A/N: I'm loving the feedback. You guys are awesome! :D
It turns out this one might be a four-parter-I'll have to see how long the last bit takes to see if it needs splitting, but it's starting to look that way.

The Spotted Band: Part Two – The Data

The first thing John became aware of was a slight numbness to his fingertips and toes. Stimulated by the feeling, he flexed them, and the curious sensation faded. He wasn't in the most comfortable position—he was sitting up, if the downward pull of gravity was anything to go by, and the muscles on the back of his neck were aching from his chin being against his chest for so long. He was also dimly aware of a chafing around his wrists, like something unpleasantly rough was wrapped around them.

He stirred, turning his head slightly. His neck muscles protested painfully, causing a soft moan to vibrate in his throat. He attempted to stretch, but was met with resistance by whatever was binding his wrists. Vague concerns began to rise through the fog of his mind as he started to realize that something wasn't right. He opened his eyes; his vision was blurry at first, but it cleared quickly—though his eyes suddenly had a tendency to unfocus at random…

He appeared to be tied to a chair. Well, not tied, per say—there were leather straps tightly holding his wrists behind the back of the chair, and two more similarly binding his ankles to the legs of it. Starting to realize now that there was something terribly wrong, he struggled against the straps, but his muscles wouldn't do everything he told them to. He felt weak and limp, like he'd just spent the entire day running. The straps, naturally, didn't give. "Hello?" he called. God, even his voice wouldn't listen to him; it was slurred, and the word seemed to trip over his tongue and tumble from his mouth.

He didn't know what he was expecting; in this situation, it was unlikely that a kindly old woman would come through the door to John's left apologizing profusely and saying there'd been a mistake. Instead, a brutal-looking man walked in—well, he assumed he was a man, at least. He had rough, dark brown skin and an apish face with a broad, heavy brow and an almost comical bulldog-like under-bite. Despite this, however, there was something bright and intelligent glinting under that thick overhang of a forehead and he regarded John as one would examine a strange insect.

John was starting to remember what had happened, and the memories that arose in his mind did not make him any more relaxed. He looked around the blank, white room, but saw no one save himself and the large man. "Where's Sherlock?" he asked urgently, but with the state of his voice, the name sounded more like "Shuh-luck."

"He's alive," said the man in a surprisingly smooth tone, bending over slightly to seem less imposing. John couldn't help but notice the ring of tiny, pointed white fangs shining out of the man's blue-tinged mouth. His voice was deeper than Sherlock's, probably due to his immensely thick neck. "He won't stay that way for long, though, if you don't talk." His words alone were intimidating, but the tone was completely innocent—like that of a parent warning a child not to touch a hot cup of tea.

Because of this—and probably because of whatever drug was making his head fuzzy—it took John several long moments of simply staring at the man to realize that he was being threatened. "Talk 'bout what?" he asked warily.

"Well, how you got here, for starters," said the man with a deceptively kind smile.

John clamped his mouth shut. He didn't know who this man was nor what he wanted with this information, but he'd rather not say anything too revealing unless Sherlock was with him. He didn't know just how much he could say on the matter, and he had no desire to say too much.

"Come now, surely it's not too difficult a question. How did you get here?" His tone was still gentle as ever, and John was almost tempted to oblige, but he shook his head.

"Where's Sherlock?" he asked again. "I need to talk to him."

The man didn't answer. He straightened so that he was looming over John, staring down his blunt nose at the man as if deciding what to do with him. John felt nervous, looking up at him like that, but he steeled himself and glared stubbornly right back (although in his state it was probably more of a half-lidded gaze). Then, abruptly, the large man drew back his fist and snapped it forward into John's nose.

Whatever kind of alien this man was, he was strong, and he had knuckles of stone. Once the room stopped spinning, John found himself staring at the door the man had walked through, and his jaw ached terribly. He swung his head around, flexing it experimentally; at least there weren't any broken teeth.

"Christ," he said, unable to think of much else to say. "That hurt." At that moment, some part of him seemed to realize the immensity of the situation. His eyes snapped wide and he looked about the white-walled room wildly, shouting, "Sherlock! Sherlock, run, there's very bad people here with…" he trailed off for a moment, the stupor of the drug briefly making him forget how to form words. "…with very hard knuckles!"

He could've sworn he heard a distant, answering cry before the man in front of him once again let his fist fly. This time, there was an explosion of stars, and John was knocked unconscious for a second time.

-x-

"John."

John stirred slightly, aware of a pounding in his head and a tight sensation around his lips, like something had dried and cracked there. Annoyed by the feeling, he licked them and tasted copper.

"John?"

His name was coming from a familiar voice somewhere behind him. In an attempt to say "what," he groaned.

"John, I'm going to need you to form a more coherent phrase than that."

John opened his eyes to find a blank white room very similar to the one he'd just been in—possibly the same one. His brow furrowed as he squinted against the light that suddenly seemed too bright. "Sherlock?"

He felt a few long fingers groping at his own and somehow recognized them as Sherlock's. He turned his head, struggling to see over his shoulder, and caught a glimpse of the tall, thin man sitting up straight in a chair identical to his. They were positioned back-to-back—close enough, apparently, for their hands to touch. Sherlock's head was turned as well, straining his neck to see John. His undisguised look of concern quickly vanished, replaced by its usual cool expression.

"Naturally. Who else would it be?"

"Well, I'm starting to think you could be replaced by a robot with a scarf and no one would be the wiser." John could hear Sherlock's frown in the silence that followed. He made up for it by asking, "You alright?"

"They tried to drug me, but it wore off very quickly. Punched me once or twice, but I'm fine." Indeed, John could see a bruise forming beneath Sherlock's visible eye. "You?"

"Same."

"Really? The 'very bad people with very hard knuckles' didn't dose you with enough sedative?" Sherlock teased.

"You heard that?"

"You were certainly yelling loud enough. Anyone in the building could've heard." There was a long pause. "Did our blue friend get away?"

"I think so," replied John. "She'd gotten a pretty good head start on me, at least."

"If you're referring to Helen, she did get away," said a familiar voice from somewhere to John's left, "though we'll soon remedy that."

Both of their necks snapped around to see a door open, admitting two men: the one who had spoken was the same who had interrogated John; the other was similar-looking, though with a taller, thinner build and skin so dark that it looked black. The second one was wearing a long white coat and latex gloves over his hands, which he clasped in a continuous writhing motion before him like a knotted tangle of snakes.

"Soon…? You haven't found her yet?" Sherlock inferred with disbelief.

"No," the man admitted testily, "but she's running out of time. We'll flush her out sooner or later."

Sherlock shook his head, and John could hear the smug smile in his voice as he said, "No, it's more than that—you don't know where she is, but you know she's in reach of this place, and it's exposed enough that she could find it."

That hit a nerve. "Be quiet," the man growled.

"No, I don't think I will. I'm the only one here who can tell me to be quiet. Who are you, anyway?" He paused, and John could practically hear his expression lighting up. "Oh—you're the natives to this planet, aren't you? You sneaky things, you pulled an Atlantis!"

"So Atlantis exists, then?" asked John, smiling slightly.

"Of course it does—just not in the way you might expect. It involves an ancient reptilian race called the Sea Devils."

"Be quiet," the man said again, his lip curling back to show more of his enormous teeth.

Sherlock studiously ignored him. "While everyone thought you were dead, you just pulled back into the shadows. And now you're using all this technology you've invented for… what, exactly? Teleports, cameras, it's all very covert business, which probably means that it would be frowned upon in most societies—"

The man shouted, "I said be quiet!" He lashed out, but instead of aiming his punch for Sherlock, he hit John again, squarely across the jaw.

Sherlock fell silent.

John grunted and flexed his mouth once more to make sure everything was functioning properly as he straightened his neck. He could tell by the sudden taste of salt as he licked his lips that one of the sores had re-opened.

"It's my turn to talk, Time Lord. He called you Sherlock—is that a code name?"

"Why? Expecting someone else?"

"Are you or are you not the Doctor?"

Sherlock sneered, "Doctor who?" Something about the way he uttered those two words made John think there must've been something ironic about the statement, but he couldn't guess why.

His cheek, of course, earned John another slug across the face, and this time the taste of blood exploded in his mouth and he had to spit it out in a thick red glob.

"No," said Sherlock forcefully through gritted teeth, "I'm not the Doctor."

"Interesting." The brutish man shared a glance with the taller one, who wandered out of John's line of sight.

"Don't tell them anything," said John around the swelling in his mouth.

"John, shut up," said Sherlock in a warning tone.

"Yes, John," said the taller man, having spoken for the first time since entering the room. He had a casual tone, as cool and breezy as a summer day. He sounded like he'd be whisked off somewhere in his own daydreams at any moment. "Shut up." John spat out another gob of blood, this time doing his best to hit the other man's shoes, but otherwise didn't speak. "So, Sherlock Holmes… Survived the Time War, then, did you? What was that like?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"I imagine it was torturous. I heard that the skies themselves burned, did they not?" The amusement in his tone was sickening and gave John chills.

There was only silence in answer.

"Your entire planet, your entire race, was destroyed… but not you. Not Sherlock Holmes, the survivor, the man who outruns death. How does it feel, knowing you're almost completely alone?"

"Peachy," snapped Sherlock sarcastically.

John could only imagine what kind of self-restraint it took on Sherlock's part not to explode. At the same time, however, he had to wonder: how did the man feel? He seemed alright—well, besides the obvious, but that was just how he was, apparently. John knew from experience that you don't just walk away from a war. There were always scars left behind, whether they were physical or psychological. And to be in a war so massive that an entire planet, as well as its native species, was destroyed—he couldn't imagine.

He turned his head, trying to catch a glimpse of Sherlock's face, but the man was staring directly ahead, his shoulders stiff and straight.

"You haven't told your friend yet, have you?" taunted the tall man, catching sight of John. "Your boring little human, here. He doesn't know."

"What do you want?" said Sherlock coldly.

"I want to know why you're here," said the man.

"I was called here. Surely your birds saw as much."

"That's not what I'm asking," said the man in a tone that sent a chill down John's spine. He couldn't help but wonder if this alien still had all his marbles. "I want to know what you plan to accomplish here. If you'd wanted to save her, you could've all gone into your TARDIS and left, couldn't you? So why are you here? Why risk so much more?"

Sherlock was silent again.

So, John was punched again.

"The Shadow Proclamation will hear of this," Sherlock snarled. John must've been imagining the desperation in his voice. "Whatever is going on here, you're snatching innocent people from other planets at random, and they tend to disapprove of that."

"So, you really don't know what we're doing?" asked the man in surprise. "You were able to figure out what killed that silly girl, but you don't know why yet?"

"I know your partner is having an affair," said Sherlock coolly.

The man in front of John punched him again. His eye took the brunt of it this time, and it started to swell shut.

"Your friend is running out of strikes," said the man who punched him. "Soon we'll have to accelerate to… other means."

When Sherlock didn't reply to this, the taller one said, "It's only an experiment, Sherlock. Surely, as one scientist to another, you can appreciate our… methods."

"And exactly what hypothesis are you attempting to prove?"

"As a new civilization, we've begun to branch out—testing the species of the other planets around us, that sort of thing," said the man. "Helen has been a special interest of ours for quite some time now."

"What are you testing them for?"

John heard the nonchalant shrug in the man's next words: "Oh, plenty of things. There are the harmless ones, like reflex testing, creative thinking, intelligence capacities, that sort of thing. Lately we've gotten a bit more curious, though, as we get more familiar to the biological and anatomical functions of our humanoid neighbors. It's all very fascinating. The point of this experiment was to test how they would respond to certain… natural stimulus."

"The pair of them? You mean Helen and Julia both?" At the man's nod of confirmation, Sherlock asked, "Wouldn't two variables screw up the data?"

"No, see, we already tested them individually," said the man, a maniacal grin coloring his words. "The previous human, unfortunately, didn't make it, and Helen barely scraped by. She wouldn't have gotten out at all if it weren't for the advantages we gave her."

There was a moment of silence during which both John and Sherlock processed this new information. Helen said she just woke up here yesterday, thought John. Had she been lying to them? And what "advantages" was this man referring to?

"Well, I'm terribly sorry for impeding your research," said Sherlock coldly.

"Oh, quite the contrary, it's a gift beyond imagination," said the man excitedly. "You're a Time Lord. There are only legends of your kind—just you and the Doctor. This is a rare opportunity—I could do so much experimentation on you; I could make it worth your while if you'd oblige—"

"No, I don't think I will," said Sherlock, at the same time that John said, "Absolutely not."

"Very well, then. I suppose we shall have to resort to force."

The burlier one spoke up then, his voice a rumble of distant thunder compared to his companion's. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea," he said in a warning tone. "They're clever. We should just kill them and be done with it."

The man frowned. "Perhaps you're right," he admitted. "Still, it'll take some degree of experimentation to kill the Time Lord—I heard they're tricky to destroy… Very well. Kill the human, please, he's of no use to me. I shall see what I can do about the other one."

The man, a little too gladly, reached for a rather nasty-looking gun at his belt. Before he could so much as pull it out of its holster, however, Sherlock said in a tone bordering hysteria, "Wait! Please, wait. At least give us a moment of privacy."

The tall, thin man said in genuine bafflement, "Whatever for?"

"Last goodbyes," said Sherlock in a tight voice. "Please."

There was a pause. "Alright, I suppose that's reasonable. You have one minute." With no audible cue, their two captors turned and headed out the door.

For a moment, John was touched by Sherlock's words. As soon as the door snapped shut behind the two men, however, Sherlock asked, "Are you alright?" There was not a trace of the former desperation in that simple calmly-asked question. John realized then that it had only been a small farce, that Sherlock had acted in such a way on purpose for the benefit of a minute's extra time.

"Yeah, I'm fine," said John, who was barely able to see out of his left eye. "You know, aside from my impending death." He couldn't honestly say that his heart didn't do a little jump of fear when the man in front of him reached for the weapon at his waist.

"Working on it," said Sherlock sharply.

John turned his head in surprise. "What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to get these straps undone… though that's proving slightly more difficult than I anticipated." He struggled with them for a moment before giving up with a huff. "What kind of leather is this?"

Before John could come up with an answer, there was a muffled thump from outside the door. They both looked up at the sound, alert, hearts pounding, expecting at any moment for one of the men to walk back in and shoot John dead. Instead, however, the door opened, admitting probably the last person John expected to see: Helen. She was panting and clutching her arm, but otherwise appeared to be in one piece. A darkish liquid which John assumed to be blood was smeared across her fingers.

"Helen!" John cried in surprise as she rushed over, her fingers scrabbling at the straps around John's wrists.

"I don't have much time," she said hastily, deftly un-belting the strap securing John's wrists. He bent over immediately and started on the ones around his ankles while she tended to Sherlock's bonds. "One of the guards spotted me."

"Did they shoot at you?" asked John. He'd have to look at that cut once they were safe inside the TARDIS.

"Yes, but I'm fine. It only grazed me," she said in a remarkably even tone. Sherlock's bands slipped loose, and the man sprung to action, pulling apart the straps from his right ankle while John, who had gotten both of his off, started on his left.

"How did you do it?" asked John.

"Get in? It was very easy. I don't think they expect many people to find this place. I didn't get much trouble from the automated security, but there were a few guards who posed some difficulty. Come on, let's go," she added as soon as Sherlock stood.

"Not yet," said Sherlock firmly, striding up to the door, just outside of which their two interrogators were slumped on the ground. Each of them had tiny pinprick-like marks on their faces very similar to the three found on Julia. The tall, darker one had half of his face covered in them, and a closer look revealed to John that they were in the shape of a handprint. The shorter, broad-shouldered one had enough for a fingerprint across his cheek and was stirring slightly. Sherlock grabbed him roughly by the collar. With one fist, he punched the man across the face, and John could tell by the way he wrung his hand shortly after that he had not expected the man's skull to be so solid.

"Sherlock—" started John, but he was interrupted.

"Where did you get it?" asked Sherlock harshly. The man didn't answer. "This planet doesn't have the natural resources to create all this. Who's supplying you?"

Helen said, "We don't have time for this—"

"Answer me!" hissed Sherlock, ignoring her. Bracing himself, he punched the man's face again.

"M-Moriarty!" the man stuttered.

Sherlock's grip loosened in shock. John reacted similarly. "Moriarty?" he said in a low voice. "Mor—Sherlock, he's just part of a story, how can—?"

Sherlock stood. "Helen, if you please," he said without answering.

She placed the palm of her hand against the man's face. A split-second later, he gave a small jerk and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

John was too preoccupied with the concept that a villain had come to life to ask how she'd done that. "Sherlock…"

"Not now, John, we have to go," said Sherlock stiffly, taking off at a brisk pace down the blank hallway. John and Helen followed after, running slightly to keep up with his pace.

They'd only walked through the first door when a wailing high-pitched alarm made John's hands jump to his ears. By some wordless, mutual consent, the three of them took off, flat-out running down the hall. John found he was quite glad to be rid of his cane in that moment. "This way!" called Helen, jumping through a door to their left that set off another alarm when John and Sherlock followed after. John couldn't imagine how Helen had managed to get in without alerting the entire planet to their presence.

John's adrenaline was rushing, and he could only imagine what kind of crazy, wild-eyed look covered his usually calm expression. When he'd said he was bored, that he wanted things to happen to him, he wasn't sure he'd meant anything like this. Being a fugitive on an alien planet wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind. Still, even running from a crazy scientist beat sipping tea at home.

He had to wonder how often this happened to Sherlock. In the novels, there wasn't nearly as much running—then again, in the novels, there weren't brutal aliens trying to kill them, either.

Before they could get to the next door, three natives in white uniforms rounded the corner and, upon seeing their captives, raised their guns. John reached instinctively for his revolver before remembering that he'd left it back at the flat. Sherlock, meanwhile, had pulled out his sonic magnifying glass and directed its glowing end to an area above the guards' heads. There was a spray of sparks from the light fixture above, causing the guards to duck, anticipating an attack. While they were preoccupied, Helen took the lead and the three of them dashed past the rapidly-recovering guards.

John caught a glimpse of one of the guns as he ran by and, as with most of the things on this planet, it wasn't like anything he'd ever seen. Whatever kind of gun it was, it didn't look like it fired bullets. As curious as he was, though, he had no desire to find out exactly what it did, so he put on an extra burst of speed and raced after the others.

It didn't take long to get outside. It was nighttime again, meaning they'd probably been in there at least an hour—possibly two. A backwards glance showed John that the building was low and dull with flat brick walls adorned only by security mechanisms; back home, it wouldn't have stood out (except for the massive guns mounted at regular points about the roof), but here, amidst the trees and the birds, it was like a sore thumb.

And then they were running, and with every pounding step John could've sworn there were guards on their heels. Suddenly, there was something that felt like an explosion behind them, and the three of them flew through the air before landing sprawled on their stomachs. John looked up in time to see one of the automated security guns training its nozzle on him like some massive bird of prey. Having no desire to become a crater in the ground, he scrambled to his feet and promptly tripped over them. Sherlock, who had already recovered himself, heaved John to his feet and the two of them ran after Helen, who was already halfway to the trees.

There was another blast behind them, and though it felt further away, John still stumbled. Then they were in the trees, darting between trunks with the desperation of rabbits fleeing from a fox.

They ran until they could no longer hear their impending doom pursuing them, until the forest was quiet aside from their heaving breaths. The last time John had run this far, he was running from the Kafkan hatchlings. Back then, however, he'd at least had a gun and five other able-bodied men to defend him. Now, he was beat. His legs felt like jelly and every breath stabbed at his lungs. Helen, who, he remembered, didn't do well over long distances, turned her back on them and dry-heaved onto the forest floor. Even Sherlock doubled over, his hands on his knees as he gasped for breath.

Finally, after a few minutes, John had enough breath and clarity of thought to form words. "How the hell," he puffed, "did you get past those?"

His question, of course, was directed at Helen, who had taken a seat and was leaning back against a tree trunk. It was another moment before she could muster a reply: "I don't know," she gasped. "They didn't shoot at me. I didn't even think they were working properly."

"Oh, they were working properly," said Sherlock in a biting tone.

"Honestly," she said in exasperation between hoarse breaths, "you should be more grateful. I just saved your lives!"

They subsided once more into silence until their breaths diminished to deep, even rhythms and their muscles felt lifeless. John wanted nothing more than to lay down right there and take a nap, but in the present situation, he doubted he could get so much as a wink of sleep.

Sherlock, unsurprisingly, was the first to rise. "We're outnumbered," he said, not meeting their eyes. "We'll need help." He slipped his hand in his pocket, presumably for his phone, but his hand came out empty. He checked the other pocket, but the only thing he found there was his magnifying glass. He frowned. "John, did they take your phone, as well?"

John patted his pockets, but didn't feel the trademark bump of his mobile. "Yeah," he said.

"Here, use mine," said Helen, pulling out her own. Sherlock took it in his hand and pressed a few buttons before he suddenly stopped and opened the back panel of the phone, revealing the half-melted, sparking, smoking mess that used to be the phone's internal parts.

"It… It must've gotten damaged during the rescue," said Helen quietly.

"Right, well, that's no help," said Sherlock, tossing the phone aside carelessly. It was beyond repair, even with the help of a sonic magnifying glass.

"Sherlock," said John, noticing how gingerly his friend was using his right hand, "your hand is broken."

Sherlock glanced down at it, and though John was now aware of the slight strain in the Time Lord's expression, he shrugged it off. "I'll be fine," he said.

"Yes, you will," assured John, raising his eyebrows and stepping closer, "after I take a look at it."

The other man reluctantly held out his hand for John to examine while Helen looked on, curious.

"It must've happened when you punched that guard," said John as he looked it over, handling it gently so as not to jostle it. Sherlock winced a few times, but said nothing otherwise. "Your middle finger's fractured, it'll need a splint…" Sherlock made to pull it away, but he said sharply, "Ah-ah, not yet." Without looking up, he instructed, "Helen, I need you to find me a thin vine and something narrow and stiff, like a strip of bark." He saw her nod and turn away out of the corner of his eye.

Sherlock cringed as John examined the damaged finger more carefully. "We don't have time f—"

The word was cut off by a sudden cry as John jerked the finger with a sharp snap, setting the bone back into place.

"That hurt," he whined as Helen returned with the requested materials.

John rolled his eyes, taking the supplies with muttered thanks. "Oh, shut up. I've treated gunshot wound victims who complained less than you."

"They were probably bordering unconsciousness," retorted Sherlock as John proceeded to use the vines to tie the makeshift splint to Sherlock's middle finger.

"There, that'll do for now," said John as he looped the last knot, ignoring Sherlock's remark. "We'll get you treated properly once we get back."

"Speaking of getting back," said Helen, "how are we going to do it, exactly?"

"Oh, easily," answered Sherlock, waving his good hand dismissively. "All we need to do is get a message out."

"We don't have either of our phones, though," said John, puzzled.

"No," agreed Sherlock, turning on the spot, his eyes roving the circle of forest around him, "but we do have cameras."