When K-9 arrives at his TARDIS doorstep one cloudy night in April, the Doctor knows.
There has been too much grief this year, he thinks, but then some years are like that.
Luke answers the door on shaky legs, his eyes so red and puffy it's a wonder he can see at all.
The Doctor is too familiar with grief, too good with mourning. He makes a pot of strong tea and plunks Luke, Clyde, and Rani into kitchen chairs and sets mugs down in front of them.
After several minutes of silence and sipping, the Doctor speaks.
"She used to wear driving gloves, your mum. Got them filthy when we landed on a mud planet and refused to ever wear them again."
He swallows hard and looks down at the table.
"She climbed walls and fought Daleks and stared down the Loch Ness Monster. Never complained, always right behind me." The Doctor nodded. "That's the mark of a good companion; someone who is always just behind you."
Luke speaks, his voice a croak.
"She was brave. Right to the end."
The Doctor pauses and nods.
"She was the bravest companion I have ever had. There have been a lot of people I've taken on; had around; done Time and Space and the whole bit with but not one of the others was Sarah Jane."
Luke bites his lip, barely above tears. Rani's are flowing freely down her face, and Clyde is shaking with suppressed ones.
The Doctor goes to this funeral, too, and sees a bunch of his selves again. They still don't speak, not today. Jo cries on his shoulder on one side (as Three looks on with a weary eye) and Luke (when did he get so tall?) cries on the other shoulder.
The Doctor cries, too, into a hanky he's sure he hasn't used since Sarah Jane rode in Bessie with him, her hair blowing in the breeze as she laughed at a stupid joke he'd made.
As he walks back to his TARDIS, K-9 rolls alongside him.
"No, K-9. Go back to Luke. He needs you more than ever."
K-9 nods and heads off to find Luke with a "Yes, Master."
And the Doctor walks through his front door, he sags against the inside. The Brigadier gone. Sarah Jane gone.
Too much mourning this year, he thinks. Far, far too much mourning...