Chapter Text
Five years had passed for Rose Tyler. She wondered sometimes how much time had passed for the Doctor- it could have been five minutes, or 500 years, considering his life. He might still have his unfinished sentence on the tip of his tongue, or he might have forgotten her, replaced her a hundred times over, or changed his face again. For her, however, it had been five very human years. It had been time enough to deny (just because he said it was impossible doesn’t mean it’s actually impossible, Mother), be angry (why didn’t you tie me to the magna-clamp, Doctor?), bargain (if I get my doctorate I’ll be worthy of him again), become depressed (I will never love anyone else), and to accept.
Five years and Rose Tyler had become a new woman- the Defender of the Earth.
Five years and though she thought of the Doctor often, it was with pleasant warmth of the happiest two years of her life, not with bitter disappointment in her current world- like looking upon the gilded days of her childhood, knowing that one can’t go back, and wouldn’t, even if one could.
Five years she’d spent working for Torchwood in the laboratory and the field and rising to Team Leader of the Torchwood Prime team and the presumptive Director of Torchwood.
Five years spent proving that she was more than merely the Doctor’s Rose.
Five years and Rose Tyler was remarkable in her own right.
Five years and Rose Tyler still got stuck in places she had never intended because some man couldn’t prove that he was smarter than his mode of transportation.
“For God’s sake, Micks, the village is only about five miles up the road. I can walk it in less than an hour, and run it in half that.”
“I’m not letting you wander a dark road in the middle of nowhere by yourself, Babes,” came the voice from under the hood of their Torchwood-issue Land Rover.
Rose was stretched on the hard top of the vehicle (Mickey had glared when she had hopped up and muttered about scratching paint and warping chassis and she didn’t much care), hands behind her head, ankles crossed, naming the stars in her head. This was the third time since the sun had set almost two hours ago that they’d had this exact same argument. Never mind that Rose, for her fewer years with Torchwood, was Mickey’s senior officer. Never mind that she carried both a standard Earth pistol and an alien-issue blaster (neither of which did she ever use except in the direst of circumstance). Never mind four and a half years of training to move silently, swiftly, and all-unnoticed through both terrestrial and extra-terrestrial landscapes. Mickey would always think of her as his to protect.
“You could have let me go back when it was still light.”
“I’ll get this fixed. Give me a few more minutes, Babe. Not so long as all that since I was a mechanic.”
Rose was distracted from rehashing the next bit of the argument (about how the torch that Mickey had pulled out of his toolkit nearly three hours gone would run out of batteries long before he figured out what was wrong with the Land Rover’s engine) by the flash of headlights over the hill, coming their way and heading in the direction they were going. She hopped down from the top of the car to stand at the side of the road and wave frantically to catch the attention of the oncoming driver who stopped in front of her a moment later in a black Land Rover much like their own.
“Rose!” Mickey cried, mortified, “what are you doing? I’ve almost got it!”
Rose flashed a grin at her best friend. “Your willy don’t fall off if you ask for help, Micks, and you were never a mechanic in this universe. ‘Sprobably French or Kenyan or some other country that don’t make cars where we come from.” She turned back to the car and the rather shocked-looking man driving, who appeared to have rolled down the window in time to catch her jibe at Mickey’s manhood.
“Hi!” she began, with her best charming grin, “m’name’s Rose. You couldn’t possibly give my mate here and me a lift into Grimpen, the village just up the way, could you? Only we’d have called a tow ages ago (well, I would have anyway), but we’re in a dead zone, and he won’t let me walk into town, somethin’ about it being too dangerous for a pretty girl on the road,” she rolled her eyes here like this was the most daft thing she’d ever heard.
The mousy-looking man in the driver’s seat continued to look at her as though she were slightly mad. Rose knew that she could babble for England (she'd learned from the best), and she had found that it was an effective way to diffuse tension, she also knew that acting less clever than she actually was worked even better on men.
Rose continued, “look, I know how creepy it is, picking up strangers in the dark on a country road, and it’s just the kind of thing a serial killer would do- have a pretty blonde to do his talking for him and win people over- or else be a pretty blonde! That’s an option! I could be the serial killer! Wouldn’t that be mad? Probably make a good serial killer, don’t you think, Micks?” this last was tossed over her shoulder to her partner, who knew precisely what she was doing.
“Can you kill someone by slapping them?” Mickey asked gruffly.
“Dunno. Shoulda’ tried it on ol’ Jimmy, yeah?”
“Or the pinstripe puppy.”
“Maybe after the business in France, yeah. But he’d probably have just come back younger and even more inclined towards busty blondes.” Mickey laughed at that, and Rose flashed him a grin, turning back to the car. “So anyway, like I say, I get that you might not want to let us in your car, and that’s fine, but do you have a mobile that’s getting signal? I’ll just call the tow, or maybe a cab.”
Rose could tell that the man was flustered, which had been precisely her goal.
“No-no, it’s fine… I mean, I can give you a lift… or…” at this the stuttering man shifted to dig into the pocket of his trousers and Rose noticed the man in the other seat for the first time. Her night-adjusted eyes could see that his mobile was in his hand, but he made no effort to check it for signal. Maybe he knew it was out. The smaller man pulled his phone out as well and checked. “Nope, dead. Sorry.”
“’Fraid of that. But you’re okay giving us a lift? I wouldn’t normally ask, Micks over there is great with machines, but our torch is gonna die soon and I think it’s beyond his skills.” She directed the next over her shoulder, “impressive as they are.”
“That-that’s fine. No, I-we don’t mind giving you a-letting you-where did you say you were going?”
“Into Grimpen village. Guidebook says there’s only the one inn the Cross Keys, so it should be pretty easy to find, yeah? I guess I didn’t check on chain hotels or B&Bs or anything, so maybe it won’t be. I dunno if Grimpen is where you’re heading, but I’d be happy to buy you drinks for your trouble. Or, I guess, if you don’t drink, or if you’re gonna keep driving, I could buy you dinner?” Rose ended this last on a question. She thought, looking at the man, that he would be uncomfortable with a woman paying for his drinks or his meal. Military, she guessed, by his haircut and bearing, even seated. He reminded her of her first Doctor, so she added ‘wounded’ to her mental profile. She could not yet be certain, but she believed the wound was more likely to be psychological than physical, but possibly both.
“No, it’s fine. We’re headed there ourselves, so it’s not out of the way or anything.”
“You’re a life saver, you are. Come on, Micks, you can keep making love to that engine when there’s enough light to see your spanner in front of your face. I’ll get it towed into the village once my mobile is working again.”
Rose heard Mickey muttering something about ‘super-phones’ under his breath and she laughed merrily as she walked over to grab her rucksack from beside the Land Rover and pull him toward the car. “Yeah, universal coverage don’t mean what it used to mean for us, does it?” Rose asked, making him smile. She shoved him into the backseat of the second Land Rover and crawled in after him.
“So, I probably said before- got a bit of a gob, me- but I’m Rose, and this is Mickey. And you are?”
An unfamiliar, perfectly accented voice spoke from the darkness on the passenger side of the car, “Rose Tyler, Vitex heiress and tabloid darling.”
Rose chose to answer that with a grin. “Are you really? 'Cause I've always wanted to meet her. The tabs make her look like such fun- bit of a slapper, but she's always going to parties and hanging around with pretty boys. Well then, if you're” and here her heavier-than-normal Cockney accent fell away, and she perfectly mimicked the man's crisp vowels, “Rose Tyler, Vitex heiress and tabloid darling-” she resumed the previous accent, “then you,” this directed towards the man in the driver's seat, “must be Mickey Smith. Them two're joined at the hip, they are. Must be sleeping together.”
“He's a good looking, bloke,” Mickey commented, vaguely.
“Ah,” Rose sighed, “he's too good for her.”
“I hear she likes blokes with big ears.”
“I'll bet she does. You know what they say about blokes with big ears, yeah? But I heard she likes Americans too.”
“Yeah, loud idiots with more brawn than brains.”
“And men in suits.”
“The kind who like French blondes better than British ones.”
The man whose face Rose hadn't seen cleared his throat to interrupt their burlesque. “Are you quite finished?” he asked.
Rose's silly-ass act dropped, and with it her exaggerated accent. “I asked you a polite question, but rather than answering in a polite way, you thought you would prove to me how clever you are to have figured out who I am. Seems all you've proved is that you read the rags. Congratulations, you and every housewife in Europe knows my name and thinks you know something about my personal life.”
The car was silent for three solid minutes. Rose counted the seconds carefully.
“I know,” came the biting voice from the passenger seat again, and Rose saw the man in the driver's seat cringe, “that you are carrying a minimum of two weapons, one in your rucksack and one in a holster at your side. I know that your friend is carrying both of his on his person, one in a holster under his jacket and one at his side as well. He probably also has a blade in his boot. I know that the tabloids claim that you live a life without purpose, but you obviously have a job, and are here about it. The Land Rover and your choice of clothing indicate some sort of law or government enforcement, or possibly military, as well as the way you move, watch around you, and catalogue impressions. I know that both you and your colleague’s accents come from East End London, though when you wish to impress, you are capable of nearly completely suppressing the accent. Your companion is less skilled. You both speak as if you have traveled extensively, including travel to France, but your accents do not indicate fluency in a second language. Neither of you lives in the East End now, but as you say, that knowledge could come from the papers, not necessarily my own observations.”
The man who had been speaking turned in his seat. Mickey was directly behind him, but Rose was in his line of sight. It was too dark for details, but she had the impression of high cheekbones, light eyes, and dark, rumpled hair.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my companion Doctor John Watson. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Rose felt a smile stretching her mouth and saw, though she had a suspicion that he would deny it had ever happened, an answering smile at the very edges of Sherlock's mouth.
“Oh, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, the pleasure is entirely mine.”