Timeline: for the Doctor — he just lost Gallifrey, for Gregory House — after Wilson's death.
Music: «Never let me go» by Florence and The Machine.
"Do you like the sea or have you lost someone as well?"
A gloomy old man stays on the cold wet sand, leaning on a stick, and stares steadily at the grey surface of the restless ocean, dropping his gaze to tips of his running shoes once in a while.
A man without age in a black leather jacket keeps silence, staring into the distance as well. A pause drags on, giving time to the old one for a grin. It comes out stagy and forced, however, who could see it now besides the oncoming waves?
"I've lost. Too many."
The silence, disturbed only by sounds of randomly swaying body of water, wind and cries of seagulls, finally breaks down as an avulsive wound with edges trembling with pain to the sound of a hoarse voice as though it wasn't used for intended purpose for a long time.
"We do always lose only one person. Even if we lose different ones, all the same it's still one."
"I've lost them all," the other speaker objects. "There's only me left."
Lips of the old man form a cynical grimace again, soaked with irony and something else, well-kept. He shifts from one foot to the other with diffidence, wincing in pain at the attempt to lean on the other leg. There's a mix of feelings, thoughts and emotions in his eyes. Anguish, anger and disappointment. In this world and in something very personal in particular.
"No."
He turns his head and looks at the stranger about forty, short-haired, whose appearance is remarkable enough to make up some acid remark or caustic comment. The Doctor looks at his lame interlocutor, gloomy and tired of life, alike to many others whom he is never to meet again, as well.
"Every time losing someone we are losing ourselves."
He slowly turns round to go away and do not look back, not gazing around, not paying attention to the wet steps squelching on the sand underfoot.
Then he suddenly stands still and repeats without looking backwards.
"Whether or no."
The Doctor is staring at the runaway ripples of the ocean just the same way. An old english police box burnt in places is standing on the sand about thirty metres of distance, blown in these parts by an unfamiliar wind.
"We do always lose only one person."