Clara had never noticed it before, she didn't have a reason to. The Doctor was always prancing about her flat, setting things down from his pockets in search of something else; coming in with three bow ties in his hand to ask which one she preferred; kicking his shoes off to relax when she'd had a long day and asked to have a cup of tea before heading off.
Now he was gone – or rather, regenerated into the new man who was out in the universe somewhere testing his new body; his new mind… his new face.
She set herself to cleaning because she thought it would take her mind off him. Clara imagined if she started picking up all of her Christmas décor, tossing bits of wrapping paper from presents she'd managed to open with her dad, Linda, and gran that still lay tucked underneath her tree, or in random spots under the table, she wouldn't be thinking about the Doctor.
Her Doctor.
Instead she found herself with a rag in her hand, stopped halfway across a shelf, staring at a set of green plastic soldiers knowing they didn't belong to her… they belonged to him. With a smile, her hand came away and she lifted the two small men, snorting a quiet laugh before cleaning the spot and replacing them there, ready for duty at her command. He'd been bored, waiting for her to finish grading assignments and had set himself to rummaging over her bookshelf, finger slipping over the spines.
"You know, I've read all of these."
"Good, pick your favorite and skim through it again."
"Can't the grading wait?"
"No, it has to be done tonight."
"Time machine," he reminded, "It can be tonight for a week."
She glanced up between the soldiers to find her mother's book and it brought a smile to her face, as it always did, and she continued on. The tree had to be undone and that's when she'd found them – several items hung about she'd never seen before. How had she never seen them? Clara smiled, plucking each off to look at the colors and the way some hummed when she held them. Ornaments, she knew, from other places; ornaments, she knew, the Doctor had placed without her knowing.
One was shaped like an awkward leaf, as if hand-made by someone with little sculpting skill and was a burnt orange with three words, etched in Gallifreyan and tainted red. She ran her fingers over the grooves and found herself crying because somewhere, in the back of her mind, the translation was instant: Happy Christmas, Clara.
"Happy Christmas, Doctor," she whispered at it, carefully setting it back on the tree.
She gripped the rag in her hand and glanced around the room, suddenly seeing every little thing that ordinarily sat perfectly in place that now stood out like a stab to her heart. There was the edge of a brown shoelace peeking out from beneath a small table. A tiny model of an airplane sitting on a shelf, a half-eaten pack of off-planet gum settled beside it, a photo of Venus he'd jammed into the edge of a frame of a photo of Italy.
"Mine's much grander."
"Italy is fairly grand, Doctor."
"Have I taken you to Italy, Clara? We could meet the inventor of the gondola!"
With a small smile as the warm tear slipped over her right cheek, Clara turned away from the living room and she took the rag into the kitchen to dump it in the bin, ready to pick up a new one, but she found the magnet on the fridge that was really a rock from a moon. He'd been searching for tickets to a show he'd acquired; a show he'd suggested they see. Blue alien who sang opera that had managed to lull Clara straight to sleep after a day of tests and frowning students.
She turned away from the kitchen, from the oven mitt he'd left that said 'Universe's Best Cook' and the mug he'd insisted was bigger on the inside for his tea and the cookbook he'd translated for her not understanding she'd never find half of the ingredients on Earth. Clara moved swiftly to her bedroom and fell onto her sheets, face buried in her pillow and she took a long breath, inhaling the scent of space and linen and strangeness that accompanied him.
She hadn't washed the sheets since his last visit; since the last time he'd thrown himself onto the bed and planted his hands behind his head to lament her wardrobe choice because they were going to Dorse 5 and she should have a gown. A proper ball gown. Clara had slapped at his feet and ordered him to remove his shoes if he insisted on lying on her bed while he waited and he'd obliged with a shrug, watching her as she moved through her closet and finally plucked a blue dress out with a wave of her hand. He'd smiled then, a honest smile with rosy cheeks and then he'd moved through his pockets in a mad dash to find something.
It was always that way with him.
Clara picked up the barrette he'd handed her, the same color as the dress and then he'd rushed towards the Tardis with a quick, "Oh, I should be getting ready myself – I have a bowtie to match!"
She ran her finger over the smooth top and she glanced at herself in the mirror, picking her hair up at the front and securing the item onto her head before taking a swipe at the tears perched on her eyelids. Turning, she could easily spot the paper on which he'd tried to explain the science of time travel, the comb on her dresser he'd left behind, the socks with wild colored stripes folded neatly atop a book of constellations she'd been studying. Clara had promised to give them back, but now she approached them, taking them and falling onto the bed with an exhale of sorrow.
Unfolding them, she pulled them up over her tights and then she fell back in the bed, reaching up behind her for the purple bow tie she knew was hidden under her pillow. The one she'd picked up off the floor of the Tardis and had jammed into her pocket. She held it in her hands as she looked around her room, spotting two others he'd haphazardly draped over the back of her chair, or used as a marker in one of her books.
"This, you have to read this story later; you'll thank me for it!"
She'd read it thirteen times.
Clara stared at the ceiling now; knew if she continued searching her room she'd find him everywhere. He'd be in the photo on her desk and on the shelf amongst her possessions, knickknacks and thingamabobs, he would say. All very important, he would insist. She closed her eyes and watched him make faces at her choice of hand soap and she smiled because the very next day she'd found something else in its place. Something that smelled of lavender and honey and left her hands smooth and warm for hours.
"Clara?"
She inhaled sharply, looking up to see the Doctor standing at her door, the key to her flat in his hand and a sad look in his eyes that made her smile because they were the same sad eyes, even on this regeneration. Pushing the bow tie deep under her pillow again, Clara slipped off the bed and stepped up to him, offering an apologetic smile because she should have heard him and she should have answered, but she was lost in a memory. Lost in mourning he understood and accepted.
"I was thinking sheep," he told her absently, eyes rising to her ceiling.
Smile ready, she tilted her head up at him to respond, "Sheep?"
"Pasture planet, actually," he corrected, one hand rising slightly, "But lots of sheep. We could…" he began with an awkward grin. "Have a look?"
Clara chuckled and patted his chest, stepping past him with a simple, "That would be splendid; I'll get my mittens."
"Oh," he gasped, and she turned to see him fumble into the pockets of his new jacket. Pockets, she laughed, that still seemed capable of housing so much more than his Sonic and psychic paper. He pulled out a small spool of thread, placing it atop a shelf, and a set of colored pencils, tossing them to her desk, and then he gave her a satisfied smile as he produced a set of red mittens. "Knew these would come in handy one day."
She eyed them as she took them, glancing up at him to watch his cheeks turn crimson as he scratched at the back of his head and turned away. "How long have these been in your pockets?"
His head did a swing as he considered before wincing and admitting, "I got them last time you complained your hands were cold and I hadn't warned you before we left; thought I'd be prepared, in case you needed them."
"Off to see sheep then," she supplied as she pulled the mittens over her hands and grasped her fingers into fists and giggled at the immediate warmth the otherworldly material was providing.
He offered an arm and a shy grin and repeated quietly, "Off to see sheep."
Clara glanced back at the thread and the colored pencils and she took the Doctor's arm with a light chuckle and a rewetting of her eyes knowing there would probably always be some trace of him in her life. Subconsciously, she imagined, he wanted to ensure that even long after he was gone; he would never truly be.