The Empty Flat: Chapter 2
Title: The Empty Flat
Rating: T
Features: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Rose Tyler, the 10th Doctor, Martha Jones, Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones, Owen Harper, Toshiko Sato, Gwen Cooper, Melody Pond, Sarah Jane Smith
Pairings: Mild John/Rose, Heavy Doctor/Rose, Mild Jack/Everyone
A/N: This takes place mid-season 3 for Doctor Who and after Reichenbach Falls for Sherlock.
Chapter One
The days that changed John Watson's life were often quite ordinary, at least at the beginning, so it came as no surprise that the day that his world once again stood on its head began with a hangover. He woke gradually with the suspicion that someone was tap dancing inside his skull. His blood roared through his veins, his head was pounding fit to burst, and his mouth felt like cotton wool. The insistent beeping of his alarm clock felt like a sonic attack and he fumbled for the 'snooze' button with a groan. Bloody hell, what did he do last night? He tried to force his struggling brain to turn back to the previous day's events, but was left with disjointed shards of memory.
Colors and sounds and lips and teeth and it had to be a dream because Mari never kissed him like that. Hands and tongues and moans and sighs and 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
He managed to shut off his alarm and he half-rolled half-fell out of bed. Everything was too bright and too loud and he was never ever drinking whatever he had last night again. Of course, he'd have to ask Mari what it was, as he couldn't possibly remember. His jeans were lying in a pile on the floor next to the foot of his bed and his shirt was crumpled over the chair that belonged to his desk. He managed to dress himself and even get a bit of breakfast before he trudged out the door.
The day seemed to drag on and on, but maybe that was the migraine he had brewing doing the talking. Well. Thinking. A vague unease settled in as closing time drew near: Mari hadn't called. She always called him so they could meet for lunch, or not if she was swamped or he was, but his mobile had remained silent. There was nothing, no text, no message, no missed calls.
"Everything alright, John?" Melissa asked. She was a sweet girl in her second year of Uni, paying for her flat by answering the phones and scheduling appointments at the clinic. She was also, unfortunately, quite observant.
"Sure, great. Has Mari called?" he replied, trying to sound casual.
Melissa shook her head. "No, sorry. Were you expecting her?"
"Sort of, yeah." He shook himself. "She must just be busy."
He called her on the tube ride home six times. She didn't answer once.
He checked his the answering machine and his email and then his mobile when he woke up the next morning. Still nothing. Panic was starting to set in, the sharp, coppery taste of it dancing on the back of his tongue (and oh he knew that flavor well). He dialed her mobile and a mechanical voice informed him cheerfully that the number he was trying to reach had been disconnected. John frowned. It had been fine yesterday. He must have made a mistake, but when he redialed (after checking the napkin from their first meeting which remained taped to his desk) he received the same message. John tried emailing her. Two minutes later his message was returned to his inbox with an error: there was no user registered with that address. He didn't bother with landline, she didn't have one, thought they were archaic and overpriced. He called in sick. Something was wrong, completely and totally wrong. Was this what Sarah felt like when Moriarty grabbed him and strapped that C4 vest on? Did every possible permutation of ever possible future run through her mind (and did most of those futures end with someone she cared about dead in a gutter)?
He went to the British Library. As he walked through the doors John realized that he'd never seen Mari at work. He'd been to her flat (a little one-bedroom in a decent part of town not far from his) loads of times, but she always met him at the tube station.
If he had been in less of a hurry and if he hadn't been picturing her dead in a thousand imaginative ways he would have been awed by the Library. It was vast. There were millions of books held on shelves that stretched to the ceiling and art collections and even cozy little nooks set out of the grandeur, little oases of the mundane. He might have paused to look at the works of art scattered through the spaces-sculptures and drawings and paintings, pieces of an immense and circulating collection. But he didn't notice any of that. He pounced on the first person he could find who looked like they were working and asked if he could speak to Mari Prentice.
The man, boy really, frowned. "Sorry sir, but I'm not familiar with a Mari Prentice. Let me ask."
"She works in acquisitions," he called after the boy. By the time he returned John felt like he'd worn a hole in the smooth tile floor with his pacing.
"I'm sorry, sir," the boy said apologetically, "but there is no Mari Prentice here."
The words failed to register. John stared at him. "What?"
"We've no record of a Mari Prentice being employed," the boy explained, "not for the past ten years."
John closed his mouth so hard his teeth clicked. "Oh." He took a deep breath and it seemed to fill him, inflate him. His back straightened, his shoulders squared, and his hands curled into loose fists. "Well. Thank you."
"Can I help you with anything else?" the boy inquired.
"No, I'm afraid not," John replied. Then he turned on his heel and walked back the way he came. His step didn't waver, his shoulders didn't sag. His eyes remained fixed straight ahead as his mind raced. She couldn't be gone, she couldn't. They'd gone out last night! They had, because he didn't drink alone and there was no way he could have drunk enough to get that hung-over with anyone else. So. They went out. He got drunk. He went home, and-he froze. And when he woke his pillow smelled like her, like the soft, floral scent she wore. He'd asked if it was roses and she'd laughed a bright, joyous sound that he didn't hear nearly often enough. And his bed smelled like her. But there was nothing to suggest she'd been there, no note, no call, no little bit of her besides the ghost of a fragrance.
Why? Sherlock (and finally he could remember without feeling like someone had knifed him in the stomach, had knocked his legs out from under him and kicked him while he was down) had come and gone as he pleased, had disappeared for days. Mari wasn't like that. She didn't wander off or get distracted or caught up in a case.
But why would she lie to him? Why would she leave?
John made his way to her flat on autopilot. He'd walked there so many times over the past six months that it was second nature. Her building was set slightly back from the street and small. Like Baker Street the house had been converted into three flats, and Mari lived in 503A. Unlike Baker Street she had her own entrance in the back, up a set of old wooden stairs that led to a bit of a patio. She picked the flat for that patio, for a space that she could pull a chair out onto and look up at the stars (what she could see of them through the light and fog of London).
He paused for a moment in front of the door. She'd painted it a deep blue after she moved in, said something about how every place she'd ever called home had a blue door. Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe she'd said the British Library but meant a different one, maybe that was just a nickname. Maybe she'd forgotten to pay her bill and her internet and phone were shut off. Maybe she'd had a family emergency and had to leave. Maybe he'd open the door and find her sitting room immaculate and her kitchen a mess, or business as usual. Maybe she'd be sitting on the sofa having a cuppa and give him a look like he'd dribbled on his shirt when he told her what happened. And maybe Sherlock would ring him and ask to come to tea and oh, would John and Mari mind terribly if he brought the Woman with him?
He was delaying. John knew this. He took a breath, straightened his shoulders, and slid the key home. It clicked into place and the lock turned smoothly. The door opened with a creak-it always did-and John was left looking at an empty flat. It was gone. All of her furniture, her knick-knacks, every sign that someone had lived here had been swept away. The walls were white-she hated white walls; she'd painted them a warm sort of gold as soon as she moved in, just like the door. The sofa where they'd watched horrible science fiction movies (well, he'd watched, she'd laughed and laughed) and had a cuppa hundreds of times was gone. The pictures that littered the top of her curio cabinet-Mari and her mum, Mari and her mum and her stepdad, Mari and her little brother, and the one photo she never mentioned, never looked at except when she thought he wasn't watching: Mari and a man in a brown pinstriped suit and tan overcoat-Mari with the biggest smile he'd ever seen wreathing her face whilst she burrowed into the man's side and he wrapped one arm around her, a crooked grin pulling the corner of his mouth up.
It was the same in every room. Any trace of her, even her scent, was gone. Everything was pristine, immaculate, ready to welcome a new tenant. John thought he might be sick. The world was spinning around him, worse than when he was drunk and he had to put a hand against the wall to steady himself. His legs shook and his knees felt weak and he closed his eyes against the vertigo that threatened to overwhelm him. She was gone.
But people don't do that, his mind asserted. People don't vanish off the face of the Earth! They leave things behind to mark their existence, little things-faces in photos, letters unsent, bills and jobs and friends and family-except for her. Her dad died when she was tiny, her mum and stepdad and brother in an accident years ago. She didn't mention any friends, seemed to live an insular life.
Her apartment was clean, her job was a bust, and she had no one to miss her, no one but him. And he knew what he had to do.
Being Sherlock's blogger had its perks, John thought as the officer behind the desk waved him through. One of those was that everyone at the station knew him. Of course, the downside was that everyone knew him and his position on Moriarty, but thankfully most of them were tactful enough to keep their scorn to themselves. Still, to be safe, he avoided Anderson. John Watson considered himself to be extremely disciplined, but he couldn't promise he wouldn't punch the sniveling CSI in the face if he saw the man.
D.I. Gregory Lestrade was in his office, thankfully. John knew he must look a state-eyes wild, hands clenched, walking fast enough to draw raised eyebrows and frowns from the cubicles around him. He remembered to know, barely, and Greg looked up.
"John," he said, surprise evident in his face and voice. "Come in. Have a seat."
"Mari's gone," John told Greg after he shut the door. He remained standing.
Sympathy surfaced on the detective's face. "You two broke up then?"
John denied the suggestion with a sharp shake of his head. "No, not like that. She's gone Greg, she'd disappeared!"
That got his friend's attention. Greg sat up straighter and folded his hands on his desk. "When you say 'disappeared?'"
"I mean she's vanished!" John snapped back. "Completely and totally!"
Greg held up a hand. "Slow down, and start from the beginning."
John did. He told his friend the whole story-waking up with a hangover and no memory of the previous night, calling her and receiving no response, discovering the next day that her phone and email had been disconnected, the disaster that was visiting her job, and the revelation of going to her flat and finding it deserted. To his credit Greg listened and refrained from letting any disbelief show on his face.
"Right," he said after John had finished. "This really isn't my division, but I know some people and I'll tell them to look into it." He laid a comforting hand on John's shoulder. "We'll find her. D'you have a picture? That always makes it easier."
John shrugged helplessly. "I don't. I don't have anything."
"That's all right, I'm sure we've got one on file. Any next of kin? Friends in the area?
"No one," John replied, though he wondered about the man in the photo, the one Mari never mentioned. Who was he? Where was he? Could he help? "Her dad died when she was little and her mum and stepdad and younger brother died years ago. She's got no friends that I know of."
"Well," Greg said kindly, "she's got you, and that's a sight better than some that we've brought home." He squeezed John's shoulder and then removed his hand. "Go get some sleep-you look like the walking dead. I'll ring you if we find anything."
The phone call came the next day, but it wasn't the one John had been hoping for.
"Hello," he answered.
"John, it's Greg." The D.I. paused. "How do you spell Mari's name?"
John told him. "It's Marion, but she goes by Mari," he finished.
The line was silent for a moment and then John heard a murmured discussion, like someone had covered the microphone with his hand. "Are you sure?" Greg asked finally.
John rolled his eyes. "Yes, of course I'm sure. I've been seeing her for six months, Greg, I think I know how to spell her name!"
"Right." There was a heaviness to his friend's voice that raised alarm bells in John's mind. "I'm sorry, mate, but the only Marion Prentice we've got records of was a 96 year-old widow who died three years ago. There's no other name she used, maybe a first name that she hated?"
John shook his head before he realized that Greg wasn't here and thus couldn't see. "No," he said finally, when the constriction in his throat had eased enough to let him speak. "There's nothing. Thanks for looking." And he hung up. For a while he stared at the wall, unseeing. It was like he'd been thrown back into the days just after Sherlock's death. The world was surging around him, spinning out of control, and he had nothing to hold on to. There was no Greg and Molly and Mrs. Hudson left to ground him. He'd been cut loose, set adrift.
And not for the first time he wondered if he, John Hamish Watson, had gone mad.
For a week John existed in a sort of limbo, caught between hope and despair, anger and fear, and mired in confusion. He took the tube to work, endured the pitying stares and whispers of his coworkers (news spread fast in a small clinic, just like a small town), and returned to an empty flat and no sign of Mari. For a week he waited-until he opened the paper one morning and his eyes found the headline: Serial Murderer Strikes Again. He read the article, of course, but when the reporter mentioned the address he froze. It was Mari's building. The landlords, a nice young husband and wife, had been murdered in their beds. The tenants of the second flat, 503 B, had been on vacation, and 503 A had been recently vacated. It was the latest in a string of murders that were seemingly unconnected-a string of murders that Greg had mentioned when John brought Mari to meet him and Molly. Mari had been interested, unnaturally so. And when Mrs. Hudson mentioned that she'd recently rented the apartment John and Sherlock used to share Mari had seemed distracted and almost nervous. She'd been jumpy ever since, always looking over her shoulder-and then they'd gone out and she'd disappeared. John threw down the paper with a curse. How could he have missed that? It wasn't a normal breakup, just vanishing! How could he have missed how on edge she'd been lately?
Someone was after her, someone dangerous, someone willing to kill innocent people in order to get to her. A muscle in John's jaw twitched. Well, whoever it was would have to go through him first.
John Watson figured that he could have comfortably gone the rest of his life without seeing Mycroft Holmes again. Unfortunately, Mycroft was his best hope of finding Mari. The police had proved useless, he had no idea where to look himself-who better to ask than the man behind the curtain? And besides, he could play the guilt card, remind the elder Holmes that it was almost entirely his fault that his brother committed suicide. It was a low blow, but John was desperate and not a little angry, and watching Mycroft's face fall would give him a little satisfaction.
John found Mycroft at the Diogenes Club and this time he managed to not get thrown out, seeing as how he now knew the rules included no talking in certain areas. Mycroft looked tired. As ever his face was fixed in bland, polite lines, but there were lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn't been there before and dark circles beneath.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Mycroft asked dryly.
John had no patience for pleasantries. "I need your help."
"Really?" Mycroft seemed genuinely surprised. "I hadn't expected to see you again after our-parting."
"I still think it's your fault," John replied, his voice low and angry. "But there's no one else I can go to, and this is important, maybe national security important."
Mycroft gestured to the decanter of brandy that sat on a side table. John shook his head. The other man shrugged and poured himself a few finger's worth over ice. "I'm listening."
"It has to do with the murders," John began, and the story of Mari's disappearance followed.
"You think they're connected." It was not a question. Mycroft regarded him levelly.
John nodded sharply. "I think they're following her. I think she's running from something."
"Wouldn't it be safer to let her go?" Mycroft inquired.
"Whoever she is," John replied, "she's my friend and she's in danger. She shouldn't have to face that alone."
"You're not going to let this go, are you?" The other man's voice was resigned.
A hint of a smile tugged one corner of John's lips up. "Do I really strike you as the sort of man to do that?"
Mycroft shook his head. "No, John, not you. Not even if it was the wisest choice. I said it when we first met-you're very loyal." He leaned forward. "But let me give you some advice: caring is not an advantage."
John clenched his jaw. "Maybe not to you," he managed to bite out.
Mycroft sighed. "I'll look into it. Give my regards to Mrs. Hudson."
John nodded once, turned on his heel, and left.
John climbed the stairs to his flat wearily. Really, the next time he felt the desire to move he was going with a nice, garden level place. He fumbled for his key-and then stopped. There was light shining out from beneath the door to his flat. He never left the lights on. It was habit, part of his routine, part of his history as a soldier. Mari joked about it, how everything in his flat was always in its place and how every time he left he went 'on tour' making sure that the windows were closed and locked and the lights were off. John glanced at the door. No sign of forced entry, no scratches around the lock that he'd learned were signs of a lock pick. Whoever was waiting for him had to have had a key. His hand went instinctively to where he'd clip the holster for his revolver to his hip, but it wasn't there. After months of not living with Sherlock he'd gotten out of the practice of carrying a gun. He did, however have the element of surprise. John took a deep breath, slid his key into the lock and threw open the door.
Mari was sitting at his kitchen table with a steaming mug in front of her. He stood in the doorway, frozen in shock. Her hair was shorter and blonde. Her clothes were dark-black jeans and a worn leather jacket and a red camisole shirt and what looked like black combat boots. She looked completely unlike herself.
And then she turned to look at him. "Hello John," she said quietly. "We need to talk."
He almost laughed. The situation was absurd! She vanished for over a week and then he found her here like it was any other day! "Yes," he snapped. "Yes I would say so."
"Close the door," she ordered, and slid the mug across to the seat across from her. "We don't' have long."
"What, no 'sorry I vanished and made you think I was dead?'" he demanded, but he sat and took the mug, more out of habit than anything.
"I didn't exactly have time to explain!" she replied.
"You do now," John pointed out. "So start talking."
"If I told you everything you'd think I'd gone stark raving mad," Mari replied sadly. "That's okay, though. If I was you I'd think so too." She worried her bottom lip with her teeth and searched his face for something only she could see. "Well, first thing's first. Marion Prentice was my gran. My name's Rose, Rose Tyler, and according to this universe-I'm dead." She gestured to his laptop, which lay on the end of the table. "You can look, if you like. Rose Marion Tyler, born 1987 to Pete and Jackie Tyler, died in 2007 at the Battle of Canary Wharf."
"You're looking well for a dead woman," he commented dryly. "And what do you mean, 'this universe?'"
She flashed him a smile. "That's part of those things-that-will-make-you-think-I'm-mad. You're taking the name bit rather well."
He shrugged. "I've just spent more than a week thinking you were dead in a ditch somewhere. I got the message that you weren't who you said you were after your job and the police had never heard of you."
Mari-Rose-winced. "I'm sorry, John," she said quietly, and reached across the table to lay one hand on top of his. "I really am. I wanted to tell you-but it wasn't safe."
He raised an eyebrow. "And this is?"
"No," she snapped back. "But you were supposed to forget! If you hadn't gotten so bloody drunk the retcon would have taken, and you'd have woken up remembering a nasty break up. Instead you kicked up a fuss and now-" She took a breath and, with great effort, calmed herself. "Now they've connected you with me."
John's fingers clenched around his mug. "Who is they, M-Rose?" he demanded.
She shook her head. "I don't know," she told him. "I've never seen them, but they're following me." Her eyes fixed on an invisible spot on the wall. She looked haunted. "Ever since I got back, they've been following me. I can slip past them for a while, but they always find me, eventually. And then-then someone dies." She met his eyes then, fierce and determined. "You're a good man, John, and I'm not going to get you killed. I tried to protect you, but you're so stubborn! You were supposed to forget me, to go back to your life of telly and the clinic and all of that."
"I don't want that!" he yelled, and for the first time in six months he realized the truth. His comfortable, stable life was suffocating him. He longed for the adrenaline, the heart-pounding adventure that living with Sherlock had brought. It had been annoying and tedious and occasionally terrifying-but never boring. He was drowning in the mundane, ordinary life he had built.
"Doesn't matter now," Rose commented. "They've linked the two of us-they'll be coming for you soon. They'll try and use you to get to me."
"What do we do?" John asked.
Rose stood. "We go to Ealing."
He frowned. "Ealing? What's in Ealing?"
Rose grinned at him. "Sarah Jane Smith."
Chapter 3
Rating: T
Features: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Rose Tyler, the 10th Doctor, Martha Jones, Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones, Owen Harper, Toshiko Sato, Gwen Cooper, Melody Pond, Sarah Jane Smith
Pairings: Mild John/Rose, Heavy Doctor/Rose, Mild Jack/Everyone
A/N: This takes place mid-season 3 for Doctor Who and after Reichenbach Falls for Sherlock.
Chapter One
The days that changed John Watson's life were often quite ordinary, at least at the beginning, so it came as no surprise that the day that his world once again stood on its head began with a hangover. He woke gradually with the suspicion that someone was tap dancing inside his skull. His blood roared through his veins, his head was pounding fit to burst, and his mouth felt like cotton wool. The insistent beeping of his alarm clock felt like a sonic attack and he fumbled for the 'snooze' button with a groan. Bloody hell, what did he do last night? He tried to force his struggling brain to turn back to the previous day's events, but was left with disjointed shards of memory.
Colors and sounds and lips and teeth and it had to be a dream because Mari never kissed him like that. Hands and tongues and moans and sighs and 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
He managed to shut off his alarm and he half-rolled half-fell out of bed. Everything was too bright and too loud and he was never ever drinking whatever he had last night again. Of course, he'd have to ask Mari what it was, as he couldn't possibly remember. His jeans were lying in a pile on the floor next to the foot of his bed and his shirt was crumpled over the chair that belonged to his desk. He managed to dress himself and even get a bit of breakfast before he trudged out the door.
The day seemed to drag on and on, but maybe that was the migraine he had brewing doing the talking. Well. Thinking. A vague unease settled in as closing time drew near: Mari hadn't called. She always called him so they could meet for lunch, or not if she was swamped or he was, but his mobile had remained silent. There was nothing, no text, no message, no missed calls.
"Everything alright, John?" Melissa asked. She was a sweet girl in her second year of Uni, paying for her flat by answering the phones and scheduling appointments at the clinic. She was also, unfortunately, quite observant.
"Sure, great. Has Mari called?" he replied, trying to sound casual.
Melissa shook her head. "No, sorry. Were you expecting her?"
"Sort of, yeah." He shook himself. "She must just be busy."
He called her on the tube ride home six times. She didn't answer once.
He checked his the answering machine and his email and then his mobile when he woke up the next morning. Still nothing. Panic was starting to set in, the sharp, coppery taste of it dancing on the back of his tongue (and oh he knew that flavor well). He dialed her mobile and a mechanical voice informed him cheerfully that the number he was trying to reach had been disconnected. John frowned. It had been fine yesterday. He must have made a mistake, but when he redialed (after checking the napkin from their first meeting which remained taped to his desk) he received the same message. John tried emailing her. Two minutes later his message was returned to his inbox with an error: there was no user registered with that address. He didn't bother with landline, she didn't have one, thought they were archaic and overpriced. He called in sick. Something was wrong, completely and totally wrong. Was this what Sarah felt like when Moriarty grabbed him and strapped that C4 vest on? Did every possible permutation of ever possible future run through her mind (and did most of those futures end with someone she cared about dead in a gutter)?
He went to the British Library. As he walked through the doors John realized that he'd never seen Mari at work. He'd been to her flat (a little one-bedroom in a decent part of town not far from his) loads of times, but she always met him at the tube station.
If he had been in less of a hurry and if he hadn't been picturing her dead in a thousand imaginative ways he would have been awed by the Library. It was vast. There were millions of books held on shelves that stretched to the ceiling and art collections and even cozy little nooks set out of the grandeur, little oases of the mundane. He might have paused to look at the works of art scattered through the spaces-sculptures and drawings and paintings, pieces of an immense and circulating collection. But he didn't notice any of that. He pounced on the first person he could find who looked like they were working and asked if he could speak to Mari Prentice.
The man, boy really, frowned. "Sorry sir, but I'm not familiar with a Mari Prentice. Let me ask."
"She works in acquisitions," he called after the boy. By the time he returned John felt like he'd worn a hole in the smooth tile floor with his pacing.
"I'm sorry, sir," the boy said apologetically, "but there is no Mari Prentice here."
The words failed to register. John stared at him. "What?"
"We've no record of a Mari Prentice being employed," the boy explained, "not for the past ten years."
John closed his mouth so hard his teeth clicked. "Oh." He took a deep breath and it seemed to fill him, inflate him. His back straightened, his shoulders squared, and his hands curled into loose fists. "Well. Thank you."
"Can I help you with anything else?" the boy inquired.
"No, I'm afraid not," John replied. Then he turned on his heel and walked back the way he came. His step didn't waver, his shoulders didn't sag. His eyes remained fixed straight ahead as his mind raced. She couldn't be gone, she couldn't. They'd gone out last night! They had, because he didn't drink alone and there was no way he could have drunk enough to get that hung-over with anyone else. So. They went out. He got drunk. He went home, and-he froze. And when he woke his pillow smelled like her, like the soft, floral scent she wore. He'd asked if it was roses and she'd laughed a bright, joyous sound that he didn't hear nearly often enough. And his bed smelled like her. But there was nothing to suggest she'd been there, no note, no call, no little bit of her besides the ghost of a fragrance.
Why? Sherlock (and finally he could remember without feeling like someone had knifed him in the stomach, had knocked his legs out from under him and kicked him while he was down) had come and gone as he pleased, had disappeared for days. Mari wasn't like that. She didn't wander off or get distracted or caught up in a case.
But why would she lie to him? Why would she leave?
John made his way to her flat on autopilot. He'd walked there so many times over the past six months that it was second nature. Her building was set slightly back from the street and small. Like Baker Street the house had been converted into three flats, and Mari lived in 503A. Unlike Baker Street she had her own entrance in the back, up a set of old wooden stairs that led to a bit of a patio. She picked the flat for that patio, for a space that she could pull a chair out onto and look up at the stars (what she could see of them through the light and fog of London).
He paused for a moment in front of the door. She'd painted it a deep blue after she moved in, said something about how every place she'd ever called home had a blue door. Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe she'd said the British Library but meant a different one, maybe that was just a nickname. Maybe she'd forgotten to pay her bill and her internet and phone were shut off. Maybe she'd had a family emergency and had to leave. Maybe he'd open the door and find her sitting room immaculate and her kitchen a mess, or business as usual. Maybe she'd be sitting on the sofa having a cuppa and give him a look like he'd dribbled on his shirt when he told her what happened. And maybe Sherlock would ring him and ask to come to tea and oh, would John and Mari mind terribly if he brought the Woman with him?
He was delaying. John knew this. He took a breath, straightened his shoulders, and slid the key home. It clicked into place and the lock turned smoothly. The door opened with a creak-it always did-and John was left looking at an empty flat. It was gone. All of her furniture, her knick-knacks, every sign that someone had lived here had been swept away. The walls were white-she hated white walls; she'd painted them a warm sort of gold as soon as she moved in, just like the door. The sofa where they'd watched horrible science fiction movies (well, he'd watched, she'd laughed and laughed) and had a cuppa hundreds of times was gone. The pictures that littered the top of her curio cabinet-Mari and her mum, Mari and her mum and her stepdad, Mari and her little brother, and the one photo she never mentioned, never looked at except when she thought he wasn't watching: Mari and a man in a brown pinstriped suit and tan overcoat-Mari with the biggest smile he'd ever seen wreathing her face whilst she burrowed into the man's side and he wrapped one arm around her, a crooked grin pulling the corner of his mouth up.
It was the same in every room. Any trace of her, even her scent, was gone. Everything was pristine, immaculate, ready to welcome a new tenant. John thought he might be sick. The world was spinning around him, worse than when he was drunk and he had to put a hand against the wall to steady himself. His legs shook and his knees felt weak and he closed his eyes against the vertigo that threatened to overwhelm him. She was gone.
But people don't do that, his mind asserted. People don't vanish off the face of the Earth! They leave things behind to mark their existence, little things-faces in photos, letters unsent, bills and jobs and friends and family-except for her. Her dad died when she was tiny, her mum and stepdad and brother in an accident years ago. She didn't mention any friends, seemed to live an insular life.
Her apartment was clean, her job was a bust, and she had no one to miss her, no one but him. And he knew what he had to do.
Being Sherlock's blogger had its perks, John thought as the officer behind the desk waved him through. One of those was that everyone at the station knew him. Of course, the downside was that everyone knew him and his position on Moriarty, but thankfully most of them were tactful enough to keep their scorn to themselves. Still, to be safe, he avoided Anderson. John Watson considered himself to be extremely disciplined, but he couldn't promise he wouldn't punch the sniveling CSI in the face if he saw the man.
D.I. Gregory Lestrade was in his office, thankfully. John knew he must look a state-eyes wild, hands clenched, walking fast enough to draw raised eyebrows and frowns from the cubicles around him. He remembered to know, barely, and Greg looked up.
"John," he said, surprise evident in his face and voice. "Come in. Have a seat."
"Mari's gone," John told Greg after he shut the door. He remained standing.
Sympathy surfaced on the detective's face. "You two broke up then?"
John denied the suggestion with a sharp shake of his head. "No, not like that. She's gone Greg, she'd disappeared!"
That got his friend's attention. Greg sat up straighter and folded his hands on his desk. "When you say 'disappeared?'"
"I mean she's vanished!" John snapped back. "Completely and totally!"
Greg held up a hand. "Slow down, and start from the beginning."
John did. He told his friend the whole story-waking up with a hangover and no memory of the previous night, calling her and receiving no response, discovering the next day that her phone and email had been disconnected, the disaster that was visiting her job, and the revelation of going to her flat and finding it deserted. To his credit Greg listened and refrained from letting any disbelief show on his face.
"Right," he said after John had finished. "This really isn't my division, but I know some people and I'll tell them to look into it." He laid a comforting hand on John's shoulder. "We'll find her. D'you have a picture? That always makes it easier."
John shrugged helplessly. "I don't. I don't have anything."
"That's all right, I'm sure we've got one on file. Any next of kin? Friends in the area?
"No one," John replied, though he wondered about the man in the photo, the one Mari never mentioned. Who was he? Where was he? Could he help? "Her dad died when she was little and her mum and stepdad and younger brother died years ago. She's got no friends that I know of."
"Well," Greg said kindly, "she's got you, and that's a sight better than some that we've brought home." He squeezed John's shoulder and then removed his hand. "Go get some sleep-you look like the walking dead. I'll ring you if we find anything."
The phone call came the next day, but it wasn't the one John had been hoping for.
"Hello," he answered.
"John, it's Greg." The D.I. paused. "How do you spell Mari's name?"
John told him. "It's Marion, but she goes by Mari," he finished.
The line was silent for a moment and then John heard a murmured discussion, like someone had covered the microphone with his hand. "Are you sure?" Greg asked finally.
John rolled his eyes. "Yes, of course I'm sure. I've been seeing her for six months, Greg, I think I know how to spell her name!"
"Right." There was a heaviness to his friend's voice that raised alarm bells in John's mind. "I'm sorry, mate, but the only Marion Prentice we've got records of was a 96 year-old widow who died three years ago. There's no other name she used, maybe a first name that she hated?"
John shook his head before he realized that Greg wasn't here and thus couldn't see. "No," he said finally, when the constriction in his throat had eased enough to let him speak. "There's nothing. Thanks for looking." And he hung up. For a while he stared at the wall, unseeing. It was like he'd been thrown back into the days just after Sherlock's death. The world was surging around him, spinning out of control, and he had nothing to hold on to. There was no Greg and Molly and Mrs. Hudson left to ground him. He'd been cut loose, set adrift.
And not for the first time he wondered if he, John Hamish Watson, had gone mad.
For a week John existed in a sort of limbo, caught between hope and despair, anger and fear, and mired in confusion. He took the tube to work, endured the pitying stares and whispers of his coworkers (news spread fast in a small clinic, just like a small town), and returned to an empty flat and no sign of Mari. For a week he waited-until he opened the paper one morning and his eyes found the headline: Serial Murderer Strikes Again. He read the article, of course, but when the reporter mentioned the address he froze. It was Mari's building. The landlords, a nice young husband and wife, had been murdered in their beds. The tenants of the second flat, 503 B, had been on vacation, and 503 A had been recently vacated. It was the latest in a string of murders that were seemingly unconnected-a string of murders that Greg had mentioned when John brought Mari to meet him and Molly. Mari had been interested, unnaturally so. And when Mrs. Hudson mentioned that she'd recently rented the apartment John and Sherlock used to share Mari had seemed distracted and almost nervous. She'd been jumpy ever since, always looking over her shoulder-and then they'd gone out and she'd disappeared. John threw down the paper with a curse. How could he have missed that? It wasn't a normal breakup, just vanishing! How could he have missed how on edge she'd been lately?
Someone was after her, someone dangerous, someone willing to kill innocent people in order to get to her. A muscle in John's jaw twitched. Well, whoever it was would have to go through him first.
John Watson figured that he could have comfortably gone the rest of his life without seeing Mycroft Holmes again. Unfortunately, Mycroft was his best hope of finding Mari. The police had proved useless, he had no idea where to look himself-who better to ask than the man behind the curtain? And besides, he could play the guilt card, remind the elder Holmes that it was almost entirely his fault that his brother committed suicide. It was a low blow, but John was desperate and not a little angry, and watching Mycroft's face fall would give him a little satisfaction.
John found Mycroft at the Diogenes Club and this time he managed to not get thrown out, seeing as how he now knew the rules included no talking in certain areas. Mycroft looked tired. As ever his face was fixed in bland, polite lines, but there were lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn't been there before and dark circles beneath.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Mycroft asked dryly.
John had no patience for pleasantries. "I need your help."
"Really?" Mycroft seemed genuinely surprised. "I hadn't expected to see you again after our-parting."
"I still think it's your fault," John replied, his voice low and angry. "But there's no one else I can go to, and this is important, maybe national security important."
Mycroft gestured to the decanter of brandy that sat on a side table. John shook his head. The other man shrugged and poured himself a few finger's worth over ice. "I'm listening."
"It has to do with the murders," John began, and the story of Mari's disappearance followed.
"You think they're connected." It was not a question. Mycroft regarded him levelly.
John nodded sharply. "I think they're following her. I think she's running from something."
"Wouldn't it be safer to let her go?" Mycroft inquired.
"Whoever she is," John replied, "she's my friend and she's in danger. She shouldn't have to face that alone."
"You're not going to let this go, are you?" The other man's voice was resigned.
A hint of a smile tugged one corner of John's lips up. "Do I really strike you as the sort of man to do that?"
Mycroft shook his head. "No, John, not you. Not even if it was the wisest choice. I said it when we first met-you're very loyal." He leaned forward. "But let me give you some advice: caring is not an advantage."
John clenched his jaw. "Maybe not to you," he managed to bite out.
Mycroft sighed. "I'll look into it. Give my regards to Mrs. Hudson."
John nodded once, turned on his heel, and left.
John climbed the stairs to his flat wearily. Really, the next time he felt the desire to move he was going with a nice, garden level place. He fumbled for his key-and then stopped. There was light shining out from beneath the door to his flat. He never left the lights on. It was habit, part of his routine, part of his history as a soldier. Mari joked about it, how everything in his flat was always in its place and how every time he left he went 'on tour' making sure that the windows were closed and locked and the lights were off. John glanced at the door. No sign of forced entry, no scratches around the lock that he'd learned were signs of a lock pick. Whoever was waiting for him had to have had a key. His hand went instinctively to where he'd clip the holster for his revolver to his hip, but it wasn't there. After months of not living with Sherlock he'd gotten out of the practice of carrying a gun. He did, however have the element of surprise. John took a deep breath, slid his key into the lock and threw open the door.
Mari was sitting at his kitchen table with a steaming mug in front of her. He stood in the doorway, frozen in shock. Her hair was shorter and blonde. Her clothes were dark-black jeans and a worn leather jacket and a red camisole shirt and what looked like black combat boots. She looked completely unlike herself.
And then she turned to look at him. "Hello John," she said quietly. "We need to talk."
He almost laughed. The situation was absurd! She vanished for over a week and then he found her here like it was any other day! "Yes," he snapped. "Yes I would say so."
"Close the door," she ordered, and slid the mug across to the seat across from her. "We don't' have long."
"What, no 'sorry I vanished and made you think I was dead?'" he demanded, but he sat and took the mug, more out of habit than anything.
"I didn't exactly have time to explain!" she replied.
"You do now," John pointed out. "So start talking."
"If I told you everything you'd think I'd gone stark raving mad," Mari replied sadly. "That's okay, though. If I was you I'd think so too." She worried her bottom lip with her teeth and searched his face for something only she could see. "Well, first thing's first. Marion Prentice was my gran. My name's Rose, Rose Tyler, and according to this universe-I'm dead." She gestured to his laptop, which lay on the end of the table. "You can look, if you like. Rose Marion Tyler, born 1987 to Pete and Jackie Tyler, died in 2007 at the Battle of Canary Wharf."
"You're looking well for a dead woman," he commented dryly. "And what do you mean, 'this universe?'"
She flashed him a smile. "That's part of those things-that-will-make-you-think-I'm-mad. You're taking the name bit rather well."
He shrugged. "I've just spent more than a week thinking you were dead in a ditch somewhere. I got the message that you weren't who you said you were after your job and the police had never heard of you."
Mari-Rose-winced. "I'm sorry, John," she said quietly, and reached across the table to lay one hand on top of his. "I really am. I wanted to tell you-but it wasn't safe."
He raised an eyebrow. "And this is?"
"No," she snapped back. "But you were supposed to forget! If you hadn't gotten so bloody drunk the retcon would have taken, and you'd have woken up remembering a nasty break up. Instead you kicked up a fuss and now-" She took a breath and, with great effort, calmed herself. "Now they've connected you with me."
John's fingers clenched around his mug. "Who is they, M-Rose?" he demanded.
She shook her head. "I don't know," she told him. "I've never seen them, but they're following me." Her eyes fixed on an invisible spot on the wall. She looked haunted. "Ever since I got back, they've been following me. I can slip past them for a while, but they always find me, eventually. And then-then someone dies." She met his eyes then, fierce and determined. "You're a good man, John, and I'm not going to get you killed. I tried to protect you, but you're so stubborn! You were supposed to forget me, to go back to your life of telly and the clinic and all of that."
"I don't want that!" he yelled, and for the first time in six months he realized the truth. His comfortable, stable life was suffocating him. He longed for the adrenaline, the heart-pounding adventure that living with Sherlock had brought. It had been annoying and tedious and occasionally terrifying-but never boring. He was drowning in the mundane, ordinary life he had built.
"Doesn't matter now," Rose commented. "They've linked the two of us-they'll be coming for you soon. They'll try and use you to get to me."
"What do we do?" John asked.
Rose stood. "We go to Ealing."
He frowned. "Ealing? What's in Ealing?"
Rose grinned at him. "Sarah Jane Smith."
Chapter 3