For Better Or Worse (Doctor Who Fanfiction)

Good Night, Doctor

TW: brief reference to eating disorders, suicide, self harm

Jack woke up, unsure of where he was and what he was doing there. That seemed to be a reoccurring theme for him lately. Looking up, he saw the adhesive plastic stars glowing softly on the ceiling, and knew. The Doctor was dead. He leaned forward, away from the door and let his head hang low. With a hoarse voice and the last ounce of hope he had, he asked for the last time. "Doctor?" No response. He checked the bathroom door for what seemed like the thousandth time, it was still locked. There was nobody to unlock it.

Just the memory of him hurt, and being in his room was doing nothing to help.

Wiping away tears with the sleeve of his coat, he stood up. He knew he had to get the Doctor out.

Trying to break into the bathroom that held a corpse you loved wasn't exactly easy, so he tried to just work on opening the door and forgetting what was on the other side. He took a few steps back, and tried to recall his training on breaking into rooms from the Time Agency. Jack took a deep breath and tried to loosen his shoulders. He ran full speed to the door, and kicked the area of wood next to the handle as hard as he could. The door didn't open, but an audible crack was released. I'm coming Doctor. Just you wait. It took several more tries before it gave in, wood splintering and several cracks running the length of the door.

Grateful to still be in his steel reinforced boots, he walked over the wooden fragments littering the floor, heard them crunch underfoot.

Cautiously inserting his shaking hand through the hole he created, he searched for the knob. Once he found it, he turned it, and pulled towards himself. He opened the door, and stopped breathing.

The Doctor's thin frame was sprawled across the marble tiles, and Jack couldn't see a single sign of life. He wasn't in his normal attire of a button up, a coat, an overcoat, and pants. The limp body in front of Jack had only pants, blood, and scars covering him. A shirtless Doctor would normally be considered a good thing in Jack's book, but right now he can only worry further about the things he hadn't noticed the Doctor hiding from him.

His stomach was concave, all of his ribs showing through taut skin, his hipbones and collarbones jutted out, his arms were as wide as his elbows, and his facial bones were prominent. Some people are naturally skinny, but this went beyond that.

I WILL save the Doctor. Jack was more determined than ever. Why didn't I notice him doing this?

There were too many things to take in at once, his large cuts, his frail bones, the ghostly colour of his skin, the not so simple fact that the Doctor was dead. Dead.

Going to his knees, Jack takes one of the Doctor's arms in his hand and starts to take care of it. While trying to ignore the bones pressing out, Jack wiped off the layers of blood with wads of toilet paper. It worked for the most part, but they got stuck on the cuts and made a mess, so Jack had to clean that up as well, apologizing under his breath the whole time.

Knowing he needed better supplies, he rummaged through the cabinets under his sink. Toothpaste, shaving cream, a shaving razor that he confiscated, floss, extra soap and hair products, and a first aid kit.

He popped the lid off, and went to close the drawer when he saw glints of light coming from the back. Razors. Jack takes them out, careful not to cut his fingers, and drops them straight in the toilet. With a 'fuck you' and a flush, the blades were out of sight.

Having taken care of future threats, Jack turned back to the threat he had waited too long to take care of.

If I can just bring him back with a little time energy....maybe he'll be okay? I hope he can remake his own blood, it might be hard to find a Gallifreyan blood donor. He didn't know if he could pull it off, but what choice was there but to try? He couldn't leave him here. Never.