London. Sherlock's city. Three years after his Fall, Sherlock was back on the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. This time, however, his purposes were far less self-destructive. He was re-learning his hometown, listening to her pulse, watching her arteries clog and drain. He was home. But then, he espied with his peripheral vision an extra piece to the puzzle; a man in an RAF coat, ready-to-wear trousers, tailor-made shirt, braces and belt. Said man was standing on the opposite side of the vast landing. "You are a long way from home, Captain," Sherlock surmised.
"Indeed", came the terse reply. "How are you, Mr. Holmes? Did I manage to pass on my curse to you when we last… met?" the man drawled flirtatiously, turning impossibly blue eyes at the consulting detective.
Sherlock chuckled, only mildly impressed. "Oh, please, Captain Harkness. As if your charms — and I do use the word very loosely — would work on me," Sherlock drew a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and, turning at last to the other man, offered him a stick.
Jack shook his head.
Sherlock took a moment to scan Jack, deducing him as he went along. "You've been off planet again, spent perhaps at least 2 earth years on a pleasure planet and then another in a sex, smoking, and drugs rehab. You haven't had a decent cup of coffee in years. You are in London to receive —"
"— A new commission from the Queen,"
"And by Queen you mean Mycroft," Sherlock joked.
Jack flashed the detective the famous Harkness grin. "It's so refreshing hearing you talk about intergalactic travel as if it were nothing. You, the man famous for not knowing anything about the solar system of Sol 3," Jack observed.
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "I deal in facts. Who you are and what you did were facts. That's my business. Speculation is not,"
Jack laughed in spite of himself. "Back to Mycroft, though. I don't understand why you hate your brother so much,"
"Pot, kettle," Sherlock said dismissively.
"Touche. However, I don't think your brother has ever buried you alive for thousands of years," Jack countered.
The detective raised his hands in mock surrender. "No. I suppose you take the cake because even now, you don't hate Gray."
"Just like you don't hate Mycroft."
"Touche,"
Jack seated himself on the ledge of the building, his back to Sherlock. "It's good, Sherlock. What you do here, I mean. I think it's great that you've found people to love,"
"Psh,"
"Your lady… that mousy little pathologist… her and that army surgeon… they've been good for you. Protect them with all you have. The way I'd never been able to protect the people I loved,"
Sherlock jumped up onto the ledge and seated himself beside his friend, bumping his shoulder with his and smiling into the distance. "I never got the chance to thank you, Jack. For three years ago. For jumping in my place,"
"Don't worry about it, Sherlock. Protect London. That's all I ask. Great as I am, I can't protect 2 cities at once!" Jack teased.
Sherlock punched his friend lightly on the shoulder. "You pompous arse!"
Captain Jack Harkness shrugged his muscular shoulders. "Pot, kettle."