The Woman (4/7)
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! I got the transcripts of 'A Scandal in Belgravia' from Callie Sullivan. :D Thanks so much for making this story possible! Well, possible without me having to go back and watch that episode FIFTY BAZILLION TIMES. Also this story just keeps getting longer! But part 5 is the last part I SWEAR.
Summary: She is 'the woman' to both of them.
Part One Part Two Part Three
The first time John Watson met Mycroft Holmes he thought the man was some sort of criminal mastermind. In his defense, instead of calling him on his mobile like a normal person Sherlock's older brother made the payphones near John ring, and then proceeded to demonstrate that he could manipulate the security cameras nearby, and then had an anonymous car pull up next to him. And then told John to get into said car. As if those actions didn't scream 'criminal mastermind' loud enough the car went to an unoccupied warehouse and Mycroft proceeded to threaten John, and to attempt to bribe him to spy on Sherlock. He found out later, of course, that the strange man was actually Sherlock's older, estranged brother (and apparently the man who runs the government, but that's neither here nor there).
It's been over a year since that first meeting and a few days since Irene's death. Sherlock has not taken it well. John thought it was cute at first, that he had some sort of crush on the strange, dangerous woman but it ceased to be cute the moment Sherlock stepped into the morgue to identify her body. John is no stranger to grief. He's lost friends, comrades, in Afghanistan and he's lost his mother and father to cancer and the slow decay of age. He's seen what grief can do to a person-how it can eat them from the inside out and sometimes how it can kill them as well. So he tries to talk to Sherlock, to assess his mental status. Sherlock steadfastly refuses to admit that anything is wrong.
It's a lie, and John knows that. Sherlock picks at his food, broods for hours, studies the phone that Irene sent to him (and how did she get it onto the mantelpiece? Did she break into their flat) and composes achingly sad music. John wonders if this is his first experience with such a personal casualty. People say that he's heartless, that he's a sociopath (Sally Donovan, Anderson, and so many others), but John has never disagreed with them more. Sherlock can be cold, calculating, and downright cruel-but not heartless.
The car stops, and the attractive black woman next to John opens the door and steps out. He's given up trying to get close to any of the apparently numerous women Mycroft employs. Anthea, or whatever her name actually was, stomped out that desire, although this one gives him an appraising look as she gestures for John to follow her. His mouth quirks into an annoyed half-grin and his eyebrow rockets up. First an empty warehouse, and now Battersea Power Station. It's abandoned, but still imposing and he sighs.
"You know," he remarks to the woman when he catches up to her. "We could just meet in a café. Sherlock doesn't follow me everywhere." The woman throws him a look like's he's dribbled on his shirt but says nothing. John finds the silence somewhat oppressive in the still air of the empty building. Enormous machines jut out into the walkways, frozen and rusty with disuse. "Mycroft could just phone me," he tells her after they squeeze through a particularly small space. "He could, if he didn't have this bloody great power complex." Still she says nothing.
When she finally does speak she stops suddenly and John almost runs straight into her. "Through there," the woman says softly and gestures at an open door just in front of them.
John gives her a dirty look. "Ta," he sniffs and walks in. It's another room, empty except for the vast machines that haven't yet been salvaged. He doesn't see the woman cradle her phone against her cheek.
"You're right," Lois says with a bit of a grin. "He thinks it's Mycroft."
John strides out into the room, scanning for any sign of another occupant. He's tired of puzzles, of the complicated games the Holmes brothers play with each other. Their relationship is so damn dysfunctional that it works, somehow, except in a crisis. Unfortunately Sherlock's line of work means there's a crisis almost every night.
"He doesn't eat," John informs the walls, " and he hardly sleeps. He barely talks-just to correct the television-and he's writing sad music. If he wasn't Sherlock Holmes I'd say he was heart-broken, but he does all of that anyway."
A series of soft 'clicks' echo through the room and John frowns, because men's shoes don't sound like that and they are definitely footsteps. A petite figure wrapped in a long, faun colored coat steps out from behind one of the machines and for a moment John can only stare. A dead woman is standing in front of him. Irene's blonde hair is pulled up and hidden beneath a large, floppy black hat. Her makeup is subdued, like her dress, but her shoes are the same screaming red strappy pumps he remembers. It's that jarring sameness that pulls him out of his shock.
"Hello, Dr. Watson." Her voice echoes off the steel and concrete that surrounds them.
"Tell him you're alive." There's no question in his voice, no pleading. It's polite, but still a command.
She shakes her head. "He'll come after me."
His lips curve up, just the hint of a sad smile. "I'll come after you if you don't."
Irene regards him for a moment, and he feels strangely naked. He did then too, he remembers, when she was wearing nothing but those shoes and a red, red smile. She looks at him like she knows him, like she can pry open his mind and shake it until all the thoughts fall out, like he's a puzzle and she's got him all figured out. "I believe you," she says finally.
And then John's mind catches up to the rest of him and he's suddenly angry. "Hold on." His lips press close as he regards her through slightly narrowed eyes. "You were dead. He went down to the morgue to identify your body and that was definitely you on the slab."
She drags one perfectly manicured red nail over the rough concrete of the window ledge next to her. "DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep," she reminds him.
"And I bet you know the record-keeper," he sneers and there's the faintest suggestion of whore in the way his lips twist.
Irene simply shrugs. She's used to the things that people say, and she's really stopped caring. Escort, hooker, prostitute, whore-that's all semantics, and she's tired of those sort of games. "I know what he likes," she agrees. "And I needed to disappear."
"So you look me up?" he demands. "Funny way of disappearing that is!"
She stops. "Look. I made a mistake. I left something with Sherlock for safe keeping and now I need it back. I need your help." She steps forward, her expression intent. "It's dangerous, John, for anyone who has it."
"Even you?" he asks and reminds himself that he's not going to let her distract him.
Her mouth curve into a small smile, the sort that hints at secrets. "Especially for me, but I can handle it." She tries a different track. "It's for his own safety."
"So's this." John's voice is hard and unrelenting. "Tell him you're alive."
There's a flinch, just for a moment, but he thinks he sees her careful façade crack. There's regret in her eyes and grief in the twist of her lips. "I can't."
And the anger is back. John turns away from her, his shoulders tense and his hands clenched into fists. "Then I'll tell him," he snaps back at her, "and I still won't help you." He takes three steps before her voice makes him pause.
"What do I say?" She sounds tired, maybe a bit resigned.
He's still angry. "What do you normally say? You've been texting him a lot."
Irene shrugs again. "Just the usual stuff."
John shakes his head. "This is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about-there is no usual."
She reaches into the pocket of her trench coat and pulls out another phone. It's similar to the Sherlock pulled from the mantelpiece of their flat, but not quite the same. John's never seen a phone exactly like hers. It's thin and sleek and white, with silver sides and a touchscreen and a strange logo-a shiny silver apple with a bite out of it-on the back. This one is based on Lumic's early work, before the ear-pieces and his madness. Her fingers dance across the screen and then she speaks. "Good morning. I like your funny hat. I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner." John stares at her and his jaw is two point oh seconds from hitting the floor. "You looked sexy on 'Crimewatch.' Let's have dinner. I'm not hungry; let's have dinner. I bought a new dress-let's have dinner." She cocks an eyebrow at him expectantly.
"You flirted with Sherlock Holmes?" John asks when he can find his voice again.
Irene's lips quirk. "I flirted at him," she corrects. "He never replied.
John shakes his head. "No, no that's not right. He always replies. He'll outlive god trying to get the last word."
She tilts her head to the side. It's adorable and a bit wistful and John has to remind himself very firmly that everything about this woman is artificial, designed to please. "Does that make me special?" she asks.
He shrugs, because god only knows what goes on in Sherlock's head, and he isn't telling. "No idea."
A smile ghosts across her lips. "Does that make you jealous?"
"For the love of-" he practically growls, and then he throws his hands up. "We aren't a couple!"
"Yes you are," she shoots back. She types something on the phone and then holds it out for John to see. "There: I'm not dead. Let's have dinner." Her thumb presses down firmly on the screen and a soft 'ping' reverberates through the room.
John regards her for a moment, watches her slip the phone back into her pocket and straighten her hat so that the white gardenia blossom tucked into the black ribbon peeks out at him over the floppy brim. "Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes," he says after a moment. "But for the record, I'm not gay."
She shrugs. "I never said you were." A strand of blonde hair slips out from beneath her hat and she brushes it back behind her ear. "Sex has very little to do with coupling, even though people use the words like they're interchangeable. Sex is about a lot of things: attraction, power, possession, fun, pleasure, and sometimes a bit of pain. Being part of a couple is about trust."
A breathy moan drifts out from somewhere behind the hulking machines. Understanding drains the blood from John's face and he starts forward, but Irene stretches out a hand and holds him back. "Not yet," she murmurs. "Let him go."
Hours later-after John has finally made his way back to Baker Street only to discover the remains of a foiled hostage situation (the Americans came back, apparently, with a vengeance. John could have told them that knocking Mrs. Hudson about was absolutely the worst thing they could have done to gain Sherlock's cooperation-but then no one asked him), he sits in his chair watching Sherlock stare out of the window at the people milling about below. It's New Year's eve and the symbolism of it all isn't lost on him-new beginnings, celebration, but his friend is remarkably blasé about the whole affair.
"Where is it now?" he asks. The phone is a safe topic and Irene's rebirth may not be.
Sherlock hefts his violin with one hand and picks up the bow from its place on his chair. "Where no one will look."
"There's more on there than pictures," John comments as Sherlock turns back to the window.
He raises the violin to his shoulder and his fingers twitch on the strings. "Yes, I know."
John lets him fiddle with the strings as he checks the instrument's pitch. "She's alive then." He catches the fleeting smile that curves Sherlock's lips. "How are we feeling about that?"
As always, nothing can make Sherlock Holmes answer a question he does not wish to answer. "Happy New Year, John," he says instead and sets the bow against the strings.
John gives him a look that says, quite plainly, that he is not convinced. "D'you think we'll be seeing her again?"
Sherlock, apparently tired of this line of questioning, pulls the bow across the taut strings with a flourish and the opening bars of 'Auld Lang Syne' ring through the flat. He raises an eyebrow pointedly at John, who holds up his hands in surrender. After the song is finished and John has gone out to see Harry for Christmas Sherlock pulls his mobile out of his suit jacket pocket. He studies the screen for a moment, and then types out a short message. His thumb hovers over the screen-and then a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He presses send.
Rose is curled up on the window seat of her tiny temporary flat when her pocket buzzes insistently. She sets her mug of hot cocoa down on the windowsill and flicks a finger over the screen. A bouncing icon informs her that she has a new text message.
Happy New Year-S.H.
Rose smiles.
Months pass. A few interesting cases find their way to Sherlock Holmes: there's the millionaire who moonlighted as a beggar (and made a decent living until he was discovered by his wife and faked his own death) and the bizarre Society for the Protection of Gingers (which turned out to be a hoax to the great disappointment of the man whose flat was conveniently located for a robbery). They pique Sherlock's interest, but the knowledge that Irene Adler is alive and well throws a pall over everything. Sherlock pours over her phone, spends hours in the lab analyzing it and comes up with almost nothing. He can't break her password (he's tried, and it's not 221B) and he can't force it open to get at the data card-four conveniently placed microexpolosives will detonate if the casing is disturbed.
Sherlock paces the length of their sitting room. It's storming outside and the weather seems to echo his mood. Irene's phone lies on the coffee table between him and John. "Why did she send it here?" he mutters and runs a hand through his disheveled hair. "She likes to play games, she loves them, and she sent it here."
"Maybe she was telling the truth," John offers. "Maybe she thought it would be safe with you."
Sherlock shakes his head. "There's more to it than that, there has to be. But what?"
John is more surprised than Sherlock when Irene turns up in their flat-in Sherlock's bed. She's disheveled and exhausted and there are lines around her eyes and the corner of her mouth that weren't there the last time they spoke. She looks-worn and strangely vulnerable without the fine layer of makeup that hid her from the world. Sherlock is already out in the hall, and John follows, closing the door softly behind him.
After she's rested and changed (and wearing Sherlock's dressing-gown) Irene perches in Sherlock's chair. John sits across from her, like he always does when they have a client and Sherlock paces behind her. John doesn't miss the way her eyes slide from side to side, following his restless movements, or the way her shoulders tense just a hair whenever he's directly behind her. She's on edge, running scared, and how bad would something have to be to frighten her?
Sherlock begins the questioning. "So, who's after you?"
Irene raises an eyebrow. "People who want to kill me."
Sherlock leans over her shoulder. "Who's that, then?"
She twists her head and gives him a look like he's dribbled on his shirt. "Killers."
"It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific," John drawls.
"I'll give you a hint," Irene replies in the same lazy, sarcastic tone he used. "You've met their boss before, charming man by the name of Moriarty. Ring any bells?"
Sherlock has resumed pacing. "So you faked your death to get ahead of them."
Irene shrugs. "It worked for a while."
"Not as long as you hoped," Sherlock interjects. "All this time you've had plans upon plans-but they caught you out."
Irene pulls her knees up under her chin and wraps her arms around her legs. "They found me. I had a safehouse prepared in the event that one of my clients became-belligerent." She worries her bottom lip with her teeth. "They killed Lois, nearly killed me."
"Lois?" John asks.
"My friend," she clarifies. "You met her." Anger lends and edge to her voice but Sherlock disregards it, as usual.
"If it was working why did you break cover?" he asks. "You let John know your secret, and through him, me."
Irene flashes him a coquettish smile. "I knew you'd keep my secret, and you did." Sherlock remains silent and she shifts impatiently, curling her legs beneath her. "Where's my phone? You didn't lose it, did you?"
"It's not here," John scoffs. "D'you think we're stupid?"
Irene leans forward. "Then what've you done with it? If they've guessed you have it they'll be watching you."
"If they've been watching me they'll know I took out a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago." Sherlock dismisses her concern with a sniff.
She narrows her eyes at him. "I need it."
John, of course, lays out a very clever plan to get the phone from the bank on the Strand back to Baker Street with none the wiser-but he's neatly derailed when Sherlock pulls the phone from his jacket pocket. John noticeably deflates as Sherlock deposits the phone in Irene's hands. She angles the screen away from him and types in four numbers. The phone beeps at her and her forehead creases as she frowns. "It's not working."
Sherlock swoops down and plucks it from her hands. "Of course not." He fairly radiates smug. "It's a copy I had made, to which you have just entered 1058." From his other pocket he pulls the real phone and taps the screen four times.
The phone beeps at him and it's his turn to frown. 'Wrong passcode,' the screen reads. 'One attempt remaining.'
Irene holds out her hand. "That phone is my life," she reiterates. "I know when it's in my hand." She watches him expectantly, one eyebrow raised. For a long moment Sherlock stares back at her, and then grudgingly hands over the phone. Her fingers glide along the back of his as she accepts it and John rolls his eyes. Honestly-it's like teenagers all over again. He wonders for a brief moment if anyone has ever given Sherlock Holmes 'the talk' and fervently hopes that task won't fall to him.
"You're rather good," Sherlock admits and John covers a grin with his hand. Yes, exactly like teenagers.
"You're not so bad yourself," Irene replies with her tongue caught between her teeth. Her fingers flick across the screen and the phone chirps. "There was this man," she continues as she taps the phone impatiently. "Torchwood agent. I know what he likes-and part of that is showing off. He had this email, said it was going to save the world. He didn't know it, he was a bit distracted at the time, but I photographed it." She hands Sherlock the phone and stands, wrapping her arms around herself as if she is cold. "It's a bit small on that screen, can you read it?"
Sherlock sits almost absently and studies the screen. His eyes flicker over the message almost faster than John can follow and then he lifts his gaze to a spot on the wall just above the edge of the phone. John cranes his neck and frowns. The message, what little of it Irene captured, is a string of numbers interspersed at random intervals by a color (spelled out) in the first line. The second line is another string of numbers, but this time interspersed with letters at seemingly random intervals.
"It's a code, obviously." Irene leans over his shoulder so that her lips are centimeters from his ear. "I had one of the best cryptographers in the country look at it-of course, he was mostly upside down at the time-but he couldn't crack it." Her lips nearly brush the shell of Sherlock's ear and John looks away, fighting a blush. Her blatant sexuality is-unnerving. "What can you do, Mr. Holmes?" she continues, her voice a low murmur.
"Oh, it's quite simple really," Sherlock replies with a hint of a smile and more smug satisfaction than even a cat could manage.
"Of course it is," John mutters under his breath.
The Doctor is a genius; Amelia Pond knows this. He understands things that she can't even begin to grasp and has probably forgotten more than she will ever learn. He can hold up to five conversations simultaneously and out-think a super computer (he can also out-talk a member of Parliament but that's an entirely different story). She's seen him proved right so many times that she occasionally forgets that he can be wrong-completely, glaringly wrong.
He was wrong today. He was wrong about the monster they were hunting; it wasn't a monster at all. It was blind and alone, abandoned by its pack. It was frightened and lonely and lashing out. And Vincent could see it. He looked at the world in such a different way that he saw the invisible. But they couldn't save the monster-they understood too late and it was already dying-and they couldn't save Vincent either. Amy thought that going to the future, that seeing how beloved he would be might help him fight off the depression that eventually claimed his life.
It didn't. He died on the same day, in the same way, as he had before. "Did it matter?" she asks the Doctor as they stand in the Musee d'Orsay, surrounded by people studying the beautiful paintings that hang on the walls. "Did anything we did matter?"
The Doctor takes her hand. His palm is cool and dry, as always, and there's something vaguely paternal about the way he gives it a squeeze. "Of course it mattered," he replies softly. "The way I look at it, Amy, life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don't make the bad things go away-but then the bad things don't negate the good things." He gives her a lopsided smile. "And I think we definitely added to his pile of good things."
A painting of sunflowers in a ceramic vase catches her eye, and she can't help but smile. 'For Amy' is painted along the curve of the vase. "Yeah," she says softly, tears still damp on her cheeks. "You're right." She wipes her hand across her face and chuckles weakly. "You know, if I'd said yes and we did get married, our children would have had the reddest hair."
"The ultimate ginger," the Doctor agrees with a smile of his own. "Now come along, Pond. Back to the TARDIS."
"That painting," Amelia asks after the doors have shut behind her and the Doctor has taken them into the Vortex. "What did you do with it?"
He stiffens. "Oh, it's around here somewhere. Couldn't let him keep it, you see. She's wearing twenty-first century clothing and that would muck up the time lines something fierce."
"Who was she?" Amy asks more out of habit than anything. Experience has taught her that the Doctor will tell her eventually, but not before he's good and ready. Still, it won't do to let him get complacent and think he can just hide things from her whenever he feels like it.
"You know," the Doctor says brightly, "there's a plasma storm brewing in the horsehead nebula. It happens every so often-fires burning in space a thousand miles wide. The TARDIS can ride them like waves on the ocean and we could end up anywhere." He grins at her and Amy knows that he will not answer her question. "Fancy a go?"
John wakes in the middle of the night. The flat is old and strange and he thinks there's something wrong with the vents: sometimes he can hear Mrs. Hudson watching her soaps downstairs and other times he catches snatches of the couple in the adjacent flat arguing (loudly). It's voices this time, soft enough so that he can't quite make out what they're saying, but it's a woman (Irene) and a man (not Sherlock). The hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. There's something definitely off about this.
He creeps down the stairs as quietly as he can; he skips the fifth stair (it always creaks) and nearly trips over the brolly Sherlock left leaning against the wall. He manages to catch it before it tumbles the rest of the way down and lets the whole bloody flat know he's awake, but it's a near thing. Thankfully it's the only slip-up he makes. The voices are clearer, though still soft, and it's definitely Irene. The man is-Welsh? John leans against the wall just outside the sitting room and listens.
"You're sure?" the man asks.
"Completely," Irene responds. "You should have seen him crack it, Ianto. He's a genius." She pauses. "And he was telling the truth. His solution matches up perfectly."
John is so focused on the two in the sitting room that he doesn't notice the woman guarding the door. A gloved hand clamps over his mouth and his reflexes-still sharp from working (and living) with Sherlock kick in-but the woman is good, whoever she is, and she holds fast.
"Ianto," she calls softly, her voice pitched low. "We've got a visitor."
Mycroft's assistant steps into the hall. His three piece suit is immaculate, as it was when they first met, but his expression is stern and forbidding and John thinks he can spot the bulge of a gun in the jacket pocket. Irene follows Ianto; she's changed into dark jeans and a jumper and there's a gun strapped to her side. John's eyes widen.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson." Just for a moment her mask slips, and he believes her. "I really am, but we can't let you run off and tell Sherlock." There's a biting pain in his arm and the world starts to blur around him. His head feels heavy, so heavy, and holding it up is far too much effort. He hears her voice as if from a great distance: "Take him back to bed. We have work to do."
Seven hours later John Watson feels like he's been hit by a bus. His head is pounding, his mouth tastes like something crawled in it and died, and he's got a lovely set of bruises on his arm and side. For a moment he wonders how drunk he was last night-but then his mind catches up with his body and he nearly falls out of bed. She drugged him! And what 'work' were they talking about, exactly? He stands too quickly and the world is spinning for a moment but he forces past it. She's up to something, something dangerous, and he'll be damned if he lets her get away with it.
Sherlock stands in front of the window, his violin propped on his chair and the bow next to it. People scurry back and forth in the street below like so many rats, going to work or school or the shop. So many of them will live out their miserable, tiny lives without ever even glimpsing the stage they occupy: the board of the great game. There are innumerable players, though behind everything-every murder and robbery and blackmail, there's really only one: Moriarty. That's an oversimplification, of course, but Sherlock likes the symmetry. He has one true opponent; the others of are no consequence-or so he thought.
His hands are clasped loosely behind his back and his dressing gown hangs open. Her subtle fragrance hangs about it, cloaks him and clouds his senses. Wearing something that so recently covered her is intimate in ways he has never bothered to imagine. John barges into the room behind him and Sherlock remains impassive. He stares out at the people but he doesn't see them-he sees her. She is a mystery, a puzzle when so many people are obvious and boring. She's bested him once and now, now he fears she's used him. But that doesn't make sense, because he checked, and-
"Sherlock!" John's voice rings through the flat and he has to stop himself from reminding his friend that his ears work just fine. "It's Irene," John continues, slightly breathless. He's just woken. His reflection in the window is clothed, but his shoes are absent. John wears shoes constantly; he'd never start the day properly without them.
"She's gone," Sherlock interrupts and gestures to the table. He's poured over the note so many times, analyzed it for any possible hint of her plans. He can recite it from memory, not that she said much at all.
Two words-I'm sorry-and a kiss. Written on Torchwood stationary with a black gel pen that was borrowed; it ran dry once and spotted the paper twice. Irene is precise in everything she does; she'd never let her pen get into that condition. He found it when he woke this morning, in the pocket of his dressing gown. All of her things are gone as well, including her phone. The only sign of her presence is the lingering scent of her perfume on his dressing gown.
A loud knock on the door startles John. Sherlock is not surprised. He's been expecting this ever since he discovered Irene's absence. He lets the dressing gown fall to the floor and reaches for his suit jacket. "Get your shoes, John," he tells his friend. "We're going on a trip."
Torchwood is nothing like John thought it would be, on the outside, at least. One Canada Square-Canary Wharf, the home of Torchwood London-is a public fixture. He's passed it hundreds of times without even considering that a top-secret government organization could be housed within the charmingly bland walls. The agent-Sherlock didn't bother to get his name and John is a bit distracted by his head, which still aches-leads them in silence. They get a few curious looks but their guide's clearance level and general demeanor (distinctly not pleased) keep people away.
Sherlock's eyes flick to the walls and John follows his gaze. Each corridor features a colored stripe approximately two-thirds of the way to the ceiling. As they walk John marks the colors-and realizes that he's seen this combination before: on Irene's phone. It wasn't a code that Sherlock was breaking, it was a map and he laid it out for her like a Christmas present.
Their destination is a door twenty-three floors and innumerable corridors from the entrance. The agent knocks on the door lightly, and then opens it and motions for John and Sherlock to step through. He shuts it firmly behind them and the harsh scrape of the lock sliding into place is loud in the silent room. It's cavernous and filled to bursting with strange artifacts. Computer terminals line one wall, and in the center is a table, on which sits some sort of machine. It's nothing like John has ever seen before. Strange designs in neat rows appear next to slots and buttons. A thick cord leads to the wall and a series of lights blink out in a seemingly random pattern. Sherlock gives it a cursory glance, and then turns his attention to the computers. The screens are blank, and when he tries to elicit a response from one nothing happens.
"This was going to save the world." Mycroft materializes from the other end of the room. He swings his brolly idly as he meanders towards them. His face is drawn and his voice is tired. He looks older than John has ever seen him.
Sherlock presses more buttons, but again, nothing happens. "What is it?" he asks, still focused on the terminal in front of him.
"A way to quell riots without the use of gas or rubber bullets." Mycroft runs a hand over the machine's metal casing. "A way to ensure that the correct leader would be elected without having to rely on the capricious whims of the 'unwashed masses.' A way to end suffering and war across the globe. At least, that's what it was." His lips twist in a sneer. "Now it's so much scrap."
John frowns. "How?"
"Mind control." A familiar voice echoes from behind Mycroft and Sherlock flinches so slightly that John would have missed it if he hadn't been looking at the man. Mycroft's shoulders slump as Irene steps out of the shadows. She's wearing the same dark jeans and jumper that she had been when John caught her and Ianto together and her long blonde hair was pulled back from her face in a tight braid. There is something, though, something different about her voice. It's rougher than John is used to hearing, and there's just a bit of South London peeking through the cultured accent she apparently had affected.
Sherlock scoffs. "There's no such thing."
"Didn't you wonder why no one brought up ousting President Tyler?" she drawls. "The economy's in the rubbish bin, inflation is rampant, unemployment is at fifteen percent, and yet Pete Tyler is unassailable." She catches her tongue between her teeth as she regards him. "You're clever, Sherlock, I know you are, too clever to let your prejudices blind you, although-" she casts a meaningful glance back at Mycroft. "Maybe not."
"Yes," Sherlock's brother replies and clears his throat. "It appears I underestimated you, miss Tyler."
"Hold on." John raises a hand. "Who?"
"You didn't think my name was really Irene Adler?" she asks.
Mycroft throws a thick manila file onto the table housing the machine. "Rose Marion Tyler." He bites off the end of each word. "Born to Pete and Jackie Tyler in 1987-in another universe."
John glances back and forth between the two of them. "This is a joke." Mycroft remains impassive and Irene-Rose-raises one eyebrow. "This has to be a joke."
"I'm afraid it's not." Sherlock's gaze is fixed on the wall, but his eyes are dreamy and unfocused and John knows he's not really seeing anything in front of him. "You appeared out of nowhere five years ago with Jackie Tyler, who was presumed dead in the first onslaught of Lumic's Cybermen, and some story about being a long-lost child." He shakes his head, and when he speaks again his voice is low and bitter and mocking. "Oh, you played me for a fool. Well done, miss Tyler. I knew that love was a dangerous disadvantage-thank you for giving me the final proof."
Mycroft places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. For a moment John thinks his friend will shrug away-but he doesn't. "I sent you into her path. I didn't know. I'm sorry."
"That's not the end of it." They turn back to Irene-Rose, who flips her phone casually, one hand on her hip. "I've got all of Torchwood's secrets on this phone, every single one. Proof of Pete's alliance with New Germany and Czecoslovenia and bits about the Cyberwar that'll leave you with a revolution on your hands, and with that thing down you've got no way to stop it."
A muscle in Mycroft's jaw twitches. "Name your price, Miss Tyler."
"All right." She catches the phone deftly after one final flip and slides it into her pocket. "I want the dimension cannon. The original prototype and all of the files wiped from Tochwood's computer system and every copy but one destroyed."
"No." Mycroft's answer is hard and immediate. "The damage that technology is capable of could rip apart the universe."
She shrugs. "Alright, I tried. You'll want to watch the news for the next few days. I've got it on good authority that it'll be quite a show."
Rose turns to leave, but Sherlock's voice stops her. "Did Moriarty put you up to this?"
She laughs. "Mr. Holmes, do you really think I need a man to make me dangerous? Besides…" The smile fades. "I know madness when I see it. Watch out for him He isn't all there."
"I hate to suggest this," and the dryness of Mycroft's tone belies his words, "but we have ways of making you talk."
"Can you trust them?" she shoots back. "Stretch me out on the rack, cut me open if you like, but you're not getting that code. It will take more than torture to break me, Mr. Holmes. And you can try to break into my phone, if you like. I let Sherlock Holmes have it for six months and he's gotten nowhere, but you're welcome to try. Of course if you input the wrong code one more time it will explode and destroy the memory card."
Mycroft glances to Sherlock, who nods. "All I want," Rose presses on, "is the cannon. All I want, Mr. Holmes, is to go home."
Part Five
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! I got the transcripts of 'A Scandal in Belgravia' from Callie Sullivan. :D Thanks so much for making this story possible! Well, possible without me having to go back and watch that episode FIFTY BAZILLION TIMES. Also this story just keeps getting longer! But part 5 is the last part I SWEAR.
Summary: She is 'the woman' to both of them.
Part One Part Two Part Three
The first time John Watson met Mycroft Holmes he thought the man was some sort of criminal mastermind. In his defense, instead of calling him on his mobile like a normal person Sherlock's older brother made the payphones near John ring, and then proceeded to demonstrate that he could manipulate the security cameras nearby, and then had an anonymous car pull up next to him. And then told John to get into said car. As if those actions didn't scream 'criminal mastermind' loud enough the car went to an unoccupied warehouse and Mycroft proceeded to threaten John, and to attempt to bribe him to spy on Sherlock. He found out later, of course, that the strange man was actually Sherlock's older, estranged brother (and apparently the man who runs the government, but that's neither here nor there).
It's been over a year since that first meeting and a few days since Irene's death. Sherlock has not taken it well. John thought it was cute at first, that he had some sort of crush on the strange, dangerous woman but it ceased to be cute the moment Sherlock stepped into the morgue to identify her body. John is no stranger to grief. He's lost friends, comrades, in Afghanistan and he's lost his mother and father to cancer and the slow decay of age. He's seen what grief can do to a person-how it can eat them from the inside out and sometimes how it can kill them as well. So he tries to talk to Sherlock, to assess his mental status. Sherlock steadfastly refuses to admit that anything is wrong.
It's a lie, and John knows that. Sherlock picks at his food, broods for hours, studies the phone that Irene sent to him (and how did she get it onto the mantelpiece? Did she break into their flat) and composes achingly sad music. John wonders if this is his first experience with such a personal casualty. People say that he's heartless, that he's a sociopath (Sally Donovan, Anderson, and so many others), but John has never disagreed with them more. Sherlock can be cold, calculating, and downright cruel-but not heartless.
The car stops, and the attractive black woman next to John opens the door and steps out. He's given up trying to get close to any of the apparently numerous women Mycroft employs. Anthea, or whatever her name actually was, stomped out that desire, although this one gives him an appraising look as she gestures for John to follow her. His mouth quirks into an annoyed half-grin and his eyebrow rockets up. First an empty warehouse, and now Battersea Power Station. It's abandoned, but still imposing and he sighs.
"You know," he remarks to the woman when he catches up to her. "We could just meet in a café. Sherlock doesn't follow me everywhere." The woman throws him a look like's he's dribbled on his shirt but says nothing. John finds the silence somewhat oppressive in the still air of the empty building. Enormous machines jut out into the walkways, frozen and rusty with disuse. "Mycroft could just phone me," he tells her after they squeeze through a particularly small space. "He could, if he didn't have this bloody great power complex." Still she says nothing.
When she finally does speak she stops suddenly and John almost runs straight into her. "Through there," the woman says softly and gestures at an open door just in front of them.
John gives her a dirty look. "Ta," he sniffs and walks in. It's another room, empty except for the vast machines that haven't yet been salvaged. He doesn't see the woman cradle her phone against her cheek.
"You're right," Lois says with a bit of a grin. "He thinks it's Mycroft."
John strides out into the room, scanning for any sign of another occupant. He's tired of puzzles, of the complicated games the Holmes brothers play with each other. Their relationship is so damn dysfunctional that it works, somehow, except in a crisis. Unfortunately Sherlock's line of work means there's a crisis almost every night.
"He doesn't eat," John informs the walls, " and he hardly sleeps. He barely talks-just to correct the television-and he's writing sad music. If he wasn't Sherlock Holmes I'd say he was heart-broken, but he does all of that anyway."
A series of soft 'clicks' echo through the room and John frowns, because men's shoes don't sound like that and they are definitely footsteps. A petite figure wrapped in a long, faun colored coat steps out from behind one of the machines and for a moment John can only stare. A dead woman is standing in front of him. Irene's blonde hair is pulled up and hidden beneath a large, floppy black hat. Her makeup is subdued, like her dress, but her shoes are the same screaming red strappy pumps he remembers. It's that jarring sameness that pulls him out of his shock.
"Hello, Dr. Watson." Her voice echoes off the steel and concrete that surrounds them.
"Tell him you're alive." There's no question in his voice, no pleading. It's polite, but still a command.
She shakes her head. "He'll come after me."
His lips curve up, just the hint of a sad smile. "I'll come after you if you don't."
Irene regards him for a moment, and he feels strangely naked. He did then too, he remembers, when she was wearing nothing but those shoes and a red, red smile. She looks at him like she knows him, like she can pry open his mind and shake it until all the thoughts fall out, like he's a puzzle and she's got him all figured out. "I believe you," she says finally.
And then John's mind catches up to the rest of him and he's suddenly angry. "Hold on." His lips press close as he regards her through slightly narrowed eyes. "You were dead. He went down to the morgue to identify your body and that was definitely you on the slab."
She drags one perfectly manicured red nail over the rough concrete of the window ledge next to her. "DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep," she reminds him.
"And I bet you know the record-keeper," he sneers and there's the faintest suggestion of whore in the way his lips twist.
Irene simply shrugs. She's used to the things that people say, and she's really stopped caring. Escort, hooker, prostitute, whore-that's all semantics, and she's tired of those sort of games. "I know what he likes," she agrees. "And I needed to disappear."
"So you look me up?" he demands. "Funny way of disappearing that is!"
She stops. "Look. I made a mistake. I left something with Sherlock for safe keeping and now I need it back. I need your help." She steps forward, her expression intent. "It's dangerous, John, for anyone who has it."
"Even you?" he asks and reminds himself that he's not going to let her distract him.
Her mouth curve into a small smile, the sort that hints at secrets. "Especially for me, but I can handle it." She tries a different track. "It's for his own safety."
"So's this." John's voice is hard and unrelenting. "Tell him you're alive."
There's a flinch, just for a moment, but he thinks he sees her careful façade crack. There's regret in her eyes and grief in the twist of her lips. "I can't."
And the anger is back. John turns away from her, his shoulders tense and his hands clenched into fists. "Then I'll tell him," he snaps back at her, "and I still won't help you." He takes three steps before her voice makes him pause.
"What do I say?" She sounds tired, maybe a bit resigned.
He's still angry. "What do you normally say? You've been texting him a lot."
Irene shrugs again. "Just the usual stuff."
John shakes his head. "This is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about-there is no usual."
She reaches into the pocket of her trench coat and pulls out another phone. It's similar to the Sherlock pulled from the mantelpiece of their flat, but not quite the same. John's never seen a phone exactly like hers. It's thin and sleek and white, with silver sides and a touchscreen and a strange logo-a shiny silver apple with a bite out of it-on the back. This one is based on Lumic's early work, before the ear-pieces and his madness. Her fingers dance across the screen and then she speaks. "Good morning. I like your funny hat. I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner." John stares at her and his jaw is two point oh seconds from hitting the floor. "You looked sexy on 'Crimewatch.' Let's have dinner. I'm not hungry; let's have dinner. I bought a new dress-let's have dinner." She cocks an eyebrow at him expectantly.
"You flirted with Sherlock Holmes?" John asks when he can find his voice again.
Irene's lips quirk. "I flirted at him," she corrects. "He never replied.
John shakes his head. "No, no that's not right. He always replies. He'll outlive god trying to get the last word."
She tilts her head to the side. It's adorable and a bit wistful and John has to remind himself very firmly that everything about this woman is artificial, designed to please. "Does that make me special?" she asks.
He shrugs, because god only knows what goes on in Sherlock's head, and he isn't telling. "No idea."
A smile ghosts across her lips. "Does that make you jealous?"
"For the love of-" he practically growls, and then he throws his hands up. "We aren't a couple!"
"Yes you are," she shoots back. She types something on the phone and then holds it out for John to see. "There: I'm not dead. Let's have dinner." Her thumb presses down firmly on the screen and a soft 'ping' reverberates through the room.
John regards her for a moment, watches her slip the phone back into her pocket and straighten her hat so that the white gardenia blossom tucked into the black ribbon peeks out at him over the floppy brim. "Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes," he says after a moment. "But for the record, I'm not gay."
She shrugs. "I never said you were." A strand of blonde hair slips out from beneath her hat and she brushes it back behind her ear. "Sex has very little to do with coupling, even though people use the words like they're interchangeable. Sex is about a lot of things: attraction, power, possession, fun, pleasure, and sometimes a bit of pain. Being part of a couple is about trust."
A breathy moan drifts out from somewhere behind the hulking machines. Understanding drains the blood from John's face and he starts forward, but Irene stretches out a hand and holds him back. "Not yet," she murmurs. "Let him go."
Hours later-after John has finally made his way back to Baker Street only to discover the remains of a foiled hostage situation (the Americans came back, apparently, with a vengeance. John could have told them that knocking Mrs. Hudson about was absolutely the worst thing they could have done to gain Sherlock's cooperation-but then no one asked him), he sits in his chair watching Sherlock stare out of the window at the people milling about below. It's New Year's eve and the symbolism of it all isn't lost on him-new beginnings, celebration, but his friend is remarkably blasé about the whole affair.
"Where is it now?" he asks. The phone is a safe topic and Irene's rebirth may not be.
Sherlock hefts his violin with one hand and picks up the bow from its place on his chair. "Where no one will look."
"There's more on there than pictures," John comments as Sherlock turns back to the window.
He raises the violin to his shoulder and his fingers twitch on the strings. "Yes, I know."
John lets him fiddle with the strings as he checks the instrument's pitch. "She's alive then." He catches the fleeting smile that curves Sherlock's lips. "How are we feeling about that?"
As always, nothing can make Sherlock Holmes answer a question he does not wish to answer. "Happy New Year, John," he says instead and sets the bow against the strings.
John gives him a look that says, quite plainly, that he is not convinced. "D'you think we'll be seeing her again?"
Sherlock, apparently tired of this line of questioning, pulls the bow across the taut strings with a flourish and the opening bars of 'Auld Lang Syne' ring through the flat. He raises an eyebrow pointedly at John, who holds up his hands in surrender. After the song is finished and John has gone out to see Harry for Christmas Sherlock pulls his mobile out of his suit jacket pocket. He studies the screen for a moment, and then types out a short message. His thumb hovers over the screen-and then a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He presses send.
Rose is curled up on the window seat of her tiny temporary flat when her pocket buzzes insistently. She sets her mug of hot cocoa down on the windowsill and flicks a finger over the screen. A bouncing icon informs her that she has a new text message.
Happy New Year-S.H.
Rose smiles.
Months pass. A few interesting cases find their way to Sherlock Holmes: there's the millionaire who moonlighted as a beggar (and made a decent living until he was discovered by his wife and faked his own death) and the bizarre Society for the Protection of Gingers (which turned out to be a hoax to the great disappointment of the man whose flat was conveniently located for a robbery). They pique Sherlock's interest, but the knowledge that Irene Adler is alive and well throws a pall over everything. Sherlock pours over her phone, spends hours in the lab analyzing it and comes up with almost nothing. He can't break her password (he's tried, and it's not 221B) and he can't force it open to get at the data card-four conveniently placed microexpolosives will detonate if the casing is disturbed.
Sherlock paces the length of their sitting room. It's storming outside and the weather seems to echo his mood. Irene's phone lies on the coffee table between him and John. "Why did she send it here?" he mutters and runs a hand through his disheveled hair. "She likes to play games, she loves them, and she sent it here."
"Maybe she was telling the truth," John offers. "Maybe she thought it would be safe with you."
Sherlock shakes his head. "There's more to it than that, there has to be. But what?"
John is more surprised than Sherlock when Irene turns up in their flat-in Sherlock's bed. She's disheveled and exhausted and there are lines around her eyes and the corner of her mouth that weren't there the last time they spoke. She looks-worn and strangely vulnerable without the fine layer of makeup that hid her from the world. Sherlock is already out in the hall, and John follows, closing the door softly behind him.
After she's rested and changed (and wearing Sherlock's dressing-gown) Irene perches in Sherlock's chair. John sits across from her, like he always does when they have a client and Sherlock paces behind her. John doesn't miss the way her eyes slide from side to side, following his restless movements, or the way her shoulders tense just a hair whenever he's directly behind her. She's on edge, running scared, and how bad would something have to be to frighten her?
Sherlock begins the questioning. "So, who's after you?"
Irene raises an eyebrow. "People who want to kill me."
Sherlock leans over her shoulder. "Who's that, then?"
She twists her head and gives him a look like he's dribbled on his shirt. "Killers."
"It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific," John drawls.
"I'll give you a hint," Irene replies in the same lazy, sarcastic tone he used. "You've met their boss before, charming man by the name of Moriarty. Ring any bells?"
Sherlock has resumed pacing. "So you faked your death to get ahead of them."
Irene shrugs. "It worked for a while."
"Not as long as you hoped," Sherlock interjects. "All this time you've had plans upon plans-but they caught you out."
Irene pulls her knees up under her chin and wraps her arms around her legs. "They found me. I had a safehouse prepared in the event that one of my clients became-belligerent." She worries her bottom lip with her teeth. "They killed Lois, nearly killed me."
"Lois?" John asks.
"My friend," she clarifies. "You met her." Anger lends and edge to her voice but Sherlock disregards it, as usual.
"If it was working why did you break cover?" he asks. "You let John know your secret, and through him, me."
Irene flashes him a coquettish smile. "I knew you'd keep my secret, and you did." Sherlock remains silent and she shifts impatiently, curling her legs beneath her. "Where's my phone? You didn't lose it, did you?"
"It's not here," John scoffs. "D'you think we're stupid?"
Irene leans forward. "Then what've you done with it? If they've guessed you have it they'll be watching you."
"If they've been watching me they'll know I took out a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago." Sherlock dismisses her concern with a sniff.
She narrows her eyes at him. "I need it."
John, of course, lays out a very clever plan to get the phone from the bank on the Strand back to Baker Street with none the wiser-but he's neatly derailed when Sherlock pulls the phone from his jacket pocket. John noticeably deflates as Sherlock deposits the phone in Irene's hands. She angles the screen away from him and types in four numbers. The phone beeps at her and her forehead creases as she frowns. "It's not working."
Sherlock swoops down and plucks it from her hands. "Of course not." He fairly radiates smug. "It's a copy I had made, to which you have just entered 1058." From his other pocket he pulls the real phone and taps the screen four times.
The phone beeps at him and it's his turn to frown. 'Wrong passcode,' the screen reads. 'One attempt remaining.'
Irene holds out her hand. "That phone is my life," she reiterates. "I know when it's in my hand." She watches him expectantly, one eyebrow raised. For a long moment Sherlock stares back at her, and then grudgingly hands over the phone. Her fingers glide along the back of his as she accepts it and John rolls his eyes. Honestly-it's like teenagers all over again. He wonders for a brief moment if anyone has ever given Sherlock Holmes 'the talk' and fervently hopes that task won't fall to him.
"You're rather good," Sherlock admits and John covers a grin with his hand. Yes, exactly like teenagers.
"You're not so bad yourself," Irene replies with her tongue caught between her teeth. Her fingers flick across the screen and the phone chirps. "There was this man," she continues as she taps the phone impatiently. "Torchwood agent. I know what he likes-and part of that is showing off. He had this email, said it was going to save the world. He didn't know it, he was a bit distracted at the time, but I photographed it." She hands Sherlock the phone and stands, wrapping her arms around herself as if she is cold. "It's a bit small on that screen, can you read it?"
Sherlock sits almost absently and studies the screen. His eyes flicker over the message almost faster than John can follow and then he lifts his gaze to a spot on the wall just above the edge of the phone. John cranes his neck and frowns. The message, what little of it Irene captured, is a string of numbers interspersed at random intervals by a color (spelled out) in the first line. The second line is another string of numbers, but this time interspersed with letters at seemingly random intervals.
"It's a code, obviously." Irene leans over his shoulder so that her lips are centimeters from his ear. "I had one of the best cryptographers in the country look at it-of course, he was mostly upside down at the time-but he couldn't crack it." Her lips nearly brush the shell of Sherlock's ear and John looks away, fighting a blush. Her blatant sexuality is-unnerving. "What can you do, Mr. Holmes?" she continues, her voice a low murmur.
"Oh, it's quite simple really," Sherlock replies with a hint of a smile and more smug satisfaction than even a cat could manage.
"Of course it is," John mutters under his breath.
The Doctor is a genius; Amelia Pond knows this. He understands things that she can't even begin to grasp and has probably forgotten more than she will ever learn. He can hold up to five conversations simultaneously and out-think a super computer (he can also out-talk a member of Parliament but that's an entirely different story). She's seen him proved right so many times that she occasionally forgets that he can be wrong-completely, glaringly wrong.
He was wrong today. He was wrong about the monster they were hunting; it wasn't a monster at all. It was blind and alone, abandoned by its pack. It was frightened and lonely and lashing out. And Vincent could see it. He looked at the world in such a different way that he saw the invisible. But they couldn't save the monster-they understood too late and it was already dying-and they couldn't save Vincent either. Amy thought that going to the future, that seeing how beloved he would be might help him fight off the depression that eventually claimed his life.
It didn't. He died on the same day, in the same way, as he had before. "Did it matter?" she asks the Doctor as they stand in the Musee d'Orsay, surrounded by people studying the beautiful paintings that hang on the walls. "Did anything we did matter?"
The Doctor takes her hand. His palm is cool and dry, as always, and there's something vaguely paternal about the way he gives it a squeeze. "Of course it mattered," he replies softly. "The way I look at it, Amy, life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don't make the bad things go away-but then the bad things don't negate the good things." He gives her a lopsided smile. "And I think we definitely added to his pile of good things."
A painting of sunflowers in a ceramic vase catches her eye, and she can't help but smile. 'For Amy' is painted along the curve of the vase. "Yeah," she says softly, tears still damp on her cheeks. "You're right." She wipes her hand across her face and chuckles weakly. "You know, if I'd said yes and we did get married, our children would have had the reddest hair."
"The ultimate ginger," the Doctor agrees with a smile of his own. "Now come along, Pond. Back to the TARDIS."
"That painting," Amelia asks after the doors have shut behind her and the Doctor has taken them into the Vortex. "What did you do with it?"
He stiffens. "Oh, it's around here somewhere. Couldn't let him keep it, you see. She's wearing twenty-first century clothing and that would muck up the time lines something fierce."
"Who was she?" Amy asks more out of habit than anything. Experience has taught her that the Doctor will tell her eventually, but not before he's good and ready. Still, it won't do to let him get complacent and think he can just hide things from her whenever he feels like it.
"You know," the Doctor says brightly, "there's a plasma storm brewing in the horsehead nebula. It happens every so often-fires burning in space a thousand miles wide. The TARDIS can ride them like waves on the ocean and we could end up anywhere." He grins at her and Amy knows that he will not answer her question. "Fancy a go?"
John wakes in the middle of the night. The flat is old and strange and he thinks there's something wrong with the vents: sometimes he can hear Mrs. Hudson watching her soaps downstairs and other times he catches snatches of the couple in the adjacent flat arguing (loudly). It's voices this time, soft enough so that he can't quite make out what they're saying, but it's a woman (Irene) and a man (not Sherlock). The hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. There's something definitely off about this.
He creeps down the stairs as quietly as he can; he skips the fifth stair (it always creaks) and nearly trips over the brolly Sherlock left leaning against the wall. He manages to catch it before it tumbles the rest of the way down and lets the whole bloody flat know he's awake, but it's a near thing. Thankfully it's the only slip-up he makes. The voices are clearer, though still soft, and it's definitely Irene. The man is-Welsh? John leans against the wall just outside the sitting room and listens.
"You're sure?" the man asks.
"Completely," Irene responds. "You should have seen him crack it, Ianto. He's a genius." She pauses. "And he was telling the truth. His solution matches up perfectly."
John is so focused on the two in the sitting room that he doesn't notice the woman guarding the door. A gloved hand clamps over his mouth and his reflexes-still sharp from working (and living) with Sherlock kick in-but the woman is good, whoever she is, and she holds fast.
"Ianto," she calls softly, her voice pitched low. "We've got a visitor."
Mycroft's assistant steps into the hall. His three piece suit is immaculate, as it was when they first met, but his expression is stern and forbidding and John thinks he can spot the bulge of a gun in the jacket pocket. Irene follows Ianto; she's changed into dark jeans and a jumper and there's a gun strapped to her side. John's eyes widen.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson." Just for a moment her mask slips, and he believes her. "I really am, but we can't let you run off and tell Sherlock." There's a biting pain in his arm and the world starts to blur around him. His head feels heavy, so heavy, and holding it up is far too much effort. He hears her voice as if from a great distance: "Take him back to bed. We have work to do."
Seven hours later John Watson feels like he's been hit by a bus. His head is pounding, his mouth tastes like something crawled in it and died, and he's got a lovely set of bruises on his arm and side. For a moment he wonders how drunk he was last night-but then his mind catches up with his body and he nearly falls out of bed. She drugged him! And what 'work' were they talking about, exactly? He stands too quickly and the world is spinning for a moment but he forces past it. She's up to something, something dangerous, and he'll be damned if he lets her get away with it.
Sherlock stands in front of the window, his violin propped on his chair and the bow next to it. People scurry back and forth in the street below like so many rats, going to work or school or the shop. So many of them will live out their miserable, tiny lives without ever even glimpsing the stage they occupy: the board of the great game. There are innumerable players, though behind everything-every murder and robbery and blackmail, there's really only one: Moriarty. That's an oversimplification, of course, but Sherlock likes the symmetry. He has one true opponent; the others of are no consequence-or so he thought.
His hands are clasped loosely behind his back and his dressing gown hangs open. Her subtle fragrance hangs about it, cloaks him and clouds his senses. Wearing something that so recently covered her is intimate in ways he has never bothered to imagine. John barges into the room behind him and Sherlock remains impassive. He stares out at the people but he doesn't see them-he sees her. She is a mystery, a puzzle when so many people are obvious and boring. She's bested him once and now, now he fears she's used him. But that doesn't make sense, because he checked, and-
"Sherlock!" John's voice rings through the flat and he has to stop himself from reminding his friend that his ears work just fine. "It's Irene," John continues, slightly breathless. He's just woken. His reflection in the window is clothed, but his shoes are absent. John wears shoes constantly; he'd never start the day properly without them.
"She's gone," Sherlock interrupts and gestures to the table. He's poured over the note so many times, analyzed it for any possible hint of her plans. He can recite it from memory, not that she said much at all.
Two words-I'm sorry-and a kiss. Written on Torchwood stationary with a black gel pen that was borrowed; it ran dry once and spotted the paper twice. Irene is precise in everything she does; she'd never let her pen get into that condition. He found it when he woke this morning, in the pocket of his dressing gown. All of her things are gone as well, including her phone. The only sign of her presence is the lingering scent of her perfume on his dressing gown.
A loud knock on the door startles John. Sherlock is not surprised. He's been expecting this ever since he discovered Irene's absence. He lets the dressing gown fall to the floor and reaches for his suit jacket. "Get your shoes, John," he tells his friend. "We're going on a trip."
Torchwood is nothing like John thought it would be, on the outside, at least. One Canada Square-Canary Wharf, the home of Torchwood London-is a public fixture. He's passed it hundreds of times without even considering that a top-secret government organization could be housed within the charmingly bland walls. The agent-Sherlock didn't bother to get his name and John is a bit distracted by his head, which still aches-leads them in silence. They get a few curious looks but their guide's clearance level and general demeanor (distinctly not pleased) keep people away.
Sherlock's eyes flick to the walls and John follows his gaze. Each corridor features a colored stripe approximately two-thirds of the way to the ceiling. As they walk John marks the colors-and realizes that he's seen this combination before: on Irene's phone. It wasn't a code that Sherlock was breaking, it was a map and he laid it out for her like a Christmas present.
Their destination is a door twenty-three floors and innumerable corridors from the entrance. The agent knocks on the door lightly, and then opens it and motions for John and Sherlock to step through. He shuts it firmly behind them and the harsh scrape of the lock sliding into place is loud in the silent room. It's cavernous and filled to bursting with strange artifacts. Computer terminals line one wall, and in the center is a table, on which sits some sort of machine. It's nothing like John has ever seen before. Strange designs in neat rows appear next to slots and buttons. A thick cord leads to the wall and a series of lights blink out in a seemingly random pattern. Sherlock gives it a cursory glance, and then turns his attention to the computers. The screens are blank, and when he tries to elicit a response from one nothing happens.
"This was going to save the world." Mycroft materializes from the other end of the room. He swings his brolly idly as he meanders towards them. His face is drawn and his voice is tired. He looks older than John has ever seen him.
Sherlock presses more buttons, but again, nothing happens. "What is it?" he asks, still focused on the terminal in front of him.
"A way to quell riots without the use of gas or rubber bullets." Mycroft runs a hand over the machine's metal casing. "A way to ensure that the correct leader would be elected without having to rely on the capricious whims of the 'unwashed masses.' A way to end suffering and war across the globe. At least, that's what it was." His lips twist in a sneer. "Now it's so much scrap."
John frowns. "How?"
"Mind control." A familiar voice echoes from behind Mycroft and Sherlock flinches so slightly that John would have missed it if he hadn't been looking at the man. Mycroft's shoulders slump as Irene steps out of the shadows. She's wearing the same dark jeans and jumper that she had been when John caught her and Ianto together and her long blonde hair was pulled back from her face in a tight braid. There is something, though, something different about her voice. It's rougher than John is used to hearing, and there's just a bit of South London peeking through the cultured accent she apparently had affected.
Sherlock scoffs. "There's no such thing."
"Didn't you wonder why no one brought up ousting President Tyler?" she drawls. "The economy's in the rubbish bin, inflation is rampant, unemployment is at fifteen percent, and yet Pete Tyler is unassailable." She catches her tongue between her teeth as she regards him. "You're clever, Sherlock, I know you are, too clever to let your prejudices blind you, although-" she casts a meaningful glance back at Mycroft. "Maybe not."
"Yes," Sherlock's brother replies and clears his throat. "It appears I underestimated you, miss Tyler."
"Hold on." John raises a hand. "Who?"
"You didn't think my name was really Irene Adler?" she asks.
Mycroft throws a thick manila file onto the table housing the machine. "Rose Marion Tyler." He bites off the end of each word. "Born to Pete and Jackie Tyler in 1987-in another universe."
John glances back and forth between the two of them. "This is a joke." Mycroft remains impassive and Irene-Rose-raises one eyebrow. "This has to be a joke."
"I'm afraid it's not." Sherlock's gaze is fixed on the wall, but his eyes are dreamy and unfocused and John knows he's not really seeing anything in front of him. "You appeared out of nowhere five years ago with Jackie Tyler, who was presumed dead in the first onslaught of Lumic's Cybermen, and some story about being a long-lost child." He shakes his head, and when he speaks again his voice is low and bitter and mocking. "Oh, you played me for a fool. Well done, miss Tyler. I knew that love was a dangerous disadvantage-thank you for giving me the final proof."
Mycroft places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. For a moment John thinks his friend will shrug away-but he doesn't. "I sent you into her path. I didn't know. I'm sorry."
"That's not the end of it." They turn back to Irene-Rose, who flips her phone casually, one hand on her hip. "I've got all of Torchwood's secrets on this phone, every single one. Proof of Pete's alliance with New Germany and Czecoslovenia and bits about the Cyberwar that'll leave you with a revolution on your hands, and with that thing down you've got no way to stop it."
A muscle in Mycroft's jaw twitches. "Name your price, Miss Tyler."
"All right." She catches the phone deftly after one final flip and slides it into her pocket. "I want the dimension cannon. The original prototype and all of the files wiped from Tochwood's computer system and every copy but one destroyed."
"No." Mycroft's answer is hard and immediate. "The damage that technology is capable of could rip apart the universe."
She shrugs. "Alright, I tried. You'll want to watch the news for the next few days. I've got it on good authority that it'll be quite a show."
Rose turns to leave, but Sherlock's voice stops her. "Did Moriarty put you up to this?"
She laughs. "Mr. Holmes, do you really think I need a man to make me dangerous? Besides…" The smile fades. "I know madness when I see it. Watch out for him He isn't all there."
"I hate to suggest this," and the dryness of Mycroft's tone belies his words, "but we have ways of making you talk."
"Can you trust them?" she shoots back. "Stretch me out on the rack, cut me open if you like, but you're not getting that code. It will take more than torture to break me, Mr. Holmes. And you can try to break into my phone, if you like. I let Sherlock Holmes have it for six months and he's gotten nowhere, but you're welcome to try. Of course if you input the wrong code one more time it will explode and destroy the memory card."
Mycroft glances to Sherlock, who nods. "All I want," Rose presses on, "is the cannon. All I want, Mr. Holmes, is to go home."
Part Five