Jack wanted to say something. He wanted to do something but he had no idea what. It seemed that everything he tried to do was wrong. Even the things he planned for the best part of three years, he had always assumed that's what the Doctor would want.

He held too much stock in stolen moments that meant everything to him, and had focussed on that and not the bigger picture. The Doctor could regenerate, the Doctor could move on. Maybe that was the excuse he had wanted.

He took a deep breath and wiped a hand over his face, frowning as he processed the question.

"A little sharp for a few feet," he told him with a monotone voice, "nothing you can't handle."