He’d had hopes, however misguided they might have been. For a year that wasn’t, he hadn’t been the last of his kind. There’d been another Time Lord, someone he’d once called friend before the best parts of him had been lost as he’d gazed into the Untempered Schism. Mad and ruthless though the Master had become, he’d been the closest thing to family the Doctor had left, and he’d wanted so badly to hold on to him, perhaps heal him.
It wasn’t to be, so here he stands, watching the Master’s body char and burn away to dust. Hopes dashed.