The Doctor is hurt, because his other can't control his TARDIS, can't stop it from attacking his guests, and all his other can manage is contrition. That terrible, constant contrition, apologizing for the failure to stop pain, apologizing for his own actions when they don't come to the desired ends, when they lead to hurt and death and loss.

"You're so sorry." The Doctor in black spits the words back, scornfully. He's said them himself, but not so often now as he used to, and he's never seen himself when he says them. The sincerity, the seeking for...what? Understanding? Forgiveness?

One part of his mind says it's wrong, disgusting. Apologizing like that, for his TARDIS, when he should just have control. When any harm someone comes to by his ship's hand should be by his choice, and why apologize for harm you choose to inflict, even if it hurts you to inflict it?

The other part of his mind flickers back through his travels, his adventures, finding places where he should have said those words and didn't. Too many places.

Deep breath. Think about the hand. He didn't mean this to happen; he's you.

"Index and ring, I think. Clean breaks." He holds out his injured hand, bruises already swelling and purpling where the door crushed across it. "She does this often?"