"We should go in there and check on him."

"No," the Counsellor said, crossing her arms over herself. "Remember that deal about not reading your thoughts?"

"The one you've violated at least twice now?" John asked, feeling his lips quirk in a hollow smile.

She blushed prettily. "Yeah, that one."

He shrugged. "So?"

"When he retreats like that, I do everything I can to block him out. He's got a very effective shield of his own, but it doesn't work when he's upset."

"Shield?"

She snorted in a very unladylike manner. "He calls it his Mind Palace."

John's jaw dropped into a delighted gape. "You mean it serves a purpose beyond making him into a profoundly antisocial nutter?"

This time she gave more vent to her amusement, letting out a charming laugh that reminded John of mixed wind chimes, both wood and steel. "Yeah, you could say that." She motioned towards Sherlock's closed bedroom door with a halfhearted wave. "But when he's too wound up to go to his Mind Palace, he shuts the door between us. I turn it off. Well, as much as I can."

"Privacy."

She nodded, favoring him again with those too-familiar blue eyes. "I do understand and value the concept, John." She shrugged. "When your emotions run high, it's like you're screaming your thoughts at me, and sometimes I can't help but hear them. Most of the time, though, I can afford you your privacy. That's what I'm doing for him now."

John nodded. "That's good of you."

"But can you tell me why he's so disturbed? Do you know?"

"Hasn't he told you?"

"About what?"

John swallowed. Recalling the events leading up to one of the most painful chapters in his life wasn't going to be easy, and knowing that Sherlock had shared thoughts with the Counsellor made him wonder if it truly was necessary. "Moriarty. The Fall. The case leading up to the Fall."

She shuddered. Ah, so she had seen something about the incident. Then she did something that John didn't understand at all: She gave him a look, a hopeless, lost, forlorn look. She turned away. "Yeah, I saw the Fall and what followed – but I don't know anything about the case. Can you tell me?"

"Are you asking me to hold your hand and tell you that way?"

"Problem?" Her tone of voice was so familiar he let out an involuntary bark of laughter.

"How do I know you aren't doing any reverse data collection . . .you know, during?"

She moved closer to him, then moved away, a teasing smirk on her face. "You don't. In fact, it's almost guaranteed I'll have access to all of your memories, thoughts, and even those steamy fantasies you'd rather nobody knew about."

Something warm and fluid trickled down John's spine. He was pretty sure he was being flirted with, but he thought it would be wise to be sure. "Are you . . .flirting with me, Counsellor?"

She drifted closer again. "Yeah."

"Sherlock told me not to try anything with you."

"Probably still a good idea."

"So then why –"

She shrugged and turned away, but not before he could see scarlet stains on her cheeks. "Right. Erm. Sorry. Forget it."

Sod that. But he didn't want to scare her away, either. "And you're saying you and Sherlock don't –"

"No!"

"Why not?"

She stared at him like he was growing wings. "Are you new?"

"What? You're clearly devoted to each other."

"And that always has to lead to sex, huh?"

John frowned. What was he getting at, anyway? "I'm just trying to understand."

"We're friends, John. Very, very good friends, the kind you two once were before everything went – how do you Brits say it? – pear-shaped."

"Before I left, you mean."

She shook her head. "I am not going to do that again."

John shivered and lowered his head. "I deserve it."

"No."

"I'm not –"

Neither of them heard a door open, but they both heard it slam shut. "Can you spare me the histrionics?" Sherlock asked, his voice thick. "I've a text from Lestrade."

They decided to ride the TARDIS straight to the front door of the Met and emerged to find that the TARDIS had assumed the form of an unoccupied access kiosk, complete with an elevated blockade arm and situated next to a walkway marked VISITORS. They heard the Counsellor's phone chime as they strode quickly for the door. Sherlock glanced over, already on the phone with Lestrade.

John was keeping pace beside her as she checked the message. She winced and turned the screen to John so he could read it:

Alien. Secure scene. MI5 on the way. No forensics from the Yard. Confirm. –Harkness

The Counsellor typed out her reply, her lips pressed into a grim line, then seized Sherlock's sleeve. She tugged the leather glove off his left hand and meshed her fingers into his. He shifted his eyes to her, nodded, then resumed his conversation with Lestrade:

"Listen, you need to make sure neither Anderson nor any of the others lays a finger on that crime scene. All photos are to be confiscated and destroyed. National security, do you understand? Torchwood is on the way."

John's pulse seemed to be vibrating from the outside of his skin. Another alien, dead. The timeline moves forward, no matter how far in the past or future we move to try to escape it. I'm starting to understand.

The three of them entered through the Visitors entrance and were greeted by Sally Donovan. Donovan wasn't the most pleasant of people under the best circumstances, but her expression visibly darkened when she saw the Counsellor. For her part, the Counsellor seemed disappointed that they had been greeted by someone so inferior.

John smirked. It reminded him altogether of Sherlock.

Donovan stammered for a moment before finally huffing in frustration, turning on a heel, and stomping off, obviously expecting them to follow.

"Something happened, did it?" John asked the Counsellor as they moved quickly through the Yard.

"Maybe I said some things she needed to hear, once," she said.

It obviously wasn't a fascinating topic to her, but John was enraptured. "You. You told off Sergeant Sally Donovan."

The Counsellor barely reacted, but she allowed the slightest of smiles before clipping on her indifferent mask and sweeping into Lestrade's office.

"Ah, there you are," DI Lestrade said, stepping around his desk. "John, welcome back."

"I, ah –"

"Where's the body?" Sherlock said, cutting off John's stammering gratitude for the welcome.

Lestrade headed for the door of his office. "This way."

They were led to a conference room, floodlit with klieg lamps and cordoned off to dissuade the office gawkers. The body was front and center, laid out on her back, her arms spread beside her in a cruciform. Her eyes were wide open and staring, her mouth open, a blue tongue protruding past dry lips. Pinned to the front of her blouse was a white page of paper with two words printed in black marker:

GET SHERLOCK

There was even a smiley face in the O.

"That answers why you called us," John said to Lestrade sotto voce.

"John, those words," Lestrade whispered before he was cut off by Sherlock's booming baritone.

"Her nose," Sherlock said, pointing at the inflamed and abraded skin there. "Is that a rash? John?"

John looked over at the Counsellor, who turned to Lestrade. "Get your people out of here. You can stay, but you have to adhere to the Torchwood Confidentiality Statement."

Lestrade's lips disappeared into a tense line. He nodded once. "Donovan, get everyone out of here."

"Films, digital captures, all of it," the Counsellor said, on the surface to no one in particular, but it quickly became clear the statement was made for Donovan's benefit. "Make sure they're destroyed or you're answering to MI5."

"Really?" Donovan asked, staring holes into Lestrade.

"Out of my hands."

She rolled her eyes and stalked away.

"Close the door firmly," the Counsellor said, then turned back to John. "Judging by her eyes, I'd say she's a Vuennin," she said, stepping closer to the body and gazing into the face. "I'm sure Harkness will back me up on that. Vuennins were advised ages ago not to visit Earth due to their well-documented allergic reaction to the spore released by the flora here. Curious why this one decided to chance it."

John accepted a pair of nylon gloves from Lestrade and smiled. "Hay fever? Our friend here has hay fever?"

The Counsellor nodded. Sherlock cleared his throat impatiently. John bent forward over the woman's face. He studied the eyes and understood what the Counsellor meant immediately. The irises were blood red, and the pupils were shaped like six-pointed stars. Shredded remnants of contact lenses clung to the corners.

"What happened to the contacts?" John asked.

"Hard to find contacts that resist the acidic nature of Vuennin tears," the Counsellor answered simply.

John nodded, hoping that she hadn't omitted any other crucial information about poisonous emissions, then performed a brief examination. He felt the obstruction in the throat right away, then moved on to check for other odd presentations. Meanwhile Sherlock was grilling Lestrade:

"What time was she found?"

"Ten minutes before I texted you. Cleaning service. We haven't used this conference room in months, but it's cleaned daily."

"Have you taken the statements of the service?"

"Yes. They have heavy Baltic accents, but it's clear they didn't see anyone drag the body in here."

Sherlock nodded impatiently. "John, how long here?"

John took note of the progress of rigor mortis and the way the blood was settling at the bottom of the body. "Two hours at most, more likely –"

"Forty five minutes," Sherlock finished.

"Why do you ask me if you already know?"

Sherlock was making it a point to not look at the body again, and that was profoundly disturbing to John. There were times Sherlock's fascination with death bordered on necrophilia. To top it off, this was an alien corpse, one that hadn't yet been touched by Torchwood. This would have been Sherlock's pipe dream, once.

But that note . . .

GET SHERLOCK

And the fairy tale theme. It was dangerously familiar.

He reached back and took two of the Counsellor's fingers in his grip. Make sure he's okay, please.

Her thoughts buzzed, indistinct. He looked down at her fingers. She was trying to slip more of her hand into his, but he smiled at her and pulled away. She frowned at him. John's smile grew wider.

Lestrade cleared his throat. John and the Counsellor looked up at him. He was smirking at them. John flushed.

The Counsellor grunted and headed over to where Sherlock had withdrawn into a far corner out of the glare of the lights. John watched carefully as she approached him, her hands held out, offering him her mind. Sherlock sighed, slumped, and reached for her.

It seemed almost too intimate for an audience. John turned to Lestrade. "Greg, Torchwood will be here any minute –"

"What the hell is going on here?" Lestrade asked, looking at John like he didn't know him.

"What do you mean?"

"Detective Inspector."

John and Lestrade looked up to find Captain Jack Harkness's form filling the door to the conference room. Two men loomed behind him, carrying packs and odd-looking weapons.

"Get out?" Lestrade guessed.

Jack grinned. "Thanks."