Title: A Very Private War (7/7)

Author: Emma

Characters: John Hart, Torchwood Three team

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Oh, please. If I owned them, would I let some of those idiots write the scripts? And if I were making any money off them, would I be where they could find me?

Spoilers: None. This takes place in my Homecoming AU

Summary: John Hart is pulled back in time to fight a war he does not remember

            Andy Davidson’s luck finally ran out on a cold spring morning when the helicopter he was traveling in crashed into the ocean near the remains of Flat Holm. He and two soldiers survived the accident, but were left to fend for themselves. By the time John and Ianto reached them, the others had succumbed to hypothermia and Andy was barely hanging on. They got him to the Hub in time to save his life, but not his legs.

            Still, as soon as he was up and about he started to take over everything that could be done sitting down. They jury-rigged ways for him to get around the Hub and he made full use of them. There was a startling change in Andy. The easy-going, friendly man Ianto remembered had been transformed into an efficient, driven fanatic. Andy hated with a passion, and a great deal of it was directed at the UNIT soldiers who worked with the Toclafane.

            As the countdown entered its final weeks security was tightened everywhere. Sweeps were more frequent as laborers were needed in the weapon factories. The team’s primary job was to keep people alive and safely hidden. Andy’s extensive knowledge of UNIT tactics, and the personalities of the men and women in command positions, became the cornerstone of their planning.

            One day, quite by accident, Andy answered a question John had been obsessing over for some time. Tosh had found out that it was Andy’s birthday, and she had raided the archives for a bottle of Thyrhian brandy. After dinner, she had made a toast, thanking him for keeping the authorities away from the team.

            “Well, Miss Tosh, I’ll take your thanks for my part in it,” Andy said laughing, “but you had bigger and better angels than I.”

            “I wondered about that,” John said softly.

            “What do you mean?” Toshiko asked.

            “We were too lucky, Tosh,” he said. “Saxon controls everything in this planet. Even with Andy on our side we shouldn’t have survived this long.”

            “I thought it was all over after Owen,” Ianto said. “There were some clear trails if you bothered to look.”

            “Maybe Saxon didn’t care,” Toshiko objected.

            “Oh, he cared, “Andy said. “The crazy bastard wanted you like I want a breath of clean salt air. Cardiff was crawling with his agents, but things kept going awry. Reports misplaced, data missing, wrong information… everything that could go wrong did. Nothing obvious, but… And my assignments kept changing every few months and each time I was put in the position where I could be the most help to you. Things were dropped in my lap so I could warn you in advance. Made a man very curious.”

            “Did you ever figure out who it was?” John asked.

            “Yeah. The night of Gwen’s and Rhys’s deaths I got a transmission from the Valiant. The Valiant! I nearly wet my trousers. Coded, but sloppy. There were in a hurry. Told me where to find the bodies and what to do about it. They cut the link and fried the line, but I was able to get an i.d. on one of the callers. It was Mrs. Saxon.” He laughed at their shocked looks. “Yeah, me too. I wiped every molecule in that hard drive by hand, let me tell you.”

            A few days after Andy’s birthday celebration they got the first hint that something was very wrong. The Hub’s computer had registered a massive energy buildup within the Rift. There was zero chance that the Valiant’s sensors would not pick it up, but there was no sign of interest from that quarter. Instead, their contacts in the resistance reported that the Toclafane seemed to be looking for something. They were traveling at night in groups of three or four, without any UNIT backup; at least one reliable source had seen them go into the weevil tunnels.

            Rumors were also flying about Martha Jones. She had found the gun and was coming back to Britain. She had been captured and executed by the Toclafane. She had been whisked away by Time Lords and would be returned to Earth when the time was right.

            “At the rate it’s going,” Ianto quipped, “she’ll be taken to Avalon by Morgan Le Fay to rest besides King Arthur until the country really needs them.”

            That night the Hub’s proximity alarm was triggered. Ianto and John went to reconnoiter – CCTV hadn’t worked in months – and found the ruins of the once-beautiful Plas crawling with Toclafane. While most of them floated near ground level, two or three kept aloft, scanning the area. Ianto tapped John on the shoulder and pointed at the highest one. It had its blades extended; one of them dangled uselessly from its socket.

            The first thing Toshiko and Andy heard from their returning comrades was John’s inventive rant about annoying pus bags that held grudges and Ianto’s helpless laughter.

            “They’re getting closer, aren’t they?” asked Andy quietly.

            “Yes, they are.” John put his arms around Toshiko and leaned his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry, love. I think I brought this one down on your heads.”

            “I don’t think you can blame yourself. They’re tracking the Rift, not you. “She kissed him gently. “We’re going to have to do something about it. It’s a massive buildup, and if we don’t release the pressure it’s going to blow up badly.”

            “Bad enough to take them with it?”

            “Bad enough to take most of Cardiff with it.”

            “It might be worth it,” Andy said. “But I don’t understand why! The Toclafane are Saxon’s pets. The armada he’s building is designed for them. Humans are meant to be either slaves or cannon fodder. He doesn’t care about the Rift, never has. So why are Toclafane so obsessed with it?”

                        “Maybe…” Ianto said hesitantly, “it doesn’t have anything to do with Saxon. We are used to thinking about the Toclafane as a monolithic unit, but maybe they’re not. This one that’s been chasing you … seems to have a mind of its own. What if what this group wants is to keep… using the Rift to hopscotch from place to place and… play?”

            “Jesus, Ianto.” Andy swore. “You’re going to give me nightmares.”

            “Actually, Andy, he might be right.”

            “Then we open up this thing and let it blow, John. Can you imagine space and time filled with Toclafane?”

            “It’s not that easy. What if opening the Rift interferes with whatever the Doctor is trying to do?”

            “And what if what we do is necessary to change the future? We’re blind here, John, because all we know is that in your future there are no Toclafane. We can’t let them go through!”

            “Timing,” said Toshiko, in her dreamy geek voice. “Whatever we do, we have to time it to the second.”

            “Yeah,” John grimaced. “But which second?”

            “Right at the moment it happens. Whatever the Doctor is doing needs a lot of power, right? Rift energy is Vortex energy…”

            "Which is partially psychic energy!” John picked her up and whirled her around. “Yes. The blow will reinforce whatever the Doctor does and get rid of the little pus bags at the same time.”

            “The Plas will be full of people,” Ianto whispered.

            “Yeah.” John looked at each one in turn. “Do we do this?”

            Andy seemed to speak for all of them. “Yes.”

            And so they waited, not venturing out of the Hub, spending time with each other. The last mission of Torchwood Three was a suicide mission and they all knew it and were content with it. John had never felt more at peace.

            The day the countdown clock reached one hour to zero, while Andy and Toshiko made the last preparations in the Hub, Ianto and John went out to the Plas and stood openly, waiting. It didn’t take long. The metallic whirr of fast-moving Toclafane could be heard approaching. Ianto turned to John and kissed him passionately.

            “It’s been a hell of a ride.” He grinned. “Jack will have other teams, but never a better one. Or crazier, for that matter.”

            They drew swords and waited. Three metal spheres dropped down from the ever-present vapor cloud. As the Toclafane began their attack, they retreated into the old tourist office. The door into the Hub was wide open; they could hear Saxon’s voice coming from the computer screens, something about “the child Martha Jones,” but they didn’t pay attention. The sound of metal on metal filled the corridor as they moved back slowly. They took hits – Ianto to the thigh, John to one shoulder -- but they kept the Toclafane from entering the Hub too soon.

            Finally, as they heard the crowds in the streets begin to chant “Doctor, Doctor,” they backed into the Hub itself. There was more space there, and the Toclafane took advantage. Andy was cut down as he manned the computer, but his last act was to activate the sequence that opened the Rift. John tried to stand between Tosh and Ianto and the Toclafane, but found himself pushed back towards the opening by his two lovers.

            “What are you doing?” He shouted at them.

            “You don’t belong here!” Toshiko shouted back. “If you die here, now, the timelines go the hell again. You have to go back to the exact place and time you came from…Ianto!”

            They watched as Ianto’s leg finally gave way and he collapsed. The Toclafane descended on him. On his knees, he fought to keep them off the two of them.

            “Go!” Toshiko pushed John again. “If you die, this is all for nothing!”

            He pressed his lips to hers. “I love you, Toshiko Sato.”

            She gave him one final push and he fell through the Rift, his hand automatically recalibrating his vortex manipulator. He stepped through into a cold morning high above Bamburgh beach, where an elderly couple walked hand in hand, his free hand reaching to tuck an errant silver-white curl behind her ear; three boys romped in the freezing surf, stomping the wet sand and laughing to see their footprints disappear as the water seeped back in; a man walked half a dozen dogs, all of a different size and breed; and a girl barely out of her teens sat on a rock, pencil moving rapidly over the dazzling white page of a sketchpad.

            John Hart sat down, his back against the massive sandstone walls of the castle, and watched the people below enjoy the simple pleasures of life, tears streaming down his face.