Moonrise

1969, Torchwood House, Scotland. When Jack is sent to investigate a series of thefts, he finds that the history of the House is not as past as he'd thought.

Notes: This story fits into my Sic Transit Tempus series, and contains references to the Doctor Who episode Tooth and Claw but can easily be read without knowledge of them.

Betas: With enormous thanks to all those who held my hand and cheered me on through the four days of intensive writing. Full beta-credit to miss_zedem and crystalshard, whom I can't thank enough for sticking with me, patching up my plot and character holes and for beta-services above and beyond the call of duty. All remaining deficiencies are my own.

Art by Matsujo9 (LJ | e-mail | comment) and Medley (LJ | e-mail | comment)

Moonrise

Part One

We are here and it is now. Further than that all human knowledge is moonshine.
H. L. Mencken

The argument had started three days ago in London. There had been a brief break in hostilities on the train from Newcastle to Edinburgh, when they no longer had a carriage to themselves, but the fragile peace had been broken as soon as they picked up the car and resumed the journey. Hugh had declined Jack's offer to share the driving, which Jack suspected had more to do with the glass panel separating the front and back of the car than anything else.

"It's just stupid," Jack said again, really not caring how rude he was being at this point.

"Jack." Despite the constant bickering, Jock was still only sounding weary, not murderous. Jack would have been impressed if he wasn't so annoyed.

"You haven't bothered to deny it."

"Because I agree with you. But you know that we don't have the staff, and I don't see you volunteering for the post."

"I have better things to do with my time than stand guard on a half-empty house."

"So do most people!"

Subsiding a little, Jack looked out of the window, watching the endless moorland roll past. "I don't see why it has to be us," he said, although by now he was starting to feel like a broken record. It felt like coming home, in all the wrong ways. Too many memories and associations, too much history loaded into one place. He shifted on the seat, trying not to think about how he'd left all those years ago, with one of his staff dead and the others probably traumatised for life. Torchwood did that to people.

Shaking his head, he forced himself to look away, staring at the back of Hugh's head as he negotiated the bumpy road. Hugh, at least, seemed to have come out of the experience unscathed, although it was always hard to tell. The man could have given lessons in inscrutability. Jock was easier to read, exuding an air of calm resignation. He'd been there for the end of the whole disastrous affair and if he'd been nervous about returning to a place where ghosts had tried to take over the living, Jack would know it.

Which left Jack to be jumpy and uncomfortable all by himself. And that just wasn't fair. He shifted again, turning to face Jock and opening his mouth to speak, only to be cut off by a glare that even he didn't want to argue with. Jock didn't often lose his temper, but Jack had been pushing his luck for three days. Perhaps it was time to back off a little.

"How much further to the village?" he asked, glancing back out at the scenery, which hadn't significantly changed in the last two hours. Rolling grasslands, only interrupted by the occasional clump of heather, stretched towards the horizon, finally ending in distant blue hills.

"I have no idea." Leaning forwards, Jock slid back the glass partition and repeated the question to Hugh.

"About an hour or so, I would have thought, sir."

"Anyone want to play I-spy?" Jack asked. In the rear view mirror, he saw Hugh roll his eyes.

"Jack, if you can see anything other than grass, heather and the occasional rabbit, go ahead." Jock settled back in his seat, also looking out of the window. "Just don't expect the rest of us to play."

"You drag me all the way to the edge of civilisation, with nothing for entertainment..."

"You could reread the files."

"Boy, you're a real party animal, aren't you?"

Jock tutted. "We're working, Jack."

"Are you ever not working?"

In front of them, without taking his eyes off the road, Hugh reached back and closed the glass partition again.

When he'd been in charge of Torchwood House, Jack had never really taken much time to come down to the village. He'd known the names of everyone in the little cluster of houses, of course, and he and the pub landlord had exchanged pleasantries a few times, but getting to know the locals had never been his top priority. As he climbed out of the car, stretching until his back popped, he decided that was probably a good thing. They'd probably heard about strange goings on up at the big house, but they wouldn't necessarily recognise his face.

"Where are we staying, Jones?" Jock asked, lifting his arms and grimacing. Four hours along bumpy roads hadn't been kind on any of them.

"The pub, sir." Of course, Hugh looked more or less as he always did, his only concession to the discomfort of the journey being to undo his jacket, which he was now buttoning up again as he went round to retrieve the bags from the boot of the car. "There are a couple of rooms, and I'm assured they're clean, if a little basic."

"Anything's better than the house," Jack said, trying to untangle the arms of his coat. "It'll be freezing up there."

Jock raised an eyebrow. "It's June."

"Like I said, freezing." Finally managing to get his coat on, Jack went to give Hugh a hand. "I lived there, remember?"

Opening his mouth as if to protest, Jock saw the look on Jack's face and stopped, giving him a wry smile. "Fair point."

The rooms were pretty much as advertised, although there were only two of them. Jack completely failed to suppress his grin when Jock saw the double bed. Catching Hugh's eye, Jack dropped his bags and clapped his hands together.

"So," he said brightly, "who's sleeping in my bed?"

Jock looked nervously round the room, but there was a distinct lack of a sofa or other furniture, except for a rather rickety chest of drawers. The carpet was certainly too thin to make sleeping on the floor an attractive option, and Jack doubted there was a spare blanket anyway.

"Er..." Jock began, and really, Jack was starting to feel cruel.

"Don't worry," he said, holding up a placating hand. "You're more than welcome to share – it'll probably be warmer – but there's next door if you'd rather."

"Er..." Jock said again, glancing at Hugh who gave him a reassuring smile.

"Officer's privilege, sir. I'll find you an extra blanket."

"Right." Taking his own bag from Hugh, Jock gave Jack a final, nervous look, then glanced at his watch. "It'll be dark soon, and if it's all the same to you, I'd rather leave heading up to the house for the morning."

"No arguments here," Jack agreed, pulling his coat off and looking for somewhere to put it. "That place is creepy enough in the light."

"The landlord said he could give us dinner, sir." Like a conjurer, Hugh had produced a hanger from somewhere and took Jack's coat from him. "For a consideration, of course."

"Of course." Watching the two of them with a slightly odd look on his face, Jock added, "We'll convene in the bar at seven, then?"

"If there's food, I'm there." Jack grinned. "As long as we don't have to dress for dinner."

"I think we'll make allowances this once."

Jack waited until Jock had left for his room to turn to Hugh. "Did I say something wrong?"

"I think the Major is just made a little...uncomfortable by some subjects." Hugh was sorting shirts into the chest of drawers, keeping his back to Jack. "Although he displays a remarkable level of tolerance, considering."

Giving the bed an experimental prod, Jack titled his head. "Are you telling me to back off?"

"I'm saying that you might exercise some uncharacteristic discretion, and make his job easier for once." With the shirts safely stowed away, Hugh made a start on the rest of the luggage. "I'm used to you. The Major's a little more-"

"Sheltered?"

"Unaccustomed." Hugh finally turned to face Jack, his face serious. "You're not always as considerate as you could be."

Giving in, Jack dropped onto the bed, wincing at the squeaks. "Give me a chance, Hugh. This is a miserable enough job. I've got to find my fun from somewhere."

"Just not at the Major's expense."

"Alright." Jack waved a hand, falling back as Hugh came over to stand by the side of the bed. "You've made your point." He glared up at his friend. "And what are you doing here, anyway? Isn't Cardiff going to fall into the sea or something without you?"

"I hope not. My staff know what they're doing. Mostly." Loosening his tie a little, a sure sign of weariness, Hugh shrugged. "When the Major told me you were coming on this assignment I volunteered."

From Jack's angle on the bed, Hugh's face was oddly distorted, the expression out of proportion and strangely shadowed. "Because Torchwood doesn't have enough competent drivers?"

"Because I'm not sure how many of them would be able to stand being trapped in a car with you when you're-"

"Sulking?"

Hugh's face twisted as he returned Jack's knowing smile. "Distracted." He took the bags from the end of the bed, depositing them neatly by the chest of drawers before coming over to sit next to Jack, who shifted over to make room. "I know you hate this place," he said softly.

Jack sighed. "I don't hate it, exactly. Just...there's a lot of bad memories here for me. Some good ones too, though."

"Then try to think about them," Hugh said firmly, leaning down to slip his shoes off so that he could stretch out on the bed as well, his shoulder gently bumping against Jack's. "And try to behave yourself in front of the Major."

"I'll do my best to restrain myself." Staring up at the ceiling, Jack listened for a while to the sounds of the pub, the creak of floorboards, the rattle of the wind against the windows, and the soft squeaks of the bed beneath him. He really, really hated this place. Unfortunately, that didn't make it go away.

Sitting up, he looked around for the briefcase Jock had made him bring, finally spotting it by the side of the bed. "Come on," he said, nudging Hugh with his elbow. "Time to do our homework."

The moment was all that Peter needed. Getting a fistful of Jack's coat, he tried to tip him over the edge, down into the ditch below. Jack held on, one hand on Peter's arm, the other braced against the stone work.

"Alright!" he yelled. "Alright! Use me instead. Let him go, and use me." Despite himself, and the danger, he grinned. "I've got a lot more to offer you than he has."

There was a frozen moment, where the sounds of the storm and the rain seemed to fade a little, retreating as Jack looked into Peter's face. He could see the indecision there.

"Come on," he said, "you know this is a better deal, for all of you."

Peter's expression faded again, returning to the blank mask. He and Jack were still holding onto each other, their fierce grips the only thing preventing Jack from falling.

"Done," Peter said, and Jack felt the hold on his arm start to loosen.

Then he felt the ghosts. They'd been all around him, the whole time he'd been at the castle, pressing at the edges of his awareness. Now they came into focus. He could feel the energy swirling and dancing, forcing its way in. He tried not to fight it, shifting the hand beneath him, feeling it tremble as Peter let go and it supported all of his weight. The ghosts were inside him now, he could feel them pushing, consuming, trying to suffocate him as they invaded his mind.

"Jack?"

Peter's voice came from a very long way away as Jack's vision blurred. He knew from the confused, human tone that the other man would be alright. Sounds were fading now, too, as access to his senses was blocked. Soon he wouldn't be able to feel the cold or the wet or anything, ever again.

He needed to act now.

With a final effort, he turned to Peter.

"Tell the Doctor, it's alright," he said, and let go.

"Jack."

The voice was still coming from a long way away. That was wrong. There shouldn't be any sound, only the blackness, the warmth of the light that held him, sustained him, brought him back.

"Jack!"

This was wrong. He was trapped, not just existing in the darkness but being smothered by it, enclosed and imprisoned so that he couldn't get out.

"Jack, wake up!"

Jack drew in a great, shuddering breath, feeling his body convulse as he sucked air into his lungs. He hadn't been dead, he knew; the nightmare had been worse than that ever felt. Looking up, he saw Hugh, his face too pale and his eyes too wide. When Jack tried to move, he felt the strong grip on his wrists that must have stopped him thrashing about in his sleep.

Despite everything, he managed to give Hugh a lopsided smile. "Learned your lesson, did you?"

"One right hook was quite enough, thank you so much." Ever so carefully, Hugh released his hold, leaning back to let Jack bring a hand to his face. It was drenched in sweat.

"Sorry."

Hugh made an annoyed noise. "I was more concerned about what was going on in that head of yours."

"Just memories."

"Of last time?"

Even though they couldn't really see each other in the dark, Jack nodded. "Peter. On the battlements. It got pretty bad."

"I worked that much out." The bed creaked as Hugh settled down again, turned towards Jack but giving him the space he needed. "You never did say what had happened."

Shrugging, Jack pushed the covers away. He was still too warm. "Pretty much what you'd think. The ghosts were trying to take over, trying to use us to live again. They got Peter, would have killed him if I hadn't-" He broke off, blinking against the sense memory of rain against his skin and the wind pulling at his clothes.

"You offered them yourself instead." It wasn't a question, and Jack frowned.

"I thought I hadn't told you."

"You didn't. But I know you."

They lay in silence for a while, Jack trying to calm his racing heart, matching his breathing to the soft sound of Hugh beside him. After a few minutes, Hugh reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, and Jack began to relax a little, hearing Hugh's breathing slow and deepen. Between one breath and the next, Jack found himself falling asleep as well.

Jock gave him what Jack could only think of as a look when they came down to breakfast.

"Sleep alright?" he asked, looking from Jack to Hugh and back again. Hugh was his normal, impeccable self, but Jack knew his own face reflected his disturbed night.

"Not really, no," he said shortly, taking a seat as Hugh went over to talk to the landlord. "You?"

"I've slept on worse. At least it means we'll get an early start."

"It's always the silver lining with you, isn't it?" Jack said grumpily as Hugh returned to the table.

"I try."

Expertly ignoring the glares that his superiors were shooting at each other, Hugh said, "We've been promised a good breakfast, and there was even the suggestion that coffee might be provided."

Jock looked at the mug in front of him, frowning. "I was told there was only tea."

"Hugh has his ways," Jack said, shaking his head. "I don't think there's anywhere on this planet where he can't magic up coffee."

"I do my best, sir."

There was indeed coffee, along with porridge and a bacon sandwich, and Jack half-expected Hugh to produce a bottle of ketchup from an inside pocket. It was a good breakfast, although as they walked out to the car, shivering in the early morning chill, Jack couldn't help but feel like the condemned man who'd been given his last meal.

The weather had closed in overnight, and the sky was thick with clouds, low and glowering. It was the landscape Jack remembered from so long ago, the tall towers of Torchwood House looming over the surrounding moors, the only sign of inhabitation for as far as the eye could see. Logically, Jack knew that they were just two hours from help, and only six or so from real help, but he couldn't shake the feeling that they'd arrived at the edge of the world.

"The caretaker only comes up twice a week," Jock was saying. "That's why it took so long to notice anything."

"It's a big house," Jack said, his eyes fixed on the dark shape coming into focus in the distance.

"Still, it is his job. If it hadn't been for Peter, we wouldn't have known anything at all."

"How many artefacts made it to Glasgow?"

Jock frowned, obviously trying to remember. "Four that we know of. There were three more in Edinburgh, eight in Dundee and seven in Aberdeen. That's a lot of alien material, all of it coming from Torchwood House."

"All small stuff, though." The details of the file which Jack had read a hundred times still didn't seem to be sticking in his mind properly. "Nothing dangerous."

"There's nothing dangerous here anymore. Anything potentially harmful was taken to London. This is just the stuff that no one wanted."

"I thought we wanted everything."

Jock gave a harsh laugh. "We don't have unlimited space, Jack. And while you did a lot for the archives, there are still boxes and boxes of items that have never really been classified. There could be another hundred things loose in the cities of Scotland, and beyond, and we'd never know about it."

"Because we don't have the staff." It sounded ridiculous, but Jack had worked for enough bureaucracies to believe it. There were always too many things that the people at the top wanted doing, and never enough people to do them. "I'm surprised Torchwood doesn't just order them to do it. That's how it worked in the old days. Honestly, you'd think people didn't want to come and work up here, right on the edge of nowhere, just to put alien dust into the right boxes. "

"Something like that, " Jock said. "I think we're here."

The house was just as Jack remembered it, gloomy and dark, its solid walls seeming to have taken root in the ground. He jumped out of the car to open the gate for Hugh, but stopped with the bolt half-pulled back.

"What is it?" Jock called, sticking his head out of the window.

"Tracks," Jack said, his eyes tracing the faint outlines in the mud. "Lots of them."

Together, he and Hugh hauled the gates open, and the three of them spent an educational half hour examining the ground. Eventually, Jock nodded for Hugh to bring the car into the courtyard.

"I don't think we're going to learn anything actually useful," he said to Jack, who nodded. They'd untangled the evidence of three separate visits, probably from the same group of heavy-booted men. Each time, they'd brought a van or truck of some kind, loaded it up and driven off again, sometimes before the first set of prints had even dried.

Jack stood aside as Hugh brought the car in. The yard was deep in mud, and he retreated further into an archway, scraping the worst of it off on the flagstones. It wasn't raining yet, but he could feel the dampness in the air, and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, hunkering down against the chill. Summer his-

"Jack!"

He looked over to where Jock and Hugh were struggling with the main door. Hugh was wearing one of his rare embarrassed looks, while Jock looked just plain sheepish. "Don't suppose you have a key?"

Despite it all, despite the weight that had settled onto him when the house first came into view, despite the twisted knot in his stomach that was an instinct for something about to go wrong, despite the miserable weather that he was sure hated him as much as he hated it; despite everything, Jack grinned.

"What would you do without me?"

Jock had the patience to wait until they were inside the dark hallway to ask, "Do you carry every key you've ever been given around with you?"

"I didn't hear you complaining," Jack said, fishing in his other pocket for his torch. "And you never know what else they might open. Does this place have power?"

"The generator should still work, if there's oil." Hugh shone his torch towards a door at the other end of the hall. There were only a few, high windows letting in the weak morning light, and the beam was bright in the gloom. "I think it's in one of the cellars."

"Of course," Jack said, following him towards the door. "Because in a creepy, abandoned house, it's always compulsory to head down to the creepy, abandoned basement." He realised Jock was still standing by the front door, shining his torch up the stairs. "Are you coming?"

"I think everything I know about mending generators could be written on the back of a postage stamp," Jock said dryly.

"Well, if you'd rather wander alone round the creepy, abandoned house where a lot of people have died over the years and which was most recently inhabited by killer ghosts, be my guest."

Jock hesitated. "When you put it like that..."

They located the generator eventually, stumbling round in the darkness until Jack kicked an empty oil can and it bounced off of something large and metallic.

"I guess that answers the fuel question," he said, waiting for the others to join him.

"I'd say so, sir." Hugh was running the beam of his torch over the machinery. "I don't think we'd get it started, even if we had the oil. It's worse than I expected."

"We'll just have to use the daylight while we've got it then," Jock said firmly. "Come on."

They traipsed past room after room that Jack remembered as being full of boxes, stuffed to the ceiling with decades of alien detritus. Hugh had a list, of course, and he and Jock ploughed through it, confirming which rooms should have been empty and which had been looted since Torchwood One last visited.

Trailing along behind them, Jack poked at fading curtains, wiped layers of dust from the pictures and tried not to jump at the memories that assaulted him every time he turned a corner. He'd spent a long time here, managing Torchwood's cast-off equipment and people, trying to do enough to earn their trust without revealing too much of his own knowledge in the process. There was barely a corridor that didn't remind him of someone, of a shared experience that he'd lost that last night.

Fourteen years ago, they'd decided to keep everything a secret, no one knew anything except Jock and Peter, and the latter had been shipped off to Glasgow with a reputation for eccentricity that had stuck. Then Hugh had got the truth out of Jack – that, and so much more – and gradually more and more people knew about him. He wasn't sure if it was a good or bad thing. As he kept telling himself, it was what it was, and he'd deal with the consequences, whatever they were. But being back here, walking on the carpets that Mrs Garrow had always scolded them for treading mud into, it was hard not to be forced back all those years, to wonder what could have gone differently.

He'd come to a stop under a portrait, reading the inscription automatically. Colonel Leonard Harding. That rang a distant bell, but he couldn't quite place the name.

"Penny for them."

Jack jumped, looking down the corridor to see Hugh watching him, his torch turned off and the clipboard tucked under his arm.

"They're not worth that much," Jack said, turning back to the portrait briefly before giving up. The memory would come when it was ready. "How are we doing?"

"We are about halfway through. You should pay more attention to your own advice and not keep wandering off."

"Sorry." Trying for a reassuring smile that he had a feeling came off as a grimace, Jack slowly headed down the corridor. "It's easy to get distracted."

"Then let me distract you instead." The words were low and, for Hugh, almost flirtatious, and Jack's head jerked up, his surprise turning to laughter when he saw Hugh holding out the clipboard. "There are three more rooms on this floor, then we should break for lunch."

"How civilised," Jack said, meekly taking the clipboard and following Hugh back into a dusty room where Jock seemed to be trying and failing to count identical brown boxes.

After all this time, Jack really shouldn't have been surprised by Hugh anymore, but even he gaped when a mug of steaming hot and wonderful-smelling coffee was pressed into his hand.

"Hugh, you're a marvel," Jock said, taking his own cup with an appreciative sigh.

"I try, sir." With a nod and a half smile, Hugh went back to the small kerosene stove that he'd produced from the back of the car and set up on a sideboard. Jack wouldn't have been surprised if he'd had a full silver service and five course dinner in there. A man who could make good coffee in a place like this was capable of anything.

"What's the plan?" he asked Jock, who seemed to be trying to inhale his coffee as much as drink it.

"Finish the room check today, if we can. If not, we'll have to come back and do it tomorrow. I know it's boring," he said, seeing the look on Jack's face, "but it's the only way to get even an approximate idea of what might have gone."

"What has gone?"

"Surprisingly little." Jock pulled the clipboard towards him. They'd taken over the dining room, perching at the far end of the enormous table, although Jack had personally been in favour of sitting at either end and throwing things to each other. The table seemed to have survived the years reasonably well, even if Hugh had glared at it and produced a couple of handkerchiefs to lay over its varnished surface, which was sticky with layers of dust. Jack traced a finger through the coating of white grime as Jock read through the list. "There's nothing of major importance on here, just the odds and ends that we recovered. A box of what we think are firecrackers has gone missing, and there are a fair few decorative objects that seem to have been taken, but nothing of vital importance."

"There was never anything of vital importance here in the first place," Jack pointed out. "And those objects are only decorative as far as you know."

"As far as you know, actually," Jock said, turning the clipboard round for Jack to see. "You identified most of them."

"Well." Looking away, Jack stirred up another pile of dust, drawing lines and circles on the table. "I could have been wrong."

"Accidentally on purpose?"

Jock was too old a friend for Jack to lie. "Some," he admitted. "Show me."

It wasn't easy, trying to remember what he'd thought humanity wasn't ready for, and what he just plain hadn't recognised. They found several items that he was sure had a purpose beyond looking pretty, but even then, they just lit up or made sounds, nothing harmful.

"It looks like we have the most benevolent thieves in the history of Torchwood," Jack said, pushing the list away again and shrugging at Jock's frown. "If there's a pattern, I can't see it."

"It's not random," Jock said slowly, staring at the notes Jack had scribbled on the sheets of paper. "They're only taking harmless objects. Nothing that will hurt anyone, nothing big enough to attract our attention. If it hadn't been for Peter's sharp eyes, we probably wouldn't have noticed most of them at all."

"Like I said, benevolent," Jack repeated as Hugh came over to join them.

"Maybe. Or maybe..." Jock trailed off, and Hugh gave Jack a puzzled look.

"Jock?"

"We need to finish the inventory," Jock said firmly. "Today. Let's split up." He waved away Jack's objections. "This is important, Jack. It's worth the risk. There's only the South Wing to do now, and we'll stay on the same floor. I just think we need to finish as quickly as possible."

"But you're not going to tell us why." Still confused, Jack took the offered pieces of paper.

"It's just a thought at the moment, just an instinct. But I know we have to get finished. Shall we?"

Jock wouldn't even let them break for a coffee in the middle of the afternoon, insisting that they pressed on until they'd reached the very top of the South Wing. By that time, they were all covered in grime, and even Hugh was looking worn out, a dark smudge on his cheek where he'd rubbed the dust in.

There were only four rooms up here, and Jack finished first, leaning against the wall in the corridor and waiting for the others to join him. Idly, he looked out of the window, down into the yard where they'd left the car. The house really didn't look any better from up here, the darkness of the stone seeming to suck the light in and hold it, casting a gloom over the whole area. On the other hand, when he craned his neck to look upwards, he wondered if he was doing the house a disservice. The sky was dark and thick with clouds, blocking most of the sunlight that had made it through earlier in the day. Jack had lived up long enough to know that it was going to be a bad night. This time, he was sure the weather hated him.

"Looks like it's going to rain," Hugh said, coming to stand beside him and also peering out of the window. "Could make the driving difficult, in the dark, on these roads."

"If it starts to come down badly, it'll be almost impossible."

"I've done it before." When Jack gave him a curious look, Hugh added, "Last time we were here. I helped drive everyone down to the village. Not a journey I'd like to repeat."

"No. But it wasn't like we had much choice that time. Tonight, I think we'll be better off sitting and shivering in our coats."

"Or we could use the sleeping bags I put in the car."

Jack shook his head. "What would we do without you, Hugh?"

As Hugh opened his mouth, apparently to tell him, they heard a cry from one of the rooms along the corridor. Jack was at the doorway before he even realised he'd moved, his gun appearing in his hand as if from nowhere. Inside, he found Jock waving a piece of paper, a triumphant smile on his face.

"I've got it!"

After what Jack chose to think of as a short discussion, rather than a brief argument, they brought the supplies in from the car. The sky was growing darker, the setting sun barely a glow on the horizon before it dropped out of sight altogether.

As usual, Hugh seemed to have thought of everything, and Jack could have sworn that the boot was bigger on the inside than it was on the outside. Since Jock seemed to have solved his mystery, Jack had been all for heading back to the village for the night, storm or no storm, but when Jock had seconded Hugh's reluctance, Jack had been outvoted.

"Camping it is," he said, as they set themselves up in the dining room. "If I light a fire, we could put out the lights and tell scary stories."

"I thought that's what we were doing anyway." Hugh was setting up a couple of storm lanterns that had been under the passenger seat, letting them turn their torches off to save the batteries. "Or Major Goody is going to, at least."

Jock grimaced, but didn't deny it. He did wait until they were all settled, and Jack had a sudden flash of memory, the three of them sitting round a dim fire, trying to work out what was besieging the house and how they were going to get out of this one. He supposed that it was of some small comfort that they had done. That time.

"Torchwood One's policy on emptying this place was to only take things that were of use," Jock began, settling back in a chair with a sleeping bag over his legs and a blanket round his shoulders. He'd taken one of the sandwiches that Hugh had made for dinner and was waving it for emphasis as he spoke. "Weapons, technology, anything that wasn't broken and was more than just decorative. After some discussion, we also decided to leave the earliest of Torchwood's records here. There's still not really room for them in London, and it's not like we need them anymore."

Hugh made a disapproving sound, and Jock raised an eyebrow at him, the gesture made oddly sinister by the lamplight. "If you're volunteering to have a couple of metric tonnes of paperwork in Cardiff, then be my guest."

"Alright, we get it. Nothing useless." Jack shifted in his chair, wishing he'd sat on the floor with Hugh. It was getting cold in here and he could have done with the extra warmth. But he'd promised best behaviour, and he really didn't want to interrupt Jock now.

"That also included some of the relics of Queen Victoria's stay here. The box that the Koh-i-noor was originally kept in, a lace handkerchief, a small cloth bag. Nothing very interesting, I would have thought."

"And they're among the things that are missing?"

Jock nodded, smiling ironically. "If you were going to steal something extremely valuable, and that no one else knew was valuable, what would you do?"

Catching on, Jack said, "I'd take a lot of other things that were similar, but not as important. So that no one spotted my object on the list."

"Letting some of the things get to Glasgow was careless," Hugh put in. "If hadn't been for that, we probably wouldn't have known anything was missing until it was too late."

"Too late for what?" Looking from Jock to Hugh and back again, Jack gave them both puzzled looks. "We can't even be sure that it's Victoria's stuff they came for, not really. What if it's something else that we don't even know is dangerous or valuable or whatever?"

"That's a fair point, but nothing else from the early part of the collection is gone. Most of it's just paperwork anyway, but they specifically took the box labelled 'Queen Victoria'. That's the best I can come up with."

"But why?" Jack insisted. "I understand taking everything else as camouflage, but why that box?"

"I don't know." Seeing Jack's surprise, Jock shrugged. "This is just a hunch, Jack. Queen Victoria's visit was vital to the founding of the Torchwood Institute. I refuse to believe that the theft of anything associated with her is insignificant."

"Maybe they're souvenir hunters," Hugh suggested, and Jack shook his head, remembering all the tracks they'd found in the yard.

"This is a serious operation," he said, " and they made multiple visits to be sure they'd got the right thing. Whatever it is, it's important."

They sat in silence for a while, eating quietly and all apparently lost in thought. Outside, Jack heard the first roll of thunder.

"Storm's breaking," he said. "It's going to be a long night."

Jack didn't sleep. He'd slept well enough the night before, after his nightmare, and he lay on the floor between Hugh and Jock, staring into the darkness and trying to clear his head enough to at least relax. It was probably a good plan for one of them to keep watch anyway.

On one side of him, Jock began to snore again, and Jack elbowed him gently, enough to stir him and make him stop. On his other, Hugh shifted a little, as though the sound and movement had disturbed him. And if anyone had told Jack ten years ago that Hugh Jones was a cuddler, he would have asked them what they'd been smoking. Admittedly there were clothes and sleeping bags in the way, but Hugh was pressed tight against Jack's chest, huddling close for what he would probably say was warmth. It was chilly, after all, and Jack certainly wasn't objecting.

He shifted so that he could get his arm free, and risked slipping it out of his sleeping bag and around Hugh. The cold was almost biting, and he was cursing the insulating properties of stone buildings as he pulled Hugh closer.

And froze.

The house creaked, of course, as much as the pub had. But Jack was used to the sounds, had been listening to them during the hours while the others slept, and the noise he'd heard had been made by a person, he was sure. Carefully, he tightened his grip on Hugh's shoulders, shaking the other man enough to rouse him.

"Shhh." Getting his other hand free, he pressed a finger to Hugh's lips, feeling him nod before he let go. Just as slowly, he leaned over and put a hand over Jock's mouth, moving closer to muffle the startled thrashing and whispering in Jock's ear, "There's someone here."

Jock went still, then nodded against Jack's hand, turning as Jack released him. Behind him, Jack could hear Hugh moving about, probably putting his shoes on, and sleeping in their clothes suddenly seemed like the best idea they'd had all day. It was hard to pick out sounds from the rest of the house as Jack groped around for his boots, and Jock swore under his breath – a muffled bump suggested that he'd hit something in the dark, probably the chair.

After another minute of breathless movement, they were all three of them on their feet, moving by the light of Hugh's torch, which he'd pressed his hand over, only letting a slim beam of light escape. Jack had found his torch next to his boots along with his gun, and its solid weight was reassuring in his hand. By the time they reached the door, the muffled footsteps were closer, not quite upon them yet, but in the same wing of the house. Gesturing for Hugh to turn the torch off, Jack put a hand on the door handle, taking a deep breath before swinging it open.

There were lights moving in the corridor, and Jack reacted on instinct, moving towards the faint glow, holding his gun and torch low and close to his body. As he reached the corner, he slowed, pressing himself against the wall and trying peer round. The lights were getting closer and he ducked back, using the dim glow to check on Hugh and Jock, who were waiting further down the corridor, quiet and still. Good. There was no point all three of them taking stupid risks.

As the light became brighter, Jack tensed, listening to the footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. He waited until he judged the light-bearer was just around the corner, then he moved, swinging round the corner, bringing the torch up and flicking it on. The other man's torch half-blinded him, but he was just about able to aim his own beam into the man's eyes, giving him a precious second to act. He didn't want to fire the gun until he absolutely had to, so he swung it like a club instead, connecting with the side of the man's head and knocking him to the floor. The light fell, and he blinked in relief, double checking that there was no one lurking further down the corridor before bending to check on the man he'd downed. He was groaning faintly, and another swift blow made him fall silent.

He sensed as much as heard Hugh come up behind him, his footsteps almost silent as he joined Jack in running the beam of his torch over the unconscious man. There was nothing distinguishing about him or his clothes, no handy name badge or wallet in his pocket with a membership card to tell them what the hell kind of secret society raided alien warehouses in the middle of the Scottish moors.

Jock's steps were considerably less silent than Hugh's, and when Jack looked up, he saw he was keeping his eyes and his gun trained on the other end of the corridor. After a moment's thought, Jack picked up the brighter flashlight that had been dropped in the brief struggle, flicked it off and passed it to Jock. Then he stood, beckoning the others closer so that their heads were almost touching.

"If this is the same size group as came before, we're going to need to split up." Hearing Jock start to protest, he went on quickly, "At least one of us needs to get away, and there's a lot of them. We've got the advantage of surprise but that's about it. They'll have seen the car, but they won't know exactly where in the house we are. Split up, take them out quietly and we might have a chance."

Hugh's expression suggested that what he really wanted to do was grab the car and get the hell out of there, but he nodded when Jack looked at him. After a moment's hesitation, Jock did too, which was a relief. While he'd concede precedence in strategy to Jock, and in logistics to Hugh, there was no way that either of them had his kind of experience when it came to this kind of thing. As he lead the way towards the door into the main house, he tried not to think about that too much. He wanted to keep the others with him – hell, what he really wanted was to keep them behind him – but they'd counted at least fourteen different sets of footprints in the mud of the yard earlier on. That was too many for them to take out as a group, and three people moving together made so much more noise than one.

They'd reached one of the smaller staircases, probably for staff access, and Jack nodded for Jock to go up the stairs, Hugh to carry on along this floor, while he chose downstairs for himself. In the pale moonlight coming through the window, he saw Jock nod and a moment later the stairs began to creak as he climbed. Hugh was still for a long moment, holding Jack's gaze. Then he nodded, waiting for Jack to return the gesture before turning and opening the door into the main house. Taking a deep breath, Jack put a hand on the banister and headed down the stairs.

It was disappointingly quiet down here, and Jack didn't know if that was because the invaders had been through already or if they hadn't got here yet. Either way, it wasn't much use roaming the empty corridors and rooms of the lower servants' wing all by himself. The main staircase didn't come down to this level, and Jack headed through to the flight at the far end of the house, the twin to the one he'd come down, and began to climb again. Each step squeaked horrendously, no matter how lightly he trod or how close to the edges he stood. It was like the house wanted him to be found, and Jack spared a moment to curse it, inventively and in several languages, before trying to reach the top as quickly as possible.

He'd walked the width of the house, albeit underground, and he emerged at the opposite end of the main hall. From here, he could retreat to the kitchen and larder, or he could go forwards into the hall. He didn't like the risk of leaving the rooms behind him unchecked, but a faint murmuring from ahead drew him forwards.

There was a sudden yell, and he flattened himself against the wall instinctively, although if anyone came this way, he'd only have a second before they spotted him. Sometimes, that was enough.

Creeping along the corridor, Jack tried to hear the conversation. The door to the hall was thick, solid wood, stopping him from making out any words, and he'd have to risk opening it a fraction to hear what was going on. All he had to hope now was that the hinges didn't creak.

They didn't, but he didn't dare to push them further than half an inch or so, just enough that he could distinguish individual voices and make out the words.

"Are there any more?" That voice was low and soft, not much more than a whisper, and Jack couldn't tell whether the speaker was a man or a woman.

"Probably. Ted's bringing this one along then we'll do another sweep." The accent was Highlands, so thick that Jack had trouble making out the words, and although he was keeping his voice low, the depth and resonance had to belong to a man.

"Very well. Take them alive, please. I think someone must have alerted Torchwood, and I want to know what they know."

"Alright, but afterwards, it'd be better to make it look like they had an accident here, or maybe on the road."

"Afterwards, I think we can find a much better use for them." There was a deep sigh, and Jack was fairly sure the first speaker was a woman as she went on, a little louder, "We're too close to realising my father's dream to let anything stop us now. Is everything secure outside?"

"Once we're sure it will work, we can be established within an hour."

"Good. Do we have a candidate?"

"Three. I thought you would want to make the final choice yourself."

"I do. Send them up when you've done another sweep of the house. No surprises tonight."

Jack pushed the door another half inch, grateful that it didn't resist. He had a decent view of the hall now, of the hooded figures waiting by the front door. In the gloom, he couldn't make out much more than their silhouettes, dark shapes against the dark wood of the walls. Footsteps coming down along the corridor made him step back a fraction, leaving the door open so that he could still just about see what was going on. Two men were dragging a third, dumping him unceremoniously on the floor when they reached the hall. It took an effort of will for Jack to stay where he was, digging his nails the palm of his hand as a reminder that charging in without knowing anything was always a really bad idea. He stopped listening to the low voices in the hallway, focussing on the figure on the floor.

Hugh hadn't moved. Without light, Jack couldn't tell whether he'd been hit or shot or was just playing dead so that no one hit or shot him to make sure. Whatever the reason, he lay on the hall floor, arms and legs splayed out and his face turned away from Jack. It wasn't really much comfort that his captors wanted them all alive; in Jack's experience, that usually meant there was worse to come.

He stayed where he was as the men who'd brought Hugh headed up into the house, probably looking for Jock. That only left two invaders in the hall, and he had plenty of bullets left in his gun. He didn't really want to have to fire at them, partly for the noise and partly because he wanted to be able to beat some answers out of them later, but if it was a choice between that and getting Hugh out of there alive, then it was no choice at all.

Cocking his gun, he slowly pushed the door open another half inch, then another, bracing himself for the noise it was bound to make at some point. For once, luck seemed to be on his side, and he got it open enough to slip into the hall without making a sound. He lurked in the shadows for a moment, watching the two hooded figures for any sign that he'd been spotted. They carried on talking, in lower voices than before that he couldn't hear this time, and kept their attention on the main staircase. Not professionals, then.

Taking a deep breath, Jack stepped out into the hall, gun raised and aimed unswervingly at one hooded head.

"Alright, stay exactly where you are. I said stay." He raised his voice a little as the man nearest him started to turn. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"Jack? Jack Harkness?" The second figure, whose voice now gave her away, pushed back her hood and stared at him.

Jack stared back, not letting the gun waver, despite the shock that settled low in his stomach, a cold, hard fear that made him grip the gun tighter and reach into his pocket for his torch. When he flicked it on, he shone it at her face, ignoring the obvious discomfort the bright light caused.

"Do you mind?" She raised a hand to protect her eyes, but not before Jack had seen enough. It had been fourteen years, and time caught up with all of them eventually. There were fine lines at the corner of her eyes, and she wore her hair more severely now, scraped back and pulled tight, with just a hint of grey at the temples. Still, there was no mistaking the woman in front of him.

"Sarah? Sarah Harding?" he whispered, blinking and resisting the urge to take a step towards her. "I don't understand. I thought you were never coming back to this place."

"And I thought you were dead," she said, not lowering the hand that guarded her face. "Strange world." Her voice was unchanged, and Jack wondered how he hadn't recognised it before.

Sarah Harding. Last of the family that had looked after this house for generations, caretaking it on behalf of the MacLeishes ever since the Torchwood Institute had been founded and who'd eventually left it to his care, for all the good it had done him. Jack remembered her visits as bright spots in the boredom, but she'd left before any of the trouble with the ghosts had started, and he hadn't seen her since. If he'd made a list of suspects, she wouldn't even have been on the long version.

Two gunshots shattered the silence of the hallway, and Jack smelt the gunpowder, heard the dying echoes before he felt the pain. He'd let himself become distracted by Sarah, forgotten to watch his back, and he kept his eyes on her face as he slowly sank to his knees, feeling warmth spread from just below his shoulder blade across his back, and from his hip as blood began to run down his leg, the flare of pain receding as his eyes lost their focus. Someone was taking the gun from his hand, talking to him although the words were too far away for him to hear.

Then the pain came rushing in, bright and hot and searing, and Jack watched as the world went black.

Go to part two