There are two realities converging together, splitting his mind apart. Hers, too, he knows, and while bearing the crushing weight of over one thousand years of existence suddenly flooding back to him, the Doctor's primary concern is for her. It will always be for her, for everyone else, not for his sake. His eyes linger on hers for a long moment, softening with unshed tears of his own that don't quite spill over, but nearly threaten to. She could so easily have been his child long ago, one lost and returned to him. His hearts seem to pound in his chest in a painful rhythm that might make it hard to breathe if they weren't trapped in a hellish dreamscape.

This not being reality doesn't diminish the pain of what they've all lost, though, and most especially, what's been lost here between them now. His hand moves from her cheek, only so that he can reach out to cradle her fully in his arms, his hold on her as protective as it's ever been.

"Your sorry isn't needed or wanted. Don't say it," he chides gently. "Just feel it. Because it hurts, I know it does."