A Study in Scars: Part Two – The Soldier

John decided to keep the sudden realization to himself as he attempted to sort out matters in his head. Whatever was going on here, it was bigger than a simple storybook coincidence. Two people had died, and he could be next on the list. And he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something odd about Lestrade and the two others. If they weren't part of the police, then what were they? Was he really on the side of the good guys?

When they reached the flat, John vaguely remembered Sherlock's hand on his shoulder, surprisingly gentle as the man trailed him up the stairs. He took a seat in his chair while Sherlock hung up his coat and scarf on the rack by the door and set some water boiling for tea. The two of them seemed content not to speak for the time being; when the tea was finished, however, Sherlock handed a cup to John and sat down with a second cup himself, crossing his gangly legs at the knees and looking expectantly at John.

"Tell me what happened, John," he said calmly. Somewhere in John's brain, it registered that that was the first time Sherlock had used his first name.

"You'll think I'm crazy," John warned.

"You just followed a man you barely knew to a crime scene with no police present. That's enough for anyone to think you're crazy."

"Fair enough." He took a sip of his tea, taking a moment to savor the warmth seeping through him. He considered, for a moment, where to begin before starting cautiously, "Me and six other men were separated from the rest of our troop by a blast. We had no choice but to brave the wilderness. We were doing alright considering we had no rations and a limited water supply, but before the end of the day, we came across… something. I would've guessed some kind of animal nest, but the things inside it… They were nothing like any animal I'd ever seen.

"We were looking for shelter, and this cave-like place seemed perfect, so we went inside, but we weren't alone. To be honest, I think they were harmless—they looked young, like they'd been born recently. They were pink and legless with round black eyes, like some kind of larvae, but they were the size of dogs. The way they were looking at us, they probably thought we were food, but they seemed slow… We probably could've just run, but… I guess we were surprised. We shot at them, and we killed every last one."

He took another sip of tea, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. Sherlock listened with a pensive expression as he continued, "Then we ran like hell. We didn't even say anything, we just ran. None of us had any other ideas. It was the dawn of the next day before we stopped. One of us volunteered for a watch; the rest of us passed out on the ground. We were exhausted.

"The watch must've dozed off, because next thing, he was screaming bloody murder, and most of us woke up in time to see his head get ripped off by… something. It was enormous, six-legged, and it had this bright red shell like some kind of beetle. And its face—it had these jaws, like—like—"

"—Pincers?" Sherlock guessed.

John shook his head, feeling as though he might break out in a sweat any minute. "No, like—like snake jaws. It opened its mouth, and at first there weren't any teeth, but then they just snapped out like retractable claws. It threw another man against a rock, killing him, before we managed to get ourselves together and shoot at the thing. It didn't go down easily; it managed to bite three of us—me included," he patted his bad leg, "before it fell.

"Then we ran again. It was slower, with three of us injured, but we managed to get a mile before we hit a road. Even as we were just waiting there, trying to catch our breath, one of the guys who'd been bitten died—we didn't know it then, but I'm sure now it was poison. Shortly after, a truck came by. It was American, and crowded, but they took us in anyway—those of us left. They did their best to treat our wounds, but the next man died the same way the first did. I thought I was next. When the hallucinations started, I was convinced I was going to die, but I didn't. I saw terrible things…" He trailed off as he remembered: scenes from a war he wasn't even a part of, the sky burning orange and filled with smoke, and monsters beyond imagination… He took a shaky breath.

"Jim and Carlton said I was delirious for three days straight. They said I screamed at things that weren't there and even that I attacked someone at the hospital. I don't remember much of it, but I know I woke up half the size I was before with a fever that had just broken and a new scar where I'd been bitten. The nurses told me I'd picked up a virus in the wilderness and had been hallucinating since; even the other two said they didn't see anything like what I described, but…" He shook his head. "I still have the scar on my leg. That's my only proof."

"And no one's believed you since," Sherlock concluded.

As an answer, John took a drink of his tea, his eyes focusing on a pattern in the wallpaper. "Do you believe me?" he asked without looking up.

"Yes," replied Sherlock without hesitation. John looked up in surprise, certain he must be joking, but the other man's eyes were sincere and fervent. "The wound on your leg," he said, "may I see it?"

John leaned down wordlessly and pulled the left leg of his jeans up to his knee. Cutting horizontally across his bare calf were two parallel lines of discolored marks, directly symmetrical. He looked at the scar often to remind himself of what he'd been through, that it wasn't simply a dream or delusion.

"You were lucky," Sherlock said, leaning back into his seat once he'd finished examining it. "It must've injected most of its poison into the other two men." He stood from his chair, setting down his half-empty cup of tea and rifling through the various papers on his desk, leaving John to wonder how he could possibly be so sure of that fact.

Apparently finding what he was looking for, he took his seat with a blank notepad and a pen. After a few moments of silent sketching, he turned it so that John could see. "The monster. Did it look like this?"

John didn't need more than a glance to confirm that it did, but he stared at it a moment, mesmerized by the detail in its black, bulbous eyes, its screaming jaws, its needle-like teeth extended for blood. "Yes," he said, suppressing a shiver. "That's it. Exactly."

"I was afraid of this," murmured Sherlock, looking away. "It's a Kafkan, a close cousin of the Raknoss. I thought they'd died out a long time ago, but apparently one survived…"

And John began to laugh.

"What's so funny?" asked Sherlock suspiciously.

"I don't know what you're talking about," John admitted, still chuckling, "but you're the first person I've told who believes me—I mean, who actually takes me seriously. I'm just—I'm relieved."

For a brief moment, there was pity in his eyes—no, not pity; sympathy—as he looked at John. Then he stood again from his chair and it was gone just like that. Despite the cold, steely expression the man usually wore, John felt he had finally found someone he could tell anything, no matter how ridiculous. Here was someone who would listen as carefully to his words as if they held the key to eternal happiness—when he wasn't distracted by other things, at least.

Sherlock began to pace back and forth from the fireplace to the sofa, his long, sweeping strides covering the distance each time in only a few steps. "The Kafkan like dark, enclosed spaces, but that could be anywhere," he said to himself. "The sewers, abandoned buildings… Stockholm and Graham were both killed relatively close to each other, but that still leaves a broad range of possibilities. I could—oh…" He trailed off suddenly, wide blue eyes locking on John's darker gray ones. "John!" he said urgently. "Show me the scar on your leg again."

John did as he was told, but asked warily, "Why, exactly?"

Sherlock pulled out the strange-looking magnifying glass that John had noticed earlier. "If there's any trace of the Kafkan's genetic material still left in there, I might be able to trace it and pinpoint it, like a GPS tracker," he said. He pressed a button on the side of the device he was holding, causing it to emit a blue light on the end and a high-pitched noise that sounded somewhere between a whistle and a whir. He flashed the strange thing up and down the length of John's leg before turning it so he could see the side of it. "Yes!" he said in excitement, jumping to his feet.

"What is that?" asked John, hastily rolling down the leg of his pants and pushing himself to his feet while Sherlock dashed for the hall.

He paused at the mouth of the corridor. "Sonic magnifying glass," he said, holding up the device and giving it a little twirl. "Very handy."

"Sorry—sonic—?" started John, but Sherlock had vanished down the hallway. Grumbling, he grabbed his cane and limped after the man. The door—the impossible door—had just snapped shut.

John made his way for it and had just turned the knob when Sherlock's voice barked, "Don't open the door! I'll be out in a moment."

A minute later, John heard him shout out in frustration.

"What is it?" John called, pressing his ear against the door.

"It's the genetic sample, it's not the right one," came Sherlock's voice from the other side. It started to get louder, like he was coming closer, so John backed away from the door as the other man continued, "I hadn't expected them to be identical, but I'd hoped maybe they had enough shared DNA to be tracked…" He opened the door and slipped out of it, barely giving John a glimpse of a dimly-lit room before it was shut quickly behind him.

They stood like that for a second, neither speaking a word; then John asked, "Who are you?"

"I told you, I'm—"

"Sherlock Holmes, yeah, you told me your name," said John. "But who are you? What do you do? How do you know so much about monsters no one else has ever seen?"

They stared at each other for another moment, John's stubborn gray gaze into Sherlock's analytical blue. He was prepared for more evasive strategies, but instead of avoiding the question, Sherlock said calmly, "There's a group of people called Torchwood. They work outside the government, tracking down and communicating with extraterrestrial life that has landed on Earth."

"Extraterrestrial life? You mean aliens?"

"Yes."

"Okay, go on."

Sherlock seemed surprised by John's immediate acceptance, but he continued, "You met the London division, made up of Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson. You also met Captain Jack, head of the Cardiff division, though he told you his name was Mike Stamford."

"Why did he do that?"

Sherlock struggled for words. "It's… complicated," he eventually said, brushing past John into the sitting room. "I work with them sometimes, when they're in over their heads—which is always."

"And how do you know so much?" queried John.

"I've had years of experience," Sherlock remarked, but there was a bit of dryness to his tone, like there was something ironic about it. "You're not surprised, then?" He took a seat in his chair.

John shrugged before gratefully sinking into his. "Not really. I'd always thought it was pretty likely." There was a moment during which neither of them spoke. Then John said, "I don't understand, though. In Afghanistan, we killed this… Kafkan. How can it be back?"

"The larvae you saw, in the cave," said Sherlock, "you said they looked like newborns. Now, in general for most species, what must be necessary for newborns to exist?"

"Ah… Parents."

"Yes, exactly. Parents. With an 'S'. After you killed the children, the mother tracked you down. The father was probably away, gathering food. If you came home expecting to serve dinner only to find your children and wife slaughtered, what would you do?"

"I wouldn't rest until they were dead," John admitted, feeling even guiltier for doing such a thing. The realization that he'd killed almost an entire family made him feel sick. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his fingers at his temples. "Oh, God…"

"They weren't innocent, if it helps any," said Sherlock, oblivious to John's suffering. "Their metabolisms can handle just about anything, but they generally prefer raw sentient life forms."

It didn't help any, as it turned out. "Is this your life, then? Up to your chin in aliens and murders?"

"Well, yes."

John frowned for a moment, troubled by his casual answer. Deciding to drop it for now, he asked, "So how are we going to find it?"

"We can't," said Sherlock bluntly. "The only way we can find it is if we lure it out, which we can do since you happen to be the one thing it wants right now above all else, but people don't generally appreciate being dangled in front of a dangerous alien like a piece of meat, do they?"

"No, they don't," John answered, "but I'm not people."

Sherlock stared blankly at him for a moment, trying to puzzle out what he meant, before he realized what John was saying and his face split into a grin. "Excellent!" he exclaimed, clapping John on the shoulder. "You're a brave man, John Watson."

John couldn't help but return the smile, though it faded quickly as he asked, "What'll we do once we lure it out?"

"Talk to it."

"And if that doesn't work?"

"You can shoot it with your gun."

"How did you know I—?"

"You were attacked by an enormous alien with retractable teeth and a mouthful of poison. You'd be stupid not to have a gun."

John couldn't say he was accustomed to being read like an open book—but, then, he'd just met Sherlock; he could get used to it, he supposed. "I left it at my place, with the rest of my things," he said. "I wasn't expecting I'd need it for a therapy session."

"Oh, good. We can gather your things and bring them here," Sherlock said, standing.

"You're coming, too?"

"The Kafkan will attack you if you're alone."

"Right."

They called a cab and took it back to John's flat. The place looked less like a living area and more like a hospital room. Too much of the blank white walls were exposed and there was little to no furniture, save what came with the flat. Sherlock stood patiently near the door, surveying the room with those cat-like eyes of his—no doubt absorbing every detail of John's life with each thing he spotted. John, meanwhile, scurried about the place, haphazardly throwing what few possessions he owned into a suitcase. They didn't consist of much—his clothes, his revolver, a few family photos, and a book or two. Sherlock had been right, of course: he did like mystery novels, though he doubted he'd have much need of them now that he was living one.

"Is that everything?" Sherlock asked when John had packed away his last sock.

He felt a bit self-conscious, having stowed away all his things into one pitiful suitcase, but Sherlock didn't seem to care about how much he owned. "Yes." He couldn't shake the feeling that he was forgetting something, but he had double-checked every room, and nothing of his remained.

"Good." And they left. To be honest, John was quite glad to be rid of the place. It had always felt too empty, too quiet—and while some degree of silence was welcomed when he was reading or sleeping, it still felt too… lonely. He didn't know why that man, Captain Jack, had insisted on introducing the two of them, but he knew now that he was grateful for it, and he would be yet for a very long time.

Aliens, though. He still wasn't sure what to make of that.

"You can have the bedroom on the left," said Sherlock when they got back to the flat.

"Isn't that your room?" asked John.

"No, mine's the one on the right."

The one you don't want me to see, thought John as he towed his suitcase into the room Sherlock had said. The one that can't possibly exist. He resolved to take a peek at it when all this was over, but for now he'd let Sherlock keep his secrets.

He walked back into the sitting room, revolver in hand. "What's the plan?" he asked.

"We find a nice, secluded alley—not a too difficult task here on Baker Street—where you can stand, alone. I'll be hiding around the corner. You give a shout when you see something, and we'll try to talk to the thing."

John raised his eyebrows when he realized Sherlock wasn't going to add anything else. "That's it?"

"Well, if anything goes wrong, you'll have your revolver, and I'll have this." He brandished the device he'd introduced to John earlier.

"Right, your… cosmic magnifying glass? What are you going to do, whistle it to death?"

"Sonic," Sherlock corrected in an irritated tone. "It can do a lot more than that." When John looked skeptical, he explained, "I've got the species' genetic code. If this one's hearing is similar to the one you met in Afghanistan, I'll be able to deliver a sonic blast that might stun it."

"So, in short… you're going to whistle it to death."

"Oh, shut up."

"What if it's not affected by bullets?"

"Then we run like no tomorrow and hope its six legs are shorter than ours."

John couldn't honestly say he hadn't risked his life on less favorable odds, so he just smiled and didn't argue. "So, say we talk this thing into not killing me," he said as Sherlock pulled on his knee-length coat. "What then?"

"We take it back to Torchwood, and Lestrade can decide what to do with it." With one hand he looped his scarf around his neck, and with the other he held open the door, gesturing for John to precede him.

John, tucking his revolver into the waist of his pants, did as indicated, his pulse quickening at the sudden prospect that he could die tonight. He halted at the top of the steps and Sherlock, who had closed the door behind them, stopped as well.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I'm about to confront a murderous alien with a stranger who claims to work for a covert organization," he said, the realization of it all locking his legs for a moment and forcing him to think about it.

"A sound observation," remarked Sherlock, "though I don't work for them. I work with them, when I want to."

"Right, yeah. Sorry, I guess that's the most important bit," said John sarcastically.

Sherlock, who didn't appear to have noticed John's scathing tone, took the lead when they stepped outside. John was surprised to find that the night was still fairly new; the past hour or two had felt like an entire day. He supposed he should've been tired at this point, but he felt like he could run a marathon. His heart was drumming the frenzied beat of a trapped animal trying to escape. With each step, his muscles tensed until he felt like something would snap and he'd go streaking off down the street. It was an incredibly liberating feeling, and better than any therapy session he'd had by far.

Sherlock stopped at the mouth of an alley and peered down it. "This'll do," he said in a low voice. "No doubt it's tracking you as we speak. I'll be in the next alley over, where it won't see me. Remember, when it shows up, yell, and I'll be there."

"Right," said John, but the other man had already turned and slipped into his allotted hiding place and vanished into the darkness. So John, swallowing back whatever fear threatened to show on his face, walked down the alley Sherlock had indicated until he was about halfway down. There he stopped and turned, hesitantly, his hand behind his back and his fingers brushing the butt of his revolver.

He wasn't sure how long he was supposed to wait before this thing showed up, nor where it would come from, so he turned slowly on the spot, his eyes raking every shadow and jumping to every movement. It was freakishly silent—so silent, he felt like his breathing and his pounding heartbeat and the rustle of his clothes could be heard from across the street. Maybe they could.

After a few minutes, he began to doubt this plan of theirs. What if the Kafkan knew it was a trap? What if it had spotted his revolver? Should he stop turning, in case it hadn't seen the gun yet? But no, that was a dumb idea; he'd only be an easier target. Maybe it was watching him from the dumpster. Maybe it was peering at him through the window of that building. Maybe it was waiting for him to stop looking up so it could leap down on him from the roof.

His fingers were trembling against the gun. He could face armies and sew up wounds on a battlefield, but simply standing and waiting… He felt like a chicken roasting in the window of a restaurant, enticing hungry people to come in and—

A metallic clang resounding from the next street over nearly gave him a heart attack. The noise, most likely caused by the tipping of an empty trashcan, was followed shortly by a harsh snarl that brought back bad memories of Afghanistan. He'd heard that snarl from the Kafkan they'd killed, and multiple other times when he was hallucinating. The sound sent a thrill of fear—and, to his surprise, of excitement—coursing through him.

"Sherlock?" he called, taking a few steps toward the mouth of the alley. There was no legible reply—only the grunt of someone who'd had the wind knocked out of them. He broke into a run and barely kept from slipping as he rounded the corner at full speed.

There was the alien, just as enormous and grotesque and terrifying as he remembered it. Unlike the one he'd met, however, this one had two horns on its head and was colored a deep maroon. It was crouched over Sherlock, who was sprawled on the ground and stirring feebly, his chest heaving as he struggled to regain his breath.

Through the myriad of hissing and snapping noises the creature was making, John could hear, to his surprise, English. It was a bit garbled and difficult to understand, but it was definitely English. "Hello, Time Lord," it hissed, bending low over Sherlock and pinning him down with one of its six clawed feet. It didn't seem to have noticed John, who was trying to think of something to say to soothe it—that had been their initial plan, after all. "Long time, no smell. Escaped the Time War, I see."

"I didn't—" started Sherlock, but the thing moved its foot to his neck, cutting off whatever he didn't do.

"Don't speak to me, you murderer! I was on the trail of the cripple when I caught your scent, Time Lord. You slaughtered us, just like you slaughtered the Raknoss. If it weren't for Gallifrey, my family wouldn't have needed to hide on this stinking planet!"

On the word "stinking," it drew back its other front leg and swept it across so that its foot collided with Sherlock's head with a sharp crack. Sherlock, who had been fumbling for his sonic magnifying glass, fell limp against the concrete, bleeding from his temple. The alien drew back its head, its horrible jaws splitting as its teeth flashed out—

John knew Sherlock hadn't wanted to kill this beast unless they couldn't help it, but his friend was unconscious and about to be killed, and he knew there was nothing he could do to appease the thing. Its family was dead, its home gone, and it had nothing left to live for but revenge. No words could stop this creature, and certainly no sonic device could stun it at this point.

So, he did exactly as his instincts had been itching to do ever since he took up his post in that alley: he whipped out his revolver and fired.

The first bullet didn't appear to have much effect other than to anger the beast. It jerked up and whirled on John, its mouth wide open and teeth extended, that horrible snarl grating in its throat. For a moment, looking at it, he wanted to turn and sprint away back down the street, just like he did in Afghanistan. But one glance at Sherlock's prone form and he remembered his protective instincts. He remembered why he'd become a doctor, why he'd gone to Afghanistan in the first place. And he fired.

The monster jerked again from the impact before lunging at him. He got three more bullets into it before it fell at his feet in a great tangled mound of twitching legs and half-open jaws. A reddish-brown liquid leaked across the concrete, spreading slowly outward in a thick puddle. There he stood, frozen, his heart thudding in his chest, ready for the thing to leap at him again, but a shudder ran down the length of its body and it stilled. He waited only a second longer before tucking the weapon back in his pants and sprinting to Sherlock's side, careful to avoid the alien's body.

He dropped to his knees and placed his index and middle finger against the side of Sherlock's neck, checking for a pulse. Thankfully, he was still breathing; the steady beat came strongly through the vein. But hang on—there was something wrong. He kept his fingers there and was soon able to isolate the abnormality: instead of a single, straightforward beat, there were two, one after the other. Frowning, he pulled his hand away. The rhythm was unlike any cardiovascular irregularity he'd ever encountered.

Hesitantly, he leaned down, pressing his ear against the man's chest. He could hear the unmistakable sound of not one but two pulses, thumping out a steady four-beat rhythm.

He has two hearts.