Hello! I can only apologise profusely for the absurd length of time this chapter has taken to get here; it's not even very long, so I have no excuse. Still, I can only hope that it was worth the wait. Here we go...

"They did not speak, they did not bow, they were not acquainted; they saw each other; and, like the stars in the sky separated by millions of leagues, they lived by gazing upon each other." - Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

In the four days it took the woman who used to be River Song to wake up, that little hospital room became the centre of the Doctor's Universe.

With day one came realisation that felt like cold tar in his veins.

"She knew."

Clara blinked her eyes heavily to shake the sleep from them, lifting her head from where she was curled in the chair at the end of the bed with his jacket over her as a makeshift duvet. "Knew what?"

It was the first words he'd exchanged with her in hours. Poor Clara. He'd never offered to take her home, and she'd never asked. The Doctor sat at the hospital window, the stars looking like black holes now. "She always knew. She had more knowledge of the Universe than I did."

Clara gave up asking him to elaborate; just as well, seeing as he'd barely retained the ability to speak. All of time had snapped before him, and all he was left to think was that River had known exactly what would happen when she'd stepped outside on that godforsaken planet.

Day two brought fury and burst knuckles.

Why didn't he just lie?

It had been a simple enough request, after all; what a marriage, when neither of them could look each other in the eye. But he could have kept up the pretence, he could have – and would have – lied through his teeth if it would have prevented this. Yes, River, I would have fallen in love with you if we'd met in the right order. No, River, we weren't born out of guilt and compensation. Of course I remember you, River, how could I ever, ever forget you, River- she would have fallen in his arms, cried, probably, there'd have been apologies and days of making up and their marriage, full of false promises, would have been just peachy.

All he'd done his whole damn life was lie. Something to be ashamed of, perhaps, but certainly nothing to regret if this was where honesty left him. This, he thought bitterly as he looked on his wife, this was what the truth did.

Clara started as he leapt from his chair. "Where are you going?"

"I need something from the Tardis," was his gruff explanation.

Fizzing with hatred for everything he had allowed himself to be, everything the Universe had made him, he charged into the Tardis with one purpose in mind. When his skin bore scorch marks from the sparks and his knuckles stung like hell, split open from the repeated contact with the metal console, he was grimly satisfied. Mumbling an apology to his beautiful ship, he scrubbed his eyes dry and trudged back out again.

Clara's eyes popped when he flopped back into his chair without a word, breathing heavily enough to wake the dead. "What happened to your hands?"

"Nothing."

Day three brought wild fantasies.

Timelines be damned, he's not letting this happen. He's going to break all the rules of time because he can, and he's going to go back and get her, his River, and make this what could have been instead of what is.

He can go to her flat, drum on the door until his knuckles bleed. He catches her just in time, yes – she has her suitcase in her hand, in fact. He sees that look in her eyes that is always present after one of their rows, trying for fury but settling at relief that he's in front of her. She probably asks what he's doing there, voice successfully cold even though the tremble of her bottom lip betrays her. And he wraps her up in his arms, cold and unloving nature cast aside, maybe forever for her because he needs to be what she needs. What was he thinking, wasting time they weren't even supposed to have? He murmurs all of that against her neck, holding her so tightly that she could burst and telling her he's sorry, and not to go on her expedition. She asks how he knows about the expedition– he sees that knowing suspicion when she pulls back, because she always knows, doesn't she – and he whispers, what could he whisper… spoilers. He whispers spoilers and for once it's enough for her to drop her suitcase and let him pull her close again. He's never, ever going to let her go this time.

He feels himself fix in steely resolve, but then his eyes snap open and the flat melts away as dreams do. He's left with empty arms and River lying motionless under the glare of the hospital lights.

He could do all of that, go back and keep her from ever ending up here. Except he can't. Because if this has taught him anything, it's that he's far from invincible. He may bear comparisons to Storms and Gods and Mighty Warriors across the Universe but he could not save his wife.

All their lives together, and this is where it ends. He's to blame for that, and there's not a thing he can do about it except live on because that's what he does, isn't it?

Day Four.

The Doctor lets a tormented sleep carry him away, because he's so very tired. He manages a few minutes, at most, before a timid voice he thinks he vaguely recognises stirs him.

"Excuse me?"

It all happens far too soon. When his eyes open they immediately drink in the vision of the woman who was once his wife, perfectly awake, staring at him like the stranger that he is.

"Hello," he greets her quietly. A little pang inside him makes the comparison to Demon's Run and laughs bitterly, though outwardly he remains solemn. It's his turn for the bravery façade.

"Where… where am I?" She's afraid; that much she knows, and it's all he knows too. Her eyes are wide like a child's, but there's no recognition there now. He expected that. He anticipated that the build-up of memories and love and anguish that made them burn to have vanished. It's still the single most painful thing he's had the misfortune of living through, and really having known that would be the case does not lessen the pain, but the feeling that this is exactly what he deserves is morbidly comforting. The inevitability helps too; the sensations that's forever present, at the beginning of each and every doomed relationship he's dragged into.

He knew this would happen. And not just four days ago, no; since the moment he'd found her again she'd been ageing, decaying, dying, just like the rest of them if only a little slower. It doesn't even matter anymore. He only should have known better that he couldn't have been so lucky as to find an exception to his curse.

"You're in hospital. You were in an accident that's taken your memory, but you're safe. Don't worry." He curses himself for sounding like he cares. He doesn't need to be giving the game away, because he's already resolved what he's going to be to her now. Not her husband or lover, no; not the madman in a box, her mother's best friend. She deserves, needs, better than all of that.

She's shaking; her hands tangle in her hair and a heavy sob catches in her throat. "I don't know… I can't – remember, I…!"

The Doctor clasps his hands on his knee, pressing his eyes shut for a moment to steel himself. It works; he sounds impressively detached, as the person he will now be to her should be. "Your name is Melody Pond." She's not River Song, because River Song was something they made together. River Song is a fairytale now.

Melody blinks, gazing at this visitor who is her only acquaintance in what little existence she now knows. "Who are you?"

A faint smile crosses his features helplessly; he's always been a sentimental idiot, after all. "I'm your doctor."