As Jack lay therd, silent and aware of the Doctor's movements around the room, he came to a conclusion. Logically, he knew it was ridiculous, but sometimes (especially in lives like theirs) logic didn't always play a huge role.
And so it was that he realised what was so hard about lying there like that. He needed to speak to him. Every day for almost five years he'd spoken to him; the Doctor, lying dead but there, not quite listening, but his outlet. His way of surviving. It was, he supposed, almost like therapy.
He found himself wanting to be there now. He wanted to be in the zero room, his hand in the Doctor's, and talking.
Though of course if he scratched the surface, he'd know that wasn't what he wanted either. What he wanted was his Doctor, and he wasn't at all sure if he was there any more.
no subject
And so it was that he realised what was so hard about lying there like that. He needed to speak to him. Every day for almost five years he'd spoken to him; the Doctor, lying dead but there, not quite listening, but his outlet. His way of surviving. It was, he supposed, almost like therapy.
He found himself wanting to be there now. He wanted to be in the zero room, his hand in the Doctor's, and talking.
Though of course if he scratched the surface, he'd know that wasn't what he wanted either. What he wanted was his Doctor, and he wasn't at all sure if he was there any more.