They say there's a time your life flashes right before your eyes. A time where in that one instant, a tenth of a second, you begin to reflect back on all those thoughts. All those moments you spent that just really stand out. Childhood memories you never thought you'd cherish, moments spent with friends; family; those you love. You think, Will they miss me? Will any of my time on Earth even be relevant? I could have done so much more...

At least, that's what he's heard.

Oh, the Doctor's life has flashed before his eyes before - quite literally, actually. Did it ever really faze him, though? Well... yes. All that pain, all that regret comes flooding back to haunt him in his final moments with that face. Goodbye's he wished could have been delivered, even a handful of Hello's. But it all comes toppling back up with an, Oh, I'll get another chance. And so he moves on. Takes his box, picks up a girl, and tours the furthest ends of the universe.

They say in that moment that your life flashes before your eyes, time slows down. Time never really slowed down for him, just sped up. Or rather, he willed it to speed up.

When people talk about their lives flashing before their eyes they fail to mention a worthy topic. Not exactly questioned by many, but pondered. And by the unfortunate handful - the Doctor the least fortunate of all - who have experienced it... it's truly no wonder it's rarely spoken of.

When the the life of someone close to you flashes before your eyes.

The Doctor would take regeneration - no - pure death over this sight any day. As agonizing and slow as the universe wished on him. Anything would be better than this. He knew the memory would never leave his subconscious no matter how much he wished. The completely monotone expression she wore just before the door had slammed shut, as the Doctor cried her name, closed his eyes and stumbled backwards as he listened to his best friend ruthlessly gunned down.

Supposedly her punishment was far more severe than his; death versus banishment in the eyes of their captors. While Clara lay dead in a stone cold room for reasons that were entirely his own fault, the Doctor was sent to wander and fend for himself. The TARDIS had been destroyed at some point - details were irrelevant. Doesn't matter, anyway. He doesn't want to return to the emptiness. To the disappointed hum he knows the box would give, easily interpretted as, Again?

Yes, again. He's failed again, this one far less merciful than most previous.

There's no point in trying to lighten his spirits, but still the Doctor allows himself to chuckle painfully with the simple thought of, Now I need a new space suit. That one's all...

Bloody.

A gun. There hadn't even been time for negotiation. For pleas. He was merely ushered to her cell to what... watch? No, because the door was sealed before he heard the shots. And just like that. Because of something so simple. She died.

Clara's breath hitches repeatedly with each gunshot that rings out just on the other side of the door. She's run out of air but still continues to gasp, feet shuffling backwards, eyes wide, body trembling, and then her gaze is fixed on the slit beneath the door.

She's waiting for the flash. The golden glow that marks his life. Because he has to be alive, right? Dead for an instant... but regenerating?

Where is it?

Another handful of seconds.

Where is it?

As if she wasn't panicking enough, she's panicking even more. Another minute. Still no glow. Another five. Nothing.

Is he dead? No, he can't be. Just a gunshot. Seven to be precise, if she remembers correctly, wincing. Seven gunshots.

Oh, a bullet is no big deal for me. She was told ages ago. 'A bullet'. But seven?

He can't be dead. Two thousand years. Surely he's been shot before. He's fought in a war, for crying out loud!

But another minute has passed amidst her musings. Still no glow.

The Doctor is dead.

She's far too shocked to cry, let alone move her feet. Her entire body is now cold and the tremor more violent. She's in denial. Maybe he escaped... maybe...

No. He's dead.

Banishment, is what Clara is told. Banishment?! Her best friend is gunned down right before her eyes- well not quite, thankfully. The door in between them was a very much welcomed barrier between her and the bloodied, broken sight she knows lingers behind.

All of that for him, and she's just sent to wander?

Clara wonders if he lied to her for protection. Not that she should be surprised. Rule number one: the Doctor lies. Brain games. He promised at a time that seemed to be as far back as years. But when was it? An hour ago? Whenever her and the Doctor were separated for the first time. He promised she shouldn't worry, and ordered her to be strong and hardheaded. You're good at the latter bit, that's for sure. And Clara smiles at the memory, just before her face falters and a sickening feeling grips her stomach as she remembers those were the last words he'd spoken to her.

It's a scarring memory, the way he acted in his final moments. When Clara was led to the scene his bounds were already undone, eyes down, her cries of confusion unheard as the door shut and gunshots were all that she could hear.

Brain games. But those weren't brain games. He died right in front of her. Nothing to worry about, Clara. Did he know all along? Was he protecting her from the knowledge of just how much trouble they were in?

So much for that, now, she huffs, sent to wander on the desolate planet with no chances of survival. Clara should be worried about food, water, shelter and all that nonsense. Maybe even start strategising on how to find the TARDIS and get herself home.

But what's the point when he wouldn't be there with her?

There's an aching in her chest, so heavy and persistent but it simply won't go away. She needs to cry, but tears won't make their way past her eyes. Her vision is misty but nothing more. Is this what shock feels like? No, this is way beyond shock.

She's devastated.

Broken.

Hopeless.

Until a familiar voice calls her name.

Clara's stumbling tracks come to a slow halt of denial. She looks at the dusty ground. Is she dehydrated already? Because that has to be a hallucination She must be hearing things.

But the call comes again. Louder this time and Clara looks up. There he is, just yards away. Talk about eyes inflating... as opposed to Clara the Doctor has obviously been in an immense amount of tears. She even feels a surge of pride, because that git never gets emotional. But it's gone as soon as she sees his broken face turn upside-down. Denial over. Relief apparent. "Clara!"

"Doctor..." Her voice is so quiet he probably can't hear, but that doesn't matter. Soon he's running. Clara wants to run back but she can't. Now she's in shock. Her own memories of grief flashing again and again from just moments before, all washed away. He's alive.

The first time she moves isn't on her own accord. The Doctor's arms come around her waist and she's hauled up high as he spins her around, Clara's own hands gripping his jacket until her knuckles grow pale. Her feet hit the ground again but her legs won't cooperate. Clara crumbles but still, the Doctor hasn't let go. He falls back to the ground with her, both pairs of arms desperately clinging to the other.

And then she's laughing. Face pressed close against his chest Clara's overwhelmed with such a vast amount of relief she can hardly breathe. "Doctor."

He pulls back so he can see her eyes, hands cupping her face, fingers exploring every inch of her face while Clara's hands cling tightly to his wrists. Is this real? Is he real? Is she real?

The Doctor smiles and kisses her forehead, lips dropping but head coming to rest against hers. "I thought you were dead."

"I thought you were dead!" She counters, eyes wide. But soon the confusion boils down to realization. "Brain games."

"Brain games." He agrees with a surge of regret. "Clara I'm sorry-"

"Shut up." The adrenaline of the day is slowly wearing off and Clara is drastically drained.

"We should go home-"

"Shut. Up." Finally she's crying. "Doctor. You were dead."

"No I wasn't-"

"To me." Her eyes will him to understand. "You died."

There's an audible gulping sound and Clara feels a tremor in his hands as he holds her face again. "I'm here now."

"Are you?"

The Doctor tugs her against his chest and leans against the rocks, eyes closed, hearts finally slowing. "I'm here now."

It's such an uncharacteristic thing for him to do, but instead of a double take Clara curls into him. Her hands hold onto his tattered hoodie and her eyes close as his arms wrap tightly around her body. She needs to feel secure; he knows that. And mutually assumed death of a best friend is more than enough for the Doctor to break one of his firmest rules. Touch. Affection.

But that's exactly what she needs, so he gives it to her. Neither of them bother moving for a long time, because the flashes are over. Flashes of life and supposed death, just each other.

And for the first time in forever, that's enough.