Jack was gone.
Martha was gone.
And there he was, the Oncoming Storm, the Bringer of Darkness, the Doctor. Contemplating a glass of scotch in a darknened bar just outside of Cardiff. He picked the location randomly out of one of Jack's old hand-written guidebooks for himself. Specifically labeled "A Great Place To Go If You're Miserable".
It was understandable why. The service was terrible, the place positively reeked of old liquor and cigarettes, and nearly half the lights had to be out, it was so dark. A couple was taking advantage of the darkness in one of the booths. An intoxicated woman read depressing poetry over a microphone on a tiny stage near the front of the bar. A man who obviously had more to lose than the Doctor was drinking himself into oblivion at a table.
It was almost enough to make him believe it wasn't so bad. He despised the taste of scotch, but it was stronger than wine, and banana daiquiris were for parties, not days where he was finding the human equivalent of feeling bad for himself.
This was what they did, wasn't it? Found a bar, got pissed, and it made them feel what? Better? Or was the intoxication enough that they could pretend that it was better?
He took a drink of the scotch, letting the liquor burn his throat. He supposed he'd find out.