Title: Stigmata Martyr
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: Ianto Jones/Tenth Doctor
Fandom: Doctor Who/Torchwood
Rating: PG-13
Table: 5
Prompt: 18, Emergency Room
Author's Note: Continuation of Into Hell.
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the Tenth Doctor or Jack Harkness. Please do not sue.

***

It's not too late. It can't be. I won't let it be.

The words reverberated through the Doctor's mind, each thought seeming to collide with another in his frantic state. He could feel the panic rising in his throat, threatening to manifest itself in a scream that never stopped.

The Time Lord looked down at his shaking hands, wishing that he could keep them still. They were shaking more with each second that went by.

Why in the hell was the Tardis reacting so slowly? Why weren't they there yet?

The Doctor cast a glance at the couch where Ianto lay, covered by the warmest blanket he'd been able to find. His young lover's face was pale, bruised, his skin covered with a faint sheen of sweat. His chest was still rising and falling -- and to the Doctor's eyes, it seemed that each breath Ianto took was more shallow than the last.

He couldn't fall apart. He wouldn't have that luxury until he had Ianto at a hospital, where he could be looked after more thoroughly than he himself could manage to do. He was loath to let his love be taken into the custody of strangers, but the Doctor knew that Ianto needed more professional care than he could give his love at the moment.

With a sudden jolt, the Tardis materialized, on the next block from the hospital. He could run the rest of the way -- and to hell with anyone who might get in his way.

Sliding his arms under Ianto's inert body, the Doctor lifted his love into his arms, feeling the tears well up in his eyes as he gazed at Ianto's pale, bruised face. He was alive. The Doctor had found him in time. He wasn't going to die.

The Doctor stepped out of the Tardis, focusing on the lights in the parking lot of the hospital and trying to keep himself from screaming for help. That wouldn't do much good, he told himself, heading in the direction of those lights and telling himself with every step that it would only be a few moments more before he had Ianto to safety.

His footfalls became quicker as he approached the hospital, until he was nearly running by the time he'd reached the parking lot. Two orderlies emerged from the front door, holding it open for him and letting him enter.

Once he was inside, the hospital personnel took over. Ianto was lifted from the Doctor's arms and laid on a gurney, the Doctor pushed away when he tried to grab his love's hand. Again, the Gallifreyan could feel panic rising in his throat to choke him.

No! He couldn't be separated from Ianto.

"Please! Let me go with him," he pleaded, reaching out a hand in the direction that Ianto was being taken away in.

One of the nurses shook her head, putting a restraining hand on the Doctor's shoulder. "It's best if the doctors look at him with no interruptions," she said, her voice calm and soothing. Soothing, that was, to anyone but a frantic man who had seen the love of his life (or lives) tortured and nearly killed in front of him.

"Please ...." he whispered, feeling his legs start to give way underneath him. Overcome, the Doctor sank into one of the chairs in the emergency room lobby, raising his hands to his face and trying to hold back his tears.

Now wasn't the time for tears. Tears wouldn't help Ianto.

The nurse knelt by the chair, reaching out to smooth his hair back from his face.

"Is he your boyfriend?" she asked gently, her voice compassionate.

The Doctor only stared at her as though her words didn't make sense to him. Boyfriend? Ianto was much, much more than that. Ianto was his whole life. Ianto was the reason he existed. Ianto was his heart -- hearts -- his soul, his reason for going on.

The Doctor slowly shook his head, then nodded, unsure of what to say.

"He .... he's everything," he finally whispered, unable to force out anything else.

The nurse nodded, squeezing his hand sympathetically and rising to her feet.

"I understand. I do," she said, her voice still soft and calming. "You must love him a whole lot."

"I love him more than I've ever thought it was possible to love," the Doctor whispered, thin hands clenching in his lap.

She squeezed his hand again, whispering. "He'll be all right. He won't die, not with that kind of love to anchor him. Hold on to that belief, all right?"

The Doctor looked up at her, trying to smile and failing. She meant well, he knew. She meant to be reassuring, to help him through what was proving to be the most difficult situation of all his many lives. She couldn't know how each word tore into his heart like a whip of barbed wire, cutting away his soul piece by piece.

"I'll try," was all he could manage.

Of course Ianto would be all right. He'd gotten his young love here in time. He had. He hadn't failed Ianto -- and he hadn't failed himself. The boy he loved would survive this, and their lives would go on. Ianto would be all the more precious to him for having nearly lost him.

"I'll let you know the moment I hear anything," she promised, hurrying towards the door to assist another person coming into the hospital.

The Doctor could only sit, wringing his hands, casting anxious glances at the double doors that the doctors tending to Ianto had disappeared through. He wanted to burst through those doors and demand what was being done, to pick Ianto up in his arms and carry him away.

He couldn't do that. He had to let them take care of his love, had to let them tend to Ianto's wounds and do everything that they could for him.

But it was so hard to stay away. So hard.

The Doctor remained seated as the people in the waiting room flowed around him, intent on their own agendas and ignoring the tall, thin man curled trembling in the chair by the window. They didn't notice the tears flowing down his pale cheeks, the fear in his eyes.

The Doctor himself didn't realize that his hands were clenched so tightly that his nails were digging into his palms until he winced in pain and raised his hands to his face.

Stigmata marks.

The Doctor buried his face in his hands, not caring about the blood that would smear his skin. He wasn't the one who should be bearing those marks.

Ianto was the martyr. A martyr to his cause.

And if his young lover didn't survive, he would have eternity to remind himself of it.

***

Next story in series - Mood Indigo