The Doctor’s abyssal mood seems to have transferred to her husband.  When she sits in his lap and plays the music, he doesn’t fight her; he’s sitting in the chair she tends to use for nursing, eyes locked emptily on the 

He is bad at leaving things alone.  He reached out for her many times in the past hours, only to be blocked, and feel something in his gut twist, and then turn into a black hole that, for its size and darkness, began consuming him with an astounding quietude.  

How can the world fall apart so silently? When there was always a four-beat noise in his head, always, tormenting him, until now?  

It takes time for him to recognize the music she’s playing.  When she begins to speak inside their minds, the words don’t register, but he looks at her, at least.

Finally, he speaks, and the words he has to offer are perhaps not of the comfort she has come to expect:

      “Is it always going to be this way?”   

You retreating from my reach, at erratic intervals, lashing out, telling me to go.

I, whose every thought is saturated with you, feeling with each moody interval, that I am standing in the total blackness of the moon’s shadow, with no reflection, no ME, because I cannot grasp you? 

Will I always be waiting from moment to moment for the next fallout? 

Is this what I can expect from my “redemption”? 

Doctor, is this my punishment? For everything to be sublime, perfect, and, whenever the whim strikes,  just out of reach?