Title: The John Hart Chronicles I: The Soul Trap, Part One

Author: Emma

Characters: John Hart, OCs

Rating: Some sex, some violence. It’s John!

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?

Summary: John finds dangerous alien technology in the strangest place…

Author's Note: At the end of Exit Wounds, John Hart told Jack Harkness he was going to see a bit of the Earth. These are his adventures. In the HomecomingVerse they are before AND after A Very Private War but before Homecoming 

 

           “Here you go, Captain.”

            “Thank you, Martin.” John Hart sipped appreciatively. “Ah. You have been raiding the Western Isles.”

            Martin grinned. “I can never fool you, can I? M’brother sent it from Harris. He has a friend who distills a few dozen bottles every year, and all spoken for, but when I mentioned I knew a gentleman who was in the way of being a connoisseur, he sent on a bottle.”

            “Please pass on my thanks when you next speak to him.”

            “I will, Captain.” The bartender glanced up at the sound of the door opening. “There are Sir Joshua and Lady Bentley. Every other Friday, regular as clockwork. Strange folk. On the other hand, they are very generous. Excuse me.”

            Hart tilted his glass in dismissal. He had noticed the Bentleys; to be more specific, he had noticed Lady Bentley’s exquisitely matched pearls. They were worth a fortune in a number of markets. He had been considering the logistics of the job for a few weeks and did not foresee any difficulty. The fakes, which he had crafted himself, were tidily concealed in a pocket sewn into the lining of his jacket, and he had left his client in the best suite at the Dorchester, ready to wire the funds into his bank account the moment the client received proof that the pearls were in Hart’s possession.

            He watched as the Bentleys commandeered the best table in the lounge and proceeded to carry on a loud argument about the latest fashionable scandal. They were already half-jugged and heading rapidly for completely pissed, tossing back the Night Scotsman’s best Islay single-malt with abandon.

            Hart despised careless drunks. Even in the fun days before rehab he had known better than to mistreat good liquor.

            A few sharp jerks signalled that the train was in motion. As they left Euston Station Martin appeared at his elbow with a small plate of smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches and sliced fruit. Hart tucked in with gusto. He had missed dinner; it was unwise to break bread with a Correliian, even if it was a client.

            The lounge door opened, letting in a blast of cold air before the newcomer pushed it shut with a hard smack. Hart studied him. A little over six feet, with white-gold hair and pale green eyes, and a rather good body almost concealed under the suit and overcoat. Although the looks were completely different, the man’s fastidious elegance and precise movements reminded him of Jack’s Eye Candy.

            There wasn’t anything written down about not mixing business with pleasure.

            He waited until the man looked in his direction – Hart had noticed that everyone entering the first-class lounge looked around for familiar faces – and quirked an eyebrow in invitation. The man flushed but didn’t look away. Hart watched him as he walked towards Hart's corner table with a long stride that spoke of years spent in a tennis court or a cricket pitch.

            “May I join you?” The voice was low and the question a bit hesitant. “Unless you’d rather…”

            Hart gestured to the club chair opposite him.

            “I’m Cameron Munro.”

            “John Hart.”

            Before Hart had the chance to wave him over, Martin arrived with a glass of his special Harris whiskey and another plate of sandwiches. The amused curl of his lips told Hart that Martin realized he had been replaced as Hart’s bed partner for the night and that he approved of Hart’s choice.

            “Compliments of Captain Hart, sir,” he murmured as he placed the plate and glass in front of Munro. “The lounge closes at one tonight. If there’s anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.”

            Munro stammered his thanks to both. Up close, he looked older and yet more uncertain, as if he was new at the game and was searching for a way to get out of it.

            “It’s late dinner and conversation,” Hart said in his most disarming manner. “Nothing else expected, much less required.”

            Munro studied him for a few moments, and then smiled broadly. Hart was startled to realize that the man’s face, rather attractive in a commonplace way at rest, was strikingly beautiful when animated.

            “Don’t disappoint me,” Munro said, raising his glass in a toast, and sipping. “That is excellent stuff.”

            “Indeed it is. So tell me, Cameron Munro, what are you doing on the night train to Scotland?”

            “Ferrying an old bequest from one odd duck of a client to another.” Munro grimaced. “One of those duties that fall to the junior partner of Munro and McLeod, solicitors, established 1798.”

            “Ah. The family business.” Hart sipped his own whiskey. “Aren’t you taking a risk?”

            He wasn’t talking about the job, and the other man knew it. Munro shrugged. “If anyone’s curious, I have my own berth. Besides, after speaking to Mr. Innes, I’m beginning to think taking a risk may be the one sane thing someone can do at times.”

            He reached into the pocket of his overcoat and brought out a small box. It was carved out of what seemed to be opal, and its hinges, lock, and corner fittings were gold. To Hart it gave off a whiff of wrongness, as if its beauty hid an inner deformity.

            “Behold the one and only reminder of the life of one Robert Innes, Esquire, of Richmond, TW9.”

            Only his years of professional experience kept Hart’s horrified thoughts from showing as he stared at the box that sat on the table, glittering malevolently.

            What the hell is an Ixen soul trap doing on Earth?