"Someone's done a search on Torchwood, Jack," Gwen announced, leaning back in her chair with a frown. Jack moved across to stand at her shoulder, giving a shrug.
"People always search for us – no-one ever finds anything," he said dismissively, blue eyes passing over the screen nonetheless. He frowned, bending closer. He tapped at a few keys, looking back at the screen and then straightened up with a huff. "Okay, so these guys really want to find us," the Captain allowed. "Run a search on them, Gwen – we'll have to restrict their access and re-do the security on any London records – I think there are still some old police reports on One floating around."
"There are," Gwen confirmed, making no move to use the keyboard despite Jack's order. "They've got them."
"What?" Jack's face was priceless; if the situation hadn't been so serious she'd have laughed but somehow, information about their organisation had leaked into unknown hands and lord knew what would happen as a result. "How?" He was as indignant as he was surprised and the man straightened, letting out a frustrated sigh. "One was never any good – sloppy, you see? Run a search on them, Gwen, now. We'll have to get down there – Retcon them."
He'd hurried away before Gwen could say anything, heading to his office and contacting Ianto with his headpiece. Gwen turned back to her screen and hit a few keys, running the trace and watching intently as the programme picked the information apart. It was taking a little longer than usual and the woman was growing impatient when it beeped and flashed up with a message; no record found.
"Wha-? Jack! I think you need to see this," she called, typing in a command for the search to run a second time. This one didn't last as long and by the time Jack had descended from his office the screen was flashing again; no record found.
Jack blinked. "Impossible," he said, leaning over to run it himself. "There's always a record – they were searching for us, there has to be some sort of trace." But again the computer yielded nothing and Jack scowled. "We'll have to do it the hard way," he muttered, stalking over to a different computer and typing furiously at the pad. He left the thing scrolling through endless bytes of information to fetch a small box Gwen had never seen before, plugging the thing in.
"What's that?" she asked, walking over and peering at it interestedly.
"A Tracker," Jack replied distractedly, typing away again and synchronising the two with a complicated-looking keycode. "Doesn't get invented here for another two hundred years or so, but this one's slightly different – comes from a parallel universe, so it's got a wider scope. It'll take longer but it'll give us more definite data. I'd use the other one but if these people can block our trace they might be expecting it; they won't have a clue about this."
Ianto arrived as the scan was still running, looking as unharried as ever and for all the world as though he didn't mind being interrupted during his first day off in what Gwen guessed was about three years. "Coffee?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.
"No time," Jack said as the Tracker beeped. He disconnected the two and stuffed the object in a pocket, jerking his head at Gwen. "Come on."
He made for the door, Gwen on his heels; Ianto was already on his way out, twirling the keys of the SUV in his fingers. "Where're we headed?"
Ianto tried not to smile; home.
John Watson glanced up, irritated, as Sherlock's phone vibrated again. "Sherlock-" he began firmly, but his flatmate cut him off with a quick screech of particularly unpleasant notes from the violin.
"No," the detective replied petulantly. "If it was really important he'd get my attention somehow. No point in bothering with a whole phone call."
"But that's the sixth time he's rung in..." Doctor Watson craned his neck to check the time on the kitchen clock. "Nine minutes. It must be something important – he might have a case."
"I don't want his cases," Sherlock retorted with a scowl, despite having moaned for the last week and a half that he'd sacrifice his right hand for a decent murder. Criminals, he'd said, were not what they used to be. The phone had stopped vibrating and Sherlock's eyes slid shut on the world, his fingers moving along the strings of his violin though he didn't move to use the bow. Evidently he was playing something only he could hear, and John turned back to his blog when his own phone sounded; a text message.
He opened it, not surprised to find that it was from the very man trying to get hold of Sherlock.
Tell him to be careful. You're being watched.
"I don't care, John," Sherlock told him dismissively. "Text him back and tell him, would you? Only he might listen if it comes from you."
"Tell him yourself," John retorted with a scowl. "And I think this might interest you – he says we're being watched."
"Really?" Sherlock intoned, ever-bored. "No surprises there, John; that man's been watching me since the day I was born, or hadn't you noticed the cameras?"
"No, I-wait, what cameras?" The Doctor's expression was one of perfect surprise though it slowly mixed in with horror. "Cameras? Here? In 221b?"
"Don't be so simple, John," Sherlock scolded with an irritated sigh. "The cameras are outside – on the building opposite and the cafe downstairs. He only has bugs in here."
"Bugs?" John repeated, still looking quite startled. "Why don't you just get rid of them?"
"He puts them back," Sherlock said simply. "Besides, I like being able to insult him whenever I please. Fat git."
John's phoned beeped again and he looked down t it, opening the message.
It's a safety precaution, Dr Watson; you know what he's like. Tell him it's not me this time, it's Torchwood. They're coming and there's little I can do to stop them, I'm afraid.
"Sherlock, they're coming," John informed his flatmate dutifully.