Solipsism
John: Not Screaming
As we entered the bridge Jack motioned for me to pick up one of the helmets lying on the floor and he picked up the other one. I was confused at first as to why he did that – picked up the other one – but then he motioned for us to stand directly behind The Doctor.
Now I think I maybe know what's going on. That's not saying I like it.
First, I need to explain something to you. The sudden loss of pressure in a spacecraft is not a good thing. Most living, breathing bodies are not designed to withstand explosive decompression. If you cannot scramble to safety quickly enough to escape the loss of pressure very, very bad things will happen. That's why we have spacesuits. The spacesuit stops your blood and other bodily fluids from turning to vapor. The spacesuit stops your soft tissues from swelling humongously. The spacesuit stops your lungs from rupturing.
To be sure, some of the wild rumors – for example, your eyeballs exploding in your head and your internal organs turning into red slush – are patently not true. Take my word for it. In fact, if there's no cataclysmic accompanying air blast (as when a precipitating impact has occurred and taken out a large piece of the ship's fuselage), physical bodily damage is often minimal. Death, typically, is caused by pulmonary embolism.
Still, decompression is not pleasant to see or, to be sure, to have happen to you. But the other important thing to note is experience has shown, despite the common wisdom, that death is not instantaneous. You have approximately 10 to 15 seconds of useful, albeit agony-filled consciousness to take action before the exposure to vacuum kills you.
I'm not sure if I hear the loss of pressure first or feel it. It doesn't really matter. I look at Jack and see a sign of recognition in his eyes that cuts through the acute pain he is obviously, most certainly, experiencing. He nods at me once and then jams the helmet he is holding over The Doctor's head. It feels like an eternity but a few seconds later he helps me on with my own helmet and I sense its auto-locking mechanism clamping down. My suit's boots magnetize and it takes over life support. This is all instantaneous and in a way (no put intended) breathtaking in its technological elegance.
The Doctor doesn't stop working as Jack crumples and then, inexplicably and yet quite logically, begins to gently levitate in the weightless environment of the bridge.
Jack is dead.
Dead again.
I stymie the urge to scream. You see, ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent of the time that I've known Jack is from before he was turned into an immortal. Or near immortal. Whatever. I can't tell you how many times back in the good old days I had to bust my butt in order to prevent the Captain from getting killed. I was always saving his life. But don't get me wrong, he was always saving mine as well. Since those fun-filled times at the Agency I've not had much contact with Jack, and I'm certainly not accustomed to watching him die in slow, excruciating pain.
For me simply not screaming is incredibly difficult at this moment. But it isn't nearly as difficult, I'm sure, as what Jack is going through. He told me once that the dying wasn't the hard part, it was the reviving. That is the main thought in my head as I watch him float. I tell myself it is not his dead body I'm watching… it is him. I'm watching him because I know he is still there. Jack is still with us. But for how long? Certainly we are not in a good place as far as he is concerned. If he does revive he'll just die painfully again. And again. I can't allow that to happen to him.
I'm not sure if the Time Lord can hear me, but I say it anyway, "Doctor? Jack…"
"I know!" he hisses in response. He doesn't sound happy and I'm just beginning to worry when he turns toward me.
"Get Jack to the TARDIS now," he snarls. "It's parked in the shuttle bay. I'll be right behind you."
"But, what about not separating… Jack said…" I stumble in response.
He's already turned his back on me.
I look at the Captain. I've never felt so alone.
Reaching out, I fold Jack into my arms and leave.