The Master's announcement that he was claiming Rassilon's immortality seemed almost to annoy the incarnations of the Doctor present to hear it more than anything else.

"Out of the question," the First Doctor said.

The Third Doctor, who was the only one of the three of him who knew that this was, in fact, the Master, felt it necessary to elaborate, if only to distract him from noticing the extra Time Lord in the room - the one that Sarah Jane carried. "You're hardly a suitable candidate."

"For anything," his predecessor added, joining in on the spirit of the thing.

The Master pointed the Tissue Compression Eliminator at the Doctors. "The decision is scarcely yours," he said, with a malice born of obsession. "I killed you once. It was never enough for me." He backed up slightly to get a wider field of view. "How gratifying to do it three times over!"

In fact, he was so intent on the idea of what he was about to do that he didn't realize exactly what he was backing into. "How nice to see you again," the Brigadier said, landing a solid blow to his chin that sent him careening to the ground. Brig smiled, resisting the urge to rub his throbbing knuckles and wishing all of the Doctor's enemies were that easy to incapacitate.

The Third Doctor didn't dare exhale; he didn't know whether the Master had sensed Sarah Jane's baby or not, and in any case, it pointed out to him the fact that if any other Time Lords were to arrive on the scene, this could get out of hand, and quickly.

Jack wasn't happy as he removed the screws that held metal bars over the same door he'd used to rescue John a few months earlier, back before the world had turned upside down.

The entrance hadn't been used by anyone but him since the 1928 Thames Flood, and he knew that it was unguarded. But what made him unhappy was the fact that John was right behind him; there had been too many suspicious stares when he'd parked the car to leave him behind. Despite wishful thinking, Torchwood hadn't suddenly collapsed with Dewhurst's death. If anything, it was clamping down even harder.

But having John with him made things a bit difficult - or rather, potentially difficult. The most pressing matter was the fact that he might have to act quickly. While he knew that John had acquitted himself well on that whole D'Itarka affair, Jack didn't like the idea of trying to rescue Harry and Lavinia with him in tow. The John Tinker in this universe had been detained and tortured at a mental health facility far from Torchwood. The man behind him now had been detained and tortured right here, even if he had been blocking it out of his memory ever since.

So between the two of them, only Jack knew that he was, in fact, leading John back into the lion's den - and that this had "disaster" written all over it.

John, for his part, was doing his level best not to be a problem. He followed every instruction Jack gave him to the letter, and he didn't make a sound.

But even without Jack telling him, he was beginning to suspect that he'd been here before. As they worked their way down several stories of stairwells, the air around them got colder, the atmosphere more dank and gloomy. This part of Torchwood had always been more of a "dungeon" type of atmosphere - like the cells down in the catacombs of the Torchwood 3 hub, it was dark and foreboding and empty except for echoes of what had gone before.

Or at least, it was in their London. Jack turned a corner and what he saw shocked him. Instead of rows upon rows of empty cells, he saw cells overcrowded with what he could only assume were "political" prisoners. He sucked in his breath. To arrest so many so-called enemies of society was not only a testament to the height that Dewhurst's power had gotten to, it was a clear sign of his madness. He held his arm out to stop John. "Sorry, we're going to have to change our plans a bit, pal," he whispered.

"What do you suggest?" John whispered back.

"Let's find some uniforms so we can fit in better." He headed over to the laundry room, marvelling at how predictable the place was, even in an alternate timeline. He handed John a uniform, then started putting one on himself.

John took the uniform, and for just a moment he caught a scent from it. Nothing specific, just a combination of detergent and sterilizer that seemed to activate his mind. For a moment he saw a flash, felt himself being dragged down the corridor - and then in an instant it was gone, pushed back again. He swallowed hard and started pulling on the coveralls.

A few moments later as he was inspecting John, Jack thought that he could use a little levity. Those deep brown eyes of his looked pretty shaken, and Jack knew why. Jack sighed, nothing he could do about it but get them all out of there as soon as possible, and try to lighten the mood. "Hey," he said to John. "Navy blue is a good color for you, it brings out your eyes. In fact, if you weren't already taken, I'd make a pass at you. You know, I can never resist a man in uniform," Jack grinned.

John grinned back uneasily, trying to appreciate the humor. "I'm taken, Jack, if we can ever get this mess cleared up."

"In that case, let's get moving. The sooner we find Harry and Lavinia, the sooner we can get out of here." He held John at arms length, fixing him in his gaze. "Just keep doing as well as you have been and it's almost over."

John nodded, and Jack led him back into the cells, heading for the "High Value Detainees"; certainly Harry and Lavinia would be there, rather than with what Dewhurst would probably have considered the "common rabble."

John followed Jack, trying to look nonchalant, even "in charge" as they walked the corridor between cells pretending they belonged there. There was a feeling of dampness, a humidity that seemed wrong somehow, as though it should be colder, but it wasn't because of the seething mass of humanity around them. It was a dampness that seeped into him, bringing a sharp musty smell, like a basement neglected too long, tinged with the slightest hint of decay. Around him he smelled sweat, fear, and desperation, and somewhere in the back of his head he thought it was overwhelming the scent of dried blood that he should have been smelling.

He knew that all of this was just pushing him to remember, and he fought it, knowing all the time that the more he tried not to think about it the worse it would be, like being told not to think of an elephant.

Because his mind had already made the connection. He was worried about all of this making him remember; that meant that there was something here for him to remember.

For a moment he imagined that he saw a figure at the end of the corridor, waiting for him. "Good afternoon," it said, and though John knew it wasn't real, he still felt that terror that had come every time he had heard that voice, his captor's voice, through the hood, or in the darkness, or while he'd tried to get even a few moments of sleep.

The figure was impossibly tall, towering over them, and John told himself that it wasn't real, he wasn't helpless, that he could face it. "Leave me alone," he imagined himself saying. "We're going to save Harry and Lavinia, and you can't stop us."

"Oh can't I?" it said, suddenly on top of them, pushing them back. "I can do anything I want to you, and there is nothing you can do to stop me."

"There is," John said, feeling himself shake. "I can … I can..." But he couldn't finish the sentence, feeling hands around his throat and -

Jack heard John whimper slightly and turned to see what was happening.