He spinning and curling back in on himself –and it does look like the Void from here, doesn't it– and waiting for some final stroke to prove the end is closer. It's the old man on his arthritic hands –they had been reaching for him– and two words that bring him back to himself.

He tilts his chin up, expecting it all along. "You're forgiven," he tells the other with a slow nod, feeling strangely magnanimous and emptied.

He won't talk about it now. Wait until all of this was done, whatever this is. Can't think yet, the works are rusted –and aching–.

The screwdriver lifts in his hand as he stands. Well, he had to do it some time. And he could change the Doctor again whenever it suited him, find a way to cage him when he got aggravating. So he presses the button and waits for those old eyes to glimmer again.