Clara had developed the most bizarre habit of falling asleep in the most random of places. It had started a week after Trenzalore. The more often he stumbled upon her perched somewhere she ought not to be, slumbering the deep sleep of the REM paralyzed unconscious, the more troubled he was becoming at her behavior. And, even more troubled that he thought the TARDIS might have a something to do with it.

The first time he found her seemed unassuming enough— asleep on one of the oversized lounges in the library, nestled into a pile of pillows, spooning one almost as for dear life—and, the first time, he found it rather endearing and adorable. Already in her pajamas—a thin, soft nightgown that looked more like a flimsy dress. Her hair fell messily into her face, and the expression made by her cheeks and lips mushed up against the pillow would have been mortifying to her, but, the Doctor simply smiled, utterly enraptured. Approaching her quietly, he gently tugged the pillow out of her arms, causing her to shift absently, and contort into another position. Sliding his arms under the small of her back and the bend in her knees, he carried her back to her bedroom, tucked her in, and shook his head amusingly at his Impossible Girl. Returning to the library, the Doctor found he had forgotten his purpose for coming there at all.

The next time was a bit stranger. Rolling up the sleeves of his blue shirt, he descended the steps to the underside of the console to fiddle with something that more than likely needed no fiddling, and found her slouched into his mechanic's swing. Feet dangling as her petite frame could not quite reach the ground, and her head resting against the hinges and straps from which it was suspended. Tangled and loosened wire dangled around her like mechanical vines. How she had managed to sneak past him in the console room, he had to clue—leading to the beginning of theories and speculations that Clara and Sexy were conspiring against him. But, that was absurd, right? After what Clara had been through—been through for him, he reminded himself sadly- she had every right to be having a few erratic behaviors as she worked through her demons and nightmares. Once again, he scooped her up, prying her little hands from where they clung to the straps.

It was a marvel to him how small and light she felt in his arms. How a spirit as extraordinary and tremendous as hers could be constrained in such a diminutive package was a source of wonder to him. Not that he would dare say that to her—Clara always got tetchy when he made short cracks, no mater how funny and accurate they were- overly sensitive in his opinion. Things could be worse—she could have been over a millennia old, yet stuck with the face of twelve year old.

Depositing her for the second night in her room, he drew down the sheets, and she stirred in his arms as he placed her in bed. Turning in towards his arms, she adhered herself to his chest, fists gripping the fabric of his shirt, making it damn near impossible to extricate himself from her grip. Not knowing what else to do, he placed her on the bed, maneuvering himself out from her embrace in an awkward dance. But, he lingered this time, slowly drawing the sheets up over her slight frame, and after a few moments of contemplation, he dropped a chaste kiss on the crown of her head. It made him blush, and he jumped back pensively expecting to see that "just what do you think you're doing" look she expressed with down turned brows and a quirk on her lips. So, when she did not stir, he took his leave before further testing is luck, and returned to fiddle with the… what the hell was he going to fiddle with again?

Another day, another adventure— that's what the doctor ordered. And, getting back to the the old routine seemed to be the remedy Clara called for to sooth her troubled mind.

After a quick excursion, Clara did seem to find peace, at least for a couple of days. She would stretch and yawn, making a show of it that she was off to bed, and disappear down the hall to, as he had always previously assumed, her own room. Once she had drifted off to sleep, he would slip inside to check on her, happy to find her in her own bed, and not say, on the top of the kitchen table, where he unbeknownst to him, he would find her in a couple days. But, for these days of relative peace, he would scoot over the chair that sat nearby, taking her hand and gently brushing his thumb across her knuckles, resting his own eyes in the dim light of the TARDIS, listening to the sound of both his girls breathing. The passive, repetitive sounds lulled him into a immovable trance—not sleeping, mind you, not when there were important things to be done, like watch out for Clara. Who knows where she might end up? For all he knew, the TARDIS was being mean, and switching her room while she was sleeping. The audible indignant sigh of the TARDIS huffed at his accusations.

Then there was the day he found her passed out on the kitchen table, arm wrapped around the empty bowl in which she usually mixed her soufflé catastrophes. The next day, he found her sprawled out on the stairs of the wardrobe, wrapped tightly in his green trench coat, using the striped scarf from his fourth regeneration as a pillow. He had taken her back, as always, and sat with her the rest of that night and the next without incident. But, the day he had to draw the line was the day he happened to pass the swimming pool, and catching movement out of the corner of his eyes, backtracked a few slow steps, disbelief marring his face, to find Clara floating by on an inflatable red mat, still in her nightgown, and somehow completely dry despite being dead to the world.

Enough was enough. Something had to be done, and the Doctor was determined to get to the bottom this.

A/N: Thought of this today while I was trying to take a nap. Here I am, not even finished with my first fanfiction, and starting another. Geesh. I'm not sure where this is going yet, but this was too fantastic to not post. We'll see what happens, I guess.

Also, I'm not Steven Moffat, so I do not own these characters, unfortunately... but then again, I also don't profit from the emotional torment of my devoted fans. So, ya'know, upside.