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THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD

by Soledad

Interlude #2 – The Diary

Disclaimer: Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

Author's note: This story takes place directly before "The Great Game" and is centred on Molly. Previous knowledge about Classic!Who isn't necessary – but could be helpful.

The quotes from Molly's blog are from the official BBC website, of course. I deliberately left out the date to keep the timeline a bit vague, as mine doesn't follow canon in every detail.

Part 90 – New Horizons

Molly Hooper was tired, too. After the excitement with Maman's trunk and the diary – story book – whatever… and the letters Sherlock had found under the cover, work had descended on her like a landslide, so that she'd barely left the morgue for a week. It had been exhausting to the extreme.

So had been her colleagues, to be honest – and Sherlock.

Currently she was sitting in her princess bed, wearing her most unflattering but very comfy flannel pyjamas, her laptop on her knees, the cat curling around her feet, and she was checking the comments on her latest blog entry.

Not that she expected any. Nobody read her blog (unlike John's). Perhaps people were scared off by the pink kitten theme? Even Sherlock's website – scientifically excellent yet unfit for mass consumption – had more comments.

The only one who ever commented on Molly's blog was Molly herself. Perhaps if Mary had a computer, she would comment. Perhaps if she told Mary about the blog she would read it on John's laptop.

Mary was really nice. Perhaps they would become friends, given enough time. Molly could really use a friend. Her latest blog entry, from yesterday, was a pitiful proof of that.

She re-read it with a certain feeling of dread.

Sorry, I've been busy recently. Work is the same old. Caroline's left Which we're all quite happy about because we were sick of hearing about that flipping hedge.

Toby's still brilliant. He sleeps on my bed now, which is really nice. Toasty!

Oh, and Sherlock came in again tonight. Just back from Belarus, he said – I wonder what would he do there, of all places? Of course, he never told. And he was blatantly flirting with me, and I know he's doing it and I should tell him to stop but I don't! And, of course, he was only doing it so I'd help him with something. As soon as he got what he wanted, he was off.

OMG! I nearly just wrote 'At least Toby will never leave me! 'I'm becoming a Mad Spinster!

God, this was embarrassing! What was she thinking? Obviously, she wasn't thinking at all! She even used Sherlock's name, which she'd sworn to herself she'd never do! She'd have to delete the entry, as soon as she figured out how to do it!

At times like this it was almost comforting to know that nobody actually read her blog.

Or did they? As she stared at the screen in mortal embarrassment, a comment appeared under the entry.

Hi, sorry, are you the lady who works in the morgue? The one with the nose? Jim, 00:14

A comment! An actual comment, after months and, of course, it just had to be for such an embarrassing entry! But who was this Jim character? She hit Reply and typed hurriedly.

Who are you? Molly Hooper, 00:15

The answer came immediately.

Sorry, I work in the IT dept. Stupid night shift. Jim, 00:17

In the IT dept? Night shift? This guy worked at Bart's? And he'd seen her? And he'd become interested enough to look up her blog? And he wasn't scared away by the pink kittens?

As she was trying to process it, another comment appeared.

Are you all right? You've gone quiet… Jim, 00:22

She snapped out of her mild shock and quickly typed out a reply.

Sorry, I 'm just feeling a little silly. I didn't know anyone read my blog. What's wrong with my nose? Molly Hooper, 00:26

Again, the reply came immediately.

Nothing. It's a cute nose. I hope you don't mind me saying. I'm here all night, so I need a bit of distraction. Jim, 00:28

Okay, she could do distraction. Even if that was all she was for this 'Jim', he'd complimented her on her nose. Nobody had done that before, either. Well, nobody but Mike Stamford, but poor Mike just wasn't her cup of tea."

Another message appeared while she was ruminating.

Do you like coffee? Jim, 00:30

She replied in the positive, completely baffled. Was he asking her out? Was that even possible?

Apparently, it was, because the next message said:

Would you like to meet me for coffee? In the canteen? Jim, 00:35

She was thinking furiously. She wouldn't get dressed and go back to Bart's for anyone (save for Sherlock, a teasing little inner voice commented), but she was more than willing to go in a bit earlier in the morning.

Erm… okay. What about when you come off-shift in the morning? Molly Hooper, 00:40

As before, the answer came immediately.

See you there! Jim, 00:41

With that, he'd obviously signed off because no further comments appeared. Still, Molly felt delighted. Granted, a coffee date was nothing serious – not yet, nor did it guarantee that anything would come out of it – but it was something to look forward to.

And it was this Jim character, whoever he might be, who'd asked her out. Who'd noticed her, without her going extra lengths to catch his attention.

She remembered her pitiful and deeply humiliating effort to ask Sherlock out on a coffee date. That infuriating berk had not even realised what she was doing! He'd simply ordered his coffee to be brought to the lab, as if Molly had been a waitress, not somebody who put her job – a job she'd worked so very hard to get! – at risk for his sake on a regular basis!

Perhaps going out on a date with this Jim character was the first step in the right direction. Meaning getting over Sherlock and his arrogant, hurtful ways, and moving on with her life.

Of course, comments on her blog were not the right way to know somebody. But Jim sounded really nice. And he had suggested a place that was know territory to them both. If she would feel uncomfortable, she could simply walk away.

But perhaps she wouldn't want to walk away. After all, office romances were… well, romantic. A lot of people met their significant others at work, didn't they?

She had to admit that having a secret admirer was the most exciting thing that happened to her for a long time. Well, save for getting Maman's trunk, but that was a different matter entirely.

Jim must have noticed her some time ago. Perhaps he'd watched her from afar. Nothing stalkerish (or so she hoped) but with interest. Interest was good. Interest could lead to so much more!

Switching off first her laptop and then her bedside lamp, Molly Hooper lay back in her curtained bed and smiled. Quite unexpectedly, a new horizon seemed to appear in the dreary monotony of her nonexistent love life, and she embraced it fully and enthusiastically.

The return of Maman's storybook seemed to bring her luck, which was long overdue.

~The End – for now~

Will be continued in "The Game Master", eventually.

Current Mood: accomplished

wiseheart

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD

by Soledad

Interlude #2 – The Diary

Disclaimer: Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

Author's note: This story takes place directly before "The Great Game" and is centred on Molly. Previous knowledge about Classic!Who isn't necessary – but could be helpful.

I'm not sure that one is tired and irascible after getting Retconned, but it seemed fitting. Maud was the middle name of Victoria Waterfield, of course.

Part 89 – Diversion is the Better Part of Valour

"All right, John, enough is enough," Sherlock declared two days later, when his flatmate finally returned to Baker Street, after a night spent at Mary's and a double shift at the surgery. "Tell me!"

"Tell you what?" John was tired, had a headache and desperately needed a cuppa.

What he didn't need was playing twenty questions with a bored Sherlock.

"The letters, the ones I found under the front cover of the diary of Molly's grandmother," Sherlock specified. "What was in them?"

"Oh, those!"

John had already forgotten about them. They hadn't been particularly interesting. But he couldn't resist teasing Sherlock a bit.

"I'm not sure I should tell you," he declared with great (and totally fake) dignity. "That would be Molly's place, not mine."

"Yes, but it would be advantageous to tell me anyway," Sherlock returned without missing a beat.

John raised an eyebrow. "Define advantageous!"

"You could be reasonably sure that I wouldn't grow anything unsavoury in your RAMC mug while you were away working the next time you fix yourself a cuppa," Sherlock said promptly.

"That's blackmail!" John protested half-heartedly.

In theory, he would not put something like that beyond the idiot he cohabited with, but somehow he doubted that Sherlock would do so deliberately. Out of absent-minded ignorance, yes. But not with the express intention to harm him.

"Yes, it is," Sherlock agreed amiably. "Is it working?"

John shook his head ruefully. "When does it not? Was I ever able to keep anything from you that you wanted to know?"

"Of course not, John, don't be ridiculous; that's what I do!" Sherlock threw himself into his favourite armchair and drummed on the floor with his bare feet impatiently. "Now tell me about those letters!"

John, being tired and headache-y, decided to torture his flatmate some more as well-earned punishment and made himself a mug of tea first, taking his sweet time. He'd learned the hard way that giving in to Sherlock's demands without resistance was the way that led to madness. Not that going mad wasn't a constant danger when one lived with Sherlock, but it was the principle of the thing.

Finally, when Sherlock was nearly climbing the walls, John made himself comfortable in his own chair, signalling that he was now willing to talk.

"I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you," he confessed. "Those letters were written by Maud Harris, Molly's grandmother, to a bloke who wasn't Molly's grandfather. Written and apparently never sent."

"What?" Sherlock exclaimed on the highest level of offence. "Are you telling me that it was just some romantic nonsense?"

"Afraid so," John replied contentedly, enjoying his tea. It was Darjeeling, courtesy of Mary, not his usual cheap blend from Tesco's.

"But-but that doesn't make any sense!" Sherlock protested. "Why would anybody hide such irrelevant letters? Whomever she might have written them, they're most likely dead, and unless Molly's mother was from this mysterious other man, why would anybody care?"

"People have this strange concept calling reputation," John answered dryly.

Sherlock made an impatient gesture. "Oh, come on, John, who cares about reputation?"

"Everybody who isn't you, apparently," John replied in the same dry manner. "Allow us, ordinary mortals, our mundane little concerns, Sherlock. We can't all be mad geniuses."

"Dull!" Sherlock declared impatiently. "Have you found anything else in that stupid diary? Anything potentially interesting?"

"No," John admitted, frowning. "But why are you so obsessed with it? If there's any family secret hidden in that diary, it wouldn't be anything of the sort you'd usually bother with."

Sherlock gave him his patented nobody-can-possibly-be-such-an-idiot look. The one usually reserved for the police in general and for Anderson in particular.

"I'm bored, John!" he said, as if pointing out the obvious for the particularly feeble-minded. From his point of view, he probably was. But John wasn't playing along. Not tonight when he was feeling shitty enough already.

"Try to pick up a hobby," he said tiredly, carrying his mug back to the kitchen and putting it into the sink, together with the now cold rest of his tea.

As interesting as life in Baker Street was, it did have its frustrating elements. Not being able to have a cuppa in peace when deadly tired because of Sherlock's constant nagging was one of those. One of the worst ones, actually.

"I'm going to bed," he then announced. "I need sleep the worst way. "And God help me, Sherlock, if you start screeching on your violin in the middle of the night, or blow up anything before I'd wake up on my own, I'll move out of here and back with Mary in that very hour!".

With that, he stormed off and up to his bedroom, not giving Sherlock the chance to as much as open his mouth.

"This is not good," Mycroft Holmes said grimly.

He was working on several independent crisises at the same time – each capable of and likely to escalate if untended-to – while watching the live feed from 221B with half an eye.

"No," Ianto agreed. "Sherlock is making a mistake, taking Dr Watson for granted. That might have been true at the beginning of their… companionship, when Dr Watson had no alternatives. He has one now. If Ms Morstan sells the house she's inherited from her father's aunt, they can make up that alternate medical practice and make enough for a living whether they choose to remarry or not."

"Which is why I was concerned about the reappearance of Ms Morstan in Dr Watson's life," Mycroft reminded him. "But, of course, you had to get on your moral high horse about it and give me an ultimatum."

He still sounded offended by that.

"And I stand to it, sir," Ianto said, still completely unfazed. "Dr Watson isn't just a war hero; he's also a good, decent man who deserves to make his own choices. That said, I doubt that he'd move out of 221B for good. He just enjoys the fact that now he has a place to escape to when Sherlock's bored and at his most annoying."

"Speaking of which," Mycroft said, "a bored Sherlock is a potentially dangerous Sherlock – both for himself and for his surroundings. Is there any potential case to lure him out of his den, at least temporarily?"

"Hmmm," Ianto consulted his PDA. "Nothing that would attract him in England at the moment, but what about Belarus? There's that Barry Berwick bloke, sitting in prison in Minsk, facing execution, that had commented on Dr Watson's blog, asking for help."

"Good Lord!" Mycroft was mildly scandalised. "What is he facing execution for?"

"For stabbing and killing his wife while on holiday in Belarus," Ianto told him blandly. "Perhaps Sherlock will find that a suitable challenge."

"That depends," Mycroft held out his hand for the PDA: "Is the man guilty?"

Ianto nodded. "I'm fairly sure that he is, sir. But I can fake a message – with Mummy's help, of course – in which he begs for Sherlock's help again, stating how Sherlock is the only one to prove the police wrong and save him. According to my research, the Doctor could rarely resist when people appealed to his vanity."

Mycroft thought about that for a moment.

"That could work," he finally decided. "But you'll have to go with him, in case he gets in trouble and the only way to save him would be to release him from that fob watch. I do have some influence in Belarus, but not enough to act in time."

Ianto suppressed a sigh. According to weather forecast, temperatures in Belarus were still freezing, and the last thing he wanted was to spend more time in Sherlock's – the Doctor's – company than absolutely necessary. But he'd accepted the responsibility when the chameleon arch had been activated and couldn't back off now.

"Of course, sir," he said unhappily.

~TBC~

Current Mood: productive

wiseheart

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD

by Soledad

Interlude #2 – The Diary

Disclaimer: Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

Author's note: This story takes place directly before "The Great Game" and is centred on Molly. Previous knowledge about Classic!Who isn't necessary – but could be helpful.

Ianto was killed by her semi-transformed fiancée in the 1st season Torchwood episode "Cyberwoman" and brought back to life by Jack delivering him the "kiss of life". It's a premise of this series that he, too, became immortal due to Jack having transferred part of the Time Vortex received from the heart of the TARDIS to him.

Part 88 – Choices and Chances

"I wish he had," Ianto muttered unhappily. "I'd even forgive him for being an arrogant, inconsiderable twat if he had. Unfortunately, this was just one battle in a very long war that is still going on – and will probably never end. Not as long as a single piece of Cyber-technology exists, in any of the existing realities."

Anthea gave him a cool, calculating look. "The Cybermen still frighten you," she concluded.

Ianto nodded. "More than any other monster I've met during my years with Torchwood and believe me, I did meet my fair share of them."

"More than Abaddon?" Ianto nodded. "More than the Daleks?" Ianto nodded again. "More than the 456 even?"

"Those were a joke compared with the Cybermen," Ianto said grimly.

Anthea raised an inquiring eyebrow. "The 456 killed you!" she pointed out.

"So did Lisa," Ianto returned. "And she'd once been the girl I loved more than life and wanted to marry and spend the rest of my life with her. Trust me, that was magnitudes worse than being killed by grotesque, three-headed aliens that farted poisonous gas."

"Why?" asked the android, clearly not understanding his reasoning. "You were killed both times. Dead is dead, at least for organic beings, isn't it?"

"Cos that Cyberwoman my Lisa has ultimately become killed my last hope for a normal life, too," Ianto explained bitterly. "When she was overwhelmed by her programming, I was also swallowed by Torchwood – and whatever that entailed – for good."

"I thought you liked working for Torchwood," Anthea said, after a moment of processing.

"I liked to work for Torchwood One," Ianto corrected. "Where I still had a life after work. "Then I elbowed my way into Torchwood Three cos I hoped to save Lisa. She was all that was left from that life I used to have, and Three might have had the necessary technology. When I failed to save her, even caused the death of innocent people in the process – where else could I have gone?"

"You still could have taken that Retcon stuff and leave," the android reminded him.

Ianto shook his head. "I knew too much; both about One and Three. The amount of Retcon needed to forget all that would turn an average human mind into vegetable. It's hard to even guess what it would have done to a photographic memory like mine."

Anthea slowly nodded her understanding.

"Is that why you're considering accepting Mr Holmes's offer to rebuild Torchwood Three in due time?" she asked.

Ianto shrugged. "Somebody has to. The Rift must be monitored. And since Jack's unintentionally turned me into… well, whatever I've become… it's up to me to do so. If only to atone for my mistakes."

"Once Torchwood always Torchwood – is it that?" For an android, Anthea's sarcasm sounded very authentic.

Ianto shrugged again. "Since UNIT has proved less than trustworthy during the 456 crisis… yeah. Which reminds me: we need to deal with the situation of Miss Hooper."

"You mean to seize the letters and the diary, after all?" Anthea clarified.

"Just the letters," Ianto corrected. "The diary is written in the form of science fiction stories for children, apparently, so it doesn't pose any direct risk. Besides, Miss Hooper has known about it since early childhood, and so have her cousins. Selectively erasing a memory that old is near impossible."

"So what is your suggestion then?"

"We'll exchange the letters for different ones, with harmless content, and apply a mild dosage of Retcon to all three people involved. That should take care of the problem for the time being. "Until Miss Hooper can be told the truth."

"Should she be, though?" Anthea appeared doubtful about that. "Wouldn't she be happier, living out her life believing that the stories of her grandmother were just that: stories, born from the over-imaginative mind of a woman, fighting the boredom of her mundane life?"

"In any other case I would agree," Ianto replied. "But her life has been already touched by the Doctor, due to those stories; and no-one touched by him could ever return to a normal life. Not without the memory of him being wiped from their minds."

"We could do that," the android pointed out, but Ianto shook his head.

"It would be hard to make anyone forget Sherlock Holmes, given the impact he's made on the lives of people around him; and as long as she remembers him, even though he is but a creature of our boss, she won't stop yearning. No; I believe telling her the truth in due time will be the lesser evil; and Mr Holmes agrees with me."

"Of course he does," Anthea commented cynically. "He knows that the Doctor will need a companion – he always does, they all do – and he wants to keep open a second choice, should Dr Watson choose to remain with his wife. Ex-wife. Soon-to-be-again-wife. Whatever."

"Which wouldn't be very fair to Miss Hooper; being second choice, I mean," Ianto said.

"True," the android admitted. "But do you really think she'll be able to resist, once she realises that Sherlock is actually the Doctor from her grandmother's tales?"

"Only better-looking," Ianto said automatically because that was what Jack would have said and he still caught himself to deliver Jack's commentary from time to time. "No, I don't think she'd be able to resist, and the unfairness of it turns my stomach. No human in their right mind should meddle with the affairs of a Time Lord."

"Look who's speaking," Anthea produced a very convincing smirk.

"It wasn't my choice," Ianto reminded her. "If you remember correctly, I didn't have a choice, in any of this."

"Neither will Miss Hooper have one, I'm afraid," Anthea said. "And if the Doctor reverts to himself and Dr Watson happens to choose to go with him gallivanting across the universe, that will break Miss Hooper's heart."

Ianto gave her a wary look. "What do you know about heartbreak? You are a machine."

"I'm an artificial intelligence in a semi-organic body," she corrected. "I am programmed to study the emotional behaviour of organic beings for better understanding. I may not have feelings the way you organics have, but I do have my loyalties and my associates. I understand more than you might believe."

"I see," Ianto said after a lengthy pause. "It seems that androids shouldn't meddle with the affairs of Time Lords, either.

Anthea shrugged; a very human-looking gesture.

"Like you, I have no other choice," she replied simply.

~TBC~

wiseheart

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD

by Soledad

Interlude #2 – The Diary

Disclaimer: Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

Author's note: This story takes place directly before "The Great Game" and is centred on Molly. Previous knowledge about Classic!Who isn't necessary – but could be helpful.

The samples from Victoria's letters are from "The Doctor – His Lives and Times" by James Goss and Steve Tribe. Go and get it, it's a wonderful vault of treasure!

Part 87 – The Letters of Victoria Waterfield

"Well, here we are," Molly said, carefully unfolding the mysterious letters on the coffee table. "Let's see what they can tell us."

She and Mary had done the washing-up and put the contents of the trunk away while John had slept for an hour or so. Now he was awake again, strangely refreshed, and the two women were as eager to learn more as he was.

"How are we going to do this?" he asked.

"Perhaps Molly can read out loud what stands in the letters," Mary suggested. "It's such an old-fashioned handwriting, I'd have difficulties to read it."

"Can you do it?" John asked their host, and Molly nodded.

"It reminds me a bit of the calligraphy Maman taught us when we were children. She had a similar handwriting, just a bit more irregular, because of her artholitiosis."

"She means gout," John translated for Mary helpfully.

She rolled her eyes. "I know what artholitiosis is, John. I'm a trained apothecary, remember?"

"Don't quarrel, children; story time is starting," Molly curled up in one of the empty armchairs, carefully smoothing out the first letter.

Dear Father,

How are you? I hope you are well and happily reunited with Mother. I miss you both terribly, but the Doctor has helped me to keep you both in mind. Sometimes my new life with him and Jamie slows down, and then I remember you both and feel sad that you're gone. I've decided that in these rare moments I shall write you a letter. A letter that I know you'll never read…

Molly paused and looked up, her eyes shining with tears.

"That's so sad," she said, her voice trembling a little. "Do you think that her parents were dead?"

"It does sound so," Mary said with sad understanding. "Assuming that the letter was written by the girl whom the trunk ordinary belonged."

"I think it was," Molly replied. "I think all these letters were written by her. Otherwise Maman wouldn't have hidden them under the cover of the diary."

"Yes, but why would she do so in the first place?" John asked. "I doubt that anyone would lay claim on them… unless the children or grandchildren of this antiquities guy would be interested, and there's no sign that he had children to begin with."

"Perhaps we'll learn more from the letter," Molly said and continued reading.

To begin with, I'll recount what's happened to me ever since you died. We stayed on the planet Skaro only until the Doctor had ensured the Daleks are defeated for ever…

"Wait a minute!" Mary interrupted. "Weren't the Daleks those ridiculous aliens you've mentioned before? The giant pepper pots with the sucker hands?"

"Giant, evil pepper pots," Molly corrected. "That they were indeed. I was always wondering how on Earth Maman would come up with such an idea. They sounded utterly ridiculous – and so impractical!"

"Well, perhaps the idea seemed frightening to a young, sheltered Victorian girl," Mary suggested. "It seems your grandmother didn't come up with them at all. She simply borrowed them from this girl, from Victoria."

"They were still scary monsters, though," Molly said thoughtfully. "They used to scare my cousins and me all right. And the stories were really exciting. I'll let you borrow the diary later, so that you can form your own opinion."

"I'm looking forward to it," Mary replied. Now, let's see what else she wrote!"

The Doctor, it turns out, really does travel in that big blue box, Molly went on with her reading. It says 'police' on the outside, but on the inside is a remarkably large mansion which the Doctor says has been his home for a considerable number of years. He appears to wander in it endlessly, never settling down for long and we are always having adventures. To begin with, I rather hoped I would have the chance to pause and grieve for you, but frankly, we rarely ever stop for long enough for me to catch my own breath…

"Travelling in a blue police box that's bigger in the inside?" John laughed. "This is ridiculous! A clear case of grief management with the help of an imaginary friend – or else the doctor was her therapist who played makebelief with her to help her deal with her loss."

"Most likely," Molly agreed. "All the stories Maman told us were about this Doctor – she used to describe him as somebody a bit like Charlie Chaplin – and his blue police box that could travel through space and time. Apparently, the Doctor, Victoria and a young Scotsman of the 18th century – I think it was that Jamie the letter mentions – visited other planets and fought monsters on a regular basis."

"Which is probably why your grandmother got herself that Scottish Guard doll," Mary laughed, too. "Perhaps she wanted to imagine that Jamie character."

"If so, she was off-time by three hundred years or so," Molly replied.

"Go on," John encouraged her. "Let's see what other 'adventures' they went through. This girl had a blooming fantasy, it seems."

"That she certainly had," Molly agreed, carefully smoothing out the yellowed sheet again, and continued reading.

First we went to the planet Telos, which must be even further off in space than Skaro. We met a party of space archaeologists, who had travelled to this world to uncover the last remains of creatures called the Cybermen – terrible metal robots!

They'd be frightening enough, but I gradually understood that the Doctor and Jamie were letting slip (despite their best efforts to protect me from the truth) that inside these automata were actually living creatures, trapped in a sort of walking grave, like Mrs Shelley's fantasies – only real. Luckily, the Doctor defeated the Cybermen for ever as well…

~TBC~

wiseheart

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD

by Soledad

Interlude #2 – The Diary

Disclaimer: Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

Author's note: This story takes place directly before "The Great Game" and is centred on Molly. Previous knowledge about Classic!Who isn't necessary – but could be helpful.

The things Molly finds in the trunk are genuine Victorian items. Search the wonderful Internet for Victorian luggage and you'll find the most amazing stuff!

Part 86 – Unearthing the Secret

Molly wasn't the only one to react to that question with more than a little bewilderment… although John's reaction was mixed with a touch of fondness.

"I don't keep scalpels in my kitchen cupboard, Sherlock," she finally said; and hated how apologetic she sounded.

Why would she feel the need to apologise? No-one in their right mind would keep scalpels in their home. Especially if one used them at work to cut open dead bodies.

Sherlock, of course, saw these things differently.

"No? What good are you then?" he snapped, earning a not-too-gentle elbow between his ribs from John.

"Manners, Sherlock!" the doctor said warningly.

"But," Molly continued, trying to hide her hurt feelings with very little success, "I do have my great-grandfather's cutthroat razor somewhere."

"And I'm sure she's more than capable of using it to do its name honour," Mary commented with a too-sweet smile. "If the provocation is sufficient enough."

While Sherlock stared at her blankly, completely missing her point, and John desperately tried to cover his giggle with a not-too-convincing cough, Molly went to the bathroom to retrieve the razor that lay on the shelf for purely decorative purposes.

It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, its handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and it was still very sharp. Molly opened it carefully and offered it to Sherlock.

"Go ahead; just try not to damage the diary beyond repair, would you?"

Uncharacteristically, Sherlock hesitated. "Are you sure? As Mary rightly pointed out, you're more than capable of doing it yourself."

Mary gave him a sad little smile.

"True, but I'd be too nervous that I might damage it; and then I would damage it, because I was nervous, so… Just do it before I change my mind."

After another moment of hesitation Sherlock finally nodded and took a seat at the coffee table. He laid the diary at the table, very carefully inserted the razor between the cover and the lining and began cutting.

It took him mere moments to peel away the lining paper. Beneath it was a photograph, one brown with age, and four sheets of paper, also aged and brittle; by the look of them they were letters.

Sherlock looked at the photograph with interest, then passed it to Molly without comment. On the back of the photograph – that of a sweet-faced woman, wearing a full-skirted Victorian dress in the fashion of the 1850s or 1860s – stood, written by a tidy, elegant hand:

To my dearest Edward from your loving wife, Edith Rose Waterfield, and the date 1863.

"And there we have the name again," Mary said. "Could this be the wife of that man with the antiquities shop?"

"Of course not, don't be an idiot!" Sherlock replied impatiently. "There are a hundred years between the two of them!"

"If the photo is genuine," John said with an unfriendly glare in Sherlock's direction for the rudeness to his ex-wife. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Do try to keep up, John! This message was written with a nib pen, in a copperplate script. Nobody but a professional calligrapher could reproduce that in these days. However, the fading of the ink shows that it has to be at least fifty years old. Older, if we consider the fact that it was hidden under the lining of the diary and therefore protected from direct sunlight."

"You believe it to be the genuine item, then?" John asked.

"I would… if it wasn't in such a good shape for a one hundred-and-fifty-year-old photograph," Sherlock replied thoughtfully. "The same anomaly as with the George Eliot novel. Perhaps the letters would provide us with a clue."

He reached for them but Molly slapped his hand away with a little more force than strictly necessary.

"If anyone reads those letters that would be me," she said. "This diary belonged to my grandmother. Whatever secrets are hidden within it, they are mine to know."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but John silenced him with a quelling look.

"She is right, Sherlock. If there are any family secrets, we're not entitled to learn about them. If Molly chooses to tell us anything later, that will be her decision and hers alone. You'll keep your nose out of this until she says it's all right to sniffle around."

"And if she never does?" The mere thought of not knowing visibly distressed Sherlock.

"Then you'll keep your nose out of it permanently," John replied sternly. "I mean it, Sherlock! I know you usually can talk Molly into just everything, but that's one more reason for you to respect her wishes when she asks you to keep out of her private life."

Sherlock muttered something nasty about Molly not having a private life, and then declared the whole situation boring and stormed off, clearly offended. John sent a rather desperate look after him.

"Oh, God, he'll be sulking for days after this. I dread the moment of getting back to Baker Street."

"You don't have to go back," Mary said. "You can always stay at my place, you know that."

"Or you can both stay here a little longer and we'll read the letters together," Molly offered. "I'm not sure I want to face them alone; and I don't mind you knowing whatever is there."

"Let's do the washing-up first," Mary suggested. "A clean environment is better for one's state of mind. I'll help you, and perhaps John can take a nap in one of these armchairs in the meantime. Clearly, Sherlock wore him out."

John protested that he wasn't that tired (even though his bad shoulder was aching from over-extortion) but the two women outvoted him. So he made himself comfortable in one of the cosy armchairs and by the time Molly had put all the plates into the sink, he was deeply asleep.

"An unexpected little interlude," commented Mycroft Holmes, watching the footage from Molly's flat in the company of Ianto and Anthea. "Who'd have thought that the memorabilia of Victoria Waterfield might turn up now, of all times?"

"Couldn't they serve as a trigger effect?" Ianto asked.

"Possibly," Mycroft allowed. "But unlikely. Victoria only spent a short time with the Doctor; and with a rather early incarnation of him at that. She remained behind with the Harrises in the 20th century willingly because she found life with the Doctor too dangerous."

"Who'd blame her for that?" Ianto said dryly. "How old was she at that time? Fourteen? Fifteen?"

"Somewhere between the two," Mycroft replied. "She was one of the youngest companions ever to travel with the Doctor. I remember that he was very protective of her; him and that Scottish savage of his, Jimmy or whatever his name was."

"Jamie McCrimmon," Anthea corrected. "And he was hardly a savage, sir. A warrior, for sure, as the time he came from demanded from him, but otherwise a decent young man."

"That explains the Scottish Guard doll," Ianto grinned. "But what about the cave bear plushie?"

"That," Mycroft said matter-of-factly, "is supposed to be a Yeti."

Everyone else would have laughed uproariously at that statement. Ianto, however, became deathly pale.

"You mean there actually are Yeti in the Himalayas?"

"Not any more," Mycroft answered regretfully. "And there certainly weren't any left when the Master sent your colleagues to that wild goose hunt in The Year That Never Was. The true Yeti were gentle creatures, massacred in 1966 when agents of the Great Intelligence used their bodies to create homicidal robots, covered with Yeti fur."

"I know that UNIT got to deal with the Great Intelligence in its early years," Ianto said. "But what happened to the robot Yeti?"

"Oh, they caused some trouble in the Tube a little later," Mycroft shrugged, "But they were dealt with. And that particular event was the foundation of the long friendship between the Doctor and Brigadier – well, then still only Colonel – Lethbridge-Stewart."

He turned to Anthea. "Keep tab on what those three may figure out about Victoria Waterfield. Take any necessary action if you have to. They absolutely must not figure out the truth about Victoria. Not as long as the Doctor still lives in human disguise."

"Shall I seize the letters and the diary?" Anthea asked.

"Only if you have to, and even that only temporarily," Mycroft ordered. "Miss Hooper is right in one thing: they belong to her. And I'm sure that – when the Doctor reverts to himself – she'll be able to face the truth." He gave Ianto a pinched smile. "Human enough for you, Mr Jones?"

"It is a beginning, sir," Ianto replied blandly, without missing a beat.

~TBC~

wiseheart

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD

by Soledad

Interlude #2 – The Diary

Disclaimer: Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

Author's note: This story takes place directly before "The Great Game" and is centred on Molly. Previous knowledge about Classic!Who isn't necessary – but could be helpful.

The things Molly finds in the trunk are genuine Victorian items. Search the wonderful Internet for Victorian luggage and you'll find the most amazing stuff!

Part 85 – The Discovery

"Oh!" Mary couldn't quite hide her disappointment. "It's you. We won't be having dinner with Molly, then," she added, addressing John, while Sherlock rolled his eyes demonstratively.

"I thought the two of you already had dinner," John replied, studiously ignoring Sherlock's blatant display of boredom and gave her ex-wife a quick kiss.

"We planned to," Mary kissed him back briefly. "But then Molly got this parcel with her grandmother's things and we started to unpack it and got distracted. Some of its contents are really mysterious."

John groaned when he saw Sherlock's eyes lit up with interest.

"You shouldn't have used the M word, love," he said. "Now we won't be having any dinner tonight. You've just let the geenie out of the bottle."

"Don't be ridiculous, John!" Sherlock was already snooping around the things displayed on the coffee table. "Hmmm, a late 19th century writing set… interesting. Never seen one in such a good condition. Oh, a first edition George Eliot! And in a remarkably good shape, too. I wonder how they preserved it so well. Perhaps if I took a sample from the paper…"

"No, you'll do no such thing!" Molly interrupted angrily. "I'd do a lot of things for you, Sherlock, but I won't let you damage Maman's book!"

"Oh, all right!" Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "Have you found anything else of interest?"

"I don't see how this is your business, but we haven't finished yet," replied Molly testily.

Sherlock raised an arrogant eyebrow. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

"For you to leave," Mary answered instead of the visibly hurt Molly. "You were not invited. It's annoying enough that you've ruined our dinner by dragging John off with you on one of your cases…"

"Oh, it was a boring one, barely a five," Sherlock waved her off breezily. "This is much more interesting."

"And none of your business," Mary returned.

She was very different from the frightened, timid creature they had rescued from her stepfather's clutches just a couple of weeks ago. Having the substances that had held her under Dr Roylott's influence flushed from her system, the true strength of her personality had re-emerged, and she refused to be intimidated by Sherlock. Even though she was grateful to Mycroft for the rescue.

Molly looked from her to Sherlock and back with the expression of a trapped rabbit.

John realised that the situation needed some interference from his side. Besides, he was starving, and something in the oven smelt heavenly.

"Er… Molly," he cleared his throat. "Do you think you could allow us to watch you finish unpacking? That would calm Sherlock down – and then, perhaps, we can have a taste of whatever smells so wonderful in that oven?"

He gave Molly such a hopeful look that she had to laugh, whether she wanted or not.

"All right," she said resignedly. "I'll put the salad together; he can rifle through the things we've already unearthed, and then we can see whatever else is in the trunk."

Knowing that nothing short a particularly destructive force of nature could stand between Sherlock and whatever he wanted to know, the others accepted the suggestion with a certain level of resignation. Mary followed Molly into the dining area to help with the salad and with laying the table and Sherlock all but threw himself into investigating the foundings and deducing away at light speed.

Particularly interested did he seem in the jewellery, which he identified as a product of the mid-Victorian era, and in the card case with the business card. He whipped out his phone to research the recurring name Waterfield and soon announced that 'Waterfield's Antiquities' actually had existed in the 1960s.

"The shop indeed specialised in Victorian artefacts," he told John who was now his only audience. "The actual owner, Mr Edward Waterfield, mysteriously disappeared after less than a year; as mysteriously as he'd showed up when he'd opened the shop in 1966. His business partner, a certain Mr K Perry, tried to keep the shop up and running but – not having Waterfield's resources – it went bankrupt shortly thereafter. Nobody seems to have known where exactly Waterfield had got the artefacts he was selling but apparently his slogan As Good As New was something of an understatement."

"What do you mean?" John asked with a frown.

"Apparently, he was selling genuine Victorian items in a surprisingly good condition," Sherlock replied. "Things that didn't actually look a hundred years old."

"Just like the book of Molly's grandmother doesn't look like it would really come from the 19th century," John said slowly.

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly. Which is why I need a sample of the paper."

"No, you don't," John said firmly. "This is not one of your cases, and for Molly that book has sentimental value, so keep your hands off it."

Sherlock pouted but John was adamant. He even went as far as taking the book and carrying it to the dining-room, out of Sherlock's reach. Not that Sherlock wouldn't be able to help himself to a sample anyway, but John was determined to do his best to spare Molly's feelings.

She was hurt by Sherlock's callous behaviour often enough.

Soon, the salad was ready and the table was laid. Molly took the shepherd's pie out of the oven and called everyone to the table. The Watsons came eagerly, especially John who had been running after Sherlock without the chance of even getting lunch all day.

Sherlock sat with them during dinner, drumming with his fingers on the tabletop impatiently. He refused the food offered to him – declaring the menu dull (and earning an unfriendly look from Mary and a kick in the shin from John under the table) – but did steal a few leaves of lettuce from John's plate and ate them absent-mindedly. He did accept a glass of wine, though, sipping on it to fill out the emptiness of time… and pulling a face at every sip.

John rolled his eyes but withheld any comments. Coming from Sherlock, this was practically courteous behaviour.

When dinner was finally over, they went back to the living room. Sherlock was practically trembling in anticipation. John briefly considered sitting on him but then decided against it.

There weren't many things left in the trunk. A few more books; this time of more recent origins. Books about Nepal and Tibetian culture. Paperback novels by Isaac Asimov: the ones about robots. Books about the history of the British Empire in general and Australia in particular. Books about various science fields, made easy for interested laypersons. It was a rather eclectic mix; Molly's grandmother seemed to have been a woman of wide-spread interests.

The rest was even more colourfully mixed. There were several maps of the Tube tunnels, from different decades of their existence. There was a ten-inch plastic doll of a Scottish Guard in full uniform, accompanied by some furry stuffed animal that looked like the (hypothetical) love child of a grizzly bear and a Yeti and was clearly hand-made. Next came a collection of stitching and crocheting patterns, carefully filed and ordered in an album. And several crocheted doilies.

The last item Molly found on the bottom of the trunk was an old-fashioned diary, covered in a faded rose-print fabric and closed with a small brass padlock. The tiny keys to the paddock – two identical ones – were hanging from it on a small brass ring.

"Oh!" Mary cried out in awe. "It's the girl's diary! The book Maman used to read us the stories from!"

"You mean the book she wrote in the form of a diary of that imaginary Victorian girl?" Mary clarified.

Molly nodded. "Yes; only that she wasn't so imaginary after all, was she? I mean, the trunk clearly belonged to her, and so did the book by George Eliot. Perhaps even the writing set and the jewellery."

"And your grandmother built a heroine around those facts," Mary concluded. "They must have been her inspiration. Them, and the photograph of the girl. But who was Edward Waterfield? Because he apparently did exist. She must have been related to him in some way."

"Perhaps a son or a grandson," John suggested, but Sherlock shook his head.

"No; he was an adult in 1966, and in the 1930s women didn't keep their maiden names in marriage. A nephew or the son of a nephew is more likely… unless the son was born out of wedlock, which would explain why Waterfield's past is shrouded in mystery. Illegitimate sons – or their children – were ridiculously ashamed of things not their fault in those times," he held out a hand expectantly. "May I take a look?"

Molly was a bit reluctant to hand over the diary; but she appreciated that he had, at least, asked. Sherlock unlocked the padlock and carefully slid his fingers across both front and back covers… then stopped.

"There's something hidden in here," he said.

"Where?" the others asked in unison.

"Here," he turned the diary around and gestured to the back cover. "See where the lining has been glued back? It's clearly been lifted, very carefully, and something hidden under the liner. Perhaps, a few sheets of paper or a couple of photographs, as it has left a slight bulge. It's almost a perfect fit, just a slight ear to the paper and a smudge of glue, do you see it?"

Molly examined the evidence and nodded, suddenly very nervous.

"Right," she said in a small voice. "What are we doing about it?"

"Taking a look what else?" Sherlock replied promptly. "Do you have a scalpel at hand?"

~TBC~

wiseheart

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD
by Soledad
INTERLUDE #2 – THE DIARY

Author’s note: This story takes place directly before “The Great Game” and is centered on Molly. Previous knowledge about Classic!Who isn’t necessary – but could be helpful.
Posted from my other account, but it's still me. :)

PART 84 – TREASURE HUNT

She removed the chequered fabric covering the contents and spread it on the coffee table, taking the wine bottle and glasses back to the kitchen.

“We can put everything here as we take them out of the trunk,” she said practical-mindedly.

The first thing she found was a pair of grey kid leather gloves and a lady’s silk hat of the same colour. Both items were fairly small in size; definitely small for Molly, probably meant for a very young girl. The hat was decorated with a pale rosé ribbon and a grey plumage, and the gloves came with polished double wooden… sticks that tapered off on both ends and the purpose of which Mary couldn’t even begin to guess.

“Oh, I remember these!” Molly cried in delight. “These are glove stretchers; you pushed them down the fingers of the glove to stretch the leather. That made it easier to put on the gloves if they were too tight.”

“You’ve actually worn these gloves?” Mary asked in surprise. “And the silk hat, too?”

“Not regularly,” Molly laughed. “Only a couple of times, actually. I liked fancy dress parties as a child, and Maman liked to dress me up as a proper little Victorian girl of good house… down to the matching underwear,” she added, pulling a white camisole top from the trunk. “I believe these things were worn under the corset.”

“She made you wear a corset?” Mary was fairly scandalised by the mere thought.

Molly laughed again. “Of course not I just got to wear the top. And the bloomers,” she added, presenting the knee-length, frilled undies that were open on the bum. “But I always wore real pants under these. It would have been… embarrassing otherwise. Just like those stupid hospital scrubs. You know, if I think about it, some things haven’t changed for the last two hundred years.”

They laughed, and Mary continued unpacking. A few more items of clothing surfaced, all small sized – meant for a young girl, obviously – like a white petticoat or a nightdress. The last of them was a teenage girl’s walking dress, which Molly also recognised as having worn on fancy dress parties.

It was a beautiful piece of period clothing: white, with a floral pattern of the same burnt rose colour as the ribbon on the hat. The bottom tier of the gown shirt had three layers of ruffles and the top tier was trimmed with blue satin ribbon in the same hue as the ruffles. The dress bodice and the sleeves were trimmed with white cotton lace. The undersleeves were gathered into a wrist band, which closed with buttons. The dress closed on the back with buttons and had a large bow of blue satin ribbon. Mary assumed that it originally had been worn over a child’s hoop for fullness.

Even so, it was the secret dream of every little girl that wanted to be a princess.

“I can’t believe Maman kept all this stuff,” Molly said in awe. “I mean, it’s been ages since I last fit in. Half my life ago…”

“She must have loved you very much,” Mary commented. “Or these clothes had a significance for her that we can’t understand. Let’s see what else is there!”

The next item was a handspan long, thin and cylindrical, with a handle on one side. The only possible purpose Mary could think of made her blush furiously, although she found it hard to imagine that Molly’s grandmother would own such a things. Even less that she’d leave it to her favourite granddaughter.

Molly clearly guessed what she was thinking because she laughed herself silly.

“It’s not what you think,” she finally said. “Believe it or not, it’s a nail buffer.”

“A what?”

“A nail buffer,” Molly repeated. “They used it to make their fingernails shine. Back in the 19th century, I mean, before nail polish would become commonplace. Maman had a lot of such weird stuff. Apparently, her father was a collector of Victorian antiques – not the really expensive things, mind you, just household items, like this thing.”

“Or the glove stretchers,” Mary guessed.

Molly nodded. “Yes, those, too. Or like these.”

These were a small, conical object with a ripped surface, obviously made of silver, and a fine little silver thimble that seemed to go with it. After a few tries Molly managed to screw the top of the cone open. Within, there were half a dozen stitching and sewing needles, each of a different size and thickness.

“A sewing kit!” Mary realised, and Molly nodded again.

“Yes, I remember that Maman used to keep these in a little blue purse. It looked like a short, fat sausage and had a long silver tassel on each end… oh, here it is!” she cried in triumph and pulled a velvet purse out of the trunk.. It must once have been a deep, royal blue but was quite faded in colour by now, the tassels on each end tattered and blackened with age.

Within, there were a few spools of sewing thread, but the men who’d packed the trunk had forgotten to put needle case and thimble back to their place. Or they hadn’t known that the purse was a sewing kit in the first place.

“I think I’ll keep these with my other stitching things in the dining-room,” Molly decided. “I mean, they’re like a piece of family history, aren’t they?”

“They’re certainly unique,” Mary agreed. “Not many people will have such old things – and in such a good shape, too – I think.”

The next item they found was a clothes brush with a silver handle and black bristles, which Molly – after some hesitation – simply hung up on the coat rack, so that it would be at hand whenever needed.

Then came a long, narrow perfume bottle, made of clouded glass, with a bauble-patterned surface. It was empty now (and had been since the death of Molly’s grandmother, most likely) but it still smelled faintly of Old Lavender when opened.

“I remember this one, too,” Molly sniffed on it with a wistful smile. “Maman said it had belonged to her mother. Once there had been a dispenser to it, too, but that got lost somehow.”

“It had to be an old family heirloom,” Mary said. “These bottles haven’t been made after the early 20th century any more,” at Molly’s surprised look she shrugged. “My mother had one of these, too. She told us time and again how rare they were; the original ones, not the modern copies, mind you. She was so proud of having one.”

“I’ll put it onto the bathroom shelf above the sink,” Molly decided. “It will look good there; besides, that’s what it is for, right?”

“Please, promise me you aren’t going to wear lavender perfume!” Mary begged. “That’s so last century it isn’t even funny!”

Molly laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning to. That was Maman’s favourite scent, not mine.”

Next, the trunk produced some jewellery – nothing fancy, just a pearl necklace, a matching bracelet interspersed with amethysts and a gold ring, all too small-sized to be worn by a grown woman. They had been in a little evening bag, stitched with a knotwork pattern of green, pale yellow, red and white.

After that came a true antiquity: a writing set with a steel nib pen, an empty ink bottle and a pen tray made of brass.

“Oh, I remember these!” Molly laughed “We all learned to write with a nib pen when we were children. Maman insisted and our parents didn’t mind. Which is probably why my handwriting is still better than that of the average doctor.”

She put the old-fashioned writing set aside and unearthed a book next: and old copy of The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot. By the sight – and the coarse texture – of it, it had to be an early edition. On the upper corner on the inside front page someone had written the name Victoria Waterfield and the number 1866.

“That’s odd,” Mary said. “The book doesn’t look that old. And there’s that name again. The same one as on the label inside the lid of the trunk. Do you think it might have come with the trunk?”

Molly shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen this book before. But it has to be an early edition, as it was published under the author’s male pseudonym. Female Victorian novelists tended to write under male names, even the Brontë sisters.”

She turned a few pages, and a photograph fell out of the book. It was brown with age and showed a little girl in a dress Mary had only seen on vintage porcelain dolls before. The girl was also doll-faced, dark-haired, presumably blue-eyed, and she seemed to have a sweet, agreeable nature.

“On the back of the photo stood in old-fashioned copperplate script: Victoria, aged 5. Photographed by Mr Charles Dogdson, anno 1852.

“The same name again,” Mary murmured in surprise. “This can’t be a coincidence. The book must have come with the trunk. Perhaps the previous owner forgot about it. or didn’t want it any more. But who is this Charles Dogdson? A famous photographer of the era perhaps?”

“No; this is the real name of C.S. Lewis, the writer,” Molly replied absent-mindedly.

Mary’s eyes widened. “The one who wrote the Narnia stories?”

Molly nodded. “The same one. Apparently, he was a devoted amateur photographer. Maman liked his books, so she told us all about his life.”

“Perhaps that’s why your grandmother played Victoria,” Mary suggested. “Because she was photographed by her favourite author.”

“That’s possible, I guess,” Molly allowed. “She was a sweet girl, too. “Now, let’s see what else is there!”

She found a little card case, made of wood, with an ebony and ivory veneer. Inside the box, however, was not the calling card of a lady but a business card in the style of the 1960s, which said:

“Waterfield’s Antiquities”
Specialist in Victoriana
‘As Good As New!

and, a little further down, on the left side:

K. Perry, Esquire London

“And the name Waterfield again; this time from a much later era,” Mary said thoughtfully. “Could it have come with the trunk, too?”

“I’ve no idea,” Molly admitted. “Perhaps the trunk was sold, after it had been standing in the Lost Luggage Department of some railway station for a long time without being claimed by anyone. Such things happen. Although I can’t really imagine Maman going to such auctions.”

“Perhaps her parents did,” Mary suggested, “and she found it standing in the attic, collection dust, and became fascinated with the owner. You said she made up stories about her later. Children do find such things mysterious and exciting.”

“Perhaps,” Molly allowed, not entirely convinced. Before she could voice her doubts, though, the doorbell rang.

“Oh!” Mary’s eyes lit up. “John’s here!”

“Let him in, will you?” Molly said. “I’ll start laying the table in the meantime.”

But when Mary answered the door, John didn’t stand on the threshold alone. Sherlock was with him.

~TBC~

wiseheart

( You're about to view content that a community administrator has advised should be viewed with discretion. )

soledad_writes

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD
by Soledad
CHAPTER 06 – INTERLUDE #2 - THE DIARY

Author’s note: This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
PART 82 – AN UNEXPECTED DELIVERY

Molly’s little flat turned out something of a surprise for Mary. She’d expected either something very modern, with clean lines and sparse décor (Molly was a modern young woman with a demanding job that allowed her little to no illusions about how ephemeral life is) or – based on her tendency to wear fluffy clothes – the life-sized version of a Barbie doll house, all pink and white with gilded contours.

Instead, entering it was like stepping back in time.

For starters, it had no foyer at all. Through the front door, one stepped directly into the living area, separated only by a stripe of tiled floor, with a coat hanger and a built-in wardrobe on either side of the door, the usual cylindrical holder for umbrellas and a large basket for the cat.

The living room was of considerable size but seemed smaller, due to the fact that it was fairly cluttered. The open bookshelves, thankfully, blended out most of the hideously patterned wallpaper – something with oversized flowers, none of which really existed in nature, of that Mary was certain. Unfortunately, a similar (though not quite identical) pattern returned on the dust covers of the large, comfortable, old-fashioned armchairs that stood around the coffee table.

An outdated telly stood upon an antiquated-looking chest of drawers, opposite the front door, but Molly didn’t seem to own either a video recorder or a DVD-player.

“Oh, I watch my favourites on my laptop,” she explained.”It’s more comfortable; I can take it to bed with me. Come, I’ll give you the grand tour. I’ll just let Toby out first; he spent the whole day in the flat, the poor thing.”

As if he’d just been waiting for his keyword, the cat appeared from wherever it had been hiding, rubbed his head against Molly’s ankle and meowed impatiently. Molly laughed and opened the door for him. Without as much as a backward glance – clearly annoyed by the fact that he’d been shut into the flat – the cat shot out of the door and was gone.

Molly didn’t seem concerned.

“He’ll be back when he gets hungry,” she said, closing the door, and they began the tour through the flat.

It was a short one, for the flat wasn’t very large. At least the bedroom, matched Mary’s expectations to a certain extent, as it was furnished with white furniture that might have been Chippendale; or, at least, a fairly good imitation. Molly actually had a four-poster bed, with its curtains bound back in a decorative fashion and with mauve sheets of high-count, expensive cotton. The bedroom clearly also served as a study; there was a somewhat aged desktop computer on a white desk, with numerous orders full of case files or other work-related stuff on a shelf above it. Molly’s laptop, on the other hand, was on the bedside table, signalling its recreational purposes.

Opposite the bedroom and the adjoining bath – the latter fairly modern and practical – on the left side of the door was the dining area: a small kitchen, separated from the long, narrow dining room by a glass door that had an ornate, old-fashioned brass handle. The dining table was long and narrow, too, made of dark, polished wood, and high-backed, cushioned chairs of the same made stood at it, three on each side.

The windowsill had been turned into a display surface, on which framed family photographs stood, mixed with other girly clutter like knitting needles, thread, a sewing basket and paperback romance novels. Molly clearly liked to spend time here.

The kitchen cupboard, too, had to be at least a hundred years old; there were even lace curtains decorating its glass doors. The oven, however, was a fairly new model that only came out a couple of years ago; modern and shiny, with all the bells and whistles a woman who liked to cook could wish for. The working surface had a marble-like plate, and on a shelf above it were cooking books of all sorts: glossy new ones as well as old, battered and even hand-written ones.

“These are the best,” Molly took of one of those and carefully turned the yellowed pages. “These are Maman’s own recipes.”

“You mean your mother’s?” Mary clarified.

“No, my grandmother’s,” Molly put the relic back onto the shelf. ”She was Mum’s mother, and as Mum died when I was fairly little, we were at Maman’s a lot. I was the youngest, so I spent the most time with her. This was her place, you know; where she lived in the last ten or so years of her life. She willed it to me when I graduated – much to Aunt Margaret’s dismay.”

“Did your aunt want the flat for herself?” Mary asked, while Molly set up the potatoes for the shepherd’s pie to boil.

Molly nodded. “Yeah. She’s the oldest, so she thought it should have gone to her. I don’t really understand why she wanted it so badly; after all, Maman left her the Harris estate on the east coast, where she grew up and lived as a newly wed.”

“Your grandmother was born a Harris?” Mary was a little surprised.”I thought she was French.”

Molly shook her head. ”Nah, she was English all right. I don’t really know why we all called her Maman – it was just something we did.”

“She sounds like an interesting person,” Mary said. “Do you have any pictures of her?”

“We used to have a whole photo album,” Molly heated oil in a sauce pan and dumped the minced meat into it, stirring the mix with a wooden spoon. “But no-one knows where it has gone after her death. Unless Aunt Margaret took it out of sheer spite. Together with that book of her stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Oh, you know, the usual ones: about adventures and monsters and time travel and stuff,” Molly said vaguely. “She wrote them herself, by long-hand, in the form of a diary written by a fifteen-year-old Victorian girl. She used to read those stories out loud to us when we were little; she even did the voices,” she smiled. “There was one particular sort of evil robots, Kaleds, or Dalleks, I’m no longer sure. They looked like oversized pepper pots with sucker arms that were supposed to produce a particularly shrill, high-pitched shriek when they ordered somebody to be exterminated. When Maman did their voices, we always hid behind the sofa, so afraid were we.”

Mary laughed. “You were afraid of pepper pots?”

“They were large, evil pepper pots with deadly sucker arms that could suck out your brains; and ray weapons that could disintegrate you on the spot,” Molly pretended to be offended but the corners of her mouth were curved upward. “And a horrible shriek, apparently.”

They both laughed at that, the image too ridiculous for a grown-up to be taken seriously. But Mary could imagine that small children would be frightened.

“Your Maman had a very vivid imagination,” she then said.

“I know,” Molly replied with a thoughtful smile.”As a child, I actually believed every word in those stories. It was such a disappointment when I finally realised that they’d been just that: stories,” she tested the boiling potatoes with a fork. “They’re just right, think. I’ll make the potato mash now. Would you mind to open the wine bottle in the meantime?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Twenty minutes later the shepherd’s pie was happily cooking in the oven and the two women shared the bottle of wine and some salted peanuts in the living room, sharing some stories of their past as well. Naturally, Mary had the more dramatic stories to share, to which Molly listened with great interest.

They were both a little tipsy by then, and Molly became all sentimental about the lack of her love life, opening up to Mary like to no one before. Unsurprisingly, her stories focused mostly on Sherlock, and Mary, who had a personal interest in learn everything she could about the eccentric flatmate of her ex-husband, was fascinated by them.

“... and on the very day he and John first met – which happened in my lab at Bart’s, by the way – he came to the morgue to beat a fresh corpse with a riding crop.”

“He did what?” Mary couldn’t quite believe her ears.

Molly giggled. “He said he needed to know what bruises would form in the next twenty minutes. Apparently, a man’s alibi depended on it,” she became a bit teary-eyed all of a sudden. “I actually brought up the courage to ask him out on that day, and he... he didn’t even realised what I was doing. For a genius, he can be really clueless sometimes.”

“Oh, dear!” Mary made vaguely compassionate noises. “That’s hard.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Molly agreed with an unhappy smile. ”And that on the same day when he finally commented on my lipstick.”

“He did?” Molly found that a little hard to believe.

“He did,” Molly sighed. ”Of course, it didn’t do me much good. First he said I was wearing too much lipstick; and then he said I wasn’t wearing enough. I just don’t know,” she trailed off pensively. “Connie Prince would know. She’s fab.”

Mary frowned. “Connie who?”

“You don’t know Connie Prince?” Molly’s eyes widened comically, as if she were in shock. “Oh, my, we must change that right away! Wait here!”

She hopped on one foot to her bedroom to fetch her laptop (having lost a slipper in the process) but before she could reach her destination, the doorbell rang. Mary rose from her armchair.

“Oh, John’s finally here! Is it all right if I let him in?”

Molly waved her consent vaguely. But when Mary opened the door, it wasn’t John standing on the threshold. It was a uniformed delivery man, carrying a sizeable cardboard box.

“Delivery for Miss Molly Hooper,” he said.

“Coming!”

Molly kicked off her other slipper and went to accept the parcel, wearing only her pink socks that had grey kittens on them. She signed the delivery slip, let the man out and carried the box into the living room, placing it on the coffee table. Then she looked at the sender address and her eyes widened in surprise.

“From Aunt Margaret,” she said in awe. “But why would she send me anything? She’s never done so since I turned fourteen.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Mary said reasonably.

~TBC~

soledad_writes

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD
by Soledad
CHAPTER 06 – INTERLUDE #2 - THE DIARY

Author’s note: This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”. The story starts on March 20, meaning that I’ve backdated “The Big Banker” to fit it in, matching John and Molly’s blog entries.

A few lines are actually borrowed from Molly’s blog and are therefore not mine.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
PART 81 – SHERLOCK THWARTS THE DINNER PLANS

As usual with any information the sharing of which didn’t serve Sherlock’s immediate purposes, Molly was the last of their small circle of friends/helpers/acquaintances to learn about John’s ex-wife and the dramatic story of Mary’s life. John did feel a little ashamed when he realised this and tried to make up for his oversight by suggesting a little get-together.

Just the three of them, so that Molly and Mary got the chance to meet and get familiar with each other – although there was the distinct possibility of Sherlock inviting himself along, as always. John started to understand something that Molly had known for a long time: that Sherlock had absolutely no sense for personal boundaries.

Molly liked the idea of getting together but she didn’t want to have it in some impersonal restaurant, no matter how fancy it might be. So she invited them to dinner in her place. That way, she explained, they could also meet Toby – which was an important factor, as the cat was currently the closest thing she had to a family of her own.

Oh, there was still her sister, of course (though no longer her parents, unfortunately), but she’d moved to Canada long before Maman’s death, and besides, they had never been close, due to the fairly big age difference. And Aunt Margaret, after whom Molly had been named but hadn’t even met for years. And her estranged brother, living in Australia or New Zealand or some other remote place, she wasn’t even sure any more. And cousins of various grades scattered all across the globe... Mum had had a lot of siblings.

Yes, she did have family, but most of them were out of reach, and in the end it all came down to Toby. She sometimes couldn’t decide whether she should laugh or cry about it, but yeah, right now her family consisted of a tabby cat that she’d bought less than a month ago.

She was officially turning into a mad old cat woman. She was thirty-one, she was single – and she’d bought a cat. Even posted pictures of said cat on her blog. Hell, her entire blog was decorated with kitten pics!

On a pink background! She didn’t even like pink, not even at the age of thirteen, when she ditched her only Barbie doll (a gift from Aunt Margaret) and all its eye-hurtingly pink paraphernalia. And yet she’d chosen a pink background for her blog... and a fairly appalling shade of pink, at that. Like baby socks, with kittens. At her age! How pathetic was that?

Of course, Meena from the DNA lab always said that every single girl their age needed either a cat or a gay best friend. Molly figured a cat would be less fuss. So she’d bought one.

Besides, Meena was a category unto herself. How she’d managed to attract every male being that came close to her, despite being built like a tank was beyond everyone, really. Perhaps it was a Korean thing; that smooth, doll-faced, fake innocence.

Not that Molly really cared. But she did wonder where Meena planned to find the time either for a cat or for a gay best friend between all her torrid affairs. She was too busy screwing all the straight ones that had fallen victim to her formidable charms. Still, she was good company and quite fun to talk to during lunch breaks. Beyond that, their interests were simply too different to become friends.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
But John Watson was a friend, even though only via Sherlock, and Molly was quietly excited about having him and his ex-wife as guests. She was really looking forward to meet Mary. She cleaned the flat thoroughly (not that it had been untidy before, but still), agonised over the menu choices, bought the necessary ingredients and prepared everything in advance as far as it was possible.

Only for Sherlock to drag John off on some stupid case at the moment the Watsons arrived at Bart’s to fetch her.

Molly was in tears. Literally. She’d been so looking forward to a nice evening with her friends, and Sherlock ruined it for her without a second thought.

Or a first one, for that matter.

“That man needs a serious smack-down,” Mary muttered angrily. She, too, had been looking forward to meet Molly; the only woman around the Baker Street duo who wasn’t an ex-girlfriend of John’s.

“That’s what he always does,” Molly sniffed. “I make plans – I always have plans – but he just rides all over everything.”

“Well, why do you let him?” asked Mary reasonably. Molly shrugged.

“I don’t even know,” she admitted. “It’s not that I’m really shy, you know. I’m not. Not with other people. I’m a sensible girl, I always have been. I worked hard to get this job, and I’m proud of it – even though some people tend to react funny when they learn where I work.”

“Remind them of Dana Scully,” Mary suggested.

“I don’t think I’d have so much in common with the star of an American TV-show,” Molly replied mournfully. “Usually, I’m in control, though. ‘Little Miss Perfect”, as my mates call me. But as soon as he walks into the room, I’m suddenly this little mouse. He turns me into a mouse!”

Personally, Mary found that Molly behaved like a frightened rabbit, at least in Sherlock’s presence, but given her own past, who was she to criticise the nervous little pathologist?

Besides, they didn’t know each other well enough to judge Molly’s general character just yet.

“Do you love him?” she asked instead gently.

Molly shrugged again.

“Yeah. At least I think I do. Do you believe in love at first sight?” she asked back.

Mary smiled, remembering the day she’d stumbled into a younger, still fresh-faced John Watson… quite literally, and what a defining moment of her life that had been.

“Oh, yes,” she confessed. “Sometimes thunderbolt moments do happen.”

“Yeah, it was exactly like that,” Molly agreed enthusiastically. “And ever since, I can’t stop thinking about him. He’s so intelligent, it’s like he’s burning. And he’s so cool, but not really. And he’s fit. Oh, he’s really fit. And I can’t stop thinking about him,” she trailed off in embarrassment. “I’ve already said that, haven’t I? I’m babbling, am I?”

“You’re in love; you are allowed to,” Mary replied tolerantly. “You still shouldn’t let him walk over you.”

“It’s not that I want to,” Molly said miserably. “It’s just… I don’t understand him. One minute he’s noticing the tiniest thing about me, like my lipstick or so, and the next it’s like I’m not here at all!”

“You mean he’s rude and inconsiderate,” Mary translated the statement.

Molly nodded glumly. “I was tempted to name my cat after him, you know. But Toby is cute and fluffy, so the name wouldn’t really fit.”

Mary tried to reconcile ‘cute and fluffy’ with Sherlock – and failed spectacularly. Everyone would have.

“No, I don’t think it would,” she agreed; then she rose from the lab stool where she was sitting. “Let’s go then.”

“Where to?” Molly gave her a deer-in-the-headlights look.

“Well, you’ve bought food and made preparations; it would be a shame to waste them,” Mary said reasonably. “We should go to your place and cook that dinner you’ve planned. And drink the bottle of wine John’s bought for the evening. If those two idiots don’t show up, we can have a girls’ night, just the two of us.”

Molly perked up at once. “That’s a great idea! You can text John to pick you up at mine. Why should we sit here and wait like two abandoned brides left at the altar?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to do the texting,” Mary said. “I don’t have a mobile phone.”

“What?” Molly stared at her as if she’d sported a second head, all of a sudden. “But – but everyone has one!”

“I don’t,” Mary replied. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you everything while we cook, I promise.”

And so Molly texted John to pick Mary up at her place, and then they called a cab and went back to said place – as a rule Molly would have used the Tube, but she decided that taking a cab was part of the celebration. She was quite cheered up that the evening wouldn’t be a complete waste, after all.

~TBC~

Current Mood: apathetic

soledad_writes

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD
by Soledad
CHAPTER 05 – THE SERPENT’S LAIR

Author’s note: This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
PART 80 – REBOUND

After her visit to Flat Holm, Mary returned to London and reopened the Spice Bazaar, to the general relief and delight of her regular clientele. Mr Kher, Kwesi and his girlfriend Myisha (who had such a haunting resemblance to the late Lisa Hallett that it nearly broke Ianto’s heart whenever they ran into each other in the spice shop), Shaheen, Jadgit’s mother (who was deliriously happy indeed to have her son back, largely undamaged) and all the others were all too happy to have their Mira and her healing spices back.

Even if it was a bit hard for them to get used to call her Mary now.

Mycroft’s people had gone through both the shop and the entire house with the fine-toothed comb, removing everything that even remotely looked like either unknown substances or alien technology – not that Mary would have known about the latter.

Mycroft also looked into Dr Roylott’s finances and realised with mild surprise that even if the survivors got their money back, Mary would be reasonably wealthy once her stepfather died. Which was only a matter of time by the speed his inner organs were shutting down, one after another.

Since Dr Roylott had expected to live on infinitely with the help of his alien pet, he had no last will. That meant Mary would inherit everything: the house, the shop, the funds, the shares in various other businesses, most of them – surprisingly enough – legal. Dr Roylott had been around for nearly two hundred years and he had been a shrewd and cautious businessman. He had accumulated a considerable wealth in those long years.

“I took the liberty to extract for you full power of attorney regarding the finances of the family, my dear,” Mycroft told Mary amiably. “Seeing that Dr Roylott no longer has his mental facilities intact, you’ll have full access to all the money that does not go back to the families of his victims. Do you have any idea what you want to do with it?”

Mary shrugged, a little uncertainly. They were gathered in her private chambers above the spice shop, where she’d treated them to an authentic, home-made Indian dinner that even Sherlock found excellent enough to have seconds (which he never had, as a rule), and were now discussing the future by fragrant Darjeeling, served in paper-thin china bowls rather than in cups. Mary was wearing her traditional Indian garb again – not because she had to but because she now had the freedom to do so if she chose. It was liberating.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. "Julia was the book-keeper of the family. I’m afraid I’m hopeless when it comes to money, and it would be disrespectful to spend it unwisely.”

“Disrespectful?” Ianto, who’d also been invited, raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Towards whom?”

“The people my stepfather took it from in earlier times,” Mary replied. “The ones who’re long dead and can no longer be compensated for their losses.” She turned to Mycroft.”Can you suggest me somebody who can deal with it, sir? I want to use it for a good purpose, but I have no idea where to begin.”

“Hmmm,” Mycroft looked sideways at Ianto. ”Mr Jones, are you interested in the challenge? You and Ms Morstan will be working together concerning Flat Holm anyway.”

Ianto hesitated for a moment. He already worked for three, dealing with Mycroft’s projects and with what could be saved from Torchwood and frankly, that was more than enough. On the other hand, Mary was a good person, with money she intended to use for a good purpose, so she deserved some help.

Besides, it was a challenge, and Ianto liked challenges.

“It depends,” he replied carefully.”Let’s deal with first things first. What are your intentions with the house, Ms Morstan? It’s obviously too big for you alone, and now that it’s lost its original purpose, no matter how twisted that was, it will only be a burden.”

“I was thinking of holding aroma therapy sessions in what used to be the common meditation room,” Mary answered thoughtfully. “I even thought of hiring a yoga teacher so that the dojo wold be used according to its actual purpose. It is fully equipped, after all. And I was hoping to find a doctor to take over my stepfather’s private practice,” she added, giving John a shy smile.

John shook his head. ”I’m not an ayurveda healer, Mary. “

“I know,” she said. “Neither was my stepfather, not really. That’s not what I meant. There’s no GP in the neighbourhood, and the people who live there desperately need one. One that would respect them, even though they’re neither rich, nor important.”

John became suspiciously thoughtful and for a moment Ianto could see honest panic flickering across Sherlock’s face, only to be ruthlessly suppressed at once. The Doctor had never functioned well on his own, and being in human disguise didn’t change that fact a bit. So it was understandable that both Holmes brothers held their breath in anxiety while waiting for John’s decision.

“I can’t run a full-time practice on my own,” the doctor finally said. “Sherlock needs me to help him with The Work,” the capital letters were clearly audible here. “Other doctors can take over Dr Rolylott’s practice; doctors that won’t be able to work with Sherlock.”

If Mary was disappointed, she hid it well. The utter relief on Sherlock’s face, on the other hand, was barely veiled.

“Indeed, John, you’re probably the only one who can work with my little brother in the long run,” Mycroft agreed smoothly, his expression remarkably similar to that of a cat that had just got into the cream.

“Perhaps you can work out a compromise,” Ianto suggested, studiously ignoring the annoyed looks of both Holmeses. He was firmly on Mary’s side – and, consequently, on John’s side – in their domestic little power play, and he wasn’t afraid to go against the wishes of the almighty Mycroft Holmes if he had to.

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered – but John showed definite interest. Considering that he still loved his ex-wife, it wasn’t really surprising.

“What would you suggest?” he asked, ignoring Sherlock’s annoyed huff.

“You don’t have to run the practice alone, Dr Watson,” Ianto explained. “I’m sure Dr Jones would love to take regular shifts; she’s been complaining lately that she doesn’t have enough chance to qualify herself as a GP. And when her fiancé, Dr Milligan, comes back from Africa around the end of the summer, he’d need a steady job, soon.”

John’s ears perked up hearing that name. “You mean Tom Milligan? The one who’s spent the last four years or so with Médecins Sans Frontiers?”

“You know him?” Ianto asked in surprise.

John nodded. “We used to work together at A&E before I would join the Army. He is a decent bloke and a very good doctor. Has his priorities where they ought to be.All right, if you can talk them into this shared practice thing, I’m in, too.”

“John!” Mycroft and Sherlock exclaimed in unison. Even their tone was completely identical. In a different situation it would have been hilarious.

John shook his head again. “Leave it, Sherlock. I’m not abandoning you or The Work. You’re my friend, and I actually enjoy our insane lifestyle. But I’m not abandoning Mary, either, now that I’ve found her again. And I’m not letting the chance to do some steady work, where I can be my own boss, slipping through my fingers.”

“Treating hangnails and snotty noses, how boring!” Sherlock said scathingly.

John’s eyes grew a little colder. “Well, I’m a doctor; that’s what doctors do. We can’t be all mad geniuses with a rich and powerful family to watch our back. Besides, Mary got here first. Hers is the older claim.”

“She divorced you, while you were in Afghanistan!” Sherlock pointed out nastily.

Mary stiffened, but John gave her knee a gentle pat.

“That wasn’t exactly her choice, and you know that, Sherlock. Don’t be such a child! I’ve got her back now, and that’s great. We don’t know what will come out of this, but we’re trying to keep an open mind. Oh, and Mycroft?” he added, giving the British Government an icy glare. "Should anything... unfortunate happen to her. I’ll be out of here and back to the next best war zone, never to return, faster than Sherlock could say ‘obvious’. Just to make things very clear. Do we understand each other?”

“Of course, John, but I’d never,” Mycroft began indignantly.

“Oh yes, you would,” John interrupted. “So I’m warning you: don’t! This is my life; and it’s my decision whom I share it with. Not yours. Not Sherlock’s. If either of you want to be part of it, you’ll have to let it be my choice. Otherwise we’re done with each other.”

The identical expressions of shock on the faces of both Time Lords were so funny that Ianto had a really hard time to remain serious.

Suddenly, he was no longer concerned what might happen with John Watson, should the Doctor revert to his true self. Ex-husband and Army veteran, Dr John Hamish Watson was more than capable of taking care of himself. Especially with his beautiful and courageous ex-wife on his side again.

~Te End – for now~

“Interlude #2 – The Diary” is coming up,soon.

Current Mood: accomplished

soledad_writes

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD
by Soledad
CHAPTER 05 – THE SERPENT’S LAIR

Author’s note: This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”.

Warning: This chapter may contain some disturbing images.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
PART 79 – SANCTUARY

Revisiting Cardiff was always bittersweet for Ianto. The memories of his time with Torchwood Three were mostly Fairly horrible: hiding Lisa in the basement, the fairies, nearly getting eaten by cannibals, the Weevils, Cell 114, John Hart, Jack's insane brother (and wasn't it horrible of him to be glad that the destruction of the Hub had, at least rid them of said brother?) the repeated deaths of Jack and Suzie, the not-quite-death of Owen, the loss of Tosh... death and destruction so many levels he didn't even care to count.

Including his own, in two different cases, neither of which stuck.

But there had also been good things: the joys of discovery and knowledge in the Archives, the friendship with Tosh and, of course, Jack, who'd needed him and even loved him in his broken and imperfect way, and who had unknowingly passed on his gift – or curse, depending on one's point of view – of immortality to him.

Ianto still didn't know if it would stick; or if he truly wanted it to stick. But being in Cardiff made him miss Jack more than he already did.

And it made him feel guilty, knowing that Rhi and her family were still mourning for him. But he could not return, not yet. Not until the mastermind behind the destruction of Torchwood was found and dealt with. Right now, it was nothing but a name: Moriarty. And until then, Ianto was better off dead.

At least Rhi and the children had got the money he'd never found the time to spend; the funds he'd set up for the kids, so that life was a bit easier for them, than before, even if only financially.

He drove Mary Morstan and the future inmates of Flat Holm from London to Cardiff by car- not his own but one of the anonymous vans kept by Mycroft's office, registered on a fake owner. He didn't dare to sit on the train for hours, even though he was wearing a perception filter, disguised as a belt buckle. Too many people knew him in Cardiff; he could always run into somebody who didn't know about his supposed death and so the perception filter might fail him.

To complete his disguise, he also wore jeans and a hoodie instead of his trademark tailored suits and a pair of glasses he didn't actually need but that changed the overall impression of his face more than the two-day-stubble.

He drove directly to the bay, parked the car in the garage kept for this sole purpose, and then they went to look for the boat. It was waiting for them already – unsurprisingly, since Ianto had called in advance – a small, blue-and-white striped vessel, with an unexpectedly spacious cabin that looked like the inside of an ambulance, and a stocky, bearded Welshman at the steering wheel.

"A... most unusual boat," Mary commented softly while helping the almost catatonic patients board the vessel. She, too, was clad in faded jeans and one of John's jumpers, her hair twisted into a tight knot and hidden under a loosely-wrapped cashmere shawl.

"My former boss had it custom-made when I was still working for the Cardiff branch of our agency," Ianto explained."We've been bringing people here for years, haven't we, Captain Madog?"

The boatsman just nodded, his square jaw working noiselessly. The romantic in Mary wanted to believe that he was chewing tobacco, like in those old-fashioned pirate novels, but it was more likely gum in these days. It still seemed very... authentic, matching his stereotypical sea wolf image well.

"Can we set off, Mr Jones?" he then asked in his low, rumbling voice, and Ianto nodded.

"Whenever you're ready, Captain."

"You're using your real name?" Mary asked when they were well on their way to Flat Holm Island and two of the weakest patients had stopped being seasick. "I thought you were in some sort of witness protection program, presumably dead."

"I am," Ianto agreed."But every third person in Wales is called Jones; and simply using the full form of my name – which is Ifan – was easier than get used to a completely new one. I have to be more careful in Cardiff, of course; I come from here and many people used to know me; hence the disguise. It's worked well enough for the last couple of years," he knocked on the wooden bulkhead of the cabin superstitiously, "but those are no guarantees. That's why I only come to Cardiff to visit Flat Holm."

"What about cosmetic surgery?" Mary suggested. "Wouldn't you be safer with a new face?"

"Perhaps," Ianto allowed. He had thought about it, for the very reason Mary had just mentioned. But the thought of Jack not recognising him was more than he could possibly bear. "But I didn't want to be somebody else. Not even for my own safety."

"Does anybody know, save for Mr Holmes?"

"Anthea, of course. And Helen, the head nurse of the asylum. She'd known me before I entered Mr Holmes's employ, so trying to fool her would have been hopeless. But they're the only ones. Not even Mr Holmes's brother knws what I did here, in Cardiff... or who I was. And neither did my own sister."

"And the curator of the asylum?" Mary asked.

Ianto smiled at her. "I am the curator of the asylum. My former boss bestoved the job upon me cos he knew I was methodical and good with details. Mr Holmes simply let me continue."

In the meantime they reached the island and moored at the single wooden jetty. Captain Madog threw a wooden plank across the boat's railing and helped them with getting their passengers to the land.

"The usual trip, Mr Jones?"he then asked.

Ianto shook his head. "No, I'm afraid we'll need a bit longer this time. Your next supply run is tomorrow, right?" the boatsman nodded. "We'll stay the nght, then, and return to the mainland with you tomorrow."

Captain Madog nodded his understanding, and the little boat left a few minutes later. Mary used the time to take in her surroundings. The island seemed largely empty, save for the harsh beauty of untouched nature around them – and the lighthouse a short distance in front of them.

"Where is the asylum?" she asked.

"Not far," Ianto replied, "but we need to make a short walk. It can't be seen from here; and most of it is underground anyway. Originally, it was built as a sanatorium for cholera patients in 1896 as the isolation hospital for the port of Cardiff, but don't let your first impression mislead you. We've done a great deal of work here, and while security is still an important factor, we did our best to make life for the inmates as comfortable as possible."

At a slow yet steady pace, so that their charges could keep up, they walked by the lighthouse that looked as if cut off some postcard, towards the middle of the island. Here and there they saw abandoned buildings, mostly concrete ones from the
WWII era or even earlier, made of brick. They passed the ruins of the cholera hospital, which had been left untouched for disguise, and turned onto a narrow concrete path between two low hills.

The path abruptly led them to a massive iron door, complete with security cameras and retina and fingerprint scanner under the doorbell button. Ianto stepped in front of the scanner and leaned closer to allow it to do its job. Then he pressed his thumb at the touchpad of the fingerprint scanner and waited.

A moment later there was a metallic clang. The door slid to the side and on the threshold stood a large, dark-skinned woman, smiling at them tiredly but in a friendly manner.

"Mr Jones!" she beamed and hugged Ianto spontaneously."How good to see you again! It's been too long!"

"I know; I'm sorry, Helen," Ianto hugged her back."It's not as easy to get away from London as it used to be when I still worked in Cardiff. Let me introduce you to Ms Mary Morstan; she's the aroma therapist I told you about. She's also known the new inmates for years, so she'll prove helpful while they're settling down. Or so we hope."

"Welcome to Flat Holm Island," Helen shake hands with Mary."Mr Jones and I have a few financial problems to discuss, but my husband can show you the facilities and introduce you to the rest of the staff while our new residents are settled into their rooms. We can all meet for lunch afterwards, and we'll try to answer any questions you might have."

Mary was a bit uncomfortable with the idea of being left alone in the asylum, with only a mans he'd never seen before as her guide, but since Ianto didn't seem concerned, she agreed. She'd asked for this, after all. And she'd come here regularly in the future on her own or – hopefully – with John as company. She could do this.

"There's no time like the present," she said bravely and followed the gentle-faced, bald man – built like a professional wrestler – to the unknown depths of the underground facility.

~TBC~

soledad_writes

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD
by Soledad
CHAPTER 05 – THE SERPENT’S LAIR

Author’s note: This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
PART 78 – OFFICIAL DENIAL

“So, is it over then?” asked Mary Morstan two days later, still a little doubtfully.

The Watsons and Homeses gathered in 221B, waiting for Mycroft to explain them the background of the recent events. Mary was wearing a decent, crème-coloured skirt suit with a dark red silk blouse, purchased on the previous day with Martha’s assistance. She had let her long, shiny hair down and her expressive eyes were rimmed with black mascara. She also wore a discreet shade of peach lip-gloss.

She looked very different from the timid, tradition-bound woman Sherlock and Ianto had met in the Spice Bazaar, but every bit as beautiful – or perhaps even more so, now that she could afford to be her true self again. She and John were sitting on the sofa, holding hands.

Mycroft nodded. ”It is over, Ms Morstan, don’t worry. Your stepfather won’t last much longer, now that he’s cut off from his supply of illegal drugs, and we’re about to roll up all his dubious businesses... and there are quite a few of those, let me tell you.”

“The drugs,” Sherlock said darkly.

“The sect,” John added. “All those mislead young idiots whose money he took and then drugged them up and let them starve.”

“My sister,” Mary said, her beautiful eyes full of tears. “Aunt Honoria. Perhaps even Mum.”

“Not to mention yourself,” Mycroft reminded her. “Your inheritance, your marriage – your entire life.”

“At least I’m still alive,” Mary replied soberly. “So, the speckled band that my poor sister saw… it was just a snake?”

“Not just any snake,” Mycroft corrected. “It was a swamp adder; the deadliest snake in India. You’d have died within ten seconds after being bitten.”

“The idea of using a form of poison that can’t be discovered by a superficial chemical test was one that would occur to a clever and ruthless man who’s lived in the East for a long time,” Sherlock added thoughtfully. “The rapidity with which such poisons take effect would also, from his point of view, be an advantage; as would the short time needed for the victim’s body to absorb the poison completely. Even if a sharp-eyed coroner would spot the small puncture wounds where the poison fangs had done their work, traces of the poison could only be discovered if one knew exactly what to look for. The death would appear to be a natural one and nobody would see any reason to suspect foul play.”

Mycroft have him one of his trademark pinched smiles. “Glaringly obvious, isn’t it?”

“Embarrassingly so,” Sherlock agreed. “Barely a six.”

“Well, I’m sorry that the deaths of Mary’s mother, sister and aunt weren’t stimulating enough for you arrogant geniuses,” John snapped indignantly but Mary gave his slightly trembling left hand a soothing squeeze.

“Leave it, John. They’re not like us; they can’t possibly understand. Be grateful that they were quick enough to save me… and those poor, mislead souls that my stepfather had managed to ensnare,” she turned to Mycroft. “What will happen with the surviving sect members?”

“First they’ll come to a hospital where they’ll be treated for severe malnourishment,” Mycroft replied. “Then those who still have family and whose minds haven’t been completely destroyed by the drugs may return home if that’s what they wish.”

“And the others?” John asked quietly.

Mycroft sighed. “They’ll live out their lives – what’s left of it, as the prognosis isn’t promising – in a mental institution where they’ll be cared for and protected from any possible danger… including themselves.”

“What sort of institution?” John inquired.

“Two different places, actually,” Mycroft explained. “Those with the slightest chances even of partial recovery will be brought to Providence Park – a psychiatric hospital in Cardiff, specialised for such cases. The rest will have to go to a mental asylum on Flat Holm Island, I’m afraid. Quite a few of them are already too far gone to be saved.”

“A mental asylum?” Mary shivered. “That doesn’t sound very pleasant.”

Mycroft gave her a condescending smile.

“I assure you, Ms Morstan, that it is a decent place, with a highly dedicated staff. The picture certain films like to make about such institutions for the sake of what they call ‘drama’ is grossly exaggerated. I’ve personally visited both places, several times and without announcing my visit, and can guarantee that these unfortunate people will be treated well.”

“I’d prefer to be the judge of that myself,” John said, his jaw set. Mycroft shook his head.

“And I’m afraid I cannot allow that, Dr Watson… unless you’d be willing to pay the asylum regular visits. The residents have a meticulously worked out daily routine – the only thing that still holds them to the shards of their sanity. Random interruptions could destroy the meagre results of years of patient labour.”

“If that’s what it takes then yes, I can visit regularly,” John returned, not quite willing to back off just yet.

Mary squeezed his hand again. “No, you can’t, and you know that. I’ve read your blog in the few days I’ve spent here. I know what kind of life you lead. What if Sherlock gets a case and needs you? You would leave anything else you’re doing and run off with him at a moment’s notice. That’s what you do – both of you.”

She turned to Mycroft again. “I can do it, though. I can pick a day on which I don’t open the shop and go to Cardiff instead. Perhaps seeing a familiar face would help; and I’d like to make amends for the things my stepfather did to them.”

“What a sentimental nonsense!” Sherlock huffed. “You’re not responsible for Dr Roylott’s crimes any more than I’d be for the atrocious behaviour of my brother. You were a prisoner in that shop of yours – and you want to keep it? What for?”

“It has always been my livelihood, and my regular customers count on me,” Mary answered calmly. “Now that I can run it as I see fit will be a great relief. And I am responsible, at least partially. My shop was the door through which the victims of my stepfather entered his area of influence. I failed to warn them off; I’d like to help them now, in whatever manner it’s possible – and I do have the time, if nothing else.”

“But are you also prepared to face whatever you might see on Flat Holm?” Mycroft asked seriously. “The people living there have been to Hell and back; some of them are odd, others are downright frightening. Even the personnel come to the brink of their endurance from time to time.”

“One more reason why they should get some help,” Mary said. “I’m strong enough to face whatever there is once a month, I think. And I need a new purpose in my life – one beyond simple survival.”

“I hoped I’d be able to offer you an alternative,” John said in a soft, hurt voice.

Mary squeezed his hand again.

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive, John. I’m more than willing to give us a second chance. But this is something I need to do for myself, don’t you see? For too long have I lived passively, simply reacting to other people’s actions. I’d like to take the initiative for a change… to do something positive, something useful.”

She looked at Mycroft again. “Please, Mr Holmes; I know I can do this!”

Mycroft didn’t answer at once. Allowing Mary to visit Flat Holm regularly wasn’t without risks. She might pick up things about the Rift victims that couldn’t be explained without revealing the full truth, which could prove disastrous, especially as she’d been fed drugs by Dr Roylott for years and therefore it was hard to tell just how stable her mental state was.

On the other hand, Helen and the others could indeed use the help of somebody who was well-versed in mediation techniques and aroma therapy, had a soothing presence and was willing to give some of her time to those unfortunates on a regular basis. And if John, too, could be roped in later… well, having a steady doctor for the inmates, even one that didn’t live there permanently, could prove useful.

Especially if – when – the Doctor reverted to himself and John chose not to go with him, gallivanting across the universe. A new purpose would come in handy for the good doctor, then.

“You understand that I can’t make the decision on my own in this matter, don’t you?” he finally said. “I’m merely the one who provides the financial means to keep the asylum running. But I’ll speak to the curator and the leader of Flat Holm on your behalf and give you an answer in the shortest possible time.”

He didn’t doubt that Ianto – who’d taken over full responsibility for Flat Holm after Captain Harkness’s departure – would welcome Mary’s help. And if Ianto approved, Helen would agree, too. They might have actually made something good out of the Roylott disaster, after all.

~TBC~

soledad_writes

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD
by Soledad
CHAPTER 05 – THE SERPENT’S LAIR

Author’s note: This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”.

Warning: This chapter may contain some disturbing mental images.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
PART 77 – THE KILLING FIELDS

A few phone calls later (courtesy of Anthea and Ianto, respectively) the hibernating Ophidian was placed in a stasis box and sent on its way to the high-security UNIT lab in Baskerville.

At the same time an ambulance arrived, gathered Dr Roylott and took him to another secret facility – this time a high-security prison, disguised as a psychiatric hospital. It seemed unlikely that he’d live longer than a couple of weeks, but Mycroft wanted him isolated and under surveillance all the time. There was no way to tell what other dark secrets the man might still be hiding.

Next to arrive was a platoon of UNIT soldiers, led by Major Elisa Magambo – one of the few UNIT officers cleared after the 456-disaster and promoted as a result – who came to neutralise any potential threat that might lurk within the house yet. It was a modest building, but it had many rooms, every single one of which could have been a trap with more hostile aliens waiting in shadowy corners.

Fortunately, they found nothing of the sort. Just a sorry group of emaciated, skeletal human beings, wearing identical, shapeless robes or rough, undyed linen – the closest thing to a hair shirt that could be found in the twenty-first century. There were almost three dozen of them – thirty-four, to be accurate – and every single one of them looked old enough to be at death’s door.

They seemed almost identical, just like their robes. Their eyes were huge in their pallid, cadaverous faces, parchment-like skin stretched tight across jutting cheekbones, shrunk mouths almost lipless, their hair grey and thinning, their long fingernails bent and yellowed on the end of claw-like, bony fingers. They looked more like ghosts than like living people.

They also seemed to be afraid to leave their Spartan little cells, the furniture of which consisted of a thin, hard mattress, a washstand and nothing else, outside of “the appointed time”, as they said in weak protest. Apparently, they’d been conditioned to go nowhere but the meditation room and the refectory, where they had been give a frugal meal once a day.

Unless they’d been ordered to a private meeting with the Shastri Mohashai, their guru – meaning Dr Roylott, of course. That was something they all seemed to dread very much, though they had clearly no actual memories of such meetings. Nor seemed they remember their original names; the Hindu names assigned to them stood written on their cell door.

Based on the long list of names on each door, the occupants changed fairly often.

“Not surprising, if they’ve aged prematurely by the way of life being literally sucked out of them,” Major Magambo commented. “But why the memory loss? Was there some kind of mind-wipe; or that Retcon stuff Torchwood liked to use so much?”

“I’d rather say old-age dementia,” Martha replied. “They also might have gone slightly mad. The human brain is not made to deal with the trauma of aging decades on a single day. Which is probably why they’re all drugged up to the eyeballs: to keep them calm and pliant.”

“But where are the rest of them?” Magambo asked. “Look at the names on those doors: hundreds must have lived here during the last decade or two. Where are they?”

“Dead, most likely,” Ianto said grimly, making notes on his PDA device; Magambo had never met him in person, so he could afford to show himself.

“Probably, yes, but what have they done with the corpses?” Magambo insisted. “Somebody would have noticed if they had coffins taken out of the house on a monthly basis or so. And there isn’t a garden or anything where they could have buried them… or a crematorium to burn them.”

“They’re in the basement,” a young voice said behind their backs.

Magambo whirled around, gun on the ready, before the newcomer could finish speaking. The others followed suit, albeit a little more slowly, to see source of that piece of unexpected information.

It was a young boy, perhaps sixteen years of age and clearly of Indian origins. His head was shaved and he was wearing the same rough, undyed linen robe as the others. Unlike them, though, he seemed healthy and strong – save for his dilated pupils that revealed the influence of drugs.

He was very obviously afraid – small wonder with an unknown soldier aiming at him with a pistol – but not panicking. Not very much, in any case.

“Major, I don’t really think you’d need that gun,” Martha said gently. She stepped closer to the boy, showing him her empty hands to signal that she meant no harm.

“Who are you?” she asked. “And where have you come from? I thought we’d found everyone in the house.”

“My… my name is Jadgit,” the boy replied, his voice trembling just a little. “I… I used to come to Miss Mira’s shop, for spices. My Mum needs them for her belly aches. They can be real bad sometimes.”

“How did you end up as a member of the sect, then?” Ianto asked. “You can’t have been here for long – you are still strong and hale.”

“It was a week ago… I think,” the boy frowned. “It’s hard to keep track on time here. I came to fetch the spices for Mum when I was called into the house to help with moving some furniture. I thought nothing by it, even hoped for a tip, although Miss Mira tried to send me away. I went in… and they grabbed me. Pressed some cloth against my mouth and nose. It smelled really bad, and I passed out.”

Martha rolled her eyes. “Good grief, who does still use chloroform?”

“Dr Roylott’s cronies, apparently,” the Major looked at the boy. “What happened then?”

“When I came by, I was like this,” the boy pointed at his bald head and the robe he was wearing. “I could hear the others speak; they thought I was still out cold. They said I’d be initiated that evening… I didn’t like the sound of that, so I hit them over the head with the washbasin that stood in my cell – it was heavy enough to knock them out – and run. Only that I couldn’t find a way out.”

“You knocked out grown people, on your own?” Martha couldn’t help but being impressed.

The boy shrugged. “Wasn’t that hard. You’ve seen them, haven’t you? They’re weak like kittens…. And I’ve learned to stand up to bullies at school. I’m pretty strong.”

“Good for you,” Ianto said. “But what did you mean the dead are in the basement? In coffins?”

“Nah, in urns. Or rather in one big urn,” the boy explained. “That’s where they’re put when they turn to dust.”

“You mean ashes?” Magambo asked. The boy shook his head.

“No; real, honest dust.”

“Don’t be silly,” Magambo said. “This is not some kind of vampire movie. People don’t just turn to dust. No way.”

The boy shrugged again. “They do it here. I saw it with my own eyes. One of the oldest ones died four days ago… and simply turned to dust. His clothes didn’t. The others swept him together and brought to the urn in the basement.”

“Actually, that would make sense,” Martha said thoughtfully. “The rapid aging could mean that the body tissue would go through an accelerated mummification process as well, hence – dust.”

Magambo shuddered. “Not the mental image I needed, thanks. But if they collect all the remains in the same urn, identifying the victims will be near impossible, I’m afraid.”

“Or, at least, long and arduous work,” Mycroft said. He’d finished the examination of Dr Roylott’s papers and joined them for a quick progress report. “We’ll have to do it nonetheless.”

“Why?” Magambo asked. “It’s not so as if we could tell their families the truth.”

“No,” Mycroft agreed. “But it will help us to solve a great deal of missing person’s cases and unburden the police considerably. We’ll send the remains to Baskerville, in a sealed container. They have the means to do the identification in no time.”

“The police can do it,” Magambo said dismissively.

“True; but their DNA-labs are already overworked. Besides, if the remains contain any residual Artron energy, which I strongly believe they will, I don’t want the police to become suspicious and start asking questions about things that are nowhere their business. That would be… inconvenient.”

“To put it mildly,” Magambo nodded; then she looked at the boy. “What are we gonna do with him?”

“Nothing,” Mycroft replied smoothly. “Mr Jones will take his testimony, give him a cup of his excellent tea and then take him home to his mother. She will, no doubt, be overjoyed to have him back.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Ianto returned to Mycroft’s townhouse several hours later, impeccably clad as always but visibly tired.

“How did things go with the boy?” Mycroft asked.

“It was smooth sailing, sir,” Ianto suppressed a yawn. “Retcon worked like a charm; I only needed to remove a few facts, since we’re going with the abusive cult cover story anyway. Fortunately, he’s in no way damaged. The drugs would be flushed from his system in no time, and he’ll be reasonable enough never to touch any of them voluntarily, I think.”

“That’s good,” Mycroft said. “Now, we’ll only have to deal with the rest of the survivors… and to sell the cover story to my brother and Dr Watson, of course.”

“I don’t envy you for that, sir,” Ianto grimaced. “As for the survivors, I do have a suggestion, though.”

“You do?”

“Yes, sir. Basically, they’re not so different from the Rift victims we used to have in Cardiff; still haven, in fact. So, why don’t we treat them as Rift victims?”

“Hmmm,” Mycroft said thoughtfully. “The idea does have its merits, Mr Jones. The only problem is: how am I going to sell it to Sherlock and John?”

“And to Ms Morstan,” Ianto added with emphasis. “Don’t forget, sir, she might even know some of the victims. But I’ve got any reason to believe in your powers of persuasion. I’m sure you can do it.”

“I wish I had your faith in my abilities,” Mycroft muttered, but he knew Ianto was right. This was his story to tell and nobody could do it for him.”

~TBC~

Current Mood: accomplished

soledad_writes

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD
by Soledad
CHAPTER 05 – THE SERPENT’S LAIR

Author’s note: This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”. The Ophidian was borrowed from the Star Trek – The Next Generation episode “Time’s Arrow” but has different traits and purposes here.

The “science” in this chapter is wacky at best, but again, so is it generally with Dr. Who. I don’t really expect anyone to buy it – it’s only there to drive the plot forth, so bear with me.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
PART 76 – CHEATING DEATH

The sight that greeted them was... not pleasant, to say the least. Though still breathing, the pitiful creature slumped in Dr Roylott’s armchair resembled a mummified corpse. In truth, he seemed to have aged at least a century in the previous half an hour – and even to have shrunk accordingly. Most of his hair was gone, and his parchment-like skin full of spots caused by high age.

Ianto, who – alone of the Torchwood Three team – had not gone off to the Himalayas by Harold Saxon’s orders (somebody had to keep the Hub running and the Weevils fed, and who else would have been left home than the teaboy) therefore remembered the Year That Never Was, due to the fact that he had been sitting atop the Rift all the time. Now, looking at the man in front of him, he was painfully reminded of the wizened little troll the Doctor had become aboard the Valiant, due to the Master’s manipulations. Not that he’d have felt particularly sorry for the Doctor, but the memory was irreversibly bound with the knowledge what Jack had had to suffer during the same time, and that knowledge still haunted him.

A quick glance at Mycroft’s hardening face revealed that the Time Lord was fighting the same memories.

Mycroft had been fortunate enough to go into hiding just in time before the Master would have started his reign of horror and insanity. Even though his TARDIS was broken beyond repair, its heart still existed, not only feeding Mummy with knowledge and energy but also creating a temporal bubble around Mycroft’s hiding place, so that he, too, kept his memories after the reset of time – despite the fact that he sometimes wished he hadn’t.

This was one of those times.

Ianto brought a chair from another room and placed it opposite Dr Roylott’s bureau, so that his boss could sit and interrogate the old man in relative comfort. Mycroft nodded his thanks and sat, crossing his legs with an elegant swing, ankle over knee.

“Well, Dr Roylott,” he said conversationally. “Let us talk while you still can, shall we? I believe I do have the general picture now, but I’d like to have the details set straight.”

The clouded, ancient eyes glared at him with immeasurable hatred.

“You!” the old man creaked. “You’ve ruined... ruined everything. How do you dare...? Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Mycroft Holmes,” even though the man was clearly dying, the Time Lord saw no reason to reveal his true identity. “You’ve recently made the mistake of threatening my little brother. I do not take such threats lightly. You shouldn’t have challenged me by going after my family, doctor. You never had the chance to win.”

“I’ve defeated... worse foes than just... some posh git,” Dr Roylott creaked. “You... don’t know who... you’re ... up against...”

“Whom,” Mycroft corrected automatically, irritated as always by these humans’ lack of respect for their own language. “You’d do better to yield, Dr Roylott. We’ve neutralised your Ophidian; it won’t come back to rejuvenate you again.”

“Ophidian... so that’s what she is,” the old man muttered. “I always... wondered... where she came from.”

“It,” Mycroft corrected. “Ophidians are genderless creatures that procreate via parthenogenesis. As for where it came from: they live in the upper atmosphere of a gas giant, approximately fifty light years from Earth.”

The old man coughed weakly, his reddened eyes widening in surprise.

“Mercury... she’s an alien? You... gotta be kidding...”

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied matter-of-factly. “Their species is capable of transdimensional travel if irritated with the right kind of energy – which, fortunately, can’t be found on Earth in its pure form; not in this century anyway.”

“Sir,” Ianto said quietly, “if the natural habitat of the Ophidians is the upper atmosphere of a gas giant how could this one survive on Earth? Wouldn’t our atmosphere be poisonous for them?”

Mycroft nodded. “It is; unless they have a human host. Preferably one of high age. They can feed off the entropic energy produced by an aging body and replace it with life energy sucked out of young people, rejuvenating the host in the process,” he glanced at Ianto with interest. “Where have you heard of this?”

“Jack mentioned something once,” Ianto replied. “I believe Torchwood knew about the Ophidian emerging in Delhi. Jack was sent to hunt it down but failed; one of the rare cases he couldn’t capture a dangerous alien on the loose. Now we know why,” he turned to the old man. “You found it first, didn’t you?”

Dr Roylott nodded weakly. “I was... moving my practice... from Calcutta to Delhi, and one day... she was simply there. My butler... a foolish, superstitious native... tried to kill her... called her a Naga demon. I couldn’t allow him... to hurt her. She was so... so very beautiful... so lost. I defended her... and the butler died. I went... went to prison for that... for many years. But she... she found me... and when she bit me for the first time, I felt... I felt such strength flowing from her to me... She never left me… ever since. Kept me alive… and strong…”

“By sucking out the life of other people,” Ianto commented darkly. “How many have there been, doctor? How many had to die so that you could keep on living? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? What kind of godawful parasite are you? I would understand if you were an alien who sees humans as mere cattle. But you’re a human being yourself – or, at least, you were one once!”

“You… can’t understand,” wheezed the old man. “You’re… young. You still have… many years… You don’t… know how… appealing… immortality can be…”

“Oh, believe me, I know what immortality is; better than you can imagine,” Ianto replied in disgust. “It means that you’ll have to watch all those you love grow old and die while you never change yourself. It means knowing that you’ll lose everyone again and again and can’t do anything to prevent it. It means to remain utterly alone in the end, praying for death to take you – and yet living on, whether you want or not.”

He was shaking with long-suppressed emotions. He’d long understood what a burden Jack’s immorality was, and the fact that he now probably shared that burden only made the loss of Jack more painful.

“Of course, you may see it differently,” he continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “To lose a loved one means there was such a person, and you, doctor, don’t strike me as somebody who’d love anyone save himself.”

“That is a most astute conclusion, Mr Jones,“ Mycroft said. “Dr Roylott certainly isn’t a person who would give in to sentiment towards others,” he looked at Martha. “Dr Jones, please do examine him and make a prediction whether he’ll live long enough to face a trial – or, at the very least, a thorough interrogation done by my department.”

“Would that be wise, sir?” Ianto asked. “The public is hardly ready to accept the idea of a transdimensional alien snake that can suck the very life out of people. Covering up the 456 disaster was a nightmare; stories of murderous aliens so soon after that might cause an outbreak of mass hysteria.”

“Which is why my department should be in charge,” Mycroft replied. “They’re well known for not talking to the press, no matter what.”

“But something has to be done about this place,” Ianto warned him. “Mary told us that somewhere in this house dozens of young people are kept against their will, starving and shot up to their eyes with unknown drugs. It will come out, eventually; especially if some of them still have family that cares.”

“True,” Mycroft allowed. “However, Dr Roylott has already built a very convincing disguise for his… activities. In every year, there are scandalous revelations about the one or other cult on some part of the world. Unfortunately, isolating, drugging and malnourishing their members is a common practice among them. We shall sell this to the public as another such case… including the families. What is so funny?” he asked, seeing the mirthless grin hushing across Ianto’s face.

“I was just thinking how lucky we are that Gwen isn’t here,” Ianto chuckled humourlessly. “She’d insist on bringing the families here, to be reunited with their sons and daughters; even if those look like walking skeletons in nightshirts and won’t even recognise their parents.”

“Oh, yes, Ms Cooper-Williams,” Mycroft knew, of course, whom Ianto meant. “The bleeding heart of Torchwood, wasn’t she – unless it came to her own colleagues. I agree with you, Mr Jones; we’re much better off without her and her so-called humanity. Besides,” he added dryly, “I’m not even human, so what would I need her for?”

“Sometimes I’d like to gift her upon the Doctor as a companion,” Ianto mused. “It would be a match made in Heaven: he’d have a cheap replacement of Rose-bloody-Tyler – an even cheaper one than the true item – and she’d have somebody to berate all the time; somebody who couldn’t escape.”

“Your cruel streak surprises me time and again, Mr Jones,” Mycroft turned to Martha. “Well, my dear? What’s your predicament?”

“There’s nothing I can do; or any other doctor, for that matter,” she replied. “He’s basically dying of old age, and there’s no help for that; not on Earth anyway. Not unless you allow that snake to do its mojo again, and somehow I don’t think you’re willing to do that.”

“No,” Mycroft said slowly. “No, I don’t think so. Anthea will see that he’s taken to a private clinic, where my people will extrude any information he can still give us. Then we’ll deal with the situation here, in the house. How long, do you think, does he have left?”

“Perhaps a day or two, tops,” Martha replied. “Rapid aging is always tricky to predict – not that I’d have had such a case before.”

“Then we’ll better hurry,” Mycroft sent the orders to Anthea’s BlackBerry. “We should clean up here before my brother finds a way to escape the house, comes here with Dr Watson in tow and stumbles over any evidence he isn’t supposed to see.”

~TBC~

Current Mood: bitchy

soledad_writes

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD
by Soledad
CHAPTER 05 – THE SERPENT’S LAIR

Author’s note: This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”. The Ophidian was borrowed from the Star Trek – The Next Generation episode “Time’s Arrow” but has different traits and purposes here.

The “science” in this chapter is wacky at best, but again, so is it generally with Dr. Who. I don’t really expect anyone to buy it – it’s only there to drive the plot forth, so bear with me.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
PART 75 – SERPENT’S VENOM

Anthea, Martha and Mickey had nearly finished the thorough examination of Julia Morstan’s room when the door flew open and Mycroft stormed in, holding his fountain pen as if it were a weapon. Which, under certain circumstances it could very well be, of course.

“Get away from the ventilator shaft!” he snapped at Mickey.”In fact, get behind us, both you and Dr Jones. Anthea, drop the disguise and initiate Emergency Protocol Delta Nine, now!”

After a moment of hesitation on behalf of Mickey and Martha who had never seen her in battle modus before, the android removed the perception filter that made her look like Mary Morstan and dropped her human disguise entirely. Cybernetic implants emerged from under her synthetic skin, spread and melded with each other, until every single inch of her was covered in paper-thin, gleaming titanium alloy – with the exception of her eyes, which were now protected by transparent metallic eyelids. Only her voice remained the same: deceivingly soft and gentle.

“Stay behind me, sir,” she said.”Your body is as vulnerable as that of any other human; and you don’t have a protective exoskeleton as I do.”

“I’m afraid not even your battle-dress would provide enough protection against an Ophidian,” Mycroft replied dryly. “Damned thing is in a quantum flux, switching between realities at will. My pen is our only chance; if I can hit its central nerve knot with a well-aimed bundle of quantum energy, I might be able to interrupt its cycle and trap it in a single form permanently.”

“You might?” Martha didn’t like the sound of that.

“It’s all purely theoretical,” Mycroft admitted. “Has never been tried before. But it’s our best shot.”

“Well, let’s hope it will be your best shot, boss,” Mickey muttered under his breath,” Or we are so screwed...”

“I shall endeavour to do my best, Mr Smith,” Mycroft replied loftily. “Just stay back and don’t make any abrupt movements. They’re predators that attack what they see as flying prey.”

“See?” Mickey stared at the diamond-shaped head of the alien snake that appeared in the ventilator shift at that moment with vague disgust. “It doesn’t even have eyes!”

“Not obvious ones like yours and mine, true,” Mycroft agreed. “However, those silver speckles all over its body are visual receptors. Not terribly good ones, granted, but with them it can perceive light, darkness, colours and movement around itself in a two-metre-radius well enough, so hold back.”

“I’ll distract it,” Anthea offered, “They’re attracted to shiny objects, like magpies. The bigger and shinier, the better – and in this armour I’m certainly shiny enough.”

Mycroft nodded.”Keep it occupied until I can manoeuvre myself into a good shooting position.”

“Will do, sir,” she promised.

The alien was oozing out of the ventilator shaft, slowly like molten glass... or molten metal. As soon as it reached the floor, it zoomed on to Anthea, who didn’t move from the spot, just swayed back and forth slowly, in an almost hypnotic pattern. To the two ex-companions’ surprise, the alien serpent rose with fluid grace until it was only touching the floor with the last ten inches of its body, its eyeless head reaching to Anthea’s shoulder, and began to sway in unison with her. It was like watching a snake charmer with a cobra; Martha and Mickey forgot to even breathe.

Anthea made slow, subtle changes that served to expose the most vulnerable part of the alien’s anatomy to Mycroft. The Time Lord stood utterly still, so that he wouldn’t catch the creature’s many “eyes”; fortunately, in his dark suit he was near-invisible for the Ophidian. But its hearing was acute, and it would soon pick up his heartbeat, so he had to hurry.

Finally, Anthea had managed to make the serpent turn enough so that its puffed-up hood was directly in Mycroft’s firing line. All he had to do was to activate his pen and hit the major nerve knot with the quantum beam.

Even so, he barely managed it. The Ophidian picked up the low hum of the energy build-up coming from the pen and recoiled like a striking cobra. It was lightning-fast in attack mode – much faster than one would have expected.

Fortunately, Time Lord reflexes were pretty quick, too, even in human disguise. The tightly bundled quantum energy beam hit the Ophidian on the right spot; it writhed as if it had been electrocuted and released a high-pitched noise of distress that shattered the window planes in a second. Shards of broken glass were raining everywhere; Martha and Mickey grabbed the first available screen to save themselves, and Martha briefly wondered if they’d all go deaf from the noise, soon.

But that was basically the end of it. In the next moment the serpent went still, twitching harmlessly – and helplessly – on the floor.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Mycroft asked Anthea who had been swept off her feet during the throes of the creature.

“I’m damaged, sir; but nothing that couldn’t be repaired, given enough time and the right tools,” she clambered back to her feet and pushed the control implant to take her armour melt back into her body.

It was a cool effect; like the helmets of Ra’s guards in the original Stargate movie, Mickey found. That movie really had the best special effects, even if one preferred the TV-series.

“Is it dead?” he edged closer to the still twitching creature. ”Or do we need to finish it off?”

“It is hibernating; sort of,” Mycroft replied. “Ophidians do that when their ability to switch dimensions is compromised. That is how they can live for centuries. Bring the containment box; we’ll put it into a cryogenic unit in the basement for the time being.”

“I’ll do that, sir,” Anthea offered. “You’ll need to deal with Dr Roylott; he’s the more dangerous partner in this symbiosis.”

“Symbiosis?” Martha echoed in shock.”With this... thing?”

“Ophidians aren’t sentient creatures; well, not very much,” Mycroft explained.”On their homeworld, which is a gas giant in the Rho Corona Borealis system, a quarter closer to its sun than Earth to Sol, they float in the upper layers of the atmosphere, hunting smaller airborne creatures that feed on the gas and the solar energy. They are, however, capable of latching onto other life forms and can be steered by a higher intellect.”

“But how did it end up on Earth?” Martha asked.

Mycroft shrugged. “According to Mr Jones, the Indian subcontinent seems to have its own, much smaller version of the Rift, running right under Delhi. Which is why Torchwood used to have a house there. Perhaps it simply fell through the anomaly centuries ago, and Dr Roylott happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“But that would mean the man is several hundred years old!” Mickey protested. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft admitted. “But Mummy’s analysis of his tissue sample shows that he is, indeed, at least two hundred years old; probably even older.”

“Rejuvenation through transfer of life energy from one human to another,” Ianto’s voice supplied, as the young man came over from Dr Roylott’s room. “It seems that Ophidians can do that if trained properly... and kept from switching dimensions.”

“Mr Jones,” Mycroft said coldly.”I thought I told you to keep an eye on Dr Roylott.”

“It’s not necessary, sir,” Ianto replied, completely unfazed. “He’s dying. If you want to ask him any questions, I suggest that you hurry up, cos he won’t last much longer. Without the Ophidian to replenish his life energy, his condition is deteriorating rapidly.”

Mycroft glanced at Anthea and the android nodded.

“Go, sir; Mr Smith and I are more than capable of dealing with things here. And Dr Roylott may be in need for medical assistance.”

“I’m afraid he’s beyond any doctor’s help,” Ianto said. “There’s no medicine against old age, and that’s finally caught up with him.”

“Oh, very funny, Mr Jones,” Mycroft rolled his eyes but followed his ninja butler, as Sherlock would call the young Welshman, back to Dr Roylott’s room.

~TBC~

Current Mood: amused

soledad_writes

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD
by Soledad
CHAPTER 05 – THE SERPENT’S LAIR

Author’s note: This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”.

PART 74 – IN THE SERPENT'S LAIR

One had to give the Doctor’s ex-companions one thing: they were ready to go in an amazingly short time when the need arose. Martha Jones and Mickey Smith came to the garage, armed and ready, less than ten minutes after Ianto had placed the call.

“If something or someone can switch between dimensions, projectile weapons are useless,” Mickey announced. “The projectiles are too slow. A high-energy taser, however, can interrupt the energy flow and prevent their escape.”

“And you just happen to have one of those on you,” Ianto said.

It wasn’t a question, and Mickey grinned ferally.

“That,” he declared, “has nothing to do with happenstances, Torchwood. It’s called being ready. All the time. Like the ruddy Boy Scouts.”

Ianto rolled his eyes but held back any comments concerning the fact that Mickey would never have made into the Boy Scouts to begin with. It wouldn’t have done any good. In some things Mickey was a lost case. Fortunately, in the more important things he was eminently useful.

“Orders, sir?” he asked instead.

“You and I are going to search Dr Roylott’s room,” Mycroft replied. “Dr Jones and Mr Smith will remain with Anthea and take apart that fake ventilator. I don’t like the sound of it; who knows what the man might be hiding there?”

“Couldn’t it be simply a means to channel poisonous gas into the room of Ms Morstan?” Martha asked. “That sealed window sounds suspicious, too, at the very least.”

“Only if he has the means of keeping the gas from getting back into his own room,” pointed out Ianto.

“Which is why we need to take the thing apart,” Mycroft said. “No, can we get on with it before the night is over?”

The others shut up obediently and filed out of the house. They took Ianto’s car, in the hope to avoid unwanted attention, and Martha suppressed a grin seeing how uncomfortable Mycroft appeared, folding his long limbs into the confined space. Not that the Audi would have been really that small – only compared with the sleek black vessels Mycroft regularly used.

“Sorry to cramp your style, sir,” deadpanned Ianto, who had noticed Mycroft’s discomfort as well, while sliding behind the steering wheel.

The glare the exiled Time Lord gave him would have made an entire platoon of Judoons quake in their boots. Ianto didn’t even blink; just smiled serenely.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
They approached Dr Roylott’s house in a roundaway manner through side streets, while Mycroft kept contact with Anthea via Mummy, using his Gallifreyan communications device disguised as a common Blackberry. After arriving, they remained in the car until Mummy notified them that all security cameras in the house had been hacked and fed neutral images of the empty street.

“Be quick,” Mycroft instructed them, getting out first, glad for the chance to stretch his legs. “They might decide to go around in person and check on things from time to time.”

Following Mary’s previous instructions they found the back door of the house easily enough. In earlier times it must have been the servants’ entrance; what purpose it might serve now was everybody’s guess, considering that no-one was supposed to leave the house, ever – with the exception of Dr Roylott himself, of course.

According to this fact, the door was closed.

“Where’s a sonic screwdriver when you need one?” Martha muttered unhappily.

Mycroft gave him an offended look. ”Oh, for God’s sake, Dr Jones! Why on Earth would I stoop to the use of a sonic device?”

He took the beautiful fountain pen from his inner pocket and pointed at the door with it. The top of the pen began to glow in a soft golden light. The various locking mechanisms rattled for a moment as the keys turned and the latches snapped – and then the door opened with a barely audible creak.

Mickey whistled soundlessly. “That was cool, boss! What is this neat little gizmo anyway?”

“A simple quantum device,” Mycroft replaced the pen into his pocket. ”Shall we then?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Following the plan, Mycroft sent Martha and Mickey to Anthea, while he and Ianto headed to Dr Roylott’s inner apartment. According to Mary’s intel, the man usually celebrated the evening prayer – or meditation or yoga exercises or whatever – with his followers at this time of the day. Said ceremony would last as long as three hours, and afterwards the doctor liked to spend some time alone with the one or other sect member in her private rooms. So they hopefully had the time to search those rooms thoroughly... if they did it quickly.

The door leading to this private sanctuary was not locked – nobody would dare to enter without invitation, most likely – and when they opened it, they saw in surprise that it was all one large room, separated by artfully painted wooden screens. It was airy and well-lit through two large windows, though these were obscured by floor-length curtains.

It was sparsely furnished, in a style that mixed traditional furniture with an Oriental flair. A low, rectangular bedframe – known in India as a charpa – stood in one corner, discretely screened, covered by a cashmere throw and a great deal of small, flat silk cushions in once brilliant yet now faded colours. An old-fashioned bureau with a matching armchair stood between the two windows, clearly serving as a desk.

The wall on the right was practically hidden behind the open bookshelves, artfully carved of dark, polished wood; the motifs spoke of Indian handiwork. Surprisingly enough, most books were of scientific or technical nature – not exactly what one would expect from a traditionalist ayurveda doctor.

There was a small, round table with a hookah, an Oriental water pipe positioned on it – and a large, old-fashioned iron safe on the left side of the bureau, screened off from the rest of the room. A beautiful, albeit faded Persian rug lay in the mostly empty middle of the room.

“Has Mary mentioned the safe?” Mycroft asked, scanning every piece of furniture with hi quantum pen.

Ianto, who was doing the same with his Torchwood-issue handheld device, nodded absent-mindedly.

“Apparently, this is where Dr Roylott keeps his business papers,” he replied.

“Has she ever seen it open?”

“Only once, some years ago; before the death of her mother. She remembers that it was full of papers.”

“Interesting,” commented Mycroft languidly.

Ianto raised an eyebrow. ”Is it? In what way, sir?”

“In the way that it emanates a high level of Artron energy,” Mycroft answered grimly. “Whatever it is that has contaminated Dr Roylott, is being kept in there.”

“I think we’re going to learn what that is very soon,” Ianto said, listening to the sound of heavy footsteps from the corridor. “He’s coming.”

“Behind the screen, quickly!” Mycroft hissed.

They barely had the time to hide behind one of the screens each when the door opened and Dr Grimesby Roylott walked in, leaning heavily on a bamboo walking stick.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He looked very differently from the aggressive, imposing man that had visited (and threatened) Sherlock in 221B. His posture was slack, his face had an unhealthy pallor and he moved slowly, almost painfully... like a man twice his apparent age. He was muttering something under his breath in a language that sounded Hindi but beyond recognising it, Ianto didn’t understand (although he knew Mycroft did, due to his connection to Mummy), while all but dragging himself to the safe.

Ianto, hiding behind a screen within reach, held his breath.

With badly shaking hands, Dr Roylott pulled a key ring with only two keys out of his trouser pocket. It took him several attempts, but in the end he managed to unlock the safe.

“Come, come, my beauty,” he murmured, this time in English, and tossed the heavy iron door open with some difficulty. “Come and work your magic. Bring me new life, as you always do.” He then wobbled over to the armchair and practically collapsed in it.

From the safe, a strange creature emerged. It had a long, translucent, milky white, sinuous body – as long and thick as a man’s arm – with irregular silver speckles and the diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a serpent. However, it wasn’t like any serpent that had ever lived on Earth. It had no visible eyes, and the outline of its body flickered, as if its shape were not constant... or not fully solid.

Nonetheless, it could move around as smoothly and surely as any common reptile. It slithered lazily along the wall, then wound its way up the curtain cord that touched the floor, and vanished through the ventilator shaft opening into the late Julia Morstan’s room.

Mycroft uttered an oath in Gallifreyan and kicked the screen behind which he’d been hiding to the side.

“Watch the man!” he ordered Ianto. ”I think I know what we’re dealing with; and if I’m right, the others will need me.”

“Of course, sir,” Ianto replied calmly to the retreating back of his boss.

Then he took out his gun – a Torchwood-issue one, enhanced with alien technology – aimed at Dr Roylott and leaned causally against the open safe.

“Well, doctor,” he said with a bland smile. “It seems that it’s just you and me at the moment. I suggest that you behave peacefully. I have no intention to hurt you... unless you give me a reason, which would be very unwise.”

~TBC~

soledad_writes

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD
by Soledad
CHAPTER 05 – THE SERPENT’S LAIR

Author’s note: This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”.

PART 73 – THE MYSTERY ABOUT DR GRIMESBY ROYLOTT

In the morning after Mary’s escape Ianto came into the office of his boss with unexpected news.

“Sir, Mummy has finished the analysis on the skin sample of Dr Roylott, taken from the fire poker in 221B.”

Mycroft lowered The Times he always read to breakfast and looked at him expectantly.

“Well, Mr Jones? Are we about to play twenty questions or are you willing to tell me the results right away? Anything interesting?”

“You can say so, sir,” Ianto handed him a PDA – a salvaged Torchwood-issue one – with the data. “According to the analysis, Dr Roylott isn’t 65 years old as his file states.”

“No?” Mycroft wasn’t particularly shaken by that revelation. The current obsession with youth often made humans lie about their age. “How old is he then?”

“Approximately three hundred years, give or take a decade or so,” Ianto replied blandly, and for a moment even Mycroft was rendered speechless.

“That’s impossible,” he said when he found his voice again. “Humans simply don’t live that long. Or are you telling me that he’s an alien?”

“No, sir; the DNA analysis turned out one hundred per cent human,” Ianto answered. “However, his tissue sample shows fine traces of Artron energy.”

“Artron energy?” Mycroft repeated in shock. “As in transdimensional travel? But he wasn’t a companion!”

“Not one of the Doctor’s, for sure,” Ianto agreed. “But perhaps another Time Lord…”

Mycroft shook his head. “That’s unlikely. The Doctor is the only one of us known to have travelled with steady companions. Especially with human ones.”

“You’ve had Anthea as your companion for over a century by now,” Ianto pointed out reasonably.

“Four centuries, actually; but since she’s an android from outer space, it isn’t really relevant,” Mycroft corrected. “She can hardly be compared with a mere human. No; the Artron energy present in Dr Roylott’s cell tissue must have a different origin. We’re not the only ones who travel in time and between dimensions – we’re simply the ones who’ve perfected the technology to do so.”

“You mean he could be a rogue Time Agent?” Ianto asked, a bit doubtfully. The arrogance, the outrageous behaviour and the ruthless pursuing of one’s own agenda would meet the criteria – both Jack and John Hart had displayed similar traits on occasion – but what would an ex-Time Agent find on contemporary Earth so interesting?

Jack had a reason to stay – he had waited for the arrival of the Doctor and had no means to leave anyway. But another Time Agent? That was highly unlikely.

“I don’t believe so,” Mycroft clearly shared his doubts. “But he might have been – or perhaps still is – in contact with somebody who does have the means to travel across dimensions.”

“Am I right in assuming that this is, as Dr Watson would say, a bit of not good, sir?” Ianto inquired, not the least shaken.

A man who’d already died twice did not panic so easily.

“No, Mr Jones,” Mycroft sighed. “This is more than just a bit not good. This is indeed very, very bad. Unauthorised time travel would be bad enough, but somebody hopping dimensions? That would be disastrous. Basically that’s what happened at Canary Wharf, and you’ve experienced the results first-hand.”

Ianto shook his head doubtfully. “Somehow I can’t imagine Dr Roylott wanting to switch dimensions. He appears much more interested in protecting whatever he’s got here – whatever that may be.”

“You have another theory?” Mycroft asked.

Ianto nodded. “Yep. I wonder… what if Dr Roylott isn’t a descendant of the last squire of Stoke Moran? The one who went to India in the 19th century? What if he is the original Grimesby Roylott who’s managed to stay alive with the help of some kind of alien technology?”

For a moment or two, Mycroft considered the possibility.

“Theoretically, it is possible,” he finally said. “But where would he have got the alien technology from?”

“India would be my guess,” Ianto replied with a shrug. “Extraterrestrial activity has always been strong there. Strong enough for Torchwood to have a branch there; founded by Her Majesty Queen Victoria. Too bad it had been destroyed, together with their fantastic, hand-written Archives.”

“I thought all branches had to send copies to One,” Mycroft said.

Ianto nodded. “They had – and they did. But the database of One was wiped out for security reasons when the disaster started… and you know what happened to the Archives of Three.”

Of course Mycroft did. He was the Watcher, and Torchwood had always been one of the things he had kept a weather eye on. Which, unfortunately, didn’t mean that he’d have been able to prevent the destruction of all still existing branches – or the loss of data they had gathered during their existence.

“This is… inconvenient,” he stated in quiet frustration. “We need more data. Hopefully Anthea will find something useful.“

At this very moment a ping sound alerted them to a text message sent to Ianto’s phone.”

“Oh,” he said. “Speaking of more data…”

“What?” demanded Mycroft, with an impatience uncharacteristic for him.

“Mummy tells me that Anthea’s asked for back-up,” Ianto replied. “Dr Roylott moved her into the main house, into a room that seems to her a trap. Shall I alert Sherlock and Dr Watson?”

“No,” Mycroft said promptly and sternly. “We don’t need them, and they’d just hinder us, since they’d have no idea what they were facing.”

“Neither do we, to be honest,” Ianto pointed out reasonably.

“True; but we can make an educated guess, at least,” Mycroft replied. “Call Dr Jones and Mr Smith. As this is a possible alien threat, we’ll need people with the right expertise.”

“We?” echoed Ianto. “Are you planning to come with us, sir?”

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft gave him a jaundiced look. “Don’t make the mistake of believing the public persona I wear, Mr Jones. I’m still more than capable of dealing with any alien threat this quaint little planet might have to face.”

“Oh, I know that you can, sir,” Ianto said. “I just haven’t seen you take part in such an action in person yet, is all.”

“I never had the reason to do so; not until now,” Mycroft replied. “But Grimesby Roylott threatened one of my own, and that’s not something I’ll suffer kindly.”

That Ianto could understand. Jack’s attitude towards his team was very protective, too. He also remembered – with considerably less fondness – how the Doctor had done his best to save the Master, desperate everything that insane monster had inflicted upon Earth and its helpless inhabitants… while he dismissed the hundreds of deaths Jack had suffered aboard the Valiant in a rather… cavalier manner.

Having hid in a locked-down Hub during The Year Than Never Was meant that he was one of the few people who remembered everything. Having a photographic memory that made him unable to forget things on the natural way proved a disadvantage in this case. As if he hadn’t had enough nightmare material before, thanks to Canary Wharf!

Sometimes he wished he had gone off with the others to the Himalayas. But someone had to stay back, feed the Weevils, take care of Myfanwy, watch the Hub – and Gwen and Owen had made it adamantly clear that the teaboy was the most expendable of them all.

Well, a fat lot of good had it done to them. The Hub was destroyed and they were all dead – even Ianto, sort of – with the exception of Gwen-bloody-Cooper, who always managed to wiggle out of every tight place with the persistence and undeserved good luck of a cockroach. And Jack was gone, lost in the vast depths of space, not knowing that he’d passed down his gift – or curse – of immortality to Ianto.

This was the worst part, actually. That they could have been living through eternity together; and Jack didn’t even know it. That he was still out there, grieving.

Mycroft, mildly telepathic like most of his people, shot him a concerned look.

“We are looking, Ianto,” he said quietly. “The few contacts I still have out there are working on it. We will find him, I promise. Right now, I need you to focus, though. We need to eliminate a potential alien threat; to save Earth if we have to. Isn’t that what Torchwood does?”

“Torchwood no longer exists,” Ianto replied bitterly. “Even Archie in Glasgow got murdered during the 456 crisis, his Archives blown up; and Torchwood House is empty and sealed.”

“You are still here, though,” Mycroft reminded him. “At the moment, you are Torchwood. If you want to, you can restart your old work eventually; I’m quite certain that Dr Jones and Mr Smith would gladly join you.”

Ianto shook his head. “No, sir; I don’t want to return to Cardiff; not now, not for a long time yet. Besides, people think I’m dead. And you need me.”

Mycroft nodded. “For the time being, yes. But my brother won’t wear his disguise forever; and eventually, the Rift will have to be watched again. We’re fortunate that it’s entered a passive phase some time ago, but that won’t last. In a few years, Torchwood Three will be needed again; probably more than before. Which is another reason why we’re looking for Captain Harkness: to rebuild Torchwood Cardiff and keep guarding the Rift.”

“If he’s willing,” Ianto said with emphasis. “He might have had enough of Torchwood. Of Cardiff. Of Earth in general.”

“He will, as long as you’re on his side,” Mycroft replied with a mild scowl. “Sentiment. It has to make everything infinitely more complicated. But it won’t be forever. In a century or two, the people of Earth will be able to deal with such things on their own; and you both have got the time. Now, however, we must go and help Anthea. Do you have the layout of the house?”

Ianto nodded. “In my head, sir.”

“Then do call the others and let us go. We might not have the luxury to waste our time. I want this problem dealt with, tonight, once and forever.

~TBC~

Current Mood: accomplished

soledad_writes

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD
by Soledad
CHAPTER 05 – THE SERPENT’S LAIR

Author’s note: This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”.

PART 72 – HIDE & SEEK

Anthea had been successfully mimicking Mary in the Spice Bazaar in the recent days. Of course, the fact that she’d filed away the body language and the speech patterns of the mistress of spices proved helpful. She also got extensive data about the customers from Mummy through a live feed that could only have been discovered with the help of Gallifreyan technology – which, fortunately, Dr Roylott didn’t have to his disposal.

Still, her situation was a dangerous one, even for an android from the far future. She might be resilient – much more than the average organic being – but she wasn’t indestructible. Especially the semi-organic components of her body were equally vulnerable to substances that could destroy human flesh. And while poisons couldn’t kill her – as, in strictly human terms, she wasn’t alive – they could cause serious necrosis to her soft tissue. Damage that wouldn’t be possible to fix with 21st-century technology.

Granted, the Watcher did have a great deal of alien technology at his hands, but creating the right tissue might have been too great a challenge, even for him.

Therefore Anthea knew that she had to be careful. Dr Roylott was clearly a ruthless man; she was in danger, even if he believed that she was Mary. She might not get away undamaged – or at all – should he realise that she wasn’t.

Still, she had a job to do here, and she’d already done part of it. Her sensors – so much more sensitive and accurate than mere human senses – had already identified large amounts of various mind-altering drugs (mostly assorted kinds of opiates) under the heaps of spices. The penetrating smell of hundreds of spices overlaid the drugs so well that not even a sniffer dog would ever found them.

Which answered the main question: why would Dr Roylott need the Spice Bazaar to begin with.

The tap water was laced with drugs, too; she analysed a mouthful of it and found a substance that wasn’t even listed in the police databases but had similar effects to LSD. She sent the description of the chemical components to Mummy, asking for a planetwide search for any plants that might have produced it. It was an organic substance, not something mixed in a lab, which made the search even more complicated.

She found a different substance in the meagre Vegan food she was served by one of Dr Roylott’s followers, a skeletal boy of twenty-something, wearing the usual rough white robes of the acolytes and a sorry excuse of a beard. All male acolytes that she could see move across the courtyard wore beards; perhaps it was a symbol of rank or position within the sect.

Again, she made a quick analysis and sent the results to Mummy, asking for tests how the two substances would work together. Then she ate the food anyway; it wouldn’t be good to raise any suspicions.

In the late afternoon Dr Roylott paid her an unexpected visit. It was one outside the usual pattern, and that alarmed her. The man was no fool. Underestimating him would have been a mistake. So she demurely brought the books when he asked for them to check the daily income – which had been nothing out of the ordinary. Her allies had not shown up, for obvious reasons.

She also made sure that her pupils were dilated enough for him to believe that the drugs had indeed worked effectively. Having an android body and thus full control of its functions was a useful thing.

“Well, it seems to have been a fairly average day,” Dr Roylott finally said, closing the books. “Perhaps you should close up a bit earlier today. You look tired, my child.”

“I do feel a bit under the weather,” she admitted, knowing that the drugs were supposed to make her feel like that.

“Then you should rest,” Dr Roylott said with a benevolent smile. “Come over to the ashram. Jemimah’s room is still empty; perhaps getting away from the strong smells will help.”

“But… but I’m not allowed to leave the shop!” she protested.

“Child,” Dr Roylott answered patiently. “The shop and the ashram are in the same building. Coming over to join the rest of the community for a while wouldn’t mean that you’d be violating the rules. And it would do you a wealth of good. You’ve been too isolated here for quite some time.”

He spoke in a low, suggestive voice, and Anthea understood that Mary would follow the suggestion without resistance, despite the faulty logic behind it. So she’d have to do the same.

“If you are certain,” she murmured with downcast eyes.

Dr Roylott gave her another one of those sickeningly benevolent smiles.

“I am certain, child. You should trust your Shastri Mohashai; I only ever protect your best interests. All those strangers showing up in the shop lately have drained your strength. Their troubled spirits have taken their toll on you. Come, you need to rest.”

Without actually touching her, he shepherded her to the back door with the sheer strength of his dominant personality. Or so he believed anyway. Anthea made a convincing display of fear and reluctance to actually leave the spice shop and cross the inner courtyard that separated it from the rest of the house. Dr Roylott patiently cajoled her through what he thought would be her conditioning and steered him into the main building on the ground floor of which his so-called practice was situated.

It was fortunate that Anthea was an android, for no matter how detailed a description Mary had given of the layout of the house, a mere human would have betrayed herself by getting lost among the completely identical doors and corridors. She, of course, had the layout in her database and thus she went straight and without hesitation to the room that had once belonged to the late Julia Morstan.

Dr Roylott then wished her a restful night and left her alone.

Once on her own, the first thing Anthea did was to scan the room for any surveillance devices. To her surprise, she found none, which was highly suspicious. Dr Roylott was the ultimate control freak. If he chose to leave the room unwatched, it could only mean that he didn’t want any record of that which was about to happen in the room.

For Mary, that promised no good. For Anthea, it was practical, because she could examine the room undisturbed. She might even find something that gave her a clue about the cause of Julia Morstan’s mysterious death.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the case. The room was a little Spartan, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after the fashion of old country houses. A chest of drawers stood in one corner, a narrow counterpaned bed in another, and a dressing table on the left side of the only window. These simple pieces, with two small wickerwork chairs, made up all the furniture, save for a square, hand-made straw mat in the centre.

The walls were painted a strong white, with no decorative items anywhere. The window was shuttered; Anthea tried to force the shutters open, but without success. There was no slit through which as much as a knife could have been passed to raise the bar. Of course, she could have simply torn the whole window out of its frame with her superior strength, but that would have given her away, so she decided to continue her investigation with more… passive methods. So far she’d found nothing of interest.

The only thing that appeared somehow out of place was a thick bell-rope, which hung down on the side of the bed, the tassel actually lying upon the pillow. Mary hadn’t mentioned anything about servants that would tend to the family members, and besides, didn’t Dr Roylott go great lengths to isolate his stepdaughter from the rest of the world? Even from the rest of his sect?

Anthea didn’t share the human trait of hunches or suspicions, but everything that seemed to defy logic needed to be investigated. Thoroughly. Therefore she activated her advanced sensors again, examining minutely the cracks between the floor boards and the ones in the plain white paint that covered the wall.

She paid extra attention to the wall at which the bed stood, looking for any possible wires attached to the bell-rope. She found none; and when she gave a rope an experimental tug, her suspicions were confirmed: it was a dummy.

She found another weird detail about the room: an old-fashioned ventilator right about the bed, where the dummy bell-rope was attached. A ventilator that opened into the neighbouring room instead of into the outside and was thus every bit as useless as the bell-rope. She called up the layout of the house again and realized that the neighbouring room was Dr Roylott’s study.

The whole chamber smelled strongly of a death trap; and she knew that at least one person had already died in her, under mysterious circumstances.

It was time to call in the cavalry. Anthea made digital pictures of the room and sent them to Mummy for analysis. Then she suggested that the Watcher send her back-up. She saw an eighty-two per cent possibility that Dr Roylott would try to get rid of his stepdaughter – or of the person he thought was his stepdaughter – in this very night.

~TBC~

Current Mood: apathetic

soledad_writes

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD
by Soledad
CHAPTER 05 – THE SERPENT’S LAIR

Author’s note: This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”.

PART 71 – THE CURIOUS END OF JULIA MORSTAN

“Now that the touching reunion is out of the way,” Sherlock said with his usual lack of discretion, “perhaps you can tell us how you ended up as the shop girl of a charlatan who uses drugs to make his followers dependent.”

“Sherlock!” John and Mycroft hissed in unison, but Mary silenced them with a raised hand.

“No, he’s right. You need to know the truth; although, men of influence as you appear to be, I assume you’ve already checked my stepfather’s background.”

“We have,” Mycroft admitted. “And yours as well. I’m sorry, Ms Morstan, but it was necessary… or do you prefer Ms Marsti?”

Mary shook her head. “No. Mira Marsti is but a creation of my stepfather; a fantasy, a puppet, playing its part to cover what is truly going on in his house.”

“If he really has everything and everyone under such tight control, I wonder how you managed to break out long enough to marry John in the first place,” Sherlock said,

“It was different while my mother was still alive,” Mary explained. “She did not exactly support my decision to live outside Hindu tradition, but she loved me enough to let me make my own choices.”

“She still didn’t like me, though,” John commented dryly.

“No,” Mary agreed. “If she could have had her way, I’d have married Cousin Sendhil and helped him run the Babur, so that the money would remain in the family and tradition would be respected.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow rose a millimetre in surprise. The Babur was a stylish Indian restaurant in south-eastern London, the popularity of which had been steadily increasing in the recent years, so that one had to book a table at least a month in advance. Marrying the manager would have been an extremely good match; and not only financially. He had visited the Babur once or twice himself and knew that said manager, Sendhil Kumar Jhanji, looked like every woman’s wet dream: tall, slim and beautiful like a bronze statue.

And Mary had chosen John Watson instead? Women never ceased to surprise him.

“In any case,” Mary continued, “when our mother died – she was killed six years ago in a railway accident near Crewe – my stepfather persuaded me to get a divorce and come and live with him and with my sister.”

“What kind of persuasion are we talking about?” John asked, his eyes dark with barely controlled rage.

“He sold our house without asking me,” Mary replied with a sigh. “And he kept drilling me how lonely Julia was without me and how her depression might lead to a tragedy if she was left alone.”

“I can’t remember Julia being depressive,” John said.

“She wasn’t; not until Mother’s death,” Mary replied. “But after that, she became strangely moody and more and more obsessed with our stepfather’s obscure teachings. I’m quite sure, in hindsight, that he was feeding her drugs because she only seemed herself when we visited Aunt Honoria.”

“That terrible old hag is still alive?” John asked in surprise; then, for the Holmes brothers, he added. “Miss Honoria Westphal was the maiden aunt of Mary’s late father. She used to live near Harrow. Mary dragged me there once or twice, hoping that we might get some support from her, but she didn’t seem to like me, either.”

“She didn’t like men in general,” Mary smiled sadly. “Don’t take it personally. But no, she’s not alive anymore. She died roughly two years ago; shortly before Julia did.”

“What the hell happened to Julia?” John asked, frowning. “She was as healthy as an ox, despite the ridiculous vegetarian diet she kept; how could she just have died without forewarning?”

“That’s a question that has been torturing me for the last two years,” Mary admitted. “She appeared to be getting better, so that we were allowed to spend Christmas at Aunt Honoria’s. There she met a certain Navy officer, the son of one of Auntie’s old friends. They were instantly attracted to each other, and for the first time in her life, Julia acted spontaneously and with great courage. By the end of the holidays, she became engaged to her Lieutenant Commander and called our stepfather to tell him that she won’t be returning to his house. Aunt Honoria offered her to stay with her, and Julia gladly accepted.”

“I can imagine that Dr Roylott wasn’t happy about this turn of events,” Sherlock commented. “I saw the will of your mother; the marriage of either of you would have caused him severe financial losses.”

“Still, he couldn’t raise any objections, since both Julia and I were of age and could legally do as we pleased,” Mary said. “So he pretended to be happy for her; merely concerned about the swiftness of this engagement. Then, within a fortnight of the day which had been chosen for the wedding, Aunt Honoria suddenly died of a heart failure.”

“How… convenient,” John muttered.

“It was a bit too convenient,” Mary agreed, “but she was an old woman – nearly nineteen, in fact – and the autopsy showed that she’d died of natural causes. The wedding had to be postponed, of course, and Julia moved back to our stepfather’s house.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked with a frown. “Couldn’t she have stayed in the old lady’s house?”

“She could have; more so as Aunt Honoria had willed the house to the two of us,” Mary replied. “But I could not move in with her – couldn’t leave the shop untended to – and she was afraid to stay there alone. She told me that in the night of Aunt Honoria’s death she’d been awakened by a low, clear whistle. Then there was a clanging sound, apparently, as if a heavy object made of solid metal had fallen. She ran into Aunt Honoria’s bedroom and found our dear old aunt convulsing in terrible pain, shrieking something about a speckled band.”

“A speckled band?” Sherlock replied, honestly baffled. “Curious. What that might mean, I wonder.”

“I don’t know, Mr Holmes,” Mary answered with a weary sigh. “Julia called an ambulance, of course, but by the time it arrived, our poor aunt had lost consciousness. The doctors tried to revive her but to no effect; she died some twenty minutes later, without recovering her consciousness.”

The men in the room exchanged meaningful looks with Martha.

“Sounds like poison,” John finally commented.

“But wouldn’t the traces of poison show up at the autopsy?” Martha asked.

John shook his head. “Some natural poisons, like those of certain snakes and plants, can either be absorbed by the body completely, or they are successfully camouflaged by the seemingly natural symptoms they cause. And almost ninety year old lady had a bad dream, took a terrible fright and died of a heart failure – who would ever suspect foul play?”

“Julia did,” Mary said quietly. “She was sure that our stepfather had been in that house in the night Aunt Honoria died.”

“Had she seen him?” Mycroft asked.

Mary shook her head. “No. But she recognised the strong Indian cigars he sometimes smokes. The scent has long impregnated all his clothes; I can even smell him in the midst of my spices whenever he enters the shop.”

Sherlock nodded. “I remember that scent; frankly, it is quite offensive. Still, I’d like to examine the ash. I can’t remember having it in my collection.”

“Sherlock, focus!” John chided him; then he turned back to Mary. “Why did Julia return to Roylott’s house again?”

“Because she was deadly afraid of staying there alone,” Mary replied. “She felt safer with me, even in his house; not that it did her any good. Two weeks later she was dead, too.”

“Dead by what?” Mycroft asked.

“Heart failure,” Mary answered with a grim smile. “Sounds unlikely, doesn’t it? She wasn’t even thirty and, as John said, healthy like an ox. The police weren’t happy with the verdict, but there was simply nothing else to find.”

“Have you spoken with sour sister before her death,” Mycroft continued his investigation.

Mary nodded. “Yes. Back then, I weren’t sleeping above the shop yet, and our bedrooms were side by side. I woke up hearing something – or someone – taking a heavy fall (John could tell you that I’m a light sleeper), and hurried over to Julia. She was lying on the floor, writhing in pain. Before she would lose consciousness, she stared at me in horror and whispered. The band, Mira! The speckled band! I saw it!”

“She called you Mira?”

“Yes; our stepfather demanded that we use our Indian names, and it was easier to just let him have his way. We needed to pick our battles carefully. Anyway, I ran to get help then, but it was already too late for Julia.”

“Did you tell your stepfather what she’d said?”

“Of course not, I’m not an idiot!” Mary rolled her eyes. “If he knew that I’d learned about the speckled band, whatever it might be, I wouldn’t be sitting here, chatting with you. He’d have long killed me, too.”

John wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, love. He can’t get you here, and anyway, his killing days will soon be over, won’t they, Mycroft?”

There was a clear warning in his voice while saying that.

“Oh, yes,” the elder Holmes drawled. “Before we could arrest him, though, we need to get hold on whatever poisons and drugs he has to his disposal. In the wrong hands they could cause great harm and, as we know, not even the police are above suspicion.”

“And yours are the right hands, I suppose?” John asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Unfortunately, being a Holmes made one immune against sarcasm.

“Naturally,” Mycroft replied simply.

“And how exactly are you planning to find the stuff?” Sherlock asked with an astonishing mix of utter dismay and eager curiosity.

Mycroft shrugged. “Anthea is working on it; but if we want to find hard proof against Dr Roylott, we need to do more than just find the drugs. We need to catch him red-handed.”

“In that case,” Sherlock said, “a nice little trap would be rather handy, don’t you think? We should use the fact that Anthea currently looks like Ms Morstan to our advantage.”

~TBC~

The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord

Part 90 - New Horizons

Part 89 - Diversion is the Better Part of Valour

Part 88 - Choices & Chances

Part 87 - The Letters of Victoria Waterfield

Part 86 - Unearthing the Secret

Part 84 - The Discovery

Part 84 - Treasure Hunt

Part 83 - Inheritance

Part 82 - An Unexpected Delivery

Part 81 - Sherlock Thwarts the Dinner Plans

Part 80 - Rebound

Part 79 - Sanctuary

Part 78 - Official Denial

Part 77 - The Killing Fields

Part 76 - Cheating Death

Part 75 - Serpent's Venom

Part 74 - In the Serpent's Lair

Part 73 - The Mystery About Dr Grimesby Roylott

Part 72 - Hide & Seek

Part 71 - The Curious End of Julia Morstan

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