'You're a thousand years old. There must be something you care about.'
He reached towards his pocket, his hand curling around a small pouch. Its contents flashed across his mind.
Part of an award for mathematical excellence. Broken. Its owner dead. An old soviet badge, taken from her body when… no. Don't think about that. Don't think about how tiny Ace looked when she died in that terrible war… A ring, a Gallifreyan one. Koschei. Dead now. An old UNIT badge, from the uniform of an even older soldier. He tried to visit him a while ago. They said he was in Geneva. He tried again, a different year. They said he was dead. The string from a crossbow, old and battered from constant use. He might have taught her to read, but civilising Leela of the Sevateem proved to be beyond even the Time Lords. A strip of material from a purple jacket, wrapped around a rose. A rose that never died… A phone. He had never gotten around to changing the voicemail. Francine had called him, once or twice, forgetting that her daughter had a new phone now. A spent bullet from an old revolver. Jack had tried to shoot him once, as a joke. There were two bullets in that pocket, both from revolvers. Both from old soldiers. He wondered what Wilfred Mott was doing. And then he didn't because he thought of Donna and he didn't like thinking about what had happened to his mate. And a doll. A doll of him. The girl who waited, little Amelia. Dead. He ran out of time.
He pulls his sonic from the pocket, then scowls and puts it back in and turns away. Clara frowns but doesn't say anything. He says it comes in handy.
She doesn't believe him.
The objects in that particular pocket stay put.