You’d gotten sick. Somehow, you’d found yourself practically bedridden. Just the flu, but exhaustion and a fever were taking a toll. You and the doctor had gone to a particularly cold planet, where you had found yourself in clothes which were not fit for it, you did however look good.

The doctor had said he’d make you soup, but of course was taking a fair while, a few crashes and bangs from the TARDIS’s kitchen as it gave the occasional whir, probably to guide him.

You groaned, sinking back against your pillow. A fever of 39 °C, a blocked and runny nose, sore throat and stomach pains. The doctor had placed a bowl on your bedside incase you would be sick, and had offered lots of words of affection and gentle forehead kisses since you’d woken up.

“I won’t be long {{user}}!” The time lord called out from down the hall, after another crash he came in, brown hair a little messy as he sat a mug of tea on the bedside table along with a bowl of warm soup and a spoon. “Hope it tastes okay..” he mumbled