1. Cold

Like a thief it crept into his consciousness, waking him slowly as awareness grew. Became. Like a small flame flickering before catching to light the darkness. Tendrils of life snaked through his veins and he bloomed into being. Again.

It was cold. Bloody cold. Time ticked as he remembered his limbs and his fingers twitched. A breath was heard in the chamber followed by a soft moan.

Something was surrounding him. Blocks of ice. Soft mushy ice?

Cold.

The dripping sound that echoed in the room woke him more and he started to panic in his confines. Buried. Not in dirt but something creepier.

He pushed against the walls, the soft giving sides and the weight that made it hard to breathe. A cough was heard. A sob escaped into the void of silence and he wondered whom it was as he become still. Time to play possum. Whoever put him here might not be happy to see him alive.

After agonising minutes passed he heard no other sound and that creeping awareness told him he may have been the one that made that sound.

Maybe.

He began to wriggle and push as the walls flexed, shuddered and gave. He dragged himself from his confines as though being born, head first with a gasp of air and flailing limbs. Hitting the hard metal floor, he lay stunned. Bodies. He had been buried in bodies.

He was thankful to find his clothing intact as some of the bodies appeared to be naked or partially undressed. He moved forward to investigate and recognition exploded in his mind.

Tosh.

Naked and still, the body of Toshiko Sato was half buried amongst the other cadavers with one arm languidly reaching down. She had slept like that on the couch in the hub sometimes. Head turned out and her hand resting on the floor. He had remembered covering her with his old patchwork quilt and kissing that forehead softly so many times as he had tucked her arm under the quilt before retreating back to the sleeping quarters hidden under the office.

Fuckers.

Anger replaced confusion and the cold was forgotten as the red-hot rage flooded his body. Get out. Get even. Find the others.

He examined his surroundings and discovered it was a bunker or cell of some sort. Metal walls, floor and ceiling. Bunks or shelves along the sides. Was it a hold? He tested his senses and was not aware of movement. Not a ship's hold then? A spaceship? Might explain the bloody cold. But how did Tosh get here? She never went off world, part of the release agreement with UNIT. Wait, she was dead wasn't she? Long since followed Owen into the black. The gunshot wound he had stitched himself agreed with him.

He shuffled to the door and peered out of the small portal. Blue sky, bare ground with tents. Earth? Definitely a military camp. After a moment he stepped back and collided with a bare leg, tripping and falling back against the bodies. This was bad. Really bad.

As a soldier passed he knocked on the glass. The young man froze then slowly approached the door to peer back at the pale face within.

"Sorry to be a bother but I was helping out and in all the chaos I accidentally got locked in." he tried with a smile plastered on his face.

The soldier opened the door and stepped back. Light flooded the room and warmth with it. He suppressed a shudder as he finally stepped from death to life.

"How the bloody hell did ya manage that then?" the London accent of the soldier was welcoming.

"Fucked if I know." He smiled with a shrug. "What's going on?"

"Everyone's gone into panic mode mate" the soldier offered a cigarette which he accepted gratefully. He had given up smoking years ago but suddenly wanted the hot bitter taste again. He inhaled and felt the familiar tickle.

"Miracle day's over." The soldier continued to talk as his gaze was ripped from the darkness of the bunker that had become Tosh's makeshift crypt and he found himself pulled back into the world as he struggled to comprehend that statement.

"What?" he was sure he didn't know what this was. Did he remember? Was this before or after the cold? Was he supposed to know?

"Yeah man I tells ya. The un-deads are all like really dead and the half gones are going fast. Dropping like flies bruv. Mental!" The soldier flicked ash as he talked.

"Shit Bruv. For sure!" he hoped that was the correct response. It had been a while since he had tried speaking the language of London youth and cringed.

He knew that although English was spoken off world in many colonies in the future that Chav had never left Sol 3. So he was still on earth then. That's one box ticked thank the gods.

"Bit of a bugger thems going through all the trouble off emptying those military chryo-chambers from that hush-hush warehouse to put the important un-deads in now eh?" he asked staring into the pale face of his new friend. "I mean bruv, deads is deads again yeah? Mental."

No. Not always.

He found his hand straightening his clothes and he tried for a smile but knew a grimace would be a fairer description.

"All too fucking weird for me bruv" he sighed as he sought his bearings. Fuck he was cold.

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A laptop was easy to come by, as was transport. Snag this, pocket that and palm something else along the way. As always, acting with authority worked.

It felt weird leaving Tosh there in the dark and cold but he knew her views on life and death. Just a vessel, just another meat bag. If the spark was gone so was she. They had spoken at length as they had both tried to heal and understand after the cannibals mission and both had agreed that the flesh did not make the person so he knew she would forgive him leaving her there like that. He just hoped she had found her nirvana.

A newspaper that had been discarded on the passenger seat told him it was not only Sol 3 but they were just outside of Cardiff. Also it was still early 21st Century Earth. Well, thank the Gods again. Another box ticked.

He ate from the cooler he found in the back of the jeep. The sandwiches were fresh and the water cool. He would kill for a coffee. Still beggars, choosers and all that. Logging into the Torchwood server he found his backdoor still hidden in plain sight beneath the welsh dragon in the corner of the screen. Tick, tick bloody tick!

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Finding a B&B that took the cash in the wallet that he had found (OK, it was a shoe box full of them under one of the desks but finders keepers right?), he sank onto the bed for a few minutes before drawing a bath. Where was everyone? He still found things blurry, altered like looking through water.

Emptying the wallets onto the bed he found several licences including one that vaguely resembled him with features and would pass at a pinch and enough money to relax his concerns about security in that regard.

The hot pot that had been delivered to his room from the concerned landlady was long since devoured by a hunger he hadn't realised existed in him until after the first few bites.

The water was hot and it bit at his cold flesh causing him the gasp with pain. He slowly sank into the torture chamber with a sigh telling himself to harden up. Weevil hunting had been worse than this.

God. The night they had slipped into the storm drain and only Jack's coat snagging on a tree root had stopped them from being washed away in the spring thaw. God. That coat has seen some things.

He carded his fingers through his hair and he welcomed the loss of all senses as he submerged himself in the huge old-fashioned bathtub. Not the time to remember their hot, naked wrestling on the riverbank with only the coat for warmth as they had waited for Owen to find them.

His shocked screams of horror at finding his supposedly hypothermic patients mid-coitus had been worth the cold. God. Not even the same coat anymore. He remembered that much.

Much like the Doctor's regenerations had somehow stolen something, the knowledge that the coat was not really the coat also seemed a betrayal of some sort.

He sighed and closed his eyes as he dozed lightly in the warmth hoping the cold would not return to his tired limbs.

Tosh's cold body invaded his thoughts and he almost felt her ghost joining him in the cooling water.

Thinking too much. Stop thinking. Dangerous hobby that!

After drying himself he crawled into the bed without bothering to look for clothing. Fuck it. He was tired and it looked so warm and inviting. The cold was already stalking him in the shadows, threatening to return.

He lay back in the bed and lamented his naked body between fresh sheets without another eager body for comfort. Retrieving the lap-top from the bedside table he began to search for signs of life. For the next couple of hours he trolled. When he was finished he shut the screen with a snap and lent back. Nausea threatened but he swallowed it back down with a bitter grimace.

"Fuck" he split the silence of the room.

This was bad. Worse than bad, this was impossible. Miracle day explained (not), Torchwood was running around in America and Jack wasn't in charge anymore. Who was this Rex arsehole that was seemed intent on taking control?

He had also read about Thames House. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck!

He had died. They both had. The footage broke his heart. The 456 were gone but at great cost to Jack. Had he sacrificed Steven because of Ianto? If he hadn't been so bloody stupid would this have been the result? Why couldn't he remember anything?

Like a fog, his mind still couldn't see past the hub explosion. Head injury perhaps? Drugged? Something lingered. Tickling, whispering but the more he tried to concentrate the quieter and further away it became.

There was a door to the chamber. Right? That's how the camera man had entered. Why hadn't they simply opened the airlock and released the gas that way? Why had they panicked? Why had Jack panicked? It's not like he loved him. Even in death he couldn't give Ianto those three words he had always craved, so what the fuck was he thinking?

Weariness pulled him back into the soft embrace of the pillows and he sighed as he drifted off to sleep.

Fuck! He was cussing too much. His mother would have washed his mouth out!

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He woke to rain and warmth. Confused for a moment he reached for a warm body beside him before remembering he was alone. The radiators had come on in the night and his hand washed shirt and undergarments had dried where he had spread them against the metal. He reluctantly dressed in the same clothes and made a mental note to get something not previously covered in death. Nausea again taunted and this time he found himself kneeling on cold tiles as last night's hot pot saw the light of day.

Fuck! Once again he found himself alone, scared and cold.

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