"I fear we have missed him."

The TARDIS and its owner had abandoned Clara, leaving her alone and so very afraid in a place she could barely comprehend living in. Her Doctor would never do that! Surely? She glanced at Jenny and Vastra who stared back at her equally dazed, then, she took one look at that Victorian sky and knew he would never come back.

The TARDIS purred therapeutically as the Doctor slipped down one of its many tendrils stretching from the central column. He removed his damp, tramp coat as he went and was left in nothing more than a nightie when he was finished undressing.

He didn't look back, just ahead. It was clear the man needed to clear his head, remember who he was. Not just for himself, but for Clara too. Although was there any real motive in him going back?

Taking a deep breath, he turned left down another corridor and then a right until he paused solitary in place. Almost as if he regretted his decision, he turned back swivelling on his heels and proceeded down the same corridor he had just been down. Retracing his steps the Doctor came to a door, one that had clearly not been opened for a while as it screeched a cacophony when he turned the handle. The Doctor appeared reluctant to enter but passed the dusty threshold all the same.

Lining the walls of the room were countless numbers of clothes, hundreds and hundreds all crammed together on coat hangers or folded disgracefully on the floor, the Doctor sighed and started ahead, he passed the first floor and spiralled up to the second. Oddly counting the roundels on the walls as he went, fondling his grey locks simultaneously.

On the second level, apart from further clothes, was a door. A wooden door that was so incongruous with the rest of the room it stood out like a sore thumb, but yet, seemed so invisible too. Its facade was embossed in countless Gallifreyan symbols and markings that moulded into a pattern among themselves as the Time Lord approached, vines strained across the walls by it and no clothes lay or stood near it. It stood solitary in its place, and was daunting to the Doctor as he grew ever nearer.

He opened the door as he took one final step.

The room he now stood in was lit in a dark, soothing shade. More roundels were on the walls like the rest of the ship, but these were more of a dying pink blush. A perpetual sunset contained into small magical lights on the wall. Coating the walls in their own individual spots were more outfits, memoirs, collectibles, odd trinkets, odds and ends. On a sleek copper shelf to his right, many metal sticks lay. On the far left one looked like a small pen light, its shaft a cold silver metal. Another device next to it was more advanced, a long silver handle with a round red tip with a bullet head on its end. More lay next to that, all different in their demeanour, finishing with a more modern device, a bronze and silver shaft ending in a green glowing tip that extended upward. The Doctor smiled as he removed it from its place and played with it in his hands. He rolled it between his fingertips, judging it and remembering how to use it and the memories that belonged in it.

The Doctor carried on about the room, device in hand, that he recalled giving the name: sonic screwdriver. He passed Van Gogh paintings, Einstein theories, more Gallifreyan writing which he now could read after remembering how to.

After a complex reboot in his new set of regenerations, the Doctor felt himself coming back. He could remember everything again, every face, every memory, every planet and every star. Every companion, everyone he loved. Everyone he lost.

And it consumed him, transported him, taking him back to everything he had adored, lost, and recovered from. He recalled his home, his first trip in the TARDIS. Susan. Barbara and Ian.

Companion after companion, friend after friend. Some he lost, some he dropped off, and they all shared part of his hearts.

Pushing all the dark memories and nightmares from his head. And dismissing the happy recollections, he started off again. Coming finally to the back wall of the room, where twelve garments stood. All his previous attires. From the grumpy old man, to the awfully long scarf (which he had grown out of, of course), all the way to the converse and trench coat, and the bow tie and tweed.

All himself. That would never change.