Author's Note:Hi Guys. I'm so, so sorry that it's taken me this long to update. Real life just got away from me a bit there and I was just too busy to even think up new ideas, let alone write them. But I had a bit of time off this weekend, and managed to whip up this chapter. Hope you enjoy it! It shouldn't be too long until the end now, so just hold tight :)

41: Stubbornness.

Amy gulped at her glass of wine, feeling extremely frustrated. She growled, frustrated with her definition of frustrated. It didn't even begin to cover just how frustrated she was. She reached one hand into her hair, absently wondering if pulling her hair out would make her feel better, since all the stressed people in cartoons seemed to be doing it, then decided against it. Mainly because Rory was raising his eyebrows at her.

"Shut up."

Rory blinked. "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking too loud."

Rory sighed, instantly making Amy feel guilty. Not that she'd ever admit it. She choked down the rest of her wine, feeling a bit shell shocked.

Saying that the Doctor had been difficult would be an understatement. Having seen how he usually went out of his mind when nothing was happening or when he was bored, and given how utterly out of it he had seemed at the start of this crazy mission, she had been fairly confident. Alright, not exactly confident – it wasn't like she had the necessary skills to deal with traumatic experiences, despite life on the TARDIS – but she had thought that it would go better than this.

Instead, she had been faced with a jumpy, shell-shocked, frankly falling-violently-to-pieces Doctor and a self-satisfied, evil, manipulative Master. She was starting to wonder if the rest of the Time Lords had been this stubborn and difficult. She shuddered, picturing a planet of Masters in government and Doctors staging hippy protests outside.

Rory regarded her with tired interest. "You're imagining it again, aren't you?"

"I can't help it – they could only have come from a planet of nutters."

Rory seemed to mull this over for a bit. "Ever wonder if they think we're mad?"

"No. It's obvious they do."

Rory took a disappointed sip of his tea.

Amy felt like banging her head onto the table and leaving it there forever. "We need to see where he's got to."

Rory groaned. "If he's rearranging our house again…"

The Doctor's restlessness had reached new peaks in the two weeks that he had been living with them. Though he had his own bedroom, intended for his use so that he could recuperate, he had insisted that, as a perfectly healthy Time Lord, he had no need of it. And had promptly turned it into a games and reading zone. The noise coming from his room at all times of night were really starting to drive Amy up the wall, particularly because ear plugs could only do so much to drown him out when he was practicing his yodelling…

The result was a severely sleep deprived Doctor wandering vaguely around the house rearranging things, talking to inanimate objects, falling asleep in random places, and insisting that he was "The King of OK". Amy had once found him asleep in the bath, under the water, unmoving. It was only when she'd hauled him out of the bath, screamed for Rory and started breathing for him that he'd woken up spluttering and told her off for squashing his duck. Apparently, the "superior race of Time Lords doesn't need to breathe as much" as humans.

She poured herself another glass of wine.

And if getting him to sleep was difficult, getting him to eat was even worse. She had to practically threaten him each mealtime, cajole him through every mouthful, pretend not to be thoroughly exhausted when he finally finished. All because a "healthy" Time Lord doesn't need to eat as much as a human.

Sometimes she could just throttle him when he started his healthy Time Lord defence. Really, who did he think he was fooling? It was patently obvious that he was anything but healthy and that his efforts to deny this were only going to make him worse. According to River, who had attempted to pop by last night (and risk creating a paradox in the process, since she wasn't supposed to be there), he looked almost as bad as he had when he had been rescued. Of course, she hadn't really been able to give any advice from the future, because the Doctor had managed to overhear her voice and had chased her from the house.

Amy didn't think she'd ever seen her daughter look more upset and helpless.

"Do you ever think," Rory suddenly intoned, his voice monotone with fatigue, "that this is what having a new-born baby must be like?"

Amy stared at him. "What?"

"The constant feeding, trying to get him to sleep, trying to find him…"

"I don't think people usually lose new-born babies."

Rory blinked. "Right. But apart from that, it's pretty similar."

Amy was too tired to allow this train of thought to distract her. "Whose turn is it to check the Master hasn't escaped and enslaved a planet?"

Rory glanced behind him at the fridge, where he'd hung a timetable of sorts suspended by smiley-faced magnets. "Mine."

"Good luck."

"Yeah, I'll need it…" Rory shuffled out of the backdoor and into the garden, where the TARDIS still stood.

Amy reluctantly put down her glass, levered herself up from the table, and set off further into the house in search of the Doctor.

oOo

"Oh, you again."

"Me again," Rory replied automatically. This had become a routine greeting with the Master. He didn't seem too big on the word 'hello'. Or politeness.

The Master was lounging on one of the sofas, top button undone, tie askew and sleeves rolled up. For some reason, a book was balanced on his head. Rory glanced at it despite himself. He knew that his job was done: check the Master his still here. Done. But curiosity kept him rooted to the spot.

The Master took the book off. "Oh, that."

"Er… Why?"

The Master snorted. "Elegant as always. Just checking you're still paying attention."

Rory blinked. "Why?"

"Come on, have you heard yourself? You sound like a zombie. Look a bit like one too, but then I think all humans do. The similarities are all there."

"How are humans like zombies?" Rory heard himself ask.

The Master smiled nastily. "Well, let's see…" He held up his hand and began to tick his points off on his fingers as he went. "You're stupid, you die quickly, most of you look gormless, you attack anything that moves… Need I go on? I might run out of fingers."

"It's not like you can't be compared to anything… undead."

The Master laughed incredulously. "That's your reply? 'You're also undead'?" He shook his head. "I should get one of you as a live in pet – it would be brilliant. The conversation wouldn't be great but the gormless look is priceless."

"A live in pet?" Rory repeated, shocked.

"Oh, don't sound so offended. You do the same with domestic animals. What sort of animal naturally lives out its life running round the same wheel like it's stuck on repeat? I'd like to see you do that."

"Does that make you the Doctor's pet?" Rory asked, too tired stop himself.

The amusement immediately fell off the Master's face. "I'm no one's pet."

"Right," Rory said, letting his disbelieving tone do the talking for him. He turned his back on the Master's affronted expression and made his way back to Amy. Maybe his tea would still be warm.

oOo

Amy eventually found the Doctor lying in a doorway, eyelids fluttering. She knelt down beside him, concerned.

"Doctor?"

He looked at her fuzzily from black-smudged eyes. He still wasn't getting nearly enough sleep. "Donna?"

Amy tried not to sigh. "No, it's me, Amy."

The Doctor smiled slowly, but he still looked concerned. "Do you know where Donna is?"

"Sorry."

The Doctor's eyelids fluttered again, and when he next spoke his voice was starting to slur around the edges. "Need to wipe her memory."

Amy had wondered who this Donna was and why the Doctor needed to erase her memory since he had first started getting her name wrong two days ago. She had tried asking the Doctor, guilt nagging at the back of her mind, knowing that she was taking advantage, but he had just mumbled something about Ood and metacrises.

"Why are you asleep in the doorway?"

"Not asleep."

Amy did sigh this time. "Who do you think you're kidding?"

The Doctor blinked up at her. Amy noted absently that he was more expressive like this; his face was a mixture of desperation and fear. "I'm fine."

Amy let it go; they both knew he was lying. "Come on, I'll help you get up. The sofa will be more comfy."

"It's fine, I can do it."

She looked at him doubtfully.

Seeing her doubt, he pushed himself shakily into a sitting position, shivering, and started to stand. His legs wobbled and his breath hitched, and Amy moved immediately to support him, bringing him into a semi-standing position. He was half-slumped against her, hunched over like an old man, shivering and breathing fast. He reminded Amy of how she felt when she had the flu.

"You need to let go."

The Doctor shook his head. "Can't."

She helped him hobble over to the sofa and deposited him in it gently, easily able to control his descent. He was getting too light again.

"You can't carry on like this," she said, frustration and worry starting to creep into her voice again. "You're going to kill yourself."

The Doctor flopped a hand weakly, shaking his head, and Amy was astonished to see that he looked like he was about to cry. She swallowed, discomfited, and had to force herself not to look away. If this was the moment, she had to be paying attention.

But he drew himself back together again with a shuddering breath. "No," he muttered. He wasn't looking at her.

Amy sat next to him on the sofa and drew his hand into hers. His hand was shaking almost spasmodically.

"Sleep for a bit," she told him. "You'll feel better."

But the Doctor was ahead of her – head lolled against the top of the sofa, he had relaxed boneless into the cushions, his breathing evening out. Occasionally he would make an effort to wake up; his eyelids would twitch, his body would jerk, his hands would start shaking again, but the pull of his body was too strong.

Unwillingly, he started to drift into sleep.

oOo

"He still there?" Amy asked. She had moved into the armchair opposite the Doctor and was currently leafing through a magazine that she had been meaning to read for weeks.

"Yeah," Rory replied. "Obnoxious as always."

He dropped into another armchair and yawned. "I'm so tired."

"Go to sleep," she told him, feeling like a talking parrot. "I can watch him, make sure he's ok."

"But then you won't sleep."

"You're the one with work tomorrow morning. I'm ok," she pointed out, "I work from here."

Rory frowned. "For a bit," he agreed. "But then you're getting a turn. We'll do it in shifts."

"Just go to bed," she said, exasperated. She was getting so fed up of saying that.

Sensing her mood, Rory turned and left without another word. Amy sighed and curled tighter into her seat, trying to keep herself together. Forcing herself to focus on her magazine, she breathed deeply and rhythmically, picturing a calming lake in her mind. She couldn't lose her composure, not now, not when her best friend needed her so much.

Breathe in.

Hold.

Breathe out.

Hold.

Something hitched. Amy's rhythmic breathing immediately stopped and she sat there, holding her breath, confused. Had that been her? Had she, in some strange, tiredness induced forgetfulness, somehow managed to breathe and not breathe at the same time? She shook her head. That didn't even make sense.

Breathe in.

Hold.

"No."

Amy shot upright in her seat, instantly on red alert. That had most definitely not been her. That voice – that weak, quivering voice saturated with terror had definitely not been her. She stared across the room at the Doctor. His brow was furrowed, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

And suddenly, Amy fully understood why he hadn't wanted to let himself go in someone else's house.

Suddenly, at complete odds with the quietness of the room, the Doctor let out a primal shriek, a shriek so full of fear and pain and hatred that it made Amy's stomach clench, her heart skip a beat. She threw down her magazine and ran to his side, only to hover there indecisively.

What was she supposed to do now?

"No, Rose, not again…"

The choice was made for her when the tears started falling and the Doctor started thrashing and gagging, looking in his distress as though he was going to be sick. Alarmed, Amy plonked herself on the arm of the Doctor's chair and made calming noises, letting his subconscious know that she was there, before she took the plunge of putting a hand on his shoulder.

He screamed.

Amy looked at the doorway in desperation, wishing Rory would come running through it to help her, and knowing that he might not hear through his ear plugs. He had always been a heavier sleeper than her.

Left with no choice, Amy ran one hand calmly and slowly through the Doctor's hair and kept another one firmly planted on his left hand, knowing that, even in this state, the Doctor might recognise this as non-threatening contact. She kept this up throughout his thrashing, made shushing noises to try to calm him, and eventually settled on calling him by name, feeling desperation beginning to take hold of her.

Should she try to wake him up? Calming him down into a more restful sleep clearly wasn't working. But if she did wake him up, he would never agree to go to sleep again, not now…

The Doctor sat up suddenly and forcefully, banging his head into hers, knocking her off the armrest. Amy landed on the floor with an indignant "ow", dazed. Rubbing her head, she looked up at the sound of panicked rustling and footsteps, noticing with alarm that the Doctor was running away.

She dragged herself to her feet, ignoring the tiredness dragging at her limbs and the throbbing in her head, and chased after the Doctor. He led her into the kitchen, stumbling, staggering and still gagging with what she assumed was the remnants of the dream and his own exhaustion, but still he somehow managed to be faster than her. She lunged, arm outstretched, and tried to grab his clothes, but he whipped out of her reach before she could touch him and, struggling not to overbalance, she was too slow to go after him.

She chased him into the garden, fear seizing her lungs. She didn't even have the breath to shout, to tell him off, to beg him not to do this. She didn't even have the breath to shout for Rory. She was helpless, gasping, banging against the TARDIS doors as he somehow managed to lock her out.

She fumbled around desperately in her pockets, searching for her key, and remembered with horror that she had left it on her bedside table, knowing full well that it was Rory's turn to check on the Master later. She hadn't even thought…

She gasped in a breath, gathered her voice, and bellowed. "Doctor!"

No reply.

"Please let me in," she said frantically, this time directing her words to the TARDIS herself. "You have to let me in."

The TARDIS shuddered slightly and the door opened a crack before it slammed shut again. Amy stared at it in disbelief. This was not good – this was downright terrible. The Doctor must have somehow overridden her, stopped her from helping them. Which meant…

Amy's eyes went wide and she swore profusely.

She turned on her heel and pelted back to the house, this time shrieking Rory's name, trying not to hear that dreaded sound.