The Doctor blinks at her. “It’s been a hundred years,” he repeats, a bit slowly and painstakingly. “Of course not.”

He tosses the ball back and forth from hand to hand a few times, trying to think of a way to protest the insults to his old coat and, more importantly, his sentimentality. After a moment he gives up and closing one hand around the ball and the other around nothing but air, he offers both fists to the Master.

“Choose,” he says.