Like many others on this fine and flu-filled day, the Doctor wakes up, with no real memory or understanding of how he came to be asleep, silly antiquated nightgown and all. It's so rare that he makes a dedicated effort to sleep, in a bed, in sleeping clothes. Maybe age really will catch up to him. It certainly feels like it has, replete with all the trappings of an angry mob long denied their justice--his head feels full of pitchforks and his blood full of torches. Which is a really weird thing to think, so add that to the list, along with the odd roughness in his throat, what, did he spend yesterday shouting? Not implausible. Well, whatever this is is no step to a high stepper. No reason not to keep at it, whatever 'it' is--in his currently wired yet strangely exhausted state, 'it' could be anything. For right now, despite the lethargy in his limbs, 'it' will be some equations he's been batting about in his head, now to be chalked out on the walls in monochromatic glory. Then perhaps he'll feverishly rearrange some furniture, the better to stand on it, reach more walls.

...

There, that should do it. Now for some breakfast. Maybe some tea will ease the scratch in his throat. Or, you know what, he could just. Take a nap. Right in this doorway. That's fine.