Part 14: I'm A Toddler With A Complex Toy
The Doctor always prepares himself for every eventuality. Rule Thirty Eight wasn't a lie: he always has a plan.
It's just that, sometimes, the only eventuality that he can see involves death.
He's always been at peace with that.
This time is no exception.
As the Doctor, Sherlock Holmes, and John Watson walk calmly toward the office building where the Master is creating his machine, cloaked by the TARDIS key perception filters, the Doctor says his silent goodbyes. They stop near the front door.
"I've got to make a call," he says. "I'll meet you right here in fifteen minutes. If I'm not here, just go back to the TARDIS and wait there." John gives him a long look, but eventually he just nods sharply and follows Sherlock inside. The Doctor digs out an old cell phone, sonics it, and sends out a very important text message, then pats his jacket down for the Decatur Decomplexor.
He doesn't have it.
The one eventuality he wasn't prepared for.
"Oh, Sherlock, you idiot!" he sighs, and runs off to catch them.
.
People running, walking, yelling to each other: the result of a fire alarm. Sherlock thought it was more efficient; as usual, he was right.
John grips the Decomplexor tight in his pocket, because he has not lived with Sherlock Holmes for five months for nothing.
Sherlock's eyes gleam when John shows it to him, almost as if to say, That's my boy!
"He's planning to take himself out with the Master," John explains, his face hard set and determined. "I can't let him do that."
Sherlock goes a little soft around the edges and simply nods, promising, silently, as John has promised him so many times before, over and over, to follow him.
The eighteenth floor, rather than being a floor of offices and hallways, looks like a low ceiling-ed warehouse, and it is deserted, just like all of the other floors. It's eerie, but John does not shudder.
For all of the Master's hidden, sneaky underworld crime dealing, the machine stands out in obvious relief, right in the middle of the room.
John steps forward and examines the structure: tall, nearly touching the ceiling, and strangely shaped-like a shrubbery cut out of metal in the vague shape of a tree. Metal, twisted together with plastic and multicoloured wire and some thin, gold thread is twined through everything, turning and knotting things together, and John can't identify it; it's probably alien and stronger than it looks.
The "heart" of the machine isn't hard to find either.
John holds the Decomplexor in both hands, examining it closely. It is a dull gold colour and has a globe shaped center knobs about the size of John's palm, with two small columns sticking out, just slightly thicker than John's thumb, about twenty centimeters long each. One column displays a small clock with a button for the timer.
The Decomplexor fits perfectly into the heart of the machine.
"John."
Sherlock's voice right by his ear, urgent.
"You've tripped the alarm."
"How do you-"
"Move quickly."
He pushes the timer button so the clock reads 5:00 and begins to count down.
A sudden smashing brilliant pain at the back of John's head and he goes down, not quite unconscious but definitely concussed. His vision vibrates, and as he pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, there is an even louder crash and a heavy thump. John looks around; Sherlock is standing imperially over a very large body, which is dressed in a guard's uniform.
Sherlock's eyes shift to John, and he kneels down next to him, checking him over. "All right?" he murmurs, gently touching the brand new lump on the back of John's head.
John nods, and then decides that nodding is a bad idea.
"Let's get out of here."
"Oh, hello," sings a high, soft, lilting Irish voice. John's blood runs cold.
"Sherlock Holmes... Too interesting for Time Lords to resist. And of course, can't be without his pet. Johnny boy, how are you?"
"Master."
"Oh, you know my name!" He grins. "I didn't think he'd tell another human after the fiasco with Miss Martha Jones."
"She beat you." Sherlock's voice is calm, and he shields John with his body. "She was smarter than you."
"It doesn't matter." He shrugs, tilting his head to one side. "New me, new rules. And my new rules say that a big villain speech is both boring and counterproductive to my goals. So, goodbye." He pulls out a silver and yellow version of the Doctor's sonic screwdriver and points it at Sherlock first.
"I don't think you want to do that," intones a quiet voice from behind the Master.
A flicker of just about every emotion imaginable-fear, rage, desperation, happiness, despair-slithers across the Master's face when he hears the Doctor's voice. "Doctor," he says; the word is strangled, like it became twisted and old on the way out. Then he straightens and clears his throat. "It's like a little party here, isn't it?" he exclaims cheerfully.
The Doctor does not answer, just looks at him, his hands clasped behind his back. They have a small conversation with their eyes which neither John nor Sherlock can begin to understand.
"Oh, I see," the Master says, grinning, serpent like once again. "You're going to offer me what you offered last time, aren't you? To be your companion, your slave."
"No," the Doctor answers, dropping his eyes, and the Master looks a little taken aback. "That was arrogant of me. A Time Lord can't be caged. I should have known that." He looks up again, and his gaze intensifies. "I am so old now. I used to have so much mercy. That's what I said when I was 903. I didn't know, then. I didn't know that I had so much left." He's rocking back and forth on his heels. "You'll never change. You'll always be mad."
"But you'd be so lonely," the Master whispers, and for that second, it looks like he actually cares. And maybe he does.
The Doctor swallows but does not answer. Then the Master shrugs. "Oh well. You'll be erased from existence in a few minutes anyway, along with your entire precious human race."
"Not if I know my friends."
"Sorry?"
"If I've calculated correctly from the time when my pocket was picked, Sherlock, this building is going to implode in approximately one minute and forty-nine seconds. Give or take forty-seven of those seconds."
"Thanks, that one was me," John grunts, raising his hand. The Master's eyes widen; he looks frozen, shuddering slightly, a deer caught in very bright headlights.
The Doctor's voice becomes urgent. "It's time enough to escape, and if you don't the implosion will kill you, no regenerations. But it's going to have to be your choice this time. You were right; I didn't know you as well as I thought I did, when you were Prime Minister. But that doesn't matter now. It has to be you."
Then the Doctor rushes over to John and Sherlock's sides, tips his head back, and shouts, "RIVER SONG!"
Instantly, a woman with the frizziest, curliest hair John has ever seen and the cheekiest smile in the universe appears in a flash of blue light. "Hold onto this, boys!" she demands, sticking out her wrist, which is wrapped in a thick black band. They grab her wrist, and she slams her hand down on top of it, and the next instant, they are sitting on the TARDIS floor.
.
There's a golden globe in the heart of his Decatur Complex, and the Master cannot bring himself to care.
He is mad, and he does have the drums in his head, but he knows himself better than anyone, and he knew all along he would never be able to kill the Doctor, or the human race. Any pain of the Doctor's is a pain of his, he knows that.
He rakes his eyes over his creation, his beautiful destroyer made from scratch, catching and remembering every piece, every crime he committed to get it, winding the gold thread through it so lovingly and painstakingly slow. He slides his finger down one shining metal branch, memorizing. His beautiful disaster.
The globe's timer reads :20 seconds. The Master closes his eyes and waits.
.
The Doctor and River are bantering on about something, John can't work out what, and it doesn't really matter to him anyway. He feels the sudden urge to lie down, so that's exactly what he does.
"John?"
Grudgingly, he opens his eyes. Sherlock is leaning over him, his face frozen in fear.
"I'm fine."
Sherlock shakes himself. "Of course you are," he mutters. "Just a concussion, most likely. Be fine in a few days. Good. Good." And then he stands up and walks away. John keeps his eyes closed and tries to stay awake.
.
The Doctor looks over to Sherlock, who is shaking. Sherlock Holmes the Unshakeable, the Logical, the Rational, the Ruthless, shivering at the thought of his friend being hurt. He sends River off to make tea and saunters up beside Sherlock, who does not look at him.
"All right?"
"Yes."
The Doctor nudges his arm gently. "He'll be fine."
"I know that," Sherlock snaps, high strung, tense.
The Doctor moves to whisper in Sherlock's ear. "Hug him." Then he leaves Sherlock there, swaggering off toward the kitchen.
Halfway there, he feels his hearts wrench sideways, and he stops short, struggling for breath, his hands scrabbling at his chest. It only lasts for a few moments, but those moments leave him weak and gasping, tears gathering in his eyes. That kind of pain can only mean one thing.
He straightens his back and wipes his tears and walks toward River with heavy hearts.
.
After dozing off for a split second, John decides that sitting up would probably be a better idea. He uses his elbows to shove himself up against the railing, moaning and groaning and grunting, but he does it, finally. He forces his eyes open-and then there is Sherlock, suddenly kneeling next to him, and then there are scrawny arms around him and his mouth opens but no sound comes out. He can feel Sherlock shaking, full body shudders, making his breathing uneven. And John raises his arms and wraps them around Sherlock, closing his eyes.
There are no words that need saying. Sherlock buries his head in John's shoulder for a few moments, and then pulls away, swiping at his eyes, and John maybe has to clear his throat a little bit to make it work again, but that's all right.
"So," says a woman's voice, smooth, curious, and dare John think it, sexy, "You're the famous Sherlock Holmes and John Watson." John looks up, and the woman called River Song is standing in front of them, her hands on her hips, grinning a crooked, beautiful grin. "Have I got the planet for you."