Chapter 3: The UNIT Summons
The black car waited like a predator outside 221B Baker Street, its government plates gleaming in the morning drizzle. Sherlock recognized the vehicle before the engine's purr had fully died—Mycroft's preferred method of summons, elegant and inevitable as a chess move three turns ahead.
He descended the seventeen steps with calculated indifference, each footfall a small act of rebellion against his brother's presumption. The Doctor and Clara followed, the Time Lord muttering something about "government interference" while Clara pulled her coat tighter against the London dampness.
"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice carried from the car's interior with its usual blend of affection and exasperation. "Do get in. We have a great deal to discuss."
The journey passed in tense silence, London's familiar streets blurring past rain-streaked windows. Sherlock cataloged his brother's tells—the slight tension around the eyes, the way his umbrella rested at a different angle than usual, the barely perceptible tremor in his left hand that suggested stress levels far beyond even Mycroft's considerable baseline.
Fear. Mycroft is afraid. Which means whatever this is about threatens more than just national security.
The car pulled up outside a nondescript office building in Westminster, the kind of architectural anonymity that screamed classified operations to anyone who knew how to read the signs. Inside, past security checkpoints that would have impressed the Pentagon, they descended into a facility that existed in no official records.
UNIT Headquarters stretched beneath London like a hidden city, all gleaming corridors and reinforced blast doors. Mycroft led them through the maze with the confidence of someone who belonged here, his clearance level apparently sufficient to open any barrier they encountered.
"Unified Intelligence Taskforce," he said without preamble as they walked. "My minor position in British government includes civilian oversight of certain... extraordinary threats."
Sherlock stopped walking. The pieces clicking into place felt like small explosions in his mind—years of Mycroft's unexplained absences, classified files that vanished from government databases, references to "special circumstances" that were never quite explained.
"You knew," Sherlock said, his voice carrying a dangerous quiet. "About extraterrestrials. About impossible murders. About time travel. You knew, and you said nothing."
"You couldn't be trusted not to dissect them," Mycroft replied with infuriating calm.
The conference room they entered contained a woman in her forties with the bearing of someone accustomed to command, flanked by a younger woman whose outfit made the Doctor's eyes light up with recognition—bow ties and question marks arranged with the careful precision of a devoted fan.
"Kate Lethbridge-Stewart," the older woman said, extending a hand. "Head of Scientific Research, UNIT. And this is Osgood, our resident genius."
The Doctor's entire demeanor shifted as he shook Kate's hand. "Lethbridge-Stewart. Your father?"
"Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart. He left quite the legacy, including some very interesting files about a certain Time Lord with questionable dress sense and a tendency to overthrow governments."
"He was a good man," the Doctor said quietly. "One of the best."
Kate activated a holographic display that filled the center of the table, crime scene photographs arranging themselves in a pattern that made Sherlock's fingers twitch with recognition. Seven murders, seven locked rooms, seven impossible deaths marked with alien script.
"The victims appear random," Kate began. "Dr. Marcus Webb, museum curator. James Morrison, investment banker. Professor Sarah Chen, university lecturer. Thomas Wiggins, homeless man. Nurse Patricia Williams. Antiques dealer David Cornish. Librarian Helen Pace."
Sherlock studied the photographs with the intensity of a hunting cat, his mind palace already sorting the data into patterns that others would miss. The Doctor paced the perimeter of the room, sonic screwdriver extended, reading energy signatures that lingered like ghosts in the electronic systems.
"They're not random," Sherlock said at the same moment the Doctor announced, "These symbols aren't just messages."
They glared at each other across the table, two intellects arriving at the same conclusion through completely different paths.
"The symbols change with each victim," the Doctor continued, his scanner painting invisible readings across the holographic crime scenes. "They're coordinates. Temporal coordinates. Someone's marking specific points in space-time."
"And the victims all visited the same location two weeks before their deaths," Sherlock added, pointing to credit card records that Kate hadn't yet highlighted. "An antique shop in Shoreditch. Transaction dates identical across all seven cases."
Kate's eyebrows rose. "Owned by?"
"Someone calling themselves 'The Curator,'" Sherlock replied, his fingers already flying across his phone to cross-reference business registrations and property records.
Mycroft's smile held no warmth. "Gentlemen, it appears you'll be working together on this case, whether you find each other's methods tolerable or not."
POV Shift to Clara Oswald
Clara had perfected the art of recognizing when brilliant men were about to start a contest that would last until something exploded. The warning signs were always the same—the way they held their shoulders, the particular quality of silence that preceded verbal warfare, the microscopic adjustments to posture that marked territory like wolves circling prey.
"I need tea," she announced, standing abruptly. "John, fancy showing me where they keep the good stuff?"
John Watson looked up from his careful observation of the two geniuses squaring off over holographic evidence, relief flooding his features. "Brilliant idea."
The UNIT break room existed in stark contrast to the high-tech facility surrounding it—industrial kettles, mismatched mugs, and biscuits that had probably survived the Thatcher administration. Clara felt immediately at home in the aggressive normalcy of it all.
"Does yours ever eat?" she asked, watching John prepare tea with the precise movements of someone who'd made thousands of cups under stress.
"Does yours ever sleep?" John countered, handing her a mug that proclaimed 'World's Most Dangerous Alien Hunter' in comic sans font.
They settled into chairs that had seen decades of worried conversations, the kind of furniture that absorbed anxiety and radiated it back like emotional radiation. Clara wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic and felt the familiar ache of recognition—another companion, another person whose life had been consumed by the orbit of impossible genius.
"Three years," John said quietly. "Three years of watching him throw himself at problems that could kill him, just because they're interesting. The fake suicide, the drugs, the casual disregard for his own safety. Sometimes I think he forgets he's actually mortal."
Clara nodded, understanding flowing between them like shared blood. "Nine hundred years old and he still acts like a teenager with a time machine. Throws himself into danger because he's clever enough to think he'll survive anything. Usually he's right. When he's wrong..."
"Danny Pink," John said. It wasn't a question.
The name hit her like a physical blow, months of grief condensed into two words that carried everything she'd lost. "He died saving the world. Or saving me. I'm still not sure which. The Doctor tried to comfort me by saying it was fixed point, that it couldn't be changed. That just made it worse."
"Mary Morstan," John replied, returning the gift of shared loss. "Assassin pretending to be normal, shot taking a bullet meant for Sherlock. She died in my arms asking me to tell him he was forgiven. I'm still not sure I have."
They sat in comfortable silence, two people who understood the particular weight of loving someone whose destiny consistently required other people's sacrifice. Around them, UNIT operated with the efficient hum of an organization that had learned to function in the spaces between impossible and inevitable.
"They make us better," John said finally. "Even when they're driving us completely insane. Before Sherlock, I was just another damaged soldier marking time until I died. Now..."
"Now you're a damaged soldier solving impossible crimes and saving the world on weekends," Clara finished. "I used to be a teacher. Small life, small problems, small dreams. Then a madman with a box showed up and suddenly I'm scattered across his timeline, facing down Daleks and cyber-men and the kind of nightmares that used to be science fiction."
"Do you regret it?"
Clara considered the question, watching through the break room window as two of the universe's greatest intellects argued over evidence that would reshape their understanding of reality. "Ask me tomorrow. When we're not facing another crisis that threatens to unravel the fabric of space-time."
John laughed, the sound carrying more relief than humor. "Fair enough."
They exchanged phone numbers like soldiers sharing ammunition, a pact between companions who recognized that survival sometimes required backup plans their geniuses would never think to consider.
When they returned to the conference room, Mycroft was delivering what appeared to be closing remarks while Sherlock and the Doctor maintained careful positions on opposite sides of the table.
"Try not to destroy London," Mycroft said with the dry precision that made Clara wonder how he'd survived decades of managing disasters that couldn't be classified.
"Try not to bore us to death," Sherlock retorted.
As they prepared to leave, Osgood approached the Doctor with the nervous energy of someone meeting a childhood hero. "Would you... could you possibly sign my bow tie?"
The Doctor's expression softened into the first genuine smile Clara had seen since they'd crashed into this universe. He took the offered fabric and scrawled his signature with a flourish that somehow made the simple gesture feel monumental.
"At least someone here appreciates me," he said, looking directly at Sherlock.
Clara caught John's eye and saw her own thought reflected there—this partnership was either going to save the world or destroy it.
Possibly both.