I'm glad to be getting a good reception for this story. I think you'll enjoy this next part.

A/N: I made up a little bit of history for Sherlock based on the sparse clues we have about the character's early life. It's not canon, but it could be. :p I also have a direct quote from one of the Sherlock Holmes books. Points if you spot it.

Chapter 4: Assessment

X X X

After a few minutes, Ianto came to look over Sherlock's shoulder. "How's it going?" he asked.

"A lot slower than it would if Miss Sato had written her notes more clearly. It's obvious that she didn't take into account that someone else might have to take over her work."

"People don't generally plan on dying young..."

"In her line of work, she should have."

After a silence of several seconds, Ianto said, "As I said, they don't generally plan on it. But Tosh did leave us a message in case of her death."

Sherlock perked up. "Really? Maybe she left a clue hidden somewhere then... something to help decode some of this drivel... I wonder if some of this is actually Japanese."

Ianto walked away, and Sherlock assumed he had stalked off because of the way the conversation had gone. But he was surprised (rare indeed, for Sherlock Holmes) when Ianto returned and held out a notebook to him.

"Maybe this will help. We kept it in her archive as it didn't seem important to our ongoing work, but it may help you 'decode' her notes."

Sherlock took the notebook and flipped through it. Codes for various system functions... notes on alien species... notes on an individual's behavior. He wondered who the individual was, and why it was important that he "doesn't like green peppers" or that he "hates golf." A list of chemical compounds to be picked up, a note to write up a report, a date and time with "Gwen's wedding" above it, underlined twice and circled.

"Thank you," Sherlock told Ianto after his initial perusal. "This may help a good deal."

"Don't mention it," Ianto answered stiffly, as if saying a clearer "you're welcome" would have put his life in danger.

The notations in the book were a little clearer than those in Toshiko's computer files. Sherlock at last felt that he was making a breakthrough when the others returned to the Hub.

Jack was directing a humanoid creature in front of him, its arms restrained behind its back. Gwen followed closely after them, one hand resting on the gun at her hip. Hart brought up the rear, looking muddy from head to toe and extremely out of sorts.

Sherlock stood and took a good look at the grotesque prisoner.

"Holmes, this is a weevil. Mr. Weevil, meet Sherlock Holmes."

"Does it know how to speak our language?" Sherlock asked.

"Nah. We don't know how to speak its language either. They're pretty aggressive, but we've got this one sedated. I'm taking him down to the holding tank."

"Do you have other alien creatures down there?"

"Just another weevil right now," Gwen answered. She glanced at Hart. "You'd better get yourself a shower immediately."

"You think?" Hart snapped.

"You're the one bragging about being the most capable one of us—it's your own fault Jack sent you down there."

Ianto grimaced at Hart. "You can use my things; just go."

Hart wasted no more time and headed for the shower. As soon as he was gone, Gwen giggled. "You should have seen him. My god, he's so pathetic."

"That bad?" Ianto asked, seeming cheered by her report.

"He's so full of himself, and trying so hard to impress Jack, he just comes off as desperate and conceited. There's no way he's staying." She glanced over at Sherlock. "How'd pretty boy do?"

She certainly has no problem speaking her mind. Under different circumstances, she might be all right to work with.

"He seems to be getting a grasp for Tosh's system," Ianto admitted grudgingly. "Better than you or I could."

"Better than Jack, if he keeps at it?"

"Maybe."

"Wait, what's better than Jack?" Jack asked, coming back into the room, sans weevil.

"What's not?" Gwen asked saucily.

Sherlock went back to his work, bored with their banter.

A few hours later, Sherlock was ready to make a report. "I've determined that Miss Sato had discovered the intended use of this particular device. It was, in fact, meant to be used to capture images and display them for viewing. She had also found that there were no images stored in the device. Instead of setting this project aside and moving on to more important things, she continued to study it as if she intended to build one herself someday. She clearly didn't know how to prioritize, something of a trend in associates, it would seem."

"It was her job," said Ianto. "She learned all she could about the artifacts we found, and set down her findings for reference later. There's no telling when something might come in useful."

"He's got a point though," said Hart. "If Tosh had sorted her work by importance, instead of by the order in which the artifacts were found..."

"I always decided what she worked on first," Jack cut in. "If something was urgent, it got pushed to the top. Otherwise, chronology took precedence. We were keeping careful track of what came through the rift when. It was an ongoing study."

"It was a study which took your subordinate's attention from more important things," Sherlock declared.

Jack frowned at him. "I don't like your attitude."

"I don't like your methods."

"I don't like your presence here."

"The feeling is mutual. Torchwood needs a sensible leader."

"Gwen?"

Gwen shook her head a little, coming out of her fixture on the unfolding argument. "Yes?"

"Get out the retcon. Ianto, make a fresh pot of coffee. We're all going to sit down and have a nice coffee break, and then John's taking this gumshoe home."

"Don't do that," Hart protested.

"You're out," Jack told him. "Both of you."

Hart sighed. "Fine. Let me do it, though. Want to make sure to get the dosage right."

"As long as he doesn't remember any of us, I'll be satisfied."

"You're going to wipe my memory?" Sherlock asked, subtly tensing in case he needed to defend himself.

"Just the last two days," Hart assured him. "You won't remember meeting me, but the rest of your life will be fine."

Sherlock relaxed. It was a regrettable loss of information, but under the circumstances, complying seemed best.

X X X

Hart dosed Sherlock's cup of coffee with the clear solution. "Happy?" he asked, moving to take it with his own cup to the conference room, where the others were waiting.

"Hang on," said Jack. He took the mug from John. "I'll carry it."

"Suit yourself. I'll bring the pot." Hart quickly tipped a few drops of retcon into the coffee pot before picking it up. He pocketed the bottle.

"May as well dose yourself, too," Jack said.

"Why?"

"Because if I were you, I'd want to forget everything that happened today."

"Are you going to make me?"

"If I have to."

Hart sighed. "Fine." In the conference room, he administered more retcon to his own cup. "Here's how," he said, lifting his mug in a toast. "You'll get me back to my flat once I'm asleep, won't you?"

"Sure," said Jack.

They all sat sipping their coffee. The Torchwood agents shuffled through papers while they waited, going over old information.

"Drinking it slowly will just put it off a little longer," Jack said to Hart, draining his cup and reaching for the pot again. "Might as well get it over-with."

"I suppose you're right." Hart turned to a very drowsy Sherlock. "But don't worry. It won't erase your old memories. It won't hurt. And it won't work," he added as Jack's head hit the table.

"What did you do?" Ianto demanded.

Gwen tried to stand and fell back in her chair. "I'm going to bloody kill you," she said, struggling to lift her gun. It fell from her hand onto the table, and her head soon followed. A moment later, Ianto was out, too.

Hart sprang up and went to Sherlock. His cup was empty.

"Sherlock?" Hart said loudly, slapping the detective's face. "It's going to be all right. I'll come back for you. You will remember, I promise." He wasn't sure that any of what he said got through, but there was nothing for it now. He got up and took the coffee pot to the sink and washed it well before putting it away. He could feel the sleepiness starting to close in, but he washed all the mugs meticulously and returned the retcon vial to its place in the lab. Then he went to Tosh's terminal where, with a little help of his wrist strap, he wiped the CCTV footage from the day and turned off all the cameras on the main floor. He rushed back to Sherlock and set his vortex manipulator to take them back to Baker Street.

They arrived just inside the outer door. After finding Sherlock's latch key in his jacket pocket, Hart hoisted the detective up in a fireman's lift and carried him to the door upstairs. Once inside, he laid Sherlock on the couch and pulled an afghan off the back of it to spread over his legs.

"Well, I wish I could stay," Hart said, struggling to keep his eyes open. He checked the time and saw that Sherlock had only been missing for a few hours since his abduction. Dr. Watson was probably asleep upstairs. "I've got half a dose of retcon to sleep off... but even if I forget you, I've got those pictures we took of you and enough voice recordings to trigger my memory to come back. Then I'll be back for you. Promise." He bent to kiss Sherlock's forehead and brush the dark curls back as he'd been longing to since they met. "See you soon."

X X X

"I remembered meeting you and all," Hart told Sherlock as they walked. "And some of the stuff from my place. But our day at Torchwood was mostly gone. But the more I listened to the recordings and looked at your pictures, the more I remembered. I've also developed a little serum of my own that helps counteract the retcon. Doesn't bring it all back, but it makes it easier to remember. Took me about two days to completely reconstruct what happened, but I've got it all straight now."

"I must congratulate you," Sherlock said.

"Thanks. Are you still with me in this plan?"

Sherlock considered. "May I be frank with you?"

"Certainly."

"I know you're only using me to get into Torchwood because you fancy yourself in love with Captain Harkness."

"S'pose you were bound to see that."

"However, I don't think you mean any harm to me personally, and I can probably avoid getting tossed out with you when he's had enough of you."

"Convinced he'll sack me, eh?"

"He's far more devoted to Ianto Jones than he ever will be to you, whatever your past together may have been."

Hart looked down at the pavement. "I hope you're wrong. But I see what you're saying. And if it comes to it, I wish you well."

"You won't hold it against me if they want me to stay and you to go?"

"No."

"Then yes, I'm still in."

"Excellent. Let's go get some ice cream for dessert and we can plan our strategy."

"You can if you like; I never strategize on a full stomach."

"Wondered why you ate so light. Well, you can watch me eat some, then."

No qualms about indulgence at risk of making companions jealous, Sherlock noted. Then, as an afterthought, May be hoping to stir a reaction by exhibiting the skills of his tongue.

They sat at a table outside once Hart had his choc-mint sundae. Hart leaned down to pick up the cherry by its stem with his teeth. It slowly disappeared into his mouth, and a few moments later he pulled out one end, caught the other between his teeth and pulled tight the two knots he had tied.

"Lovely party trick," Sherlock said dryly. Definitely correct about the exhibition.

"So," Hart said, setting the stem aside and taking up his spoon, "we've got to get you a nice, believable, pitiable scenario going."

"What will Harkness be looking for?"

"Well, you've got the youth and good looks, and you've got the smarts. We need some sort of tragedy in your life. Do you have family?"

"A brother."

"Your parents are not living?"

"No."

"Perfect. I mean... sorry."

Sherlock waved a hand, dismissing Hart's apology.

"Tell me about them."

"Squire and Benneth Holmes, he a landowner and she a music teacher. Two gifted children."

Hart snorted around a spoonful of ice cream and mumbled, "Go on."

"They were involved in a car accident when my brother was at university. The squire was killed instantly. Mother suffered a few broken bones, but recovered. From that time, she was weak and hated traveling. She stayed indoors most of the time, against her doctor's orders to get fresh air and sunshine. She suffered a stroke a few years after and died in hospital."

"This is brilliant stuff," Hart put in, "but you have to sound like you care. How old were you when your mother died?"

"Sixteen."

"And when your father died?"

"Eleven."

Hart swore and stared into his dish for a moment. "Okay. So, the impressionable lad of eleven loses his dad. Bereft of a father figure, he...?"

"Relents, ending an age-old argument, and lets his mother teach him violin."

"Oh, that's good."

"It's true."

"Lovely. And then at sixteen, when his beloved violin-teaching mother passes away, young Sherlock..."

"Enters university."

"At sixteen?"

"Certainly. Mycroft started at seventeen—I had to best him."

"Mycroft being the brother?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Okay, this is good. What did you study at university?"

"Biology, mainly, with an emphasis on chemistry."

"Hobbies?"

"Following sensational court cases in the news, chess, boxing, fencing..."

"Oh, lovely. The troubled boy expresses his frustrations through combat. I like it."

Together they gradually worked out a story which Hart thought would appeal to the Torchwood team and which Sherlock deemed close enough to the truth that he could tell it believably. Then they began going over details: how they would present themselves, how quickly the story would come out, et cetera.

"If Gwen takes a shine to you, Jack's more likely to accept you, so you might try to get her on your side."

"I'll bear it in mind, but women are never to be entirely trusted—not the best of them."

"Ha, you're not wrong there. They might have a recovery of memory when they see you," Hart cautioned. "If so, we'll have to pull the old 'We got off on the wrong foot' line. Can you wing that?"

"I think so, yes."

"And you can blame your part of it on your troubled past." He picked up his empty dish and licked it. "That was really good ice cream. You want a lick?"

"No, thank you."

"Suit yourself."

Once the final details were worked out, Hart stood and offered his arm to Sherlock. "This is our last chance. Even if they don't remember you this time around, I doubt retcon will work a second time."

"I understand." Sherlock felt his pulse quickening in anticipation. Game on.

Hope you're having fun; I am. ^^