Jack reached a hand up and covered it over the Doctor's on his chest. He could just about breathe, but barely, and it was getting worse as fluid from the wound seeped into his open lung.

Looking at the Doctor, with his vision swimming in front of his eyes, he shook his head. "No," he said, taking too much effort to speak.

He suspected what might happen here, it had happened before, if in different ways. Somehow this was worse than a terribly gruesome death like the one he had earlier. This was barely a death at all. It was a slow painful loss of the ability to live. His breathing would get harder, and the pain would get worse, and he had to strain himself through it.

"No, Doctor," he said again, struggling against the lack of air. He fumbled his hand out and tried to reach for the bloodied arrow, his fingers fumbling and not reaching.

"Are you-" he breathed in, wheezed, "are you okay?"