For Better Or Worse (Doctor Who Fanfiction)

I Will Fix You, Jack Harkness

TW: abuse, self harm, suicide

"Oh my God...oh my... Jack? Jack is that you? Did one of those Futurekind attack you? What happened here? I'm a doctor remember, tell me." Martha pleaded to the bloody form partially concealed by a door in front of her. The door covered the view of his arms, so she thought someone attacked him, maybe the Doctor. She knew he couldn't die, but didn't know how he stopped being, well, dead.

Jack wasn't dead. Not yet at least. He was just blacking out on a cold cement floor covered in blood. Much better.

The metallic smell was overpowering and his subconscious associated it with the most obvious reason: his father.

There had been lots of times where he'd gone too rough in a "demonstration", thrown a bottle with bad aim, slapped too hard, and ended with Jack passing out in a small collection of his blood.

This was not like that. He clawed himself open, and this was much much more than a spare bottle could cause. His arms looked mauled, and the puddles he was in could testify further to the fact that Captain Jack Harkness was indeed, fucked.

While looking for the source of the blood, Martha spotted a first aid kit. Figuring the Doctor would have some more supplies in the TARDIS, she grabbed the kit, quietly closed the closet door and ran back as fast as she could.

The look on his breathless companion's face said enough, but the first aid kit clutched in her hand said everything. He'd really messed up this time.

Quickly turning to face the professor and his assistant, he rambled on, trying to find a good reason for why they had to leave. He settled on "our friend's very sick. We need to take care of him. Good luck with the rocket, it was nice to meet you!" With all formalities out of the way, he nodded at Martha to show him the way, and she nodded back before running down the halls with a Time Lord quick on her heels.

"Martha what was he like when you found him?" Unsure of what he was going to find, he only knew one thing. It was going to be bad.

"Let's see, he was pale, bloody, but I didn't find the source of the blood because I ran back to find you, and quite possibly dead. Doctor, what did you do to him?" Martha filled the Doctor in with an accusing tone.

"Dead? He's dead and bloody?" The Doctor asked with a guilty tone, avoiding Martha's question. Thinking back to their conversations about his first death, he had an idea that this was roughly the same thing.

The duo quickly arrived at a supply closet and the Doctor gulped loudly. He nodded to Martha to open the door and he saw the scene inside. Did I cause this? He wondered, always willing to blame himself for the slightest mistake.

He walked in ahead of her, careful to avoid the alarmingly sized puddles on the floor. He'd thought janitor closets had drains, but this seemed to be more supply than janitorial. He scanned the collapsed body at his feet and it wasn't hard to find the source.

"Martha, could you give me some space? Please and thank you." His loyal, but increasingly suspicious, companion obliged, taking a few steps back into the hall.

The Doctor got closer to Jack, not caring about how ruined his suit was going to be. He sat by his head with his knees tucked up. For some privacy, he closed the door most of the way.

Gently, he picked up one of the limp arms hanging by the Time Agent's sides. The arm looked okay, tanned and slightly muscular, but when he flipped it over it was completely mutilated.

One glance had been enough to destroy him. To confirm what he had thought. Shaking slightly, the Doctor leaned his elbows on his kneecaps, and supported his dizzy head. He ran his fingers over the raised scars on his own wrists, and decided he'd have to add more. He hadn't cut in a while, but he really fucked up this time. He deserved it.