"Bit of first-things-first-ness. What's your name?" The Doctor asked, his voice civil but his face drawn taught with anger. The Zygon had awoken, and seemed rather chatty. "My name's. Well, you can call me the Doctor. But then you knew that, didn't you? You want something. What is it?"

"You are the President of the World?" The Zygon demanded, red suckers flaring.

"I suppose so."

It's squished face seemed to smile with evil glee. "We want the world."

.

Sherlock lifted the lapel of the dusty jacket, revealing a gleaming skeleton beneath. The dimly lit room, walls made of dirt and mould, offered little light of the scene, even with Lestrade's crew setting up lights. Molly was creeping about on her tiptoes, clutching a notepad like it was made of gold. She didn't seem to be watching the scene, only Sherlock.

Lestrade leaned in close, making Sherlock nearly drop the tweezers he was using to pry at the fabric. "This gonna be your new arrangement, is it?"

"Just giving it a go."

"Right..." Lestrade rumbled. "So, John?"

"Not really in the picture," Sherlock replied, gritting his teeth. The pain.

"Clara?" The stricken look on Sherlock's face was answer enough. Lestrade stepped back. "Right, um, sorry."

A rattle above them sent cement dust drifting to the floor. Sherlock straightened, peering at the ceiling.

"Trains?" Molly proposed, her pen poised above her notepad.

"Trains," Sherlock agreed.

Batting away the voices in his head, Sherlock flipped open a compartment on the desk and nonchalantly threw a heavy book onto the table, making the dust plume in the air. 'How I Did It' by Jack the Ripper, was the title and author of the mysterious novel.

"I don't get it," Molly said, her eyes tracing over the skeleton. "This skeleton can't be more than...six months old."

"It's impossible," Lestrade exclaimed, pointing at the book. "It can't be?!"

Sherlock didn't bother to answer. Instead, he started to repack his pouch, the pain in his arm flaring with every movement. "I won't insult your intelligence by explaining it to you."

"No," Lestrade countered, "Insult away."

"The corpse is six months old; it's dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum. It's been displayed on a dummy for many years in a case facing south-east judging from the fading of the fabric. It was sold off in a fire-damage sale..." He flicked out his phone, "...a week ago."

Lestrade's face dropped. "So this whole thing is fake?"

"Yes."

"Looked so promising..."

Sherlock was already pocketing his tools, "Facile."

Molly set down her pen, her brows furrowing. "But why would anyone go to all that trouble?"

"Yes," Sherlock hummed, "Why indeed, John?"

.

"Sherlock, this isn't the way to the, the train guy," Molly said, as they whizzed around London in a black cab.

"No, we're going back to the lab," Sherlock explained, his face twitching with pain. "Slight problem." He held up his hand, where fat droplets of blood had run down the skin and were now dripping onto his suit pants. A drop splattered onto the cement like it's own tiny crime scene.

Her face grew paler instantly. "Sherlock! What in the-Sherlock how did-"

"Come on," he muttered, leaping out as they arrived at St Bart's Hospital.

Five minutes later he was sitting on a metal stool, hissing as Molly carefully redid the stitches on his arm. The bullet had just scraped his deltoid, but the surprise had been great enough to knock him off his feet. Clara - no - Bonnie, had thought her duty was complete, not noticing she'd incapacitated him through sheer shock rather than severe bodily harm.

"What happened, Sherlock?" Molly asked, her voice quiet as she concentrated on pulling his skin back together.

"Something..." He started, his mind pulling back to the present. What had happened? "I don't know."

Molly looked at him warily. She knew that a gunshot wound couldn't be brushed off with a nonchalant comment, but she was smart enough not to bring it up again. "John is much better at sutures than I am," she murmured, cutting the last stitch.

Sherlock rolled his sleeve down and shrugged on his coat roughly. "Thank you, Molly," he said, ignoring her whispered jab. His phone blipped. A text from Mary. "Go and see the train guy."

"Oh, okay, um bye. Do you-"

Sherlock had left the room, letting the doors swing on their hinges before she could finish her bumbling sentence. A silent cab back to Baker Street had him running into Mary outside 221B. "You didn't answer my text!" She exclaimed. Sherlock read the lines on her face: worry, anxiety, fear.

"Mary, what's wrong?"

"Someone sent me this. At first I thought it was just a Bible thing, you know, spam, but it's not. It's a skip-code." She shoved her phone in his face, the screen shaking with her hand.

Save souls now!

John or James Watson?

"First word, then every third. Save ... John ... Watson." It was child's play...but was it just a coincidence?

Saint or Sinner?

James or John?The more is Less?

Saint James, The Less...the Church. Sherlock's gut dropped. "Now!" he yelled. This was too much, too much. First Clara, now John - what did it all mean?! "Twenty minutes by car, did you drive here?"
"Yes."

"Too slow," he growled. Time was of the essence. "Too slow, it's too slow."

Mary was sweating too much, but her hands were steady - compensating for her frantic voice as she said, "What are you waiting for!"
Stepping onto the road with an eery calmness around him, he held up his hand. "This." A motorcyclist screeched to a stop.

It would take nine minutes to get to John, hopefully in one piece, as they hurtled down the street on the motorbike. Mary's phone blipped again.

Getting warmer Mr Holmes

You have about ten minutes

His mouth felt oddly dry. Eight minutes. Hold on John. "What does it mean? What are they going to do to him?" Mary shouted over the traffic.

A roadblock had him pressing the brake with a screech. Sherlock swore loudly. To the left was a stairwell.

"Oi! Oi! You can't go down there!" A police officer barked. But Sherlock was already revving the accelerator. The estimated time of arrival had reduced to five minutes.

Better hurry

things arehotting up here...

They squeezed between two buildings and the wheels squealed on the sidewalk as Sherlock drifted the motorbike back onto the road. Mary's grip was tightening around his chest, spurring Sherlock to drive faster. A lorry truck halted their progress, increasing the time to six minutes.

Stay of execution.

you've got twomore minutes

They were going to be too late. They couldn't possibly make it with the slow truck chugging black smoke into the air with a demeanour of a snail. Except...Sherlock swerved off the road, directly to an underpass. Estimated time of arrival one minute. They roared up the steps, the black sky greeting them ominously.

What a shame

Mr Holmes.John is quite a Guy

The church was to their left, but the message sent shivers down their spines. "What does that mean?" Mary asked, desperate.

Sherlock gripped the handlebars. "Oh, god."

They accelerated onto the grass, jumping off as they approached the alight bonfire. The holiday tradition of burning 'Guy Fawkes' had just become a nightmare.

"Move, move, move, move!" Sherlock shouted, shoving through the people. A small girl somewhere screamed. He plunged his hands into the wood, coughing as smoke forced itself down his throat. Throwing wood aside until the outline of his best friend suddenly appeared. Black jacket, graying hair, stout shoulders - Doctor John Watson was there, and breathing. With all his might, his wounded arm stinging like hell, Sherlock dragged John from the inferno.

Mary was hysterical. "John," she sobbed, brushing ash from his dark coat. He was dazed, but alive. Sherlock stood up straight, sighing into the cold sky. One burden from his shoulders.

.

The Doctor's phone buzzed. Clara's smiling face let up the screen happily.

"Answer it," the oozing Zygon spat. "Say goodbye. This plane will never land."

With a glare at the creature, he picked it up. "Really, Clara?"

"Doctor?"

To hear her voice was so refreshing, yet he knew the lies it now told. "Clara?"

"There you are..." She seemed pleased. Unbeknownst to him, Bonnie popped the phone on speaker, balancing a missile on her slight shoulder.

"Clara, I'm glad you're okay. Listen..." he started, his words gravely serious.

"You're breaking up." She squinted at the crosshairs. This body had such terrible vision.

"The invasion has happened," he said. "You're probably surrounded by Zygons. Get to the Tardis, get yourself safe." If he could save anyone, protect just one soul, it would be Clara Oswald's. "And apparently my plane is never going to land, but let's see what we're going to do about that."

Bonnie had a careful grin on her face as she activated the weapon. It whirred, as though excited to end the Doctor. "I'm sorry but Clara is dead. Kate Stewart is dead. The UNIT troops are all dead. Truth or consequences."

She pulled the trigger, the launcher kicking back into her shoulder. "Clara!" The phone crackled.