Harriet Jones ran her fingers over the scratch she had made in her car door. Shaking her head, she put her keys back in her pocket. She had done worse. With a quick sigh, she leaned against the car's shiny surface and winced as she went through the list of people who could give her a ride home. The poisonous gossip echoed through her mind making her wish she had another drink. There were more at home. Regaining her balance, Harriet stood up and started the long walk home.
It wasn't until she was almost at her doorstep that she noticed the dark shadowy figure standing by her door. If she had been sober she would have spotted him from a mile away. He wore a long coat with the collar upturned like the villainous character from a book. He stood absolutely still with perfect posture and looked at Harriet with a disinterested glaze over his eyes. Even as she stood before him he was lost in thought and didn't say a word. After what must have been a long time, Harriet spoke to the mysterious man, dreading tomorrow's headlines.
"You're on my doorstep," was all she could muster.
"How astute," the man replied. "Such a calibre of deduction must be genetic." He paused to wait for her response.
"I need..." she stammered. "Just let me into my house, will you?" A sense of urgency reverberated through Harriet's voice as she yearned for this conversation to be over. It was slightly terrifying, and more importantly it stood between her and her fridge.
"Harriet," said the man, "or Harry as I believe you are better known amongst certain people?
Harriet's eyes widened, startled by the use of that name.
"I don't have a habit of concerning myself with other people's lives. Quite the opposite, I make a point to avoid it. But your alcohol consumption seems to have a direct correlation with your brother's focus and your brother's focus is essential to my work. So..." the man stood up even straighter, visibly uncomfortable. He tentatively put a hand on Harriet's shoulder and removed it immediately. "Stop drinking."
"For heaven's sake, who are you?" Harriet spat out, her voice regaining its usual strength.
"It hardly matters," the man replied, brushing her off, "now Mycroft is going to send you a package in the mail.
"Mycroft Holmes! I know him!"
"You were elected leader by a country of idiots, I suppose I could only expect as much. Of course you know him. As colourful as your commentary may be, would you kindly shut up? I have a ferret in the fridge I need to get back to." Harriet opened her mouth to protest but signaled for him to continue.
"Mycroft is going to send you a package in the mail. It contains instructions for a new project. You are to create a subwave network to undetectably communicate with others who have a connection with the Doctor. He may someday be needed. So sober up." The mysterious man sent her a menacing glance and dramatically turned on his feet before walking away into the night.
"Excuse me!" Harriet yelled, running after him. "Excuse me. Come back here this instant and explain yourself!" Without turning around, he raised his hand with a quick wave before disappearing into the night.
Harriet stood in the road, forcing her mind to wade through its murky fog. Three days later a package arrived with but a few yellowed pages and stained handwriting. This was not by a long shot the last drink she ever had, but Harriet Jones would always remember this day as the dawn of a new age, the day she realized that her life mattered, that her life could save the earth.