Chapter Text
"Powering up!" Anthea called out to the subordinates in front of the large rusted computer unit. The colorful twisted wires that ran down the length of the grimy floor to the mirrors and lights began to spark slightly.
John shielded his eyes from the powerful spotlights as they turned on around him one by one, almost achingly slow. He caught a glance at that thing in one of the mirrors and quickly focused elsewhere-- anywhere would do. "This will work, then?" he asked, adjusting to the wires and other odd equipment that had been placed around his body not a moment ago. "This is fool-proof, right; it'll work?"
The man in the sharp three-piece suit looked up from the piece of garbage on the floor that he had spiked with end of his umbrella. "Hm? Oh, dear me, no. This is all in theory."
John let out a strangled laugh. "Oh, of course it is, brilliant."
"Just remember, John." The man without a name took his umbrella, minus the garbage at the end, and twirled it in the air. "All you have to do is make sure you change your body's movements by one minute past ten." He checked his pocket watch and nodded.
"And how do I do that exactly?" John threw up his hands in annoyance. This man was infuriating with his lack of information. "Run up to myself in the middle of the battle and have a good argument?"
The man let out a polite laugh. "I'd like to see that."
"Activate Lodestone!" Anthea ordered to the crew, paced stiffly, her hands behind her back.
John kept his eyes fixated on the strange man as the spotlights flickered violently and he heard a strange deep whirling sound.
"One minute past ten," the man with the umbrella reaffirmed as he began to step away from the strange time machine contraption.
Everything this madman had told him suddenly made sense to John. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together becoming clearly. He smiled to himself. "I think I understand now. You told me before that I was going to die. But that wasn't exactly what you meant, was it? You meant that if I don't do this, right here, right now, this world will cease to exist." He paused for breath, and ignored the look of admiration on the man's face. "But if I do this, then a better world will take its place, this Sherlock's world. And I'll still be alive. Right? If I do this, I won't die?"
The man's face was grim, his voice blank. "I'm sorry. I don't have that information."
"What!?" John screamed. If only he could move from this spot, but his feet feel glued to the pavement. He wanted to deck this guy. "You told me I had a future! With Sherlock! I can't die! What's the point of all this if I die?"
Anthea gave the final order, her voice firm and steady, "Activate!"
Sunday Afternoon, November 29, 2009
The air was thick with explosions and dust. Shouts of orders and cries of pain assaulted John's ears.
Out of the corner of his eye he observed as the comrade to his right, Paul, a late twenty-something, with a constant chipper attitude who would always show people letters and photos of his fiancé back home, winked at John. It was probably a mutual signal of 'We'll get those bastards now'-- and then the next second John watched as Paul tumbled to the ground, an expression of pure surprise on his face for a split second then one of twisted pain. Blood gushed from his mouth and nose. John moved swiftly toward his fellow solider to aid him and made a quick grab for his medical kit.
The hair on the back of John's neck stuck up and he swore as something hot and fast whizzed by him. He reeled around in horror as a nurse positioned close behind him, Bill Murray, crumbled to the ground, clutching his hand to his bloodied right shoulder.
John glanced at the first solider. Too late, John whistled. Paul's eyes are glazed over and there was a visibly gaping hole in his left cheek, showing broken teeth, blood and muscle. John made a dash to the nurse, "Hang on, Bill!"
Friday Night, January 1, 2010
He had emailed Harry a few days ago, asking her the general niceties about life; how was her Christmas and New Year's, how was her therapy, how were things with Clara, had she started looking for a job yet? He received two replies back. In one, Harry was obviously drunk, the text was all wrong; the email was incoherent and barely legible. She abused him, writing things like 'Piss off, closet arse bandit!' and 'What kind of a person runs away from his own problems to a war zone?'. The next email had been sent a little over 12 hours later; her spelling and capitalization had greatly improved and Harry apologized, though she didn't answer any of John's questions about how her life was going.
He'd tried emailing Bill Murray, the nurse whose life he had saved not long ago, but it had bounced back. Poor Bill had been honorably discharged and sent back to the UK. As far as John knew, and he knew very little, Bill was living in London, getting therapy for his PTSD and keeping up a blog. It concerned him that the entries to Bill's blogs were seemingly empty, with titles like 'Nothing' and 'Pointless'. He commented on the entry 'Pointless',
Hi Bill. I tried emailing you but it bounced back. How are things? I'm in London at the end of the month. Do you fancy meeting up?
John continued onto one of the popular news blogs to catch up on the recent goings-on back home. The actor David Tennant was signed up to do a pilot for a show in America called Rex is Not Your Lawyer. There had been a great number of floods plaguing parts of Great Britain and Ireland, the cause being that the temperatures were higher than normal.
"Oh fuck," he cursed. No signal. At least he was able to comment on Bill's blog. He leaned back in the office chair, hands behind his head and exhaled a long sigh. At any rate, he only had one more week in this place until his tour was over. He was getting tired of all the snow, sand, and blood.
He heard the flap of the tent fabric move and shifted around in the chair. "Oh, hi," John smiled at the man who'd entered. He was sure he had seen him before, though he couldn't remember where. "I'll just be leaving then." As he stood up he was forced to double over when his blanket fell onto the floor. "Sorry about that—"
The soldier, face suddenly gone pale, whipped out his Browning handgun, aiming it directly at John. "Don't move!" he shouted in his most commanding tone. "Don't fucking move!"
"Easy, easy," John soothed. He had no idea what he had done to provoke this guy into wanting to shoot him. Maybe he was mentally unstable and hated poorly knitted donated blankets. "I'm going to stand up, now, okay mate?"
"Slowly," the solider commanded, "very slowly."
John did as he was told, adding an extra reassurance by holding his hands in the air. When he stood straight and tall, he asked, "Everything alright, then? See, I'm just like you. I'm just a poorly paid solider of Her Majesty's Armed Forces. I'm not the enemy."
"Turn around, all the way around." The solider didn't seem convinced. His dark eyes were narrowed; his finger on the trigger twitched ever so slightly.
John moved very sluggishly, feeling like an elderly woman trying to do some ancient folk dance as he turned his entire body 360 degrees with his arms stiff in the air. "Satisfied?"
The soldier sighed heavily, putting his gun away in a swift movement and with the same motion taking out an old dirty napkin to wipe his sweaty brow. "I'm sorry," he said, fully apologetic. "Maybe everything's getting to me, you know?"
"It gets to all of us now and again, mate. What's your name?"
"Clarke, sir." The solider saluted. "Private Simon Clarke of the 40th Regiment Royal Artillery, sir."
"Do you have anyone to talk to back home, Simon? Mum, Da? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?"
"No, sir. All of my relatives passed on when I was very young. I was raised in an orphanage, sir."
John felt troubled. This guy couldn't have been much older than 20, recently joined the ranks if he could guess. No family, no friends going into the military on your own can be rough. "Look, I know a good camp doctor, a good friend of mine that you could talk to about any problems you're having." Without another word he took a piece of scrap paper and a pen and scribbled down the information for Simon and passed it to him. "What set you off anyway? Don't like these blankets?" John laughed, trying to make light of the mood now.
Simon Clarke's face was serious and did not join in John's laughter. "No, that wasn't it. I thought I saw something on your back."