InsaneJournal

He was warm.  That was the first thing he noticed, rising to the surface of consciousness like a bubble in murky liquid.  He was warm.  He was covered in something soft.  And he <i>hurt</i>.  Nothing was making sense, nothing was connecting the dots, not at first.  

But when his memory finally spat out the crystal clear details --bloodpainconversionjacklaughingandcryingdoctorflashingsilverknivescomingforhimohgodohgodOHGOD -- Ianto shot upright in his bed and cried out, loudly, before falling back limply again.  He was oozing from what felt like a hundred cuts (it was far far less than that) and he was groping frantically at the top of his head, feeling for a scar or a slice or anything to let him know that his brain was still there.  No, really, he was.  Ianto wasn't currently playing with a full deck.  He'd calm down eventually, but at the moment, he wasn't doing so hot.