"I thought I'd find you here."

Elara limps into the room; pale; thinner than he remembers. "How's she doing?"

"The surgery went well," he replies, "But she hasn't woken up yet."

Between them sleeps Alya. The surgeons have restored the proportions of her skull. Newly grafted skin, already tufted with growing hair, hides a thin red scar running the circumference. Her left arm ends in a neat socket rather than a spike. Ready for a synthetic hand when she wakes.

"Will she?"

He shrugs. "I hope so."

Elara takes a seat in the other chair at the young girl's bedside, reaching inside her jerkin. "Multiple came to see me, before he left."

"Yes." He is still rather annoyed at being in a drugged stupor when Multiple came to his room; about having missed his own goodbye.

"He left this for you."

She offers him a neatly folded sheet of hospital paper. He opens it gently.

Doctor,

We apologise for leaving before you are fully recovered. We must return to the Collective or risk all that these segments, including those lost, have learned.

We urge you not to see this letter as goodbye but as an invitation. There is much we would discuss with you.

12-0-07-12:42

There are stories that still need telling.

Multiple.

He smiles, folding the letter back up carefully, before putting it into his own breast pocket.

"His goodbye to you?" asks Elara, clearly curious.

"An invitation. One I'm grateful to receive." He coughs. "On that, uh, subject…"

He is interrupted by a soft sound from the girl on the bed. Alya's eyelids flutter as she sighs, the first flicker of consciousness she has displayed since surgery.

"I should get her father," says Elara, standing stiffly.

"Probably." He takes Alya's remaining hand in his, waiting until Elara has left the room before speaking again. "Alya, can you hear me?"

She opens her eyes at the sound of his voice. "Doctor?"

"I'm here. We all are. We survived, thanks to you."

Her throat is working; her are words difficult to force out into the world past the lump in her throat. Perhaps it is lack of use that has taken her voice. He suspects otherwise.

"I want you to remember that," he continues, squeezing her hand tightly. "We all survived because of you."

"Alya!"

Antares rushes to his daughter's bedside; the Doctor letting go of her hand so her father can take his place. There is something in the fierce joy of the man's expression, the fulfilment of his desperate hopes, which he suddenly cannot bear.

He needs to find Clara. It is time for them to leave.

Elara's hand on his shoulder prevents his silent exit. "You're going, aren't you?" she whispers, over the happy weeping of the reunited family.

"I think my work here is done," he replies. "You're welcome to come with me. If that's what you'd like."

She swallows and then smiles, a little sadly. "Thank you Doctor. But I think… I think that's not the reward you had in mind."

She looks back, at the crying, mutilated girl and his mind draws the parallel. "You can help her," he says. Like you couldn't help your sister.

"Yes," she replies, "I think I can. It's not easy… learning to live with the implants. But you can. Live, I mean."

"Good. Take care, then. Of both of you. I shall be checking."

She smiles again, the first real smile he has ever seen crease her face. "I'd like that."

"Me too. And, uh, if Alya ever finds uniting the warring Houses of the Chapter a little too dull… Tell her to give this number a ring, won't you?" He passes her a slip of card from his trouser pocket, on which the digits of the TARDIS phone are scrawled.

Elara folds it up with solemn care, as if it is written on tissue paper. "I will do," she says. "And as for my thanks... I wish you pleasant dreams." She shakes his hand, palming him a little silver case as she does so.

The dream patches. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome."

He can't quite read the look on her face that follows; there are no more words to be exchanged, and yet-

-her arms suddenly encircle him. Ah, he thinks, as she hugs him tightly. He pats her on the back, awkward but accepting of the sudden show of emotion.

"I'll be seeing you," he says.

"So," says Clara, turning over the silver case of dream patches he has given to her for inspection. It's a flimsy distraction for his moment of reconnection with the TARDIS; hands ghosting over the buttons and dials of her console to reassure himself that yes, they are both still here.

"So?"

"So, where to now?"

He gives her a shrewd look. "I thought you might want to go home."

Her mouth quirks as she looks at her shoes, almost squirming. "Yeah. I suppose I probably should…"

"But…?"

She meets his eyes, grinning. "But there's still another part to play yet, isn't there?"

He shakes his head. "Clara, Clara, Clara…"

"What?"

"Put those patches away."

She doesn't yet move to do as he asks. "And?"

"And we'll go and close the loop before I take you back, to the delights of dirty dishes and endless marking."

"Good answer."

He inputs the co-ordinates as she files away the patches in his bureau, sending them spinning into the vortex. The TARDIS lands with her usual sonorous boom, and there is silence for a moment.

"Are you ready?" he checks.

"Absolutely," she affirms.

"Good."

He throws open the doors, letting in the crackle of gunfire; the acrid smell of las-cannon plasma. And a familiar voice.

"DELTA TEAM!" shouts Elara, a shadow in the smoking trenches outside. Her past, their present. "You hold your ground, do you hear me? You HOLD!"

He grabs hold of Clara's hand for a moment, his smile a mirror to hers, ready to launch.

"Let's go."