For Better Or Worse (Doctor Who Fanfiction)

Sorry and Please.

TW: suicide.

Jack Harkness awoke to the smell of the Boeshane Peninsula and cedar with a start. It looked like he was in his bedroom from when he was kid and just the sight of the walls made him sick. The Doctor finally got tired of me and dropped me off back here. He couldn't move his arms, so he figured his father must have done something to them, but when he looked down at them they were heavily bandaged and he could see blood showing through the gauze on his wrists.

My dad would never have patched me up. Where am I? He wasn't sure where he was, why he was bandaged, and why he was alive. He shouldn't be alive.

He flashed back to the closet, the shining blade that was quickly losing its shine, his arm that was quickly becoming more blood than skin, and the Doctor's words that felt like they were strangling him, squeezing his heart, actually killing him at last. The last thing he remembered was passing out on the floor, so why was he here now? In a replica of where he endured years of pain, but bandaged and in a..a wheelchair?

He was at a loss of idea when he heard someone whistling. He didn't recognize the tune, but he knew only one person who would take care of him, try (and fail) to make him comfortable, and whistled. The Doctor.

He decided to try and ask him for answers, because he was still confused. And where was Martha? Jack tried to press himself out of the wheelchair, but his arms were too sore. He couldn't put pressure on them without the feeling of cuts opening again, which was pure agony. Deciding to try a different tactic, he leaned forward and tried to get up without his hands, which ended with him falling flat on the floor.

The Doctor had been awake since 2 am, caring for his cuts, thinking, cleaning the TARDIS, and now he was making tea at 6 am. He'd only gotten a few hours of sleep last night, he tossed and turned from guilt and just the thought of Jack being in so much pain that he turned to something as bad as the Doctor's habits. Jack tried to kill himself and it was all because of me.

After giving up on sleep, he'd rinsed off his cuts in the shower, grimacing as the powerful streams of water and soap shot directly on his cuts and stung like hell. He'd forgotten what it was like to have cuts. When he was clean and bandaged, he left his room with his typical long sleeves and tried to be productive.

He couldn't force Jack to wake up, but he could be ready for when he did. He tidied the TARDIS, whistling as he did, and decided to make tea. He'd just finished steeping the Earl Grey for both of them when he heard a thump and a groan from the other room. The Doctor grinned ear to ear and ran to Jack's door.

"Jack? Are you awake? I made tea, how do you take it?" The Doctor asked, thrilled that he'd finally gotten up.

Jack, who hadn't heard the first part of the question since he was on the floor, was thrown off by the question. Not sure why the Doctor wanted to know, he replied "up the ass, preferably." What does that have to do with anything? Is he trying to hint at something?

The Doctor, unaware of Jack's situation, was now extremely confused and assumed Jack was pissed. "I'm sorry Jack, I know I messed up. I'm trying to help you."

Jack heard a little bit more that time but was still unsure of what was going on. Why is he trying to help me? Why does he blame himself so easily? And what does this have to do with my beautiful, beautiful ass?

"Doc, you should probably come in. I have no clue what's going on."

Not sure what was going either, the Doctor entered the room and ran over to Jack. The Doctor extended a hand to the injured man on the floor, which he reaches for, but freezes as the sleeve pulls up, revealing bandages stained through with blood.