I offer her the only way to know me. I let so few in. She gave us so much; she earned that place. My hearts race. I sound a flippant twerp. Who would think, hearing my voice, that I yearn to be John Smith, that I ask her to come because I want to carry that dream as far as possible.
She sees beyond, through, to who I am. She waded through fear, saw the darkness, even now stands in the home of the murdered family. She turns from us both, from John Smith in mourning, from the Doctor in loathing.
How could I explain? The blessed freedom of John Smith to give his heart. I hate him for it. I have two hearts, and pieces of them are left throughout space and time. I don't know if I have enough left to give. I'm afraid to find out. John Smith is a whole man. I can't put the pieces of the Doctor back together.
And if I could break all the laws, start over again, no Doctor, no TARDIS, no unending stream of companions that wither and die? Only John Smith and his simple love? The Sirens sing their enticing song. Put it all back in the watch. Lock away the pain. Forget.
But if I forget, so much goes away forever. People, planets, whole civilizations that only I remember.
John Smith was willing to sacrifice his life. In that, John Smith and I are one. So we both leave her, alone in a ghost house, our every step filled with pain. Because I am John Smith, and I want to be John Smith, but I have to make that sacrifice, too, to the last Time Lord, who I was never happy to be when it mattered. Now it doesn't matter, and I wonder, could I have saved them, if I had stayed?
No. No "what ifs." I made that rule. The past is done. To sacrifice experience is to sacrifice too much. So we go on, John Smith and I. And maybe I can dream that, some day, I'll be able to quit being the Doctor and reappear outside that home, ready to take the orderly, simple life of John Smith. Half-a-dozen dreams, all to keep me going.