==Chapter One==

My Kingdom Come

"In some ways Watson is stronger than Holmes. That comes through his kindness, I suppose. He sees Holmes's weaknesses and tries to protect him from them. Look how Watson rants at him about cocaine. Watson is always on the lookout in order to save his friend from pain, indignity or destruction."
— Jeremy Brett

Time had never felt so meaningless as it did now, or so lifeless. The music he had heard his whole life was silent for the first time. He couldn't do anything about it, either. He was stuck inside a temporal rift that didn't seem to want to disgorge him any time soon…

The TARDIS interrupted the Doctor's brooding, bursting into joyful trilling.

The Doctor lept to his feet, eyes alight. "What is it, old girl, eh? What's happened?"

The TARDIS sang: a lullaby he'd heard before, in the spring of 1895…

The Doctor's mouth fell open. "Wha… oh, good man!" He picked up the telepathic enhancer he'd been working on since he'd lost connection with Watson. "And just in time, too!" He attached a couple more wires from the TARDIS's console to the enhancer, closed both hands over the device, and winked up at the ceiling. "Wish me luck."

The TARDIS gave a concerned but encouraging twitter.

He closed his eyes and concentrated, and staggered at the abrupt change, as if he'd been wearing grimy glasses and suddenly looked through clean lenses. Only, the sensation was magnified a thousand-fold. So many minds bombarded him with their unguarded thoughts that he had to back off for a minute, take a deep breath, and ease back in, directing his consciousness towards the States. Nikola?

He 'heard' a relieved sigh, and then Nikola Tesla's Serbian accent. Doctor, thank God. We don't have long – communicating like this is extremely taxing.

Let me take the burden of it, then. Try drawing back into yourself a little… It's so good to hear from you again, Nikola.

Nikola smiled faintly, retreating a bit back towards his own body. And you, Doctor—he sobered, the mental image he projected looking extremely grave—although I wish it were under better circumstances.

The Doctor sobered with him. So do I. He shuddered as memories resurfaced—memories of seeing the future. I saw this coming… I'd hoped—stupidly, I suppose—that I could avoid it. I didn't realise it would be this massive, though. All of Time is dying.

Nikola reached out a comforting hand. Don't lose heart, Doctor – there is still hope. Night may have fallen, but not all the lights have gone out—he smiled solemnly—far from it.

You're more cryptic than the Visionary, the Doctor muttered despondently, and believe me, that takes some doing.

The inventor shook his head, chuckling. Hardly cryptic, Doctor—he nodded into the void surrounding them—see for yourself. His voice turned soft, reverent. Those bright and shining Companions…

The Time Lord shook his head in turn. I've already seen it. I saw it before I met you. I watched the lights go out… He nearly choked on the rising lump in his throat. So much suffering…

Nikola sighed affectionately. You said it yourself, Doctor: Time can be rewritten. His tone turned insistent. Look again.

The Doctor frowned in confusion. But I haven't said that… He couldn't imagine where Nikola could have gotten that from. You really ought to do counseling on the side, you know.

The human grinned. Thank you, Doctor… — his tone turned wry — but I have enough on my mind already.

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. And what—or rather, where—might your mind be, exactly? You're not putting as much psychic energy into this conversation as I initially thought.

Nikola looked exasperated, no doubt made worse by the strain of keeping his attention focussed in two different directions. That could really stretch a person thin. Well, if you'd bother to look… and do get on with it if you're going to, I really can't stay connected for much longer!

The Doctor sighed. Tetchy… He focused on his Companions, trying to skim over their pain as much as possible to read their potential futures…

Out of nowhere, a powerful burst of energy shattered his view and the connection. Nikola! But of course it was too late—Nikola was gone. A chill crept up on the Doctor in the painful aftermath of that psychic burst, and he shuddered, cold and alone in the dark.

It was another psychic presence… it reminded him of the Master, back in the UNIT days… only the Master had always held back, and this presence was holding nothing back.

The Doctor drew himself up. I am the Doctor, he said with all the solemnity of his many centuries. Who are you?

The next moment, he realised just how vulnerable he was, stretched far, far out of his body. Ordinarily, that would not be an issue, but a powerful telepath could be dangerous to him. The other mind brushed gently along the edge of his own, a smoky chuckle following in its wake. I know who you are. I know you, Doctor.

The Doctor's eyes narrowing, he ignored the chill that just went down his spine. Should make conversation easy on your end, then.

More to the point, I know your Companions. Your dear, sweet army doctor… and your fallen detective.

The Doctor tensed. What have you done with them?

Nothing that they themselves have not allowed, the other voice replied silkily. Nothing that you did not allow me to do with them…

The Doctor's mouth went dry, mind racing in a thousand horrible possibilities. What have you done?! Flashes of images bombarded him: Holmes and Watson severing their friendship, Watson being tortured, Holmes surrendering…

Do you wish to see where they are headed?

The Doctor couldn't speak, silently weeping. Complete ice in Holmes's eyes where once there'd been warmth… Watson curled up in despair, cold and alone… Beth lying lifeless in a pool of her own blood… Holmes growing into an unfeeling, merciless tyrant, the world at his feet and blood on his hands… Holmes standing over his former friend's body, the gun smoking in his hand…

The Doctor jerked away from the vision, screaming.

When the voice returned, it was gentle. How many have died in your name?

Whimpering, shaking, the Doctor curled up on himself.

How many children on Gallifrey, Doctor? When Arcadia fell, when the Moment silenced them forever? The price had to be paid… and the price is exacted on your own children.

Who are you? the Doctor said hoarsely.

Who do you think I am… Valeyard?

The Doctor blanched. That's not my name.

Oh, but it would be, if you ever escaped your… unique prison. And then… wouldn't you be so proud of your son for the path he's chosen?

No! What have you done to Sherlock?

He, too, has a debt to pay. Do not concern yourself with him, Valeyard: if he does not spend the rest of Eternity as the Devil, then he shall spend the rest of Eternity in Hell, you have my solemn promise.

Then the Doctor knew. Because in all the universe, there was only one person who could hate Sherlock Holmes that much. Moriarty, he breathed.

Farewell, Valeyard. Think on your sins. It is useless to think on your children, for they will be paying for those sins.

A new presence entered, old and warm and familiar… she cut the connection… and helped the Doctor to drift back into himself. When he came to on the floor, the nearest sharp object on the console looked far too inviting. He had left his Companions to sort through their troubles on their own, defenceless against any threats, and now they were all trapped.

He closed his eyes, curled up beside the console, and sobbed.

DO NOT TOUCH MY THIEF AGAIN… STAY AWAY…

Moriarty came to with a gasp, head throbbing. Well… it would seem that the TARDIS could be as violently protective as the Doctor when given the opportunity. Wincing, he closed his eyes and lightly massaged his temples. His head felt as though it could explode. Fascinating, nevertheless—he hadn't known that the TARDIS could harm someone telepathically.

After a minute, he carefully disengaged his headgear. As powerful as his psyche had become, it didn't have the strength and endurance to interrupt such a remote telepathic conversation, sever the connection, and then hold his own long-distance conversation. A machine capable of telepathic enhancement had been lying in disuse in Torchwood's storage rooms for discovered alien artifacts for quite some time, but at last, it had made itself useful again. Sadly, this might also be the last time it was used: the machine appeared to have shorted out, no doubt due to the TARDIS's interference.

Oh, dear God, he needed something for the pain. He had a global conquest to orchestrate—he had no time for lying abed with a massive headache. It was necessary that he should remain alert at all times to all news from around the world. He could no longer see the future. Time was silent and still. He had managed without a Time sense in the past and he could live without it once more, but the loss was no less debilitating. He had lost something as natural to him now as breathing.

Of course, to achieve the greatest victories, sacrifices must be made, but this sacrifice… was indeed a bitter one to make. Yes, he had stopped aging, but that was almost not a consolation. The real comfort lay in the knowledge that he held all the cards in his hand.

He could no longer foresee his enemies' movements… but it was no longer necessary.

Dazed, Nikola drifted helplessly through the void. The stunning burst of psychic energy had all but paralysed him, he could barely move; he couldn't even sense where his body was from here, the swirling ether stretched away in every direction, and he was so cold... but gradually, he became aware of a distant voice, urgently calling his name as it drew nearer. It was a voice he knew well, the voice of a friend, and its very warmth was a beacon, guiding him home...

"Nikola?" The telepath could have wept to feel George's hand crushing his, any discomfort outweighed by the sheer relief of physical contact - he didn't know how long he'd been out of his body, but it had felt like an eternity.

"George..." Nikola's voice was a hoarse whisper, but he managed to open his eyes. He was lying on the couch in his workshop, a cushion under his aching head, although strangely, the part of him that hurt most was his ribs.

George was kneeling beside the couch, his friend's pale face even paler in the light of the hurricane lantern, reflecting the fear and concern that was radiating off him in waves. "Nikola, thank God! You scared the daylights out of me! I found you slumped over your workbench a minute ago, out cold, and then you started spasming just like my cousin Bertha!"

Nikola shuddered, remembering only too clearly the devastating shockwave that had torn him and the Doctor apart, without the least hint of warning. And the mind that had sent it... he'd sensed that malevolent intent only once before, when the Doctor had first found him after his transformation. Such utter ruthlessness, that would dissect a living being down to its very molecules if that would achieve the desired end... could he blame his child self for screaming in terror? And now his worst fears had been confirmed...

He felt George let go of his hand and grasp his shoulders firmly, helping him to anchor himself more firmly in the present... dear God... the present... the river that normally flowed through the forefront of his consciousness had finally dwindled to a millpond.

"Nikola, what the hell happened?" George's voice was quieter now, but his tone brooked no evasions. "Is it anything to do with all this... this madness? There's even talk of the 'Mayflower' turning up at Cape Cod – not that anyone else has turned a hair!"

Nikola sat up slowly, blinking hard to keep himself focussed as he began reconstructing the mental defences which Moriarty's attack had turned to rubble. There was no time to waste, more than one life depended on him being strong enough for the fight ahead. "Well, George," he said grimly, "I highly recommend that you pack a carpet bag, then send a telegram to Pittsburgh. We have work to do."

Watson lay in bed in the solitary hospital room, propped up on pillows, his broken shoulder newly set and immobilised in a sling, teeth gritted against the grinding pain. He had stubbornly refused any form of painkiller from the Torchwood medics, God only knew what else it might contain – although if anyone decided to force the issue, there wouldn't be much he could do about it. He stiffened at the sound of the door opening, turning his head gingerly... Oh. What a surprise. He pointedly went back to staring up at the ceiling, in the hope that his unwelcome visitor would get the message.

Holmes reddened, taking a deep breath as he closed the door and moving forward hesitantly. There were no chairs, but he doubted the doctor would have invited him to sit down, anyhow. "Doctor..." He broke off, sighing – this was ridiculous. "Watson..."

Watson's heart gave a treacherous leap. For a moment, he could almost have believed... but he simply could not forget that the detective had just stood and watched the man he had once called friend be tortured into unconsciousness, his only protest a half-hearted murmur. "Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes tensed, stung by the coldness in Watson's voice, finally answering, "I... came to see how you were." And even that was a considerable risk; there was no telling who might be monitoring them, which made asking about Mrs. Watson impossible, assuming he even wished to.

Watson deliberately took his time in answering, relishing Holmes's obvious discomfort. "Quite well, actually, all things considered. Forgive my awkwardness – I hadn't thought you would have cared."

Holmes's face grew redder still – he wasn't certain whether because of anger or embarassment. "And why is that: because of my performance when you were brought here? One does not bleed in front of wolves, Doctor!" Surely Watson couldn't truly have believed... Moriarty had certainly not been deceived for a moment.

Watson finally deigned to turn his head again, the fresh twinges of pain from that slight movement only serving to fuel his indignation. "That alone I could understand, Holmes! But may I remind you that we... that I was already no longer welcome at Baker Street? Or did that fact slip your mind in the midst of your investigation?" At least Holmes seemed to understand that, miraculously, Moriarty didn't know about Sally – he wouldn't have hesitated to use her as a bargaining chip otherwise – and for his part, Watson would do his damnedest to keep the bastard ignorant!

Holmes glared back, keeping from raising his voice with difficulty. "Whatever issues lie between us, Doctor, I never wished for you to become entangled in this! I knew Moriarty would attempt to use you as emotional leverage against me – just as he did with Beth..." He cut himself off hastily, no sense in burdening Watson with any of that – in fact, the less he knew, the better.

Watson's ears pricked, anger momentarily overtaken by concern. "Is it true that Moran is pursuing her?" The Colonel had certainly been conspicuously absent during his own interview with Moriarty... and that shattered window, the study covered in shards of glass, Moriarty and Holmes both sporting cuts to their faces and clothing... Watson hardly dared speculate on what happened before his arrival, but there had clearly been some kind of explosion!

Holmes nodded curtly, not trusting himself to speak. Seeing Moran holding the gun to Beth's head... If there had been a moment in his life when he had been more terrified, he couldn't immediately remember it, and little wonder – Beth's survival was key to setting Time back on track, Holmes was certain of it, she could not be allowed to come to harm.

Watson shivered. He could well remember lying in wait in the dark of Camden House, seeing the unholy delight in the Colonel's face as he took aim at Holmes's silhouette in the sitting room window. "How?" His voice had become a hoarse whisper. "How did Moriarty even know of her?"

Holmes scowled at the floor, answering through gritted teeth, "The stupid girl followed me." Come to think of it, he had felt the carriage give an odd lurch as they'd turned out of Baker Street – could Beth have been stowing away on the back for the whole journey? "Moran caught her trying to spy on Moriarty and I – and Moriarty could sense she was out of her time."

Watson felt the blood draining further from his face. "'Sense'... not 'deduce'. What has really happened to him? And, for heaven's sakes, why should it concern him if Beth is out of her time?"

It was Holmes's turn to shiver. "When Moriarty fell through the Rift... he saw something the human mind was never meant to witness: the whole of Time and Space. All of it..."

Watson's eyes were wide with horror. "Good God... and he survived that..." Survived with an 'adverse effect' to his health... one that was serious enough to drive the man to halt Time itself.

Holmes nodded grimly. "I do not know how even he was not driven mad by such an experience… but instead it somehow changed him, gave him the ability to sense Time as the Doctor can. And there is more... He encountered some kind of phenomenon which caused his aging process to reverse itself, before finally being ejected from the Cardiff Rift – in 1869."

"What?!" Oh, dear heaven... Nikola's machine... so that was why Torchwood had commissioned it! And now... now the Doctor was trapped in the Rift himself... Watson closed his eyes, whispering, "Dear God... how are we ever to get ourselves out of this?"

Holmes's chest was tight. No regrets, he told himself sternly, this was for the best – if Watson thought for a moment that there was a 'we', he might well do something fatally stupid. "You... lost consciousness before the crucial part of the interview, Doctor."

Watson's eyes flew open again, wincing involuntarily at the flash of remembered pain. "The crucial part?"

"Moriarty wishes more from Frozen Time than mere immortality..." Holmes took a deep breath. "He desires... me, as his... protégé. A simple enough bargain..." He couldn't keep the note of distaste from his voice. "Your safety, in return for my surrender."

"That monster!" Watson could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Holmes, tell me you did not accept such a... such an evil proposition!" The detective's eloquent silence sent a chill down his spine. "Tell me you didn't..."

Holmes spread his hands helplessly. "What would you have had me do, Doctor? Refuse and let his men continue to break you, one bone at a time?" Surely Watson couldn't think him that heartless!

"Yes! A thousand times, yes! Holmes, I would face a thousand Maiwands if I knew it would keep you safe!"

"That is exactly what I have achieved, Doctor!" Holmes cut in angrily. "If I had not agreed to Moriarty's terms, both of us would be in your situation at this very moment, with much worse in store..."

"There is a difference between physical and spiritual harm, Holmes! You've quite literally sold your soul to the Devil! How can you think I would ever want that?" Why couldn't the mad fool see what was already happening to him? Moriarty had chosen his moment so very well... "How am I to spend the rest of… my life… or eternity… or… whatever it might be, knowing that my dearest friend has been twisted into his own worst enemy on my account?!"

Holmes stared at him, speechless for a long moment. "I see..." he managed at last. "So you would rather I had stood watching him tear you apart, inch by inch, your screams as he destroyed you echoing in my ears for the rest of my life?" It had been a terribly bitter pill to swallow, realising that no amount of bargaining would have saved Watson from this first injury – but knowing that wouldn't keep the memory at bay... or the nightmares. "Perhaps you could have endured that, Major Watson, but I could not – not when I had the chance to prevent it!"

Watson listened with mouth agape, horror swiftly burned away by his returning fury. "Ah, so is this truly about me, or is it about yourself, Holmes – as usual? Are we truly speaking of your concern for my wellbeing, or your own selfishness?"

Holmes's own face was turning scarlet. "So that is how you still think of me..." Of course it was, he was a fool to have expected the least shred of gratitude from the self-righteous prig. He bowed stiffly. "Forgive me, Doctor. I can see you are very tired, and I have taken up too much of your valuable time already. Perhaps when you have rested, you might think a little more kindly of me – or not, it makes little difference either way." It really didn't matter what Watson thought about him anymore, it wasn't as if they were still friends.

Watson's eyes blazed. "Very well, Mr. Holmes. You told me before that you'd rather be a brain without a heart. Do us both a favour, and leave what little humanity you have left behind you here. You shan't be needing it out there – he'll see to that. The sooner you stop caring, the sooner you'll be free of me and any stain upon your conscience." With Moriarty for a mentor, it would take Holmes no time at all to erase everyone he had ever cared about from that brain attic of his.

The pure loathing in the doctor's face made Holmes feel sicker than when he'd heard Watson's bones break under the agents' hands. "As you wish..." he whispered. "Goodbye, Dr. Watson."

Watson felt his insides twist at the shock in Holmes's eyes, the detective's face ashen as he turned to leave – perhaps for the last time... For the love of God, how had it come to this, why couldn't the stubborn idiot just listen? "Don't let Beth die," he whispered abruptly. "Save, at least, a piece of your soul for her sake."

Holmes halted, but didn't turn as he answered bitterly, "As you said, Doctor... my soul now belongs to the Devil – you shall have to make that request of its new owner." And Watson would have to learn to live with the knowledge that the contract which had been signed with Holmes's blood was written in his own.

Watson stared after Holmes as he walked out, the sound of the door closing behind him falling on the doctor's ears like a thunderclap. "Dear God... what have I done?!"

Sky: Okay... we know, it's really cruel to everybody. And we're sorry. We are so, so sorry. But this is the story that was demanding to be told. We worked far, far more on these last four episodes than probably the rest of the season combined. This is our masterpiece, and we promise this journey will be worth it in the end.

Please review!