Checkmate (Doctor Who fanfiction)

I woke up with a pounding headache. I was in bed as usual, but I felt like someone beat me up in my sleep. I groaned, opening my eyes to the bright morning light that the Tardis imitated to get me awake every morning.

The light felt like knives sinking into my eyeballs. I was wearing nothing but jean shorts and a bra, and I wasn't exactly sure what to think.

Across the room, I saw a fuzzy blob in front of my desk. I squinted, and everything came into focus reluctantly.

It was... The Doctor? Was he typing on my computer?

He turned around at the sound of me waking up, looking alarmed.

"Not what it looks like," was the first thing he said.

"What happened?" I murmured, stretching out. "I don't remember anything."

"You went out for a drink," The Doctor said, looking at me skeptically for a reason I couldn't place.

Oh, crap. Why in my right mind would I go out for a drink? I know I can never stop drinking once I start. It's an after effect of a serious addiction when I was fifteen, long story.

"Oh, god," I grumbled. "Why did I do that?"

He looked at the ground. "We had a fight."

"Amy didn't stop me?"

"They were out."

I rubbed my eyes. "What did you do?"

"Actually, you were the one who had a knife to my neck, so I'm not quite sure."

"Oh, so when you say fight," I said, my eyes widening.

"Fistfight, yeah."

"Why on planet Jupiter did I do that?"

"Something about how I haven't been paying enough attention to you."

Oh my dear sweet Lord, I didn't talk about that...

But from the look on his face, I did. What drove me to attack him for not paying enough attention to me? I was not that kind of person.

More or less, Logic said.

After a long moment of silence, I sat up slowly. "Why am I not passed out in some bar?" I asked.

"You weren't coming home," he justified what he did immediately, because we both knew. He'd gone to find me.

I pushed my hair behind my ears, and winced. There was a stinging pain running up my left arm. I looked down. Just below my shoulder in my forearm in ink, a cumiulonimbus cloud with was drawn, with insane accuracy.

"The hell?" I said, looking up at The Doctor. He cautiously came closer.

"Psycho, I didn't find you at a bar."

"I got a tattoo?" I snapped.

His lack of an answer told me clear as day. I wanted to vomit.

No, I mean, literally.

I jumped up, ignoring the head rush, and shot like a bullet to the bathroom.

When I had retched my entire dinner from last night (that is, if I'd had any), I was left suffering dry heaves.

Finally when the burning sensation released me, I climbed to my feet, and stumbled back into my room, and collapsed on my bed. The Doctor hadn't moved an inch.

"Oh, for god's sake, I am such a damn idiot," I groaned.

"Language," he said sternly.