Hi! Just a really short angsty oneshot. Set in between Series 9 and the 2016 Christmas special.
The Twelfth Doctor stared straight in front of him, thoroughly heartbroken. He had been searching for his Clara Oswald everywhere, revisiting every place they had gone to. Akhaten. Hedgewick's World of Wonders. He had even dared to journey to Trenzalore, just in case her body was there. But all for nothing.
He had remembered they had gone to wonderful places, and he had remembered that he cared for her so much. He remembered everything, except...
Except her.
Every single fact, every single record. He remembered But it wasn't the same. Those were cold, hard facts.
He hadn't really thought about it, but now he realized that knowing wasn't good enough if you couldn't feel. Knowledge was worthless without emotion.
He couldn't feel the joy he had when she laughed. Couldn't feel the pain when she died. Couldn't feel the disappointment when she rejected the old man, always longing for the young him with the bowtie.
He remembered that him well. Shining green eyes, noticeable chin, and a big mouth. He remembered how much Clara felt for that him.
But all that feeling was gone. Gone, like a whisper in the wind. If he couldn't feel her, she was as good as dead. Which she was.
It wasn't the same with the other companions. He would always feel his protectiveness of Susan, amusement with Donna, love for River, trust in Sarah Jane.
But Clara...she was gone. All gone.
And the only thing he could really, truly remember was one word:
Impossible.