The Curse of the Frengalian Fungus.

My very first Doctor Who fanfic 'Feverish' featured a nasty virus called the Frengalian Flu. Sadly humans are immune so I had to find something else with which to infect Clara for this story… so it seemed appropriate that the Fungus come from the same planet. Please note this isn't a sequel or a prequel, more of a reworking of the same idea

Day One. Approx. Four Hours Since Infection.

He knew he shouldn't have taken her to that planet. Oh how many thoughts relating to Clara had started with those words? But sneaking a look at her now, curled somewhat uncomfortably at the end of one elegant library couch he was even more certain it had been a mistake. He lowered his book a fraction more and watched her chew her lower lip, a tiny frown developing between her brows. She wriggled and briefly shut her eyes before quite purposefully flexing the spine of her book and forcing her attention to it again.

She was definitely infected. Maybe. Probably. Or she could just be uncomfortable. Maybe she had a cramp.

She shut her eyes again and pressed her lips together hard, unfurled her legs from under her and tried crossing them, shifted in the seat just a little too firmly.

No, she was infected.

He lifted the book again to cover his face and tried to think what to do. Maybe, this being Clara, her superior powers of control freakishness would stop the infection in its tracks. No mere spores could tell Clara Oswald how to behave. Maybe it would be fine. She'd just… ride it out.

An image crossed his mind. Something to do with Clara and riding. He felt a bit warm.

Was he infected too?

No, it hadn't reached him. Had it?

The Doctor thought back to that afternoon's trip. Clara, keen to brighten up her room on the TARDIS had insisted he take her to some sort of intergalactic garden centre to pick some flowers and potted herbs. Some for her bedroom, some for the kitchen so she could experiment with more cooking. With nothing else planned and no impending wars, disasters or aliens to distract them, he had agreed, touching down a little while later on Julient III, an arboretum of a planet from pole to pole, rich in many millions of imported and home grown plants shrubs and trees, exotic flowers and strange water flora. Bright colours and pleasant smells had her intoxicated and he had to admit he was slightly intoxicated by her smile as she plucked samples of vegetation and took cuttings for posterity.

He just hadn't meant for her to get actually…well… intoxicated.

He should have spotted it.

It was bright blue, he didn't really have an excuse for not spotting it. Unfortunately however Clara spotted it first.

'What's that?!' she exclaimed, eyes wide, one arm full of her floral bundle and the other outstretched in the direction of the gigantic blue mushroom. At least three foot high and just as wide it stood to almost chest height on her, its umbrella shaped dome gently pulsing and on top of it a round red sphere the size of a football which resembled a cherry on a bakewell tart. It was a ridiculous looking plant and he knew immediately what it was.

He should have stopped her then. He had a few seconds where he could have but he hung back just a fraction too long. Doctor Idiot. He knew the consequences. If he had had any kind of sense he would have stopped her then before…

'Look at this!' she prodded the red balloon and it contracted away from her, 'isn't it funny, it looks like its breathing. Is it breathing? I mean is it a sentient mushroom…? Oh!'

Too late.

The bladdery sphere having shrunk back into the dome of the blue fungus suddenly erupted outwards again and sprayed Clara with a clear viscous liquid infused with tiny golden particles.

Well when he thought about it, it more spurted. But he couldn't use the word spurted in a sentence with words like 'over' and 'Clara' because it made him feel a bit funny. So he stuck with sprayed. It sprayed Clara with its… liquid… and she leapt backwards, her flowers and herbs flying from her arms and scattering around her. Quickly she wiped her face in horror with both hands.

'Oh my God! Oh my God!' she cried, 'It… it…. Did you see that?'

'Umm.'

'That's disgusting… that…' she paused and ran her tongue over her lips and he stared at her in horror.

'Clara! No!'

'It's quite nice actually. Sort of sweet and tangy. Is it like nectar?'

He remembered shutting his eyes in a mixture of resigned despair and another emotion he didn't want to acknowledge.

'Sort of…' he said non-comittally.

'What's the matter with you?' I'm the one with the alien goop over my face.'

He looked at her and swallowed. 'Yes… um… right well we'd better head back.'

But Clara had rallied. 'Oh I'll be fine, worse things have happened when we're visiting places, I'll just wipe it off and then we can…'

'No, no I think we should go,' he replied more firmly, 'Let you wash it off properly.'

'A bit of goop doesn't usually offend you so much,' she teased. 'You were covered in digested human inside that dalek and you just sonicked it off and carried it on. What's the big deal? Sonic me. Or I'll just wipe it on my cardi… I can get a new one…'

'No. I mean… well it…' he thought quickly and decided prudish was the way to go, 'It's unsightly Clara, I can't take you into the market looking like that, what will people think?'

She'd rolled her eyes at him but he'd persuaded her to return to the ship, deep down she did like to be clean and orderly, so they'd returned. And then he'd instructed the TARDIS to lock the doors and keep her safe until he could be sure that any effects from the fungus had passed. He didn't want any of the alien garden centre employees or indeed clientele seeing her so… indisposed. They might try to take advantage and that made him feel… well it wasn't a feeling he dealt with very well.

He really thought she might have got away with it though when three hours later she'd looked perfectly normal, peacefully reading in the library after an uneventful shared meal. He really thought she might have some incredible immunity to the spores that he'd never come across before. But that was at least an hour ago and a lot can happen in sixty minutes.

Was she really infected…?

He looked over the edge of his book again just to check. Maybe he'd imagined it. Maybe she was fine.

Clara's profile was visible against the warmth of the fire, all long lashes and arched brows and funny little nose.

And parted lips.

And flushed cheeks.

She suddenly shut her eyes and made a tiny little noise in her throat.

Oh dear.

'Clara? Are you alright?' he ventured.

She snapped her book shut and looked up at him startled.

'Yes, fine,' she squeaked.

'You just seem a bit… tense.'

'Tense? Who's tense? I'm not tense,' she rushed. They held each other's gaze for a moment and he watched as her chest rose and fell more rapidly than usual. She was the first to look away, shifting again in her seat and staring at the fire intently. If he listened he was sure he'd hear her heartbeat escalating.

'You're a bit on edge,' he observed.

'No I'm not... I'm fine,' she growled. 'Relaxed even.' There was just the faintest hint of hysteria in her voice now.

'OK,' he said quietly and went back to his reading. He kept half an eye on her subtly wriggling form and after a few minutes it seemed she couldn't stand it anymore. She stood suddenly, casting a wary eye in his direction. He declined to react and was aware of her opening her mouth to say something, make some excuse and leave. He decided it best not to acknowledge her awkward stance or flushed cheeks or look at her in any lingering manner for the sake of her increasing embarrassment.

'I'm having an early night,' she said finally, quickly.

'Sleep well,' he said and she was out of the door.

The Doctor leaned back in his seat. Poor Clara. So began literally days of torturous sexual arousal thanks to the Frengalian Fungus. He'd been infected once himself before many centuries ago when he had naively stumbled across the interesting looking plant and been caught unawares by its sporing reflex. He too had been drenched in what Clara had described as its 'nectar' and remembered the sweet tangy taste she had described only too well. He'd got quite the mouthful of it.

He also remembered the week that followed and the constant litany of inappropriate thoughts that went through his head. The almost non stop erotic desire and the severe case of priapism which had meant he was trapped on board the TARDIS for the entire seven days. He knew exactly what she was about to go through, exactly what she was going through now. The confusion as to where the feelings were coming from, the shock at the intrusive sexual thoughts about people she would never otherwise have considered attractive, the way her body would feel totally beyond her own control and her compulsion to relieve the ever present tension in her…

The Doctor stopped mid thought. Gods. He'd been stuck in his room for a week doing that. Now she was stuck in her room doing the same. She was in there now. He mustn't think about it, it was none of his business. She was infected, it wasn't her fault, she'd be horribly embarrassed if she thought he knew. He made an internal vow not to let on. As far as he was concerned she was unwell in there and with gentlemanly understanding he would leave her be until the symptoms passed and not make her feel any worse about her tumultuous hormones and overpowering arousal.

He lifted his book and read a few sentences.

The memory of her tiny frown and the little sound she had made prodded at his consciousness.

He chewed his lip as she had.

Stop that.

He got up and left the library, he needed distracting. He should find something to occupy his time while Clara was indisposed. He was sure he could find an upgrade to install or a piece of complex equipment to repair somewhere in the bowels of the ship. He would focus his mind and the days would pass more easily.

Half way down the corridor to the control room a sound stopped him in his tracks. He glanced to his left and found the door to Clara's bed room, a door which had previously been situated much further down the passage but which the TARDIS seemed to have helpfully moved to block his way. He was about to chide her when the sound came again. A very distinct, feminine and very needy moan.

It shot though his body like electricity. His mouth opened of its own accord and hesitantly he placed a hand on the door, leaning in to listen just a little closer. He kidded himself it was out of concern.

There it was again. Long, low, pleasurable. The charged tingle in his belly dipped lower in response to it. He tried to pull away from the door, leave her in peace, but something held him still.

'Ohh…'

He shut his eyes.

'Yes… just there…. Ohhh that's so good.'

Gods she really was doing what he thought she was doing. He shouldn't be listening. This was a terrible breach of trust. He should walk away right now.

'Doctor….'

His eyes flew open and he leapt back from the door half expecting her to be standing there scowling at him. It took a second to realise she hadn't discovered him listening at all but rather was still inside the room, still doing what she was doing… and saying his name. There had to be some mistake. This was the Fungus. He was the nearest male of any half compatible species so the spores had focused her attention on him. Poor Clara, she'd be mortified when this wore off, just mortified.

He stood fidgeting outside the door.

'Oh Doctor,' her voice sounded more urgent now, 'Oh God, please, I need you... Oh… I'm close…'

He felt a fluttering below the belt of his trousers and a tight sensation, an ache building steadily into a throb. He shoved his hands in his pockets and bit his lip. He rocked on his heels a couple of times and then began pushing one hand through his hair in agitation. He could still hear her behind the door, her excitement quite clearly peaking and his name still falling from her lips. His heartbeats tripled and he felt heat come to his cheeks. He wanted to leave but couldn't, he wanted to go in there but he wouldn't dare. He was absolutely stuck.

Behind the door Clara's climax hit her and she let out a sudden cry. For a moment he stood transfixed, lips parted, his tongue poised between them and then as her moans settled again he caught himself, his breath a little ragged and his arousal uncomfortable. If she was to open the door now and come out of the room what on Gallifrey would she think?

He turned and scuttled down the corridor, no longer in the direction of the console room but towards his own private quarters.