A/N: This started as about five snippets and ended up fifteen... yeah, not sorry. One scene may be confusing if you haven't seen the PS webisode set after TATM.
Summary: Clara had heard the Doctor mention Professor River Song far more times than she ever did, or would, realise. She just didn't know the right fragments of information needed to piece it all together.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to the BBC and their respective creators.
Traces of a Song Long Gone
Clara had heard the Doctor mention Professor River Song far more times than she ever did, or would, realise. From outright references of the Professor to allusions of 'the woman' or the mysterious 'she' to comments of a little girl he lost or mentions of a name long since disused – it was always her.
Sometimes it wasn't anything he'd said – it was something she saw, an object or possession, or the distant look on his face when he was reminded of a repressed memory. But it was always her.
Clara just didn't know the right fragments of information needed to piece it all together. And she never would truly come to know everything.
Professor River Song was too complicated a person to ever be fully explained. One could try but would never succeed.
The Doctor wasn't even going to try. Because he didn't want to. Because he was selfish. Because she was his.
And by his life he was going to make sure it stayed that way. She was to be forever safely locked away in his hearts and his hearts alone.
Many had met or knew of River Song. Her name was spread across the galaxies. Infamous, feared and honoured. She was scattered throughout history books, academia files, legends and prison records. But none knew her like he did. All those secrets that were his alone. Things about her life he didn't want to impart to any other. He didn't need to share her with anyone else and he wasn't going to.
So if anyone asked, he would give an answer. It might be truth or fabrication. It might be descriptive or vague. But what it was always is knowledge that could be found from an archive or another mouth.
Never anything personal.
Clara hadn't seen the Doctor in hours. She had looked for him, but couldn't find him anywhere. He wasn't in the console, the kitchen, the library, the pool... she'd have looked in his bedroom if she only knew where it was or what it looked like.
Eventually she found him at the end of a hallway (one she was sure she had already looked down, but that was the TARDIS for you). He was standing and staring hollow eyed at a blue wooden door she had never seen before.
"Doctor? What are you doing?"
He took a long moment to reply. His eyes never strayed from the blue painted wood. Curious, Clara stepped closer to see if there were any clues on the door as to what was behind it.
"This door." The Doctor answered voice low and thick. "It shouldn't be here. It should be hidden. The room. I told her to hide it. I never wanted to see it again."
"Why what's behind it? Is it something bad, or dangerous?"
He shook his head. "Well, there might be. Wouldn't put it past her. It was —is— a bedroom."
"Who's bedroom?"
"Hell in high heels," he replied. Clara noticed his tone soften and the way the corner of his lips involuntary twitched up a fraction. "And I dare say you'll find a few of those in there."
She was about to tease him about there being someone blessed with the name 'hell in high heels', even though she knew it was very unlikely that was actually the person's real name. But before she spoke he had turned and was striding down the hallway, away from her and the room.
"Get rid of it," he told the walls of the TARDIS around them.
When Clara glanced back the door was gone.
.o:0:o.
"What are you doing?"
The Doctor looked up from the various pieces of wood he was attempting to assemble together with screws and bolts and numerous other knickknacks he'd found in the TARDIS that really shouldn't be used in constructing a flat pack. Clara was standing in the doorway, perplexed.
"Trying to build a cabinet," he answered huffily. The way he tossed the screws in his hand on the floor was a clear indication of his level of success in the activity.
"Why?"
"Someone told me to do it once," he grumbled. He glared at the very unassembled items before him, "said that's what screwdrivers were for. Rather rude she was. I was helping. Horrible advice. Stupid. Cabinets are evil. That woman doesn't know what she's talking about."
He stood up grumpily. All the parts that had been on his lap fell to the floor, all except the cabinet door that he continued to hold in his hands. "Building cabinets is not cool. Never trying that again."
He threw the door away. It landed on the ground and slid into the wall with a loud bang. He waved his screwdriver at the pile of wood menacingly, harrumphed and stalked out the room.
Clara stifled a laugh. Then she sat down and built the cabinet.
.o:0:o.
They had been shopping at the Annual Intergalactic Multiracial Markets – Clara's idea – when he'd seen it. Perched inoffensively at the back of a cluttered stall table.
"What is that?" he demanded roughly, snatching the porcelain item for a closer look. Clara stopped walking to come and check out what he'd seen.
"Ahh!" the stall owner exclaimed happily, "You like the flagon do you? Good taste sir."
The merchant rattled on words about it being an authentic antique, centuries old and gave an in-depth historical account of its discovery and subsequent travels. The Doctor didn't hear any of it. He was far more preoccupied glaring at the pitcher and attempting to will it into disintegration.
Two words – written so harmlessly and beautifully. Anyone else would just look at them and think them a nice piece of geometric art. He looked at them and blanched.
Hello Sweetie.
It took every ounce of his self-control not to let out a frustrated scream and hurl it at a concrete wall. The universe hated him. That was the only excuse.
He spun it around in his hands, visually inspecting every inch of the porcelain – once, twice, three times. Nothing. No coordinates, dates or writing other than those two wretched words. It wasn't an invitation for him to come find her, to help her in whatever endeavour she was on. It was simply a flirtatious wink throughout history. He was torn between relief and disappointment.
"What are those drawings?" Clara asked in awe, tracing a finger over the intricate circular patterns in the centre of the pitcher.
"They're not drawings." The Doctor answered through gritted teeth. "It's writing."
"Is the TARDIS translation not working? Why can't I read it?"
"No. It's Circular Gallifreyan. Like the writing above the console. The TARDIS doesn't translate Gallifreyan, in any form – Old High, Modern or Circular."
"What does it say?"
He exhaled deeply. "It's a message, or rather – a greeting."
"From who?"
His grip on the jug tightened, knuckles turning white. "Professor Song."
He bought it, of course.
.o:0:o.
Clara caught the Doctor once, having a bizarre argument with the TARDIS. She didn't mean to. She'd just walked into the console and there he was – hunched over the controls grumbling loudly.
"What is your problem? I can fly you, you know. She's not here anymore. You know that. Besides, I knew how to long before she did. I'm the one that taught her. No, you showed her the basics. I showed her the rest. Oh be quiet. I don't have to deal with this. You're being hormonal. And don't you even dare say I am."
Clara left silently before he noticed she was there. Sometimes it was best not to question or try and understand the Doctor.
He was a madman with a box. That was the only explanation some questions needed.
.o:0:o.
Growing up Clara had always loved to dance. So, one particularly quiet day where there was no running from aliens or fighting, the Doctor took her to see the Ballet in the 17th century.
"I love this song." Clara murmured, awe-struck and completely captivated by the performance, "it has such a beautiful melody."
From the corner of her eye she caught the flash of turmoil that overcame him – the crease of his lips, the lines in his forehead, the dead spark in his eyes. She tore her eyes away from the dancers to watch him, concerned.
"What's the matter? Don't you like it?"
His expression turned wistful. His eyes never left the stage as he spoke. "I've never known a Melody who wasn't beautiful."
His use of personification confused her. If she was completely honest, she thought he was losing it – again. It seemed like they were talking of two different things; her, an arrangement of music; him, a person.
"Okay… what's gotten into you?"
"Nothing." He reassured her quietly, careful not to disturb the other patrons. "It's the melody that makes the song."
They watched in silence as the dancers moved gracefully to the harmony. Eventually that musical composition faded out to be replaced by another. The Doctor spoke again, distantly. "Even when the song has ended, the melody lingers on."
Clara smiled. "That's a quote isn't it? I've heard it before."
He nodded. "Irving Berlin."
"Here's one I like – life is like a beautiful melody, only the lyrics are messed up."
He smiled at that. Very relatable.
Their conversation was cut short by an irate audience member silencing them.
.o:0:o.
Clara had seen him with it a few times, fully engrossed in it, always with a pained look on his face.
That book. The one with the drawing of a shady woman on the cover.
She had never seen past the cover.
After reading it he was always in a melancholy mood. She couldn't work out why he kept reading it, if it was so upsetting to him. She had also never seen him put it down. Once he was finished with it, having read enough or caused himself enough anguish, he always slid it back into the pocket above his right heart.
"What are you reading?" Clara questioned. Today, she was going to find out what the deal was with that book.
He looked up at her over the edge of the papers peering at her through the round reading glasses he always wore and yet didn't need. His eyes were disbelieving.
"A book, what does it look like?"
Clara's eyes rolled. "Yes, but what book?"
"A pulp detective novel."
"Can I read it?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so."
"Fine." Clara huffed. "I'll go read another book."
"Good. There's plenty to choose from. You should try the Journal of Impossible Things, that's a great one. Inspired by a great man."
"I have a feeling that great man is you, so I think I'll pass. Do you have Summer Falls? I haven't read that since I was a kid. By Amelia Williams."
His eyes turned sharp and Clara was certain there was a tinge of horror.
"I have every book ever written by Amelia Williams." The Doctor spat, offended she would even have to ask. Although, to her credit he never had enlightened her that the Amy who previously travelled with him was the same Amelia who wrote her childhood stories. One day he might.
"Even those never published," he continued. "In fact, I have the original copies."
Clara was startled by his forthwith tone. "Okay… where are they? I can't seem to work out the logic to the filing system in here."
"I don't keep them in the library." He stood up. He closed the book, removed and delicately folded his glasses and deposited them both in his inner jacket pockets.
Clara smiled, even if she still didn't know what the book was she had managed to stop him from torturing himself. And that was a much better achievement for today.
"Summer Falls, yeah?" She nodded. "I'll get it."
He walked off in the direction of his room.
.o:0:o.
"I really wish Professor Song was here." The Doctor moaned frantically as they were both hiding, backs pressed firmly against the brick wall behind them. He kept turning his head in every possible direction to check they hadn't been found.
Clara frowned. She'd heard that name a few times now but still knew absolutely nothing about its owner. "Who's Professor Song?"
"Always had a gun," he answered breathlessly, "multiple actually. Never had any qualms about using it, right in front of me too. Even when I protested."
"You hate weapons." Clara pointed out, carefully taking a peek around the corner of the wall. The corridor was empty. They hadn't been found. Yet.
"So I do." He answered, checking readings on his sonic screwdriver. "And as much as I hate guns, we could really use one to get out of here. A stun gun would be really nice right now."
"Doctor, who is Professor Song?"
The Doctor heard footsteps from two corridors down, a whole army of them.
"Oh! Not now Clara!" He cried, exasperated as he took hold of her hand and commanded her to run.
.o:0:o.
Clara had found him completely by accident. She hadn't been looking for him or anything. Yes, she hadn't seen him in a long while but she'd been travelling with him long enough to know that sometimes he just needed to be left alone to his thoughts.
She was on her way to have a dip in the swimming pool when she stumbled upon the room. The door was open and she could see the Doctor sitting on the end of the enormous four post bed staring vacantly at the carpeted floor. He had his bowtie wrapped around both his palms.
The room looked similar to what Clara imagined a king's suite would be like.
There was a dresser – two actually. Both appeared authentic Victorian pieces of furniture, though one was undeniably more feminine than the other. And unless the Doctor wore makeup and perfume and needed hair accessories, she was certain he didn't use it.
Bookcases lined the far wall. These were accompanied by a chaise longue and an upholstered wing chair. Paintings lined each wall. There was a door in the corner opposite her that she only assumed led to the probably oversized ensuite and a sliding door across from that which was most likely the wardrobe.
It occurred to Clara that the entire room appeared to have been designed for two people and not one.
"You shouldn't be in here." The Doctor spoke impassively, without glancing up at her.
Clara spotted a painting beside her on the wall that held the bedroom door and nearly fell over. The Doctor, wearing nothing but a loin cloth, trying to look like a Greek god. That really settled it. There was no way this was only his room. She certainly hoped that painting wasn't on display for his benefit.
"I dare say," Clara said, trying to keep her voice steady after the shock of seeing that image which she probably could have done without for the rest of her life. "I'm not the first woman to be. Look at that dresser. There is no way that is yours. Doctor… have you ever been married?"
"What?" he demanded, finally looking up at her for the first time.
"You're over a thousand years old." Clara explained, smiling. "That's a long time to be by yourself, romantically. You must have been married before. Maybe even more than once. Unless… you're completely asexual with no romantic side at all."
"Yes."
Clara blinked. "Yes, you're asexual?"
"Yes, I've been married. A number of times. As you said, I'm over a thousand years old. Now is that all?"
The Doctor caught Clara looking rather insultingly disturbed at his dreadful 'portrait'. "Lost a bet," he explained quietly. "The forfeit was that it became a display piece."
Clara took that as an acceptable explanation. She continued looking at all the different aspects of the room. "It's not exactly how I pictured your bedroom."
"It never used to look like this. Was much more understated, until..." he trailed off. Clara saw the sorrow in his irises. Until someone else moved in, she mentally finished.
When he spoke again his voice was sharp. "It's not my bedroom. Not anymore."
He arose quickly and walked to the open door where he stood and waited for Clara. Taking the hint she dropped the subject and followed him out. She looked back as he closed the door behind them and wondered who he'd shared it with.
.o:0:o.
Clara had never seen the Doctor so distraught. She didn't know how to react.
They had been aiming for 48th century Earth but judging by the way the Doctor had opened the door – without using the environmental checks, as usual (Clara didn't even know they existed) – let out a strangled yelp and then slammed it closed she very quickly realised that wasn't where they were.
She'd tried asking what was wrong and where they were. The most he had conjured up for an answer was the word 'library' before burying his face in his hands and muffling a sob.
Clara just wanted to bundle him up in her arms and hug him. It always worked when comforting children. But she wasn't sure if he'd let her. So she just stood to the side, her heart breaking at the thought there was nothing she could do for him.
"Why did you bring us here?" he asked the ship around him, his voice breaking on every word. The TARDIS didn't respond, almost as if she was ignoring him. "Alright, okay. I know why. But I can't. Please. I can't talk to her."
Eventually, after a long time of the Doctor's bleary-eyed pleading the TARDIS let them leave again, without him having to do what she had taken him there to do in the first place. Though, she was particularly disagreeable for an entire week after.
.o:0:o.
"Where did you get that?" the Doctor asked sharply when Clara emerged in the console wearing an all too familiar belt.
"It was in the wardrobe."
"That's not right. It shouldn't be in the main wardrobe. I'll have to clean it out. I'm sorry but you can't wear it."
"Why not?"
"Because it belonged to someone else. How does that even fit you? You're tiny. And have no curves."
"Hey!"
Clara jumped when he placed his hands on her hips. It was even more disconcerting the way he was staring down at her waist and the belt buckled there. This was the biggest invasion of personal space she'd ever experienced with him. She held her breath throughout the severely awkward situation. Though he didn't seem to think it was as he was gazing, his brow furrowed and lip jutted in a look of concentration.
"Doctor," Clara said ominously, her tone icy and eyes boring into his forehead, "get your hands off me."
Shock filled his face as he realised what he was doing. He recoiled as fast as he would if he'd just been burnt.
"Oh! No I wasn't—I was just checking—sorry!"
After flailing an apology his focus turned again to what he had been trying to discern. This time instead of touching her he held out his hands in front of her, lining each up with a hip. Then he turned on a forty five degree angle, the distance between his hands not faltering. His eyebrows furrowed again and eyes closed as he concentrated on slowly widening the distance between his palms.
Clara suddenly had a mental image of his hands placed in the same position they had been on her but on the owner of the belt. So that was what he was doing. She grinned wickedly. If he started making kissing faces she was going to lose it with hysterics.
Disappointingly, he didn't.
She knew when they were at the right breadth by the triumphant smile on his face. His eyes opened again and he rotated back towards her, careful to keep his arms perfectly still. He was measuring a distance substantially wider than her hips.
Clara wondered whose hips his hands had been on long enough or often enough that he knew the exact space between them.
"Were you just checking the width of my hips and then comparing them to the width of someone else's based on the distance between your hands, knowing perfectly the placement needed to fit this other person's hips?" The laughter in her voice was evident. However, he hadn't registered her words.
"Of course!" he exclaimed loudly with a snap of his fingers. "You're wearing it on your hips. She wore it on her waist. Glad that's sorted. I was getting concerned. Thought you were gaining weight. I hate it when you female humans gain weight. Somehow it always ends up my fault. Now take it off."
She obliged, still grinning from amusement.
"So whose belt is it?"
"The Woman's." he spun on his heel, stuffing the belt into his pocket, "Now to sort out this wardrobe."
Clara followed him through the hallways. She watched as he gathered various dresses, belts, shirts, pants and quite a number of heels from the wardrobe into his arms. He then took them out the room to deposit them in an unspecified location elsewhere in the TARDIS.
.o:0:o.
"It's a thesis." The Doctor explained, flicking through the pages of the dissertation Clara had found in the library and brought to him. "On me. Knew way too much about me, even then."
"Doctor, who is Professor Song?"
All Clara knew about this professor was that they liked guns and using ancient artefacts to send text messages.
The Doctor turned his gaze on her, his eyes heavy with loss and sorrow. He inhaled and exhaled slowly. Reigning in his fluctuating emotions he smiled at her, soft and ancient.
"An archaeologist." He responded quietly, running his hand over the cover of the thesis tenderly, "One of the best in the whole of history. Well, that's a lie. That might have just been my opinion. I don't ordinarily like archaeologists. Was a massive cheat though. A time travelling archaeologist is always going to be one step ahead in the game than their peers."
"No, I meant who is he to you?"
The Doctor's eyes widened. He? Where had she got that impression? He didn't have the heart to correct her. She would just ask so many more questions. He thought – knew – he wouldn't be able to cope if she did. So he took another deep breath and answered.
"An old friend. A very good friend. Gave up everything for me. Tore the world apart just to save me. The smartest and most idiotic person I've ever known."
.o:0:o.
The Doctor was looking for a ball of string in his bigger-on-the-inside pockets. He had some trick or something that he wanted to show Clara. However, locating that ball of string was proving difficult. He had already emptied out nearly enough contents to fill the kitchen table. Of course it would be the last thing he'd take out.
One of the items he set down was a tattered old well-loved navy book. It looked suspiciously like a diary. Clara picked it up, smiling teasingly. "A diary? Doctor, you keep a diary? Isn't that so little girl of you?"
His eyes snapped to her, horrified.
"I don't use it anymore," he exclaimed hastily, "Don't look in it." Swiping his hand to grab it from her he just managed to knock the edge of it as she stepped back. It was sent tumbling to the floor. A loose page fell out. Clara picked it up as the Doctor frantically reclaimed the book.
She unfolded the paper. "What's this?"
"A drawing."
"I can tell that." Clara said, eyes rolling. "What of?"
"Haven't you ever seen a Roman centurion before?"
"No. Did you draw this?"
The Doctor gasped. He took the paper from her and stared at the drawing. "Of course not! I'm much better than this. This was clearly done by a child. A little girl who held on to the memory of her dad, long after she should. And put it on paper to remind her in the moments she forgot."
"You stole this from a little girl?" Clara said archly, "Unless, you're the father and it was drawn for you."
The Doctor's eyes widened. "No, no no. Definitely not. The father that is. It was left behind. It wasn't going to be missed, so I kept it for myself."
"In the habit of stealing from young children are we?"
.o:0:o.
It was the usual scenario. They visited planet, inadvertently offended the inhabitants, were chased, discovered imminent danger was lurking, found out the entire planet was at stake, became caught up in saving the inhabitants who had previously tried to shoot them, the Doctor worked his genius brain and saved the day.
Only thing was, they hadn't reached that last part yet. Because the Doctor was still trying to decipher what it was that the threat was going to do. And until he'd worked that out he couldn't think of an appropriate solution.
He'd been pondering the problem for so long he had become agitated and short-tempered. He even snapped at the poor woman who tried to give him a cup of tea.
"You can do it Doctor." Clara reassured. "You always do. Just take a deep breath and have that tea. It will clear your head and calm you down."
Instead of listening to her advice he unleashed his anger on the unsuspecting wall with a kick. "She'd know what to do. Darn it. She always knew."
Clara began to wonder if this ambiguous 'she' she had heard him refer to on a number of occasions in fact signified the same person and not a variety as she'd originally thought.
.o:0:o.
"Settings are on random, let's see where the old girl has taken us!"
The Doctor flung the door open and froze. Clara popped her head around his shoulder. "A cemetery?"
"No no no no no," he retreated and frantically tried closing the door but it wouldn't move. "Clara! Get back here, we're not staying."
Clara turned back to face him from where she had wandered to amongst the gravestones. "Oh don't be silly. If the TARDIS door isn't going to shut we're not going anywhere."
She aimlessly meandered through the graves, reading the tombstones of people loved and lost. She stopped when she read two familiar names. "Rory and Amelia? Hang on a second... Rory and Amy? Doctor!" she turned to watch him – he was still failing to close the door. "Is this your Amy and Rory?"
He paused, sighed and then stepped away from the TARDIS.
"Yes," he answered quietly.
"But Amelia Williams." Clara responded gently, "Is this by any chance the same Amelia Williams who wrote all my favourite childhood books?"
"Yes."
"Doctor?" a third voice, with a thick American accent, called.
The Doctor's eyes widened as he saw the elderly man walking towards him. Well, he now knew why the TARDIS had taken him there. "Anthony? Is that you?"
Anthony chuckled as he stood in front of his brother-in-law. "Why yes, I have aged a bit haven't I? I haven't seen you since... well since my sister first introduced me to you. How is Melody—River...? I still don't know what to call her. It's a while since I've seen her too. Not like her."
The Doctor averted his gaze to the ground. "I'm sorry Anthony. She's gone."
The Doctor risked a peek of Anthony's reaction and was shocked to find he didn't look the least bit surprised. He merely nodded solemnly.
Clara joined the two men and stood beside the Doctor facing the grave. She was a smart girl and as much as she was curious to know who this man was, she knew now wasn't the time to be asking questions.
After a long time in silence Anthony spoke. "I think I'll have her added to the stone."
The Doctor's eyes widened and filled with tears. He looked to Anthony. "You would do that?"
Anthony answered with a wrinkled old smile. "Of course. Family sticks together. And she's always been part of the family."
"Thank you." Anthony laid a warm hand on the other man's shoulder.
Unlike the two men who kept turning to look at the grave, Clara's attention focussed on watching the exchange between them. It wasn't often she got to see the Doctor interact with people he knew before her. And from what she'd observed she now knew this man was Amy and Rory's son, and that they were discussing his sister who was presumably dead.
"I don't know what name I'd put though," Anthony confessed, once more staring at the grave.
The Doctor smiled softly to himself. He knelt to the ground and traced his hand softly over the inscriptions. "Melody Pond. Melody Pond was a superhero. Melody Williams was a geography teacher. She was both though. A walking contradiction."
"Not River?"
"No," he answered affectionately with a small shake of his head, "River has her own memorials, out there in the universe. This was the one place she could be Melody. And these were the people she was Melody with. The only ones who knew her origin."
"Melody it is."
When the Doctor next visited the grave Melody Pond was not the only new inscription.
For the first time ever the four members of the Pond-Williams kin were together at the same time – a family at last. The Doctor could almost believe that all the damage that had befallen those four people as a result of their lives being touched by his had never happened. That they were just an ordinary family who were born where and when they should be and lived happily until their last days where they were farewelled by all they loved.
Almost.
.o:0:o.
Whenever he mentioned River after he'd realised Clara thought Professor Song was a man the Doctor was cautious to not give her any information that might make her question that belief. Clara was a curious girl and if anything didn't add up in her mind she would ask. Those answers were ones he wasn't ready to give yet.
He always thought one day he might tell her the truth. It just never felt like the right day.
He had also found that talking about River in a detached manner made the pain so much more bearable. He convinced himself 'the Professor' was a colleague or an old acquaintance and not the woman who had stood across from him on a pyramid and confessed her love. Not the woman who had given up everything over and over again for him.
In his hearts he knew that possibly the biggest reason he didn't talk about her was one River herself had known so well. And she was right. He didn't like endings. The one thing that telling Clara about River would do was make him face the fact that it was exactly that – an ending.
So he would keep pretending, and hoping and humouring Clara's idea that Professor Song was male when in actual fact she was so far from it.
"Every time I put a hat on my head," the Doctor said, laying a protective hand over the top hat he was sporting, "I still always expect Professor Song to appear around a building and blow it off. As impossible as it is."
Clara smiled and sipped her tea. "Didn't like your hats did he?"
He cringed. Clara interpreted it as him mourning his fallen hats, but in reality it was at the use of the masculine pronoun.
"I'm not sure if it was a case of undying abhorrence or simply an attempt to repeatedly annoy me. All I know is whenever there was an object on my head in Professor Song's presence – it very quickly acquired a bullet hole in it."
Clara laughed. He just looked so put out.
"It's not funny Clara Oswald! And don't you go getting any ideas about doing it too."
She really wished to meet this Professor Song one day. All information she knew about them indicated that he and the Doctor really shouldn't get along too well, and yet – when he spoke of the Professor it was always with immense fondness, riddled with a masked sorrow and a dash of frustration.
Plus, he just sounded like a laugh. Anyone who shot the Doctor's hats had to be cool.
Turned out Professor Song was a woman – not what Clara had been expecting. A mysterious woman, with space hair, who knew something about the Doctor that no one should.
Clara also realised that day, back in the TARDIS when the Doctor lamented on the fact River would know what he didn't (echoing the words she had heard him say before), that the ambiguous 'she' he referred to on occasion was in reality the Professor – the Doctor's ex (she didn't believe that for a second – there was no conviction in his voice when he'd agreed with her).
Later still she truly understood. Professor River Song – a gun wielding, screw-driver insulting, message sending, TARDIS flying, hat-shooting, all knowing, time travelling archaeologist – was his wife.
And she was dead.
Her consciousness uploaded to a library data core.
The same library the TARDIS had taken them to for an undisclosed purpose, which the Doctor refused to do. She was momentarily horrified when she realised what he had been refusing was to go and talk to his wife.
Only momentarily, because she was soon distracted once more with faceless men following her.
If they came out of all this alive she vowed to do two things; first find out about River Song – and only accept proper answers this time, and second ensure the Doctor didn't keep neglecting the woman he had loved too much to let die.