Author's Notes: Here's a bonus chapter for the weekend. Enjoy! Many thanks as always to Prothrombintime for greatly appreciated feedback and suggestions. Just a word of warning that the story may start to get a bit wibbly-wobbly from now on, as evidenced by this chapter. :-)
Chapter Thirty
October 15th, 2008
Jack woke slowly, his mind hazy as it fiercely rebelled against the pull towards consciousness. He groaned softly, his throat tight and dry as he tried to swallow, while a dull painful throbbing made itself known deep within his skull. He felt disoriented and slightly nauseous, and if he hadn't known any better, he might have suspected that he was suffering from a serious hangover.
Blinking his eyes, he tried to focus in the dim, grey light. A wave of panic sliced through him as he realised he had no idea where he was. He bolted upright in the bed, groaning again as the sudden movement caused the pain in his skull to intensify. Surveying the foreign surroundings, he quickly realised he was in a spacious and modern hotel room. He frowned in confusion and rubbed at his eyes, then looked around again. He'd seen the inside of plenty of hotel rooms in Cardiff over the years, but this particular example was entirely unfamiliar.
A pile of clothes that looked like his own had been draped haphazardly over an upholstered chair close to the bed. He glanced down at himself and lifted the bed covers, confirming he was naked apart for his underwear. Clearly he was alone in the silent space – the bathroom door to his left was open, and the room beyond was dark. On the floor beside the bed was a large dark-coloured travel bag along with a worn, light-brown rucksack. He recognised the rucksack as the one he'd owned for decades. He drew in a deep breath, trying to contain his growing unease. Something was very wrong, but his muddled mind refused to provide anything even vaguely useful in explaining his current predicament.
He climbed shakily from the right-hand side of the spacious bed and moved over to the pair of tall windows. Drawing back the curtains of the nearest one, his legs almost gave out from under him as he stared out in open-mouthed shock at the vista of a sprawling cityscape. The bustling city was unmistakeable. He wasn't in a hotel in Cardiff, he was in the middle of London, and he had no absolutely idea how he'd got there.
After staring in bewilderment for a long moment, he slumped back down onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. He struggled to search his memories, trying to push through the dense fog that continued to linger over his mind. He remembered being in Bute Park late at night, tracking a rogue Weevil. It had caught him off guard and tore open his neck. He'd only barely managed to subdue it before collapsing and bleeding out. He remembered standing precariously on the rooftop edge of the Capital Tower building in the early hours of the following morning, gazing out over a waking city, and feeling utterly alone in universe. He remembered looking up to the heavens and desperately wishing for the Doctor to show up and take him away. For so very long, he'd yearned to escape the confines of planet Earth, to shed the shackles of his responsibilities and travel the stars again.
It had been a little over two and a half years earlier, precisely at the turn of the century, when the rest of the Torchwood Cardiff team had been killed by one of their own. Their leader at the time, Alex Hopkins, had suffered some kind of psychotic break, the actual cause of which Jack had never been able to discover. Alex had said he'd seen something terrible coming, he'd seen a glimpse of a possible future, and he'd decided they were better off dead. The massacre had left Jack alone and in-charge of Torchwood Three, giving him more responsibility than he'd ever wanted, and he'd never felt more lost or lonely. He'd hoped that whatever was coming, he'd be ready.
A terrifying thought occurred to him and he looked down at his bare wrist, then looked up, searching desperately. His eyes settled on the bedside table, its contents now clearly visible. In addition to his Vortex Manipulator, there was a sealed bottle of water, a bottle of aspirin, and a sheet of paper, folded in half. He grabbed his wrist-strap and put it on, reassured by the familiar feel of the worn leather pressing against his skin. After tossing several aspirin into his mouth, he chugged down the bottle of water in several greedy mouthfuls, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. Reluctantly, he picked up the sheet of paper and peered down at the scrawled message that was undeniably in his own untidy handwriting.
Relax. Everything's fine. There's a recording on your wrist-strap – it will tell you everything you need to know. This is the way it needs to be... a fresh beginning, a new life. This was your choice and yours alone, Jack, no coercion, no outside influence. It's time to stop waiting. It's time to let go of the past. Don't worry about Torchwood, it's in safe hands. Good luck.
The message was signed in his name, his real name, a name he hadn't spoken aloud or even written in well over a century. That name represented a different person, a person he didn't like to think about. But the purpose of using it was clear – it was incontrovertible proof that the note had been written by him, and of his own volition. No one else on the planet or in the current time period knew that name.
A cold sense of dread settled low in his stomach. Hesitantly, he activated his wrist-strap and opened the last recording. A holographic image immediately shimmered to life in the air in front of him. It was an image of himself, sitting at the chair near the bed, and gazing at him with sadness in his eyes. Jack hardly recognised himself – he looked exhausted and consumed with despair, his features drawn and sallow. The gauntness in his face and the unnatural prominence of his cheekbones suggested he hadn't been eating, and judging by his sunken, dull eyes, he hadn't slept for days or maybe weeks. He was looking at a broken and tormented man.
With his heart pounding furiously in his chest, Jack swallowed hard against his constricted throat. He watched anxiously as his holographic counterpart began to speak.
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He wasn't sure how long he'd sat numbly on the bed after the holographic message had blinked out of existence. He'd immediately checked his wrist-strap to confirm the current date and time, wanting to believe it was all some kind of bizarre, elaborate joke, yet knowing it was terrifyingly real. The recording had been brief and frustratingly vague, but his haunted appearance and the weary defeat in his voice had convinced him that his irrevocable decision had been a desperate act of self-preservation. Willingly choosing to erase over five years worth of memories wasn't something to be undertaken lightly, and it wasn't something he would have considered unless he'd believed there was no other option. That discovery alone would have been enough to send him reeling with shock, but of the several astonishing statements he'd made in the message, it was actually the most benign and readily believable.
Feeling a wave of hysteria threatening to break free, he closed his eyes and took several slow, deep breaths, willing himself to remain calm as he tried to process this new, mind-jarring reality. Opening his eyes again, he spotted the mini-bar on the opposite side of the room and clambered towards it, falling to his knees and crawling across the floor when he legs refused to support his bodyweight. Wrenching the tiny refrigerator open, he grabbed a minuscule bottle of Scotch and downed it in one gulp, coughing violently as the burn hit the back of his throat. Breathing rapidly, he consumed two more bottles – brandy and then vodka he noted absently – before crawling over to his luggage and dumping the contents of both bags out onto the carpet.
For the next few minutes he busied himself with sifting through his belongings. He found a sizeable amount of clothing – several pairs of trousers, shirts, underwear, t-shirts, socks, belts, braces, a few sets of cuff-links, a pair of jeans, black leather dress shoes, and a more casual pair of brown leather shoes. A small cardboard box revealed a beautiful blue and grey silk tie, and he frowned at the incongruous item as he stroked his fingers over the soft, sensuous material. Something prickled at the edges of his mind, a vague impression of a tall handsome man wearing a tailored suit and a silk tie, but as soon as he tried to focus on the elusive image, it faded away, like the lingering remnant of a dream. It was a sensation he knew he'd have to become accustomed to as he tried to adapt. While such an extreme dose of retcon almost guaranteed that the chance of recovering any of his lost memories was negligible, recurrent déjà vu was a common side-effect.
There was no sign of his greatcoat, but his familiar tan boots were present, and he'd noticed a black leather jacket hanging over the chair with the rest of his clothes. He gasped with relief when he found the small, battered metal tin in which he kept photographs from his past. Along with his wrist-strap and his prized Webley, it was his most valued possession, even though he rarely looked at its contents. He'd always tried not to dwell on old, painful memories. There were a few other small trinkets he'd collected over the years, his Webley, some spare ammunition, his shaving kit, and a supply of assorted toiletries.
Lastly, there was a familiar worn, brown leather satchel. As the recording had promised, inside he found all the documentation he'd need to begin a new life, along with a substantial sum of cash. He flicked idly through the various documents, pausing to glance at the balance of one of his several bank accounts. His unnaturally long life combined with relatively few expenses, the magic of compounding interest, and the occasional lucrative investment, had ensured money would never be a problem. He had enough to last for several lifetimes.
But the idea of no longer having a clear purpose was overwhelming to him. Torchwood had been the foundation of his existence for the majority of the last one hundred plus years. The recording had said he'd been away for a little over a year in his personal timeline, but in terms of his memories, he'd been working at Torchwood Three until the moment he'd woken up. Even in his long life, five and a half years was an enormous amount of time to lose without explanation. He suspected he could drive himself insane with obsessing and trying to figure out what might have happened during such a significant chunk of his life.
Drawing a shaky breath, he rubbed his hand over his face. He'd always been adaptable and pragmatic, and he could cope with this, he told himself firmly. He wouldn't have retconned himself if he'd believed he wouldn't be able to cope. After all, he'd arrived on Earth in 1869 with nothing more than the dirty clothes on his back and a burnt out Vortex Manipulator, but he'd managed to get by. The situation this time around wasn't nearly as dire. Plus, the twenty-first century was more civilised and not without its charms. He could adapt and make a new life for himself. With that thought held resolutely at the forefront of his mind, he packed away his belongings, leaving out a fresh set of clothes, then picking up his shaving kit and some toiletries. Pushing himself to his feet, he swayed slightly and immediately regretted consuming alcohol in his condition and on an empty stomach. He staggered into the bathroom.
After a long hot shower, he stood in front of the mirror with a towel wrapped around his waist, and surveyed his haggard, troubled features. He looked like hell, and he knew he'd have to start taking better care of himself. Lathering up his face, he began to shave, his mind calming a little with the familiar routine.
He'd almost finished when in his haste, he nicked his chin, causing a bead of blood to appear and begin trickling slowly downwards. Without thinking, he wiped it away with his thumb and finished shaving. After washing off the remnants of the shaving foam, he noticed the small cut continuing to bleed. Watching in curious fascination as the blood trickled down his neck, it took several moments before he realised the tiny tear in his skin wasn't healing. Stumbling backwards, his entire body began trembling uncontrollably and he collapsed heavily onto the tiled floor, his back hitting painfully against the toilet seat. Thick, hot tears streamed unheeded down his face.
Pulling his knees up tightly to his chest, he wrapped his arms around his ankles. Choked sobs tore from his throat, and at that moment he couldn't have said whether his tears were of joy, relief, or despair.
The words of the most shocking of the revelations from the recording echoed repeatedly across his mind. "There's something else you need to know. You found him... you found the Doctor. He fixed you."