for quitehomoerotic: Welcome to the Sahara Desert

[rude_not_ginger]

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The Doctor woke only a few short hours later and found himself positively disappointed at his lack of dreams. He'd spent years asleep without dreams, and now, when he really wanted them, he still had nothing. No memories, no twisting nightmares, not even a good brain-dump of nonsensical mental garbage. Just nothing. He was asleep next to Jack on the bed, and then he was awake.

He sighed. His memory was still swiss-cheesed with missing parts of the last two hundred years, but there seemed to be more gaps filled in. And that was something, wasn't it? It meant maybe a few more nights of dreamless sleep and he'd be back to himself completely.

He just hoped there weren't more memories like Mars to discover.

He looked over to Jack, asleep next to him. This was what Jack loved the most, he said. Not sleeping alone. Not being alone. In that instant, the Doctor understood it.

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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.