Author's Notes - Thanks to James Birdsong for the review-short, but to the point. I thought about deleting this chapter. I'm still thinking of deleting this chapter. It's messy and over the top, and the Doctor's got to be blind not to figure things out. However, I'm going to cringe and let it stand because it would take too much rewriting to exclude it.

Melissa woke screaming, her head threatening to split open. Susan and Matthew were standing by her bed, distressed and disturbed.

"Mom, what's wrong?" Matthew begged as she fled to the bathroom, retching.

"Nothing. It was just a nightmare. Go back to sleep." Once her stomach was no longer churning, she forced herself to stand, giving them the best 'do as I say' look she could muster.

Reluctantly, they went back to their rooms, although neither one of them intended to sleep. As they disappeared from sight, she scrawled a note and placed it on her bedside table. Taking a few deep breaths, she pressed her hands to her head in a futile attempt to relieve the pain, but it didn't help at all. Lightheaded and nauseous, she focused on just one thought as she reached for the phone.

Waking seven cranky M. Jones' in London, Melissa swore as all seven turned out to be wrong numbers. There wasn't a Martha in the bunch. Without regard to her phone bill, she asked the operator to try the next on the list, and this time she was successful. Unfortunately, it was Martha's answering machine that she heard on the other line.

Frantic, she tried to remember the name of Martha's mother. Fran, Francis, no, Francine! Desperately, she asked the operator to search for a Francine Jones this time. Hardly daring to hope, she had the international operator make the connection.

"Jones' residence." A female voice an ocean away answered on the fourth ring.

"Are you the Francine Jones who has a daughter named Martha?"

"I am," the voice replied warily.

"Ms. Jones, please, you have to help me. I need to contact the Doctor. I tried calling Martha, but I only got her voice mail. I need her old phone number, the one the Doctor's got. It's a matter of life or death!"

The woman's tone was sharp as she replied and her voice could have frozen molten lava. "Who's this? How did you get my number?"

Panicking and barely coherent, Melissa begged. "Please, Jack's in trouble. I have to find the Doctor!"

"Who are you?"

"My name's Melissa, Melissa Morgan. Please, Ms. Jones, you have to help me." The edges of her vision were starting to blur.

"What color is your hair?"

"What?" Of all questions, Melissa had not expected that one.

"What color is your hair?"

"Red," she answered quickly, wondering if she were already delirious.

A much friendlier Francine quickly gave her the Doctor's number. Melissa abruptly ended the call as soon as she had what she needed. She was in too much agony to make an attempt at politeness. Barely managing to press the buttons of her phone, she stood shakily as she waited for the Doctor to answer.

"Hello? Martha?" The Doctor answered congenially on the fifth ring.

"Help me." She didn't hear his reply or his anxious demands for an explanation. Already, the phone was slipping through her fingers as her body followed the same downward path.

The TARDIS materialized in the middle of her bedroom just as she hit the floor. Unfortunately, the bedside table was in the way and her face hit it on the way down. When the Doctor gently turned her over, her nose was bleeding and swelling rapidly, and it was obvious that she was going to have quite a shiner on her left eye.

Checking her over with the sonic screwdriver, he frowned. The neural activity in her brain was elevated, and he had no way of knowing how long she had been in such a state. Also, her nose was broken rather than bruised. Wishing that he had arrived a few seconds sooner, he did his best to make her comfortable.

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Melissa woke from a troubled dream. Not understanding why her face felt painfully swollen and her nose was incredibly stuffy, she cautiously touched her left cheek, then the bridge of her nose. Both were extremely sore and she regretted her actions immediately. Groaning, she tried to remember what had happened to her. Had she been in some sort of accident?

Her groan alerted the person sitting in the battered chair nearby that she just might be waking up. "Finally decided to join us, I see." He smiled at her, but his manner was guarded and the smile did not meet his eyes.

"Doctor?"

"That's me. Hello." Standing, he scanned her with the sonic screwdriver, but this time she was far too exhausted to make an attempt to bat away the annoying buzz.

"Was I in an accident? Did I have a migraine while driving? I didn't hurt anyone, did I?" She blurted out questions as fast as she could think of them, trying to understand his presence and the injuries to her face. A terrifying thought entered her mind, and her fear was evident as her assumptions changed. "Marshall didn't escape, did he? Oh God, tell me that man's still in jail! Please, Doctor, what happened to me?"

Instantly, he was beside her, easing her fears. "Marshall's in jail where he belongs, and he's going to stay there. You had a migraine, and you were unlucky enough to hit your face on the nightstand when you fell."

"Oh." She was immensely relieved, but still didn't understand the reason she was in the TARDIS infirmary. Lying back on the pillow, she wearily closed her eyes, trying to remember, but found it difficult to concentrate.

Gently holding her hand, the Doctor let her fall back asleep. It was the fourth time she'd woken in forty-three hours, but it was the first time she had recognized him and been lucid. He took it as a positive sign. Although the contents of the note he had found on her nightstand weighed heavily on his mind, he knew better than to rush her recovery.

The next time Melissa woke, she was alone in the infirmary. Her hand flew to her face, gently testing to see if she had dreamed the part where the Doctor had told her she had fallen face first onto her bedside table. It was painful enough that she didn't doubt it had all been real. Curious, she stood shakily, holding onto the metal headboard for support. Her legs were trembling so much that she wasn't sure if she could walk, but she wanted to talk to the Doctor and Susan and Matthew. Besides, she definitely needed a shower.

Feeling extremely lightheaded, she didn't notice the Doctor until he was helping her sit on the bed. "Don't need you taking a tumble twice. Here, drink this."

Sipping the vile concoction he had handed to her, she briefly closed her eyes. The next time she opened them, she was laying on the bed once again, the Doctor sitting in the metal chair holding an Agatha Christie novel in his hand.

"Feeling better?"

She gave serious thought to his question. "Much. Although my face is throbbing. You don't happen to have any Tylenol, do you?"

"Afraid not, sorry, but I do have breakfast waiting in the kitchen if you feel up to it."

Finding herself ravenously hungry, she wholeheartedly agreed with that idea, until she realized how grungy she felt. "Can I get a shower first?"

"Sure." He smiled encouragingly at her, and then his features clouded with concern. "Just, don't make too much of your face right now. It's going to take a few more days for the swelling to go down."

Cleaned and dressed, she spent much longer staring at her face in the mirror than she intended. It looked like she had been hit by a truck, or at least battered by a baseball bat. Her left eye was black and almost swollen shut, and her nose was so swollen it looked like it had been stung by a hive of angry bees. No wonder it was easier to breathe through her mouth. She wondered what the kids thought of it.

Walking to the console room, she hoped the Doctor had parked the TARDIS inside the house rather than under the aspen trees. She really didn't feel up to much of a walk; her legs were already turning to jelly.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Confused, she took her hand away from the outer door and turned to face the Doctor. "You said breakfast was in the kitchen."

His face took on that compassionate countenance that she had learned to associate with bad news. "I meant the TARDIS kitchen. We're in the Vortex right now, Melissa."

"Why?" Without giving him a chance to reply, she demanded, "Where are Susan and Matthew?"

"They're fine at home, no doubt worrying about you. I'll get you back just minutes later; I promise."

The why would be much more difficult to answer, and he didn't want to explain until she was stronger. He could see that she was already shaking from the exertion of simply walking through the ship. Leading her to the kitchen, he fixed her a hearty plate, not surprised when she only managed a bite or two of eggs and a half of a piece of toast.

"Now, why don't you get some rest and we'll talk later."

She was tired; he knew it, and she knew he knew it. Even so, she was not going to give in that easily. "I think you owe me an explanation first." Sitting back in the chair, she folded her arms, waiting for him to speak. She hoped it would be soon; already she could feel the growing weight of her eyelids.

He almost smiled in sheer joy when he saw the strength of her stubbornness. She had come so close to dying this time, and even seventeen hours ago he was not entirely sure she would ever wake up in her right mind. It wouldn't do for her to think he was amused, however. She might take it the wrong way.

"Fine, I suppose you are owed an explanation. How about we talk in the media room, eh? Much more comfortable there."

"Sure." She wasn't sure, however. She didn't think she could walk to the media room without leaning against the wall for support, but she wasn't going to let him know that.

As she stood, the Doctor gave her a friendly hug, keeping his arm around her shoulder as they walked down the hallways. If she leaned on him a little bit to get to where they were going, he didn't mention it. Helping her to sit on the comfortably worn sofa, he began to pace, wondering where to begin.

Letting her eyes shut briefly, Melissa thought of the last time she had been in the media room. It had been just before she had told Matthew and Susan that she planned to move them to Cardiff, just before Susan had decided to act like a complete witch. They had all been relatively happy, although it had been all too apparent that for Jack and the Doctor it was a deliberate act. Every once in a while, one of their masks would slip and she could see the pain of something hiding beneath their good humor. Still, they had enjoyed watching the last Harry Potter movie and the pizza and popcorn. She had sat on the same sofa, snuggled up to Jack, dreaming of their future together. It was enough to make her smile at the memory.

She felt a warm blanket being placed on top of her. A pillow was suddenly behind her head and her body was now stretched out on the couch. The Doctor, of course, he must have no intention of explaining anytime soon. Too comfortable to be angry, she managed to grumble at him before she sank into slumber. "You're going to have to tell me sometime."

This time, he did smile at her stubbornness, although her eyes remained closed, and she didn't notice. "Rest. We're in the Vortex. There's plenty of time to talk."

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When Melissa awoke with a stuffy nose, she immediately remembered why she shouldn't touch her face. Sitting up slowly, she was relieved that the rest of her felt mostly normal. She rubbed the back of her neck, watching the Doctor finish a book the size of War in Peace in less than five minutes.

"Something I would enjoy?"

He looked over to her, smiling congenially. "A complete history of the planet Sto, although when it says complete, it obviously falls short, but all in all, it's somewhat dry reading. I could offer you The Time Machine instead."

Sidetracked for a moment, she replied lightly. "I'm more of a C.S. Lewis fan."

Intrigued, the Doctor quickly asked, "Oh, have you read The Screwtape Letters? That book is a gem."

She was about to answer when she remembered why she was in the media room in the first place. "Nice try, Doctor, but we can discuss favorite authors later. I think I'm awake enough to hear some explanations now."

The smile on the Doctor's face fell. "Explanations, right. Simple really, except where it's not. Um, let's see. You had a migraine. You managed to call me before you passed out, although I didn't arrive in time to prevent your most spectacular fall onto your nightstand. Your neural activity was elevated longer than I would have liked, and you wrote a note during your episode."

Staring compassionately at her for several seconds, he suddenly brightened. "Well, then. I think that just about covers it."

She gaped at him, wondering how he could make such revelations so blandly. She had called him? Written a note? And just how long was longer than he would like? How long had she been unconscious? How much time had she lost? Why were they in the Vortex and not parked near the house?"

Exasperated, she snapped at him, "You know very well that doesn't cover it. Are you going to explain, or do I have to ask you specific questions one by one?"

"Well," he admitted reluctantly, drawing out the word into two long syllables. "I suppose it might be easier if you ask specific questions. That way, I would know what to explain first."

Counting to ten silently, she decided it would do no good to swear at him. The Doctor finally seemed willing to tell her what was going on, even if she now had to play twenty questions to hear the tale.

"Okay, fine," she began with a hint of impatience. "Why are we in the Vortex instead of at the house?"

Leaning forward in the chair, he rested his elbows on his legs for a moment before straightening. He really wished that hadn't been the first question. "The note you wrote was somewhat time sensitive, and I wasn't sure how long it would take for you to wake." Or if you ever would, he added to himself. There were a few things she didn't need to know. "When the TARDIS is in the Time Vortex, it's not part of established events, and I don't need to worry about becoming caught up in a particular timeline."

Not sure she understood, she tried to summarize. "So, we're somewhere where there's no when."

"Couldn't have said it better myself," he assured her.

"Because of a note."

"Partly. Mostly." Unconsciously, he ran his fingers through his hair, not sure how much to tell her.

"A note I wrote."

"Definitely." Dreading the next question, he gave her a half-hearted grin.

"And what did I write?" He looked like he had been caught smoking at school; why was that guilty look on his face?

Taking the note out of his suit coat pocket, he wordlessly handed it to her. She scanned it quickly; then, she read it again just to be sure she understood. Her eyes blazed with anger and fear. "What the hell have you been waiting for? Take us there now!"

"I will, just as soon as you eat and drink something. You're still weak; you need to rest."

Angry at his paternalism, she stood abruptly, ready to march to the console room and force him to input the coordinates. Except, a piece of toast and a few bites of eggs were all that she had eaten in three days, and she found her legs too shaky to do anything more dramatic than stand.

"How do you think I could eat anything knowing this?"

He watched the parts of her face that weren't bruised and swollen grow paler the longer she remained standing. Finally, she sat heavily on the sofa, her eyes starting to tear as she admitted defeat. "Please find him. If that note is true . . . . ." A sob escaped her lips.

"Don't cry," he admonished gently, his eyes expressing the depth of his own anguish. "Crying won't help your nose. I'll find him; I promise."

"Fine." He was right; crying was only making her nose stuffier; now she sounded like some sort of duck when she spoke.

After he had disappeared, she stubbornly tried to follow, but found herself lost, as if the hallways were twisting and turning in new directions. She kept finding the kitchen, and finally took the hint. She fixed herself a sandwich and ate it without tasting. Taking a bottle of water with her, she wandered the halls, but her stamina ebbed quickly, and she begrudgingly found her room and went to sleep.

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"Melissa? Melissa, Sweetheart, can you hear me?"

Languidly, she stretched, wishing she didn't have to wake up; she had been in the middle of such a nice dream. Jack had been stroking her cheek—the one that didn't hurt—and whispering such sweet things in her ear. In her imagination, she thought she could even smell the clean, brisk smell of the soap he always used.

"Come on, Sweetheart, you need to wake up now."

Her eyes flew open. "Jack?" Throwing her arms around him, she started to cry in relief, not caring about her nose. He was smiling lovingly at her through her tears, and she almost convinced herself that the note had been nothing more than her delusional ramblings, except his hair was wet from the shower; the smell of soap filled her nostrils, and still the tips of his fingers were stained with black dirt that would likely take days to completely rub away.

"What happened to you?"

"A misunderstanding with an old partner," he hedged, not wanting to burden her with the details.

"God, Jack, how can you call being buried alive a misunderstanding? I can't even imagine what it must have been like for you."

"It's over. You don't have to think about it." He didn't want to think about it, either, but the knowledge that Gray was alive and trying to punish him through those he cared about was like a knife wound to his stomach. He needed to come up with a plan, quickly, for the sake of his own sanity.

"It's my fault," she admitted morose conviction.

"Why would you think that?"

"I don't remember writing the note. You must have called me for help but I had a migraine. I don't even know how long you were trapped. I'm sorry; I'm sorry." She began to cry in earnest, great racking sobs that bent her over with guilt and grief.

Never completely sure why he reacted the way he did, he became angry, standing abruptly to tower over her as he shouted his frustration. "Damn it, Melissa! This isn't your fault! It's never your fault, and I'm tired of trying to convince you! I never called you! I don't pretend to understand that head of yours, but you almost killed yourself getting that message to the Doctor."

The Time Lord, who had quietly slipped into the media room when he heard the shouting, watched apprehensively as Melissa suddenly stood, poking Jack in the chest with her finger, making him take two involuntary steps backwards.

Harshly rubbing her forehead as the pain increased, she was more than willing to explain a thing or two. "You listen to me, Jack Harkness. If you think for a minute that I was willing to let you stay entombed under Cardiff for two thousand years, then you don't know me as well as you think. For once, the Bad Wolf and I agree. That Time Agent you're counting on is a complete moron! What name is he using now, John Hart? His brain's too fried to be much use, you know. And Gray's no better! Do you think he'll spare anyone at Torchwood? He's going to try to kill everything you love, and I won't let him! This isn't your penance, Jack! You don't deserve this. Letting go of Gray's hand doesn't make you responsible for what happened to him! You were twelve, for Christ's sake! Let the Doctor help you! Let me help you! The Bad Wolf can save everything; just let us help."

Jack stared at her in horror, wanting nothing to do with the Bad Wolf. He could see by the agony on Melissa's face the price she was paying for being a puppet to that creature. The Bad Wolf had done enough to him; he didn't want it to kill the one thing he cherished above all else in a twisted effort to keep him from harm.

"No."

He said it calmly, ashamed that he had ever yelled at her in the first place. Deliberately, he turned his back on her, walking slowly out of the room. Tears were falling unchecked down his face, and he wanted to do nothing more than to turn around and run back to her, but he refused to put her in any more danger.

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Wearily, the Doctor set the controls of his ship, hoping to make his passenger see reason.

"She's going to be fine, Jack. She'll be asleep for a while. Why don't you let me help?"

"You mean she'll be unconscious for a while." Jack was standing next to the Doctor, gripping the railing of the console so tightly his knuckles were white. It was killing him to leave her when he didn't even know how she had been affected by her latest episode.

"Captain—"

He cut him off; frustrated with the whole situation. "Don't make the offer again, Doc. How do you know the Bad Wolf won't take over and make her do something her body's not made to? With the Master, I thought it must be some kind of fluke. I thought it was all because she was so close and had gotten into his head. But you explain to me how she knew where and when to find me. This time, it could only be the Bad Wolf, and I don't want some immature god deciding Melissa's an acceptable loss, damn it!"

"We could take her home first." He wanted to help so badly. His friend had been cursed with immortality, and was just now finding out how much of a curse it could actually be.

"No, I have to do this alone." He paused for a moment, not wanting to break down in front of the Time Lord. "It's Gray, Doc. I love him no matter what he's done to me. I think you can probably understand that better than anyone else."

"Yeah." The Time Lord swallowed, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat. "I'm not sure Melissa will, though."

Sitting heavily on the jump seat, Jack looked up at the Doctor grim-faced. "I know, but I can't put her in danger anymore. I know she's going to die someday. I just can't stand the thought of me being the cause of it. The Bad Wolf can go fuck herself."

The Doctor didn't have an answer for that. He didn't think Rose would let Melissa come to harm, but twice now Melissa had suffered because of the Bad Wolf. He still thought that she would ultimately be protected, but there was no use trying to convince Jack of that now.

Resigned, he helped Jack place himself in suspended animation in the Torchwood vaults, knowing that whatever happened, it would not include a happy ending for his two friends.