The Doctor was lost. Completely and utterly, despite his knowledge of his current geographical position, he'd never had less of an idea as to where he was. He sat, arm curled through the staircase bannister, looking at nothing. There was no expression on his face, but he was not unfeeling. In fact, quite the opposite, he felt too much. He always had, no matter how hard he tried to deny it; his empathy was always what brought him down. Not that it hadn't raised him high, so high that he'd been giddy for hours afterwards. But there was always the reverse side to consider, and the Doctor's experience with empathy had been far from perpetually fulfilling.
Clara. Clara is gone.
He'd found her. Unwittingly and unknowingly, he'd found her, and he hadn't recognised her. He could well remember what that felt like, to have someone you knew so well not remember. He just never considered that he'd be on the other end of that pain. And so he'd walked away, or rather, chased her away with his callous words, not knowing, not knowing until later that he'd probably broken her heart. He'd told her his story and then said that he'd know his Clara Oswald anywhere. Except he hadn't. And that was just another failure to add to the exponentially growing list.
My fault. Always my fault. Forever my fault.
In the privacy of his only remaining companion, the one who could never leave him, the Doctor finally gave in to the sadness and pain and grief and agony and guilt and sorrow and anger and frustration and just everything. His hands made fists and his eyes burned and he tasted salt. He whispered, he shouted, he screamed. He sat, he stood, he fell, he paced, he ran. Sometimes the tears would fall and sometimes they wouldn't. He had all the time in the world. But all that time he had wasn't worth it. Not when he didn't have someone to share it with. Not when Clara wasn't here.
Nothing. I feel nothing.
Several hours passed as the Doctor allowed his emotions to control his actions fully, the TARDIS locking him out of rooms that contained the valuable or dangerous. But he never threw a thing, never slammed a door nor punched a wall, it was all focussed inwards, on that which could not be seen. Self-loathing. So complete that there was no hope for forgiveness, no room for happiness nor content. Or so that was what the Doctor told himself. Eventually everything left him, the emotions, feelings, senses drained away as if a plug had been pulled. Eventually the Doctor took up his previous seat on the short staircase, staring at the console of his silent, understanding, compassionate companion.
I am so old. I have lived for so long. And yet I still don't understand.
Time after time after time after time, the Doctor's companions had left him. It was never their fault, and yet he couldn't help but blame them for their sentimental value to him. He knew that it was wrong to do so, and yet he still couldn't stop trying to shift the blame, to pass of the responsibility that was rightfully his. And so his hatred of himself grew, simmering beneath the surface, only rising when he lost control of himself. And that is when he became truly dangerous, when he acted without thought of the consequences. He told himself that he'd try harder next time, or that there wouldn't even be a next time, but he always failed. Why did it hurt so much, and why was he afraid to accept the results?
There is nothing to be done. Nothing could ever make this right.
The Doctor rubbed his hands over his wrinkled face, wiping away the last of the moisture that still lingered in the corner of his eyes. He ran his hands through his grey hair and then stood. He had a lot of memories to sort through, and that could not be held off. Or rather, it could be, but the time had passed for cowardice. He was the Doctor, and he saved people. He didn't believe it. He doubted he ever would. But he would do his best to live up to the reputation others had built for him. That Clara had believed so defiantly. He would try. That he could do at least.
Clara. Her name was Clara.
With the revelation that the British waitress in the misplaced diner was Clara, also too, came the memories. All of them, all at once. She had been the Impossible Girl once. He'd seen her, not recognising her significance, with all of his different faces, and her image flashed through his mind, each varying slightly as he saw her with changing eyes. Everything they did together, every planet they visited, every Time, everything. He remembered seeing her from three different angles at the same time, when she stopped him from using the Moment to destroy Gallifrey. And look how he'd repaid her, getting her killed, allowing her to die. Even now, she was without a heartbeat.
Why?
There were so many questions that began with why. Too many in reality. Why did Clara have to die? Why couldn't he stop it? Why was it always him? Why couldn't it be someone else for once? These were only a small percentage of the questions that the Doctor could spend hours, days, months, years, decades riddling out, and still not find a concrete answer. It was a pointless exercise that he engaged in nonetheless, even as he knew that it would get him nowhere. But sometimes, the despair took him unawares, and he would spiral downwards, ever downwards. Why, though? He tried so hard to put his past behind him, to make up for past mistakes, but they couldn't let it lie.
I will not accept that I am a failure. You already have.
The problem with arguing with yourself was that you always came up with better arguments for what you knew was the truth. The Doctor knew he was a great liar, one of the most proficient liars in the Universe, and was even skilled in lying to himself. But he could never escape the fact that he knew what was what, even if he'd managed to convince his conscious mind elsewise. The fact that he had failed, yet again, brought to mind all of his other failures, of which far outweighed the good deeds he'd tried so hard to convince were worth the price. They were worth it. They had to be.
I will do what I must. But never again will my hearts shatter.
Finally, the Doctor quelled his racing mind, pushing the chatter back, allowing it to mutter to itself, slowly descending into further insanity. He would face that later. Or not at all. Standing, he slowly re-buttoned his velvet jacket, the one Clara had said she was so fond of. His long fingers lingered on the buttons that lined his sleeves, and he remembered, but he did not pause. He had made his decision, and he would see it through to the end. He would not bend, he would not break. Not this time.