A/N: So, here's the deal, I have been working on a science fiction book for five years and I recently got really into it. It kind of ate up all my time, but it's finished! Yay! All writing gremlins in my head now are back to obsessing over fanfiction, so the hiatus is over. Chapters will probably be coming more frequently now. Thank everyone!
Ianto drove the dark van quickly through the dim streets with Gwen sitting tensely in the passenger seat, still holding the gun. Sherlock and John sat behind them in a thick silence.
John drummed his fingers against his thigh. "So…you work for MI6?"
Ianto shook his head. "No. We're outside of the government."
"Beyond the police," Sherlock muttered dramatically. "Tracking down alien life on Earth, arming the human race against the future."
"Hey!" Gwen said, pointing the gun warningly in John's direction.
Sherlock's arm darted forward and grabbed the gun, yanking it back across his lap. "First, do not point a gun at John or myself. Second, as I've explained, it's not a gun and you look like an idiot. Third, John knows about aliens, as do I. Do you honestly think Jack would send you to someone who didn't? Lastly, if you wish to help us, I suggest you calm down. Turn left up ahead."
"Who put you in charge?" Gwen asked.
"Jack. Are you not paying attention?"
"Exactly how do you know Jack?" Ianto asked.
"Here," Sherlock said, opening the door before the car stopped in front of a bustling building. Next to the building was a stairway into the underground.
"Sherlock!" John grumbled as Ianto slammed on the brakes.
"We need to move, John," he said simply.
He jogged to catch up with him, grabbing his arm. "Sherlock," he said quietly, "I'm sorry, I really am, but we have to prepare for the possibility that…" he faltered, dropping his eyes a bit. "I'm sorry, but if Moriarty is behind this and he took your friend that long ago…Sherlock he's probably dead."
Sherlock snorted. "Um, no. He's not. Well, he might be, but it's nothing to be concerned about."
John frowned. "What?"
Sherlock broke free, running down the stairs. They followed him, pushing past the busy late-night crowd.
"A bus?" Gwen asked skeptically. "We're taking a bus?"
"Oh God," Sherlock muttered. "Here I assume Jack sends me a crack team, and I get an idiot."
"Excuse me!" she spat. "I am an agent of Torchwood, and before that I was with the police."
"Detective?"
"Police Constable."
He sighed. "A Police Constable and a coffee boy."
"How did you know—"
"Jack likes his coffee," Sherlock said simply, stopping in his tracks and running his hands along a wall. The wall was covered in small boxes with keyholes, numbered in the hundreds.
"A deposit box?" Gwen asked skeptically. "I think the numbers a bit long for that."
"John," Sherlock said flippantly, "I've decided I'm not going to talk to PC Cooper anymore. She's slowing me down with stupid observations. However, if you were curious, my family has a special system to send important messages confidentially throughout London. The first two numbers of any string of numbers we send refers to the location of an underground station. The next three are the box number. The lock is constructed to match the key to the TARDIS, and we all have a key."
"That's only five numbers. There are seven more."
"I know," he mused, turning the key in the lock. He opened the box and sand began pouring out, piling onto the floor. He pulled out a small black contraption connected to a wrist band. "I suspect the rest are for this."
"That's Jack's!" Ianto said, taking it from his and turning it over.
Sherlock yanked it back. "Yes, I know, thank you Coffee Boy. It's a vortex manipulator."
"Sherlock—" John started, looking at Ianto apologetically.
"No," Sherlock cut him off, punching a series of numbers into the device. "I've had enough of teamwork. Plus, I'm rather impartial to people who destroy my flat. If you want Jack back, then get back there and replaced our door and our window. Also, John needs a new teacup."
"You have got to be kidding me," Gwen scoffed.
"Not at all," Sherlock said, strapping the thing to his wrist. "We don't need you anymore. You're not going to remember us anyway, so, bye," Sherlock grabbed ahold of John's arm and something clicked.
John gasped as the world dropped out from under him. Nothing made sense. Colors whirled around them. His mind bent into two dimensions and then back again. He felt his own feet hit the top of his head. The only thing he was certain of was Sherlock's tight grasp on his arm, but no matter how hard he called for him no sound came from his lips.
He gasped, suddenly seeing blue sky above him. He felt soft sand beneath his neck. Sherlock's hand was still on his arm, and he heard the other man gasping for air next to him. John took deep breaths, desperately trying to moisten his mouth.
"What was that?" he finally gasped out.
"Time travel. The hard way. You're a bit spoiled, you've only traveled in the TARDIS. It's like driving in a sports car your whole life and then being stuck in a bumper car. Time travel without a vessel is…unpleasant."
"It feels like I have a nasty hangover," John muttered as Sherlock helped him to his feet.
"Be glad we're only displaced by two weeks. I had to jump fifty years once. I passed out for three days."
John glanced around. They were on some empty beach, the calm waves lapping gently only yards away. He winced into the bright sunlight. "Two weeks? Oh, God, I won't be able to stand the return trip."
"There won't be one. We're changing the last two weeks to pick up Jack just after he was captured. We'll remember what happened because if we didn't we wouldn't know why we were here."
"We're disappearing for two weeks?" John balked. "Sherlock, I have a job, I can't just—"
"No, you don't understand. Whatever you did in the last two weeks, that all still happens. We are now living in a world with two John Watsons and two Sherlock Holmes. One pair is living peacefully at Baker Street, unaware of what is going on. The only difference is that the two of us will be saving Jack right away, so Torchwood will have no reason to contact us. At the end of two weeks the timelines will readjust, and we'll be one pair again that remembers everything. It'll be a bit annoying to have simultaneous memories, I have to warn you. I once accidently attended four separate cocktail parties at the same time."
"I'm lost," he mumbled. "Why are we on a beach?"
"These were the coordinates on the paper," he shrugged, covering his eyes and staring out across the sand. "Jack!" he called. They heard nothing.
They started out across the beach, calling his name. "Oh," John said suddenly, furrowing his eyebrows, "what did you need, by the way?"
"What?"
"Earlier before the…gun—hey, will our flat be a mess when we get back?"
Sherlock smirked. "No. They've never come to the flat. It'll be just as we left it."
"Beer and licorice," John smiled. "So before all that, what did you want to tell me?"
"Uh…nothing. It's not important, just odds and ends about a case."
"I thought there were no cases?"
Sherlock sighed, sliding his scarf off of his neck in the thick heat. Now was as good as ever.
"Hey!" a voice called from down the beach.
They jumped looking around desperately. There was no one in sight. "Jack!" Sherlock called out.
"Hey! Hurry up!"
They ran down the beach peering into the distance. "Jack!"
"Stop!" the voice ordered.
They froze. "Jack?"
"Over here," the voice said slightly to the right.
John gasped. A man was buried in the sand, only his head poking out from the deep hole. The tide had come in somewhat, and he had to spit water out of the hole to speak. He was gasping for air, trying desperately to turn his head to see the two men.
Sherlock smiled. "Jack."
"Hey, kid," Jack smiled, peering up from the sand. He glanced at John and the grin widened. "Hello to you, too. Captain Jack Harkness. I'd shake your hand, but I'm a little tied up at the moment."
"No," Sherlock said immediately, making harsh eye contact with Jack. "Don't do that."
Jack laughed. "Get me out of here. We need to talk."
"About what."
"Moriarty."
