Act IV: Let's Look Through The Rectangular Window

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Watson opened his eyes and something told him he should be making inquiries as to where he was. Finding himself face-down on the floor of a rather run-down room, he breathed a sigh of relief that he was neither bound nor gagged. He got up but then felt a wave of heat and disorientation pass over him. His hands went to his knees quickly and he bent over, concentrating on breathing.

Presently he looked up from his lower vantagepoint, assessing the room. Barely twenty feet by twenty, the sad wallpaper had faded and begun to peel a long time ago, but the damp and apparent water damage had attacked the wainscotting in a bigger way. His searching eyes tripped over a door. He began to cross to it but then halted quickly as the bare floorboard under his foot creaked in an alarming manner.

He squeezed his eyes shut and waited. Nothing moved. He opened his eyes again and went to the exit, putting his hand on the doorknob and trying to turn it slowly. It refused to budge more than halfway and he cursed under his breath, wrenching at it a few more times just to be sure. Finally he conceded defeat, letting go and just glaring at the knob as if he could melt it off through sheer frustration.

Casting his eyes around in despair, he spotted one window, a wide dirty excuse for glass panels leaded together in an old-fashioned example of keeping the world out. He went to it quickly, pulling his sleeve over the heel of his hand and rubbing at one of the panes furiously.

A small circle scraped clear and he looked out. A river, a bridge, darkness. He frowned at the lamp far below, wondering how many floors up he was.

He heard the door move behind him and jumped to see.

The man from the bank swept the door open and ambled in, the heavy coat still wrapped around him. He paused in the doorway and looked Watson up and down.

Watson straightened his back and tried to bring himself up to his full height. His jaw took on its best no-nonsense superhero stance and he waited with a look on his face that could only have been described as unimpressed. "Well?" he demanded, studying the man's height, his apparent width, his tanned face and dark eyes.

The man smiled slightly. "Are you Adam?" he asked, his voice quiet but firm.

"Sorry, no."

"Then you must be Jamie. Or Ian. Or… Mickey?"

"Do I look like a 'Mickey'?" Watson snapped. "Who are you?"

"I need that lenticular alignment feed generator," he said. "Where is it?"

"I don't know. I've never even seen it," Watson shot back.

"Keep lying, it doesn't matter," he shrugged. "Your friend will come for you. And he'll bring it to me."

"He doesn't have it," Watson asserted. "He's going to find it though. And whatever it is you're up to, he'll stop you."

"I don't think so," the man smiled, his dark hair brown swishing across an eye carelessly. "I am going to get what I want. And your friend - and that amateur detective he's picked up - will not be getting in my way."

Watson let his mouth hang open for a full second whilst his brain sorted it all out. "Wait - you think the Doctor is-"

"Good evening," the man said smartly, retreating and closing the door swiftly.

Watson stared after him, then shook his head. He patted at his pocket hurriedly, pulling out the mobile phone and pressing the 'menu' button. He lifted it, found no signal, and cursed under his breath. He went back to the window, moving the phone about in the vain hope that it would magically find at least one bar. He pressed the 9 key once before he realised he didn't even have enough of a signal to get an emergency call through.

"At least I don't seem to be in any immediate danger," he breathed to himself, pushing the phone back into his pocket. "Yet."

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The door to 221B slammed shut behind the two men, both of whom paused on the downstairs landing.

"Damn! So close! So close and we couldn't put a hand on him!" Sherlock blurted, pacing about in a circle as he hissed angry reproaches at himself.

"Look, he stunned the entire bank - there was no way we could have-"

"Stop talking!" Sherlock shouted curtly, coming to a complete stop and pressing his palms together in thought. "He didn't take Brian or Gemma even though they would have been the best candidates - Brian lied - not that he knew at the time - told him he knew where the generator was, even gave him a fake address. Why didn't he take Brian? Why didn't he take Gemma to make Brian get the generator for him if he thought Brian was setting some kind of trap? No no no - something's not right," he rattled off, turning and pacing off again.

The Doctor opened his mouth.

"Too many variables!" Sherlock went on, oblivious, as he paced back and forth.

"Sherlock!" came a cheery voice, and Mrs Hudson appeared round the doorframe. "Oh, Doctor. Hello again."

"Hello again, Mrs Hudson," the Doctor said quickly.

"Sherlock," she said apologetically. "I wish you wouldn't leave your window open when you go out. It was blowing a gale till I went up and closed it."

"Window?" Sherlock asked. He shared a curious look with the Doctor before racing up the stairs two at a time, his coat billowing along behind.

"No, no need to thank me," she sighed, disappearing back into her own part of the house.

Sherlock burst into the front room, looking around and cataloguing. "Nothing's been taken," he observed.

The Doctor arrived at the top of the stairs, poking his head in. "How can you tell?"

Sherlock didn't even spare him a glance. "Why break in if you don't intend to steal anything?"

"To leave something behind."

Sherlock whirled to frown at him. The Gallifreyan was looking past him, lifting his hand to point. Sherlock followed his gaze and went over to the window. He found a small grey card stuck in the bottom of the frame. He plucked it free, turning it in his fingers.

"Business card." He raised it closer to his face and sniffed it. "Three or four days in someone's… woollen pocket. Probably a coat. Very dark blue. Heavy." He read the words carefully. "The Seven Suns - Trelani Prime's best hosgat roasts and meshmani beer." He blinked. "Hmm."

The Doctor came over and put his hand out. "May I?"

Sherlock handed him the card. The Timelord read it again slowly, then flipped it over and back again. "That's it?"

"That's enough," Sherlock said, catching the man's attention. "Oh come on - the man on the riverbank left this card on purpose to show that he knows where I live and he can come and go as he pleases. He's got John and he's after the generator - because he knows you want it."

"Oh?"

"Check the world atlas," Sherlock snapped. "I've never heard of a place called Trelani Prime on this planet, and I doubt you'll find any restaurant, pub or noodle-house that sells anything called 'hosgat roast' or 'meshmani beer'. He's been here and he couldn't find it, so he left this card. He's an alien too and he wants the generator for - I don't know - alien taking-over-the-world things," he finished, flapping a hand at him in vague authority.

The Doctor smiled. "You know, you're really rather good at this."

"Not good enough. He's got John."

"We'll get him back," the Doctor said, his face turning decidedly more serious.

"We'd better."

The Doctor's wide eyes went over his face for a few moments. "And I thought people with sociopathic tendencies didn't form attachments."

"Perhaps I only enjoy Antisocial Personality Disorder," he bit out. "And I owe him."

"Oh?"

"He shot someone for me," Sherlock said curtly. The Doctor blinked, but Sherlock waved him off. "Forget it. We need to find him."

"Let me think… Where do we start?" the Gallifreyan asked himself slowly, eyeing the card in his hand still.

Sherlock turned and looked at him. "You can't track the feed generator within the Earth's atmosphere, correct?"

"Correct."

"Can you find people?"

"I-." The Doctor paused. "I could." He lifted a long, cylindrical item out of his left pocket, pressing a button on the side. A blue light buzzed away and he watched it for a second. "I can find this alien bloke, now I have a reading on his species - but I can't find John."

"Oh, I think wherever this man is, John will not be far away," he said, already turning to the door of the flat and whisking down the stairs. "Well? Come on!" he called irritably.

The Doctor grinned and hurried after him. "Where are we going then?"

"Your ship. It must be able to pinpoint this man for us."

"She could, yes."

Sherlock hauled the front door open, looking out into the street before the Doctor passed him and headed out into the midnight air.

"Where is it?" Sherlock asked, closing the door behind him. "It is far?"

"Not really," the Doctor said, turning and heading off down the street. Sherlock caught him up. "Oh, I can't wait to see your face, I really can't," the Doctor grinned to himself as they made all speed down the road.

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Watson shrugged off his jacket and wound it round his left hand and elbow, going to the window. He looked away as he punched his hand into the glass.

It bounced off.

He blinked in surprise before turning to look at it. Covering his face with his right hand, he again hammered at the window. Again his hand and jacket bounced off. He let his protective hand drop and simply pounded at the window over and over.

Finally he gave in and got some breath back, putting his jacket back on in disgust. He turned round in a circle, finding nothing to help him in the room.

Inspiration hit him and he dug his keys out of his pocket, finding the longest one and going back to the window. He jammed the end into the frame, right into a particularly nasty case of rot. The wood gave easily and he pushed the key into it harder, digging away at the barrier. Chunks began to splinter and he chuckled to himself.

"Ha-ha, see?" he grinned, taking a careful grip of the long stake-like arm of wood and pulling it toward him. It came away without much persuasion and he dropped it to the floor.

Within minutes he had made a nice hole in the frame. He grabbed the lowest pane of glass in the window from the gap he had made, using his key to lever the top edge of it against the lead sealant. The pane slipped free and he pulled it clear, grinning at his own perspicacity before removing the other panels. Finally the window was empty of small squares and he rubbed his hands together before sticking his head out of the exit.

He was unprepared for the sight that greeted him.

He pulled back inside sharply, staggering away with his hands up as if to steady himself. He looked around the room, then back at the window. Small, cautious steps took him back up to the window and he put his hands to the frame, more to reassure himself that it was real than keep him upright. His head went back out and he resisted the temptation to shrink away again.

Buttons, switches, levers, panels of controls - they looked back at him from across a corridor outside the window. Small black displays chirped and reeled off numbers, symbols, small diagrams. A hum of power, some metallic scent of machines and burning air made Watson's mouth drop open.

"That's not…" he breathed. "That's not military. It's not… from round here."

His head leaned further out and he looked left and right. A long metal walkway, made up of decking that would not have been out of place on an aircraft carrier, stretched further than the eye could see. He heard distant voices, could not understand the guttural-sounding language as they passed far beyond his view. His eyes went to the ceiling, finding it another decking, a slight green tinge to the entire place.

He pulled back inside the window, bending to pick up one of the fallen panes of glass. He lifted it and squinted, finding the riverbank view perfectly rendered. He crouched and picked up another, and another - finding each pane had the riverbank scene on its surface - and yet the river moved and the wind rustled the dark grass in each one.

He dropped them hurriedly, taking steps back until he was in the middle of the room.

"So… this is a ship," he said professionally, making sure his voice came out steady. "This is a… ship. It's a ship. And this room's been made to look like a room overlooking the river."

He swallowed, sniffed to himself in mild worry, and put his hands in his pockets.

"That explains the lack of phone signal." He cleared his throat, letting his eyes go to his shoes, then the door. "My gun's in my top drawer back at the flat. Brilliant. This is just… brilliant."

He looked around again, shaking his head and going back to the window. He leaned out and stared.

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The Doctor led Sherlock down a deserted alley, producing a key and sliding it into the Chubb lock on a large blue door. Sherlock took a step back, looking up and round the blue wood, analysing all he saw as he made a complete circle of it. The Doctor waited patiently, then when the other man appeared at the doors again, he opened the right one and waved him in.

Sherlock strode in, cast the large room a cursory glance, and then went straight up to the centre console, walking around it, his eyes searing over every tiny detail of the work surface in voracious curiosity.

The Doctor went in, closed the door, and leaned on it expectantly. He cleared his throat.

"Well? Can we find this man or not?" Sherlock said irritably, his hands going out but unable to choose which button to push or pull first.

The Doctor's smile morphed into an expression of disappointment as he came up to the centre console around the stationary Time Rotor. "No comments? No observations?"

"On what?"

"The ship," the Doctor replied innocently.

Sherlock blinked in surprise, then took a step back. His head remained still but his eyes swivelled around to look around carefully, as if searching for Wally. "It's… uhm… what's that word… nice?" he hazarded, his eyes sliding back to the Doctor. John would know what to say, his brain told him, realising he was remarkably out of his depth.

The Doctor gaped at him. "Right. Nothing… surprising?" he needled. "Like… the size? Compared to - you know - the outside?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "It's as I expected."

"Expected?" the Doctor spluttered, put out.

"When I saw the outside it was obvious that the inside area had to be a great deal bigger than it appeared or you and your travelling necessities would never fit - not to mention engines or whatever form of propulsion the ship uses," Sherlock reasoned. "I already knew it was disguised, so it follows that it could appear much smaller than it actually is. I would have been more surprised if it had turned out to be a real police box," he added mildly.

"Oh," the Doctor said, crestfallen. "Well. Yes."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he observed the pouting Doctor look down at the console, rub his finger over the edge slightly, then put his hand back in his pocket. "Uhm," the detective said gingerly. "Have I… said something wrong?"

"No no," the Doctor said quickly, looking up. "It's fine."

"Oh."

"Yep," he said, almost overlapping him.

"So this man-"

"Yes! Sorry! This man," the Doctor said instantly, pulling a long silver item from his pocket and pushing the button.

Sherlock watched as he plunged the end with the blue light into a small hole in the console. He pushed a few buttons, wheeled a thumb gauge round a couple of clicks, and then pulled down a lever that looked like it had been borrowed from a one-armed bandit. There was a click and ping, and then he was dashing around to grasp the edges of a hanging monitor. He bit his lip.

"Tricky," he called across, and Sherlock hurried round to see.

"Well?"

"It looks like he's still in the city somewhere - but he must be on a ship, going from these readings. I just can't see where exactly." He moved a small green ball in the surface of the console and the circles and maps on the screen moved. "Somewhere…" He tutted suddenly. "Can't quite trace it. Signal's there, it's just being scattered."

"Try John's phone. It's always on."

The Doctor looked at him - just looked. Then he grinned.

"GPS," they chorused. Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket, searching the contact list before reading it out. "07517 890531."

"Right, hang on," the Doctor said quickly. "And… And… there's the phone… constantly looking for a signal… Can't get the exact location. Something's interfering."

"Is there a way of contacting the phone?" Sherlock demanded.

"Hold on," the Doctor said, whipping across the console, manipulating switches and buttons before coming back to the keyboard underneath the monitor. He turned it toward Sherlock. "You can send him an SMS. Here."

Sherlock put his hand out, his index finger swinging the monitor back toward him. "Send this," he said imperiously, and the Doctor smiled before bending his fingers to the buttons.

"Go on."

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