"I know what a mind-wipe is, I'm not stupid!" Bill snapped. "How would you feel if someone did this to you?"
His hand froze, almost as if it were not his own. An aching heaviness crept into his chest, sliding icy fingers around his hearts. He knew the pain of having memories stolen. And he knew the pain of getting them back. He wasn't at all sure which was worse. What he did know, he had to be honest with himself, that it was probably best never to take them in the fist place.
How long had he lived without her? How many days since he last saw Clara Oswald? He knew, of course. 18,253, if he counted the chronological days he'd spend teaching at St. Luke's. 36,506, if he counted the days he'd travelled in between, spinning across the impossibly large universe, expecting, hoping, that one day their paths would cross. They never did, of course. Not yet, at any rate. But in a universe of possibilities, anything was possible, if you waited long enough. If you hoped hard enough, loved truly enough, then things that are lost can be found.
He looked at Bill, her eyes demanding honesty, and his hearts knew the answer. To steal memories from someone was a terrible thing. A thing no one should do. Clara knew it. She was telling him now, reminding him that he knew it too.
"I don't know if you are a good man," she'd said. "But you try to be, and maybe that's the point."
He lowered his hand, and couldn't quite look Bill in the eye as she backed from the room. As the door closed, he felt Clara's shadow fall on him, but it didn't chill him this time, it wasn't made of darkness, but of light. He leaned back against his desk, and closed his eyes.
There she was, as she always was when he needed her most. Bright and beautiful and vivid in his mind, her eyes of the deepest brown, her heart open and true. Her voice was clear in his ears. If he reached out, perhaps he could touch her.
"It's been long enough, don't you think, Doctor?"
"Has it?"
"You know it has. You don't do well on your own, and you know it."
"I've done alright—"
"Rubbish! You've sat guarding a dusty vault for fifty years, sulking."
"I haven't."
Clara folded her arms and looked him in the eye.
"Alright. But the contents of that vault are important."
"Maybe so. But it's what you are guarding in here that concerns me more." She tapped his chest, and he could feel, he swore he could feel, her fingers on his skin. "You need her. And do you know what, she needs you too. So go on. Be a Doctor."
"Ah, Clara—" He wanted to tell her he couldn't, that he didn't want to go through it all again, living, loving, losing. It just hurt too much. He was too old, too tired to face it all again.
She put her head on one side. "Doctor, you really can't hide anything from me. You never could, but since I'm actually inside your head this time, it's silly even to try."
He pressed his lips together. "I miss you."
Clara stepped closer to him. "I know. But, I'm giving you permission. No, better than that, I'm tellingyou. Get inside the TARDIS right now and catch that girl. Do some good in the universe. Doctor, heal yourself."
He felt the ghost of her lips against his. His shoulders relaxed, and he brought his fingers up to his own lips. She was right, she was always right, his Clara.
So, he strode to the TARDIS, but paused on the threshold. "I'll still miss you, Clara Oswald."
"You daft old man," she said. "I'm not going anywhere."
He smiled then, and he knew, he understood perfectly that she would always be with him. Maybe he would find her, maybe he wouldn't. The universe was wonderful and strange, made of lemon drops and smiles, of dark corners and bright places.
And it was waiting right there, all new; waiting for him and for Bill. It was time. Time to be the Doctor.