A/N: Takes place when the Doctor is still blind. Part one of Entwined Timelines.
I thought of all the others who had tried to tie her to the ground and failed. So I resisted showing her the songs and poems I had written, knowing that too much truth can ruin a thing. And if that meant she wasn't entirely mine, what of it? I would be the one she could always return to without fear of recrimination or question. So I did not try to win her and contented myself with playing a beautiful game. But there was always a part of me that hoped for more, and so there was a part of me that was always a fool."
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear
He was alone in London. Alone in every sense of the word. His world was one of darkness now, at least until he regenerated, and he was rather hoping that wouldn't happen for a very long time. He'd grown used to this body. Every single regeneraton was only harder than the last.
But there was something he had to do today. He was in the future. Far off in the future, where he'd left something unfinished a long time ago.
It didn't matter that he was blind. None of it mattered.
It was raining. Pouring, in fact, and he was holding an umbrella aloft his head, fully open and protecting him from the harsh weather. There was a preacher talking about a woman, someone he'd once loved oh so very much, and he was trying his best to keep his composure.
He never did these kind of things. He wasn't one for funerals. He never had been. He couldn't even stomach memorial services of any kind.
The Doctor didn't like goodbyes.
He heard the preacher's voice crack slightly, telling the Doctor they had known one another. Quite well, it would seem. They must have been friends.
"… Rose was, and always will be, someone who made everyone's lives all the brighter. She will be missed dearly. I, for one, will miss her beautiful smile and her impossible stories…"
The Doctor heard a small child's voice crack, another female asking if she wanted a tissue. Rose's children, her grandchildren were standing in front of him, he suddenly realized. And he wanted more than anything to be able to see them. Everything inside of him seemed to shatter at the realization. It was something betwixt happiness, pure joy at the notion of her having a family, and utter devastation that it hadn't been with him .
Oh, the life of a Time Lord was a lonely one.
When he reached the casket with a single rose, he gave himself away. There was an old man standing a few feet away and he recognized that voice. He was speaking to someone.
Only to himself, and to Rose, the Doctor murmured a soft, "But there was always a part of me that hoped for more, and so there was a part of me that was always a fool..." He sighed, placing the rose down upon the casket, a thumb stroking the wood as he fought to keep his tears at bay.
He wouldn't cry. He told himself he wouldn't. He wasn't that way anymore.
The man came over, placing a gentle hand upon the Doctor's shoulder. He was old now, so much older, and Human. Softly, the Doctor asked, "Were you happy? Was she happy?"
There was a moment of understanding between both men before the response came. His voice was soft, husky with age. "I made her happy. That doesn't mean she didn't worry about you, Doctor. But I made her happy and she loved me for it."
The Doctor's hearts were heavy as he turned to leave, uttering a soft, "Thank you, John."
Everyone was around the grave, the casket was lowered into the dirt, and the preacher said a few final words. It was as everyone was leaving that the Doctor felt a hand brush his arm by accident.
"I'm sorry," a soft voice said.
It suddenly felt as if a surge of electricity shot through him. That voice, it felt so familiar. And her perfume as well. He turned, blindly gazing in the woman's direction.
That perfume was so familiar and it nagged and nagged and nagged at him. It ached.
Sorrow filled his chest. Sorrow and agony. There was a woman once, a woman he'd called so impossible, but her memory lingered at the very edges of his mind, just out of reach. It was there, he knew, and he struggled to grasp at it. Strand by strand it would return. But not yet.
Little did he know that Clara Oswald had come all this way with Ashildr, just to say goodbye to someone so very dear, and so very important to the Doctor. Because love was a powerful thing. The simple brush of their skin together left her reeling as she turned and left.
He stood there, a bit lost. He couldn't move. But he did utter a single word, a name.
"... Clara?"