Before Falling yet After Drowning

Chapter Five

When John opened his eyes, he was no longer in his flat on Baker Street. Instead, he found himself in an concrete room, alone save for Sherlock and the Doctor. There was a cool breeze, and John hugged his arms, wishing he had his jacket. But his jacket was still at the flat. The question was, why wasn't he? He turned to Sherlock, demanding an explanation. "How're we...the flat. We were in the flat, and now we're here..." 

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied impatiently, pacing across the room.  

"Where exactly-" John began. 

"We're under a river. You can tell by the breeze, plus the concrete, hinting towards water. Also, there's a change in pressure, meaning we're underground. Which river, I'm unsure, because it seems quite impossible for us to be here anyways. Which, perhaps, the Doctor might shed some light on." Sherlock turned toward the Doctor, who stood to the side, resting his head against the wall. 

"Weeping Angels," he intoned, his voice muffled against the concrete in front of his face.  

"Come again?" Asked John.  

"Weeping Angels," the Doctor said again, spinning away from the wall and whipping out the strange device from his pocket. He pushed the button so that the tip glowed green, and proceeded to wave it around the room like a wand. He then flicked it back toward him so that the top extended, and tilted his head so that it appeared as though he was reading something off of it.  

The Doctor noticed John's confused stare and elaborated. "They're aliens. Kindest killers in the universe. Quantum locked, so that they can only move when you turn your back." 

"Or blink," Sherlock offered from across the room, where he was inspecting the floor.  

"Yes, or blink. An angel touches you, they displace you in time. They can send you anywhere or anywhen in the universe, and then they'll feed off of the life you might've had." 

John shook his head, trying to comprehend what the Doctor was saying.  

Sherlock's voice came again. "You said before that they were coming for you. Why?" 

"Before?" John put in before the Doctor could form an answer. Sherlock quickly told him of their venture to the TARDIS. "And you believe him?" John asked incredulously.  

Sherlock straightened up to his full height from the floor. "Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." 

"How poetic of you." John rolled his eyes. "But we don't have time for poetry. If you don't mind my amateur deductions, I'd say that we're in some sort of holding cell. Who wants to capture us, exactly?" 

"Well," Sherlock replied. "It might help to know where we are, since we might be anywhere in existence. What do your readings say?" 

"Hmm?" Asked the Doctor, momentarily zoning out. "Oh yes. We are under a river, like you said. The River Thames. The year's still the same as it was before: 2012." 

"But there's nothing under the River Thames," Sherlock argued. And nobody knew maps like he did.  

"Under the River Thames, under the River Thames..." The Doctor muttered to himself, looking down as he fidgeted with his device. "Oh." 

"What?" John asked, his patience wearing thin. He couldn't keep up with how fast these other two men's trains of thought seemed to be rocketing.  

"Torchwood," the Doctor exhaled. 

John had no idea what he was talking about, and evidently neither did Sherlock. 

"Sort of a defense system against extraterrestrial threats, but they were supposed to've dissolved after the Battle of Canary Wharf. Used to know someone who worked there. Haven't seen him in awhile. Not since Donna..." He trailed off. 

"So what do they want with us?" Sherlock questioned. "We're obviously their prisoners." 

"Good question. You always are so great with interrogations." 

John turned, puzzled. The voice wasn't the Doctor's, and he hadn't said anything. It was high and soft. John would know it anywhere.  

"Did you miss me, boys? Because we do always have so much fun. And look, you've even brought me my dear friend, the Doctor. How've you been? Long time, no see." 

John glanced at the Doctor. How did he know Moriarty? But the Doctor looked just as confused. "Who are you? Because I've never met you in my life. Well, I might've met you, but I'm a busy person, so it's sort of tricky just to identify someone over their voice on an intercom. They always do jumble things up." 

"Oh, silly Doctor. But of course you've met me. Just not with this face. In fact, I haven't even seen yours before. Did you try not to have eyebrows on purpose?" 

"It wasn't my choice," the Doctor grumbled. "What do you mean, I've met you before? My address book isn't exactly full of people who change their faces. In fact, I don't even own an address book, come to think of it. I really should get one." 

"Enough with the chatter," Moriarty's voice boomed. "Now, I need to have a private conversation with you, Doctor. I hope you don't find it rude, boys, but it's just not for your ears. Don't worry, Sherlock, it'll be your turn to talk to daddy soon enough." 

With that, the voice went silent. John looked around the room, but couldn't find a door. Or a window. Or any way that they might possibly escape. So he jumped back in surprise when part of the wall moved backwards like a panel and slid away.  

A man stepped through the opening. The Doctor made to reach his hand into his pocket, but the man in the doorway quickly pulled out a gun and trained it on his head. The Doctor raised his hands in surrender.  

The man made some clicking noises with his mouth, followed by a guttural moan. John scrunched his eyebrows, but the Doctor seemed to understand. Straightening his bow tie, he followed the man out of the doorway. Just as he was about to go through, he turned back to tell them one last thing. "Don't worry, I'll be back. Always am. And if I'm not, well- there's a great chance that the universe might've exploded, in which case you needn't worry." 

The man prodded him with the gun, motioning him forward. The Doctor grinned. "Trust me," he said as the door slid shut. "I'm the Doctor.