Thursday, Day 192, 10.05GMT
Latitude: 51° 30' 2" N
Longitude: 0° 0' 2" E

Tea tray in hand, Thomas made his way towards Mr Fairfax's office. Every morning it was the same routine, he'd take the Director a tray of tea and pastries the moment the morning mail arrived. Not that they got that many letters, digital was a much more secure method of communication, but sometimes there was something that had to come by mail. Or there was something relevant in the morning papers of the world that the research team wanted the Director to read. Either way, by ten-thirty at the latest, Thomas was always delivering a tray to the Director's Office.

"Set it down over there."

The Director refused to look away from the monitor despite the presence of another in the room. He was the very essence of Torchwood, arrogant and superior and Thomas' presence wasn't enough to merit his valuable attention.

Thomas coughed, politely, but the Director ignored him.

He was Torchwood; the last remaining member of the Old Guard that had been Torchwood One. Now they were Torchwood London because Torchwood One had burned that day at Canary Wharf and whilst the wound was still raw and bleeding through its bandages, Her Majesty had refused to allow their revival. But Torchwood hadn't been willing to accept defeat, and phoenix like it had risen again.

But when a phoenix rises from the ashes, it is still the same bird. This Torchwood was a different creature entirely. It still had the arrogance and determination of Torchwood One, but it no longer had the same power.

Nor the same address.

Other organisations had seemed relieved that One was forbidden to open its doors again. Torchwood One had been a menace of the first order; bullies who cared for nothing but their own advancement and mission. UNIT had been spurned many times, as had Two and Three, left to fend for themselves and it had seemed, at the time, that Torchwood One had burnt all bridges. In the emergency agency meetings after the fall there hadn't been a single friendly face in the crowd. No one was willing to allow them to return to their former power and glory.

Harold Saxon had turned out to be their saving grace. To say that neither the Prime Minister nor the Cabinet were meant to even be aware of Torchwood's existence made it all the more ironic that Mr Saxon had been all too supportive of Torchwood London re-opening. Especially as they were more determined than ever before to stick to their original doctrine: capture the Doctor. For some reason, Saxon was just as convinced as they were that the Doctor was a threat to Great Britain that shouldn't be tolerated. With his backing and support, Torchwood London had been born.

Compact and hidden away beneath London's Millennium Dome in what was once one of their many storage facilities, no longer were there corner offices to jockey for or views over London. Instead they had cold concrete walls and the rather perturbing knowledge that the Thames was somewhere above their heads. But given that their mission had changed somewhat, such things hardly mattered.

Torchwood London was now, primarily, a research facility, happy to let UNIT's soldiers deal with the most obvious attacks in London. They were happy to scavenge the wrecks and steal the corpses but no longer would they police the world. Miles of laboratories and archives still remained but gone were the weapon stores and combat rooms. Gone were the gun-turrets, decommissioned or relinquished and the only training given out was on procedure in the labs and stores.

It was a new Torchwood and the only alien they were willing to lay their hands on was the Doctor. The only one who'd walked away from Canary Wharf unscathed, his little blue box winking out of existence – oblivious to the death and destruction littered around him. That was something he'd have to answer for.

Thomas cleared his throat again, louder this time, and Fairfax graced him with a sharp look over the top of his wire rimmed spectacles.

"Word from Three, sir."

Taking off his spectacles and muting the monitor he waited for Thomas to settle his tray on the side desk. "Well?"

"A Mr. Ianto Jones is on his way. He left Cardiff this morning and barring any unforeseen events should be with us by lunch."

Fairfax nodded slowly. Ianto Jones – the name rang a bell. "Captain Harkness is not coming?"

Thomas shook his head. "No sir, he is most definitely unavailable; he's investigating an alien incursion out in the middle of nowhere apparently," Thomas informed his boss, in a tone that suggested he could think of better things to do with his time. "Mr Jones is acting in his stead. I have put a copy of his file with your other documents."

Turning back to his monitor Fairfax let out a breath. "Thank you Thomas. Anything I need to be aware of?"

Pulling his PDA out of his pocket Thomas checked one of his many lists. "Nothing of importance, sir; although UNIT has been rather more communicative recently."

Fairfax narrowed his eyes. "Do you think we have a leak?"

"One can never be sure. But, if I were a gambling man sir, I'd put money on Daniel Jenkins. His brother works for UNIT I believe."

"Really? Interesting." His eyes remained fixed on the screen. "Look into it Thomas."

"And if he has been passing information on?"

"Torchwood has no room for traitors," Fairfax's voice was disinterested.

"Understood sir."

Quickly and quietly Thomas gathered up the files left in the 'Out Tray' and left the room, pulling the door closed softly. Fairfax didn't even notice his demure exit.

Staring at the little figure, pacing as far as his chains would allow him on his pixel screen, Fairfax allowed himself a small private smile. Harkness wasn't coming, at least that was one problem solved. Blindly he pulled the folder – 'Jones, Ianto Merric' – towards him.

Ah, he was One.

Well…that made things so much easier.