==Chapter Four==

Headaches

Tell me, Atlas.

What is heavier:
The world or its people's hearts?

- Darshana S, Atlas still stands but does anyone else?

To Sally's relief, the group arrived back at the theater in time to keep the security guard from locking them out, who, after Edward took him aside, was happy to let the Companions stay and 'keep an eye on the old place', on condition that Edward stayed with them.

The furniture in the Green Room was moved around and more dug out from the props store, and of course, this being a theater, there was no shortage of cushions and various other pieces for bedding. Edward graciously gave up his dressing room to Sally and Beth, choosing instead to camp out with the Doctor in the main lounge; while John, with an apologetic look at Sally, stationed himself with the unconscious Sherlock in Jeremy's dressing room - not that she or any of the others were anxious to volunteer for sick duty!

Tossing and turning on her makeshift bed, Sally thought she knew why this couch had been put in storage; the whole thing seemed to be one large lump, and she was positive there was a broken spring in it somewhere, which twanged loudly whenever she moved. Finally, she gave up, kicking off the velvet curtain she was using for a blanket with a sigh. "That's got to be the worst bed ever - and I've seen my share of student couches!"

Beth wasn't even trying to sleep, sitting morosely at the dressing table, chin propped on her palm. Pulled out of her thoughts by Sally's voice, she turned with a sympathetic smile. "Aw, I'm sorry."

Sally shrugged. "I guess I thought I was finished with those, since..." Since she'd stopped sleeping over at Kathy's place... "...never mind." She shook her head, focusing gratefully instead on the low murmur of voices coming from the lounge - the Doctor and Edward were obviously having trouble sleeping, too. Hearing a faint sigh to her left, she turned her head and gave her roommate a look of concern. "You okay?"

Beth shrugged. "I guess..."

Sally gave her a Look - how many times had she used that brushoff on well-meaning strangers? "Is that another way of saying 'Not really'?"

"Well, what am I supposed to say?" Beth suddenly shot back. "'No, I'm not okay, because I waited two zedding years to travel in the TARDIS, only to watch my childhood hero get drunk and act like a complete moron'? While, I might add, said TARDIS has been stolen and my favorite actor kidnapped. So yeah, I guess, not really!"

Sally's eyes were wide. "Yeah, that would do it..." she agreed weakly, feeling slightly stunned by the sudden outpouring.

Beth heaved another, deeper sigh. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay." Sally shook her head at herself. "I've got to learn to mind my own business." She had to remember: Beth wasn't Kathy. It was going to take time for them to get to know each other well, assuming there was even time...

Beth frowned. "And I should learn to mind my temper. Seriously, Sally, I'm sorry—I shouldn't burst out like that. It's just… been rough…"

"No kidding!" Sally heaved a sigh of her own, smiling ruefully. "John did warn me it wouldn't be boring..."

She was glad to see Beth starting to smile, if only faintly. "You're here because of him?" Sally nodded, blushing, her own smile turning foolish, and Beth's smile became a grin, eyes sparkling. "Oh, wow..."

Sally laughed self-consciously. "That's an understatement! I'd tell you what happened, but, ah..." No, especially not at this time of night...

Beth looked a bit disappointed, but nodded. "I get it - my own story is... yeah, fantastic and not-so-good..."

Sally nodded back, relieved, then grimaced as the memories kept resurfacing anyway without permission. "Let's just say I used to like visiting art galleries..." The one time she'd revisited her favourite place, Rodin's The Thinker had given her the creeps, she couldn't leave again fast enough.

Beth frowned. "Okay..."

Sally hesitated a long moment... then kicked herself - who was she kidding? It wasn't like she was going to meet any other women who could understand even half of what she'd gone through. "John and I got separated at the end of things..." she went on quietly, staring down at the sofa's upholstery, tracing the vine pattern with her fingertips; "and because of how messed-up everything was... I didn't... I couldn't see him again for almost a year." A year's worth of nights spent lying awake, ears straining for the screech of the TARDIS, even in her dreams...

Beth's mouth had become an 'o'. "...oh gosh, Sally, I'm sorry. That's..." She trailed off, shaking her head.

Sally gave her a smile of pure empathy. "You too, huh?" It wasn't hard to see that Beth was in pretty much the same boat herself - and as for the object of her affections... well, Sally wasn't even going to comment on that!

Beth stared at her, speechless.

"I mean..." Sally said hastily; "oh God, Beth, I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to..." She sighed as Beth opened her mouth, then closed it, ducking her head, cheeks flaming. Well, this was awkward... "Right... I'll just pry my size seven foot out of my size thirteen mouth..."

Beth gave an involuntary giggle. "Oh, stop it..." She looked back up hesitantly. "I just..." She shook her head, shrugging helplessly.

Sally nodded, hearing clearly what she wasn't saying. "Yeah..." she agreed softly, remembering only too well how it had been for her when she'd thought John wasn't interested. "What can you do..."

Beth closed her eyes, her soft voice plaintive. "I only wanted to be friends. I know I don't have any chance..." She swallowed hard, shaking her head and opening her eyes. "And now I don't know what's wrong."

Sally frowned. "Beth, I think you might have been watching Jeremy Brett a bit too long. Trust me: the real Sherlock Homes doesn't need anyone else to send him off in a huff – he can do that all on his own..." Jeremy's performance had been wonderful, but that didn't mean he truly understood what made the actual detective tick, any more than the rest of them - even John, it seemed lately.

"I know that! I'm sorry, Sally—I can only imagine how much of a brat he's been recently, and, yes, I know he can be that, but... He's also the man who defeated the school bully to teach him a lesson and who was... there for me, really, when my best friend died... and who helped the Doctor make one of the most difficult decisions he ever had to..." Beth shook her head again, voice softening. "Sherlock Holmes can be terrible... but he can also be really wonderful."

Sally smiled wistfully. "I'd love to see some of that." She sighed. "He was all politeness and charm and 'Welcome aboard', right up until he figured out he couldn't talk me into going home..." She felt like an idiot not to have realised in the library what kind of poison he was dripping in her ear, it had hardly been subtle! A quiet huff of despairing laughter escaped her. "If this is what Mary had to put up with, the woman must have been a bloody saint!" And how the heck was she supposed to cope if he wouldn't thaw out?

Beth grimaced. "I'm sorry." The poor kid - this had to be just as rough on her, coming to terms with the darker side of a hero she'd looked up to her whole life.

Sally shook her head gently, but saying firmly, "Don't apologise for him, Beth." Her lips tightened as she looked at the wall separating the two dressing rooms - her John, most likely still awake himself, watching faithfully over the Great Detective... who in his infinite intelligence had all but embalmed himself in finest brandy. "That's his job."

Jeremy came to slowly, sporadically, in time with the throbbing of his head. He opened his eyes and squeezed them back shut with a choked cry of pain, his head well and truly killing him. He tried to stir and discovered that he couldn't move.

"Oh, good, you're awake," said a pleasant, friendly voice.

Jeremy groaned softly as he opened his eyes again and managed to focus past the pain this time, taking in his surroundings. He found himself in a windowless basement room… strapped thoroughly to a chair. Even his head was immobilised. He couldn't help a slight whimper of pure fear. Why…?

Before him sat an average-looking young man in his late twenties, with close-cropped black hair and a lab coat. But… the lab coat was red… "Sorry about the restraints," the man said earnestly, "although I'm sure you can appreciate the necessity. You're one slippery customer, so they tell me, Mr. Holmes."

Jeremy blinked blearily, frowning. He hurt all over, down to his bones; his head swam despite being locked into place; and his stomach lurched treacherously. He couldn't think straight, let alone figure out what was going on. "Wha... Wha' are you tal'ing about?"

The man hummed thoughtfully. "That is one prize specimen of a hangover you've got there. I suppose you're not going to be much use to anyone if you can't even think straight." He stood and walked behind Jeremy. There was a slight clatter and returning footsteps. "Now, this won't hurt much…"

Jeremy gave a slight cry at the prick of a needle in the side of his neck. After a moment, his headache started to fade, and he started to breathe easier. Thank goodness, he was feeling more like a human being again.

His host seated himself again. "Better?"

Jeremy tried to nod and sighed when he couldn't. "Much," he murmured. "Who are you?" Unable to help himself, he tried to analyse the situation as he knew Sherlock Holmes would have. "What do you want with me?"

"Me, personally? It's a long list. Been ages since I last had a live human subject, I've got a lot to catch up on." The other man shrugged philosophically. "That all depends, of course."

"What the hell are you on about?" Jeremy said wearily. "What is going on?"

"Damned if I know. The boss wants to talk to you about something." The man put a hand up to his ear. "Ma'am, Mr. Holmes is now fully conscious; he's awaiting your convenience. Yes, ma'am." He returned his attention to Jeremy. "The Director will see you now."

A minute later, the door hissed open behind Jeremy, and a petite blonde woman in a tailored business suit and sensible shoes walked into his line of sight. She took one look at Jeremy's face, and her eyes widened in shock, swiftly followed by icy fury. She put a hand to her ear and said coldly, "Staff meeting in twenty. Heads are about to roll…" She turned to Jeremy and seated herself, smiling sympathetically. "Our deepest apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Brett. Such an unfortunate error."

Still, what in the world was going on? What did they want with Holmes and why did they want to restrain him like this? "Does that mean I can leave now? I would really like to return to my hotel room and rethink my life."

She raised her eyebrows. "That bad, was he?"

He couldn't help a faint pleading note enter his tone. "Madam, please. I don't know why I'm here, I don't know who you are, and I really want to go home."

"And I would like nothing better than to make that happen, Mr. Brett, truly," she said placatingly. "We would've much preferred to have the real Sherlock Holmes as our guest—" she gave a resigned sigh—"however, we'll just have to make the best of things."

There wasn't any point in attempting to act ignorant regarding Holmes's existence, especially when he was far less than a hundred percent. "What do you want with the damaged penguin? Trust me, he's more of a headache than whatever you're planning is worth."

She smiled, amused. "He has information we need, which we were planning to obtain from him before the Doctor arrived."

He frowned, not liking any part of that sentence. "Who are you?"

"Britain's first, best line of defence against extra-terrestrial invasion," she said proudly, and spread her hands. "Welcome to Torchwood, Mr. Brett."

Holmes returned to consciousness with extreme reluctance - his skull felt like it was being split open with a hammer and chisel. He managed to crack his eyes open, and immediately regretted it, the glaring lights around the dressing room mirror sending a further stab of pain through his head. He squeezed his eyes shut with a moan, trying to duck his head, but just that slight movement was a mistake, as his roiling stomach decided it was high time to throw in the towel.

He groaned in misery and dread, knowing he simply wasn't going to be able to move fast enough... but then someone turned him over, holding a basin and bracing his forehead as his convulsing body rid itself of what had been poisoning it.

"Half a bottle of brandy on an empty stomach..." Watson's murmur rang in Holmes's ears like a gong. "Honestly, Holmes, a child knows better than that."

"Watson, please..." Holmes whimpered, wincing next at the sound of his own voice.

Watson sighed, holding a glass of water to the detective's lips. "You certainly did a number on yourself..."

Unable to argue, Holmes gratefully rinsed his mouth, then began taking tiny sips, still hanging over the edge of the sofa, eyes closed. "If I ever... drink like that again..." he moaned feebly, "you have my full permission... to kill me..." He would welcome death with open arms right now...

Watson's response was dry. "I'll keep that in mind. What I would really like to know is what on earth possessed you? You were behaving like a college student - worse, in fact." Very quietly: "It was embarassing..."

Holmes face reddened, thankful that he had an excuse not to make eye contact. "I'm sorry..." he mumbled. His disapproval of Watson's courtship hadn't lessened any; but equally, it would be a cold day in hell before he stopped caring completely about his friend's opinion of him.

Watson's voice softened a little. "Will you promise to behave?"

Without thinking, Holmes started to nod, then grimaced in pain. "Yes..."

There was another sigh. "Oh, Holmes... Apology accepted." Watson carefully lifted him back onto the sofa, replacing the cushion under his head. "Now, we've got to get some food and pain pills into you—we rather need you to be over this."

Holmes couldn't have agreed more.

Edward tapped softly at the door and opened it, trying not to gag as the acrid scent of vomit reached his nose - poor Watson. "Watson, I found some aspirin in the first aid kit, can he take that?"

Watson rose and came forward, smiling. "Yes, thank you."

"How is he?" The detective looked ghostly pale under the dazzle of the electric lights, which couldn't be helping his headache at all.

"Alive, just barely -" Watson raised an eyebrow at the dark circles under the actor's eyes; "which, I'm afraid, is how you rather look just now. Do you have sleeping pills?" he asked more gently.

Edward grimaced. "Back at the hotel. I hate using them, though."

"I think you should make an exception. Jeremy will need you to be there for him when we get him back, believe me, and you won't do him any good in this state."

Edward's chin jutted stubbornly for a moment, then he grinned ruefully. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

Watson returned the grin. "You're the one who plays me - you tell me."

Edward held up his hands in protest, a slight laugh escaping him - as if he'd dare to presume!

Watson smiled and shook his head, laying a kindly hand on Edward's shoulder. "Go get some rest, Edward. You'll need it."

Edward nodded grimly - that was exactly what he was afraid of - then took a slip of paper from his pocket with the number for his hotel room. "Call me if there's any developments -" He couldn't help adding anxiously, "and for God's sake, be careful."

Watson took the paper, nodding solemnly, but feigning an affronted look. "Edward..." The look turned into was probably meant to be a reassuring smile. "We do this for a living. Go on, now."

Edward nodded reluctantly, hoping he didn't look as envious as he felt. He turned to leave, then stopped. "Oh, and just in case the Great Detective needs spurring on at all..." He grinned; "there's a spare script in my dressing room."

Watson snorted. "Oh, I'm quite sure that would do the trick." He nodded his goodbye and closed the door behind him.

Watson sat back down beside Holmes, trying to work out how to remove the childproof cap from the plastic pill bottle. "You're going to have to thank Edward profusely later, you know - he's done a lot for us."

Holmes just stopped himself from nodding this time, eyes downcast. "He has been... very kind..." And all whilst worrying himself sick over what might be happening to his best friend...

"Mm." Watson finally opened the bottle and shook out a couple of pills. "He's a good man."

Holmes winced at the noise, but took the offered aspirin, managing to choke them down with the water. He lowered his head back down to the cushion, drawing deep breaths against the returning nausea. How on earth was he supposed to keep anything else down?

Watson's voice was soft but determined. "Even if you can't manage the broth, you should at least have some crackers and get something in your stomach."

"I'll do my best," Holmes muttered grimly, and with Watson's help, started sitting up very slowly. "What time is it?"

Watson checked his watch. "Ah, a quarter to ten." There was another soft knock at the door. "And that'll be the food." Returning to the door, the doctor was surprised to find Beth there. "Thank you, my dear."

"Is he all right?" Beth murmured, passing over the tray.

Watson sensed rather than saw Holmes's guilty flinch behind him, and wasn't surprised this time by the sudden twinge of anger. The poor girl was obviously concerned... but Watson was starting to wonder if there wasn't a bit more to it than that. "Not quite yet," he answered as reassuringly as he could, "but he will be."

"All right," she nodded. "See ya."

Watson sighed, shaking his head as she walked off, then returned to Holmes's makeshift bedside.

Holmes had succeeded in sitting up the rest of the way, massaging his temples. He eyed the food distastefully when it arrived, but took a cracker and started nibbling it gingerly. "So... essentially, we have a little over nine hours left to retrieve Brett before tonight's performance." He shook his head at himself in disgust, wincing again – so much valuable time lost because of his own stupidity...

"Mm..." Watson helped himself to a cracker, his own stomach beginning to scold. "Although I'm not sure that I would entirely count on his being in any shape to perform tonight."

Holmes blanched, he hadn't seriously considered that. "But we should have the TARDIS back by then, as well – shouldn't we?"

Watson shrugged. "Who can say? For all we know, we might have to sacrifice one for the other, temporarily." He patted Holmes kindly on the shoulder. "There's a spare script in the next room, if you'd like to get a head start..."

Holmes glared balefully at the smirking doctor, and reached for the broth.

A/N from Sky: Ouch and oh boy. And, maybe, poor everybody? Let's go with that. Poor Jeremy, especially, though—he certainly didn't sign up for this. (And, for that matter, neither did Beth. Poor kid waits two years for adventures and meeting her hero again and it all quickly goes to hell in a hand-basket...)