Within a few minutes they had reached the nearest thing to an interrogation room that Bart's had to offer. It was a room used by the psychiatry interns. It was outfitted with simple table and chairs. On the wall behind Lestrade was a large one-way mirror. On the side usually occupied by the supervising attending doctor, Sherlock and John looked on. Sherlock was not happy about being relegated to that side of the glass, but Lestrade had rather violently insisted that he got first crack at the questioning himself.
"Names. Now." Said Lestrade in a very controlled tone. Greg was somehow scarier when calm than when yelling.
"Captain Jack Harkness. This is my associate, Ianto Jones. We are here on official Torchwood business in regards to-"
"Here in London from where exactly, because I happen to know first hand that Torchwood's London base was rather, shall we say, abruptly vacated some time ago."
Sherlock saw it through the glass. The younger man, Mr. Jones, squinted and fidgeted minutely. Captain Harkness had simultaneously slightly shifter his posture toward his companion.
"You mean Canary Wharf. That was Torchwood 1. We are with Torchwood 3, located in Cardiff. Still very much alive and kicking." replied Captain Harkness. "What do you know of the events at Canary Wharf, Detective Inspector? A lot of people feel it was a lot of hoopla and a bit of mass hysteria is all." asked Jack in a casual tone.
"Well, Mr. Harkness, I'm not just guessing or taking up the media party line. I was there. I know what I saw. Men made of metal and mutilating innocent office workers into similar monsters. Lot of my mates in the department don't remember it too well. Strange thing, that. I don't suppose you know anything about all the first responders coming up with a touch of amnesia do you, Captain?" Lestrade was leaning forward on the table, hands grasped uncomfortably tight in front of him.
"You certainly seem to be fine, Detective Inspector. Why do you think that is?"
"Figured it had something to do with me being off duty at the time when I got there. No record of me being on the books that day, meant no one tracked me down to change my memories like happened to the on-duty guys. Heard it on the radio when I was in the area and drove over there. Place was locked up tight but I managed to jimmy a back door open."
"You lock-picked your way into Torchwood 1? Not likely." said the formerly-quiet Mr. Jones with an air of disbelief.
"Well, not so much lock-picked as commandeered a fork lift from the loading docks and took a door off." sneered Lestrade.
Sherlock smirked in the dark of the observation room.
"Hmm. Points for initiative, sir." replied the younger man with a soft smile.
Lestrade dropped his voice to an even deadlier register of gravelly disdain. "I would hope you would have the decency to not make light of a massive disaster that left only twenty-odd survivors out of the 823 that went to work at Canary Wharf that day."
"Twenty-seven." Said Ianto Jones.
"Pardon me?"
"There were twenty-seven survivors of Canary Wharf." he explained. His gaze had dropped to the table in front of him, unfocused.
"Oh, so you bothered with counting them, huh? How heart-warming."
Ice-cold blue eyes flashed from the tabletop to cutting through the DI in the timespan of a split-moment. Greg Lestrade's mind readily supplied him with the term "if looks could kill" as being appropriate in that instant.
"Pwy y uffern ydych chi'n meddwl eich bod yn mynd i..." growled the finely suited young man in Welsh.
"Ianto!" Jack interjected in a tone that was both a warning and an expression of solidarity. He then turned back to Lestrade.
"DI Lestrade you'll have to excuse my associate, Mr. Jones. He usually doesn't get so riled up, but I guess we can cut him some slack since he was one of the 27 survivors in question."
There was a tense stretch of silence.
Captain Harkness broke first with a glance at the clock on the wall and a sigh of frustration.
"Mr. Tennyson, otherwise known as the deceased man in the bag, came to the attention of a friend of mine, a doctor friend, as having passed away under mysterious circumstances. These circumstances included having his medical records wiped clean all the way down to his childhood immunization records in the NHS database. Also, as the very thorough and lovely Miss Hooper found during her post-mortem, a single syringe prick to the eye, under the lid. It follows the pattern of several more deaths in Cardiff and beyond. We are investigating it all. We were taking Mr. Tennyson back for our doctors to examine."
Even with his hands still cuffed behind his back, when Captain Harkness straightened his back in his chair and leaned in, he managed to carry formidable authority. He donned a wry smile. "Now, as much as have enjoyed basking in the undivided attention of you and your friends behind the glass there, we really do need to get back to Cardiff, and we really need the late Mr. Tennyson to come with us."
Greg Lestrade pulled Jack's phone out of his pocket and slammed it on the table in between them. "How do you know Mycroft Holmes?"
Jack and Ianto exchanged a quick glance and each cocked an eyebrow of surprise. "I suppose we could ask you the same thing. He isn't the kind of guy that does a lot of leg work. I'm surprised he bothers with matters of Scotland Yard. No offense, but he's usually got bigger fish to fry than isolated crimes on the streets of London."
"Let's just say we go way back. Now answer the question Mr. Harkness."
The door to the interrogation room slammed open. The younger Mr. Holmes couldn't contain himself behind the one-way mirror a second longer. "Mycroft Holmes is the government liaison for Torchwood. Isn't that right Captain?"
Jack gave the tall man in the doorway a better head to toe look over than he was able to back in the morgue. He then tilted his head just a bit to the side to also take in the shorter blonde man just behind him. Sherlock didn't react to the raking gaze. If anything he preened a bit and made sure his long coat swung to its full dramatic potential as he crossed the room. John Watson felt something in his stomach do an odd twist when he noticed that Captain Harkness wasn't just appraising Sherlock, he was downright checking him out. Dr. Watson quickly chalked up the feeling to the strange protectiveness he felt for his friend.
"So, Captain Harkness, by the accent I would guess American military. Might know some of the same people. I worked side by side with some Americans in Afghanistan." Jack tore his eyes away from Sherlock to politely address John's inquiry.
"Yeah, never Afghanistan for me. I got around though, in my younger days. And you are?" Jack flashed what Ianto often describes as his "Patented Harkness smile" at John.
"Captain John Watson, 5th Northumberland Fusiliers."
"Always nice to meet a fellow Captain!" Jack beamed, "I'd salute you, but, I seem to still be cuffed. Which, Detective Inspector, if entirely unnecessary. Fun under certain circumstances, but this is not one of them."
"If you are truly interested in playing nice, Captain, why don't we all just go over the case of Mr. Tennyson together? You said yourself Ms. Hooper is quite capable and John is a medical doctor. Between both of them and my unique abilities I'm sure we can come up with something." Sherlock used one of the tones that he used when he was acting. This particular character was one that John had nick-named "Amiable Mr. Charming".
"Oh! An MD and a Captain! Aren't we the overachiever Dr. Watson, Sir!" One could hear the salute in Jack's voice and the wink that accompanied it. Sherlock's face turned into a sour scowl. So much for Mr. Charming hanging out for too long.
But instead of ripping into the apparent leader of the duo in cuffs, Sherlock turned to the quieter man. "Tell me, Mr. Jones, does it bother you when your boyfriend hits on everyone that walks in the room?"
"Sherlock..." John started in his "a bit not good" voice. Even though the men were being detained, he didn't like anyone getting the same assumptions make about that that were often made about him and Sherlock. The defensiveness arose up reflexively, much like his own frequent denials. He should have known better than to doubt Sherlock.
"It's alright." sighed Ianto. "It's like breathing for Jack. I'm used to it." Then a second later "Wait, Sherlock? Oh and that Dr. John Watson. Oh. Oh, Jack? This is Sherlock Holmes." He turned his attention to John. "My friend Tosh is a big fan of your blog. Sorry I didn't connect the dots earlier."
Jack sighed heavily "Sherlock Holmes as in Mycroft Holmes. It's just never a simple pick-up job is it? Well, listen gents we are on a time frame here and I'd really love to stay but we are needed back in Cardiff. Hope Mycroft doesn't hold too bad of a grudge for this."
"For what?" Lestrade asked.
"For gassing his little brother and his friends." Jack replied smoothly.
Jack rapped the heel of one shoe on the floor, hard, four times in quick succession, followed by knocking it at a sideways angle. The heel popped off his shoe, hovered up to the height of the three standing men (Lestrade had leapt to his feet when the boot first pounded the floor) and then exploded into an instantly opaque cloud of gas.
Lestrade was the first to be out cold, having gasped in surprise when the thing first went off just inches from his face. Sherlock and John both hit the floor holding their breath but each had inhaled at least some during the swift attack. Sherlock felt John grabbing at his sleeve with a quaking hand. Sherlock thought his friend was thrust head-long into a war flashback. He turned his hand and caught John's in his grip. That's what friends are supposed to do, right? Hold hands to give comfort? But he was grabbed firmly and hauled in the direction of the door. There was a loud scraping noise. Sound of the table being kicked in the direction of the exit. Damn. John hit the floor with a thud, still using his waning strength to pull Sherlock along. Sherlock had made it as far as throwing the table out of the way. With one hand knotted in the collar of John's jacket, he reached for the door knob with the other. His fingers slipped over the cool metal handle but Sherlock was unable to will them to close and turn. If he could see through the cloud filling the room, he guessed the room would have been spinning.
"Damn bloody Torchwood" he muttered as he slid down the door.