They arrived holding hands and he smiled at the notion because wasn't that what he'd always said was most important – having a hand to hold and never letting go. He glanced down at her as she looked up at the building with a considerate look. Clara was trying to remember and she thought maybe being at their home would bring it all back to the front of her mind. It did work that way sometimes, he knew, but she simply looked over the windows and the stairway that sat behind it and when he moved forward towards the doors, she followed with a long sigh.

"I'm sorry," he told her quietly when she entered the lift.

Clara smiled up at him and asked, "For what?"

He shrugged, "I know you were hoping to get a flash of something."

She gave his hand a squeeze and nudged his elbow with her own, "I just want to see where I live – know what kind of person I was."

"I could have told you," he offered lightly, "You're a teacher – a brilliant one – and you care about your students, giving up far too much of your personal time to help them with projects and issues their parents should worry about," he teased.

He could hear her chuckling as he watched the numbers slowly tick off. "That all?"

"You're a rubbish cook," he scowled playfully, "Burn just about everything – think you'd burn water if I left you with it long enough."

"That so," she sighed.

"Afraid it is," he replied, watching her nod with a smirk. "And you love me too much."

Clara raised her eyes to meet his and one eyebrow lifted slightly, "Howso?"

He grinned and watched her cheeks go pink before he looked away and offered, "You take care of me, always ready with tea – because you don't burn the tea; you've got that one down, actually – and you mend my wounds and listen to my chatter and tease me relentlessly," he laughed to the ground and when he glanced up, she was giving him a curious look. "What?"

"Mend your wounds?" She repeated.

"Metaphorically," he spat, eyes going wide as the doors opened.

"Of course metaphorically," Clara responded, then she shifted, "Were you so wounded?"

"I was dying," he told her with a smile.

Clara laughed as she responded, "I saved you from death?"

"A million times over," he nodded.

With a small nod and a shy smirk, she breathed, "Makes me quite impressive, doesn't it."

"You have no idea," he breathed.

He launched a hand out to keep the door from closing and he watched her exit, arms out when she momentarily lost her balance before she stood, waiting for him to lead her. The Doctor stepped to her side and offered his arm and she smiled, curling hers around his as they moved down the hallway and towards the last door where he plucked his key from his pocket and mentally went over every space to try and remember if there had been anything he'd forgotten. The last thing he needed was for her to come across a brochure or an unfinished letter, but he'd checked ever…

"Are we going inside?" She questioned quietly.

Laughing nervously as she waited, he unlocked the door and pushed in with a quick, "Tight entrance, living room's just around the corner and to your right."

Clara took a breath and he watched her nod her head, preparing herself for whatever she found, but she was already smiling, looking up at her jackets hanging on the rack just inside. She reached out to touch the fabric and she chuckled as she gestured at one of his, "You're quite partial to the purple."

"At the mo," he told her assuredly, "Yes." Then he pointed at her, "You like the purple, said so yourself."

There was a laugh she swallowed as she looked to the décor hanging to her right and then began to make her way down the hall, glancing into the living room anxiously before she stepped inside, her hands grasped in front of her stomach nervously as she moved towards the couch that sat at the center of the room, facing a small television in a corner and she asked, "Still not a big fan of the tele?"

"Not much," he shrugged, "We tend to be out and about, or you're taking care of schoolwork."

Clara nodded and turned awkwardly before asking, "Bedroom's just at the end of the hall then, yeah?"

He smiled, "Kitchen's across the way and yes, there are two bedrooms at the end of the hall," she was already moving towards him, hands out to grasp the edge of the entranceway as she turned the corner and began to walk rapidly down the hall and immediately she shifted into the right bedroom and the Doctor's heart sank. He tried to consider that in her mind she'd never been in the flat, but he knew, subconsciously, she'd gone to check on her daughter's room.

"Yellow?" She questioned brightly.

He lifted his head and made his way to the end of the hall, peering in at the spare bedroom Dave had helped him arrange – a small desk with books lining its hutch, and a single bed with plain pastel purple sheets. He nodded towards the wall at his side before lifting a finger and repeating, "Yellow."

"Not really my color," she lamented with a grimace, "Do I like yellow? Is yellow a color I fancy now?"

With a smile, he shook his head, "Not particularly, it's just a guest bedroom."

"Do we often have guests?" Clara asked, and he knew she was wondering about friends, or his relatives – something he'd gone through great lengths to avoid discussing.

"Angie spends the nights sometimes," he told her truthfully. The room had been their guest bedroom before they'd begun the conversion and the girl had spent nights with them after adventures, or simple 'girl' nights while Artie tended to prefer the couch.

Clara moved around the room slowly and she sighed as she turned, watching how he stared at the wall to his left and she glanced at it. Lips shifting down momentarily, she felt a pang of sadness as she looked back to the Doctor and she asked quietly, "Our room?"

His head shook lightly to bring him back from the image seared into his mind of her half-finished mural, and the Doctor took a step back, arm rising to the bedroom across the hallway. Clara smiled as she walked hesitantly towards it, crossing the hall space and entering the room she smiled at because she felt, instantly, at home. The bed wasn't too large, and the sheets were the colors of autumn, matching the curtains hanging on the window that sat overlooking it. She lifted a finger to touch over the wall, expecting it to be paper, but found it was merely paint and the Doctor tilted his head to look at her with a grin.

"You made it a project, sponge the walls – made a horrendous mess, but it's quite beautiful," he finished with a nod as he looked over the room.

Clara laughed, "I painted the walls." Then she turned, "And I picked yellow."

She expected him to snort at her words, but instead his head lowered slightly and his lips dropped and she glanced back at that room across the hall with a frown of her own. Something about that room, she knew, was upsetting him, and she wanted to ask, but she decided instead to enter her own room and drop herself onto the bed. Testing it with a few small bounces, Clara pulled herself up completely and she laid down, staring up at the ceiling before glancing at the Doctor, who stood at the door grinning down at her.

"Well," she called, "Come on."

"Clara," he breathed, shaking his head and crossing his arms.

She slapped at the bedding beside her, registering the awkward look of refusal in his eyes – as though he weren't allowed – so she shifted, groaning as she pushed herself to sit up to tug the prosthetic to the right and she shouted out in shock. The Doctor leapt onto the bed, one hand at her shoulder, the other hovering over her as he started to ask a question before he spotted the smirk and he scoffed at it.

"You tricked me!"

"Why wouldn't you lay with me?" Clara posited, leaning back on her palms and tilting her head to watch him fumble over an excuse before he dropped his shoulders and simply stared. "You're my husband and I understand – somehow in your mind I'm some impressionable nineteen year old girl you don't want to take advantage of, but I don't want to have sex, I just want to lay here with you."

His mouth fell open slightly and he closed it quickly, brow knotting before he allowed, "It's not that I don't want to – I'm, I want – it's just you. You," he pointed, "And your you," his fingers waved over her, "And no, I don't want…" she dropped back with a loud sigh and the Doctor remained on his knees, just beside her before he shifted back slightly and then stretched out over the bed next to her, looking down at her as she stared up at the ceiling.

"I wish I could remember this," she told him sadly.

The Doctor picked at the floral pattern on the bedding and he sighed, "I wish you could as well."

She glanced up at him with a small smile, appreciating that he truly was trying to avoid taking advantage of her in her current mental state. "You know, in a weird way, it's almost as if we're dating again."

He laughed and nodded, then admitted, "To be honest, it's never felt as though we've left that stage."

Clara enjoyed the smile that remained on his lips knowing his mind was running over memories she didn't have – memories that softened his features and tinted his cheeks to match the bedspread. "That's good, right? Us never quite settling down."

He watched her hands lift to her stomach as it gurgled and he frowned, remembering the morning of the accident and how she'd woken famished with a quiet, "Doctor, could you make us some breakfast?"

"For my girls," he'd responded with a kiss to her forehead, "Anything."

"How about," he began, hand settling atop Clara's, "How about I make us some dinner?"

She smiled, slipping one of her hands out from underneath his to drop it atop his with a grin because it gave her an odd tickle in her gut that intensified when she met his eyes and saw them staring affectionately down at her. With a nod, she asked quietly, "Fish fingers?" Then she laughed to herself as he stared, "Dunno why I said that; never cared for them, not really."

"No," he nodded, "No, we have them at least once a week. Usually with…"

"Custard," Clara said with a nod before she glanced at him again, brow rising as she took in the excited look spreading over his face, "Have I remembered something important, Doctor?"

Dropping to kiss her gently, he quickly jerked back, sliding off the bed with a double wag of his fingers in her direction, "Very important," he told her. "Very," he repeated before shooting off into the kitchen.

They ate on the bed before Clara insisted on a nap, popping the prosthetic leg off and settling it on the ground and she gave it a sad look before turning as the Doctor slid onto the bed behind her. She wanted to ask him why the meal was so important, but her eyes were shifting shut and the muscles in her legs were aching from all of the walking she knew very well they shouldn't have done. Small trips, they'd told her, to build up strength. Except she knew this had been worth it.

The afternoon, her full stomach, and his warm frame curling up behind her as she laid her head down upon the pillow was more therapy for her than anything anyone had done for her in the weeks since the accident. She felt comfortable, despite the missing limb; she felt loved, despite the missing answers. Clara shifted back against the Doctor's chest and she sighed, closing her eyes as he wrapped an arm around her, fingers delicately brushing over the hands she'd balled underneath her chin.

"Just a few moments, Clara – it's a long way home," he warned.

With a small nod, she responded, already half asleep, "It's ok, Doctor, we can take the tube, or catch a cab, or," she yawned and settled into the bed, "Pop off in the Tardis."

The Doctor froze against her before bringing his hand up to brush the hair away from her face, fingers lingering over the long scar above her right eye that slid up just past her hairline. He didn't know how aware she was of what she was saying, but the memories were there. He smiled and leaned forward to kiss her temple before reaching behind him for the phone that sat atop a bedside table and he dialed, waiting a moment before the other man answered with a quick, "Clara, where are you?"

"It's alright Dave, she's safe," the Doctor replied. "We're at our flat and, if you wouldn't mind, could you swing by and pick us up after you've had dinner?"

"She needed to see it, didn't she?" He asked quietly and the Doctor could hear the sigh he offered.

"Yes, and Dave," he began, "Her memories are there; they've just got to work their way to the surface, but they are there."

He heard the other man give a small relieved laugh before he replied, "Good, right. Brilliant. Be there in an hour then, that good?"

"Dave," the Doctor chuckled, "That's perfect."