Disclaimer: I am not RTD nor do I own anything related to Torchwood.
For two thousand years, Jack knew nothing but darkness. Each moment was spent, struggling against the confines of earth, falling into his mouth, choking him. The panic would set in, as it always did, as it travelled down his throat, with his ragged gasp around the rocks and mud and the stinging in his eyes when some would fall in. He knew nothing but the fiery stabs in his lungs; the thick dryness in his throat. The way he would drift almost into blissful unconscious, white dots flashing before him, drove him insane--but not nearly as much as when he was awake, gulping a lung full of air habitually.
His fingers would go numb first, and his nostrils would sting, bringing tears to his eyes, moistening the mud on his cheeks. His body would twitch, pressing against the weight of the dirt, while his stomach churned. It wasn't a slow death--oh no, it most certainly was not. Every agonizing second stretched into minutes of his head swimming, his body aching, his lungs burnings . . . His throat drying, itching . . .
Then he would pass out, and his body would naturally try to breathe, and without him being awake, he couldn't prevent it. He'd breathe little bits of rock and dirt and bugs, dreaming of Grey, of his team, of bananas, of the Doctor, of John . . . Half-dreams, barely there, floating before his eyes while he faded away, coughing up mud and vomit, until he died.
Of course, only to wake seconds, minutes, hours, days later, only to go through it all again. He never worried about atrophy, his body weakening, hoping that the dirt would crush his poor frame into something unable to return--after each death, his body would reject anything that was not supposed to be there--dirt and mud, mainly--and heal every scratch, every bruise . . . He would stay buried, body perfect.
Suffocation was the worst way to die. And Jack knew a thing or two about death.
He'd suffocated before, sure. Well, technically, he'd drowned, but it was the same concept. Floating in the middle of nowhere, keeping his mouth closed and not breathing, until he passed out and his lungs took over, breathing in water. It was definitely something he hadn't wanted to experience again. Death was never fun--well, maybe in some cases--but the slow, painful way of going by asphyxiation was the worst.
And that was all he knew for nearly two thousand years.
And that pain was nothing compared to this.
Tosh and Owen were gone. For real, this time. There would be no coming back.
Being stuck underground with nothing but the clothes on his back and the ring John had dropped to his chest, Jack couldn't remember every damn thing that had happened in his already abnormally long life. He remembered Grey, and why he took his penance--why he let Grey bury him. Her remembered John, but only barely, and only because of the ring.
Owen had been the first to go. Why? He could sit and try to explain for hours, try and think of excuses. But there wasn't any. There came a time when he could remember every damn facial expression he had--the wide smile, the furrowed brows . . . The way he moved, slid, across the floor almost--how he tossed things in the air absent-mindedly, catching them, just as habitually as he threw them . . . But for the life of him he couldn't remember his name.
Then Tosh, then Ianto, and finally Gwen. Was there any rhyme or reason to the order he forgot their name? No. There couldn't be. It just happened that way. He didn't' want to, but it happened, and that--that--was worse than suffocating any day. He'd spent so long under there, thinking over his life, remembering faces, eye colours, Grey, all of the horrible things he'd done . . . And to add to his ever-growing list, he'd forgotten his damn team's name, only for two of them to die when he got back.
Seeing their faces brought the names back, almost instantaneously. Being in the hub, well, it brought it all back. But how on earth could he forgive himself for not remembering? For forgetting? How could he forgive himself for not even remembering his last words to Tosh and Owen?
Jack had seen much death in his lifetime. He'd seen people age around him, people he cared about die, people he knew grow old and forget him . . . And nothing ached like this.
He had to be strong for Ianto and Gwen, he knew that. Gwen had already voiced her doubts about continuing--she had vocalized her want to leave; that she couldn't do this. Ianto had already had to deal with Lisa dying--now two more?
They were mortal, unlike him. Their lives were exceptionally shorter. They didn't have as much to deal with as him, didn't have as long to grieve . . . So he couldn't break down, not in front of them. Those hundreds of years, underneath the soil, could not compare to what they felt. No, he couldn't delve into his own pain. He couldn't grieve any more than he already had. He had to be the strong one for them to fall against, because if they all broke down, there would be nothing holding them up.