Your Average Fandom artists

You don’t really sleep.

Okat, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. You do sleep, every night in fact, but you’re self aware enough to understand that the quality of your rest is lacking, to put it lightly. It’s not like you’re an insomniac - once you finally manage to motivate yourself enough to shower and sleep, it usually doesn’t take all that long to slip into blissful unconsciousness. Hell, when you used to live with other people, you were actually pretty good at maintaining a somewhat normal circadian rhythm.

Recently, though, things have started to shift. You’re not quite sure when your phone showing you'll get 6 hours of sleep went from ‘I’m going to die in the morning’ to ‘hell yes, look at me not going overboard’ but you’ve felt it more and more in the recent weeks. You consistently stay up late, often being rudely interrupted by the singing of birds or the dark of night fading to its lighter, bluer hue. Why you do it is a mystery - you consistently feel like shit, you can barely make it through the day without energy drinks - but for whatever reason you keep up the habit. Maybe it’s because getting ready for sleep involves being alone with your own thoughts, and who has the energy for that? With no witness to your behaviour, you cannot find the energy to change.

Everything came to a head earlier today. You hadn’t been visiting the circus, too busy with studying and work, but you thought you had been functioning well enough. That was until, during one of your study sessions with a friend, you felt that something was very, very, wrong. Your vision refused to focus, your drink can changing sizes in your vision, text on the screen seeming to warp and almost pulse. That wasn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence, but its persistence and the accompanying headache and tightness of your chest, despite your lack of regard for your own health, scared you. You ended the study session early (apologising to your friend profusely) and headed home, feeling like you were on the verge of passing out. The moment you got to your room, you stripped off your clothes with shaky limbs and slipped into bed, falling into a restless sleep. For a little under two hours - work waits for no one.

Your whole shift, short as it may have been given the hour, you swore to yourself that you would go to sleep when you got back. You would shower, you would lie down, you would finally go to sleep at a normal fucking time. You would not repeat the same dance.

And so, you find yourself sitting once more before your laptop screen, eyes burning as you type away at your keyboard, some horror gameplay flashing on the side of your screen, filling the silence. The dull hatred you had felt upon seeing the time eats at the back of your brain but you push it aside, trying to silence your mind with the noise and the words that appear on your document.

You write a sentence. It’s clunky, disjointed. You backspace.

You’re so fixated on the document, so focused on stopping any coherent thoughts forming in your mind, that the sound of a knock against glass makes you jump violently in your seat. The shock quickly fades to tired amusement and you shake your head, returning to typing. How many times have you mistaken a sound in your YouTube videos for something happening in real life? A half-exhale, half-laugh leaves you and you stretch your arms over your head. The muscles ache from disuse.

It’s then thet you catch sight of two cyan lenses through the window. And you scream. And the figure, instead of doing something normal like screaming in return, simply lets themselves into your apartment as you try to stave off a heart attack.

“What the fuck, Doctor?” you manage to wheeze out, taking off your headphones with your free hand. “Wh- I’m going to get a noise complaint!”

“Then refrain from making noise,” he answers simply, infuriatingly calm.

“You showed up on my balcony! With no warning!”

“I attempted to get your attention,” the man responds, closing the glass door behind him. “Yet you did not react.”

“I didn’t notice-” you start before cutting yourself short. See, now that you’ve calmed down somewhat from the initial jumpscare, it dawns on you just how odd the sight before you is. You’ve never seen the Doctor outside the circus - hell, you’ve rarely seen him outside the privacy of his own tent, where he loves to perform his experiments on you, or his greenhouse. How does he know your address? How did he even get on the balcony?

“What are you doing here?” you ask him, incredulity evident in your tone.

“You seem quite disoriented,” he muses, taking in your room and your mess of a bed. You quickly throw a blanket over it to hide the disorganised bundle of plushies and pillows. He doesn’t comment on it. “Is it not custom for medical professionals to offer in-house visitation?”

“I mean, yeah, but- I’m not a patient,” you stammer. “You’re not even licensed, either. I know you consume a lot of books, but-”

“I consumed a few medical students,” he responds casually, setting his heavy-looking bag on the floor. At your confused expression, he hums cheerfully to himself. “I jest. You have such fascinating reactions, my dear patient.”

You exhale. “Thank fuck-”

“Students have far too much cortisol in their flesh,” he states simply. “General practitioners have a much more pleasant taste and texture.” Before you can ask if he’s still joking (he isn’t), the Doctor straightens, stepping over towards you. “Now. Let us deal with the matter at hand.”

You don’t fight it when the masked man takes your head between two claws, tilting your jaw up to examine your face. It’s not the first time you have been examined by the Doctor, but it feels less clinical this time, more intimate. Maybe just because of the fact that it's taking place in the privacy of your own home rather than the darkness of his performance tent. He hums to himself, free hand taking note of your pulse in a move that makes you shiver.

“Fascinating. It seems the data is correct,” he muses, claw tracing where you know your dark circles lie.

“What data?”

The Doctor chuckles, the hand at your neck skimming down your arm to your wrist where your smartwatch rests against your fluttering pulse - something you forget exists half the time. “I asked Pierrot to bring me this little device you have here so I could examine what exactly it tracks.”

You freeze. You knew you hadn’t just misplaced it when it had disappeared the other week! When you catch that little-

“Your mind is wandering, my patient,” he hums, claws encircling your wrist. “I suppose that is to be expected, given the sleep deprivation.”

“What? I’m not-” you protest instinctively, but the man is having none of it.

“You should not lie to your Doctor, dear. Not when that little watch of yours gave me all the data to the contrary.” 

Shit. Shit, you forgot it tracks your sleep. For a moment, your mouth opens and closes, like a fish out of water, as your mind scrambles to think of some excuse. “I- A malfunction-”

“Your dark circles say otherwise,” he states, his grip on your wrist now pulling you towards your bathroom. “Why do you insist on lying to me?”

“Look, I’m fine, really,” you assure, only to find yourself pushed through the now-open door.

“Pierrot is worried sick. So is Harlequin, though he does not voice it, and I do not wish to lose such an interesting specimen.” Without so much as a grunt of effort, the Doctor lifts you by the shoulders, placing you inside the confines of the bathroom. “You will bathe,” he instructs, “then you will sleep. Doctor’s orders.”

Before you can even argue, he closes the door in your face, leaving you to your confusion and distress in the small space.

Ok, ok this is fine. Them knowing about your horrendous sleep schedule is less than ideal, but you push aside the panic that arises when you think too much about it. You’ll wash up, pretend to sleep (because you can’t sleep yet, your mind is too loud, shut up) and then just… continue with your night once he leaves. Simple.

And so, you shower, changing into the pyjamas that you thankfully left on the towel hanger, half-hoping to find your room empty once you open the door.

It is not. Instead, you find the massive, intimidating man bending over your bed, fluffing up the plushies revealed now that he has pulled back your dignity-preserving blanket.

You almost feel bad about planning to cheat him.

As if hearing the thought, he turns to you, cocking his head. “Very good. You listened.” He gestures to the bed, pulling up your desk chair to its side, even though it looks comically small in comparison to him. “Come. Lie down.”

This catches you off guard and you stand in the bathroom doorway, hesitating. “You’re just going to sit there?”

“Of course. I will be monitoring your breath and pulse to ensure you sleep.”

Shit. “It’s fine, really. You don’t need to.”

“I will.”

You blink. How the hell are you meant to deal with this? The thought crosses your mind to just placate him and sleep, but your mind is nowhere near dull enough despite your earlier predicament and the mere thought makes you unwell. “Ok, then just give me a little time-”

You’ve barely taken two steps towards your now-closed laptop before you feel arms wrap around your body, pinning your own to your side as he lifts you over to your bed. The moment he sits you down, you rise to your feet. He does not like that.

“Stay,” the Doctor warns, voice taking on a darker tone as he pushes you back down, gently but firmly. “You are to sleep. I instructed so.”

“Come on-”

When you try to get up once more, he takes your wrists and forces them down against the plushies above your head, ignoring how you squirm and protest. “Why do you refuse to listen? You usually co-operate so beautifully.” You feel something wrap against your wrists, binding them to the headboard. “I had hoped it would not come to this.”

When he finally pulls away, settling in the chair, you arch your head back to find some soft, red rope keeping you immobilised.

Look at you, you think, look how pathetic you are. You are sick. Pierrot knows it. Harlequin knows it. He knows it. You should have hidden it better. You-

You desperately struggle against the binds, trying to free your joints of the material, but it’s no use. Whatever knot the Doctor has tied refuses to give, keeping you in place in your prison of a bed. Despite that, you don’t give up, trying and trying and trying and trying and trying and trying-

“You are going to rub your skin raw,” the Doctor finally comments. “Why is the idea of resting so distressing for you?”

Normally, you would not have told him, but you are at your wits end, so much so that your voice actually cracks when you finally manage to answer.

“I’m so fucking tired of everything,” you half-sob. “Of work, of studying, of my head never shutting up, and I just- I don’t want to think-” The sentence is cut off by a bout of hiccups that overtakes you as you keep struggling, beyond embarrassed at the physical and emotional vulnerability.

The Doctor watches you for a while, trying to determine what path of treatment would be most effective. He had brought sedatives with him, yes, but they would be unlikely to provide you restful sleep upon being administered. He could use more restraints, but that would likely only deepen your distress in this state. 

What a fascinating conundrum. Perhaps it warrants some less conventional methods (not that what he usually does is conventional by any means, but he digresses).

Through your struggle, you register the large shadow looming over you in the dark before the binds around your wrists loosen. Before you can even think of moving, though, the Doctor takes hold of you and presses you against him. He lies down beside you, his hold almost painful as he smothers you against his chest.

“Can’t- breathe-” you force out, his grip relaxing enough to give you access to air once more but not enough for you to worm free.

“I read that physical contact is beneficial to one’s sleep,” he states, his larger hand cradling the back of your head.

“Just let me go, Doctor-”

“I shan’t. Not when I cannot trust you to care for yourself.”

At first, you keep trying to struggle, more out of panic than fear, but the rhythmic pressure of his thumb brushing over your scalp begins to undo you against your will.

When was the last time you were held like this? When was the last time you allowed yourself to feel such warmth from another? You had always rejected touch before you could receive it - a preemptive, protective measure meant to soften the blow of its inevitable absence. This - the warmth around you and against you and gently caressing your head - had become so foreign, and yet it feels so indescibably good.

As the minutes pass, your thoughts begin to slow, eyelids growing heavier with each blink. The thoughts linger, but they’re dull, insignificant in the face of the pressure and warmth.

“Very good,” the Doctor coos softly, one hand reaching to pull your blankets over you, shifting you so that you’re lying on top of him, cheek pressed against his chest. “Sleep, my dear patient. I shall be here when the sun rises.”

You don’t fully believe him. Things like this are too good to last, especially for someone like you. He won’t stay around, surely. This is a one-time thing, born of pity. He will get tired of you soon enough.

Despite that, your eyelids close once more, refusing to open, and you let yourself melt into his presence, his soft words analysing your heart rate, his quiet praise. All of it so deliciously pleasant, so paradoxically safe.

Finally, in the warmth of his arms, you sleep.

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