==Chapter Two==

The Nature of Love

Field report, Torchwood

- Resurrected European and Asian royalty laying claim to thrones of respective countries, civil war widespread. Exceptions: Switzerland, France, Egypt, Italy.

- No new intelligence from Switzerland, all borders closed, guard doubled.

- Emperor Bonaparte executed all sixteen Louis, Joan of Arc appointed general. Peasants' revolution swiftly eliminating last few aristocrats. Paris agent informed of new assignment.

- Native uprising in Middle East, mass migration of British colonials to Egypt. Pharaohs' Council accepting immigrants, granting work permits for construction of new monuments.

- Julius Caesar and Constantine achieved fragile alliance between Vatican and Emperors' Pantheon after Caligula's assassination. Italian scientists upgrading technology at unprecedented speed, recommend recruitment for Institute.

A silky voice came from behind Holmes as he turned away from Watson's door. "I gather that Dr. Watson was rather less than thrilled with your news, my dear Holmes."

Holmes came to an abrupt halt, though he didn't turn. "I imagine you already know the answer, sir."

"Such a pity." Moriarty's tone was largely sympathetic, but Holmes could still hear the faint undertone of amusement. "You make the greatest sacrifice a man can make, and he has no gratitude for it."

"Pity… gratitude..." Holmes managed to answer slowly, the words heavy in his mouth as he forced them out. "You bandy those terms about so easily, Moriarty, yet with how much understanding?"

He heard Moriarty draw nearer, the hair on his neck raising as he sensed the man halting just behind his left shoulder. "I may not be able to feel such sentiments myself, Holmes, but that does not mean that I cannot understand how they work. As a man who has never been in love may yet have some idea of the nature of it..."

Holmes shrugged, in no mood whatever for a verbal fencing match. "Was there some purpose to your presence here, my dear sir, besides spying on me?"

"How can one spy on one's own possession?" Moriarty's half-smile as he moved into Holmes's view told the detective that he'd noted the involuntary flinch. "I said that there are many lessons you must learn."

Holmes made no attempt to keep his lip from curling. "Supervise, then, if you prefer."

Moriarty continued as if he hadn't heard. "I did not say, however, that I should give you a lengthy amount of time in which to find a way out."

Holmes arched a chilly eyebrow. "As I said earlier, Moriarty: the next move is yours. What more do you require? You have given me your word as a gentleman that the doctor shall not be harmed while I co-operate. Therefore it behoves me to honour our... agreement." As if he had truly had any choice in the matter...

Moriarty favoured him with an ironic smile. "Forgive me if the intervening years since our last encounter have made me a trifle... shall we say, paranoid? Perhaps the next move was not so much mine as it was Watson's. I freely confess that I thought him to be a loyal friend... and yet he seems to have washed his hands of you entirely. You are the genius pupil, Holmes. Tell me what that says of the nature of friendship."

Holmes shrugged – he could only hope his face wasn't betraying his true feelings on the subject. "Why should I speak to you, sir, of matters of which you have no comprehension? Choose a subject which we can debate as equals, I implore you."

Moriarty's smile vanished, his voice turning to granite once more. "I implore you, Holmes, to remember your position. Answer the question."

Holmes's lips tightened, his response one of acidic politeness, "I suppose the nature of friendship depends on the nature of one's friends..." His voice grew heavy with irony; "who are, after all, only human."

Moriarty laughed coldly as he folded his arms. "That won't do, Holmes. After all, you have had the privilege of making extraterrestrial acquaintances – I am afraid that I cannot claim the same. One acquaintance, in particular, I should not like to claim at all."

Holmes's lips twitched, pointedly ignoring the less-than-subtle dig. "You would be amazed, my dear Professor, at how pervasive so-called human nature truly is."

"My dear Holmes, I have seen 'human nature' – human and non-human – stretch to the limits of the universe..." Moriarty's eyes had become disturbingly distant. "All the feuds, all the wars that nature has produced. I have seen an entire race of magnificent telepaths enslaved by mankind and sold like cattle throughout the galaxies. I have seen two armies fight each other for tens of thousands of years – England and France on a grand scale." He refocused abruptly on Holmes's face. "Perhaps the question is: do you know how pervasive human nature is?"

Holmes inclined his head mockingly, trying to ignore the chill crawling up his spine. Even if he was trapped with his old enemy for – God forbid! – all eternity, he would never get used to Moriarty having the exact same faraway look in his eyes as the Doctor. "Clearly, I must bow to your expertise in this case, my dear sir. By all means, enlighten me."

Moriarty closed his eyes, tone becoming reflective. "Several decades from now, there should have been a man, a brilliant man, who would say that mankind should not go out into the stars. That if there were extraterrestrial life, man would taint it." He opened his eyes again, smiled slowly. "Were Time to... thaw... that prediction would come to pass as surely as if that man were a prophet. Mankind would not be a blessing to its fellow races, Holmes, it would be a curse. Four 'great and bountiful human empires' – but of course, for an empire to exist, one must first conquer... and how many innocent races do you suppose our own race crushed?"

"Countless, I should imagine," Holmes replied as dryly as he could manage. "Earth's history is already full of such instances."

"And yet ours is a race whose virtues the Doctor professes to uphold..." Moriarty's smile had evolved into a smirk. "Perhaps he sees a reflection of himself in us. Ruthless and uncaring, in the end."

Holmes's brow creased. "Yet the qualities he claims to admire most are courage and compassion."

"Rule One," Moriarty answered coolly, "the Doctor lies." At Holmes's questioning look, he continued: "A rite of passage, if you will, for his companions. Learning that he will tell them any number of lies if it suits him, and then moving on with that knowledge. He certainly never told you the full truth of the Time War, and what else is a half-truth but a lie?"

A slow, grudging nod was Holmes's only response.

"You still do not believe that, do you? That your precious Time Lord is guilty of genocide."

The dry amusement in Moriarty's voice only added to Holmes's growing inner turmoil, recalling the chilling hints which the Doctor had dropped on their first adventure together. "'If you only knew...'" he whispered. "Dear God, is that what he meant?" He glanced over to find Moriarty eyeing him with undisguised interest. "He told me... his world was gone, destroyed – but he would not say how... or who..."

"Unsurprising. He wanted you to stay with him – he would never have told you. He once told the Time Lord Council that it took thousands of years for a society to become truly corrupt." Moriarty shook his head. "How ironic that such a process should have happened to him."

Holmes found himself nodding slowly. "He has said on more than one occasion that he believes such longevity is a curse." And the Time Lord had barely survived his first millennium... "He most envies us our mortality."

"I am certain he does. He has paid a heavy price for the path he chose – perhaps not heavy enough..."

Holmes frowned. "I have been a witness to his pain, sir. His regrets run deeper than any human could comprehend." Why would even Moriarty wish for the Doctor to suffer further?

"What is his regret worth to his countless victims?" Moriarty's voice was steely, relentless. "The family he murdered, the Companions whose lives he destroyed, the planet he wiped out, the twenty-thousand humans of Pompeii? When desperate, the Doctor is not merely dangerous, but utterly ruthless. I would venture to say that you know nothing of the Valeyard."

Holmes didn't trust himself to speak, face pale. He'd been to Pompeii while on hiatus, seen the devastation the volcano had wrought with his own eyes. The Doctor could never... never...

"The incarnation of the Doctor who has already existed and yet has not... ah, the fickle nature of time travel! The Doctor has suicidal tendencies at times, you are aware of this. What you likely do not know is that he is not merely attempting to escape his past, but his future as well."

"His future..." Holmes's voice was little more than a whisper.

"The Valeyard. A creature pulled into being from between the Doctor's twelfth and last incarnations by the Time Lord Council. The darkest aspects of the Doctor, given flesh and form. Even his late archenemy, the Master, feared the Valeyard." Moriarty's smile was decidedly grim. "Forgive me for attempting to avoid that version of the Doctor ever coming into being at all."

Holmes shook his head, but the horrifying mental image Moriarty had conjured refused to be dislodged. "That future is only one possibility among many, Professor. If the Doctor has seen that shadow and is attempting to avoid it…"

Moriarty cut him off sharply. "Then the Doctor has not explained to you the nature of Time as thoroughly as I thought he had. Once you see your future, you cannot change it – doing so would create a paradox."

The detective's eyes widened in horror as he listened. "Do you mean to tell me... the Doctor knows that version of himself must come to pass? That the Valeyard's existence is a Fixed Point?"

Moriarty sighed. "Holmes, your inexplicable naivete is beginning to give me a headache. The Valeyard is indeed a Fixed Point in Time. The Doctor's attempts to avoid that Point could well have broken Time without your own efforts in that area. At least within the Cardiff Rift, the effects would be… blanketed."

"And yet you wished for Time to broken... but on your own terms... with the Doctor powerless to intervene." Holmes forced a mirthless smile. "I suppose congratulations are in order, my dear sir."

Moriarty nodded graciously, eyes glittering. "I could not have done so without you, my dear Holmes."

Holmes's smile vanished. "You're too kind, Professor," he responded coldly. "Think nothing of it."

He had to grudgingly admire his host's restraint – any other man might have indulged in an exultant laugh, but Moriarty merely smiled faintly, studying his nails. "I'm afraid that is rather beyond me at present. The very idea of it, let alone the reality, is simply magnificent. The Doctor's interference in your life rendered you unable to fulfill that Fixed Point. As I said before, he always ensures his own destruction… and that of those around him."

"He's certainly admitted that freely enough..." Holmes muttered without thinking.

"Yet you did not listen?" Moriarty shook his head again, this time in exasperation. "Holmes, your sense of self-preservation is utterly appalling." Holmes's lips twitched at that – he certainly couldn't fault the observation. "Now to his latest tally, he can add yourself, Dr. Watson, and the girl."

Holmes made no answer, although he knew the Professor must have seen the flicker of guilt... concern that crossed his face. Beth had been given such a slim head start... and Moran's dogged patience meant that Holmes could derive no comfort from the fact that he had heard nothing more of either since then. Of course, the girl could do no better than to make for Whitehall – the detective had no doubt that Mycroft would offer whatever assistance lay in his power – but there was no guarantee that Beth would even think to do so!

"Of course, you yourself must share the blame in the girl's case: she came with the Doctor because of you, after all… And then her concern for you overrode all thought of self-preservation – had she not done so, I should not have sensed her so strongly."

"That is no fault of mine," Holmes replied sharply. "The foolish child disobeyed my orders." He wasn't certain whether he felt more angry or relieved about that – and how she had even known about his abduction still remained a mystery.

Moriarty tutted, patently amused. "Oh, it is every bit your fault, Sherlock Holmes. By the simple fact of who you are, you drew her to you, and she could not stay away, no matter how strict the order. Moreover, you allowed her to stay with you up until that point – you obviously did not even attempt to drive her away before then."

Holmes gave Moriarty the coldest stare he could manage. "Lack of discouragement is not the same as encouragement. I never asked for her… admiration."

"'Admiration'..." Moriarty returned Holmes a knowing smile. "Lack of discouragement does indeed equal encouragement, I'm afraid, especially in... admirers. Time is a cruel mistress, but love must be the cruelest of all."

Holmes shrugged, trying not to grit his teeth. "As you say, sir… I am afraid my knowledge of such matters is decidedly lacking." And whatever respect he had for the girl's finer qualities was certainly no one else's concern.

Moriarty arched an admonishing eyebrow. "Shall you insist upon hiding behind that excuse forever, Holmes? I may have no experience in matters of the heart myself, but I have made it a point to understand how they work. Your ostensible lack of understanding is to your own detriment."

Holmes echoed the eyebrow, resisting the urge to sigh. "Your concern for the quality of my education is truly touching, my dear Professor." The detective spread his hands in seeming humility – if he were forced to endure a lecture, he might at least glean valuable insights into the mind of his... teacher. "Consider me a blank slate, and proceed with the lesson."

(Scene rating: V)

Beth had been all around London for what must have amounted to several hours now, though the day never grew lighter. She didn't doubt for one minute that Colonel Moran was after her—he was Moriarty's assassin as well as right hand man, after all. She didn't really let herself stop to think about it all, even when gulping down coffee and some bread on the little bit of money that Mrs. Hudson had given her yesterday for emergencies. It was as if she had fallen into a nightmare, and she couldn't wake up. Professor Moriarty was still alive and held a captive Sherlock Holmes, and she was running for her life from an ex-military officer and assassin.

She needed help, and she needed more than the Watsons could provide, if they were even still all right. She didn't know. She'd caught a glimpse of an Irregular as she ran from Torchwood, but she hadn't come across any of the rest of the boys since.

Slipping into the offices at Whitehall wasn't quite as easy as slipping into Torchwood had been. That was merely because she was ready to fall asleep standing up, and she couldn't remember her muscles ever being in as much pain as they were now. But at last, she found Mycroft Holmes's office and rapped softly on the door.

"Enter," a voice called, sounding mildly irritated.

She took a deep breath, opened the door, and slipped inside. Mycroft Holmes sat at an ornate desk covered with stacks of paper and files in a room mostly devoid of personal possessions but still left no doubt as to the wealth of its occupant. Mycroft himself truly was a large man in height and weight, but he did share his brother's dark hair, grey eyes, hooked nose, and high cheekbones. If he had been a bit thinner, Beth thought she might have called him handsome, favouring Mark Gatiss a little more than Charles Gray. The British government, condensed into one man, one of the most brilliant men in the world and Sherlock's older brother.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," she said respectfully.

His eyes widened ever so slightly as he studied her, his piercing gaze no doubt taking in details that she was unaware of and parsing them for meaning. He rose with effort and nodded politely, though possibly with a hint of uncertainty. She wasn't sure. "Miss. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

Beth wondered just how much he'd already deduced about her. She took another deep breath, heart still beating wildly. "My name is Elizabeth Lestrade," she said as evenly as she could manage, "and I'm here on your brother's account."

He arched a very Holmesian eyebrow. "Are you certain you have come to the right person, Miss Lestrade? I hesitate to contradict a relative of the Chief Inspector, but up until this moment I was unaware that I even possessed a brother, or indeed any sort of sibling."

She stared, mind reeling. It must be an effect of Time breaking… it was messing severely with Reality… "Oh, zed," she said in a small voice. She really wanted to wake up now, but she couldn't afford the luxury of waiting for someone else to make it right. As far as she knew, she might be it. "All right, never mind that. I'm here because of the Bruce-Partington plans."

Mycroft's expression didn't change, but cautious hope glinted in his eyes. "What of them?" he said evenly. Looking concerned, he nodded at a chair before the desk. "And pray be seated, Miss Lestrade, you look worn to a thread."

She nodded and walked forward, sitting cautiously. If she relaxed, she'd collapse. "Thank you." She sighed. "I know who has the missing plans, and I believe they're already in Paris by now, if not further than that."

His eyes widened, voice turning sharp. "Who?"

"A German, Oberstein. He was living at 13 Caulfield Gardens, but I believe he fled…" Oh, zed, how am I supposed to describe Time now if it's broken? "Quite some while ago."

Mycroft frowned deeply. "Yes, that name is most familiar—Oberstein is one of the few with the expertise and sheer nerve to handle so big an affair. And I'm afraid that recovering the plans from him will be immensely difficult."

Beth leaned forward. "I can go after him. I only need the money and transportation to get to Paris." She'd never done something so big on her own before, but there was a first time for everything. At some point, Sherlock must have gone from small cases to a situation he wasn't sure he could handle, and if he could do it, so could she.

Mycroft, however, looked at her as if she was mad. "My dear Miss Lestrade, that is entirely out of the question! Assuming I were foolhardy enough to entrust such a task to such a young lady, have you any idea of what stands in your way?"

Of course, she hadn't quite thought about that yet: if Reality was truly fracturing, then anything could be happening on the other side of the Channel—for that matter, anything could be happening in England. But she decided to ignore that for the moment, hoping that Mycroft would eventually elaborate without her asking. She lifted her chin, eyes steely, voice firm. Fake it 'til you make it. "Mr. Holmes, I am entirely able to look after myself and do things that no one else—such as certain German spies—would think a young woman capable of."

Mycroft seemed taken aback by that, studying her closely for a long moment. "This man you believe to be my brother," he said softly, "what is his name?"

Her breath caught—she hadn't expected that question, and now a terrible idea was forming in her mind. Please let me be wrong. "Sherlock," she said softly, not entirely keeping all traces of affection out of her voice.

Mycroft almost seemed to gasp softly, looking more than a little shaken. Beth had a sinking feeling that she was dead-on. After a moment, he crossed over to the sideboard and poured two small glasses of… she guessed brandy. He handed one to her, then sat heavily back down behind his desk. He pulled a folder from one of the stacks on his desk—seemingly at random, but she didn't doubt he had quite a deliberate sorting system—and opened it to reveal typewritten papers and an attached photograph. He passed the file to her—it was Oberstein.

"The key ports," he said gravely, "on either coast are under constant siege from numerous armies—mostly Elizabeth's and Bonaparte's fleets. Attempting to cross the Channel via any of them would be suicide at this juncture. If you wish to reach France alive, your best chance is to seek passage from Newhaven."

She couldn't help paling slightly. She'd witnessed some very anachronistic elements in getting here, but this was even worse than she'd imagined. Feeling as though she actually could use the alcohol now, she knocked back the brandy and coughed as it seared her throat. Zed, and Sherlock and Jeremy had gotten drunk on this stuff? How could they handle that much of it?! She pulled herself together and looked Mycroft in the eye, hoping she looked far more confident than she felt. "Just give me the means to get there," she said quietly, "and I'll handle the rest."

He pressed a spot on the desk's scrollwork, and a hidden drawer popped open, from which he took a small leather pouch. Rising again, he tossed the pouch onto the desk before Beth, and it sounded like a bag of marbles when it landed. She could think of only one valuable thing that could make a noise like that. She slowly took the bag, not opening it, waiting for her host to speak again.

Mycroft walked over to a bellpull and tugged at it. A few seconds later, a young man appeared, and they had a quiet word with each other. She wished she could understand what they were saying, but they were speaking far too softly. When the underling disappeared, Mycroft returned to his desk, picked up his glass, and eyed Beth thoughtfully.

She watched, wondering what was going on in that brilliant mind, still more what was in his heart. He'd reacted at hearing his brother's name.

"You defy all logic, Miss Lestrade. I don't pretend to understand anything about you, except for one: you love a man who was never born—" he smiled sadly—"but perhaps should have been."

Tears springing to her eyes, her breath caught again, and her chest hurt sharply.

He half turned to the window, raising his glass.

There was a hiss of air, a whizzing sound, and Mycroft's head half-exploded.

Beth screamed, heart skipping a beat, bile surging up her throat, but fire flooding her. She turned, whipping out her revolver, caught sight of Moran behind her, and fired. Not waiting to see where the bullet went, she ran and plunged through the window, hitting the ground hard in a shower of broken glass and stumbling as she pushed herself up and ran for the nearest alley.

She began to sob and tried to stifle it only for a moment before letting herself cry.

Ria: *whimpers* We hated doing this, but it made complete sense from Torchwood's perspective, eliminating the one person in Whitehall who might well figure out what was going on, even without remembering life before Frozen Time – or having a brother… ='( *hugs Sherlock*

Sky: *makes it a Sherlock sandwich* Poor Mycroft... and poor Beth. And poor Watson! Golly!
I hope you all aren't getting too depressed, because there will be lighter spots soon. The two of us love and hate torturing our characters as much as the next fanfic author, but writing constant heavy angst is as rough on us as it is on our readers, and we're not that masochistic!

Please review!