Unfinished Business: A Tale of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

Chapter One: Special Assignments

The TARDIS: Everywhere, everywhen

"Family is important." The Doctor murmured to himself, then shook his head. The fact was, he missed Donna. For some reason, of all the fellow-travellers he'd ever had, Donna seemed to fill the TARDIS more than any other. It wasn't just the fact that she was tall and loud, but she had so much energy and force. Still, the chance for a holiday in Malta with her mother and grandfather was something she didn't want to miss, so he'd sent her on her way, promising to come back for her in two weeks time.

"Anyway," he opined, "It gives me a bit of time to myself. Now, where shall I go? When shall I go?"

"To Earth," a pleasant voice replied, "You must go to Earth, Doctor."

The Doctor spun to face the speaker. The creature was humanoid in shape, but it's head was hairless, and instead of a mouth it had a mass of short tentacles. The down-slanted eyes regarded the Doctor with a familiar kindly patience. The being wore a black coverall with a Greek letter stencilled on the chest, and held a small white globe in one hand.

"Ood Sigma!" said the Doctor, "How did you get in here?"

The white globe flashed, the pleasant voice issuing from it: "That does not matter. The Ood Mind has sensed a discordance in the Song. That which you placed within the Vault is active again. Soon they will be strong enough to leave.

"Doctor, you must go to Earth. You must join the League. The TARDIS knows where and when."

Ood Sigma vanished. The Doctor stared for a moment, then shook his head, "Unfinished business!" Then he patted the control console, "Let's go, old girl!"

The TARDIS engines began to whirr.

Vie de Marlie: May 15 2011

The neon sign outside read Devil May Cry and was adorned with the outline of a shapely, reclining woman. Inside, the place looked like a cross between a sleazy bar, a shop and a crazed aristocrat's trophy-room. There were a couple of rickety round tables with spindly chairs drawn around them. There was a well-used pool table off to one side and a classic 1950's style jukebox in a corner. The walls were decorated with a selection of photographs, antique weapons and skulls. The skulls belonged to no animals, or creatures, known to zoology, and most people would take them for clever fakes. They weren't.

The place was bizarre, and empty, but Dante didn't mind. He was leaning back in his old office chair, his feet on the desk, beer and pizza within reach, taking advantage of a rare quiet time in the demon-hunting business. As he flicked through a new Guns & Ammo, he heard the bell on the door jangle as it opened. He didn't look up, Trish was due back any minute. He wasn't even bothered when he didn't hear footsteps – Trish moved as quietly as he did. But the shadow that fell across his magazine was not hers.

Dante looked up. His visitor was a tall, broad-shouldered man, wearing an expensive camel overcoat open to reveal a flawlessly-cut blue suit, spotless white shirt and an Old Etonian tie. The man looked to be in his seventies, but his rugged face was still handsome, the cold blue eyes still piercing and the iron-grey hair still thick, an obstinate lock falling across the forehead like a comma.

"Can I help you?" Dante asked, "If you need the bathroom, the toilet's in the back."

"You're Dante." It was not a question. "My name is Bond, James Bond."

Dante raised an eyebrow. "Thought you'd hung it up a while back, pal." He said with a grin. "And even if you hadn't, we're hardly in the same line of work."

Bond smiled grimly. "Some things are important enough to come back for." He replied. "And lines sometimes cross. Do you know what 'Bad Wolf' means?"

Dante's feet came off the desk and he leaned forward, suddenly tense. "When and where?" he asked simply.

Bond produced a manila envelope and dropped it on the desk: "Instructions inside, along with an open-ended Business Class ticket to London Heathrow. See you there."

Atlantis, San Francisco Bay, May 16 2011

Dr Daniel Jackson had rarely been so happy. The original Atlantis Expedition had done their best with the Ancient database, but they had had to concentrate on what they needed to survive. But with Atlantis safely parked outside San Francisco Naval Base, Daniel had all the time in the world to study. He was poring over a laptop download when a familiar voice remarked:

"We could stand here all day, and he wouldn't notice."

Daniel twisted round, his face lighting with a grin: "Jack!" he exclaimed. "What brings you to Atlantis?"

Daniel got up and went over to shake his old friend's hand firmly. Jack hadn't changed much, but there was a tiredness around his eyes that had never been there when he was on active service.

"I thought they had you chained to a desk in Washington?" Daniel went on.

Jack shrugged. "They let me out from time to time. How about you? How's this place shaping up?"

Daniel looked around. "Pretty cool. Those ZPG's the Nox found for us have pretty much brought the whole city online again. We could take her out into space, but it works out better to have it here, and there's more than enough power to keep us cloaked.

"And this database is incredible! The information in here could solve a lot of problems. There's a device that..."

"Great, great!" Jack interrupted, sensing a technical vocabulary coming on. "But there are some problems this place won't solve, Daniel."

Daniel looked shrewdly at his old commander. "This isn't a social call, is it?"

Jack shook his head, then gestured to the tall black woman in an unfamiliar uniform who had been standing quietly by the door. "Daniel, this is Captain Erisa Magambo of the Unified Intelligence Taskforce. She needs your help."

Captain Magambo shook Daniels' hand, then said gravely. "I'll be honest with you, Dr Jackson, this will not be a simple translation job. This will be as dangerous as anything you've faced as a member of SG-1."

"Whoa!" said Daniel. "I'm not a soldier, I'm an archaeologist. I just got settled in here, and you want me out in the field again?"

"The assignment is not off-world," Magambo told him, "But it does require your specific skillset, Dr Jackson. It's entirely voluntary, but all I can tell you before you decide is that the future of the world may depend upon it."

"Jack?" Daniel asked.

"I know, I know," Jack sighed. "But the Captain's right, Daniel. She came to me for help, and when she told me what she needed, I knew you were the guy for the job."

Oh, crap! Daniel thought, but he said, "OK, I guess I'm in." If Jack thought this was important, then it had to be.

Magambo smiled. "Thank you, Dr Jackson. Now, we have a UNIT transport ready to leave for London as soon as you can pack!"

NCIS Headquarters, Washington DC, May 16 2011

Ziva was checking her emails, McGee was finishing up a case report and DiNozzo was trying to look as if he was working, when Gibbs strode into the room.

"MTAC. Now." he said.

Ducky, Abby and Director Vance were already there, as soon as the others came in, Vance ordered the technicians out.

"Hook us up, McGee." said Gibbs.

The image that appeared on the big screen was of an old-fashioned office, all oak panelling and framed photographs. Sitting behind a large desk was an elderly man in a dark suit. His face was sharp, predatory, and his eyes gleamed with a quick intelligence.

"Director Vance." he said, in the accents of the English gentry.

"Sir John." Vance nodded.

"Gunnery-Sergeant Gibbs, nice to see you again." the Englishman went on.

"Colonel Steed, it's been a while." Gibbs responded, with more respect in his tone than most of his team had ever heard.

"What can we do for you, Sir John?" Vance asked. "What's so important that you meed to pull all of my Major Case Team away from their phones?"

Steed looked grim. "I can't go into details, Leon. I really only needed to speak to Agent David, but as this team is such a tight-knit one, I thought it better to let all of them know."

"What do you want with me?" Ziva wanted to know.

"I need your help." Steed told her. "In fact the whole world needs your help, Miss David. I'm putting together a special unit, and we stand in need of your specific skillset. I'm asking for you to be seconded to us for a few days.

"The unit will be based here in London, and we need you here as soon as possible."

Ziva looked at Gibbs, who shrugged and said, "Up to you, Ziva."

Ziva turned to Steed. "With respect, Colonel, I'd need to know more. Just how important is this?"

Steed nodded. "Quite so." then instead of answering her, he turned to Gibbs. "Bad Wolf." he said quietly.

There was a sudden silence, in which the only sound was the hiss of Ducky's indrawn breath. McGee stiffened, more alert than Ziva had ever seen him. Tony and Abby looked as puzzled as Ziva felt. Gibbs and Vance exchanged a single glance, then Gibbs turned back to Ziva, his face grim, eyes intense. "It's as important as it can be, Ziva. More important than anything you've done before or will ever do again."

Ziva David had learned many lessons since she had first encountered NCIS. Perhaps the most important of them was to trust absolutely the judgement of one Leroy Jethro Gibbs. She turned to the screen. "I'm in." she said.

Steed sighed. "Thank you, Agent David. I'm emailing joining instructions to you. I'll see you soon. Gunnery Sergeant, Director, thank you for your time. I'll keep you both posted."

The main screen went dark. McGee, whose fingers had been flying across the keyboard in front of him, turned to Ziva. "There's a flight leaving Dulles for Heathrow in three hours, I've booked you a ticket, business class."

"You've got that long to pick up your orders and pack," Gibbs told her, "Good luck, Ziva."

"What," demanded Tony, "Does 'Bad Wolf' mean?"

"It means trouble." Gibbs stated. "And that's all you need to know, Tony."

"And as much as any sane man would want to know." Ducky added.

The team filed out. McGee was the last, and as he left MTAC, Abby pounced on him. "Timmy, you need to tell me about Bad Wolf! You might as well tell me, because you know I'm going to find out!"

McGee shook his head. "Not this time Abby," he said quietly, "I won't – can't – tell you, and it's not on any system you could get into. Don't waste your time trying."

McGee's boyish face was grim and set, and his usually open, kind eyes were as icy as Gibbs'. For once in her life, Abby Schuto backed off.

Stark Long Island, New York, May 16th 2011

Anthony Stark considered the holographic blueprint that hung in the air in front of him. There, he thought, and there. That would maximise output and minimise weight, the thing had to be portable for use in the field.

"Mr Stark?" It was the voice of his PA, the motherly Mrs Arbogast. "I have a video call from Sir John Steed in London, on the secure line."

"Put it though." Stark told her. The blueprint disappeared, to be replaced by the semi-transparent image of Steed.

"Mr Stark, thank you for taking my call."

"Any time, Sir John," Stark grinned, "You wouldn't call if it wasn't urgent or important. What do you need me to build for Her Majesty's Government?"

Steed gave a grim smile. "It's not so much your devices I need as yourself, Tony." he said, "I'm putting a team together for a very special job, and they'll need technical support – the best technical support they can get. That, my friend, means you!"

Stark raised an eyebrow. "Just how big is this job?"

"As big as it could possibly be." Steed told him. "The potential ramifications are beyond global. Also, the job may have certain other aspects to which you might be well suited, if you take my meaning."

"That sounds interesting," Stark nodded. "Anything else I should know?"

"It's related to the 2008 'planets in the sky' incident. Need I say more?"

Stark's face went grim. "I'll be in London tonight!" he stated.

Steen nodded. "Thank you. See you soon."

The call ended. "Mrs Arbogast," Stark said briskly, "Get my jet warmed up. I need to be in London as soon as possible. Call Stark Coventry and tell them I need a full Alpha-class support unit ready to roll at Heathrow by the morning – one with the War Machine mod installed.

"Then call the Mansion and tell them I'll be out of town for a while."

Paris, France, May 16th 2011

Duncan was heading back to his houseboat with fresh croissants for breakfast – one of the privileges of living here which he exercised on a daily basis. This early in the morning, Paris was half-awake at best, with only the little patisseries and boulangeries, and perhaps one or two of the smaller brasseries open. The streets were almost empty, so it was a surprise to see someone waiting on the bank beside his boat.

There was no feeling coming from the man, so he wasn't one of Duncan's kind. As he came closer, the Highlander noted that the stranger was elderly, though upright and fit-looking. He was impeccably dressed and faced Duncan squarely, waiting until he came within easy speaking distance before asking, in English:

"Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod? Known as the Highlander?"

"That depends on who's asking." Duncan replied. "Are you a Watcher?"

"No, my name's Bond. I work for Sir John Steed."

That name got Duncan's attention. He had worked both with and for John Steed in the past.

"You'd better come aboard." He said.

It was clear that Bond appreciated both the fresh coffee and the still-warm croissants. Old school, Duncan thought, Public school, cultured tastes. Officer class.

"So," he said, "what does Sir John want? He wouldn't have sent you all this way just to have breakfast and say hello. He has better ways of checking on people."

"He needs your help." Bond said. "He's putting together a team of special people, and he wants you to be part of it."

"What's the job?" Duncan asked.

Bond shrugged. "I can't say, but Sir John told me to ask if you remembered the pyramid in Yucatan?"

Duncan shuddered involuntarily, then nodded. "That was a bad business. Is this more of the same?"

"I was told to say that it could be worse, unless we act fast. Can you be in London tomorrow?"

Duncan got to his feet. "I can be in London on the next flight, if I have to. Where do you need me?"

Bond handed him an envelope: "Everything's in there. I have some things to do now, but I'll see you in London tomorrow."

12 Grimmauld Place, London, 17th May 2011

After so many years of being a wizard, and living in their world, Harry Potter thought he might have lost the capacity to be surprised by now. However, as he stood at the kitchen door, watching the orderly chaos of family breakfast, he realised he hadn't. It wasn't simply the fact that the house no longer deserved its name, either. The gloomy old town-house left him by his godfather had indeed been transformed by the red-haired whirlwind that was Harry's wife, Ginny, into a cosy, welcoming home, but Harry knew Ginny of old, and had expected nothing less of her.

What surprised him was the seamless way in which Ginny and the old house-elf Kreacher worked together. Harry had inherited Kreacher with the house and at first they hadn't been friends. Later, their relationship had improved, and with it, Kreacher's behaviour. But Ginny's family, the Weasleys, had never had a house-elf, and Ginny had been brought up to do things for herself. Harry had tried to set Kreacher free, as much to avoid domestic fireworks as at the strident urgings of his friend and sister-in-law, Hermione Weasley. But the house-elf had been so upset, had cried so piteously at the very suggestion, that Harry had been unable to do it. He had set himself for some discord.

He needn't have worried. As he watched, the two worked together in a way that had begun the day Harry brought his new wife home from their honeymoon. Ginny supervised the three children, dispensing milk and fruit juice, cereals and toast, heading off squabbles, listening and responding to the endless chatter and generally keeping order. Meanwhile, Kreacher busied himself with coffee, tea, bacon, eggs, sausages and fried bread.

"Harry!" Ginny called, "Don't stand there with your beard in the door! Come and sit down! Kreacher, Master is here."

"Yes Mistress, all is ready!" Kreacher croaked, and scuttled to the table, somehow balancing two cooked breakfasts, a mug of tea and one of coffee. Harry and Ginny sat down and began to eat.

"Auntie Hermione says she doesn't know how Mum keeps her figure, eating like that," announced 8-year-old James.

"Hmph!" Ginny snorted. "Auntie Hermione could do to put on a few pounds herself! She's a married woman and a mother, not some Muggle supermodel!"

"Your mum," Harry told the boy, "Is a bottomless pit, like your Uncle Ron - and you!"

"And what about you, Mr Hollow-Legs?" retorted Ginny. Then, without missing a beat, she went on, "Now, you're all set for this, right? I've left you plenty of clean clothes and we're all stocked up, so you won't need to do any shopping."

"Yeah, fine," said Harry, "All I have to worry about is some mysterious classified mission and the chance of getting killed!"

Ginny snorted again. "Fat chance! The man who survived six attempts on his life by the late and unlamented Lord Voldemort isn't likely to get killed on some little Ministry job! I swear, I don't even know why you bothered taking out insurance.

"Harry," she went on in a softer tone, "You worry too much, you always have. It'll be some silly thing to do with the Muggle police, probably. Kingsley pulled you in because you're senior enough not to annoy whatever officer they've got dealing with it, and because you know enough about Muggles not to make a plonker of yourself dealing with them.

"Look, either some Muggle crook has got into a wizard place and got himself stuck or, more likely, Mundungus Fletcher or some of his mates have stolen something from an important Muggle. That'd be why they want you to work from here, probably, it's sort of between both places."

"OK, OK," Harry left it. "Are you and the kids all packed and everything?"

"Yeah, we just have to grab our bags and Floo over to the Burrow. I can owl my work to the Prophet from there as easily as from here." Ginny was Quidditch correspondent for the Daily Prophet, a logical step now she had retired from playing, and mostly worked from home. Harry thought it was great, especially since it meant free tickets to every major League game! Ginny thought it was typical of Harry not to realise – or even imagine - that the extra, prime seat, tickets came to them more because he was the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, than because of her job. She'd never said anything because if Harry found out, he'd insist on paying for the tickets. Ginny had been brought up in a poor family and new the value of a freebie! Anyway, she always felt that Harry refused, on principle, a lot of things he deserved, given his achievements.

"Right!" she said firmly, "You'd best get off love. I'll see you in a week, OK? Kreacher, make sure Master eats properly while I'm gone!"

"Kreacher promises, Mistress." The old elf looked sternly at Harry. "No beans on toast or take-away curries for Master!"

"I like beans on toast." Harry protested, without much hope. "Whose elf are you, anyway?"

Kreacher kept an admirably straight face as he replied. "Kreacher belongs to Master, of course. But he must obey Mistress because she has a very heavy frying-pan!"

That made everyone laugh. Then Harry hugged and kissed his children, kissed his wife goodbye more thoroughly than usual, said "Love to Mum and Dad!", and Flooed himself off to work.