Title: The John Hart Chronicles: The Soul Trap, Part Three

Author: Emma

Characters: John Hart, OCs

Rating: Small bits of Not Safe For Work, but if you blink you miss it!

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

Part One is here; Part Two is here

            He dressed quickly and went out, carefully easing the door shut. The corridor was deserted. After one a.m., when the lounge closed, the attendant was on-call only; the only person he was likely to meet was somebody stumbling half-asleep to the toilet at the other end of the car. Moving quickly, he reached the discreet door connecting the first-class car to the luxury car.

            It was the night train’s best kept secret. From the outside it looked like another first-class carriage. Inside, it was divided into four suites, fully equipped with all the mod cons. At the far end, a cubicle the size of an average closet held berths for the two attendants. Each suite cost about the same per night as one of those boutique hotels in Mayfair that could be identified only by a discreet plate over the doorbell.

            The Bentleys had a standing reservation for the rear left-hand suite. As Martin had said, every other Friday, returning Monday night, regular as clockwork. In the interviews she granted to all the right sort of women’s magazines, Lady Bentley explained that going back to their home in the country was absolutely essential to recharging their batteries, and, much like the Prince of Wales, Sir Joshua needed to check his many experiments in organic farming.

            It was all perfectly tailored to the audience, and delivered with the skill of a former BAFTA award winner, which Lady Bentley was. But it was all a steaming pile of Bentley Farms’ best organic manure. The ‘home in the country’ was run by a team of professionals put in charge by Sir Joshua’s father, and they answered to a very business-like board of directors. Unlike the Prince of Wales, the Bentleys’ only job was to maintain the image that sold organic cheese, vegetable and flower seeds, and manure, among several dozen products. And if, behind the scenes and not too obviously, they acted like complete and utter shits, well, there was enough money to soothe the offended.

            The door to the Bentleys’ suite faced the end of the car, rather than the corridor. Martin had told Hart, snickering, that it was done on purpose so that the guests would have some privacy – and so that the attendants never were in the position to testify about any hijinks that might ensue during the night. Whatever the reason, it made it incredibly easy for Hart. Neither the occupants of the other suites nor the attendants could see him if they stepped out into the corridor.

            It took him less than a minute to open the door. Really, twenty-first century security was a joke. He inserted nose filters, and then, taking a small spray bottle out of his pocket, he inched the door open and gave the bottle a quick pump. The odorless chemical, the invention of one Jack Harkness, deepened a person’s normal sleep. The Bentleys, already self-dosed with large amounts of single malt, would sleep through a train wreck. Finding the pearls, replacing them with the fakes, and slipping out took another three minutes, and he was back in his own cabin in two more.

            Eight minutes. Exactly according to plan.

            He waited until his eyes adjusted to the dark – one of those useful improvements the Time Agency had made to his body – then stripped quickly. Nose filters and gloves went back to his overnight bag, and the pearls were zipped into the overcoat’s hidden pocket. Munro was still sleeping in the same position. Grinning, Hart lifted the blanket and slid into bed, plastering himself against the Scotsman’s back.

            “Ummmm…”

            The sleepy sound had him hard in seconds. “Lesson number two?”

            The Scotsman’s answer was a much more enthusiastic ummmm. Munro was an eager student. He spread himself open willingly, cradling Hart between his thighs, his thumbs rubbing circles over Hart’s nipples. His moaned so good as he felt himself being breached shot straight down to Hart’s groin. Bracing himself on his elbows, Hart started to thrust hard and fast. Munro grabbed his head and pulled him down, kissing him ferociously. Hart could feel him start to shake. He reached between their bodies to wrap his hand around the Scotsman’s arousal and stroked in rhythm to his thrusts. The sudden intensity of orgasm arched his back, and he muffled his shout in Munro’s neck. A few seconds later, he felt the Scotsman bite into his shoulder as he spurted into Hart’s hand.

            “Wow.”

            “Yeah.” Hart kissed him lightly. “You are an excellent student.”

            “Can I enroll for the full course?” Munro sounded diffident. “You don’t… I mean… I don’t feel guilty with you.”

            Hart kissed him again. “I think that can be arranged. Hold on.”

            He pulled away from Munro. Stretching, he grabbed the small towel he had left in the sink earlier and wiped them both down, laughing as Munro squirmed, ticklish. Once finished, he settled back into bed, wrapping his arms around the Scotsman.

            “I should go back to my cabin,” Munro said, not moving.

            “My alarm is set for a half-hour before the attendant brings breakfast. You can get to your cabin with no one the wiser.”

            “All right, then. Lesson three?”

            Hart gave him a look of pure deviltry. “I think we both need a bit of rest.”

            “Not that. Show me… myself. You said you would teach me. I know about a woman’s body but I know nothing about my own. Not really.”

            They spent the time until the alarm went off in talk and experimentation. Hart couldn’t remember the last time he had spent a night simply in pleasure, without a hidden agenda of any kind. He liked Munro; the Scotsman was well-educated and witty, and his sexual inexperience was like catnip. Hart found he was looking forward to training him properly.

            When Munro left the cabin early in the morning, Hart had the Scotsman’s business card with all his personal information scribbled on the back in his pocket. A steamy good-bye kiss nearly led them back to bed. Mustn’t shock the attendant, Munro had whispered; Hart decided not to mention that the attendant would probably be Martin, who was more likely to try to join them. Time for that much, much later.

            Hart kept to his usual routine. By the time he was finished, there was no trace of himself or Munro anywhere, down to fingerprints and skin cells. Not that the cleaning staff would notice anything wrong; he carefully mussed the bed to show that one man had slept and eaten breakfast in the cabin. Then he waited patiently until most people had left the train before he disembarked.

            As he headed out, he glimpsed Cameron Munro exiting through the door to Princes Street ahead of him. The Scotsman walked jauntily, and more than one woman – and man! – turned to ogle him.  Once outside Hart lost him in the early morning bustle of buses and people hurrying to their jobs.

            Hart turned towards the Old Waverley Hotel. He had his usual reservation, and a call to the Dorchester to make. He grinned; the money he got for this job would keep him in luxury for a year and he could concentrate on his virginal Scotsman.

            The metal on metal sound of a collision made him look ahead to South St. Andrews Street. There were was the usual confusion caused by a rush hour traffic accident, but then someone screamed Stop him! Thief!, and he saw a man running away towards Waverley Bridge. Someone must have taken the opportunity to do a little early shopping.

            Then the crowd parted and he saw Cameron Munro crumpled under the tyres of a small lorry that had crashed against one of the lamposts. A young woman was tearfully telling a constable about the accident.

            “… and after he hit the poor man and crashed against the lamppost he jumped out and grabbed the poor man’s bag and ran!”

            Hart stood, momentarily frozen by shock. Then the other part of his mind started ticking over with its usual detached clarity. An honest man involved in an accident does not leave the scene, and most especially does not stop to grab his victim’s luggage in the hope that something in it would compensate him for his trouble.

            Someone wanted something Munro had. And the only thing of value the Scotsman had been carrying was the soul trap.