The Doctor’s not sure how long he’s been sitting here, wallowing in misery, trying to drown his sorrows, but the bartender just rang the bell for last call. Pushing his empty glass across the bar, he says, “Fill ‘er up again, my good man,” and watches the amber liquid flowing from the bottle. It’s almost hypnotic.
Donna’s gone. She’d blossomed as they’d travelled together, fulfilling the magnificent potential he’d seen in her, being awesome, and now she won’t remember any of it. It’s not fair.
Picking up his glass of ginger ale, he drains it. Time to go on alone.