Chapter Text
Psych Offices, Santa Barbara, California, USA; March 11th
It was a dark and stormy night. Which is to say, it was probably a dark and stormy night somewhere, but was, in fact, a sunny morning in Santa Barbara with a 15% chance of clouds in the afternoon. Which is to say, it was in fact afternoon by the time Shawn Spencer rolled out of bed, though it was still sunny and remained Santa Barbara. This came as a bit of a disappointment to Shawn, who had been woken from an exciting dream about being a space pirate moonlighting as a movie star by someone firmly shaking him.
"Shawn! Shawn!" The voice pierced his unconscious world in the form of a pterodactyl that was apparently on a first-name basis while attacking his head.
"Mwuh…?" groaned Shawn. He opened his eyes a crack and groggily tried to focus them, trying to manage the transition from saving Cyndi Lauper from a vicious dinosaur to being roughly handled by a clean-shaven Wayne Brady. As he shook off the fragments of sleep, he realized it was Gus. Weakly, he batted away his friend's hands. Narrow bars of brilliant sunlight were streaming in through the half-closed blinds. He gave the unwelcome real world a general look of disapproval, then centered it on his human alarm clock. "Gus, why are you waking me up at the crack of--"
"It's 1:45, Shawn," Gus admonished.
"-- at the crack of 1:45? You know I need my beauty rest."
"It's not my fault you were up until 4AM playing Minecraft." To emphasize his point, Gus picked up a stuffed Creeper from the detritus lying around the couch and coffee table, and chucked it at Shawn's head. It bounced off ineffectually, but Shawn winced and acted wounded anyway.
"Okay, we've established it's nobody's fault. WHY are you waking me up?" He rolled himself halfway into a sitting position on the office couch, yawning. They'd pulled a lot of late-nighters lately for cases, and Shawn hadn't seen reason to stop even when there wasn't one. Plus, it was the only way he could justify his midnight snack food purchases as a business expense. Speaking of which, there was a Snyder's pretzel peeking out of the folds of his Snuggie. Breakfast of champions. He ignored Gus' look of distaste as he ate it.
"We have mail." Gus had on his serious face. Shawn was not a fan of that face, which was too bad, since it was his default one. He preferred the "jazz hands" face. Heh. Jazz hands. Shawn momentarily forgot what they were talking about, but managed to come back to it.
"We also have a mailbox which that mail goes into, and it can stay there indefinitely unless it's a new Hammacher Schlemmer catalog. Is it? Have they got the hover-recliners I suggested?" Shawn's face lit up.
"No, it came express mail. International. You're going to want to read it right away." Now Gus was wearing his 'serious business' face, which could mean anything on a scale of from 'why did you eat all the Combos' to 'stop poking the dead body'.
"Okay, now I'm equally suspicious and intrigued." Shawn quirked an eyebrow. Somewhat reverentially, Gus handed him a large, matte black envelope, with the lettering and a delicate border of entwined vines done in gold ink. Shawn ignored where Gus had already neatly sliced the envelope with a letter opener, and instead ripped the side to pull out the contents. He took no notice of Gus' eye-roll.
Inside the envelope was something like a large greeting card, in black and gold like the envelope. Shawn noted the thick cardstock, silky under his fingers. Expensive. The front of the card read "An Invitation", in a gently scrolled serif font, with the same border of vines. The surface was marred by his fingerprints where he first touched it, but the rest of the card was pristine from crisp-cut edge to edge. He instinctively had a distrust of anything so high-class looking, since it was not the same sort of mail he was used to receiving. He never got much besides Nintendo Power, catalogs, and bills, for that matter. Slowly and somewhat gingerly, he opened the card and read the interior.
"Shawn Spencer, Esq. and Bruton Gaster of Psych Inc.:
You are cordially invited to dinner and a murder at Dunwadie Castle on the evening of March the thirteenth of the year two thousand and thirteen. Room and board will be provided; dinner attire is formal. Please find the enclosed pre-paid debit card in the amount of $10,000 US to cover travel costs and any incidentals. A car will be waiting for you at Dunwadie Station.
To the guest who solves the murder and apprehends the murderer, an additional
$20,000 US shall be awarded."
Shawn tried hard to focus on anything other than the words "pre-paid debit card". Visions of rocket-powered, gold-plated skateboards danced in his head.
Gus was trying to hide an excited grin and failing. His financial state was respectable, especially given Shawn's, which was generally in freefall; but over the years the Psych agency had gnawed away more and more at his funds and his ability to be dedicated to his second job. It certainly didn't help that Shawn had a habit of charging his more extravagant expenses to Gus' credit card, though he paid him back - eventually. As a result, Gus was salivating at the idea of a paid vacation, even if it meant hanging out in a damp castle in Scotland with a would-be murderer. "I looked it up; it's a castle in the Scottish Highlands." 'Highlands' sounded promising, didn't it?
"What? In Scotland?"
"No, in Burbank. YES, in Scotland," he chided. Grabbing the collar of Shawn's Snuggie, Gus tried to extract him from it; but it was caught underneath his butt, and he wound up pulling Shawn entirely off the couch and onto the floor. Pretzels took flight in all directions.
"I don't want to go all the way to another COUNTRY for a case," he whined. His vote was unconvincing, folded up as he was on the floor between the couch and coffee table, legs akimbo, and a pretzel caught in his hair.
"Shawn, we can't turn down a case. You need the money. WE need the money. Do you have any idea what your budget was for junk food last month?" The expression on Gus' face, as if he'd just bitten a lemon so sour he considered it a personal affront, indicated that he certainly did.
"The fact that you dare to use 'budget' in the same sentence as 'junk food' means you clearly do." Shawn was cranky from his sleep deprivation hangover, and now his rear was sore to boot. He fought his way out from the tangle of the Snuggie and got up, so he could at least be on even ground for the argument. Rubbing his forehead with one hand, Shawn regarded the card again. Aside from it being too early for him to be amused by any of this, it wasn't sitting well with him at all. He could see Gus fidgeting out of the corner of his eye, which wasn't helping.
"Gus, don't you think it's a LITTLE odd to announce that you're planning to murder someone in advance?"
"Just because you never call before coming over to someone's apartment, making a sandwich with their special organic bread, and filling up their DVR with Happy Days reruns doesn't mean that everyone else has no concept of etiquette." Somehow it all kept coming back to food.
"That is not even remotely the same thing! And for the record, I didn't know that was orangutan bread or I wouldn't have eaten it."
Shawn could see from the way Gus seemed to be barely holding back a dance number that the debate was already lost. He had to admit; being a fake psychic detective wasn't exactly a steady job. It had been a while since the last time the SBPD had called them up for a case, or there had been any worth crashing, and he wasn't about to get a real job like a savage. It was hard to even consider turning down that kind of money, even if he couldn't quite convince himself this was all some kind of elaborate but harmless stunt. His curiosity was piqued, and curiosity made that monkey George famous, after all…
"Fine. We'll take the case on three conditions. One, after the case we're going to look for Nessie. Two, we're using some of the money to hire Arnold Schwarzenegger to re-enact scenes from Last Action Hero. Three, I want drugs for the flight. You know I get anxious on any trip where I can't stop to get a Slushie."
Gus was a highly trained pharmaceutical salesman, and he was pretty sure at least one of them needed drugs all of the time. But he treasured any situation where he was the one who talked Shawn into a case, instead of being dragged along - not always figuratively. He'd learned to mentally frame his victories and hang them in an imaginary 'hall of being right' so he had something to hold on to the other 98% of the time.
"I KNEW that matched hard-sided luggage set would come in handy sooner or later," Gus beamed. "Business class, here we come!"
He'd chosen wisely in selecting a best friend with an impeccable moonwalk. Though Shawn didn't think matched luggage was due cause to bust it out, one does not simply refuse to join a spontaneous dance party. While they grooved and beatboxed to their own internal music, the little voice in the back of Shawn's mind that sometimes told him to be serious was trying desperately to be heard over the din: something is rotten in the country of Scotland.
Crap Motel in Bumblef*ck Nowheresville, Somewhere Near Warsaw, Missouri; March 8-11th
It was a black and rainy night. Dean Winchester pulled his jacket collar tighter around his neck, too late to stop an icy rivulet of rain water from slipping underneath when he stepped under the full gutters of the motel's sagging roof. At least the shiver down his spine shook off a little bit of his exhaustion; they'd been driving all night on narrow, winding roads, struggling to see through the downpour. For all its charms, the Impala was more of a fair-weather car; not that it had seen much of that. Nor had they.
The lobby was not much larger than a closet, with stained and chipped linoleum that might once have been green, but was turned by age and the wan light of the neon sign outside to shit brown. The middle-aged man working the front desk was sullen and slouched in his little cave of old papers, squinting through thick glasses at a vintage television that kept flipping to static. He tweaked the set's rabbit ears absentmindedly with one hand, and with the other he scratched his chest through a dirty auto parts store shirt that hung off his shoulders. A greasy combover laid limply across the dome of his skull like even his hair had given up on life. The picture was finished with a dribble of ketchup clinging to the uneven salt stubble on his chin. Dean grimaced and comforted himself with the thought that the guy probably had a world-class porn collection, which was something in life.
He slapped a credit card down on the counter. "Hey, brother, need to get a room." The man growled, smacked the top of the television, and turned to him. He gave Dean the once over through his smeary glasses.
"How many hours you an' your lady be usin' it fer?" He bore his tobacco-stained teeth in an unpleasant approximation of a knowing grin.
Dean laughed uncomfortably. He much preferred the motels where the staff had the sense to leave the guests' business alone, but it was hardly his first time. These were there sort of places, on the whole, where you were more likely to find a condom on your pillow than a mint. In the higher-class ones, it was still in a package.
He turned on a bright smile in the hopes it would get it over with quicker. "Actually, it's just me and my brother. One room. For the week." Seeing the man frown, he quickly added, "Business."
"Right. Bizness. We get uh lot uh bizness peeple." The frown turned back to a sideways smile as he took the card and fished out a reader from underneath a pile of newspapers and snack food wrappers. "Whatever's yer thing." He swiped the card somewhat over-dramatically, looked up at Dean, and winked.
Dean sighed quietly; next time he was definitely going to pretend to not speak English.
Three days later the boys had just finished a victory dinner. Carryout from a late-night burger stand down the street that looked like it had fallen through a crack in time, which was a decent salve for bruised ribs. The poltergeist had proved to be small fry, but still threw a mean fastball, especially given the lacking aerodynamics of the table lamp. Sam was puttering around online for another job, poaching a weak wifi signal from some hapless homeowner nearby who had dubbed their insecure network "SXYCATLVR79". Dean was sitting on the bed, hoping that repeatedly pushing the button for different lengths of time and then banging on the headboard would miraculously make the Magic Fingers work, or at least recover his change. He was not finding the experience very relaxing.
There was a rap on the door. They exchanged a quick look, and after a nearly imperceptible nod from Dean, Sam closed his laptop and went to open it. Dean slipped his hand underneath his jacket where it sat next to him on the bed, gripped the handle of his knife, and tensed the muscles in his legs.
It was the grimy man from the front desk who peeked around the door nervously, clearly expecting to see all manner of debauchery inside. When it was clear there was nothing of the sort, he relaxed but also seemed slightly disappointed. He pulled one hand from behind his back and held up a large white express mail envelope. Dean eased his grip on the knife and tried to look more casual and less murderous.
"Uhm, this came fer yuh. By courier. We don't get much uh that." He handed the envelope to Sam, a little reluctantly.
"Uh…thanks," Sam smiled, somewhat uncertainly. The man hesitated in the doorway as if waiting for something. He started to smile too, like a stray tomcat hoping for the sound of a can opener. Sam might've just met him but was already certain that was a can he did not want to open.
"Don't get much uh that," the man was saying again, expectantly, as Sam slowly but firmly closed the door on him.
"Who knows we're here? Garth?" He frowned suspiciously at the envelope, carefully examining the label. No return address or evidence of where it had been mailed.
"Sam, I didn't know we were here until we GOT here."
"It says 'Agents Black and Gass', Dean. Someone has to know." Sam sat down at the table with it, sliding his laptop out of the way. Now Dean was frowning, too. This definitely didn't make sense. Had someone been following them? And why would they send them a letter about it if they were? Demon who was a devoted reader of Dear Abby?
"Just open the damn thing already. Maybe it's a check from Publisher's Clearing House." Dean smirked. "'You may already be a winner'."
"Yeah, right…" Grabbing the pull tab, Sam ripped the envelope open, flipped it over, and gave it a gentle shake. A black envelope fell out on to the table, landing face up. Emblazoned on the jet surface in gold was "Dean and Samuel Winchester". They both hesitated for a moment.
"Okay, this is officially weird."
"Even for us." Half as though he thought it could be a poisonous viper in disguise, Sam picked it up and pulled out the card inside. He delicately checked inside the envelope just to make sure there weren't any cursed coins or anything else lurking, then opened the card and read it aloud.
"'Samuel and Dean Winchester, of the Family Winchester:
You are cordially invited to dinner and a murder by monster at Dunwadie Castle, Scotland, on the evening of March the thirteenth of the year two thousand and thirteen. Room and board will be provided; dinner attire is formal. Please find the enclosed pre-paid debit cards in the amount of $5,000 US apiece to cover travel costs and any incidentals. A car will be waiting for you at Dunwadie Station.
To the guest who successfully hunts down the monster, an additional $20,000 US shall be awarded, as well as the satisfaction of further murders prevented.'"
Two jet black, glossy debit cards with their names - well, their current fake names - on it were stuck to the reverse flap of the card. How considerate. Sam raised his eyebrows and Dean swallowed hard.
"Boy, who knew hunting could bring in the big money?" said Dean with a laugh, but it was uneasy. Neither of them liked that word: 'further'. And 'monster' was never a good start.
"That's…uh… a lot of money."
"Scotland? Who could possibly know us in Scotland?"
"Ireland, maybe, but…" Both of them ran through their mental rolodex for a possible connection, but came up empty. The list had never been long, and had only gotten shorter over the years.
"It's definitely fake. Or a bad joke. Or using the card releases the vengeful spirit of a Midwestern housewife who died in an outlet mall fire. All I know is, there's no WAY you get something for nothing. Ever." Dean shot a bitter glare at the invitation, then continued to glower sourly at the room in general, and the universe by extension. Suddenly he was fostering an intense hatred of the polka dot curtains, and involuntarily clenched his fists.
"It might NOT be a trap." The idea was betrayed by Sam's furrowed brow. He got a look in response. Sam regarded his brother's petulant expression for a moment before adding, "Don't you think we should at least find out what it is?"
Dean sighed and scratched the back of his head. Yep, still sore from the earlier abrupt encounter with a wall, and none of this was helping. "Look, Sam, I don't know about you but I'm not in the market for a new big bad right now. Maybe it should be someone else's problem for once."
There was a long silence while they both considered this. 'Someone else's problem' was a lovely idea, but it usually wound up becoming their problem in the end anyway. If it was all a ploy by some nefarious villain, at least they were asking nicely for the Winchesters to walk into a trap, which was more than they could say for the vast majority of their baddies gallery. Advance warning of killing was new territory, too. Both brothers silently reached the same conclusion at the same time, though neither of them liked it in the least. Dean hesitated for a moment longer as if it physically tormented him to agree about such a singularly bad idea, but finally caved under the twin beams of Sam's empathetic puppy eyes.
"Oh, let me see the damn thing," Dean growled, snatching it from where Sam was already holding it up in anticipation. He examined it carefully, turning it every which way. Suddenly he stopped, holding it open at an angle. He got it quite close to his face and frowned deeply. Sam knew the expression and stood to come closer. Without looking away, Dean grabbed the bowie knife from the bed. Sam watched his brother somewhat quizzically, as he delicately inserted the tip of the knife into the side of a tiny incision below the text and pried up a hidden flap.
"Sam." It was an exhaled breath, heavy with dread. They stared at the card in silence for a long while. Underneath the flap was a photo. It was black and white, but had clearly been taken recently, going by the clothing. A couple and two young children stood in front of an old stone wall, with the outline of a castle in the distance. The faces had been burned away. At the bottom, in red felt tip marker, were the words "SAVE THEM".
"Dammit." The utterance was almost inaudible. Dean sheathed his knife emphatically, closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. There was the headache. He tossed the invitation back on to the table with distaste. "I'll get on the damned plane, but you can't pay me enough to wear a monkey suit to dinner."
Why couldn't the family business have been chartered accountancy?
Baker Street, London, England; March 12th
It was a bleak and blustery morning, and John Watson's mood was dark and stormy. He'd been woken repeatedly during the night, by Sherlock's violin playing, and the frustrated banging and cursing in between that comprised composing. Then, what little sleep he'd managed to get was shattered early by Sherlock shouting down the morning news. John had given up on bed, only to stumble zombie-like into the kitchen and discover that the bread had gone moldy and there was no milk. Again. He'd had no choice but to tromp down to the shops in the wind and chill rain before he'd had any coffee or breakfast. Consulting detective Sherlock Holmes was nothing without anything to detect; and no case worthy of him had cropped up in two weeks. Sherlock was miserable, and as a result so was everyone and everything else in a 100 yard radius. Mrs. Hudson had finally recused herself and gone to visit her sister when she found him about to experiment on her favorite ficus, 'trying to find the fastest way to kill it'. He'd effectively found the fastest way to get Mrs. Hudson to leave - taking her plant with her.
When John came back up the stairs into the flat, Sherlock was still in his dressing gown, accessorized with nitrile rubber gloves, safety glasses, and rain boots. It would have seemed comical, if his drawn face and red rimmed eyes hadn't attested to many days lacking both sleep and food. He'd been running so many experiments all over the flat lately, many simultaneously and at all hours of the night, that John had quite lost track of what their goal even was; and he suspected that Sherlock might have lost the thread of it somewhat, too. He'd had to institute a moratorium on experiments in the bathroom when he'd found a human molar dissolving in an acid bath - in his water glass. At the moment Sherlock was stamping on something smoldering at the bottom of the wastebasket.
"Wrong, wrong, WRONG," he growled at the offending cinders. He kicked off the rain boots when he was done; John had to sidestep to avoid one of them as it struck the doorframe.
"I've got the milk, Sherlock." The news was pointed but he knew it wasn't registered. John peered into the wastebasket. The pathetic remains of what appeared to have been some kind of sweater were reduced to a burned and melted blob at the bottom. He was glad he'd gotten a metal can. "Glad to see the Fashion Police have been hard at work while I was making sure we had food. Implementing capital punishment, I see."
"A study on the reactions of assorted synthetic fiber blends to various heat sources, John." The man had an uncanny gift for the verbal sneer; as usual, it was an indication of displeasure at having to say aloud something that should've been obvious.
Shaking his head, John headed towards the kitchen to put away the shopping and get some kind of breakfast ready. He was stopped dead in his tracks by a wisp of bright purple smoke casually rolling out of the doorway.
"If you've put that out, where is the smoke coming from…?" John was fairly sure he wasn't going to like it when he found out the answer.
"Oh, the microwave is on fire." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, without looking away from the pile of used clothing he was pawing through in search of a new victim.
"What? Why is the microwave on fire?!" John paused, then corrected himself: "Again…"
"Don't worry about it, John!" He already had a hideous polyester shirt in one hand and a soldering iron in the other.
"How can I not worry about it?" John's voice was angry, but like an old hand he calmly grabbed the fire extinguisher from the counter (under the sink wasn't handy enough), opened the door of the smoking appliance, and filled the inside with foam. He opened a window to let out the toxic-smelling fumes. Then he put away the groceries like a civilized human - once he'd moved the plastic container of eyeballs out of the crisper drawer. In the other room, Sherlock had not gotten the result he wanted from the polyester shirt, and was pacing so ferociously he seemed in hope of wearing through the floorboards with sheer frustration.
Unnoticed, John came behind him expertly, putting the smoldering remains of the shirt in the trash. He let out a quiet "Jesus" when removing the soldering iron from where it had been tossed carelessly on to a pile of newspapers. He'd decided breakfast was a lost cause and he might as well hold out till lunch. The smell of melted plastic and wet sheep was off-putting to the appetite; as was the sheep's head he'd discovered regarding him from the kitchen sink.
Sherlock melodramatically punted stacks of files off the sofa before flopping down on his back.
"It's just an experiment. All I can do is experiments. I haven't got a CASE." He gestured to the sky with his fists, threatening a petulant higher power. He didn't wait for a reply, just grabbed a throw pillow and pressed it over his face. John sighed.
"So no one's in a murdering mood. Isn't that a good thing?" he asked, knowing full well the answer but making an effort for the sake of clinging to some concept of decency.
"NO!" came the muffled but immediate reply.
"Can't you at least go through your mail? You've got a good week's worth here." John gestured to the chaotic mountain currently occupying the table he would've liked to put his laptop on. "Maybe there's a case in it."
"There ISN'T."
Increasingly the conversation was deteriorating into a child's fit, as it had been quite frequently in the lull since the matter in Norwood was resolved. He took one last shot at it. "You can't know that when you haven't even opened any of them."
That got his attention. Sherlock sat bolt upright, his laser eyes focused, and he swung over to the table in one swift motion. He cinched his dressing gown tight and shot John a glare of disapproval that could've stripped the paper off the wall before snatching up a stack of post.
"Junk mail. Advertisement for car insurance. From a child, unlikely to be a triple homicide." He held each envelope aloft for only an instant before tossing them haphazardly over his shoulder.
"Fan mail." His lip twisted with distaste; sniffing the envelope, he recoiled further. "Over 50 and drowning in cheap perfume.
"Dull. Boring. Unbearably droll!" The letters were discarded even faster now, some without pronouncement beyond a frown or sneer; disappointment confetti flew left and right. "Bill. Overdue bill."
"Sherlock, that's from the power company--" John dove for the envelope but it was hopeless. Half-heartedly, he tried fishing through the mess on the floor.
"Fan mail. To you."
"Wait, what? Really?" His reaction sounded a little more enthusiastic than he'd intended, as did the leap back to his feet. A lightning-quick and tiny grin flashed across the haughty countenance regarding John.
"Five, possibly six cats. No good. Letter from your bank."
John jumped up in an attempt to catch this one, but it was less than aerodynamic and turned suddenly. He had to scramble around in crumpled newspaper to fish it out. When he turned back around, ready to snag anything else important, he realized that Sherlock had gone silent. He was stock still and staring intently at a large black envelope.
Slowly, he turned it in his hands, holding it alternately closer and farther away. There was a flash of gold from the front.
"What is it?"
"Interesting." John wasn't sure whether this was a reply to him or to some internal monologue, but it didn't really matter. It was something.
"Hand-delivered. After the real post had come, so that it would be at the top of the stack. Never touched except while wearing gloves. Must've even been in a glass case at the shop. Sealed with a sponge; no DNA there. Paper is very high GSM; only a specialty shop would carry it. High-end stationers or possibly an art supply. But they're careful; would likely have been mail ordered. Too few shops of that nature, they'd run a chance of being remembered." Sherlock scarcely came up for air, and his focus never wavered from the envelope for an instant.
He grabbed a tiny silver letter opener from where he evidently knew a pencil can lurked beneath the hoard of papers that drowned his desk. With a surgeon's precision, he slid it open where it had been sealed rather than slicing it. He drew out the card, studied it silently for a moment, then opened it reverentially. He stepped to the window and leaned into the weak gray daylight, turning his back to John.
Some long moments passed; John waited. Suddenly Sherlock spun back, snapped the card closed and handed it over, still saying nothing beyond what the subtle creasing of his brow and downward turn to the mouth told. He stalked over to his chair, sat, and rested his chin on his steepled fingers with eyes closed.
Confused, John looked down at the card. Precise gold script scrolled across the front: "Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson". Somewhat apprehensively, he opened it.
"Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson:
You are cordially invited to dinner and a murder at Dunwadie Castle on the evening of March the thirteenth of the year two thousand and thirteen. Room and board will be provided; dinner attire is formal. Please find the enclosed pre-paid debit card in the amount of £10,000 US to cover travel costs and any incidentals. A car will be waiting for you at Dunwadie Station.
To the guest who solves the murder and apprehends the murderer, an additional £20,000
shall be awarded."
"Why would you send an invitation to a murder?" John spoke cautiously.
"Not an 'invitation', John; it's a threat." His voice was low and calm, and he didn't open his eyes; but the tension written across his shoulders was enough to tell this was serious.
"What?"
"The hidden flap, John. The bottom." Sherlock gestured in front of him, drawing a tiny rectangle in the air with one finger.
"What flap…" John peered at the lower part of the card beneath the text, and finally spotted the faint darker line where it had been cut. He slid his nail underneath and lifted it. The result made his heart sink like a stone. "Oh, God. You think it's for real?"
"Without a doubt." The pronouncement had the utterly definite air that only Sherlock could muster. The ramification sent an unpleasant chill clambering down John's spine.
John frowned at the card. The circumstances put him ill at ease; but he knew once Sherlock's mind was in motion on a matter, there was no getting off the ride - no matter how off the rails it was bound to go. "So we have a case?"
"Yes, John; we have a CASE."
Sherlock stirred into motion again quicker than a jack-in-the-box. He thumped John on the shoulders, giving him a manic grin. There it was; the familiar twist in his stomach, half anticipation and half "oh god, not again". He was startled from the beginnings of a reflection on the state of his life by Sherlock's shout from the next room, where he was undoubtedly already packing.
"Book us a train, John! And put out the trash!"
'Put out the trash?' Suddenly now Sherlock was interested in the mundane household tasks? He'd have to take out half the room to do it. Then, with the aid of the acrid scent of burning plastic followed by the sudden heat of flames nearby, he realized. "Oh, shit."
It was more of a general conclusion than an exclamation.
Carina Nebula; Exact Space-Time Co-ordinates Unknown
It was always day in space; not that time was remotely relevant inside the TARDIS. The rain, on the other hand, was something of an anomaly in both cases. Nevertheless, Amy Pond was miserably huddled under a tatty yellow umbrella, trying to use a car sunshade to shield critical bits of the console from a determined lavender rain. "At least in Scotland it doesn't rain indoors," she muttered to herself, shifting her weight to balance the umbrella on her hip. Her socks squelched unpleasantly inside her soaked Converses. It had surely been nearly an hour by now. Her red hair was plastered against her forehead and cheeks, her arms ached, and she was as far from having an adventure as she could imagine. "Doctor, how much longer is this going to take?"
"Regular maintenance! You have to keep up the maintenance or it all goes haywire." The answer that was not an answer came from where he was slung underneath the glass floor below the console, tinkering with a mechanism that looked like the unholy offspring of a toaster and a carburetor. Amy was less than pleased that he'd somehow dug up a mariner's rain kit for himself, complete with wide-brimmed hat, on his trip to the TARDIS' wardrobe and only brought her a charity shop umbrella.
"You owe me a trip to the beach now, you know," she called back. "A proper beach, with sand and waves and sunshine." The Doctor was as bad as a genie; even if she made her wishes carefully, they tended to backfire anyway.
"Don't worry, Amy, the coolant is entirely harmless. Well, nearly entirely harmless. Well, mostly harmless." He gaily carried on in the conversation he expected he was having rather than the one he was, as he often did. He switched the setting on his sonic and tried again; the alignment was still off. He tried giving it a good whack just to be sure. "So long as you wash it off within, oh, an hour, your genetic structure should be fine. Besides, who'd mind an extra arm or two?"
In spite of the bright grin he flashed Amy, the Doctor's version of reassuring banter was extremely ineffective. She was about to suggest that she would most certainly mind having an extra arm and tell him to hurry up and fix the bloody thing already so she could make an urgent appointment with a shower, when yet another anachronism struck her already jangled nerves. A phone rang.
Amy's hand instinctively went to her pocket for her mobile; but it wasn't the sound of a mobile, it was the sound of an honest-to-goodness phone, loud and clear as a bell. The sound called up old memories of dim houses that smelled of must, and a vague sense of trepidation. Confused, she bent down to see what the Doctor was doing below her. He did not seem to have noticed.
"Doctor… does the TARDIS have a phone?"
"Oh, I think I've got one lying around somewhere… keep it around for atmosphere…" He was deep in concentration with the faulty carbu-toaster. The Doctor had just pushed backwards on his swing so he could kick the malfunctioning coolant control valve with both feet when the phone rang again, seemingly louder. "What's that? is that the phone? The phone NEVER rings!"
"Well, it's ringing now," Amy was losing patience. "Should I answer it?"
"OUCH-" The phone rang again, insistently. The Doctor's lost concentration mid-swing had resulted in an unexpected meeting of his head with part of the TARDIS' underbelly that sent him spinning, and now he was badly tangled in the wires suspending him. He looked for all the world like a neglected marionette, fragile limbs askew and motion broken.
"Second panel over from the door! Quickly, quickly!" For reasons known only to him, his disinterest had changed abruptly to urgency, and he emphatically waved her in the right direction as well as he could with one arm pinned against his chest and a leg stuck up in the air.
Amy balanced the sunshade over the console, gripped the ridiculous umbrella tightly, and made for the door. She managed to get down the steps in one leap, but nearly wiped out on the wet floor when she landed. Turning the momentum into a skid to the wall, she hit the correct panel with her elbow and it sprang open. Inside was a black phone with a rotary dial and a fabric cord. It was very ordinary looking, of the type she'd expect to be lending character in an old hotel; but as it was, in the rain in a flying police box in space, she couldn't help but mistrust it. Especially on behalf of the mystery of who could be calling. Her hand hovered for a moment as it rang again, then she grabbed it.
"Hello, this is the Doctor's conveyance; Amy Pond speaking. How may I help you?" At least that dismal summer job in school, years and worlds away, had prepared her for answering phones in space.
The Doctor was still trying to right himself on his swing, having so far only succeeded in hanging off one end of it awkwardly with one foot snagged on a cable. He could see an upside-down and wobbling Amy was still on the phone, saying nothing but listening intently.
"I'll tell him, thank you," she said, and replaced the receiver.
"Ah! That's done it!" He finally managed to extricate himself, executing a nearly elegant flip and landing mostly on his feet on the floor. "Well? What did they want…?"
"You've got mail," she replied, sounding impassive but swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. Half thrill of excitement, half chill of terror, all rising up in her chest at once and taking away her breath: that was the feeling of traveling with a Time Lord.
Abruptly, there was an odd whirr from beneath the TARDIS console and the rain ceased.
"Ah!" cried the Doctor, throwing up his hands in victory. Only someone who knew him well could sense the nervous undercurrent to his enthusiasm. "There we are! Everything is always happening at once, which is all well and good and that's time for you, but just the same it's better not to be WET while you're doing it!"
In a flurry of long limbs in flight, he had scrambled up from below the console and was at Amy's side in a moment, having cast off the heavy raincoat along the way. He plopped the mariner's hat on her head with a teasing grin. Then his face set into a more serious mode. "Now then, let's see about this mail."
"Haven't got a mailbox, not much call for that, hard to maintain an address when you're traversing space-time so--" He paced while he spoke, then as if struck by a sudden idea, the Doctor swung open the door to the TARDIS. There, pinned to the door in a way that completely defied the sweeping and immense view of the nebula beyond where said door was suspended in the depths of space, was a black envelope. The Doctor snatched up the envelope and pushed the door shut again without so much as a glance at the unlikely scenery beyond. He tore into it and pulled out the card it like a puppy gleefully destroying his master's slipper. Amy curled around his jutting elbow but couldn't quite see to read it, so she watched his reaction instead.
From time to time, the Doctor made a face like an old man would wear when disapproving of the price of eggs. It was not a childish pout, or even quite a frown, except that it pulled his whole face downwards. It was more like the weight of all his years suddenly dragging his features towards the floor. Amy knew it meant the outward enthusiasm of his nature couldn't overcome something so offensive that it cut to his core. Those moments were rare and dark indeed; she knew to be frightened when they came, and not just of the cause. Without realizing, she held her breath while he stood stock still and silent.
Then he handed her the card without a word, rolling slow and deliberate like a stormcloud back up the stairs to the TARDIS controls. No matter how elegant the script, the gold letters ran like ice in her veins as she read.
"The Doctor and his companion, Amy Pond:
You are cordially invited to dinner and a murder by monster at Dunwadie Castle, Scotland, on the evening of March the thirteenth of the year two thousand and thirteen. Room and board will be provided; dinner attire is formal.
No incentive is offered; no reward will be given. You will come because you do; and because you are not the only one who has received this invitation."
She closed the card, and carrying it in both hands gingerly as though it might explode at any moment, she followed him up to the console platform. "Doctor…" Amy searched for words, but they'd all fallen into the pit of her stomach, and lay there fallow.
He was busy at the controls and did not turn to her. The light of the console cast his face in monochrome shadows, harsh under his eyes. He twisted a knob and then gently took the card from her, placing it atop a display. They both stared at the gold inscription of their names on the front.
"It's quite rude to turn down an invitation, don't you think?" he finally said. She nodded.
He took her hand in his and placed it on the final control. Together, they pulled back and the TARDIS roared into action.
Dunwadie Castle, Scotland, March 12th
In the deepest stone heart of an ancient fortress, where old things lay hidden and ancient things watched with lidless eyes, the mechanism stirred in anticipation.