"Doctor?" She called into the darkness of the unlit space Floridian night. "Doctor!" She called again, but received no response.
The Doctor speed walked back to the hotel, feeling sick to his stomach.
Did Amy really think that? Did she blame him for Rory's death?
It hadn't been something he had allowed himself to think about. He had, in the old days, when he had lost friends before; he had thought about it until he drove himself mad with grief. But in the past few centuries? No, he had cut the thoughts out, the only thing ever really driving home being the death of his planet, his race. Rory had been easy enough to forget... Amy never brought him up, of course, and the very non-existence of his existence made things simple.
But Rory had died. Not been lost, not left, not been tucked away safe in some corner of universe – before he had been erased from time and space, he had died. And the Doctor knew that he could have prevented that; if he had acted faster, not let dumb curiosity take the better of him, Rory would be alive, and Amy would be happy.
"Doctor!" Amy yelled again, but still no reply. Her footing uneven, she continued walking into the night, hoping that the path she had taken was the correct path, the path that would lead her back to the hotel, to the Doctor.
She felt awful. She felt terrible. The things that she had said had been unfair and uncalled for, being drunk had been no excuse. Being in mourning had been no excuse. The things she had said hurt the Doctor, she could see it in her eyes. She needed to be more mature, she needed to be an adult. She felt sick to her stomach.
No, she really felt sick to her stomach. Hunching over a shrub at the edge of the dark path she was on, she threw up the Banana Daiquiri, the vicious Boynton Mojito, and whatever else she had left in there.
The Doctor reached the TARDIS. He stepped inside thankfully, pushing the doors shut behind him.
Stepping up to the console, he sat down on the sofa and placed his head in his hands and sighed.