note; Right! So here we are, at chapter three, and here is where things begin to get interesting. A little wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey, if you will. As always, I adore reviews. Even if all you have to say is "I love it!" that review will brighten my day and mean the world to me. Many apologies if there are errors, my keyboard has been acting up as of late. I will work to consistently update, at least one time per month. Please, enjoy the chapter.

Chapter 3

It took a while for it to sink in. John stared at Molly Hooper uncertainly, his eyes searching her for any hint of a lie. There was none. Molly didn't lie, and when she did, she had a peculiar tell Sherlock had instructed John on once. That tell wasn't showing now, and John felt a rising sense of dread in his stomach. He almost asked her to repeat that in a more clear sentence. Sherlock turned from the pair with a scoff, his calculating gaze falling over the sparse furnishings in the room. John couldn't peel his eyes from Molly as the pathologist sat heavily on the sparse cot.

"Molly, say that again," Sherlock demanded, motioning to her but keeping his back to the woman.

She did so hesitantly. "Sherlock Holmes is the enemy."

Sherlock shook his head, tutting in disappointment. Turning around, he pointed to John. "Sherlock Holmes killed himself. How did he come back?" he asked. When John gave no answers, he rounded back to Molly. "What did Moriarty do?"

"Well... I..." Molly paused, her mouth open and those big brown eyes confused.

"No, nevermind, nanogenes, of course. But I would have to be somewhere he had access to me. John, what hospital did they take me to? Was it St Barts?"

"Sherlock... you were there. You were alive. You would know!" John said, exasperated. He didn't understand what the consulting detective was trying to say. What hospital did they take him to? Maybe the one he jumped off? The question rubbed John the wrong way.

"I haven't been there yet," Sherlock pointed out. "The Doctor got me as I was falling. That moment in time is in my future, while it is in your past. And Molly's past. Molly, did I come to your morgue?"

"I... I guess so," Molly replied. "I took the week off..."

"Right!" Sherlock cried, clapping his hands together. "And Moriarty–" His sentence ended abruptly, he steepled his fingers beneath his chin, and he dropped it there, a frown darkening his features.

John looked down, noticing for the first time that his shoes were in need of polish. As he leaned down to wipe away a bit of dirt, Molly cleared her throat. "Yes?" John asked curiously.

"There was something," she said slowly. "Two weeks after the funeral, Moriarty came back to explain everything. He said..." Molly trailed off and looked down at her hands, crossed in her lap.

"What?"Sherlock asked, crossing the room to squat in front of Molly. "What did he say?"

"He said you were alive, and you were starting a war. No one believed him, at first, but when you walked into London with armed troops people started believing."

Sherlock set his jaw, donning his familiar brooding face. "How did I survive? I fell from the building, without the Doctor, only nanogenes would have saved me. Then how did this future happen?"

"You came back," Molly said quietly.

"Why would I start a war? What would I have to gain? Where is the logic in that? Moriarty wanted to start the war, Moriarty was setting up pieces for the game..." Sherlock looked around the room again, eyes lingering on John. The army doctor didn't know what to say. It was all a jumbled mess in his head, he couldn't imagine it was anything better in Sherlock's. The man was a genius but he wasn't capable of taking in, and understanding, everything. His knowledge of the solar system proved as much.

"Molly," the consulting detective began, getting to his feet as ponderously as an ancient man. "If you are here, and John – the future John, that is – is also here... Where is Mrs. Hudson?"

Molly turned white, looked down, said nothing.

It was all John and Sherlock needed. Sherlock turned heel and stalked to the door as John stood in a daze. Maybe he was ordinary. Everything washed over him, struck him and kept him rooted to the spot. He didn't want to think of it, of Mrs. Hudson being gone. There were hundreds of ways it could have happened, so why had his and Sherlock's minds jumped to the same conclusion? Molly's tell, the little desperate grab for the blanket on the cot, the pale in her cheeks, the downcast eyes?

"John, come," Sherlock said stiffly. "We have to set this right."

The army doctor didn't need to be told twice. He wrenched his feet free of their mental prison, giving Molly an apologetic look as he turned to follow Sherlock. The taller man opened the door and they stepped out, just as a commotion began at the door they entered the compound through. Before either of them had time to move to a less noticeable location, the commotion came through the entryway, surrounded by ragged military personnel and a man who looked like he could be John's grandfather.

Thin, graying hair peppered the man's skull, deep lines and dark circles beneath his eyes. What once had been laugh lines now took the form of a permanent frown. His eyes were bright and sharp, his nose rounded and small, his face clean-shaven. Several teeth were missing, though one would be foolish to point it out least their own teeth be knocked out. Striding beside him was none other than the man with the bowtie and big blue box. The Doctor looked anything but a prisoner, despite the chains around his wrists. He was calling back to his escort of militants, a wide grin across his face, which only seemed to irritate the greying, short man beside him. That grin vanished when he saw John and Sherlock, and the entire prison party stopped dead.

Silence passed awkwardly in the corridor.

"How did you get in here? Men, seize him," the greying man commanded in John's voice.

Two dutifully moved forward, and the Doctor raised both shackled hands. "Wait!" he shouted, stopping the men. "Wait, they're with me!"

"Thank you, Doctor, I'm sure that helped," Sherlock said snidely, unable to do anything as the two men moved forward to take himself and John by the arms.

"Watson – oh no, not you John – you have to see the likeness. The age difference," the Doctor pleaded, pointing to the pair of intruders. "This isn't any good at all..." As John and Sherlock were herded closer to the Doctor, he gave the pair a cheery smile. "I'm sorry, it seems I made a tiny mistake. Not to worry, though, I'll be sure to fix it – or try to fix it. I really can't be sure anymore."

"Fix what, exactly?" John asked.

"Always so grumpy, glad to see that doesn't change with time," the Doctor chided under his breath. He rattled the shackles on his wrists and motioned to the greying man. "Your future self now knows your present self, his past self, is still alive, also somehow here when he is, and that makes time... a little wibbly-wobbly ... not good...y."

Sherlock snorted, giving the Doctor a sarcastic smile. "Is that the technical term for it?"

"If you really must... well of course it is!" the Doctor exclaimed, flustered. "Now, what was I saying?"

Watson stopped walking, his grey-streaked head turned away from them. They stood at a closed doorway at the end of a long hall. Their escort had dwindled significantly, to a squad of seven men and the leader of their military order, Watson. He spoke orders to the man beside him, then turned to the three captives as that man opened the door. "It's clear something isn't right here," he said, eyeing John with more than enough suspicion. "Starting with you, Doctor, who are you and how did you get into a quarantined war zone?"

"I'm the Doctor," he replied, no worry showing on his face. "We spoke about this on the way here. Its all a simple misunderstanding, I took a wrong turn."

"And these two men, who look so very much like unsavory people I know, they're with you, too?" Watson asked, looking between his younger self and Sherlock.

"Yes, of course they are. Can't you see who these two are?" the Doctor asked. He sighed heavily and turned to John, speaking quietly out the corner of his mouth, "Are you always this stubborn?"

"That's me?" John spurted, staring at the man. "But... you said five years!"

"Yes, it looks like it was a very rough five years for you," the Doctor said, nodding.

"John," Sherlock started, taking a half step forward to address the greying man. "If you would be so kind, please explain to us what has happened in the last five years. We would like to help. That is what the Doctor is trying, but clearly failing, to say."

Watson started when Sherlock spoke to him, his eyes darted to the tall dark clad man. All defenses seemed to melt away for a moment, and he said shakily, "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John. And by your surprise, I can tell that this man masquerading as myself is not, in fact, the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. He might be an actor, but then why would Moriarty be playing the good guy to the citizens?" Sherlock asked, taking yet another step forward. Watson doesn't try to stop him, just stares in openmouthed disbelief. Sherlock's bright blue eyes look him over. "You're not sleeping well. Coffee stains on your sleeves, and your collar, indicate an unsteady hand. So unlike you, John. You've worn that shirt three... no four days. You no longer care about impressing someone, your appearance doesn't matter to you half so much as your wits. Your teeth are yet white, you've still been brushing. Your hair is also white, though I don't think that is intentional." Sherlock grinned smugly, pleased with his assessment and his ability to make a jape at John Watson's expense.

Watson's features hardened, and he sets his jaw as only he can. "Take these men to the cells," he ordered, turning his back on them. "I'll decide what to do with them later."

The Doctor fought against the man trying to lead him away. "Watson! John Watson! Don't do this, we can explain!" he shouted down the hall to the man. But it was too late, and John Watson was not turning around to listen to them.

"Always the show off," John sighed under his breath, when they had been shoved into what the men here called a cell. It was an old supply room, with shelves all around and useless junk sitting on all of them. The door was locked twice, once by bolt on the outside and once by the knob.

Sherlock sniffed, looking indignant. "It would have impressed you."

"I'm not me in the future," John reminded him.

A crash from behind the pair made them turn, to see the Doctor amidst a pile of old junk that had fallen off a rotten shelf.

"Sorry," the alien said. "Just looking for ... stuff."

"Yes, very useful," Sherlock responds, pacing along the front wall. Every pass of the door, he looked out, as if he could see something new through the small frosted window pane. The dull black outline of a man guarding the door never changed, but he kept looking anyway as if his brilliant mind would see something new.

John, with no proper recourse of action, sat on the floor. Watching Sherlock walk back and forth was really not something John thought to be amusing, so he turned around to look at the Doctor. The Doctor, who had been unusually quiet since getting prodded into a small supply closet by army men with two people from the past. What John saw surprised him, mostly because he hadn't seen anything like it before in his entire life.

Out of miscellaneous odds and ends, the Doctor had rigged a strange contraption, complete with what appeared to be a tiny windmill made out of flyswatters. The centerpiece to this odd looking thing was an upright blue plastic bucket. From the bucket ran a hose, into a green petrol can that may or may not still contain fuel. A hose led from the petrol can to the strange flyswatter windmill sitting in the bucket, and as John watched, the Doctor flicked the swatter and sent it spinning. He tutted to himself and stopped the windmill, peering into the bucket and shaking his head.

Sherlock stopped pacing to stare. "What is that?"

"It's a thing," the Doctor said, nudging the bucket. "You wouldn't understand. You haven't seen a xylophone anywhere, have you?"

"A xylophone?" John asked.

"No matter, I don't need one. This should do the trick," the Doctor said, lifting a dusty computer keyboard from the pile of rubbish he spilled on the floor. He connected the keyboard with a wire, then spent sevearl minutes hunting around for something before coming up with three wire coat hangers. He twisted them into odd shapes and connected them to the contraption, stepping back as if to admire his handiwork.

It looked something like the meddling of a five-year-old.

"Right," the Doctor said, clapping his hands. "Lets see if this works."

From his breast pocket, he produced his sonic screwdriver, flicking it over the bucket, the keyboard, and the rest of the mess he'd made. Sonic in one hand, he used the other to tap on the keyboard. Bringing the sonic to his face, he stared at it for a moment before spinning around. "Bad news," he said solemnly.

"Your first grade science project failed?" John asked.

Shaking his head, the Doctor turned back to the mess. "No, the bad news is... it did work."

Sherlock was quiet. John looked between the two and got to his feet. "Why is that bad?"

"Well," the Doctor started, turning around to face them. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend, but we have no friends here. Just enemies and people who wont listen because they're too thick," he said, looking to John pointedly. "I wanted to find the Master. And I did. He is here. Close, actually."

"And that's bad news how?" John asked, a frown creasing his brow.

"He knows I'm here." The Doctor said, crossing the room in three long strides to press himself against the door. Laying the sonic against the knob, he waited until there was a click, then he moved on to the bolt on the outside. There was a muffled scrape of metal-on-metal, then a surprised grunt from the other side. "Hey!"

"Sherlock, do you think you can handle one guard?" the Doctor asked, shoving the door open before the consulting detective could answer.

In one fluid movement, Sherlock moved past the Doctor through the doorway, delivering an uppercut to the surprised guard's chin. The man's head hitched back, the gun slipped from his hand, and Sherlock grabbed it before it could hit the floor. The man, however, crumpled into a heap, blood dribbling from his nose.

"Don't kill him," the Doctor snapped, sounding irate for the first time since John was abducted off the street. The alien stepped through the doorway, scanning the fallen guard with his sonic. The downed man was still breathing, albeit shallowly. "Be careful next time," he warned Sherlock.

"I am quite careful, Doctor." The consulting detective handed the gun off to John, who took it and settled it naturally in the crook of his arm without a second thought.

"Come on, there isn't much time," the Doctor said, leading the way.

"Doctor, we came from back there," John said, pointing up the stairs.

"Yes, of course we did," the alien agreed. "Just the way they would expect us to escape. Right? So come on, this way then."

John, seeing the logic, followed after the alien and Sherlock. The gun felt so strangely natural in his hands that he barely registered it as being there. He didn't think he would use it, he didn't think he could use it, but if they had a gun, they could bully their way through just about anything.

The Doctor stopped suddenly, turning in a circle at an intersection. He licked his finger, held it up, turned in a circle again, and stopped dead when he spotted John holding the gun. "No," he said firmly, pointing. "Put that down, I don't do guns."

John looked down at the gun in confusion. "What?"

"You heard me, John, the gun. Lose it."

"But what if..."

"No guns. Not ever. I don't like them," the Doctor repeated sternly.

John looked to Sherlock, but the detective was no help. He set the gun by the wall, feeling odd for leaving it out in the open like that. "What's wrong with guns?" he asked. I wasn't going to use it.

"Too final," the Doctor said. "Or not, not in his case, I suppose. In most cases, though..." He stopped and turned towards the right fork. "This way. I'm sure of it."

Sherlock followed without hesitation, while John lingered his gaze on the gun. Part of him wondered what had the Doctor so against guns, and the rest of him wanted it for protection. How was he supposed to protect anyone without a gun? Finally relenting, he followed the pair, jogging on his stiff leg to catch up. Maybe it was all in his mind, but the limp was coming back now.

Sherlock noticed. "You're limping," he said quietly.

"Yes."

"Something bothering you?"

"You mean like the fact we're five years in the future, one week ago I saw you kill yourself, and now you're in front of me? No, of course not," John answered sarcastically.

"I'm sorry, John, I couldn't tell you."

"Of course."

"Don't sound so bitter," Sherlock chided.

"Stop squabbling, you two. Hurry up, we have to get to the TARDIS before the Master finds us or... I don't quite want to think about it," the Doctor said, turning to interrupt the lovers spat. "Come on, lets move."

True to his word, the Doctor led them out of the compound, or as out as they could get. In fact, out was going to be something of an impossibility. Every corner was blocked by guards, and the trio of time travelers would be hard-pressed to slip through them unnoticed. As they were contemplating the most useful strategy, a commotion broke out in the compound. Gunfire rattled out from all around, and before their eyes, the guards on the door they'd been watching fell dead, blood pouring out of bullet holes. The Doctor looked dismayed, perhaps even heartbroken by this, but Sherlock and John saw it as an opportunity.

"Come on!" John hissed, grabbing the Doctor's arm and pulling him forward.

They made it to the door, stopped to peer out, and John felt the Doctor tense up. He dropped the alien's arm, staring dead ahead. "No," he said.

Sherlock had a less stunned reaction. His cold eyes stared down the man crossing the minefield, jaw clenched. "What is that?" he asked the Doctor, his voice hard. "What am I seeing?"

The Doctor hesitated to answer, watching. Finally, with much weight on his voice, he said, "Its you."

The doppleganger Sherlock Holmes stepped over the barricade fence and stopped before the trio. Appearance-wise, he seemed to be much the same as his past self. His face was slightly more gaunt, with a more alien and distant appearance to his eyes. A smile spread across his pale face as he looked them over. "Hello," he said smoothly. "The Master would like to see you now."