Dalek Nation

I do not own anything from either the Sherlock Universe or The Doctor Who Universe. This was just a crack idea I had one late night and decided to write. Of course Mycroft would know about Torchwood. In fact, he'd probably have met the Doctor on more than one occasion. You know it is true.

Oh goodness, I just busted out the big guns here, didn't I? Whoops, but at least it is the 11th Doctor. I still can't get 10's personality right. But soon, because Mycroft would have met him too. You know it to be true.

It was pointed out by a lovely reviewer that I wrote "The Reliant" instead of "The Valiant" for the Master's ship name. I have since changed it. Thanks for the reviews everyone!

The British Government had known about Daleks for a very long time.

In fact, they'd had them physically stashed away in a large, underground warehouse well since the middle of World War II, their deactivated shells chained down with lengths of chain given to them by a certain alien who constantly ran amuck in their proceedings. (But they'd encountered them well before that, if stories were to be believed, and there were even a few poor photographs of them several hundred years before that.) It didn't stop them from putting the resources to good use though, because not even they were foolish enough to leave the monsters unsupervised without some form of leash on them. Even if they were supposedly inactive and presumed dead, a prognosis given by The Doctor himself.

The Doctor...in such bad taste and form, had left two of them then.

There were more than that here now.

The time-capsule room that was the Dalek burial site also held the propaganda posters that showed the Daleks in all their glory proclaiming slogans such as "-To Victory!" or "Defeat The Enemy!" and many bits and pieces of war-time gear designed specifically for them by those of the nation's military. These early slogans and posters came well before the more traditional "Rosie the Riveter" posters or even the well worn statements of "Keep Calm and Carry On" and were as such, in short supply. Those few crate-full's of propaganda and motivational posters were almost as guarded and chained down as heavily as the Daleks themselves were. If only reserved a bit by the fact that they were, in fact, only pieces of paper and not sentient like the aliens just down the way had been.

Many of the remaining Dalek parcels and clothing bundles from WW II were equipped with serving trays and other various butler-like gear because so many factions had used them as replacements for servants who couldn't be trusted in the war. Daleks had served tea and biscuits to so many before The Doctor had shown up and thrown a very alien hissy fit, even had served the great Winston Churchill personally. Mycroft, of course, hadn't been there to see it in person, but he was told by reports and those few witnesses still alive that it had been a sight to behold, both The Doctor's fit and Churchill's surprised retorts. He didn't doubt that the Earth's number one line of defense and guard was a bit more like his younger brother than even he cared to admit. Though the thought of it alone sometimes filled his blacker days with sparks of what could be called humor.

Mycroft had to estimate that there were well over forty of them down here now.

Forty shells that had once held the most feared race in the universe.

A race that even scared The Doctor.

The Dalek Nation.

It was odd to think of it in such cloying, past tense terms like he'd been forced to do so for some time now, ever since The Doctor had showed up again and made a show of finding the secure facilities that housed most of the war-weapons and confiscated alien artifacts. Well, the ones that weren't in their laboratories, anyways... The willowy man -a face changed yet again from the last time their surveillance team caught a good look at him- had barged into a tightly regulated secure room claiming something about mixed signals and a potential call for help, dragging along his two Companions as he went. Mycroft, of course, had attempted to convey that there was no such thin occurring down there, and that his help wasn't needed. Again. Mycroft had met The Doctor before, of course, not that the alien menace could be talked into remembering him or his purpose for being there in the first place.

The two had then proceeded to have a stare down of almost epic proportions there in the underground lobby.

At the time, The Doctor's little pets were confused as to who he was and just why he was barring them from something so potentially cataclysmic that the crux of the world might rest upon the seconds they took to bicker like school children. (The fiery red-headed woman in the impossible short cut skirt had mouthed off before her husband, shortly married a few weeks before, had pulled her back. At least he had had some sense in him, Mycroft thought, or at least he did until the man had started to agree with his obnoxious wife's ideals.) Of course they'd demanded to know who he was, what he thought he was doing, and just why he was so bent on letting Britain be destroyed by a potentially-deadly race, not that he'd give them the satisfaction of introducing himself. He'd already done that once with The Doctor, and if he couldn't remember who he bloody well was, he wasn't going to go on repeating himself like some dunce.

Mycroft Holmes, if possible, glared harder, so much so that the little frightened male Companion backed off even further, dragging along a one Amy Pond-Williams with him. If he had been so inclined to smile, that little telling trait would have been enough to work the rarely used expression onto his face. He had heard from Doctor Watson that even his brother had once referred to him as the most dangerous man that anyone would ever meet, and had stuck to the sentiment even after they'd met head on with a one James Moriarty. It both flattered and consoled him to know that even his hellion of a sibling knew that Mycroft wasn't a trifle force. Now if only he could get this dense group to wrap their minds about it, he'd be completely set, and a whole Hell of a lot better off. And wasn't that something to fantasize about?

"I think I know you, don't I?" The Doctor had stated somewhat suddenly, his creased brown and frown shifting slightly before redoubling in effort. "Where have I met you before?"

Mycroft only offered a raised eyebrow in response.

"Yes, yes, I do know you! Of course I know you!" The man in tweed responded while tugging at his burgundy bow-tie, spinning in place on his heel quickly before walking around Mycroft as if he were on display. "You're, uh... Yeah, you're him! The him! The one we've come to see!"

"It saddens me to think that the great Doctor cannot even be swayed enough to remember my name." It was a bate, of course it was a bate. Mycroft was chalked full of them. "But I'm sure you are here to see me. You arrived here without tripping perimeter alarms, so I can assume your TARDIS is waiting somewhere inside the facility."

"Straight to the crux of the matter, as always!" The Doctor smiled, but it was clear to Mycroft that he was still floundering for a name to go with the icy face he and his partners had come face to face with. "Lovely parlor trick, by the way. How do you know about the TARDIS?"

"We have met before. It is easy to assume that wherever you are, your ship would certainly be." Mycroft lapsed enough to allow a predatory grin to work its way across his face quickly. "That is, unless of course you allowed someone else to run off with it."

That stopped The Doctor dead in his tracks.

"I do know you." All traces of happiness of care-free attitude had suddenly been stilled in the wake of that bit of information. "You're lacking the scars on your face this time, but it is you. Last time I saw you, you were down with Jack, in the belly of The Valiant. Weren't you? The Master was torturing you."

Mycroft inclined his head.

The Companions gave twin cries of "What?" and "Who did what?" before The Doctor silence them.

He had seen the Doctor since then, of course, but secretly, and from afar. He couldn't allow such a dangerous force loose on Earth without some sort of supervision, and ever since that twit of a woman Yvonne Heartman had allowed for the destruction of Torchwood One's Canary Wharf Tower he'd been forced to do it manually and from a distance. Not that her idea of recon was anything but abysmal, but at least then he'd been able to patch into her systems. This had lead to a disadvantage when another Time Lord -calling himself The Master- had overtaken most of the British Government and eventually the vast majority of the Earth, enslaving it and ridding himself of all those who would oppose him. Mycroft had never given his support or sanction on the man, but whenever he went to make inquired, they were always denied, lost, or just plain refused. The mysterious Saxon had wormed his way into the minds of his superiors, and there was no wiggling room to be found in order to take him down without committing high treason.

The Doctor did not know it -any of it-, of course, but Mycroft and his younger brother Sherlock, as well as the good Doctor Watson, had given their full support and means to a one Martha Jones in an effort to correct the polluted time stream. He'd given her access to his vast network of military operants who were still loyal to him, and Sherlock had provided her with safe passage by means of other informants and medical supplies courtesy of the good Dr. Watson. He'd only ever met her in person once, when he helped to smuggle her out of Great Britain originally, and had wished her all of God's speed. Mycroft had then been captured some weeks later in an attempt to save his brother from harm and arrest, and in doing so had allowed the Toclafane to abduct him in his place. They hadn't been kind to him in any sense of the phrase...and Mycroft remembered it all, everything, right down to the last bit of advanced water boarding. The Master had tried to break him personally.

Thankfully, Sherlock and Doctor Watson, and indeed most of the rest of the world, did not remember anything. And those few who did: well, he was still keeping tabs on them, even years later. Martha had gotten married in the mean time, and had stopped talking to a majority of her family. They couldn't cope being one of the main reasons for the distance that had grown between them all, but Mycroft suspected there was something else underlying the entire event. Something that probably extended to all involved, including those of Torchwood Three and even people in his own employ, whether they remembered it fully or not.

"You do not have clearance to be here, I'm afraid." Mycroft said after a suitable amount of silence, none of the questions posed being even remotely considered. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave. But you knew this, Doctor."

"Yeah, yeah... I sort of expected that." The Doctor paused in front of him again, dark eyes searching and infinitely deep with a universe's worth of untapped knowledge. "But I'm afraid we can't do that, see, because I got a distress signal and you're in my-"

The Doctor had barged in and come unglued at the sight of over forty some Daleks in various stages of destruction or study, chained down to the ground or casings torn open around the room. It was truly as magnificent as he'd been told it was, the mad man with a box truly and irrevocably infuriated by their all-to-human reactions. Not even the accounts had been as beautiful as watching the man in fluid movement had been, and even as he caused wave after wave of destruction, Mycroft was still envious. Holmes was a name uttered in fear in the underground or the shadows of the Government ladder, but The Doctor was a name fear throughout the known existence of space, and probably far beyond that. He was danger on such a grand scale that Mycroft's own actions paled in comparison.

Discoveries were made, accusations were hurled, and the day was saved.

The clean up was left to Mycroft.

And all Mycroft Holmes could think was:

"At least he didn't discover the Cybermen."