'
He cut himself off with a little grunt of breath as his left arm snapped up again.
Enough, enough, enough, enough-
Sam looked back up at the Doctor, grimacing faintly. 'Well.'
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"Do you mind if I have a look?" he said, trying to keep his tone light.
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Time Lord body temperature he remembered vaguely, fighting back the urge to laugh again, 15 degrees Celsius.
The faint whisper of touch was soothing, though; or at least, it carried the potential to be soothing, and Sam gave a curt nod.
'No, go ahead. Please.'
Uncertainly, he looked from the Doctor's eyes to what he could see of his hands, not sure quite what to expect.
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"If there's anything that you don't want me to see, Sam, just imagine a door and close it," he said, voice calm, not wanting to startle him by speaking directly into Sam's mind. "I won't look, promise."
He continued to gently look through his mind, searching for the source of Sam's problem. One thing was for sure, there'd been some cowboys in here and no mistake.
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'Now that is weird,' he muttered faintly.
Anything he didn't want the Doctor to see... that night with Gene sprang to mind, and everything that had followed. A solid door sprang up in his mind, a lock appearing at its latch- a proper, 21st century sort of lock. Not that he was ashamed of what had happened, but he'd rather not have anyone rifling through it at the moment.
The Doctor's eyes were closed in an expression of great concentration, but Sam couldn't quite bring himself to shut his own. So he watched, wary, as the Doctor sifted through his memories.
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The Doctor passed the locked door with curiosity - because really, it was him, how could he not be curious? - but, true to his word, didn't touch it.
What he was looking for wasn't anything specific as such; more a sense of something that had been tampered with, something that shouldn't be there that was, something that was out of place. It wasn't long before he found it. All those little neurotransmitters, or the impression of them, at any rate. It was almost enough to make him feel a little dizzy.
"Right," he muttered. "This might take a minute or so..."
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'Fine,' he murmured, his voice quiet and strained. ''M in no hurry.'
Of course, that wasn't entirely truthful, but he rather felt it was probably best not to rush him. Sam could feel him, peering through his mind, like cool hands turning the pages of a book, careful and delicate. He didn't exactly like to think what might happen if he gave the Doctor cause to be less than delicate.
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What he could do was diminish their effect slightly. Enough so that Sam's muscles would stop spasming and that his surroundings wouldn't move, at least. The headaches Sam would have to deal with himself.
His expression of concentration deepened as he pushed against the neurotransmitters, willing them to turn off, to stop affecting Sam. He just hoped it would work.
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'Doctor...' he muttered, though his voice was barely a breath.
((OOC: failtag is fail))
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If his voice remained somewhat strained, it was now hardened by an edge of adamant. There was no way Sam was going to be this close to getting better- even if it was only from something temporary, a lesser malady than the bloody coma he was stuck in- and then turn his chance at help away. The sooner this was done with, the sooner he could get back to work, and the sooner he could wake up.
He shook his head faintly. 'No. Please, Doctor; go on.'
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He closed his eyes again and explained what he was doing; he thought it would provide a welcome distraction for Sam at least. "I can't erase the effect of the neurotransmitters completely, but what I can do is remove most of the worst effects. The bed moving, seeing people in your telly, that sort of thing. Hang on."
He gave it one last push, feeling the buzz of the transmitters die down gradually until it was more like an echo, or a whisper from far away in Sam's mind.
He opened his eyes and smiled. "How's that? Any better?"
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The feeling of pushing intensified for a moment, and Sam's jaw clenched, until very suddenly, whatever the Doctor was pushing against seemed to give, and Sam blinked ( ... )
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