As Doctors Jones and Harper pulled the two bodies out of cold storage for Sherlock and John to look over, Gwen and Jack took the consulting detective and his blogger for a tour of the Hub. They were given a cursory explanation of the rift manipulator, followed by Sherlock stunning even Toshiko with his astute and in depth questions. They tossed formulas back and forth for a few minutes as Sherlock casually wandered around the work stations of the open floor plan, twiddling with the personal items he found there. John had to physically take things out of his hands several times. Before moving onto the armory, Jack cleared his throat in an obvious manner and pointed a look at Sherlock's pocket. Sherlock responded with a shrug and an aloof expression. John sighed and reached into Sherlock's pocket, removing the piece of alien tech that Sherlock had lifted from Gwen's desk.
When they arrived at the armory, due to Sherlock's recently demonstrated habit of having sticky fingers, John was the only one permitted to enter while Sherlock was left hovering in the doorway. It was John's turn to shine then. With a permissive nod from Jack, John hefted a large strange-looking rifle to his good shoulder and instinctually found the correct hand placement for the three separate settings before Jack was able to give the full explanation.
"Funny," said John "Seems like this thing was designed for someone with six or seven fingers instead of the factory-issued five."
Jack tossed him an impressed glance. "Depends on the factory in question." Jack muttered to Gwen.
"Sorry, what was that?" John asked.
"I said if we have time later I could take you down to the shooting range and show you all the special features on this bad boy. You see the trick is too..." Jack sidled up behind John, his chest nearly flush to John's back, reaching to lay his hands over John's on the weapon.
"John! Please don't dawdle! More to see including getting down to the med bay to review the bodies within this lifetime." Shouted Sherlock from the doorway. Although he spoke to John, he glowered at Jack.
They went through the green house next. Sherlock nearly got his fingers bit off by a flower with teeth when he unknowingly did something considered impolite to the plant's thorny shoots. As Gwen, while she fought a case of the giggles, apologized profusely for not warning Sherlock, John impulsively knicked about a half-dozen seeds from a small pile on the counter. Lord only knew what they would grow into, but he figured it was a good investment in some sanity on a future day when Sherlock was bored.
Lastly they were ushered to a lower level. With a flick of a wall switch, the interior lights of a row of clear-front cells flickered to life. The air of mirth that had formerly been creeping in retreated from both Sherlock and John as if they had been doused with ice water.
John straightened his back and his voice was laced with menace. "Okay. I know you said you operate above the law and the government, but how the hell do you get off having your own prison in your basement. I certainly don't see any judges or juries around to offer due process."
Gwen Cooper responded this time. "Captain Watson," she started slowly, "the kind of inmates we keep here are the kind that aren't fit for the city jails. I think it's best that you see for yourselves."
Gwen walked down the damp corridor and stopped in front of the one at the end of the hallway. A shadow shifted inside the cell. Sherlock approached next. As soon as he came within eyeshot of the contents of the cell, something behind the glass wall snarled and threw itself at the glass, a mess of violence, but was then gone in a flash before John could get a good look. Sherlock had flinched back momentarily, but then stepped up to mere inches before the floor to ceiling window. He was transfixed.
"John..." he beckoned "it's incredible."
The sheer awe and wonder in Sherlock's face got John's feet moving to meet him. Focused on how youthful and wonderfully not-bored his friend looked, John almost forgot to look into the cell until he was right next to Sherlock.
In the split-second timeframe when John was mid-action in turning his head, John caught wind of a hot, fetid stench. They say that smell is the sense that it the most hard-wired into triggering memories. As the scent hit John's brain, a neural storm of flight or fight was set off. When he laid his eyes on the teeth-baring, disfigured face within the cell, the rest of his body was already in motion.
With a crunching thud Sherlock found himself thrown back against the moss-laden stone wall opposite the cell, John's arm like steel across his torso and holding him in place. John was partially in front of Sherlock, acting as a shield. His gun was drawn on the creature behind the glass.
John was repeating, in various combinations and peppered with colorful language, "It's real! It's bloody fucking real! Sherlock, stay back!"
Jack and Gwen had their hands up in placating and defensive gestures. Sherlock did take note though that Jack's right hand hovered a bit too close to his own holster. Sherlock tuned them out and focused on John. A cold sweat had already broke out on his brow. His respirations were elevated and shallow. Panic attack taking hold. But what shook Sherlock, was that he saw John's "bad knee" giving out. If he hadn't been leaning into Sherlock so hard to pin him against the wall, John may have been toppled to the floor by the sudden flair of his psychosomatic injury already. Sherlock brought one hand up to John's back. John gave a start but only for a second. It seemed to stutter John's rambling.
"Sherlock. Sher...it's real. Do you see it?"
Sherlock slid his hand up to the back of John's bare neck. The skin to skin contact seemed to ground and calm John a bit. Sherlock spoke calmly, "Yes, John. It is real. But it can't hurt you anymore. It is contained and we are safe. Lower you gun John."
John slowly lowered his gun. He collapsed back against the wall, Sherlock's arm pinned behind his back and his hand still squeezing John's nape. John slowed his breathing deliberately.
Jack approached the glass where the creature was clawing at the window, riled up by all the commotion. Harkness shot a burst of what looked like mace through one of the ventilation holes. The creature shook its head, moaned, and retreated to the back shadowy corner of its cell.
"It's called a weevil, or at least that's what we call them." Jack explained, arms crossed and leaning with his back against the cell. "Remember when we told you about the rift through Cardiff? Well these guys are like the rats of the universe. They tend to slip through a lot of cracks. Sometimes I wonder if when they show up here, it isn't the result of some distant exterminator trying to dump their pest problems on us. They mostly stick to the sewers and scavenge. But occasionally they come up and hunt. When they cross that line, they end up here with us."
"You've seen one before then, John?" Gwen asked with concern in her voice. "Were you attacked by one in London? I know a few hitch a ride there sometimes on train cars and barges..."
"No it wasn't London. John feels no fear of things lurking in shadows and bumps in the night in London. Plus, his leg is giving out. It was in Afghanistan. And not just any old patrol in Afghanistan, you saw a weevil when you were shot, yes?"
"Y-Yes. Ella tried to tell me it was a hallucination I had when I was bleeding out. I wanted so badly for her to be right." John breathed out. Where John's arm was still splayed across Sherlock's chest, he pulled his weight away and slowly stood on his own accord. But his hand still fisted into the lapel of Sherlock's coat as the time stretched on.
When John finally released his grip, only then did Sherlock's hand, slick with sweat from covering John's neck, also slide away. John shivered once, both from the last of the panic attack ebbing away and from the too-cold and too-exposed feel to his neck, as if something was now missing that really belonged there. He finally tore his eyes away from the creature that appeared to have fallen asleep in the dark corner of its dirty cell. John looked to Sherlock. Sherlock studied him hard. It felt so odd. Here they were, in the secret jail of a secret base, about a dozen meters away from an actual alien, and Sherlock was staring at John.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked.
"Yeah, thanks." replied John.
Sherlock nodded, tipped his head toward the open door at the end of the corridor that they had first entered through. As they walked, John realized that they were alone. He had no idea how long he had spent frozen there. Jack and Gwen left without him even noticing. Sherlock had stayed with him. Despite his ordeal in that hallway, John walked out of it smiling.
Halfway to the med bay, the detectives came across Harkness and Jones. Ianto handed John a steaming cup of strong black coffee.
"Thought you might need this, sir." said the younger man.
"Ta" said John. This was followed by an appreciative moan after he took his first sip. Sherlock raised his eye brows in a "told you so" gesture.
"Ianto and I have been trying to figure out how a weevil ended up in Afghanistan, John." said Jack.
"My money is on the Americans, sir. Remember when I first started here and there was that military conference in town that you attended? The one general kept trying to get you to invite him down into the Hub, asked specifically about the weevils. Mentioned something about how the boogiemen could be useful in flushing the insurgents out of the mountain caves. Susie thought he was going to offer to empty our cells for us. It wasn't a week later that you all were heading out to round up that pod of weevils that were causing trouble in the tube stations, only to find that they were gone. I bet he got tired of waiting and rounded up his own bunch."
"Makes sense. How do you remember these things Ianto?"
"I know everything, sir."
"Have you ever heard of mind-mapping, Mr. Jones?"
"Sorry, what?" said Ianto.
Sherlock stopped and gave him a hard stare, then kind that makes Scotland Yard sergeants shake in their shoes. Mr. Jones met Sherlock's scrutiny with a relaxed blink and helped himself to a drink from the striped mug he plucked from Jack's hand without looking, ignoring the annoyed yet endeared response it earned from the Captain.
"Never mind" Sherlock drew out slowly.
They arrived at the med bay. Sherlock stepped up to the bodies. "Tell me what you know so far." He ordered in the general direction of Martha and Owen.
Author's Note:
Thanks so much for reading so far! I know that cross-overs don't get as much readership as other stories, so I especially appreciate your interest in my little tale. Sorry it has been a little light on actual plot at time. I just love getting al my favorite people to interact. When I first started envisioning this fic, Lestrade's presence at Canary Wharf and John's past interaction with a weevil were some of my favorite ideas. I have a few more twists and turns and nuggets planned as the end game is taking shape. If you feel moved to leave a review, please know that I do absolutely love to get those alerts. It keeps me writing! Questions and constructive criticism are always welcome!