Disclaimer

Ah the allure of men in long coats. I'm being wicked I know, even heretical in this story but please forgive me, surely men in long coats is a kink whose time has come? I meet this redhead in a book shop once, he gave me a discount on my books and he wore a genuine RAF greatcoat, well to cut a long story short - Reader, I married him.

I don't own any of the characters (but I do still have the redhead and his coat)

Men in Long Coats

There was a moment, just a fraction of a moment really when he looked up and saw; a crime scene, a figure standing still amongst the chaos a man with dark hair and a long coat; heard the clearly exasperated shouts of policeman; saw Greg waving his hands as if wrestling with a phantom. And his heart lifted and his lips started to form a name. But it was just a millisecond, a blink, the figure turned, too short, too broad across the shoulders, hair too tidy, and smile too sure, nothing alike at all.

Greg was having a bad day. Any day which started with a murder was of course, a bad day for someone. But specifically it had started to be a bad day for Greg Lestrade when he had arrived looked at the corpse and that little voice at the back of his head had sighed and said one word. And that one doom laden word was-Torchwood. But still the day could have been saved, Torchwood was in itself a bad thing yes, but some of the people he'd meet from Torchwood were more or less, you know, normal -ish. And then there was this one. Captain bloody Jack sodding Harkness . And now here he was; Sally Dovovan giggling like a 14 year old and not doing her job, Anderson steaming mad, not doing his job and Harkness doing who know what, with a deeply unnecessary twinkle in his eyes and Greg trying to hold it all together in some semblance of proper Police Procedure. By rights Greg should be due a break about now, he rolled his eyes to heaven and sent up a silent prayer to just lay off me, ok. And looked down straight into the eyes of the ghost of John Watson. Fuck.

OK so John wasn't really a ghost. But since Sh.. since his suc.. after the events at Barts' hospital, John had gotten on with life and he looked fine. Unless you knew him, unless you could see that something was lacking in his eyes, an absence which told you that some part of Dr John Watson hadn't made it past the funeral. And Lestrade felt guilty, massively guilty, although he didn't have anything to be guilty about – he knew that Sherlock wasn't a fake and always had loudly maintained it. But all the same it had happened and now he was gone and John was part of the wreckage left behind. So the two men smiled, twisted not real smiles at each other and John pretended not to notice the deep steadying breath Greg Lestrade took before walking over to him. The tall –not Sherlock man- followed him.

'Well, Dr Watson as I live and breathe! What brings you to my crime scene today? 'Greg winched at himself – why was he talking to John like some benevolent but ancient uncle trying to engage with a truculent nephew? He was saved by an unexpected source.

'Torchwood's crime scene I think you'll find, Greg 'said the tall man with a distinct American twang to his accent. Then he added

'Hello there 'He leant over Greg and unsubtly edging him aside with his wide shoulders;' did I hear Greg here, call you a Doctor?'

John reached out to shake the hand offered to him. As their hands met he felt a tingling in his palm, like a series of mild electric shocks and a wave of something like the lightheadedness before you faint, rolled over him. He heard the man hitch his breath as if what ever had hit John was being felt by him too. The two men looked at each other startled. John found himself speaking with out thinking

'You smell great' he said. And then blushed. What the fuck did he say that for? It was true but who the hell says that to a stranger? He stammered

'Sorry that sounds really… I mean sorry, I'm not feeling totally myself at the moment and I …. Sorry. '

John stuttered to a stand still and shrugged. The man seemed unperturbed by his comment, in fact he was smiling broadly and still holding John's hand which John found was fine with him

'I'm sorry 'John calmed himself 'it's just that for a moment, you reminded me of a friend of mine' he explained.

Again the big smile

'Well it's Captain Jack Harkness at your service. Must be a lucky man to call himself a friend of yours. '

'No.' John dropped the hand and his eyes lost their focus for a moment 'no I was the lucky one. Sherlock was... 'Again words seemed to dry up on him.

He meet the blue eyes again and saw a look of understanding and then sympathy, no empathy in the man's eyes. The man leaned in toward him and asked in a lower voice

'John, may I buy you a coffee?'

And John, to his surprise found himself nodding.

What was all that, thought Greg as he watched Jack slide a hand across John's shoulder and lead him away from the crime scene. That was … actually Greg had no idea what that was, unexpected, troubling, disturbing, one of those

and not for the first time today Greg wished Sherlock was here.

xxxxx

'So 'Jack leant back again the vinyl padding of the booth's seat 'Your friend, Sherlock, the handsome one who I remind you of, why isn't he here today

John?'

John smiled briefly at Jack's flirtatious tone. He looked down at the cup in front of him and found himself pointlessly and neatly re-arranging the teaspoon on the saucer. He challenged himself to say the words.

'Sherlock's dead' he said this carefully 'he died about 6 months ago.'

Jack nodded unsurprised, that look in John's eyes could only have been caused by grief, the no hope kind-the real thing.

'Valid excuse then' Jack concurred. John gave a half smile again.

'I still miss him' he admitted

'Of course you do' said Jack 'why shouldn't you?'

John shrugged 'People expect you to move on especially when ...' He paused. 'When the circumstances of his death were so... difficult ...for people.'

'John' Jack leaned forward and touch the shorter man's hand briefly 'Fuck 'em who cares what other people think. He was your friend and what you think matters, not them. I lost someone myself nearly two years ago. I still think about him every day. '

John looked up at the man

'Who was yours'?'

'Ianto 'said Jack 'His name was Ianto' There was an ocean of sadness in his voice and John found himself briefly returning the hand touch. Then he raised his tea cup and dipped it in a subduced toast

'To Ianto and Sherlock then '. Jack touched his coffee mug to John's teacup

'To Sherlock and Ianto' he echoed. He took a sip over his coffee and made a face 'I hope they're drinking better coffee than this where ever they are.'

'Not if Sherlock's making it.' John laughed.

'No? 'queried Jack 'not his forte?'

'God no' said John 'only time he made me a cup of tea he tried to slip a hallucinogenic drug in it '

'Hmm. Kinky' said Jack.

John sniggered.' No just the kind of twatish thing that he did occasionally'

Jack smiled. 'My Ianto made me great coffee every morning. It was just perfect. Only one of us that could get the bloody coffee machine to work.'

'Nice' said John. There was a pause, a surprisingly comfortable one. John thought how good it was to talk about Sherlock to someone, easily and with out having to answer a lot of unanswerable questions .Then he remembered that he had a question for Jack.

'So Jack, you mentioned Torchwood just then. I've never heard the name. Who or what is Torchwood?'

The tall man opposite him gave him a considering look. Whatever judgment he was making of John seemed to end favorably because he leaned forward, smiled broadly and said.

'Well John, you're not going to believe most of this, but I swear it is all true. You could check it out with Greg, but well Torchwood is rather special. It's outside the government, and beyond the police. We track down alien life on Earth and co-opt their technologies for the defense of Earth. Greg's corpse out there is a shape shifter and I've been tracking him since he landed in Cardiff last month.'

Jack paused, sipped his coffee and looked at the man in front of him. He looked, Jack noted, both suspicious and horrified. This was the normal reaction when Jack told anyone about his job but yes, as he suspected there was another emotion in John Watson's eyes too. It was a rarer reaction but Jack had seen it before on the face of Ianto, of Gwen, of Owen, of Susie and of Toshiko, all of his people. It was a look of someone recognizing a truth, of someone hearing the siren call to adventure. It was the look of someone whose life was about to change. John leant forward.

'Tell me more 'he said. So Jack did.

xxxxx

The café owner was trying to closing up for the evening. She sent baleful looks at the two men in the corner. Their heads were together, and their voices low. The taller man waved his arms round a lot and the shorter man laughed a lot. She couldn't decide if there were friends catching up after years apart or lovers on a date. They were however, stopping her from closing at a reasonable time and her feet couldn't take any more. So she called out

'Gents, I'm locking up now'

The fair man startled like he hadn't realized so much time had passed and the American smiled, stretched, stood up and pulled on his massive coat. They walked toward the door. The arm waver stopped so that he could put so much money on the counter top that she would gladly have kept the café open another hour for him. He smiled at her but all his focus was on the shorter man beside him. As she locked the door behind them she heard him say.

'You know John if you ever get bored of London, Cardiff can be a pretty exciting place. I, and Torchwood of course, can always find a use for a good doctor. And it would be good to have someone who can look after himself beside me'

The other man, John presumably, smiled

'Two Captains in one team though Jack' he asked his tone light and teasing 'how will that work?'

'Well I'd be charge' Jack said in a reasonable tone as the two men walked into the darkening street 'but only during work hours – perhaps we could work it out between ourselves after work, maybe take turns as the situation demanded.'

As she switched out the lights, she watched the figures disappear round the corner, two figures walking companionably into the dusk, a shorter figure, solid and steady and a taller one, dark and excitable. Strange how they looked together, she thought, just seemed sort of right somehow.

The alternative title for this story is Reasons why Sherlock need to get his arse back to Baker Street pronto- I rejected it as a little clumbersome. So what do you think, would John Watson join Torchwood ?

How does Mr 'the British Government ' feel about the organization beyond the government ?

How likely is John to attempt to snog Gwen Hooper ?

Was it a terrible mistake to write under the influence of a pack of jelly beans on an empty stomach ?