Ever since 'The Incident', as the Doctor liked to call it, or 'The Day Clara Can't Remember' as he privately had christened it, he had noticed a massive change in Clara. He had initially thought that her subconscious would stop her from journeying into the belly of the Tardis, but it had instead made her infinitely more curious. She had taken to bringing a ball of string, tied to the main console, wherever she went so as not to get lost, and would often spend days roaming around the depths of his ship, favouring exploring to leaving and journeying into the other worlds he suggested. When he asked her why she was so interested in his ship, she would never tell him truthfully why, but the Doctor suspected that even she did not know. Once the heart of the Tardis had been found, it was hard to resist going back.

What the Doctor, in all his genius, did not know was that often Clara did not spend days exploring, simply sitting in the library in the comfiest green chair by the fire, reading. Sometimes she would read a 26th century children's story book, sometimes she would read a book by her favourite author, only years before anyone else in her time, and sometimes, and only sometimes, she would journey to the deepest part of the library, behind the scrolls from the 1st century, and behind the jars of Galifreyan thoughts, to read the ancient leather bound book, covered in a glass casing, titled simply 'The Time War'. It was written by the Doctor himself, she was certain, and many parts of it were impossible to read as it was written in the Doctor's native language, but she tried her best. Clara found absolutely absorbing. At some points she had to stop, and remind herself how real the whole thing was, and at some points she had to stop because her tears were rolling down her face.

The Doctor flicked on the radio in the Tardis console room, and began waltzing around to the classical tune that began singing out the large speakers, blushing a little as he remembered who had gotten him into the sounds of violins and trumpets merging together so avidly, the same person who was currently abandoning her position as dance partner, and off wandering around in his ship again. The Doctor pouted slightly. Clara was his official dance partner, and he wanted to dance, and he thought bashfully, he missed her. She had been sleeping in a bedroom far away from the console room for 2 nights now, and he had only talked to her by way of walky talky once or twice. Deciding quickly that he wanted to see his beautiful friend; he began following her string, which took him at least 20 minutes before he found himself outside the door of his largest of three libraries.

Deciding against knocking, it was his Tardis, and who had ever heard of knocking to get into a hundred and something floored room of books anyway? He entered the room, and immediately noticed the absence of Clara in the main seating area. He called to her several times, before he heard a squeaked reply of "I'll be there in a minute!", and the sound of bare feet slapping against the cold marble floor on the second level.

Suddenly, the glowy silhouette of his best friend was visible on the balcony overlooking the main area, where he sat in his favourite green chair, appeared, hands on hips. The Doctor gasped a little, the light flattered her, and she looked stunning. Her petite body was engulfed by, he blushed again, one of his knitted jumpers, that, he realised with a start, Amy had made him wear in the cold of Christmas in Alaska, and it was far too big for her, stopping mid-thigh, with the sleeves rolled up and the neckline that was already far too big for him, slipping off her left shoulder. She had no visible bottoms on, but he assumed she was wearing shorts underneath. Her long hair was down and wavy, as opposed to her usual poker straight locks, and her skin looked like it was glowing in the light of the candelabra.

"And what do you think you're doing here, Mister?" she called from her position, raising one perfectly shaped eyebrow.

"I came to see you, Clara; I've not seen you in days!" He cried incredulously. Clara laughed and made her way to the great stairs, before slipping down the banister, which in turn made the Doctor chuckle, she had clearly been practicing that move.

"Did Mister Doctor get all lonely in his bog ol' Tardis?" She asked as she sauntered over to him, running a finger over his slightly pouted lips. "You're in my chair, Doctor," she added, and he stared back defiantly.

"My Tardis, my favourite chair, so I get it." And he poked his tongue out to emphasise his point. Clara raised her eyebrows, and lay on her side on the chaise opposite, her impish face directed towards him, before staring intently at him, as he picked up the book she had been reading. 'Amelia Williams' it said on the front, and the Doctor smiled softly. Of course she would become a famous writer. Of course. "Good book?" he asked.

"The best yet," she replied. "It's ending badly though."

"It is?" The Doctor cocked his head to the side curiously, like a small Labrador puppy. "It's the last in the series," Clara replied, looking at him seriously. "There's no more after this. She dies, the author I mean, two years after she wrote it." Clara watched as a look of despair passed over the man she loved, and she felt her heart ache for him.

"I know you knew her."

"Thought so. Too much of a coincidence for you to love her books as much as you do, and be the person that you are."

"The stories are based on you and her, I'm pretty sure anyway. Emily Parish and John Smith. And Emily's husband."

"The Last Centurion?" Clara smiled softly and nodded. Standing up from her perch on the chaise she went over to the Doctor, took the book out of his hands, and sitting daintily on his knee, wrapped her arms tightly around him. "I'm so sorry for your loss. I cried when she got sent back in time, and I didn't even know her." The Doctor buried his face in her jumper, because let's face it, Clara had claimed it, and felt the ghosts of tears well up in his eyes. "Did you love her?" She asked suddenly.

The Doctor gulped a breath of air before replying, "she was my best friend. I did love her, but now she's gone." Clara nodded. "I thought so."

"Why?" Came the reply. Clara slipped off guiltily from his knee and sat on the small stool opposite him. "Woman's intuition?" she offered, and the Doctor raised his eyebrows, settling back into the plush olive chair, revelling in the heat of the fire, and watching Clara as her eyes gazed at the flames, with tinges of purple and blue, dancing before her. There really was nothing like a good old fashioned fire.

Clara shifted suddenly, wrapping the jumper closer to her body and shivering a little. The Doctor asked if she was cold, and when she admitted that she had showered only minutes before he arrived, and the crisp air that was only mildly heated by the fire was causing goose pimples to appear on her arms, the Doctor shifted in his seat, the chair was large, after all, and patted the area next to him. Clara grabbed a large furry throw from behind the overstuffed couch which was the furthest seat away from the fire, and in the time it had taken her to do so, the Doctor had removed his large coat, waist coat, shoes and bow tie, so he was sitting simply in a pair of trousers and a buttoned down shirt. Deciding not to question it, Clara curled up next to him on the chair, legs thrown over his lap, and head on his chest, throwing the cover swiftly over them, shivering slightly at the magnificent heat it gave out. She closed her eyes listening to the thrum of his dual heartbeats, letting it lull her into a dream like state, and revelling at the feel of his slightly scrawny arms wrapped around her waist, his head tipped downwards so that his lips almost touched the top of her soft hair. If anyone was to come in at that moment, it would certainly look as if they had walked in on two lovers, locked in each other's embrace, closed off from the rest of world.

Suddenly Clara remembered why she had felt guilty earlier.

"It wasn't woman's intuition, Doctor," she mumbled. A reply from the Doctor sounded a little like 'I know', but he sounded as exhausted as she was. She let silence fall for a bit. Focusing only on the sound of the crackling fire, she tried to make herself say what she knew she had to.

"I've been sleeping in your bedroom I saw the corkboard with the pictures of your previous companions and I read a bit of your diary only the recent history bit and I'm sorry doctor don't hate me," she stuttered in a huge rush. The Doctor chuckled softly against her dark tendrils. "I could never hate you, Clara. Why were you sleeping in my bedroom, though?"

Clara sighed in relief. "Good. Well... I'm not sure really. It was the closest one to this library, I suppose, it was one night I was looking for somewhere to sleep and it just sort of appeared... Plus you have a bloody massive bed with about 6 million pillows on it. Why do you even need a bed? I thought Time Lords didn't require sleep?"

"Just because we don't need sleep, doesn't mean we don't want to, sometimes. Like now, it's been a while since I've felt happy enough to sleep, but right now I could just conk out on top of you, my love." The Doctor couldn't resist slipping the nickname in, it felt so natural to say, and Clara felt a rush in her tummy at the sound of his husky, sleepy, voice calling her something so intimate.

"So could I, my Doctor," she replied sweetly, tilting her head upwards to smile at him.

Suddenly, the Doctor seemed to have a rush of adrenaline, as he dipped his head down, only hesitating for a minute, and captured her lips under his. Clara felt breathless, his lips were thin but soft, pressing gently against her fuller ones, before he softly opened his mouth a little, kissing her more deeply. Clara gasped at the feeling of his surprisingly strong arms pulling her up onto his lap, and his large hands staying firmly at her waist, which was not something she could say about her own, as she wandered them up the planes of his chest, across his shoulders and back, before finding their resting place, cupping the back of his neck gently. All of a sudden, it was over, and the Doctor plled back, gasping heavily, his forehead resting against hers. He brought a hand to her cheek and she leaned into his feather light touch as he traced the line of her prominent cheekbone.

"It's been a while, Miss Oswald, so I'm not entirely sure how this all works, but it's safe for me to say that I could be slightly falling in love with you." He whispered. Clara felt her heart swell, and she bit her lip, trying to suppress her beam.

"I think I might possibly maybe most likely will love you too," she stuttered, and they both giggled together, the silence of the library being pierced by the peals of laughter. The Doctor captured her lips for another kiss, both smiling into it.

"Sleep with me tonight," he muttered into her ear as his butterfly kisses trailed their way up her neck and the rush to her tummy was instant. For the first time, the Doctor stammered awkwardly, taking his lips away from her face, which made Clara pout in disappointment, before replying, "Just to sleep! I miss you, I don't think I could leave you tonight, and seeing as you have already made yourself at home in my bed, little miss Clara." He added the last part teasingly. Clara, nodded stifling a yawn, when she felt herself being lifted from the chair, and into the arms of her handsome Doctor. Giving a yelp of indignation, the Doctor quickly shushed her, kissing her gently on the forehead, and allowing her to snuggle into his shoulder, as he began climbing the stairs to his bed chamber, listening to the sleepy mumblings of his beautiful Clara.

"You know Doctor; you shouldn't set the bar so high. I'll expect this every night now."

"Oh, I know you will, Clara."

"You're going to be so whipped."

"I know."