The man on the bed stares up at his reflection, trying to tell himself that it will be okay. That he can get up, get showered, shaved, dressed, walk down the corridor and make coffee. But the mirror man doesn't look like he could cope with that: dark circles ring his despairing eyes, beads of perspiration cover his forehead, the nails of his right hand compulsively tear at his left wrist, leaving fresh, red scratches on the already disfigured skin. All night he has lain there, sleeping fitfully, tossed between waking and sleeping nightmares.

Another mind shock paralyses him; stabbing deep into his head and momentarily erasing everything but the pain. They are coming more frequently now, and he has started to welcome them for the relief they give him from his torturous thoughts.

With a supreme effort of will, Ianto rolls over and pushes himself up on one elbow. So far so good. After a few deep breaths he manages to push down the sweat soaked sheets, then to move his leaden limbs so that his legs are over the edge of the bed and his feet in contact with the smooth, cool floorboards. You can do this, come on.

He rises unsteadily, swaying like he's just spent too long spinning on a fairground ride. A few staggering steps take him to the en suite shower room.

He will get to work on time, even if it kills him.

*****

Today, sitting at his desk waiting for Ianto to arrive with coffee, Jack can't keep his mind focused on anything. Gwen has just phoned to say they are running late, and he is painfully aware that it is just him and Ianto, alone down here. He doesn't trust himself to behave professionally, but tries his best to look like he is working. The words on the page in front of him dance, and reform themselves into strange shapes. Images flash before him: Ianto smirking with raised eyebrows; Ianto knotting his tie and tucking in his shirt; Ianto pushing him against a wall; Ianto sleeping, curled up beside him; Ianto fussing with the contents of his fridge; Ianto closing his eyes and leaning in towards him; Ianto holding a stopwatch...

The flashbacks fade as the quiet, erratic knocking on the door grows more insistent.

"Come in," he calls, fighting to keep his tone businesslike, but worried it came out as a croak.

Keeping his eyes down again, remembering to breathe. Listening to the steps getting closer.

The mug lands on the table with a crash, hot coffee slopping out and over the heap of papers.

Jack leaps up as Ianto's knees buckle and he falls to the floor, eyes rolling up in their sockets. He covers the distance between them in an instant, an incoherent wail filling the room which he suddenly realises is coming from him. Dropping to his knees, he gathers up the young man in his arms and squeezes him tight, his body shuddering as the wail is released.

He needs to think. What do I do? Check for a pulse?

Pulling up Ianto's left sleeve, Jack's fingers make contact with the livid scar and he pulls them back as if burnt. What's this? Made clumsy in panic, tearing out the buttons, he pulls the cuff open and bares Ianto's arm up to the elbow. There's only one explanation for a cut like that, starting thin and straight at the wrist and growing wide, jagged as it reaches the elbow.

"Oh God, Ianto, what have you done to yourself?" he whispers, chilled at the thought of so much pain and despair. As his breath catches in his throat, he remembers what he needs to check for: breathing.

Bending his face down over Ianto's, he can feel warm breath on his cheeks and lips. As relief washes through him, he draws closer to those soft, pink lips, his body moving without any conscious control. Before he knows what he is doing, Jack is kissing the haggard face, kissing away the lines of worry on Ianto's forehead, the dark crescents under his eyes; kissing those lips he has missed so sorely. Losing himself in that familiar taste and scent...

Brought back to himself by a slight tensing in the body he's embracing, Jack looks down into a pair of wide, blue eyes. "Ianto," he exhales, "Ianto, are you alright?"

"Help me," he whispers. "I need to see a doctor."

*****

Sitting in the waiting room, Ianto stares at the clock on the wall, willing the minute hand to move around faster. The man beside him also seems impatient, tapping on his chair with the hand that isn't clutching Ianto's. The hand that is currently anchoring him; stopping him from sliding deeper into panic. The hand that has only let go of his for the duration of the journey here, a hair-raising race across the city centre in the SUV. Jack had wanted to take him to A only yielding to Ianto's assurance that he just needed a GP when Ianto took hold of his hand.

Why did I do that? he wonders, looking down at the strong, capable hand squeezing his. How could I trust this man, after what he's done?

But in a moment of need he had reached out for help, reached out to the only person there. To the man whose eyes were radiating concern, and something deeper than that. Something Ianto remembered seeing in Lisa's eyes. Something that looked like devotion.

"Mr. Jones, Doctor Evans will see you now. Room 5," the receptionist calls out, pointing towards one of the blank pine doors.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Jack asks softly.

"No, I'd rather do this on my own," he replies, moving his hand and wondering why he feels so bereft when it is released.

He rises, steadier now help is immanent. Walks to the door then hesitates, looking back at Jack, who is staring at him with that deep something in his eyes again. Ianto gulps, forces himself to look away, then knock on the door.