[ The first night the Doctor is approached by a crying stranger, he is, of course, concerned and eager to help. If there's one thing he can't abide, it's someone crying; he will always care and he will always try to help. As with everything lately, despite having no idea what's happening, he can at least comfort a stranger in need. He speaks gently, genuinely worried, "It's okay. I'm the Doctor, I'm here to help."

When his words don't seem to be heard, when there's no reaction except for the stranger to climb into bed and eventually wake from their distressed stupor, the Doctor is even more puzzled. Though, upon waking, the afflicted individual is immediately met with a bright, reassuring smile from the Doctor and, "We'll sort this out. Don't worry."

He doesn't linger once they wake, of course, except to reassure them that the danger has passed. Though, he does make sure of that himself, and he loiters about outside, tinkering with a few of the many items he's accumulated here, stuffed in his cavernous pockets. For the next few weeks, he continues to return to Minaras around the time of the last incident, to see if there's a pattern, though that yields nothing helpful.

As the weeks pass and it continues to happen and escalate in frequency, the Doctor takes the opportunity to glance through the individual's home, taking note of what's on their walls, photographs, artwork, books on shelves, things that are out in the open, anything of importance that might explain their life up until now and what's going on at the moment. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Do the affected people have anything in common? Is someone targeting them for a reason? Are they important to someone in power? Does it have anything at all to do with the sickness that once plagued Serthica?

The more he can learn from their surroundings, the greater the likelihood that he can help them. Always, he keeps watch outside their home as long as he can, just to make sure he hasn't missed anything, that there's nothing dangerous lurking and coming for them.

One particular night, as he's standing guard outside and tinkering around changing out a few small parts of his sonic screwdriver, he begins to talk to himself out loud. ]

No pattern to the crying, nothing I’ve been able to work out. Nothing of value in their memories. Nothing unusual in their home; ordinary, quiet. I need to think. Come on, brain. Think, think, think. Think! [ He paces in a circle a bit faster now. ] Okay - that note on the dresser, that’s something. Not an answer, another question, a clue. I love a clue.