Disclaimer: I own nothing - I don't even own the computer I am typing this on.

A/N: This was written at one in the morning. Do not expect it to make much sense.

There are very few substances that can affect a Time Lord; alcohol is not one of them. This has both its advantages and its disadvantages: anyone trying to get a Time Lord drunk would be sorely disappointed, however when one actually wishes to become drunk it is impossible to do so without mixing together a number of chemicals that are outlawed in most galaxies.

This fact, however, did not stop the Doctor from sitting on a battered red leather stool at a dingy bar on a not-entirely-reputable planet just out of the Hyatres system, trying his best to drown his sorrows in drinks of various dubious colours.

Red and black spun into a swirl of colour that vaguely resembled the time vortex as he twirled a tacky miniature umbrella between thumb and forefinger and stared down into his latest glass, which contained a vivid green liquid that smelt strongly of onions and had a taste lying somewhere between vodka and bleach. The bartender, who looked vaguely human if you ignored the horns and the fact that he was bright yellow, gave the Doctor an impressed look as he downed the green drink in one.

"Have you ever considered entering a drinking competition? That's your twenty-eighth drink tonight," he said, picking up the empty glass from the bar and placing it onto the conveyer belt behind him. "What now?"

"Surprise me," the Doctor replied, still absentmindedly twirling the umbrella between his fingers.

The bartender raised an eyebrow, filled a new glass with the most expensive drink they served – whoever this guy was, he was paying with a credit stick, who why shouldn't he? – and pushed it towards the metal surface of the bar, before walking away to deal with a rather unruly-looking man who was complaining loudly that his drink had been stirred instead of shaken.

The Doctor dropped the umbrella and reached towards the glass but, before he had a chance to sample his expensive purchase, it was picked up and promptly emptied into the mouth of the man who had just sat down on the stool next to him.

Frowning, the Doctor turned to look at the drink-stealer and immediately wondered whether the oddly coloured drinks had actually had an effect on his brain.

"What was that?" the man grimaced, pulling an over exaggerated expression of disgust and thudding the empty glass back down.

His mind didn't seem fuzzy. Perhaps he was just going mad – it was the most likely option given the circumstances.

The man took one look at his befuddled expression and laughed. "Oh Doctor, you gullible idiot."

"What?" There, that seemed a safe enough thing to say.

"'What?'" the man mimicked. He shook his head. "Are you actually trying to get drunk?"

Maybe if he ignored him then his mind would make him go away, the Doctor decided. He turned towards the bartender and silently willed for him to come back to refill his glass.

The man beside him gave a longsuffering sigh. "What are you doing? Drinking that disgusting whatever-it-was in a place like this, feeling sorry for yourself – I'm ashamed of you. Who left you this time?"

"It was me. I messed up," the Doctor mumbled, partly to himself. "I… I tried to change it. Tried to save them."

The man sighed again. "Why do you even bother? Humans, they're so pointless. They'll die anyway!"

The bartender wasn't going to be ending his loud argument with the complaining person anytime soon. The Doctor abandoned his silent wishing for a new drink and stood up, pulling a silver credit stick from the automatic paying system in front of him. After pushing past several groups of various alien species and saying many mumbled "Sorry"s, he was outside, staring up at the inky black sky.

It was cold, cold enough for even his cool breath to mist in front of his face. The natives to the planet had evolved centuries ago to have thicker skin than their counterparts on the planet residing nearer to the star burning at the heart of their solar system, though many had long ago moved away to seek jobs in the mines on Hyatres Two. Hence the bars and casinos and other disreputable businesses that had sprung up upon their departure; the remaining inhabitants had had to find some way to make a living and many 'tourists' were attracted to such a lawless society.

The Doctor set off down the street, ignoring the cold wind trying to force its way through his clothing. The TARDIS was just around the corner, hidden in a small courtyard that was the entrance to a mostly abandoned apartment block. As he turned to enter the alleyway that led to the courtyard, he realised that he was being followed.

"Master," he sighed resignedly as he turned to face his pursuer.

The Master looked amused. He had his hands shoved in his trouser pockets and one eyebrow was raised.

"Why?" the Doctor asked.

"Think of how boring it'd be if you just gave up – who would stop me then?"

Confused, the Doctor enquired, "You want me to stop you?"

"It's a challenge." He shrugged. "I can't think of anyone else who could."

"Is that a compliment?"

The Master was silent.

The Doctor shook his head. "But I just want to forget! I just want…" He groaned, clenching and unclenching his hands and then placing them at the sides of his head, seemingly at a loss with what to do with them. "I just…"

Whatever would have been the end of that sentence was never said as the Doctor rushed forward and kissed the Master firmly on the mouth.

"What?" the Master gasped as they broke apart a minute later, in a way that left the Doctor briefly wondering whether traits could be transferred by mouth.

The Doctor opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. "Forgetting," he finally said.

A small smirk appeared on the Master's face, which was mirrored on the Doctor's just before he was pushed up against the concrete outside wall of the bar.

Alcohol may not be something that affects Time Lords, but there are other things that certainly do. (And, well, if the Master wasn't there in the morning, then did it really matter?)