A/N greetings readers, friends, and (possibly) stalkers! Here is, finally, the next instalment of our little one shot thing here. This is similar to the last one, but set a few months after Trenzalore in alternating perspectives. Clara's POV gets quite confusing and messy, which is kind of the point. Also there's a few little things that might be hard to catch (I believe in showing, not telling!) so read carefully.

The song is Hopeless Wanderer by Mumford and Sons (please YouTube it? You won't regret it!)

p.s on a completely unrelated note, referring to the vessel that holds flowers, is it pronounced 'vaase' or 'vayse'?

p.p.s like my new cover? Yes, I finally made one. :)

p.p.p.s sort of maybe very minor trigger warning? I don't know, not exactly sure what a trigger warning is. But there is a very indirect and shrouded mention of depression etc? I don't know best be safe than sorry.

•••

"Hopeless Wanderer"

You heard my voice I came out of the woods by choice
Shelter also gave their shade
But in the dark I have no name

So leave that click in my head
And I will remember the words that you said
Left a clouded mind and a heavy heart
But I was sure we could see a new start

So when your hope's on fire
But you know your desire
Don't hold a glass over the flame
Don't let your heart grow cold
I will call you by name
I will share your road

But hold me fast, Hold me fast
'Cause I'm a hopeless wanderer
And hold me fast, Hold me fast
'Cause I'm a hopeless wanderer

I wrestled long with my youth
We tried so hard to live in the truth
But do not tell me all is fine
When I lose my head, I lose my spine

So leave that click in my head
And I won't remember the words that you said
You brought me out from the cold
Now, how I long, how I long to grow old

So when your hope's on fire
But you know your desire
Don't hold a glass over the flame
Don't let your heart grow cold
I will call you by name
I will share your road

But hold me fast, Hold me fast
'Cause I'm a hopeless wanderer
And hold me fast, Hold me fast
'Cause I'm a hopeless wanderer
I will learn, I will learn to love the skies I'm under
I will learn, I will learn to love the skies I'm under
The skies I'm under

•••

THE DOCTOR

In a way that the Doctor could not specifically discern, Clara was very different to most of his other companions. Or maybe the point he was going for was that she was different in terms of her relationship to him.

And that difference was the reason why he always had to second guess himself when he thought about hugging her, reign himself in when he looked at her too long, and convince himself that he wasn't, in fact, just thinking about gathering her in his arms and never letting go.

He'd never had a saviour before. He was always someone else's, whether willingly or due to his simply being present. But Clara Oswald had saved him, she had saved him, meaning he had to save her too. Without fail.

She'd been staying on the TARDIS for the past few months or so, now, and the Doctor wasn't exactly sure why. Before, she had been adamant about returning home, and even scheduled a time for him to arrive there every Wednesday. He didn't want to ask her why this arrangement had stopped, so allowed her the continuous travelling without question.

But, lately, she had been starting to scare him.

The eerie episodes she'd suffered immediately after Trenzalore had ceased, and now she slept soundly. She was recovering, rediscovering herself, better than he thought she ever could. Which was good. Brilliant.

That wasn't the problem.

It wasn't something he could put his finger on, not something he could label, not something he could lock away in a jar and hide in a forgotten cupboard. It was a mess of things; uncertain glances, flinching hands, nervous words. But the Doctor was observant, and he was also anxious.

When he allowed himself to inspect the bones of the situation, he realised what he was so worried about.

Ending.

How could he know that she didn't regret that precipice of a day at Trenzalore? How could he know whether she was falling apart on the inside, where he couldn't see it? How could he know that she wasn't simply staying with him because she couldn't bear to go home?

He was a wanderer in the fourth dimension, one who was rarely able to hang on to any he met. So, when he did, he clung all the more tightly.

What if he had to let go of Clara?

•••

CLARA

The flowers were on her bedside table.

Daffodils.

There was a folded up note beside the vase. She thought about reading it, but something stopped her. She couldn't force her muscles to work.

So she stared. She couldn't say exactly why.

There was something about the flowers, their colour, their shape, their arrangement, that caused something to flicker at the back of her mind. Like a shadow of an emotion. A sorrow she couldn't quite remember.

There was a knock on the door. It was strange, the Doctor usually entered without waiting for invitation after rapping on the wood. But he seemed to be waiting today.

"You can come in," she called.

There was a muffled reply, and another knock. Clara sighed, standing up and going over to let him in.

He stood in the hallway, with a smile that didn't quite fit on his face, shifting from foot to foot. "Hi! How are you?" he asked, much too enthusiastically.

"I'm fine..." she answered warily. Something was up, she could tell from the way he was fingering his bow tie, grinning too widely.

"That's good! Did you like the flowers?"

She cast a glance back at them, but couldn't forget the sinking weight that settled in her chest at the sight of the bright yellow blooms. "Sort of. Thank you."

He stopped moving, became a rigid statue, barely breathing. "...sort of?"

"Yeah, I don't know. Maybe I have some connection to them in another life. I'm not sure."

"So...you haven't read the note?"

"Not yet."

He visibly relaxed, but grew anxious again in the next second, slipping past her into the room.

"Thought they might cheer up this dreary room the TARDIS gave you. Found them in a cupboard."

Clara raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask how on earth a vase of flowers managed to stay in pristine condition for however long it took the Doctor to forget about them.

"Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?" he continued, less certain. She wished he would just come right out with it, instead of dancing around like he had been doing all these past months. "I have a nice little planet in mind. No man-eating snake aliens this time."

Her eyes flicked back to the vase of flowers, and she couldn't shake the feeling that they planted in her.

She didn't see the Doctor's face fall, but heard it in his tone. "Or...or do...do you want to go home?"

Home.

The word hung in the air for a moment, before forcing itself down Clara's throat like a bullet from a gun. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't speak, how to think, how to feel?

home.

Before she could stop herself, she flung out an arm, knocking the vase of daffodils to the floor, where the glass smashed into shards and water puddled across the floorboards.

The Doctor's sharp breath was an echo, from some other time, some other place.

Still the flowers lay, shining yellow, happy, bright, in a graveyard of glass and forgotten things.

How could she have forgotten?

She wanted to hate herself, then, because she had forgotten. Again. She'd forgotten.

"Are-are you alright, Clara?" came the Doctor's echo of a voice, and his echo of a hand on her shoulder. There was cold floor beneath her, but was that just an echo, too?

There was one real thing, twelve real things. The bunch of daffodils, petals scattered, resting in still water that reflected back nothing.

Twelve daffodils, blooming in a glass vase on the kitchen table, where her mother had placed them.

Twelve daffodils, hidden behind her father's back, while Clara sang an out-of-tune happy birthday in a young, sweet voice.

Twelve daffodils, messily painted by an eight year old Clara, framed in a prime place on the living room wall.

Twelve daffodils, freshly clipped from their own garden, waiting for someone to display them in all their wilting and odd-sized beauty.

Twelve daffodils, dull and crinkled, waiting for their new-bought replacements that never did come.

Twelve daffodils, resting on a white wooden coffin, much too bright for the black everyone wore.

Twelve daffodils, clutched in her shivering fingers, their petals ripped away by the wind that dried away the tears just as they came tumbling down her cheeks.

Twelve daffodils, fresh and sunny gold, stark on the wood of the dining room table, still in the cellophane and ribbon, which accompanied another unopened condolences card. And, beside them, a scrawled piece of paper, a tipped over bottle of medicine, a glass of water, and an empty chair.

This last one was the realest of them all. And she clung to it.

The bottle was small and white, marked with indecipherable type. The cap was off, the little white tablets scattered over the table.

The paper was a ripped up Chinese take away menu. There were three words, in an inky blue pen. It was hard to tell who these words were directed towards, her, or her mother?

I love you, it said.

Back then, she'd thought the very, very worst.

She'd even thought about...about...

"Clara? Clara?"

The Doctor had both hands on her shoulders, in some echo world.

And, in the real world, to relief so immense it was barely fathomable, she heard her father coming in the front door. She spun around to him, standing in the hall with an expression that did nothing to quell the fierce anger that rose in place of the fear and shock that had just been consuming her.

In this fit of blind desolate rage, she lashed out, casting the flowers, the note, the tablets, and the half full glass to the floor.

But this wasn't the real world. Not anymore. It was a memory.

But she had forgotten it.

She had forgotten it.

"Clara, talk to me, Clara!"

It wasn't an echo. It was her.

"Clara, please!"

Out of all things, she had forgotten the daffodils. She had forgotten her mother. She had forgotten that dreadful day when she'd feared the worst, and let herself feel anger for the first time in months.

It wasn't like she hadn't seen this coming.

It had started with the smallest things, and she'd thought it would stay at that. Her favourite book, movie, brand of chocolate. The way she took her coffee, the rare times she didn't prefer tea. Her father's middle name. Angie and Artie's birthdays. The day of her first kiss. The face of her favourite university professor. Her first home address. Phone numbers. Names. Pictures. Places. Sounds. Sights. People.

But they were just little holes. Just pinpricks in the skin of her mind.

This was a chasm, one that had temporarily made her forget one of the turning points of her life. One of the biggest, saddest, most frightening moments. Along with all the others that were strung along behind, the beautiful ones.

To forget any of those memories, either happy or sad, perfect or painful, would be a stab to her mother's still, dead heart.

But which mother? Which memories? Which heart?

Which of the thousands?

The mother who died so young, the mother whose ring she wore? The mother who forced her to grow up too fast, who shoved her into an unwanted job and an unwanted life? The mother who was caring and supportive, even through illness, and outlived her by decades? The mother who never had time, nor wish, nor feeling to spare? The mother who hid behind a shadow of a father, hovered as a ghost along the sidelines? The mother who she never knew but dearly wished to know? The mother she knew for fifty years but dearly wished she didn't?

Too many mothers, too many hearts, too many memories to forget, to remember. Which ones did she have to keep? Which ones did she have to lose?

The daffodils, the funeral, the pills on the table?

Or the silent house, the empty cupboards, the wedding ring abandoned on the doorstep?

The crying children, the dyed-blue hair, the bank account that was almost always empty?

The gunshots, the cold mud in her boots, the enemy who was both human and had nothing of humanity?

The dying stars, the darkness engulfing her home, the last embrace with a lifelong friend before they both went cold?

The lilting piano music, the roaring applause, along with the misogynistic remarks that, back then, were taken for granted?

The rush of wind and ice and cold, the feeling of flight and a parachute at her back, the sight of an entire world so far away and yet far too close?

The thin fingers clutching hers, a warm shape always at her side, and soft blue eyes as the last thing she sensed?

The whining dogs with illness and injury, a menagerie in her back garden, waking up at ungodly hours to a chorus of chirps and howls?

The unseen home she set out to find, the years of wandering and yearning, the final realisation that he was wanting for a place that didn't exist?

Which one did she want? Which one did she need?

Fear?

Ecstasy?

Fatigue?

Poverty?

Uncertainty?

Warmth?

Comfort?

Love?

Understanding?

Death?

Cold?

Sound?

Yearning?

Regret?

Life?

Confusion?

Wonder?

Pain?

Echoing?

Silence?

Disappointment?

Awe?

Weakness?

Constriction?

Ignorance?

Pride?

Immorality?

Control?

Rush?

Knowledge?

Safety?

Rules?

Discrimination?

Resignation?

Strength?

Peace?

Wrath?

Rage?

Empathy?

War?

Hope?

Which did she want to remember?

Which did she want to forget?

•••

THE DOCTOR

It was always building up to this.

He'd thought Clara was getting better, but probably she was just hiding the fact that she wasn't.

And this was the moment. The tipping point. The moment these past months had been steadily climbing to. The day all those hundreds of years of disconnected memories and unnamed faces became too much. The day Clara Oswald started to fade away.

And there were so many places she could disappear into.

So many places for her sobs of pain, shouts of rage, unknown tears, to burrow into his mind.

It tortured him almost as much as he imagined it did her.

Glass dug into his shins, water and blood soaking through his trousers, while Clara writhed on the ground in front of him. She whispered nonsense, yelled protests, and cried names he only vaguely recognised.

This was the tipping point. He'd known it would come, though he'd hoped hard enough to delude himself that it would not. At this moment, he could either save her, or destroy her.

He said her name. Scanned her with the sonic. Rested steady hands on her shoulders. What else could he do?

He kept talking to her, not quite knowing what words were spilling from his lips, streaming forth like he was a cupped hand held under a waterfall. There was too much here, she was screaming too loudly, thrashing too wildly, speaking in a voice that was too unlike the Clara he knew...

He needed to bring her back. She was losing her grip. She was losing her mind. He needed to help her find it, and hold it tightly to her heart.

He was still speaking, whispering, shouting, more and more, faster and faster, louder and louder. Still, she babbled and sobbed and shivered.

What was there to do?

In the end, it was less of a solution– less of an answer, less of a revolutionary idea– than simple instinct. It was emotion, it was him, it was automated, it was crazy. It was full of thought, and without it.

He took her jerking head firmly between careful hands, and pressed his mouth hard to her lips.

Thoughtful, and thoughtless. Logical, and illogical. Easy and difficult. Simple and complicated. Everything and nothing. Real and unreal. Essential and unneeded. Pure and tainted.

You are Clara. You are my Clara. You are not lost.

She'd stopped moving.

He wasn't quite sure what that meant.

He let his arms slide around her shoulders, resting his head atop hers, and held her as tightly as he could.

He whispered into her hair, hoping she could hear him. He said her name. He needed her to listen. To her name. To him. To herself.

Clara's hands found their way to his chest, clutched at the lapels of his jacket. Her face was pressed into the place where his two hearts beat, and she was silent but for long, irregular breaths.

The Doctor looked over at the graveyard of glass and flower petals on the floor beside them, and the waterlogged note that was blossoming with running ink. He picked the paper out with a free hand, and reread the few simple words, barely legible now, that were scrawled upon it in his own hand.

He crumpled it up and plunged it deep in his jacket pocket, where it would never be read by the person it was written for.

•••

A/N no, I'm not telling you what the note said. This is one of those things that YOU, as a reader, decide. You can make it up from what you have gathered of these characters, your own experiences, your own wishes, and your own thoughts. Perhaps tell me what you think, because this is me as a writer giving you the freedom to create your own little thing and add to the characters in your head as you see them.

Bye for now,

themadmanhopes :)