Sometimes, the Doctor would curl up in his office at Torchwood and catalogue unidentified artifacts for hours. Uninterrupted, he could clear a full warehouse in a week, each item identified, tagging, and stored properly. Or he'd work on his screwdriver, making it as close to his old one as he could without the TARDIS to assist. Today, unfortunately, was not one of those days - between frequent interruptions and problems in his tags - the writing an unusually messy scrawl, or whole sections missing.
His temples throbbed curiously, beating a one-two-three-four that so reminded him of his old heartsbeat. Whether it was something to worry about or just due to stress, he wasn't sure - but nonetheless, he pulled a small notebook bound in brown leather and flipped to a new page, duly recording the date and time (he'd had to check the time on his watch - not that he was about to admit it to anyone), and began recording his symptoms. It was better, the Doctor had decided, to keep track of their severity to determine just how long he had.
With a particularly bad thump behind his temples, he pulled off his glasses and tossed them on the desk, laying his head in his arms. It hurt. The entire room seemed to swim, and only the cool darkness offered with closed eyes made it any better. Blindly he reached into the still-open desk drawer and removed a small bottle of painkillers, hoping the medication might make a difference.
