Work Text:
John lowered the paper as the flickering image appeared in the flat. “It’s happening again, Sherlock.”
Sherlock grumbled from the kitchen. “Mycroft says it has something to do with Torchwood.”
“What’s Torchwood?”
Sherlock ignored the question and picked up a beaker of something green. John sighed and tried to ignore the apparition, sipping his tea instead.
The image started to coalesce. John set down his tea hard enough to rattle. The flat filled with the sound of clanging boots as John shot to his feet and went for his gun, heart in his throat. Breaking glass told him Sherlock was scrambling to get out of the way as the creature raised a menacing hand and pointed it at him.
John fired, then hit the deck as the bullet ricocheted off. The creature stomped towards Sherlock, cornered in the kitchen. Heart racing, John made a valiant effort to tackle it; he might as well try tackling an automobile for all the good it did.
Hitting the floor with a grunt, John heard a clang as Sherlock hit the creature with something. Searching for a weapon, John’s hand landed on a cricket bat they had lying around from a case. “Call Mycroft,” shouted Sherlock.
“Bit busy,” growled John, swinging the bat with all his might. The thing pivoted and backhanded John, sending him flying across the room into a shelf. John struggled to stay conscious. Sherlock’s feet kicked against the floor as the metal monster dragged him towards the door. John’s hand found the gun and shot it in the back, but still to no effect. Despite his efforts he passed out just as the creature went out the door with Sherlock in its hands.
John slowly climbed his way back to consciousness. He opened his eyes with a groan, then sat up in a panic before grabbing his head again and trying to breath. He could feel a crusting cut and slowly opened his eyes. Mycroft was standing over him, umbrella tucked under an arm, watching him. John was almost surprised to see the worry in his eyes, but it was quickly gone when he realized John’s eyes were focusing on him. “Good, you’re awake.” He drew back as John got to his feet.
“They took Sherlock,” said John as Mrs. Hudson pressed a cup of tea into his hand.
“I know,” said Mycroft. “How is your head?”
“Probably a minor concussion. I need to get him back.”
“You will,” said Mycroft with absolute faith that settled John’s spirit.
John nodded and raised his head, setting his jaw. “My gun didn’t work on it though.”
“This will.” Mycroft handed him what looked like a small pistol. “They’re called Cybermen, and this was built to incapacitate them.”
“That’s what they’re called? Suppose that makes sense. If you’re here, did Sherlock get a message to you?”
“Yes. He and a few others are being held at the Allsop Arms.” For a heartbeat, fear crossed Mycroft face. “The Cybermen are setting up some machinery.”
“That can’t be good,” John checked the weapon, putting his mind into battle mode. He looked back up at Mycroft. “I’ll go get him.”
“I know. Most of the Cybermen are converging on Canary Wharf. The ones on the street won’t bother you as long as you don’t engage them.”
“Understood.” John gave a curt nod and hurried out the door.
As John walked quickly towards the pub, he wondered what on Earth Sherlock was making of these creatures. Their sudden appearance had been bothering the detective more than he would admit. Sherlock Holmes was a very pragmatic man; a sudden display of ghost-like creatures was not part of his world.
The few Cybermen on the street seemed to be watching towards city center. Still, John stuck to cover as much as he could, trying not to invite suspicion. People were still on the streets, but they moved quickly and with their heads down, hurrying to their destinations. When he reached the pub, the door hung loose on its hinges. Weapon at the ready, John stepped inside and looked around for any sign of where they might be. A blood curdling scream rose from the basement.
Heedless, John threw himself down the stairs and around a corner. Five Cybermen, he quickly counted. One by a pile of machinery, the other four by the handful of prisoners, including Sherlock. Three of them raised their arms to aim at John.
John fired faster. The first one hit, but the gun had kick and he missed the second target. The next two fell in quick succession as he used the door for cover. One of the prisoners tried to run, quickly shot by a Cyberman. John hit it right between the eyes and moved into the room to take out the last one, heart thudding in his ears.
“Delete,” it said mechanically as it raised its weapon. John pulled the trigger and nothing happened.
“Blood hell,” he muttered, ducking to the side just in time to avoid the blast.
He rolled awkwardly to his feet as a robotic scream filled the room. Sherlock stood behind the creature, electrocuting it with wires. The other prisoners ran off as it fell over.
“Sherlock!” John hurried to his side. Sherlock looked paler than usual as John quickly checked him for injuries.
“I am fine, John,” said Sherlock shortly, turning to the machinery.
John followed his gaze, reaching instinctively for the man there until he saw the damage. Despite war and battles and training, his stomach lurched at the sight of a man with half his brain removed and several mechanical parts shoved into him. He swallowed hard and took Sherlock’s arm instead. ”Nothing we can do for him. Let’s go.” He steered Sherlock out of the room and towards the stairs, only letting go as Sherlock hurried up them.
He checked the weapon as he followed Sherlock up. It looked like it might be recharging on its own. As they stepped out of the pub they found more Cybermen in the streets, heading towards the city center. “Mycroft said it was something to do with Canary Wharf.”
“Yes, I did say Torchwood, didn’t I?” Sherlock watched the metal men march by.
“Still haven’t explained what that is,” grumbled John. “Let’s get back to the flat.”
Only a block towards home there was a loud noise in the sky. John gaped at the creatures until he saw they’d started shooting. The Cybermen turned and started firing back. Gritting his teeth, John tugged Sherlock into an alley and behind him, crouching with the gun. Metal screams filled the air.
“Exterminate!”
“Delete.”
“Jesus, attack of the metal space aliens and we’re in the middle of it,” muttered John, watching as they fired at one another. “At least we can lay low, stay out of the crossfire.”
“John,” Sherlock hissed from behind him.
Swinging around and standing, John saw one of the new creatures entering the far end of the alley. He took a step towards it and raised his gun, praying it was charged enough by now. “Extermi…” John fired and the thing sagged, clearly dead.
Pressing closer to where Sherlock crouched, John stood over him with the pistol cocked, hands close to his chest. A strange sound broke across the sky, turning into a cacophony as all the strange creatures seemed to get picked up and sucked into the sky while they watched in wonder.
Finally the noises stopped. Remembering to breathe normally, John helped Sherlock to his feet, keeping the weapon at the ready. “I don’t know what the hell that was, but I think they’ve gone.”
Sherlock merely nodded, staying close to John as they made their way back to the flat as quick as they could. Hurrying up the stairs they found Mycroft sipping tea with Mrs. Hudson as if the world hadn’t nearly ended ten minutes earlier. “I’ll be needing that gun back now, John,” he said as the pair came in.
John shook his head. “No thank you. I’ll be keeping it, just in case.”
Mycroft met his eyes for a few long moments. “Very well, but don’t let Sherlock experiment on it.”
Sherlock’s eyes brightened. John held the gun a little closer to himself. “I’ll mind it,” said John.
“Of course.” Mycroft looked his brother over, no doubt making sure he was okay in his own way. Mrs. Hudson handed John a cup of tea.
“Don’t suppose you care to explain what just happened?” asked John.
“Can’t. Anyway, I must be going, thank you for the tea Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock, good to see you in one piece.”
Sherlock gave him a look, but picked up his own tea. John shook his head and sat in his chair. “So what is Torchwood?” he asked after Mycroft left.
“Not important at this time,” said Sherlock, settling into his chair with his cup.
“Of course,” muttered John, looking at the strange gun. At least if this happened again, he’d be a little better prepared.