Pack Up the Moon and Dismantle the Sun
Ianto rises from Jack's desk, replacing the telephone in its cradle. He has broken the news now to all who need to know. The arrangements are made too. The body is in the morgue. Simple. Effective. Quick. The only sound in the room is his own heart, beating rhythmically like the ticking of a clock. He wonders at this; how can it possibly continue to beat when it is broken?
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Ianto can't believe he has gone. It was the one thing that wasn't supposed to be able to happen. He gave his life to save the world. And no one out there knows or cares. Their world continues whilst Ianto's world has stopped.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
Owen waits a decent time then goes down to the morgue to look for Ianto. He is surprised to find a visitor sitting on the floor, in the same posture as Ianto. Both have their backs to the cold drawer. Both are staring ahead; neither is talking. Ianto is holding a piece of paper, inscribed in his neat handwriting. Owen watches from a distance as the Doctor gets up, offers a hand to Ianto. When both men are on their feet, the Doctor opens the drawer and Ianto kisses the piece of paper, which he then puts carefully into the drawer, onto the man's breast.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The Doctor gestures Owen to come to them. The Doctor takes Ianto's hand again and places it tenderly in Owen's, then gently urges them both to leave the morgue. The Doctor turns once more to the still form in the drawer, and says, very very quietly, so not even the CCTV camera can hear:
"The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good."
And then he turns, leaving the morgue, and Torchwood. And Jack.