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Title: Reset (1/4)
Author: Emma
Characters: Canonical Torchwood Three members… sort of.
Rating: Some chapters definitely not safe for work.
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: Martha Jones comes to Torchwood and their world will never be the same...
Ianto opened the tourist office door a crack and peered out. The mist that had rolled in from the bay in the afternoon had turned into thick fog as the sun went down. He turned on the fog lamp above the door and was about to go back into the office when a voice spoke from beyond the circle of light.
“You must be Ianto Jones.”
The woman stepping towards him was stylish in a blue suit with a pencil skirt and fitted jacket. The lamp light turned her skin a gorgeous dark copper. Her face had the beauty of structure rather than simple prettiness; she would age magnificently. Ianto held out his hand.
“And you're Martha of the same tribe. Come in. Jack's expecting you.”
After locking the door Ianto led her through the tunnel and into the main work area of the Hub. The clang of the cog door had warned the others, and everyone within distance turned to stare at the visitor. Jack galloped down the stairs from his office, jumping off the last few steps to land in front of the newcomer.
“Suddenly, in an underground mortuary, on a wet night in Cardiff, I hear the song of a nightingale.” He opened his arms. “Miss Martha Jones.”
She threw herself at him. “It's so good to see you, Jack.”
He hugged her tightly, then, keeping his arm around her shoulders, he turned her to face the others. “Toshiko, Gwen, Andy, this is Martha.” He looked around. “Where is Owen?”
“In the lab.” Andy said. “You know how it is when he has something to work on.”
“Owen!” Jack bellowed. “We have a guest.”
“And you've just blown out her ear-drums,” grumbled Owen, appearing around the corner from the autopsy bay. “What is it?”
“Doctor Martha Jones, may I introduce Doctor Owen Harper? Owen, Martha agreed to consult on our little problem. She has some specialized knowledge.”
“So suddenly I’m not good enough?”
“Jack just wanted a second set of eyes.” Martha said tartly. “Let's give it a go. You never know, Owen, you might learn something.”
The two doctors studied each other through narrowed eyes. Finally, Owen nodded. “I do need someone to bounce ideas off of. You want to see what I've got?”
“Lead on,” she said.
She followed him towards the autopsy bay. As she was about to disappear around the wall, she looked over her shoulder and gave Jack a cheeky grin. There were a few seconds of silence and then the room exploded in laughter.
“Oh, Goddess,” Gwen gasped, holding her sides. “Like two cats meeting for the first time.”
“Are you sure you want to put those two together?” Andy asked Jack. “There might be pistols at dawn and dueling has been outlawed in Wales since the seventeen nineties.”
“They'll be all right,” Jack waved a hand in dismissal. “Neither one can resist a medical mystery. What did you find?”
“Seven unexplained deaths in the past nine months,” Andy said. “The police reports are going from bad to worse. Once actually suggests spontaneous combustion, and another wonders if there's a possibility of some sort of new curse. I've put out a few feelers.”
“Good. Tosh?”
“I ran the names Andy gave me through all the databases I could think of. They seemed to have nothing in common. Housewife, solicitor, bartender, businessman, author, architect, farmer. Addresses all over the place, did not have family or friends in common, didn't donate to the same charities. But,” she held up a triumphant hand, “I ran them through the NHS database.”
“And you got a hit.”
“Actually, I got seven hits. They were all listed as undergoing treatments for different conditions, all severe. At least three were listed as terminal.”
“That's odd.” Andy said. “There's no indication in the police reports of anything pointing to a possible suicide. That's the first thing one looks for in deaths like these.”
“I know.” Toshiko's hands flew over the keyboard. “So I looked a little deeper. I was able to access the medical records for two of them. Meredith Roberts had metastasized prostate cancer. Anne Baines had brain cancer. Both had been given months to live by their doctors. Anne Baines's file ends there. Mr. Roberts seems to have visited his doctor three weeks ago, after a space of eight months. The doctor found that Mr. Roberts's cancer had disappeared. No matter how much the doctor tried, Mr. Roberts would not tell him where he had been or what sort of treatment he had received.”
Ianto whistled. “And three weeks later he burns down to powder.”
“Can we talk to the doctors directly? There might be some willing to talk off the record. Ianto and I can…” Andy broke off as his phone rang. “Hold on… Yeah?”
He listened for a while then said, “Thanks.” Returning the phone to his pocket, he said to the others, “I think we just got lucky. That was Thomas Ruthven from Cardiff Royal. You remember him, Jack?”
“Sure. The guy with the weevil problem. That’s how we nabbed Gwen.”
“That’s him. I’ve kept in touch on and off. He says they have a new patient, intake from Emergency last night. Iselle Macris. She’s running a massive fever, but has no other symptoms. But what attracted his attention is that she’s the healthiest person he’s ever seen, even though she shows up in their files as having an advanced case of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.”
“Ianto, get Owen. Tosh, start digging.”
Ianto ran to the lab and returned a few minutes later with Owen and Martha. The two of them looked worried. Owen was carrying his medical bag.
“I’m going with Owen,” Martha said to Jack. “If what we think is true, he’s going to need my help.”
Jack nodded and watched them leave the Hub at a dead run.
“Something’s not good,” Andy muttered. “Really not good.”
“Yeah,” Tosh agreed. “Listen to this. Iselle Macris was brought to hospital by two men who dumped her on the sidewalk and sped away. Black van, dark windows. Several of her neighbours reported a loud argument in her flat about an hour before.”
“Address to the SUV’s GPS, please. Andy, start hitting all your contacts, and I mean all. Urgent. Where is…” A discreet throat-clearing sound made him turn around to find Ianto behind him, holding his coat. “Thank you, cariad. Gwen, with us.”
He loped out of the Hub. Behind his back, Gwen mimicked driving to Ianto and pointed to him. Ianto nodded. He peeled off towards the emergency entrance to the garage. When Jack and Gwen arrived at the SUV’s parking space, he was already ensconced behind the wheel.
“Not fair,” Jack pouted a little.
“Damn right, not fair,” Gwen retorted. “It’s foggy out there and I’m not going to trust myself to your driving.”
Jack mock-glared at her and jumped into the passenger seat. She climbed sedately into the back seat and adjusted her seatbelt. Ianto grinned at her in the rearview mirror, and smacked Jack’s hand away from the CD-player.
Iselle Macris lived in the sixth floor of a new development in Churchill Way. The public spaces were one large open area with display cases serving as dividers. It was furnished sparsely, with a few very expensive pieces carefully positioned to take advantage of the view. Several large abstract canvasses hung on cream-colored flocked walls, and the display cases held a few pieces of old crystal. It reeked of money and an excellent designer. Gwen wrinkled her nose.
“It looks like no one lives here,” she said. “Not a speck of dirt, not a thing out of place.”
“Let’s see. Gwen, take the bedroom. Ianto, the office. I’ll look through everything else.” He turned in a big circle. “Let’s be thorough.”
Jack had gone over the lounge and dining area and had started in the kitchen – amazing, the sort of things women hid in kitchens – when he heard a faint noise at the door. He turned off the light, tucked himself in the space between the fridge and the display case and waited.
The door opened and two men walked in. They both wore jeans and waterproof jackets. They were definitely not professionals: one’s shoes squeaked and the other cursed loudly when the spring-loaded door slipped out of his hand and smashed into the jamb. Jack noticed Gwen coming out of the bedroom, probably attracted by the noise. He signaled to her to stay put and be quiet; she nodded and slipped back inside. Jack pulled the Webley out of its holster.
“Check the fridge,” one of the men whispered. “The meds have to be kept cold, Doc says. I’ll go look for the papers.”
Jack waited until the burglar was almost in front of him to turn on the light. Gun pointing directly at the man’s face, he grinned his sexiest smile. “Hello. Don’t do anything to make me nervous, all right? This thing has a hair trigger.”
The man squeaked his assent. A few seconds later they heard the second burglar scream. The sound was immediately followed by the thump of a body hitting the floor. At the same time, Gwen came out of the bedroom, gun in hand. They were joined by Ianto, who was dragging the second burglar by the collar. Jack motioned towards the dining room table. Gwen pulled out a chair and Ianto threw his victim into it like a sack of potatoes. Jack used the Wembley to motion to the other man.
“Join your friend.”
“Look, I don’t know who you are…” The man was trying for a forceful tone, but his voice kept breaking. “But if you don't let us go...”
“Torchwood,” Jack broke into the flow of panicked words and had the pleasure of seeing both men flinch. “And we don't have to do anything. I can throw you into Prescoed at his Majesty's pleasure. You'll come out when you're ninety, if I remember your names enough to sign a release.”
The little speech had made the two burglars shrink down in their seats. Jack let it sink in, then moved away. Gwen slid into a chair opposite from the men.
“Who do you work for?” One of the men muttered something. “Look. You're going to jail, but it can be a six month stretch for breaking and entering in the castle or Prescoed until he,” she tilted her head towards Jack, “feels like letting you out.”
“He can't do that!” the mutterer said.
“Yeah, he can. There's a bloke in Prescoed that got chucked in the year I was born.” The man flinched at the absolute honesty in Gwen's voice. “So, again. Who do you work for?”
“Doctor Aaron Copley. That's his name. Aaron Copley.”
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