To die, to sleep-
No more-and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep-
To sleep - perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time.. – Hamlet, William Shakespeare

Doctor:

He feels too much.

Every sight hurts his eyes, his ears ache at the mere whisper of a sound, and every touch causes lines of fire across the surface of his skin. His hearts never stop beating a rhythm agony in his chest, reminding him of everything he has done that he regrets. Every time he wasn't there to save someone (arriving minutes, seconds too late and stumbling into the aftermath, thinking 'if only'), every time he couldn't do anything for the huddled masses and solitary people who just wanted to live (walking amongst the survivors later, unable to meet their eyes for fear of what judgement he will see reflected in them), every time he was the enemy (hatred echoing across burning skies and 'save us!', 'help us!', 'what have you done?' calling up at him from the bloodied bodies at his feet as he steps over the shells of people he once called 'friend' and 'brother'). He deserves that pain, or at least he thinks he does.

(No, that isn't right. Not right at all. He knows he does. He deserves it all. Every last drop. How can he not, after all he's done?)

He watches her scatter along his timeline, as Rose once scattered the words Bad Wolf across the universe. The others only see her fade in a glorious burst of light, but not him. No, never him. To his eyes, she breaks apart into a billion atoms - agonisingly slowly and painfully fast in the same moment. For what he's done, what he's doing, what he will do. But she doesn't show it – not her, not his Clara. Because every time he sees her, she's smiling. Smiling. His brave, impossible girl, for one moment, smiles for him. And then she's gone.

Every breath he takes is another death relived. He is burning and falling and bleeding all at once and it's too much to even think about doing anything except cling as hard as he can to the here and now. He breathes in pain, he breathes out agony. There is no relief. His throat feels like it's full of broken glass, and its only after a while he realises it's because he hasn't stopped screaming.

His skull feels like it's trapped in a vice, even as he feels his brain trying to escape through his eyes. His memories are changing, becoming twisted even as he recalls them. For a moment he can see both versions – the truth and the lie, the before and after, until they merge and only the painful lie remains. (it never happened, it has already happened, it is happening right now). His tomb is most certainly a scar in the world, but now it isn't old and healed over, but instead carved open without care until it is bleeding and infected and wrong. The scar hurts to look at, the strangeness of seeing past and present and future all lined up as dominoes waiting to fall, feeling dizzying and uncomfortable – paradoxes always were tricky, after all. It's only when they tipped prematurely and scattered in the wrong order did he realise exactly why his grave is the one place he never should have come.

But then, when his brave, impossible Clara steps fearlessly into the light, it feels as though someone is stitching him up and pouring cool water onto his burning flesh. It is a physical and mental relief, even as his hearts break as yet another companion dies in front of him, adding to the endless lists of those he was not capable of saving. It takes only a few moments for him to decide that this – letting this poor girl die for all he has done – is not acceptable and, just this once – he is going to save her. The impossible girl, who has been slowly rescuing him over and over, one journey at a time; has already given her life for him one time too many. He takes one last look at the scar of his grave, and leaps.

He smiles. Then he is gone.

Just this once, for Her.