Out Of The Vortex: The Darkest Days

Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the original characters or concepts from any of these universes. I do own Mira. Faith Harkness is conceptualized by Rachel Brook and is used with permission. Susan Olivier and Violet Conway are OCs created by Anna Morris and Mary Kate Daily respectively, and are also used with permission. This is purely for entertainment. Do not sue my ass.


Partings and Introductions


Manchester, England: December 10, 2011

"Mira? Mira, talk to me."

The Doctor held the young woman's head out of the pool of blood that spread around her body, paying no mind to how it was staining his leather jacket. This was not how it was supposed to happen.

"It's. . . ok, Doctor," she murmured. "I was. . . A fool to try to take them. . . On by myself."

He shook his head sadly. "There's been too much death today. You've got to try and regenerate again."

She sighed, her slanted eyes closing slowly. "Not enough time. I'm only human, after all."

"No. No, you are so much more than that. Come on, Mira! You have to. We need you. Without you, they'll win."

She smiled sadly at him. "My dear Doctor. . . They won before we even started fighting. And I am tired. I want to see him. . . Again. . ."

With that, she gasped, collapsing in his arms.

The Doctor looked at Violet, who was shaking slightly, her eyes wide with pain and fear.

"We should never have tried to do this," she whispered. "Not without the others."

He nodded. "You're right, of course. Jack would have been a big help today, for all his buggery. He's a good soldier, when he doesn't run."

"What are we going to do now?"

He thought, his crystal eyes glowing with pain and anger. He thought of the young man who had stabbed Mira, of the enemies who had begun to unravel his plans, destroy the people he loved. He thought of Rose, alone and defenseless in London.

His scowl changed quickly, too quickly, to a grin.

"Well, no time to dally! We've got work to do."


221B Baker Street, London: 12 December 2011

As the rather battered and emotionally scarred team stood in the little flat, no words were spoken at first. Gwen looked around at the people she had grown close to, wondering what exactly had happened to all of them in Egypt. Not a one of them had come back unchanged.

Faith was probably the worst off. The immortal girl's characteristic cheer and calm had been replaced with a haunted look that changed to intense guilt every time she looked at Jack. It didn't take a mind reader to know that something truly terrible had happened between them.

Susan was perched on the couch, bags of sleeplessness under her eyes. Gwen knew that things between her and the chaotic John Hart had always been tense, but now Susan seamed as unstable as the maniac himself, who was also oddly silent.

She glanced over at Romana, who was talking quietly to John Watson in a corner of the room. She couldn't make out a lot of what was said, but she heard the words "Sherlock" and "another chance." The sad-faced young man was clearly having none of this.

Sherlock and Lestrade were standing in opposite sides of the room playing a rousing game of "not looking at you." She suspected that there was more going on there than either would admit, but she did not have time to analyze it before a hand on her shoulder made her jump.

"Easy," said Jack, smiling wearily at her. "It's just me."

"Jack." She smiled back at him. "Are you. . . Alright?"

He shrugged. "Don't worry about me. I've had worse."

He was lying. She rolled her eyes.

"So what are we going to do now? If what Lestrade said was true, and the Doctor really has turned against us –"

His eyes darkened. "What's this we business?"

She stared at him in shock. "What do you mean? We're a team, aren't we? I –"

"Not any more." He bit his bottom lip. It was subtle, but she could tell he was having some problems with this.

"Jack? Please, I can help."

"Go home, Gwen." He stared at her, eyes pleading. "Please, just go home. It won't be safe."

"It never is. But I'm not leaving you, Jack."

"Yes you are. That's an order. Go home and don't come back. I won't. . . I can't. . ."

She pulled him into a tight hug. "You aren't going to. Jack, you know I'd follow you anywhere. But if this is what you really want, I'll leave."

She smirked. "But if you don't come back this time, I swear to God I will track you down and kill you myself, immortality or not."

He laughed. "I'd like to see you try."

St. Athans Hotel, London: Same Day

"Well, this sucks."

Alyssa Byrne sighed to herself, rummaging through her carry-on. Heathrow had managed to lose her checked luggage, so all the plucky young student from Michigan had with her was her laptop and the contents of this bag.

She took stock of her situation: At least she had a toothbrush and a spare shirt, her money, and her passport. Things could be worse.

"I guess I'll just have to wait it out," she muttered, staring out the grungy window of her private apartment.

She had wanted an adventure, so in that regard things were off to a great start. She would hit the museums in the morning, she decided, and perhaps stop by the historic district. After all, her visa was only good for a couple months, and there was a lot of city to see.

But while she was still pondering her itinerary, she received a knock on her door. This startled her. She didn't know anyone in London.

"Yeah?" she asked, opening the door.

A tall man with short hair in a black leather jacket brushed her aside, wandering into the room and scanning it with some sort of strange flashlight thing.

"Yes, this will do nicely," he said, smiling goofily at her. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you're going to have to leave. Mixup with the keys and all that. Plus there are rats. Big ones."

"What?" She stared at the man in shock. "I'm not going anywhere!"

"Oh yes you are. Violet?"

A sheepish young woman with flaming red hair appeared in the doorway. "Yes, Doctor?"

"Please escort Miss — I'm sorry, what was your name?"

"Al, but I don't see –"

"Yes. Lovely name. Rather androgynous. I like it. Please escort Miss Al off the premises."

Violet grabbed her with more strength that she expected. "This way."

"Hey! But wait, I –"

Violet smiled kindly at her. "Trust me, it's for the best. He's not in a good mood right now, and well, the rats."

Then the door was locked in her face.

"But my bag," she whined to herself. Now she really had nothing. She wandered down the street, thumbs in her pockets.

"I should probably go to the police," she mused.