The Woman (2/7)
Rating: M
Features: Rose Tyler, the 11th Doctor, Amy Pond, River Song, Mycroft Holmes, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Ianto Jones, Lois Habiba
A/N; Nothing you recognize belongs to me!
Summary: She is 'the woman' to both of them.
Part One
There are days when Amelia Pond can't imagine living anywhere besides the TARDIS; when the wonders of the universe lay themselves at her feet and effervescent joy fills her-from the tips of her toes to the ends of her fiery red hair. There are days when she witnesses the very best of humanity: courage, sacrifice, generosity, love; days when she thinks that she understands why the Doctor loves Earth and why one of the most powerful beings in all of creation watches over the human race like a benevolent (if slightly mad) uncle. Then there are days like today, days when she wants to crawl beneath the covers of her bed like a child and hide from the world; days when the universe is a grungy, petty place and all of its ugliness is shoved in her face. There are days when she can read the disappointment in the Doctor's eyes and she wonders why he bothers with one single, petty planet that revolves around a single, unremarkable sun in one infinitesimally small corner of the universe.
The TARDIS is in her night cycle but Amy can't sleep. Her room is too quiet and she wonders why her bed has an upper bunk. There is only her, after all, has ever only been her in this room and on this ship, traveling with the Doctor. She is exhausted (getting kidnapped always has that effect, she's noticed) but sleep refuses to come. When she closes her eyes she sees the Doctor's face as he grips her shoulders and orders her to remember-what? She wracks her mind, has been for hours, but the answer eludes her. Amy punches her pillow and glares at the glowing numbers of the clock on her bedside table. Finally she sighs and pushes the covers back. Perhaps the Doctor is still awake. She hasn't forgotten the little red box with what can only be an engagement ring nestled inside. Who is it for? A friend, he'd said, but he'd given her no other clues. Is it for River? No, Amy decides, he is still nervous and distrustful of the woman who claims to be intimately acquainted with his future self.
Amy slips her favorite dressing gown on over her nighty and pads out into the hall in search of the Doctor. The TARDIS is vast and confusing and just a bit mad, like her pilot, Amy thinks with a smile. There are rooms and hallways in every direction and she has no idea how far they stretch. She tried to find the end of the ship when she first came onboard, but after the Doctor found her holed up in one of the twenty or so auxiliary kitchens she'd given up. He, apparently, never got lost. Something about the TARDIS's telepathic field and his superior Time Lord biology. Amy can't remember exactly, but he'd had that smug look on his face that drove her up the wall. For a nine hundred year old alien he is really such a bloke sometimes.
She is almost to the library when an unfamiliar voice drifts through the air. Someone is singing. Amy frowns. She's never heard the Doctor sing before (and the voice is female, besides) and River has professed to be tone deaf several times (usually when a quick ditty would get them released from prison or expressing oneself in prose is illegal). It's not a bad voice, she decides: sweet and rich but unpolished. There are no fancy flourishes, just a pure tone and a joy that is almost palpable.
Amy changes direction and heads for the voice-which appears to be in the vicinity of the control room. Is the Doctor having an adventure without her? She works out a little speech on the way, to properly chastise him for trying to leave her out of the fun-but the words freeze in her throat.
The Doctor stands off to one side of the console. His jacket hangs over the railing and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. She's never seen him with so little clothing and even though he's still more than decent according to 21st century Earth standards he looks-naked. Vulnerable. She's not used to seeing him look vulnerable, not the Doctor. He's always been larger than life, ever since she first met him when she was seven years old and he fixed the crack in her wall. He leans against the railing, eyes fixed on the scene before him, and Amy believes that he is old. He doesn't look it, not usually. He's got the face of a twelve year old, practically, although his eyes will give him away. There's a depth to them that she's never seen in anyone else, a depth and an edge that cuts like broken glass. Fine lines crinkle around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. His shoulders are rounded, almost slumped and he looks old and tired and worn.
Amy follows the line of his gaze and blinks. The front of the console room is gone. In its place is what appears to be an exact replica of the kitchen, right down to the vibrant red dish towel that hangs from the oven's handlebar. The floor is the same smooth wood. The cabinets match the floor and the countertops match the red and yellow tile backsplash. The sink is the same: huge and deep and phenomenal for doing dishes, although Amy never has. The TARDIS takes care of it, the Doctor told her, and that was that. The same curtains (gauzy white things that do absolutely nothing to block out light) frame a window that looks out on a field of wildflowers. It's impossible, of course, but it's a nice touch and what on the TARDIS isn't impossible?
Which brings her to the only difference between the kitchen she knows and the kitchen in front of her: there is an unfamiliar woman standing in this kitchen. She's facing away from Amy and doing something with the sink. She might actually be washing dishes, Amy realizes, but that's not important (unless it is-the whole scene is so incongruous that she's not sure). What is important is that she is the one who is singing. The girl's blonde hair hangs down in loose waves just past her shoulders and brushes her baby pink hoodie, which matches, Amy notes with a grin, the girl's fluffy bunny slippers. The image (and it can only be an image) shakes slightly and zooms in closer and a distinctly masculine chuckle drifts through the still air of the console room.
The girl tenses and whirls to face the camera. For a moment Amy freezes because it's all so incredibly real-but then the camera shakes again.
"Git!" the girl cries and flings a dish towel toward the photographer.
"Oi!" the invisible man objects. "Not the hair!"
A wide grin split's the girls face. Her eyes are a rich, chocolate brown and her mouth is just a tad too wide and her jaw just a bit too strong, but when she's smiling she's beautiful. "You daft alien," she says, but affection colors the words, makes them a term of endearment instead of an insult.
"That depends entirely on where you're standing," the man points out. "And besides," he continues, "you love it."
Her expression softens, folds into something warm and tender enough to make Amy's breath catch. "Yeah," the girl murmurs. "I do." The image freezes and the Doctor stretches out a hand, holds it in the air centimeters from the girl's face-and then his shoulders slump and his hand falls to hang limply at his side.
"Bad night?" a soft voice inquires. Amy starts and nearly falls down the stairs. River is leaning against the railing just behind her, curly hair tied back and her arms crossed over her chest. She's wearing a sleek black dressing gown and her wicked blue eyes are sad.
She should ask what the woman is doing here, but Amy has learned to accept River Song at face value. She's always doing the impossible, even for them, and that's saying something. "Bad day," Amy corrects and she can't suppress her shudder. Being sucked underground will give her nightmares, she is sure, and thinking of the Silurian that Elliot killed makes her feel vaguely ill. But-and this confuses her-there is love too, and a strange sort of grief that lodges in her throat when she looks at the bunk beds in her room and the way the girl is smiling in the frozen hologram. "Who is she, River?"
"I don't know," River admits. Amy stares. River has always known, not about a particular person or planet or adventure, but about the Doctor. She knows all of his secrets, especially the ones that make him squirm-or so Amy thought.
River's lips press into a thin line and she will not meet Amy's eyes. "He never mentions her name, but when a day goes wrong, when the universe is cruel and he can't save anyone-he remembers her." They stand in silence for a while, but then River gives her head a sharp shake and plasters on a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Come on, let's have a cuppa. He's going to be a while."
Amy follows the mysterious woman down the hall, but she can't help looking back to the Doctor and the ache tightens in her chest. Something is lost-and it cannot be found.
John Watson is sitting on a couch in the People's Palace, next to the most brilliant man he has ever met; man who is, at the moment, wrapped in a bedsheet. His clothes (shirt, jacket, trousers, socks, and belt) lay in a crisply folded pile on the glass-topped coffee table in front of them. John looks at the clothes, then at his friend, and then back to the clothes.
"Sherlock," he begins. "Are you wearing pants?"
Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and actual five year old rolls his eyes. "No," he replies shortly.
This fails to phase John. After living with the strange, extraordinary man who has become one of his closest friends for a year very little surprises him at all. "Right." He gives his head a bit of a shake. "Okay." He glances around and can't stop an incredulous smirk from flickering across his face.
"What?" Sherlock asks with a sideways glance.
"I'm in the people's palace!" he exclaims. "I dunno, I just wanna steal an ash tray or something." Sherlock snickers at that. "So," John continues once he manages to get his hilarity under control. "Why are we here?"
The door at the end of the room opens with a discrete creak and Mycroft Holmes steps through. "I think we're about to find out," Sherlock comments.
One hilarious argument later (and really the only normal thing about Sherlock is the blistering resentment he feels towards his older brother) and John watches Sherlock peruse a sheaf of-interesting-pictures. A woman features prominently in each of them. She is pretty, in a fierce sort of way. Her long blonde hair falls in soft waves around her face, or is pulled into a tight, severe bun, or isn't blonde or long. Her lips are a deep, vibrant red and her smoky brown eyes stare out boldly, challenging and enticing all in one. She is wearing hardly any clothing-lingerie mostly, soft satin and or tight, smooth leather and there are a few (profile shots through a fabric screen, mostly) where she isn't wearing anything at all. They're the sort of pictures John is used to keeping in a locked folder on his computer or perhaps beneath his mattress, not out in the open and certainly not when others are present.
"Irene Adler," Mycroft remarks as he fiddles with his ever-present brolly. "Known professionally as 'The Woman.' She specializes in, shall we say, recreational scolding." A diffident knock breaks the heavy silence. Mycroft glances up. "Come in," he calls, and a smartly dressed young man enters. He carries a teapot, three coups, and assorted biscuits on a highly polished silver tray. "Ah." The corners of Mycroft's mouth tug up into a passable imitation of a smile. "Thank you, Ianto."
"Sir," the young man acknowledges. He pours the tea with practiced ease, somehow managing to make the motions appear elegant. John doesn't need Sherlock to tell him that the man has had considerable unarmed combat training. There's an awareness that comes with such training and it's written all over his body language.
"Is tea preparation standard Torchwood training?" Sherlock asks, one eyebrow raised.
John frowns. "Torchwood?" He'd pegged Ianto as secret service, MI5 maybe, but Torchwood? Soldiers love to speculate and he'd heard a fair amount of speculation related to the ultra-secret government agency, but that's all it had ever been-speculation. Anything related to Torchwood is beyond classified.
"Ianto is my personal assistant," Mycroft replies mildly.
Sherlock sniffs. "Getting old, are we? Since when do you need an assistant, Mycroft?"
"I do anything and everything that Mr. Holmes requires," Ianto informs them, his face a mask of polite neutrality. "Including make the tea and occasionally bury the bodies." A sharp, synthesized 'beep' interrupts the conversation before Sherlock can formulate a suitable retort. John is absurdly grateful. Sherlock raises snarking to an Olympic sport and Mycroft takes it to the level of art and he really doesn't have the patience to deal with that today. Ianto and Mycroft both check their phones. Mycroft's face twists like he's smelled something foul and Ianto's lips press into a thin line. "Excuse me," he murmurs and withdraws.
Sherlock casts an appraising look at his brother, who rolls his eyes. "He is supremely organized," Mycroft huffs with some irritation. "And the way elections are going-" He snaps his mouth shut.
Sherlock smirks. "Need all the help you can get?" he asks innocently.
"Of course I do," his brother shoots back. "I called you in, didn't I?"
"Yes," John agrees, trying to get the conversation away from whatever Mycroft is doing to manipulate the government and back to why he and Sherlock are in the People's Palace. "Why was that, again?"
"Miss Addler has some compromising photos featuring certain high-ranking government officials." Disapproval and distaste fairly drip from Mycroft's voice. "I would prefer to let them lie in the bed they have made, but the President would like to avoid the-unpleasantness-that will follow."
Mycroft isn't the only one who needs all the help he can get, John knows. The economy is bad, has been since the cyberwar ended. So many resources had been devoted to fighting the remnants of Lumic's twisted creations that once they vanished people were-lost. Confused. Peter Tyler had gotten them through the battles, had been elected President of the People's Republic of Great Britain almost unanimously. Winning the peace, however, is vastly different from winning the war and people aren't taking kindly to Tyler's heavy-handed policies and rigid insistence on obedience. There have been letters in papers, protests, even the whisper of riots.
Sherlock is unmoved. "Pay her, then," he replies with a shrug. "Pay her whatever she's asking."
Mycroft lays his umbrella across his lap. "She hasn't asked for anything."
Sherlock's demeanor shifts abruptly. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and fingers steepled in front of his face. His eyes are unfocused and distant and John knows they are taking the case. Sherlock spends the majority of his time running from boredom. Even his profession, consulting detective, was devised to allow him to remain occupied. John has seen addicts before (Harry has given him a lifetime of experience) and he's familiar with Sherlock's behavior. He's addicted to the adrenaline rush he gets from solving a case and he's brilliant enough that ordinary life isn't enough for him.
"Nothing?" Sherlock demands.
The corner of Mycroft's mouth curls into the barest of smirks. "Absolutely nothing at all. She contacted us, provided proof that the pictures exist, and has done nothing since."
Sherlock stands. "I'll text you tonight," he tells Mycroft, his voice clipped and dry. His eyes narrow, just a tad. John has seen this look so many times; it's the look Sherlock gets when he's running through a case in his head. "Twelve hours should be enough time to retrieve the pictures."
"You'll take it?" Mycroft asks, his expression oddly intent.
"Yes, yes," Sherlock replies, rolling his eyes. "Go back to buying off politicians, or whatever it is you do to keep Peter Tyler in office. It must be positively exhausting."
The text message comes just as she is finishing her breakfast. The nature f her work necessitates an extremely flexible schedule and allows her to indulge her natural propensity for late rising. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement and one she quite enjoys. Rose reaches into the pocket of her dressing gown (her favorite, a screaming red bit of silk that feels lovely against her skin) and pulls out her mobile. It's the same one that the Doctor modified, so many years ago. It was from the future in the first place, which helps because it's only slightly out of date for her present. She should get rid of it-it's a reminder of her old life, a tie to who she was, but she can't bring herself to throw it away. It has pictures of her mum and Mickey on the estate, of the Doctor when he came for Christmas dinner just after he regenerated and of the two of them standing on alien planets beneath alien skies. It's the only thing she has, literally the only thing, and she will not part with it.
"I'm sending you a present," she reads aloud. There's a picture attachment. She opens it, of course. The text is from Ianto and that can mean only one thing: Sherlock Holmes is on the case.
"I don't like this plan," Lois says from across the table. Lois Habiba is many things: friend, confidante, personal assistant, and Rose's contact with the Preachers. She knows that Peter Tyler, like most of the PRGB thinks they're gone, disbanded since the cyberwar ended. He couldn't be more wrong. The Preachers never left, not really. The majority of their members went on to work for Torchwood or returned to their previous life after the last of Lumic's factories went down, but a few remained. Lumic, after all, had been only one man and he had managed to nearly destroy the world. What chaos could Torchwood cause if it went unchecked?
They watched and they waited, and when they saw Peter Tyler, saw what he was becoming-they knew it was time. She had happened on them by chance, really, but she knew they could help her and she most certainly could help them. It has worked out well, their arrangement. She procures information and they help her to infiltrate Torchwood, put her in contact with people who are sympathetic and who can help. Now she has all the pieces at her fingertips, she just needs to know one more detail and then she's free.
"It's the best we've got," she reminds Lois for the thousandth time. Lois does not look convinced, but she sips her tea and allows Rose to study the photos of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and Dr. John Watson. They're not bad looking, either of them. Sherlock is tall and absurdly pale. He's got a long black trench coat that makes her smile and cheekbones sharp enough to cut her if she slapped him. Dr. Watson is shorter, blond, and steady as a rock. His clothing is practical, comfortable, and utilitarian. There's a symmetry between the two of them that makes tears burn in the back of her throat. She remembers what it's like to be one half of a pair.
"There's got to be another way." Lois sets her mug down on the smooth wooden table top.
"We have a deal," Rose reminds the other woman, her voice sharp. "This is part of the deal."
"I'm well aware of that," Lois replies tartly. "Doesn't mean I have to like it." They maintain a stony silence for several seconds, and then Lois sighs. She's always the first to break. Rose has walked across worlds, traveled to places that are impossible and sent the Devil back to hell. She's given her life and been given it back. She doesn't back down. "Be careful," Lois says after a while. "He's slippery and very, very good."
Rose snaps her phone closed and slips it back into her pocket. "So am I."
She chooses her outfit like a painter chooses her brush or a soldier chooses her weapon. She knows how Sherlock works, knows he will be watching her for the smallest clue he can use against her. The success of her plan necessitates that she remain a mystery to him; that she keep him off balance for as long as possible. She needs him dazed and uncertain and intrigued. To that end she tries on dozens of outfits and discards them all. There is a fatal flaw with each and every one, some hint that will show her hand and send him running.
"Bloody hell," Lois grouses as Rose rejects another outfit. "If picking an outfit is this much trouble maybe you shouldn't wear one at all."
Rose pokes her head out of her dressing room. "Say that again," she commands, eyes bright and completely focused on Lois.
"If choosing an outfit is so hard maybe you should just go naked," the other woman repeats.
"That's brilliant!" Rose grins one of her rare, tongue touched grins, the kind she gave out so freely when she traveled with the Doctor. Lois has been her handler through the Preachers for five years. It is the first time she's ever seen the expression.
One hour later her nails have been freshly painted a deep crimson to match her lipstick and the rest of her makeup is immaculate and lightly done; she wants the focus on her mouth, not her eyes. Her hair (still blonde) cascades elegantly over one shoulder and strappy red Louboutins adorn her feet. Rose likes red. It's a hard color, a strong color, the color of love, yes, and also of blood. She's spilled some now, hers others', it doesn't matter. She stares at herself in the mirror and hardly recognizes her reflection. Where is the little girl in love who left bits of herself in the hands of man who could feel the turn of the Earth and the flow of time through the universe? Where is the woman who held her father's hand when he died and had the strength to help the man who made her mother cry? If the Doctor could see her now, as she is, could see everything she has had to do, everything she has had to become-would he still want her?
"Stop that," she tells herself firmly. There is no room for doubts, not now. She's come so far; the only way to go is forward.
The doorbell buzzes and she listens as Lois follows the script they worked out to the letter. He's clever, oh he's clever but he's arrogant too, can't believe that someone (especially, perhaps, a woman) could get the drop on him. Lois shows him into the sitting room and Dr. Watson to the kitchen, ostensibly for a first aid kit. Rose straightens her back and takes a deep breath. Showtime.
She very nearly laughs when she sees him perched in the chair, looking flustered and disheveled and mildly panicked. There's a cut on his cheek and a lovely bruise forming around one eye. He's got a bit of white at his collar to mark him as a vicar and really, it's just too funny. The act falls away, though, when she strides into the room, naked as the day she was born. He's quick, she'll give him that. And he knows when the game is up.
"It's so hard to remember an alias when you've had a fright, isn't it?" she asks with a sympathetic pout. She saunters over, putting extra sway into the movement of her hips. He doesn't look down; his eyes don't even flicker towards her breasts or the place where her thigh meet.
Iron control, this one.
She's broken stronger.
And when she finds the Doctor again-well. He's in for a surprise.
Rose pulls her thoughts back to the present as she reaches down and plucks the little strip of plastic Sherlock has in his collar. She holds it up with a grin, and then lets it fall to the floor. "Now that we're both defrocked," she murmurs and straddles his legs, her hands on his shoulders. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
"Miss Irene Adler, I presume?" The fluster is gone from his voice, but he regards her like she is a poisonous snake poised to strike. She licks her lips.
Dr. Watson chooses that moment to make his appearance, of course. He's carrying a bowl of water and a towel-probably for that cut on Sherlock's face-and so he doesn't realize what he's walked in on until he's halfway to them. When he raises his eyes he stops so suddenly that water sloshes out of the bowl and onto the floor.
"Oh." He says and averts his eyes. Rose cocks an eyebrow and nibbles on her bottom lip. "I've missed something haven't I?"
She climbs off of Sherlock, who looks a bit confused. Good. She needs to keep him on uneven ground. Once he gets his feet under him she'll have to move quickly and there are still a few guests who haven't arrived. "Please," she says with a wave of her hand, "sit down." There is no need to be rude, after all. She folds herself into an armchair, crossing her legs and then her arms over her chest so that she is mostly covered. "If you'd like some tea I can ring the maid," she offers.
"I had some at the palace," Sherlock replies, his voice flat and his eyes narrowed just a tad.
Rose regards him evenly. "I know."
"Clearly," he replies in the same tone, and his eyes narrow further. For several long minutes they remain frozen, weighing each other. Rose tilts her head slightly to the left and Sherlock mimics her. She shifts slightly, flashes just a hint of her breasts and a muscle in his jaw twitches.
"I had tea at the palace too, if anyone's interested," John interjects, just to break the silence. It's working. Her plan is really working. She wants to jump up and down and shriek her joy to the heavens, but she manage to limit herself to a smirk. Sherlock glances between Rose and John and she can almost hear the wheels in his brain turning.
She leans forward and elbow on her knee, head resting on her palm. "Do you know the problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?" He raises one eyebrow and pointedly does not look down. "It's always a self-portrait, no matter how hard you try." She leans back. "It's why I don't bother."
He snorts. "You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?"
"I think you're delusional and believe in a higher power," she snaps back. "In this case-yourself." Sherlock does not reply. Instead he unfastens the top two buttons of his shirt. The fake collar is gone, after all, and there is no reason to keep up pretenses. Rose studies his face and then smiles. "Someone loves you," she remarks. "If I had to punch you I'd avoid your nose and teeth too." She raises and eyebrow and glances back to Dr. Watson for confirmation. He refuses to meet her eyes and his skin is tinged a faint pink.
"Could you put some clothes on, maybe?" he asks with feigned lightness.
"Feeling a bit exposed, Dr. Watson?" she asks archly.
"Anything at all," he continues. "A napkin."
Sherlock stands and removes his coat. "I don't think John knows where to look."
Rose ignores him. He's being boring, after all, but she does love to tease, especially when the subject is so easily flustered. "I think he knows exactly where," she murmurs and sidles closer. Dr. Watson remains rigid in his chair, his eyes fixed on a point just over her left shoulder. She turns after a moment and faces Sherlock. "I'm not so sure about you, though." She lets him settle the coat on her shoulders and memories flood back, memories of other coats (light brown, softer than it looks, smelling of books and ink and dust and a little bit like oranges; and worn leather, still warm from his body, smelling of peppermint aftershave and engine grease).
"If I wanted to look at a naked woman I'd borrow John's lap top," he sniffs and returns to his seat.
"You do borrow my laptop," John points out a bit sharply.
"I confiscate it," Sherlock replies. Watching them is fascinating and she could do it for ages. Something inside her, something she's locked away for its own protection recognizes the flow of their relationship, the effortless sort of pattern they've fallen into. Because being a couple has nothing to do with sexuality and even less to do with sex. It has a very great deal to do with trust and affection and respect and generosity and sacrifice. In her profession she has quite a lot to do with sex, but very little to do with partnership and she remembers a time when it was the other way around.
She laughs, she can't help it. They're delightful to watch and it's making her feel just a bit guilty about what she's going to do (not guilty enough to stop, of course, but it's a shadow of a doubt where none existed before).
"Something funny?" Sherlock asks. He's irritated and it seeps into his voice. Oh, he doesn't take being laughed at well. She catalogues that for future use.
"Just you," she replies and rises from her armchair with sinuous grace. She stalks over to him and lets the coat fall open so that it swirls dramatically behind her. Her red, red lips curve into a lupine grin as she looks him up and down. "I specialize in men like you."
"Men like me?" His eyebrow jerks up and he smirks at her, the very picture of arrogant assurance. "There are no men like me."
Her eyes sharpen and her eyebrow mirrors his. She places on hand on each of the armrests of Sherlock's chair and leans down. His eyes remain firmly fixed on hers, although his head tilts slightly to the side-almost as if he's recalculating. "Damaged, arrogant, emotionally stunted genius with a penchant for trouble and a problem with authority?" she asks, her voice low and breathy. "Mr. Holmes, you were made for me."
He swallows compulsively. She thinks for a moment that this is it-he'll shatter and it will have been so easy and so terribly, terribly disappointing. Really, she was hoping for more of a struggle.
"Hamish!" John exclaims loudly. When they both turn to look at him he shrugs. "In case you were, you know, thinking about baby names."
"We both know you're here for the pictures, Mr. Holmes," she says in her most reasonable tone, "but you're not going to get them." She arches her back, presses her breasts just a bit closer to him. "Why don't we have a little fun, make it so your visit wasn't completely wasted?"
"Sure of that, are you?" he asks with the sudden flash of a grin.
"Positive," she replies, her voice making the word absolutely filthy.
He leans in towards her, so close that she can feel the warmth of his breath against the shell of her ear. "I am going to leave with the pictures-and you're going to give them to me."
Part Three
Features: Rose Tyler, the 11th Doctor, Amy Pond, River Song, Mycroft Holmes, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Ianto Jones, Lois Habiba
A/N; Nothing you recognize belongs to me!
Summary: She is 'the woman' to both of them.
Part One
There are days when Amelia Pond can't imagine living anywhere besides the TARDIS; when the wonders of the universe lay themselves at her feet and effervescent joy fills her-from the tips of her toes to the ends of her fiery red hair. There are days when she witnesses the very best of humanity: courage, sacrifice, generosity, love; days when she thinks that she understands why the Doctor loves Earth and why one of the most powerful beings in all of creation watches over the human race like a benevolent (if slightly mad) uncle. Then there are days like today, days when she wants to crawl beneath the covers of her bed like a child and hide from the world; days when the universe is a grungy, petty place and all of its ugliness is shoved in her face. There are days when she can read the disappointment in the Doctor's eyes and she wonders why he bothers with one single, petty planet that revolves around a single, unremarkable sun in one infinitesimally small corner of the universe.
The TARDIS is in her night cycle but Amy can't sleep. Her room is too quiet and she wonders why her bed has an upper bunk. There is only her, after all, has ever only been her in this room and on this ship, traveling with the Doctor. She is exhausted (getting kidnapped always has that effect, she's noticed) but sleep refuses to come. When she closes her eyes she sees the Doctor's face as he grips her shoulders and orders her to remember-what? She wracks her mind, has been for hours, but the answer eludes her. Amy punches her pillow and glares at the glowing numbers of the clock on her bedside table. Finally she sighs and pushes the covers back. Perhaps the Doctor is still awake. She hasn't forgotten the little red box with what can only be an engagement ring nestled inside. Who is it for? A friend, he'd said, but he'd given her no other clues. Is it for River? No, Amy decides, he is still nervous and distrustful of the woman who claims to be intimately acquainted with his future self.
Amy slips her favorite dressing gown on over her nighty and pads out into the hall in search of the Doctor. The TARDIS is vast and confusing and just a bit mad, like her pilot, Amy thinks with a smile. There are rooms and hallways in every direction and she has no idea how far they stretch. She tried to find the end of the ship when she first came onboard, but after the Doctor found her holed up in one of the twenty or so auxiliary kitchens she'd given up. He, apparently, never got lost. Something about the TARDIS's telepathic field and his superior Time Lord biology. Amy can't remember exactly, but he'd had that smug look on his face that drove her up the wall. For a nine hundred year old alien he is really such a bloke sometimes.
She is almost to the library when an unfamiliar voice drifts through the air. Someone is singing. Amy frowns. She's never heard the Doctor sing before (and the voice is female, besides) and River has professed to be tone deaf several times (usually when a quick ditty would get them released from prison or expressing oneself in prose is illegal). It's not a bad voice, she decides: sweet and rich but unpolished. There are no fancy flourishes, just a pure tone and a joy that is almost palpable.
Amy changes direction and heads for the voice-which appears to be in the vicinity of the control room. Is the Doctor having an adventure without her? She works out a little speech on the way, to properly chastise him for trying to leave her out of the fun-but the words freeze in her throat.
The Doctor stands off to one side of the console. His jacket hangs over the railing and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. She's never seen him with so little clothing and even though he's still more than decent according to 21st century Earth standards he looks-naked. Vulnerable. She's not used to seeing him look vulnerable, not the Doctor. He's always been larger than life, ever since she first met him when she was seven years old and he fixed the crack in her wall. He leans against the railing, eyes fixed on the scene before him, and Amy believes that he is old. He doesn't look it, not usually. He's got the face of a twelve year old, practically, although his eyes will give him away. There's a depth to them that she's never seen in anyone else, a depth and an edge that cuts like broken glass. Fine lines crinkle around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. His shoulders are rounded, almost slumped and he looks old and tired and worn.
Amy follows the line of his gaze and blinks. The front of the console room is gone. In its place is what appears to be an exact replica of the kitchen, right down to the vibrant red dish towel that hangs from the oven's handlebar. The floor is the same smooth wood. The cabinets match the floor and the countertops match the red and yellow tile backsplash. The sink is the same: huge and deep and phenomenal for doing dishes, although Amy never has. The TARDIS takes care of it, the Doctor told her, and that was that. The same curtains (gauzy white things that do absolutely nothing to block out light) frame a window that looks out on a field of wildflowers. It's impossible, of course, but it's a nice touch and what on the TARDIS isn't impossible?
Which brings her to the only difference between the kitchen she knows and the kitchen in front of her: there is an unfamiliar woman standing in this kitchen. She's facing away from Amy and doing something with the sink. She might actually be washing dishes, Amy realizes, but that's not important (unless it is-the whole scene is so incongruous that she's not sure). What is important is that she is the one who is singing. The girl's blonde hair hangs down in loose waves just past her shoulders and brushes her baby pink hoodie, which matches, Amy notes with a grin, the girl's fluffy bunny slippers. The image (and it can only be an image) shakes slightly and zooms in closer and a distinctly masculine chuckle drifts through the still air of the console room.
The girl tenses and whirls to face the camera. For a moment Amy freezes because it's all so incredibly real-but then the camera shakes again.
"Git!" the girl cries and flings a dish towel toward the photographer.
"Oi!" the invisible man objects. "Not the hair!"
A wide grin split's the girls face. Her eyes are a rich, chocolate brown and her mouth is just a tad too wide and her jaw just a bit too strong, but when she's smiling she's beautiful. "You daft alien," she says, but affection colors the words, makes them a term of endearment instead of an insult.
"That depends entirely on where you're standing," the man points out. "And besides," he continues, "you love it."
Her expression softens, folds into something warm and tender enough to make Amy's breath catch. "Yeah," the girl murmurs. "I do." The image freezes and the Doctor stretches out a hand, holds it in the air centimeters from the girl's face-and then his shoulders slump and his hand falls to hang limply at his side.
"Bad night?" a soft voice inquires. Amy starts and nearly falls down the stairs. River is leaning against the railing just behind her, curly hair tied back and her arms crossed over her chest. She's wearing a sleek black dressing gown and her wicked blue eyes are sad.
She should ask what the woman is doing here, but Amy has learned to accept River Song at face value. She's always doing the impossible, even for them, and that's saying something. "Bad day," Amy corrects and she can't suppress her shudder. Being sucked underground will give her nightmares, she is sure, and thinking of the Silurian that Elliot killed makes her feel vaguely ill. But-and this confuses her-there is love too, and a strange sort of grief that lodges in her throat when she looks at the bunk beds in her room and the way the girl is smiling in the frozen hologram. "Who is she, River?"
"I don't know," River admits. Amy stares. River has always known, not about a particular person or planet or adventure, but about the Doctor. She knows all of his secrets, especially the ones that make him squirm-or so Amy thought.
River's lips press into a thin line and she will not meet Amy's eyes. "He never mentions her name, but when a day goes wrong, when the universe is cruel and he can't save anyone-he remembers her." They stand in silence for a while, but then River gives her head a sharp shake and plasters on a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Come on, let's have a cuppa. He's going to be a while."
Amy follows the mysterious woman down the hall, but she can't help looking back to the Doctor and the ache tightens in her chest. Something is lost-and it cannot be found.
John Watson is sitting on a couch in the People's Palace, next to the most brilliant man he has ever met; man who is, at the moment, wrapped in a bedsheet. His clothes (shirt, jacket, trousers, socks, and belt) lay in a crisply folded pile on the glass-topped coffee table in front of them. John looks at the clothes, then at his friend, and then back to the clothes.
"Sherlock," he begins. "Are you wearing pants?"
Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and actual five year old rolls his eyes. "No," he replies shortly.
This fails to phase John. After living with the strange, extraordinary man who has become one of his closest friends for a year very little surprises him at all. "Right." He gives his head a bit of a shake. "Okay." He glances around and can't stop an incredulous smirk from flickering across his face.
"What?" Sherlock asks with a sideways glance.
"I'm in the people's palace!" he exclaims. "I dunno, I just wanna steal an ash tray or something." Sherlock snickers at that. "So," John continues once he manages to get his hilarity under control. "Why are we here?"
The door at the end of the room opens with a discrete creak and Mycroft Holmes steps through. "I think we're about to find out," Sherlock comments.
One hilarious argument later (and really the only normal thing about Sherlock is the blistering resentment he feels towards his older brother) and John watches Sherlock peruse a sheaf of-interesting-pictures. A woman features prominently in each of them. She is pretty, in a fierce sort of way. Her long blonde hair falls in soft waves around her face, or is pulled into a tight, severe bun, or isn't blonde or long. Her lips are a deep, vibrant red and her smoky brown eyes stare out boldly, challenging and enticing all in one. She is wearing hardly any clothing-lingerie mostly, soft satin and or tight, smooth leather and there are a few (profile shots through a fabric screen, mostly) where she isn't wearing anything at all. They're the sort of pictures John is used to keeping in a locked folder on his computer or perhaps beneath his mattress, not out in the open and certainly not when others are present.
"Irene Adler," Mycroft remarks as he fiddles with his ever-present brolly. "Known professionally as 'The Woman.' She specializes in, shall we say, recreational scolding." A diffident knock breaks the heavy silence. Mycroft glances up. "Come in," he calls, and a smartly dressed young man enters. He carries a teapot, three coups, and assorted biscuits on a highly polished silver tray. "Ah." The corners of Mycroft's mouth tug up into a passable imitation of a smile. "Thank you, Ianto."
"Sir," the young man acknowledges. He pours the tea with practiced ease, somehow managing to make the motions appear elegant. John doesn't need Sherlock to tell him that the man has had considerable unarmed combat training. There's an awareness that comes with such training and it's written all over his body language.
"Is tea preparation standard Torchwood training?" Sherlock asks, one eyebrow raised.
John frowns. "Torchwood?" He'd pegged Ianto as secret service, MI5 maybe, but Torchwood? Soldiers love to speculate and he'd heard a fair amount of speculation related to the ultra-secret government agency, but that's all it had ever been-speculation. Anything related to Torchwood is beyond classified.
"Ianto is my personal assistant," Mycroft replies mildly.
Sherlock sniffs. "Getting old, are we? Since when do you need an assistant, Mycroft?"
"I do anything and everything that Mr. Holmes requires," Ianto informs them, his face a mask of polite neutrality. "Including make the tea and occasionally bury the bodies." A sharp, synthesized 'beep' interrupts the conversation before Sherlock can formulate a suitable retort. John is absurdly grateful. Sherlock raises snarking to an Olympic sport and Mycroft takes it to the level of art and he really doesn't have the patience to deal with that today. Ianto and Mycroft both check their phones. Mycroft's face twists like he's smelled something foul and Ianto's lips press into a thin line. "Excuse me," he murmurs and withdraws.
Sherlock casts an appraising look at his brother, who rolls his eyes. "He is supremely organized," Mycroft huffs with some irritation. "And the way elections are going-" He snaps his mouth shut.
Sherlock smirks. "Need all the help you can get?" he asks innocently.
"Of course I do," his brother shoots back. "I called you in, didn't I?"
"Yes," John agrees, trying to get the conversation away from whatever Mycroft is doing to manipulate the government and back to why he and Sherlock are in the People's Palace. "Why was that, again?"
"Miss Addler has some compromising photos featuring certain high-ranking government officials." Disapproval and distaste fairly drip from Mycroft's voice. "I would prefer to let them lie in the bed they have made, but the President would like to avoid the-unpleasantness-that will follow."
Mycroft isn't the only one who needs all the help he can get, John knows. The economy is bad, has been since the cyberwar ended. So many resources had been devoted to fighting the remnants of Lumic's twisted creations that once they vanished people were-lost. Confused. Peter Tyler had gotten them through the battles, had been elected President of the People's Republic of Great Britain almost unanimously. Winning the peace, however, is vastly different from winning the war and people aren't taking kindly to Tyler's heavy-handed policies and rigid insistence on obedience. There have been letters in papers, protests, even the whisper of riots.
Sherlock is unmoved. "Pay her, then," he replies with a shrug. "Pay her whatever she's asking."
Mycroft lays his umbrella across his lap. "She hasn't asked for anything."
Sherlock's demeanor shifts abruptly. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and fingers steepled in front of his face. His eyes are unfocused and distant and John knows they are taking the case. Sherlock spends the majority of his time running from boredom. Even his profession, consulting detective, was devised to allow him to remain occupied. John has seen addicts before (Harry has given him a lifetime of experience) and he's familiar with Sherlock's behavior. He's addicted to the adrenaline rush he gets from solving a case and he's brilliant enough that ordinary life isn't enough for him.
"Nothing?" Sherlock demands.
The corner of Mycroft's mouth curls into the barest of smirks. "Absolutely nothing at all. She contacted us, provided proof that the pictures exist, and has done nothing since."
Sherlock stands. "I'll text you tonight," he tells Mycroft, his voice clipped and dry. His eyes narrow, just a tad. John has seen this look so many times; it's the look Sherlock gets when he's running through a case in his head. "Twelve hours should be enough time to retrieve the pictures."
"You'll take it?" Mycroft asks, his expression oddly intent.
"Yes, yes," Sherlock replies, rolling his eyes. "Go back to buying off politicians, or whatever it is you do to keep Peter Tyler in office. It must be positively exhausting."
The text message comes just as she is finishing her breakfast. The nature f her work necessitates an extremely flexible schedule and allows her to indulge her natural propensity for late rising. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement and one she quite enjoys. Rose reaches into the pocket of her dressing gown (her favorite, a screaming red bit of silk that feels lovely against her skin) and pulls out her mobile. It's the same one that the Doctor modified, so many years ago. It was from the future in the first place, which helps because it's only slightly out of date for her present. She should get rid of it-it's a reminder of her old life, a tie to who she was, but she can't bring herself to throw it away. It has pictures of her mum and Mickey on the estate, of the Doctor when he came for Christmas dinner just after he regenerated and of the two of them standing on alien planets beneath alien skies. It's the only thing she has, literally the only thing, and she will not part with it.
"I'm sending you a present," she reads aloud. There's a picture attachment. She opens it, of course. The text is from Ianto and that can mean only one thing: Sherlock Holmes is on the case.
"I don't like this plan," Lois says from across the table. Lois Habiba is many things: friend, confidante, personal assistant, and Rose's contact with the Preachers. She knows that Peter Tyler, like most of the PRGB thinks they're gone, disbanded since the cyberwar ended. He couldn't be more wrong. The Preachers never left, not really. The majority of their members went on to work for Torchwood or returned to their previous life after the last of Lumic's factories went down, but a few remained. Lumic, after all, had been only one man and he had managed to nearly destroy the world. What chaos could Torchwood cause if it went unchecked?
They watched and they waited, and when they saw Peter Tyler, saw what he was becoming-they knew it was time. She had happened on them by chance, really, but she knew they could help her and she most certainly could help them. It has worked out well, their arrangement. She procures information and they help her to infiltrate Torchwood, put her in contact with people who are sympathetic and who can help. Now she has all the pieces at her fingertips, she just needs to know one more detail and then she's free.
"It's the best we've got," she reminds Lois for the thousandth time. Lois does not look convinced, but she sips her tea and allows Rose to study the photos of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and Dr. John Watson. They're not bad looking, either of them. Sherlock is tall and absurdly pale. He's got a long black trench coat that makes her smile and cheekbones sharp enough to cut her if she slapped him. Dr. Watson is shorter, blond, and steady as a rock. His clothing is practical, comfortable, and utilitarian. There's a symmetry between the two of them that makes tears burn in the back of her throat. She remembers what it's like to be one half of a pair.
"There's got to be another way." Lois sets her mug down on the smooth wooden table top.
"We have a deal," Rose reminds the other woman, her voice sharp. "This is part of the deal."
"I'm well aware of that," Lois replies tartly. "Doesn't mean I have to like it." They maintain a stony silence for several seconds, and then Lois sighs. She's always the first to break. Rose has walked across worlds, traveled to places that are impossible and sent the Devil back to hell. She's given her life and been given it back. She doesn't back down. "Be careful," Lois says after a while. "He's slippery and very, very good."
Rose snaps her phone closed and slips it back into her pocket. "So am I."
She chooses her outfit like a painter chooses her brush or a soldier chooses her weapon. She knows how Sherlock works, knows he will be watching her for the smallest clue he can use against her. The success of her plan necessitates that she remain a mystery to him; that she keep him off balance for as long as possible. She needs him dazed and uncertain and intrigued. To that end she tries on dozens of outfits and discards them all. There is a fatal flaw with each and every one, some hint that will show her hand and send him running.
"Bloody hell," Lois grouses as Rose rejects another outfit. "If picking an outfit is this much trouble maybe you shouldn't wear one at all."
Rose pokes her head out of her dressing room. "Say that again," she commands, eyes bright and completely focused on Lois.
"If choosing an outfit is so hard maybe you should just go naked," the other woman repeats.
"That's brilliant!" Rose grins one of her rare, tongue touched grins, the kind she gave out so freely when she traveled with the Doctor. Lois has been her handler through the Preachers for five years. It is the first time she's ever seen the expression.
One hour later her nails have been freshly painted a deep crimson to match her lipstick and the rest of her makeup is immaculate and lightly done; she wants the focus on her mouth, not her eyes. Her hair (still blonde) cascades elegantly over one shoulder and strappy red Louboutins adorn her feet. Rose likes red. It's a hard color, a strong color, the color of love, yes, and also of blood. She's spilled some now, hers others', it doesn't matter. She stares at herself in the mirror and hardly recognizes her reflection. Where is the little girl in love who left bits of herself in the hands of man who could feel the turn of the Earth and the flow of time through the universe? Where is the woman who held her father's hand when he died and had the strength to help the man who made her mother cry? If the Doctor could see her now, as she is, could see everything she has had to do, everything she has had to become-would he still want her?
"Stop that," she tells herself firmly. There is no room for doubts, not now. She's come so far; the only way to go is forward.
The doorbell buzzes and she listens as Lois follows the script they worked out to the letter. He's clever, oh he's clever but he's arrogant too, can't believe that someone (especially, perhaps, a woman) could get the drop on him. Lois shows him into the sitting room and Dr. Watson to the kitchen, ostensibly for a first aid kit. Rose straightens her back and takes a deep breath. Showtime.
She very nearly laughs when she sees him perched in the chair, looking flustered and disheveled and mildly panicked. There's a cut on his cheek and a lovely bruise forming around one eye. He's got a bit of white at his collar to mark him as a vicar and really, it's just too funny. The act falls away, though, when she strides into the room, naked as the day she was born. He's quick, she'll give him that. And he knows when the game is up.
"It's so hard to remember an alias when you've had a fright, isn't it?" she asks with a sympathetic pout. She saunters over, putting extra sway into the movement of her hips. He doesn't look down; his eyes don't even flicker towards her breasts or the place where her thigh meet.
Iron control, this one.
She's broken stronger.
And when she finds the Doctor again-well. He's in for a surprise.
Rose pulls her thoughts back to the present as she reaches down and plucks the little strip of plastic Sherlock has in his collar. She holds it up with a grin, and then lets it fall to the floor. "Now that we're both defrocked," she murmurs and straddles his legs, her hands on his shoulders. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
"Miss Irene Adler, I presume?" The fluster is gone from his voice, but he regards her like she is a poisonous snake poised to strike. She licks her lips.
Dr. Watson chooses that moment to make his appearance, of course. He's carrying a bowl of water and a towel-probably for that cut on Sherlock's face-and so he doesn't realize what he's walked in on until he's halfway to them. When he raises his eyes he stops so suddenly that water sloshes out of the bowl and onto the floor.
"Oh." He says and averts his eyes. Rose cocks an eyebrow and nibbles on her bottom lip. "I've missed something haven't I?"
She climbs off of Sherlock, who looks a bit confused. Good. She needs to keep him on uneven ground. Once he gets his feet under him she'll have to move quickly and there are still a few guests who haven't arrived. "Please," she says with a wave of her hand, "sit down." There is no need to be rude, after all. She folds herself into an armchair, crossing her legs and then her arms over her chest so that she is mostly covered. "If you'd like some tea I can ring the maid," she offers.
"I had some at the palace," Sherlock replies, his voice flat and his eyes narrowed just a tad.
Rose regards him evenly. "I know."
"Clearly," he replies in the same tone, and his eyes narrow further. For several long minutes they remain frozen, weighing each other. Rose tilts her head slightly to the left and Sherlock mimics her. She shifts slightly, flashes just a hint of her breasts and a muscle in his jaw twitches.
"I had tea at the palace too, if anyone's interested," John interjects, just to break the silence. It's working. Her plan is really working. She wants to jump up and down and shriek her joy to the heavens, but she manage to limit herself to a smirk. Sherlock glances between Rose and John and she can almost hear the wheels in his brain turning.
She leans forward and elbow on her knee, head resting on her palm. "Do you know the problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?" He raises one eyebrow and pointedly does not look down. "It's always a self-portrait, no matter how hard you try." She leans back. "It's why I don't bother."
He snorts. "You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?"
"I think you're delusional and believe in a higher power," she snaps back. "In this case-yourself." Sherlock does not reply. Instead he unfastens the top two buttons of his shirt. The fake collar is gone, after all, and there is no reason to keep up pretenses. Rose studies his face and then smiles. "Someone loves you," she remarks. "If I had to punch you I'd avoid your nose and teeth too." She raises and eyebrow and glances back to Dr. Watson for confirmation. He refuses to meet her eyes and his skin is tinged a faint pink.
"Could you put some clothes on, maybe?" he asks with feigned lightness.
"Feeling a bit exposed, Dr. Watson?" she asks archly.
"Anything at all," he continues. "A napkin."
Sherlock stands and removes his coat. "I don't think John knows where to look."
Rose ignores him. He's being boring, after all, but she does love to tease, especially when the subject is so easily flustered. "I think he knows exactly where," she murmurs and sidles closer. Dr. Watson remains rigid in his chair, his eyes fixed on a point just over her left shoulder. She turns after a moment and faces Sherlock. "I'm not so sure about you, though." She lets him settle the coat on her shoulders and memories flood back, memories of other coats (light brown, softer than it looks, smelling of books and ink and dust and a little bit like oranges; and worn leather, still warm from his body, smelling of peppermint aftershave and engine grease).
"If I wanted to look at a naked woman I'd borrow John's lap top," he sniffs and returns to his seat.
"You do borrow my laptop," John points out a bit sharply.
"I confiscate it," Sherlock replies. Watching them is fascinating and she could do it for ages. Something inside her, something she's locked away for its own protection recognizes the flow of their relationship, the effortless sort of pattern they've fallen into. Because being a couple has nothing to do with sexuality and even less to do with sex. It has a very great deal to do with trust and affection and respect and generosity and sacrifice. In her profession she has quite a lot to do with sex, but very little to do with partnership and she remembers a time when it was the other way around.
She laughs, she can't help it. They're delightful to watch and it's making her feel just a bit guilty about what she's going to do (not guilty enough to stop, of course, but it's a shadow of a doubt where none existed before).
"Something funny?" Sherlock asks. He's irritated and it seeps into his voice. Oh, he doesn't take being laughed at well. She catalogues that for future use.
"Just you," she replies and rises from her armchair with sinuous grace. She stalks over to him and lets the coat fall open so that it swirls dramatically behind her. Her red, red lips curve into a lupine grin as she looks him up and down. "I specialize in men like you."
"Men like me?" His eyebrow jerks up and he smirks at her, the very picture of arrogant assurance. "There are no men like me."
Her eyes sharpen and her eyebrow mirrors his. She places on hand on each of the armrests of Sherlock's chair and leans down. His eyes remain firmly fixed on hers, although his head tilts slightly to the side-almost as if he's recalculating. "Damaged, arrogant, emotionally stunted genius with a penchant for trouble and a problem with authority?" she asks, her voice low and breathy. "Mr. Holmes, you were made for me."
He swallows compulsively. She thinks for a moment that this is it-he'll shatter and it will have been so easy and so terribly, terribly disappointing. Really, she was hoping for more of a struggle.
"Hamish!" John exclaims loudly. When they both turn to look at him he shrugs. "In case you were, you know, thinking about baby names."
"We both know you're here for the pictures, Mr. Holmes," she says in her most reasonable tone, "but you're not going to get them." She arches her back, presses her breasts just a bit closer to him. "Why don't we have a little fun, make it so your visit wasn't completely wasted?"
"Sure of that, are you?" he asks with the sudden flash of a grin.
"Positive," she replies, her voice making the word absolutely filthy.
He leans in towards her, so close that she can feel the warmth of his breath against the shell of her ear. "I am going to leave with the pictures-and you're going to give them to me."
Part Three