The Doctor slumped on the leather seat, his breath coming in ragged gasps.Fitz stared, unsure what else to say. The hunched shape looked so vulnerable that Fitz wanted to stoop down and hug him until the pain went away, until the shaking stopped and the real Doctor returned.

Fitz couldn’t remember seeing him like this. The Doctor’s pale eyes were normally calm, coolly appraising – or else full of wicked humour. Now, they darted about the compartment, as though frightened, searching for a hidden threat. His damp brown hair was plastered flat against his forehead, matted with blood. Even his clothes, usually so impossibly smart, seemed to be piled around his body like so much discarded laundry. The velvet coat was twisted out of shape, scrunched up beneath his arms, one sleeve angled out awkwardly. There was a rip right down one side of his serge trousers, and all but one of the buttons on his pale cotton waistcoat had torn off. When the Doctor made a vain attempt to straighten his silk scarf, the ghost of a bloody handprint remained on it.

Fitz wanted to just hold him, but he couldn’t. So he stood over him, lamely, his arms dangling uselessly beside his own dirty black trench coat, like a bad actor who doesn’t know what to do with his hands.