==Chapter One: Los Alamos==

The past is never where you think you left it.

– Katherine Anne Porter

The Doctor was feeling better than he had in a very long time. He had actually slept sometime in the last forty-eight hours, and he was simply happy. He had two wonderful Companions, and he could dance around the TARDIS for joy.

Well, technically, he was dancing, whirling around the console as he piloted his girl. "All right, so! Burning Man Festival—brilliant event, all kinds of things to see. If I've got it right, we'll be in 2010!"

Watson smothered a yawn, rather heavy-eyed from their late night. (Ain't no ball like a coronation ball—Charles II's, specifically, in 1660. Whatever else could be said of the Stuarts, they certainly knew how to party...) "Just as long as there's coffee."

Holmes grinned teasingly. "So which was more exhausting, Watson—dancing the night away, or resisting the advances of half the female courtiers?"

Watson glowered back half-heartedly, obviously too tired to put much oomph into it, then blushed. "I'm not at all sure," he muttered, "it was only the women..."

The TARDIS beeped merrily. The Time Lord flashed a mischievous grin at the human doctor. "Awww, 's all right, Watson—Holmes's just jealous."

Holmes snorted in amusement as the TARDIS shuddered to a stop. Watson just smiled. "So where are we, this time?"

The Doctor straightened up, beaming. "The Black Rock Desert in Nevada, USA. So!" He spread his arm invitingly towards the doors. "Shall we?" This was going to be great—two purely fun events in a row, no earth-shattering disasters...

His boys (he was already thinking of them as "his," and that, too, was brilliant) grinned at each other, then headed as one for the doors. Pulling one open, Watson said lightly over his shoulder, "I'm assuming no actual people are set on fire during..." He must have caught something in Holmes's expression, because he trailed off and turned forward. "What the devil...?"

The Doctor peered around them, eyebrows skyrocketing. "Ohhh, sorry!" It was a small supply room, shelves full of cleaning materials. "Must've overshot a bit..." He rushed to the door and craned his neck out. "Looks a bit... not 2010, at first glance." He was no expert on cleaning products, but the ones here did not look like they came from a twenty-first century Walmart, that was certain. He smiled sheepishly at Watson. "Let's check it out?"

Holmes stepped out first and tried the door, which swung open onto a deserted corridor. The three of them filed out into it, taking in the surrounding area. The walls were army green, that was certain, although the Doctor had seen so many different army greens in his lifetimes that he couldn't quite place it right away. Still, military. Not so good dropping into a military base unannounced...

The windows provided a harsh vista: bunkers, barracks, corrugated iron Quonset huts—all under a dusky blue-violet sky and mid-twentieth century floodlights.

Holmes arched an eyebrow. "I hate to sound finicky, Doctor, but this doesn't seem terribly festive."

Watson's expression was uneasy—of course, army surgeon. Could recognise even a future military base—it wasn't as if they ever lost their stark nature. "Doctor," he murmured, "where are we?"

The Doctor frowned and donned his specs, ignoring Holmes's lips twitching and Watson's odd look, moving over to the nearest window. "An American military base," he mused aloud. The spelling on the warning signs always gave it away. "1940s, too, by the looks of it. But which state?" He had been aiming for the American desert, and it looked as if they had landed there.

He pulled out the sonic and did a quick scan of the air. "Radiation levels a bit higher than normal—not enough to be dangerous, but..." His eyes widened as he realised what he just said. Radiation, military base, American desert, 1940s... "Oh, no. Back to the TARDIS, now. C'mon." He was striding back towards the supply room door when men in army green quickly flooded the corridor, guns leveled at him and the boys.

"Don't move!" one soldier barked. "Hands in the air!"

The Doctor lifted his hands slowly, brows drawn over wide eyes. It wasn't as if he'd never been caught in a military base before—rather, it was that it'd happened far too many times. Holmes and Watson followed suit, Watson sighing resignedly and murmuring, "Doctor, is anyone ever pleased to see you?"

"Madame du Pompadour was," the Doctor muttered back, pouting. It wasn't his fault that his TARDIS always managed to land them in the worst fixes possible!

Watson had to admit that, aside from the fine detail, military standards of the future weren't noticeably different from when he'd served. He wasn't certain whether or not to be glad of that, although they hadn't received any overly rough treatment – yet. They'd been thoroughly searched on arrest, the Doctor choosing to simply hand over his coat rather than have the pockets emptied – heaven only knew how long that would have taken! – then quick-marched to the office of one General Groves, where they'd been silently sitting under the watchful eye of four armed guards for the last half hour.

Finally, to the doctor's mixed relief, the guards snapped to attention and saluted as a heavily built, square-faced man entered, followed by a taller, thin man with spectacles and a receding hair line. Watson had been doing his best to decipher the various uniforms and insignia, but he didn't need any of that to tell him that this was General Groves; everything about the man shouted 'stiff-necked commanding officer'. He just managed to refrain from saluting himself; his own army days were far behind him – in every sense of the phrase – and it would only lead to awkward questions he didn't dare answer without knowing more about when and where they'd landed. What was it about this place that had the Doctor so tense?

Groves seated himself behind the desk, looking them over with an expression of acute irritation. "All right – who the hell are you three, and what the hell are you doing here?"

The Doctor raised an eyebrow at the general's tone, then stated slowly and deliberately, "I'm Dr. John Smith, and these are my colleagues, Mr. Vernet and Dr. Walker." Holmes and Watson nodded respectfully, faces serious, Watson suppressing a wince – was that the best alias the man could come up with for himself? Unfortunately, they'd had no opportunity to agree on any kind of back story, so he and Holmes would simply have to follow the Doctor's lead; hopefully with more success than they'd had with Will Shakespeare.

Groves frowned, clearly not buying their assumed names for a moment. "I'm a busy man, 'Dr. Smith'; I don't have the time or patience to rake through a pile of bullshit. I have other people for that..." His eyes flickered meaningfully towards the guards. "If you don't want to talk to them, then you'd better be straight with me." He leant forward, eyes and voice cold. "I'm only going to ask once: who are you working for?"

The skin tightened around the Doctor's eyes as he opened his mouth to answer, but before he could utter a word, the door opened again and in strode a blonde woman in her mid twenties, wearing a lab coat over civilian clothing. "For the British government, General," she said crisply, eyes narrowed, "so you're going to stop snarling at them right now."

Her gaze met the Doctor's, softening slightly at the Time Lord's patent astonishment. "Dr. Smith, you didn't lose your identification, did you?" Why was the Doctor staring at the young lady like that – did he know her or not? For his part, Watson was merely grateful to have someone else in their corner. Whatever was being guarded so zealously here, sentry duty was dull as ditchwater when you got right down to it, and the young men behind them would probably be only too glad for the chance to indulge in a little 'light conversation'.

"Identification..." The Doctor returned to himself abruptly. "No, no! Got it right here." Still looking a trifle stunned, he fished the psychic paper out of his jacket pocket, which seemed to have miraculously escaped the earlier search, and offered it to the General. Watson sighed internally – couldn't the man have saved them all some trouble by producing that half an hour ago?

Groves plucked the paper from the Doctor's hand with a frown, inspected it closely, then blew air through his nose in deep annoyance, lips thin. "Miss Bennett, we're already on an extremely tight schedule. I'm sure you can guess how thrilled I am at having to take time out for this!" The frown became a heavy glower. "You can make me a very happy man by promising me I won't be seeing these three clowns in here again!"

Watson was impressed: the young woman's expression never faltered, but her hazel eyes could have melted steel. "They'll be working with me, General – I can assure you that they won't take up any more of your time. Gentlemen, if you'll follow me, please, I'll debrief you." Watson was more than happy to obey. The Doctor retrieved his paper, and the trio followed their rescuer, who halted at the door and glanced back at the General. "And, sir, if you wouldn't mind remembering I have a PhD. in physics?"

Groves graced her with a sarcastic nod. "My apologies, Doctor Bennett..."

Groves' eyes were suspicious slits as the four filed out. "Nichols," he muttered to his aide once he'd dismissed the guards, "tell Major Barnes I want a full background check run on those three. And find out who let them in without following protocol and throw the book at them... no, make that the whole damn library! 'John Smith'..." snorting scornfully, "and I'm President Roosevelt!"

Holmes had been observing Dr. Bennett with keen interest since she'd entered Groves' office. It was evident that the young woman knew who they were, particularly the Doctor. She knew how the psychic paper worked, and the familiarity in her expression indicated that she had actually met all three of them, although he and Watson certainly had yet to meet her: an idea he might have had trouble accepting before their encounter with Queen Elizabeth.

Like his first meeting with the Doctor, however, he was unable to deduce much more about her, besides the obvious: straight blond hair in a neat bun at the nape of the neck; the same lab coat worn for several days, yet still remarkably clean; shoes and clothes sensible and well maintained, with several neat self-repairs; horn rimmed spectacles in top coat pocket, used solely for reading – no pronounced indents on her nose and no trace of a squint. It all added up to a vague picture of a highly intelligent female trying to remain unnoticed by appearing entirely ordinary – he'd used that method himself many times when tailing a suspect.

The woman strode swiftly ahead of them through a maze of corridors, annoyance at the General's condescension written plainly across her back and shoulders. The Doctor kept up with ease as he shrugged back into his returned overcoat, eyes still wide with apprehension. "Ah, Dr. Bennett, where are we go–"

"In here." She led them into a smaller office and closed the door, sinking into the chair behind the desk with a sigh. "Sorry about that." Holmes pricked up his ears as Dr. Bennett's mid-Western accent was replaced by Queen's English; the woman's tension was also rapidly fading, her gaze turning softer. "To be fair to the General, he is under an enormous amount of pressure, but even so..."

Watson and the Doctor were now staring openly at her; Holmes wondered if they had managed to discern any more about their host than he had.

Dr. Bennett folded her hands and gazed at the trio steadily. "Well, seeing as how I've just saved your hides, pretty literally, I think it's only fair that you help me out with something I've been looking into."

The Doctor's eyes hardened. "Sorry, no. We shouldn't be here." Personally, Holmes would have considered that a reasonable bargain; he could well imagine how badly Watson would have fared under interrogation with his old battle scars.

The woman nodded calmly. "No, you shouldn't be, but you are. You know where you are, don't you?"

"Yes." The Doctor's expression was grim.

Holmes sighed. "Not all of us, Doctor," he said pointedly, not bothering to clarify which one, his frustration at the continued lack of data now audible. "If it would not be too much trouble?"

Dr. Bennett leaned back in her chair, exhaling heavily. "Welcome to the Manhattan Project, gentlemen. The world is at war, and the United States of America is looking for a way to end that war on the Pacific Front."

"A way that's going to wipe out millions in seconds."

The woman's haunted eyes met the Doctor's accusing stare. "The only alternative is a full-scale invasion of Japan, Doctor, and how many more millions would be lost?"

The Doctor's eyes burned. "Is that how you sleep at night?"

"I don't sleep," came the flat response; Dr. Bennett's eyes were wide with anger and barely concealed pain. "And how can you even ask me that question in the first place, Doctor?"

The Doctor's stony expression didn't alter, but Holmes saw the fire slowly fade from his eyes. The detective, on the other hand, had been listening to the exchange in growing horror. All of the earlier physical and verbal clues had suddenly come together:

...radiation levels higher than normal... the map hanging in Groves' office, showing Los Alamos in the middle of the New Mexico wilderness, miles from the nearest town... extremely tight schedule... PhD. in physics... the world is at war... millions in seconds...

...and Holmes now knew what this facility's purpose was.

He glanced over at Watson, who looked equally aghast, gazing at Dr. Bennett in deep sorrow and compassion; his friend had also arrived at the correct conclusion. Watson had been a soldier, knew better than most that a larger stage and improved technology led to bloodier conflicts and uglier weaponry... but what appalled Holmes most on the doctor's behalf was the date. This global war was only two generations removed from their own, at best; Watson would have delivered infants in his former practice who would almost certainly be out there now on the front lines as grown adults...

"Doctor..." the detective murmured gravely, "this is a Fixed Point, isn't it?" He could think of no other reason for the Time Lord's impatience to leave without trying to intervene in such a horrific turn of events.

The Doctor nodded wordlessly.

Dr. Bennett met Watson's eyes and looked down hastily. "Please, Doctor." The voice was soft with weariness. "I need help... and you three are like a godsend." She looked up again, her own eyes pleading.

"What's wrong, then?" the Doctor asked quietly.

"Personnel are going missing all the time. Everybody thinks they're just reassigned, but to where?" The woman spread her hands helplessly. "We've been dealing with power drainage and outage... minor sabotage... which has been caused by foreign spies, but the spies just disappear, too."

Watson frowned. "Well, who is normally responsible for reassigning personnel? A facility of this kind runs on paperwork – someone must be taking care of any incriminating documents."

Holmes held up a hand to forestall Dr. Bennett's response, eyes gleaming in approval. "An excellent point, Watson, but you are jumping ahead slightly." He turned to the Doctor, voice a serious murmur. "Doctor, if Watson and I are to avoid being a liability, then we will need a brief history lesson, so to speak. What exactly does this Fixed Point entail?"

The Doctor glanced at Dr. Bennett, then at his companions, then back again. "Would you mind excusing us for a mo'?"

The young woman nodded, rising from the desk. "Five minutes. I'll be out in the hall."

The Doctor waited for their enigmatic hostess to disappear before turning to his Companions and perching on one clear spot on the desk. He didn't know what disturbed him more: the fact that the woman knew him and he didn't know her, or the fact that someone he would know (presumably well) in the future would be involved in the Manhattan Project.

"All right," he said gravely, clasping his hands together. "We're sitting on a game-changer right now. America is about to open Pandora's Box, because this won't just destroy millions of lives—it'll change warfare forever. From now on, it will be about bombs and missiles and who has the best tech on them—and it all starts here. The repercussions of what they're doing right now will end this war and will have consequences for centuries to come. It will never be the same."

His frown deepened. He avoided learning the gritty details of all wars (except for the one he was dragged into), because he knew the knowledge would only sicken him. Conventional historical wisdom held that... "Dr. Bennett is right: it is a choice of evils. It's millions of lives in an instant or thousands of millions over a long, dragged-out invasion. The way it works is that they do have to perfect this bomb and use it—for most of the human Companions I've ever had, this is simply history to them." As impersonal as the Anglo invasion of Britain or the burial of Pompeii...

"And the test is tomorrow," Holmes said softly, his expression impassive.

The Doctor nodded. "'Gadget'." He exhaled forcefully and ran a hand through his hair. "To be honest, I'd much rather leave before I'm tempted to do something stupid." He'd been so young, so very young and pretentious, when he told Barbara that you couldn't change history, not one line. And when you travelled throughout all of history, the temptation to do so never went away—it only ever grew stronger.

Watson snorted explosively, looking thoroughly disgusted. "You'd be joining an extremely long queue!"

Holmes glanced at his friend, his expression now cautioning. "But these missing personnel—I gather their disappearances should not have been part of that chain of events?"

The Doctor pursed his lips—good old Holmes, the voice of reason that, sometimes, no one wanted to listen to... "Probably not, no." He met the man's gaze, noting the determined look in his eye. "You're set on this," he said quietly, "aren't you?"

Holmes paused, glanced again at Watson, who met his gaze steadily, then looked back at the Doctor. He gave a single, silent nod.

Sighing, the Doctor nodded back. "All right, then." He opened the door, leant out, and caught sight of Dr. Bennett, who turned to him, her posture radiating apprehension. His expression softened: whoever she was and whatever she was doing, she was obviously someone who trusted him and needed his help. He didn't deserve that trust—he never did—but that didn't mean he couldn't try to. He gave her a faint, sad smile and an inviting nod.

Her troubled expression cleared, hazel eyes widening a little, and she returned to the room.

"Well," the Doctor said, once the door was closed again, "I think some official introductions are in order, hm? I'm the Doctor, this is Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. John Watson."

The young woman smiled slightly, her eyes passing to each man in turn and lingering on Watson just a bit. Hm, interesting. Holmes was undeniably the "pretty boy" of the pair, but Watson wasn't at all bad-looking, himself—he was the ladies' knight in shining armour, after all... "Dr. Kit Bennett. It's a pleasure to meet all of you," she said, and turned back to the Doctor. "And a relief. I'm a physicist—" she glanced smilingly at Holmes— "not a detective."

Watson returned the smile and bowed. Ah, true Victorian chivalry—rare, but it did exist and the living proof was before them. "The pleasure is ours, Dr. Bennett."

Holmes also smiled back, arching an eyebrow full of meaning—no doubt on how a "mere physicist" hadn't even blinked just now at meeting two supposedly fictional characters from fifty years in the past. After all, Holmes might not know it, but the Basil Rathbone films were currently in vogue. "Indeed... Now, as Watson suggested earlier," he said briskly, "let us begin by having a word with the personnel officer."

"Right. Give me a moment." Dr. Bennett reached into her desk drawer and removed a pistol from a harnessed holster, checked its magazine, then slipped the harness over her shoulders, concealing the whole ensemble beneath her lab coat. The Doctor watched, thin-lipped but holding his peace for the moment: he doubted she'd listen, anyway, and... she seemed responsible, despite being here in the first place. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his Companions exchange a grave look with each other. Watson was probably wishing for his own service revolver.

Well, this was certainly going to be interesting...

Author's note from Ria:

Yes, folks, we're back! And no, we're not going to tell you who this mysterious woman is, you'll just have to wait and see... (A reminder to all those jumping to conclusions: she's a physicist, not an archaeologist! =P)

Author's note from Sky:

Squee, we're here! Of all the episodes thus far, this one is my favorite! I can't tell you how excited I am for this episode—because if I did, I'd end up giving stuff away! (Re the "physicist not a detective" line, yes, that's a nod to Dr. McCoy. ;D )