The Doctor tries the door handle half-heartedly. It rattles limply, twitching against the lock. In his pocket, the key is cold and uninviting. He handles it delicately, like something fragile, his movements so subtle and gentle as he turns the key in the lock.

A click. The door opens.

The Doctor's shadow stretches into the room, his silhouette outlined by the red glow of the distant bonfires. Cold air spills inside as he finally steps over the threshold, uninterested in casting judgment upon the state of @insolot's quarters. The parcel of materials is set aside, on top of spread out papers. The Doctor lingers over them, almost reverent. Then, as if reminded of the chill—

"You should have told me that you were feeling unwell. I recall asking you if you needed any medicine, the last time I was here."

The door closes. The Doctor makes his way toward Vincent, looming over him with an ugly indifference. He bends over for a closer look at Vincent, his mask concealing the dehumanizing incisiveness of his scrutiny. His spindly hand caresses the side of Vincent's face emotionlessly, his thumb and forefinger pressing gently into the flesh to allow an examination of Vincent's pupils. Then he pulls away, without warning or care, leaving Vincent to his agony again.

"Remain seated. I should have something that will help."