AN: Caroline;; without you, this wouldn't be worth even a second glance. Thank you.

Ally;; without YOU, this wouldn't even be here. Thank YOU. And also, thank you for the geekiest, lovliest weekend :D xxx


After Canary Wharf, there was a… transition. The transition to insanity, I suppose. Torchwood One to Torchwood Three. Lisa's camp-under-the-stars-impulsive Ianto to your make-the-coffee-keep-his-mouth-shut Ianto. During that transition, I did a lot of waiting. And thinking. And I wondered… so many things. If Lisa would ever be human again… If I could ever be human again.

Technically, during that transition they were supposed to have assigned us all psychologists. I knew because I filed that policy myself. And I thought… how paranoid the higher powers must be if they've got a policy for that. Alien invasion. What crap. The closest I'd come to aliens at that point was… well, I hadn't. I was just a junior researcher, and the aliens were just stories. That's why I'd laughed, when I read that. Aliens. My arse.

But then Canary Wharf came and went and the transition began and I remembered how I'd laughed. So easy, it was, to laugh at those little green many-legged things that lurk in the background of bad sci-fi films and children's nightmares. How stupid I'd been. No… not stupid. Clueless.

Clueless, and in desperate need of ears to whisper into that weren't powered by oil or technology that I didn't even try to understand. And that's when I remembered that policy. All survivors were legally entitled to a complimentary psychologist by the power of Yvonne, or one of the other higher-ups.

But the higher-ups were all gone, and no one else would willfully spare those ears that I craved so much.

So I took my severance package from Torchwood One – less 'severance' and more 'keep-quiet', it seemed – and took myself over to Dr Murphy Sampson.

She listened.

Oh, god. How wonderful that was… to have someone to listen that doesn't try to interrupt. I told her everything. Like a waterfall of passion and pain and dead batteries pouring out of my mouth all at once, and still she listened. All about Torchwood and the cybermen but I kept the key bits quiet because even seemingly friendly ears might turn on you.

She told me that when I couldn't find a pair of ears that would listen, I should make my own. I said, how? She gave me a little black book with hundreds and hundreds of blank pages. A gift, she said. To write in when there were no ears to listen or eyes that could see what she saw. Told me that every time I wrote in it, I'd be able to picture those ears and feel that everything was going to be ok, someday.

I have to admit it. I was skeptical. Left after our first session with that book and an apology – I'm sorry, I don't think this is going to work out.

She smiled and let me go with knowing eyes.

I still see those ears, every time I write in this little black book of mine…

I started writing when Lisa died. I stopped after the first time we spent the night together. I started again when you left. Ran away like a child after a shiny new toy because I was old and boring.

She told me a lot of things, Dr Sampson – a lot of things that made me think 'oh god, she's insane' at the time but inspired me to write a thousand sonnets for her every day just to say thank you.

One thing that she told me was to end every day with a question. Something I wondered. Something I wanted to know. This little black book was for being selfish, she said. For writing what I want, not what I need.

But I wonder so many things.

So I'll just leave it at this.

I wonder…