A/N: This story was inspired by the minisode 'Clara and the TARDIS' by Steven Moffat and takes place just after the events in the minisode. Hope you enjoy!

The Doctor ran a hand through his hair as he turned into another corridor, a frown set on his face and his eyebrows pulled together. How long had he been searching now? Too long; he was getting irritated and impatient like a schoolboy who had misplaced his favourite toy. She had to be here somewhere, he said to himself. She couldn't just disappear! He'd lost her three times on three different occasions, but when he actually lost her in the TARDIS (which, he had to admit, was becoming more frequent) he thought he might be lost in a maze forever, running around in circles and trying to catch up with someone the TARDIS clearly liked teasing.

Just a week ago, Clara had ran into the Doctor, who was tinkering the underside of the main TARDIS console, complaining that as she had opened her bedroom door a flock of bats swarmed out of her bedroom and started to attack her in a frenzy of wings and claws. It was the TARDIS, she promised him, the TARDIS created these bats and ordered them to attack her on demand and before she knew it they were gone within a blink, as if it had never happened. The Doctor had momentarily left his tinkering to get a better look at her; her hair was messy and haggard, her eyes were wide with shock and anger and her arms were crossed defiantly. He'd told her not to be so silly; the TARDIS can't actually create real living animals. They were probably holograms, a little practical joke; the TARDIS would never purposefully harm her. After that, she had turned to the TARDIS central beam, narrowed her eyes and simply glared – a silent challenge, meaning: bring it on.

Now that he thought about it, perhaps the reason why he couldn't find Clara was because the TARDIS was messing with her again.

"Have you done this?" he shouted towards the ceiling of the corridor. "What have you done to Clara?"

He received a deep rumble in response, almost as if – as if –

"Wait, are you gloating?" the Doctor asked into the air. He slipped his sonic screwdriver back into his coat pocket and pointed an angry finger at the ceiling. "What has she ever done to you, eh? Now, you tell me where she is this instant, or I'll –"

The doors closest to him slid open so quickly that the Doctor was a little bit surprised. He let his hand drop and redirected his gaze to the new opening, muttering a reluctant 'thank you' to his mischievous machine.

The TARDIS had led him to the console room. Everything looked relatively normal as he made his way through the metallic silver threshold and up the small ramp. In fact, Clara was nowhere to be found. He spun around on the spot, hands flailing in the air as his patience started to ware thin.

"I mean it, this is not funny!" he barked at the central beam, his voice gradually rising in pitch. "How do you expect her to like you if you keep teasing her all the time?"

An angry tinkering sounded from the main console. The little colourful buttons in front of him started to flash and whir, as if the TARDIS was telling him off now.

"'Shush'? What do you mean shush?" the Doctor asked in a carried whisper. He trudged his way around the console doing his finest impression of a sulking teenager. As he walked, he almost missed the sight of her altogether. If it wasn't for his eyes fixing upon her blurred reflection on the glass of the central beam, she could've been lying there all night.

But there she was, to the Doctor's amusement, so quiet that he didn't even notice her. Lying on the black TARDIS chair close to the doors was Clara; her feet were propped up on one of the armrests and her head was resting on the other. Her arms were wrapped around herself in an attempt to keep warm with only her baggy grey cardigan to shelter her from the chilly metal of the console room. As she slept soundly, her eyelids fluttered every few minutes and her hair was ruffled and straying across the black leather. As the Doctor stood there, staring, he hadn't noticed before how utterly tiny she was, and so delicate. He leaned against the main console and crossed his arms, unable to help the wide smile from filling his face. A sudden and inexcusable feeling overwhelmed him; he wanted to pick her up and protect her, hold her in his arms and feel her heat warm his hearts. Just as the feeling came, however, he snapped himself out of it and stood up straight, as if the TARDIS has physically shocked him.

Trying to stop his thoughts from going any further (into dark, irretrievable places) the Doctor rounded on his precious machine. "Did you hide her bedroom again?" he whispered as quietly as he could. "You know she hates it when you do that!"

He received no response this time, either way; he wasn't really listening out for one. The Doctor took a few tentative steps towards Clara until he was towering over her. He awkwardly tried to place one arm under her head while his other supported the rest of her weight, but just as he went to lift her, his arms felt like hollow jelly and he had to shake some life into them. Why was he so apprehensive and nervous? This was simple, surely? All he needed to do was lift her up without disturbing her and bring her back to bed.

Yet, his whole insides felt like they where whirling and dancing and mixing together until they formed into some sort of liquid soup. Before he knew it he was pacing up and down, one hand scratching his head and the other crossed over his stomach as he tried to come up with a strategy, a battle plan – his main target was Clara and his mission was to lift her up without waking her and their destination was Clara's bed.

No, no, no. That didn't help at all. His mind kept drifting and dreaming, weaving in and out of rational and reasonable. All he could think about was how his arms would feel around Clara and the piercing slap she would give his left cheek if she ever found him having such thoughts.

But, oh, it really wasn't fair that she had to look so cute.

There was no other way around it. The Doctor couldn't let her sleep here all night. He would just have to bite his irrational nerves and stand up to the job. So, he straightened his bowtie and sprung into action.

He moved her weight into his arms as if she was made of the most delicate and expensive jewels in the entire surrounding galaxies and beyond. To the Doctor, she was. Her sleepy head flopped against his chest, and almost as if she knew what he was doing, she involuntarily cuddled up against him, both of her hands pressing lightly against the desperate thumping of his palpitating hearts. Suddenly, the Doctor forgot how to breathe. Clara was lighter than he expected, and as he held her in his arms, he was overcome with a scent that was so easily identifiable as simply meaning Clara. He let his shoulders relax and a breath escape through his mouth. The Doctor stood there, really not wanting to move, his chin resting on top of Clara's head and enjoying the feeling of her warm hands against both of his hearts. His eyes closed and a smile tugged on his lips; this moment was so perfect. She was so perfect.

He gave himself a mental nudge to wake up again. With slow and tentative steps, the Doctor made his way down the ramp and back into the corridor. The TARDIS, sensing the Doctor's previous disapproval, magically rediscovered where she had hidden Clara's bedroom and led the Doctor in the right direction.

Despite being happy that the TARDIS was playing nicely and not making things needlessly complicated for him, the sheer strength of disappointment he felt in finally reaching Clara's bedroom and having to let her go made a soft pink blush shade his cheeks. Then, once he realised he'd blushed again whilst thinking of Clara, the soft pink turned to embarrassed red and he tried to shake himself out of such thoughts by pushing through her bedroom door.

Clara's bedroom was red, pretty and very well organised. He'd stepped in here a few times before when Clara had needed assistance or had invited him in. Her bed was pushed against the wall and covered in snuggly warm blankets of varying shades of red.

Rather skilfully, if he did think so, the Doctor managed to hold Clara in one arm and pull back the blankets with the other. Regretfully, he placed her as softly as he could manage onto her mattress. As he teased his arms away from her body, Clara made a small noise of protest and her hand ghosted along his chest, leaving the Doctor tingling from her touch.

He stood back and observed her sleeping. The Doctor couldn't help but notice how cold and empty his arms felt without her, and how he now missed the feeling of her head lying against his chest. You never did realise you missed something until you had it once. He felt as if he'd lost a part of him he didn't realise he needed and he'd do anything to experience it again.

But such thoughts were not appropriate, so the Doctor swept them under the carpet. He gently pulled up Clara's duvet and blankets over her sleeping figure, his fingertips lingering a moment too long as he brushed out the creases and caressed her lopsided head.

He literally had to tear himself away, otherwise he would spend all night fighting with himself over what was the right thing to do and what Clara would punch him for later. However, as he made to turn away, a tiny voice escaped from the bed covers.

"Doctor?"

He spun around, his face beaming. His hands clung onto thin air as he struggled to find a good response. "Yes, Clara?"

"Thank you for finding my bedroom," she muttered, her eyes still closed and her hands pulled the covers further up around her. He wasn't even sure she was fully awake.

The Doctor nodded and walked over to her once more. He brushed a strand of hair away from her face, and before he could even process what he was doing, he leaned over and pressed his lips to her forehead. Underneath him, Clara was smugly smiling and breathed out a contented sigh.

"Goodnight, Clara," the Doctor whispered. His hand brushed against her cheek as he pulled away.

Clara turned on her side and snuggled into the pillow. "'Night, Doctor," she murmured.

The Doctor tiptoed towards Clara's door and stopped in the threshold. His insides were overcome by a joyous and tingly sensation he only felt when he was around his impossible girl. His head told him he really should not feel this way, but his figurative heart didn't want him to stop. With one more wistful glance towards Clara, the Doctor slowly shut her bedroom door and leaned against the outside of the doorframe.

He looked up towards the ceiling of the TARDIS, his hazel eyes playful and a smirk shadowing his lips. Unable to keep the blatant appreciation out of his voice, the Doctor said to his TARDIS, "You should do that more often."

Lost in a daydream of Clara and accepting the inexcusable feeling overtaking his entire body which warmed him from the inside, the Doctor fondly patted the metal wall before setting off down the corridor, his mind whirling with a million ideas, each better than the first, of where he could take his Clara next.