[he'd done much the same thing upon finding Amy with the empty blanket, covered in that awful goo--turned away and been violently sick. Not again. Not again. By the time Amy reaches him he's already reached limply up to pull the handle on the toilet and numbly swiped his sleeve across his mouth; now he's leaning against the toilet again, one arm up on it and his face buried in the crook of his elbow. When he feels Amy's hand light on his back, he starts shaking again--terrible, wracking shudders just like in the TARDIS med bay. He's sobbing again, completely consumed by grief, but is trying desperately to stay quiet. It's bad enough that he's failed at keeping himself together--like he failed Amy and Melody back home--Amy shouldn't have to hear the sounds of his failure either. The only sounds that DO escape are the quiet, stuttered breaths that comes with silent sobbing, and the occasional sniff]
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