Disclaimer: I own nothing.
AN: Well, this is a one-shot. It might turn out pretty nice, or it could turn it horribly. I'm hoping for nice, but we'll just have to see. If anyone likes this, I'm thinking of writing another story that goes more in-depth with the whole Doctor/Sarah situation. And yes, I know it's established that they haven't had contact since he left her at the end of "The Hand of Fear", but I'm going to temporarily forget that.
She didn't know why she expected it to be any different this time. This was the way things were between them---the way things had always been, right from the start. O sure, at first she hadn't seen him that way, but then he hadn't looked at her like that yet either.
She said he was her life, and hated the words for being true. She hated them more for coming out so bitterly. He was her life, her universe, the Sun around which she had once revolved.
She wasn't angry about her feelings for him---once she would have even said that loving him made her happy. It was the addiction to him that she couldn't stand. The constant need to hear his voice or smell his skin. His scent was spicy and musky and completely unlike anything else. She supposed that calling it "alien" would just be too much entirely.
The only comfort she got was knowing that she wasn't alone in it. He was just addicted to her as she was to him. The only difference was, she could admit it out loud.
Every time something happened to him---something so horrible that he just couldn't begin to bring himself to accepting it---he came back. It didn't matter how much time had gone by since their last meeting, or how much progress she had made in slowly putting him out of her thoughts--for that day at least. He simply walked back into her life, his eyes full of need and hurt.
He'd pull her into his arms and hold her there as tightly as possible. Clutching her to him, he'd bury his face into her hair, her neck, anything he could reach. She soaked up his tears and any words he might have said.
Then it could go one of two ways. He might pull himself together long enough to apologise and run, or he might stay. She much preferred it when he simply fled. It was easier than having to deal with what came after.