The fact that anything was wrong took a while to make itself known. It came in increments. Slowly but surely. Small things, at first. More late nights at the practice, more difficult cases. A few missed commitments, a few questionable decisions regarding their weekend plans – when they made some. She never once complained or challenged his enduring dedication to his job. Being a vet would always have to come first. He'd told her outright early on in their relationship that nothing would change that. It was a pretty big obstacle, one that had prevented him from forging any lasting relationships in the past. No one liked to come second, after all.

But Clara valued her independence and her freedom and had said so. She liked to keep her own hours and do her own things. They'd never talked about moving in together. Although they mostly spent whatever time they had together at her place, his house was definitely bigger, and could have easily accommodated the both of them with space to spare. They'd never mentioned taking a holiday together either, even though that would have proven difficult with their impractical schedules.

Five months in – and when all was said and done, they were very happy months, no doubt about it – he thought it would still be a good idea to take stock of the situation. Jack was obviously quick to point out that choosing that day of all days to do it wasn't incidental.

"You've been acting weird ever since we heard Amy gave birth."

"I have not, and we've known she was going to have the baby for a while, now."

His office, lunch hour. The Doctor eating leftovers from Clara at his desk. His friend once more pretending that the sofa was made for sitting.

"Maybe, but it doesn't change the fact that it makes you wonder."

"Wonder what?"

"Wonder what it must be like to have a normal life. In the nine months you've known Clara, Amy managed to get married and have a baby."

"We don't need to get married or have babies for us to be happy," the Doctor countered.

"I'm not saying that, I'm saying you can't help but feel a bit threatened by it. All your life you've put your vocation first - helping animals. And Amy's one of the most dedicated interns working here. You trust her implicitly with your patients and she'd do everything in her power to save them. And yet she manages to have a life outside this practice."

"I do have a life." A beat. "Lately, at least."

"You still leave after midnight most days," Jack pointed out correctly.

"It's working fine for us."

"But for how long? How long do you think that limbo is going to last?"

The Doctor shrugged, but had to think before coming up with a suitable answer.

"Until one of us says things need to change, I imagine."

"And that's never going to happen, you're both too stubborn."

Unfortunately, the American vet was quite right on that respect. He'd spent enough time in Clara's presence to know that.

"So what are you saying? That I should propose?" the Doctor snorted, his pasta dish mostly gone by then. And yet he was still making a lot of unnecessary noise with his fork, scratching it against the plate.

"You, married? Now that's something I'd love to see." The Doctor pretended to feel insulted. And surprisingly, he did feel a bit miffed.

"No," Jack added, "but it might be time for you to take a good gander at your priorities."

"I know where my priorities are. They're here, with the practice. Clara knows that. Which is why she's fine with what we have."

"Do you even realise how lucky you are?" His tone was almost aggressive, now. The Doctor recoiled in surprise.

"She feeds you, lets you sleep in her bed, and more I assume." A dark look from his boss. "Not asking for anything in return."

"She doesn't want anything."

"Have you even asked her?"

Silence.

"You don't feel anything for her?"

"Fuck off, of course I do!"

"When you have to stay late and can't see her for several days, do you miss her?"

"Jesus, what's wrong with you? Of course!" The conversation was making him more and more uncomfortable by the minute.

"Do you feel guilty when that happens? When it's staying here or going to her, and you choose staying here?"

"No!"

But he'd replied too quickly. Automatically. It was an interesting question, after all. One he couldn't answer easily. Because he wasn't sure he would be pleased with the result. What he had to do and what he wanted to do were two different things. Always had been. All his life.

Jack got up. He looked resigned.

"There's only one question you should really be asking yourself."

Looking up at him, listening. This was important.

"If you drop dead tonight at 2AM while fixing a dog, will you regret anything?"

There was no quick 'no' to say to that, so the Doctor stayed silent this time.

To prove his colleague wrong – and because their conversation had unsettled him more than he would like to admit – the Doctor made sure to arrive at Clara's before she had gone to bed that night. She'd been working on a tedious project lately, and he found her still at it when he got there.

"I'll be half an hour, then we can eat. I'm starving, I haven't stopped all day!"

"I'll cook something."

Clara looked up from her screens. Raised eyebrows.

"I do know how to cook," the Doctor defended himself.

"I never said you didn't. Feel free to cook at your leisure, you know where everything is."

Was that sarcasm?

"The fire extinguisher is at the bottom of the stairs, by the way."

That had been sarcasm then, yeah, which was fair enough. The Doctor hadn't planned on offering to cook that night. But he felt jittery and wanted to keep busy until he'd be able to talk to her. And yes, maybe Jack's pointed accusations had rattled him.

Over sandwiches and salad later – his skills where what they were – he couldn't seem to find where to start the conversation he wanted to have with her. Thankfully, Clara was there to rescue him.

"What's wrong? You're barely eating and you look worried. Did something bad happen at the practice?"

It should have unnerved him that she'd automatically jump to that conclusion. But then, his whole life revolved around his patients. When something was wrong, it was never him. Not really.

"No, today was okay."

"Did Amy send you River's picture? She looks adorable! With her round cheeks and tiny closed fists."

The Doctor nodded and tried to eat a little. Clara talked some more about Amy's baby then about her ongoing translation project.

"I'll finish it tomorrow, we can have an early night, if you want."

It was close to midnight already, but for two night owls it was early indeed. Clara still seemed to be under the impression that something was amiss.

"Are you happy?" he asked out of the blue as they were loading the dishwasher. He could have waited for a more opportune time, but he'd just managed to formulate what was really on his mind.

Clara turned towards him, half-frowning, half-smiling, as though she couldn't decide what she felt.

"Why are you asking me that?"

"Well, it's an important question, don't you think?"

"Sure."

"I feel I should confirm that you are."

"You feel responsible for my happiness?" she rephrased, a grin ultimately betraying her frame of mind over the matter.

The Doctor grumbled and she slid her hands up his chest in a soothing manner.

"To answer your question, since it seems so important for you to ask it all of a sudden, yes, I'm happy. Now will you tell me what's really on your mind?"

He peered down at her. Her warm brown eyes and pink lips he was dying to kiss already. The feel of her fingers over his heart. Tangible. Meaningful. Why would Jack even have to ask him if he felt anything for her? How could he not?

Looking back, it would have been the right time to speak up. To ask her to elaborate on her assertion that she was happy. You're happy now, but will you be happy in six months? A year? That's what his colleague's parting words had been all about.

"Nothing," he replied instead, smiling the serene smile of the oblivious. His kisses were soon distracting Clara from her earlier misgivings.

As though he was set on proving his friend wrong on every account, the Doctor suggested they should go away for the weekend the next morning. He'd clear his surgeries, and they'd be able to have the two days for themselves. Clara had been surprised, but clearly up for it, and Jack had looked mystified to say the least when he announced it. But he wouldn't be deterred, and he worked diligently the next three days to make it happen.

They settled on a road trip over the East Anglia coast, both agreeing that they didn't need to go far, and packed the car with dogs and plans to enjoy the last days of Summer. And they did – running in the sand with Tardis and Mycroft, eating fish and chips whilst he complained they would always taste better in Scotland anyway, having one too many pints of cider at the pub they were staying at on Saturday night and waking up with sore heads, making love when the hangover passed, getting lost on the way back, shouting at the GPS, and finally swimming one last time in the already far too cold sea before having a well deserved bath at Clara's place.

Unfortunately, those happy memories had to be tarnished the very next morning by a merry retired school teacher who had brought in her nine-year-old Yorkie at the practice for a knee replacement.

"She's very beautiful, your girlfriend."

"My girlfriend?" Examining the dog, miles away from anything not cartilage, muscles, and joints related.

"Maybe a bit young for you, but so pretty! You looked very much in love on the pictures."

Back to reality now.

"What pictures?"

"I read the article in the Daily Times. They didn't give her name, but they said she might have been a client of yours. Was she? I'm not judging, of course. And you do deserve to have fun after all. You work so much!"

When the Doctor asked for said article, his teeth set, she said she no longer had it. But it didn't take him long during lunch hour to find it online.

'LOCAL FAMOUS VET ON HOLIDAY WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND'

The article clearly wouldn't win any Pulitzer price – it was the East Anglian Daily Times, after all, let's get real – but for all it lacked in details regarding 'the mysterious brunette', it certainly offered quite eloquent pictures. Four of them in total, all taken on one of the beaches they had visited during the weekend. They were kissing in one, and he was holding her hand or hugging her in the others. So pretending she was just a friend would clearly not work.

"At least they haven't snapped us in our bathing suits coming out of the cold water, you should be grateful," Clara said with a small smile that night, clearly unfazed, when he showed her the article.

"That doesn't bother you?" he pressed.

"Why should it bother me? I don't care. You might be fairly famous, but you're allowed to have a girlfriend, right? We're not doing anything improper. Clients are not going to call and complain."

And true, they hadn't. But that wasn't the point.

"The real question is, why does it bother you?"

She was right, of course. It was bothering him. A lot. But he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. And once more, it had to be his right-hand man who spelled it out for him, in the middle of fucking surgery.

Groaning and swearing, the nurses and interns were taking the brunt of his attitude during a tricky spine operation – it was unusual. Shouty and prone to profanity, yes. Showing his irk at subordinates, never.

"Don't tell me you're still mad about that article," said Jack, who was the only member of his staff who would ever dare speak to him like that in theatre "it's been a week already, no one died. 'Local vet has a girlfriend', Great Britain and the monarchy will endure."

It was difficult to show aggravation when wearing a surgical mask, but the Doctor tried with all his might.

"I don't like people judging me. Not over that. They should only judge my work as a vet."

"You're not a monk."

Not so discreet guffaw from a veteran anaesthesiologist in the background - she had nothing to fear from her boss and had witnessed worse exchanges between the two old friends.

"People expect you to have a life outside of work. That's normal. You don't want them to think you're some sort of raving workaholic nutty, which you actually are. You should be grateful for the article, really."

"But I have a responsibility," countered the Doctor.

"Yes, which is why you're here right now, operating on a paralysed Labrador who will, if all goes well, get back to running across fields thanks to your talent and dedication. Don't tell me that's not enough."

More grumbling from the Doctor, who just wanted to get back to his surgery and stop having to listen to Jack, now.

"You already go above and beyond," his colleague told him once they were on their own out of theatre, checking the post-op X-rays "you don't have to behave like a martyr all the time. Live a little, life's too short, and we'll soon all be dead anyway. What will you have achieved?"

The Doctor turned and raised his arms. "This," he said, gesturing to the walls around them, "this practice. My interns, my students, all that I managed to share and teach. I'm good at this. I'm not so good at the rest." He exhaled slowly, feeling that he had shared too much.

"Except that you are, Doctor. Good at the rest. You just don't want to accept it, that's the problem."