Word Count: 730
Summary: He cannot stop the memories flooding in, and he can't contain his emotions. No Time Heist spoilers, just provides context.
What is most important to him? What is it most dear to his heart?
He knows the answer, dreads it, wishes it never came up. block the memories block the memories block the memories
But it's no use. His mental barriers are down. His mind floods, remembering.
The blonde hair all cut short but waving those irises like vats of chocolate her smile and smirk and little tongue-pressed-on-teeth thing her London accent her obsession with chips her compassion her her her
He can't stop. The break-in succeeded; he is no longer in control of his mind.
She always dropped by for a cuppa with mum she got a bit jealous when old friends came round she demanded her right to fight she fought off the captain's advances kindness to the boyfriend she did not love anguish at the sight of her father's death
"Doctor?"
Clara. Clara, anchoring him to the present, reminding him of his surroundings. God bless Clara.
"Doctor, are you all right?"
He inhales sharply. No, I am not all right, I'm reminiscing the woman I love dearly but can never, ever see again without ripping apart the multiverse.
Can't say that, can't snap at her, but he can't just say, "Fine, thanks."
No response is the best response.
"Doctor, you haven't looked in the drawer yet."
Another deep breath. In, out. In, out. It's been over a thousand years, get a grip, Time Lord!
"Open it for me, Clara," he whispers. No, no, she can't see! She can't know. No one gets to know. No one but him.
And yet he knows his fearful self cannot muster up the courage to open the drawer and take a peak.
She gives him a look, one full of eyes, she knows something is wrong. But who doesn't? Saibra knows, she can read anyone, Psi knows, he can see the apprehensiveness, of course Clara knows, she's his best friend.
"Please, Clara," he wheezes. "Just open it for me."
Another look ("I'm not done investigating you yet") and she turns to the drawer. Slowly, dare he say cautiously, she pulls it open.
A photograph. A photograph he remembers so vividly.
Rose. Rose Marion Tyler.
So many years, and yet he could never forget.
After the Madame de Pompadour incident, the two had a lengthy discussion. He'd regretted his behavior aboard the ship, explained to her that he wasn't really falling for the King of France's lover. He'd apologized, and she'd forgiven him, and they'd made up with ice cream in the TARDIS kitchen and a watch of the Lion King. Mickey had felt uncomfortable during both events, and it was then the Doctor realized that maybe he and Rose we're something more, if they could so easily exclude her ex-boyfriend after an argument. She'd laughed quite heartily at one of his jokes, and her smile was contagious, and he couldn't help but take the picture, a little snapshot into his joyous Rose.
It was one of his only pictures of her, and the only one of her laughing.
His jaw locked, breathing rapidly increased. On the verge of a panic attack? Really?
"Doctor, who is she?"
Clara. Once again, his beloved anchor.
"A friend. An old friend. A companion I traveled with, years and years ago. I loved her. I think she loved me. We were too late to show it, I lost her a bit before I was ready to tell her."
"Lost her? Doctor, what's her name?"
"Rose Tyler. She's in an alternate dimension. There was nothing I could do."
Swallow. Breathe. Calm down. Just an old memory.
His hearts beat faster in defiance. He really couldn't control himself.
Arms around him, why are arms around him, why face to his chest? No, no hugs, he doesn't like hugs, he can't take hugs.
"Clara, what are you doing?"
She looks up at him, eyes watering. Crying? For him?
"You're not alone, Doctor. You've got me."
Maybe the hug isn't so bad. He closes his eyes. In, out. In, out.
He watches as the memories stop assaulting him, feels them receding back to where they hide. His mental barriers raise, he is in control.
"Never let me forget how much I need you, Clara."
She smiles. He smiles. Pain and sorrow, yes, but is there not happiness? Is there not hope? Reassurance? Relief?
Clara Oswald is very much needed, indeed.
I posted this on AO3 a while back and figured I might as well post it here.