Reconfigure

He tried dividing his thoughts, sending them in discreet packets rather than trying to imagine them with as much intensity as possible. Re-mapping his mind into independent centers, each with distinct tasks and speeds.

He didn't have a plan, exactly, he never did, but it seemed the opposite action worked well enough. He could pull up almost any memory in a few seconds, and random ones would tickle his awareness from time to time as well, as if on an industrial refresh cycle.

He wanted to assemble a new process for thinking, clear out the broken and the old. Push out his thoughts into new spaces, with new rules and new characters to interact with.

It was difficult not falling back to the default, to find a frame of mind that would carry out the task. To even find somewhere he could sit and think in this direction was troublesome.

Each day though, a new wrinkle presented itself – if not progress at least a variation.

He needed to make an emotional connection with his new work.

Dreams or Nightmares?

His darker dreams disturbed him, even as they were happening.

His body had been taken over by snakes, and he was cutting of their rapid growth in some kind of kitchen appliance. Even though the tool was perfect for the job, it seemed to be a net zero use of time. They simply grew quicker to match the ones that were cut off. His left hand was thoroughly infected, and the snakes seemed intent on getting his right hand as well.

In his other dreams OCD became a problem.

He was at a roadside Subway, or a mockery of one. The building was barely thick enough to hold the three staff members and seemed to hold only a fraction of what it should for supplies. He rifled through his pockets to find useless gift cards, playing cards and the ever-present micro-coins. Like real currency, but a fifth of it's size. It seems his dreams were always plagued with poor counterfeiters who couldn't even match the scale of real coins.

Even when all was well, it was disorganized

He was in a restaurant, looking on as the staff rotated. The servers were doing a stage production as they cleared the tables in expectation of tips that never came. The kitchen staff were ending their shift and were closing down the kitchen in what seemed to be the middle of the busy time.

Then there was the supervision

At nearly all times he was being shadowed by people. People who were looking out for his best interest, but who seemed to be barely aware of what was happening. It was infuriating. They robbed him of his time, dulled his senses and distracted him from things of importance. They were there so often it was a miracle when they weren't – but even then it seemed he was under their shadow. In only rare cases was he able to act and perceive entirely on his own.

System Overload

In his head he felt the pressure of too many signals at once. In his dreams he heard the voices, people he didn't know coming into his house and talking, bombarding his brain with ideas, noises, visual stimuli. He was in the shower in his dream, they came into the house. He was at his desk and he dropped his drink. He was in the truck at the end of the road and another vehicle sped towards him.

He wouldn't call it precognition. It didn't feel like that at all. It felt more like something was trying to pulse his brain into taking outside input. He didn't know the source, and it wasn't precise enough to trigger anything specific, so it simply felt like a wall of noise.

Today the pain was especially bad. If it was a worthwhile experiment, it wouldn't be enough to want it stopped, but it wasn't exactly pleasant either. More of a headache from being overloaded with information that doesn't seem to have a place or relevance. It seemed to focus his mind, but only in as much as it blocked out everything else.

It kept him from planning, from concentrating, from enjoying, from reflecting, from feeling that anything was 'new'. Not that it mattered, there was nothing significant on his plate and it didn't feel like there would be for a very long time.

He wondered if it was his own brain generating noise to amuse itself. If it was, it was the most horrible job of doing so that he could imagine. It seemed like a cloud of misfires, all fighting each other for prominence – even though none of them had anything to 'say'.

Some dutiful, overseeing part of his psyche told him to 'keep it together' for the millionth time. He was tired of pretending he was healthy. His body had all but abandoned him, and his mind was throwing itself against the walls to distract itself from the horrible truth of his condition(s).

Days and experiences coursed through his head like a bitter poison. The barbed wire of past habits scraped against whatever soft feelings he had left. If this was coping, he hate to think what the alternative would be.

Group Fail

He was tired of the scope that most lives seemed to operate on. They seemed to relish making as small of a footprint as possible. Not that he wanted fame, or wealth or any of those things, but he wanted to feel like he was making a difference.

He thought it was important to challenge the mind, ponder the ideas and question the sacred. To do anything less was to blow along with the winds of others, swept up in the tide of popular opinion. He didn't think any group or organization deserved carte blanche acceptance and it disturbed his mind when any got it.

People made mistakes, and large groups of people simply made larger mistakes backed by more people. Group-thought was terribly irritating for him to deal with. When the individual ceased having ideas of their own, in his mind, it signaled the death of the individual. He or she ceased adding to the value of the group and simply became a number.

When group catered to the lowest common denominator it reflected on everyone and tainted everything. Ideas suffered and change was labored and minimal. Placing in that group meant acceptance of what he considered a lower standard than he would set for himself. It was horribly demotivating, if not downright humiliation.

He felt as if he was being shoehorned into some ill-fitting identity that he had no desire to occupy. Any group that didn't play up the strengths of its' members was severely lacking.

Going Nowhere, Doing Nothing

He wanted to be in control of something.

So much of his life seemed to be out of his influence his desires overcompensated.

He felt he could direct large groups of people. Teach them, lead them, set them at tasks and help them reap the results. Not that he had much experience at such, but he had the mindset. It didn't take him long to figure out other people's strengths and weaknesses, ways of highlighting the former and shoring up the latter. He didn't let sentiment and emotions cloud his judgement of such things, seeing all to clearly the failings of those he felt near and dear to. Not that he would point out such, except perhaps in broad anonymous strokes, that people could agree or disagree to without reaction from him.

People, he felt, needed to be lead. Needed to be shown a broader perspective. How their contributions added to the whole. He thought a lot of that was lacking in his life. Nobody had really shown him much that seemed to apply to him. Their teachings and examples seemed too far removed from what he could accomplish. Consequently he felt their paths were too generic and flat. He failed at respecting their course, except in the most perfunctory of acknowledgements.

They seemed to lack the individual touch, glossing over the differences in people that he felt should be the highlight of any real accomplishment. He needed an edge to sharpen himself against, but only found blobby ideas and vague feedback instead.

He couldn't find any 'gears' in their ideas to motivate himself any more. Increasingly, their by the book and over-repeated approach was being vomited out by his mind. It seemed inadequate to address some of his more serious concerts, as well as his more unorthodox methods. He found it hard to find the whole experience anything other than disappointing, bordering on depressing.

'enry the 'ermit

He really had no idea what motivated people. They were a complete mystery to him. So many of the things they did seemed so irrational. The things they would covet, or hold dear seemed like such a waste to him. Even the things he did agree with, they held in such a was as to make their perspective seem so skewed in comparison to anything he could relate to.

He realized that they had never had things torn down to nothing, never had done anything more than juggle what life threw at them. They didn't seem to reflect on their time, their actions or much of anything. What they did take in seemed almost forgotten by the next day. He remembered some reading he did earlier that day, that the emotional rollercoaster that people put themselves on reduced their awareness overall, while he doubted the rest of that article, that made sense.

He took a long range view of things, weighing from moment to moment decisions that wouldn't bear fruit for years, if ever. His goals didn't seem to have any immediate substance to them. He really couldn't think of anything he wanted to accomplish in the next ten years – it would take at least the next thirty to even get started on the most basic of his ideas realized.

Anything that took less time that that would likely be destroyed, he figured. He wasn't entirely happy with the network of relationships he had at the moment, but nothing short of a cataclysm seemed to be able to change that outlook. He grew tired of faking common ground with people he really only barely spent time with. Especially people who were so stuck in a unchanging perspective.

His mind had been through such shock and upheaval that the trials of the everyday were just a pitiful scrape against the already hollowed out blast crater that was his life, or what was left of it. He couldn't relate to people that got into hysterics about every little crisis that appeared, nor did he want to. He didn't feel that they would add to his life, rather they would subtract. Their pains and worries would become yet more obstacles to him, seeing as they never asked for his perspective.

Maybe it was conceited to think he had the answers, but any trial he could think up, he had a solution for. Most of the time the answer called for a drastic change, but that was, in his mind, the main criteria for a solution.

Like it or not, though, he was a hermit and could only organize his own life. The variations and obstacles in a more social life were totally unfamiliar to him, and he saw no reason to take up that path.

End of Time

Time was Ending

Waves of energy grew in intensity as their propagation ceased. Layer after layer of reality melted away as each person's perspective was seared in that impossible moment. Minds echoed with a thousand songs, struggling to make something out of the shapeless vision that was gifted to them all.

Some saw the world in ruins. Others saw it as the dawning of a unique and special day. Buildings fell as ideas were shattered and the familiar disintegrated into a worthless mist.

Those that saw it coming had acted. The ran to the safe houses, now surrounded by strange and futuristic technology to those few that looked closely in those last moments.

Warnings had been given in abundance, with strange and exotic radiation perplexing the scientists, and dreams and visions given to the populace at large. They were, of course, linked almost immediately and dismissed by the majority.

When the signs grew greater, they were harder to ignore. Fruit falling from trees, then just as it hit the ground, it would shoot back up again and reattached itself to the branch. This was documented, but again dismissed as a trick of clever editing.

Videos began appearing in prominent and well guarded places with no explanation. These would show the events of the next few days and invariably, they would come true.

Very few people could handle this level of intensity. Most reverted to survivalists, denying everything they were seeing, hearing, feeling and touching. They stayed in their safe locations, expounding in themselves everything they once expected and pretending that everything else wasn't happening.

Those that could handle the oddness were treated to many surprising and strange wonders. Meeting their future selves with strange and enigmatic gifts. Power sources, food, clothing, instructional materials, and distractions for the rest of the crowds that couldn't handle the real situation.

In a few days they would see strange rifts, go through them, and fulfil what they already saw.

CC Subverted

Romeo looked at the code again. The closed captioning had been edited by the various teams as they had journeyed through time and space. It became a strange kind of shorthand for the team if they ever got separated.

It was implemented by the Torchwood North Division and sent through the matrix of the TARDIS and then to a third USB in the bowels of the Google/Youtube server farms.

They had decided on a number of keywords based on some of the Romeo:Lost twitter feeds and patched it back through a translator in the future.

It could be patched through a cipher on Sherlock's phone, which he sent around to the other members of the team.

Initially it was used to help connect Romeo:Lost with Juliet:Saved while she was still recovering from being exposed to the heart of the TARDIS.

Angels translated his and her actions into a best fit of whatever was happening at the time - in her waking dream state - and used it to shape the rough plot of the Book which covered the Paradox war.

Now that hurdle had been overcome, and she had settled into contact with her new helper, that was no longer needed.

The mindpalace planner had taken over the content of the CC, with Romeo's programming friend, and used it to solve other issues. It seemed to have been wired into a neuro-transmitter in Romeo:Lost's room and gave his unique perspective on events.

First there was the case of the Tower, it's unavoidable fall and subsequent backup. Then there was the problem of the Moon. It had seemed that all the meddling with various events had destabilized it's very existence.

History stood on the brink of a major disaster, and only the future, and a handful of teams actually knew about it.

Tower Rescue - Prelude

The Tower Rescue had been an interesting case. Sherlock had deduced the pattern quickly enough, but it seems Jim had his own means and methods for getting beyond the security.

Sherlock had warned the residence at midnight, long before before it happened. He had slipped in with the TARDIS and with the help of the others, dragged the sleeping residents to the main eating area and woke them up with a start. He quickly ran through the obvious implications of time travel as well as its eventual unavoidable nature, citing the various problems that Jim had caused. The meeting quickly switched over to Jack, who brought them up to speed on the specifics and some of the science of the future. The residents seemed to glaze over a bit. Sherlock got mad at their ignorance and yelled “Can't you see what's going on here?”

The angel stepped forward and said “ENOUGH” as his shadow wings quickly showed in the well timed flash of light. He quickly related the story of the battle of the Gibeon and how the shadow went back up the steps. The audience nodded appreciatively.

Watson took over and showed them a few quick videos showing the exploits of the team so far, as well as secret footage of Romeo and Juliet. The tower residences thought it might be an idea to take their CG character on a similar journey, as a way to break the idea to the rest of the followers.

The meeting ended on a somber note, as River explained that the destruction of the Headquarters was a fixed point in time, and that only when it actually arrived, would they be able to do something about it.

The angel brought up a few slides of his own, showing several possible resolutions to the matter. It was decided that the other Romeo would sacrifice himself at the time to end the paradox and give God reason to use the angel to let the event happen, then rewind and resolve it with Sherlock stopping Jim's final attack.

“It's too bad you won't remember this meeting ever happened” said River as she held up the tea. “Sweet dreams” she said as the residents fell back asleep, unceremoniously falling from their chairs.

Echos from Dreams

Months had passed, but it was still many more months before the deadline. Time had been warped and twisted by the many trips back and forth. The TARDIS wheezed and groaned as it traversed the time inbetween time.

Juliet was to be picked up, as well as both Romeos. The one that was with her, and the one that lost her. They would pick up the couple first.

Another shudder and the inhabitants of the TARDIS were left standing next to themselves, but with an extra passenger. It was the Romeo that had been left alone.

The TARDIS sparked and suddenly went dead. River woke up with a start and jumped down the stairs. “The book warned about this” she said, “you'll have to pick one Juliet. The TARDIS can't leave without the Paradox being resolved”.

Juliet woke up in her own bed with a start. Romeo was in the house, but oddly distant. “I'm glad you chose me” he said. She panicked and woke up again.

Jack looked at the display on Torchwood. He thought he had worked out how to solve the paradox with some careful switching and secret transmissions. What he didn't count on was the TARDIS having it's own plans. It seems that it had already seen the likely events and had brought Juliet in on the discussions. By reaching out with it's mind, the TARDIS could project realistic dreams to people that it knew it would interact with in the chain of events.

He squinted at the display and slowly drank it what it could mean. It looked like it would cause a second paradox to solve the first one. He talked to angel who had been left behind after the last of Jim's tricks had been dissolved.

“You knew about this” Jack said accusingly. The angel looked back and picked up his phone, he dialed River's number. “Jack's seen the answer as well” he handed the phone over.

Jack was incredulous. “You mean you visits multiple time-lines and see conflicting results?” “No, dear, I just use the scanners properly and write down what the TARDIS tells me. A bit of revision from our Angel pal here and a bit of vagueness on my own part, just to keep choices open.” “I need to see your Journal!” “SPOILERS”

Day / Night

During the day, his thoughts were thick and sluggish, like nearly dry cement. Now that night was upon everyone in this timezone again, his mind awakened.

He lived for his dreams. There he could escape the repetition and unmoving monoliths that cast a grim shadow of his waking life. Physics were re-written, the dead returned, new vistas were examined and original stories played out. Reality became a parody of itself and he laughed at it.

Even in the hours falling asleep his brain went into overdrive. Having random conversations with himself that only made sense in that twilight suspension that fueled a million obscure connections. It was then that the Universe made any sense.

He became a lighting rod for all the electrical traffic for miles around and saw emails and web pages in his minds' eye. He could build and disassemble an empire a hundred times over during the span of ten minutes.

Sensations that were drowned out during the day became almost as real as the room he was in.

During the night he could be anyone, see anything. More often than not, he was just a roaming camera, ditching his body as useless construct hampered by a myriad of limitations. He pealed back the layers of the days deposits of memory and saw things in a bizarre yet more profound light.

There were a few things that still bothered him. He was never in one place very long, as if he took in all he could see and do in only a short amount of time. In all but a few cases he was very much stuck on the rails, which considering the ever-shifting landscape, might be a good thing. Third, he rarely ever met anyone, which might be a reflection on his waking live.

Still, any of these things could be improved upon, he just needed to spend the time focusing on the right visualizations. He refused to take anything as 'set' and 'finished' which is probably why he felt so out of place during the day. There everything was decided upon and unmoving – at least as far as his vantage point was concerned.

Deeper Reflections

<sigh>

Too late he realized most of the problems were in his own subconscious. He had to go deeper, and not externalize things so much. The music helped, something familiar enough to give him a sense of belonging without being so specific as to be limited to a certain place or time.

Once things moved on this layer, he felt things would improve. He just had convince himself that what things looked like on the surface were just that, and not part of a systemic problem. Some of his lingering apathy melted away, there were still people who took pride in what they did, he had just been looking too long at the worst facets.

He pulled apart the music in his head, placing each instrument at a different place in hypothetical globe. It meant he had to follow the music as it moved, not merely listening to the surface.

After a while he picked up from where he left off. The music leaving a pattern like a faraway message coming in. He practiced tuning and focusing more intently than before. Some mental exercise to keep things fresh.

Tonight would be a good indicator if he had made progress. Not that he expected things to fall into place all at once, but he usually got a good dream if he was on the right track.

Tuning

He again spent the day in the company of two things, his computer and his music. His focus that day was to clear his mind of the flotsam and jetsam of what normally occupied his thoughts. Nothing he could put a name to, other than the myriad of preconceptions, shortcuts, perceptive filters, social expectations and general ignorance that kept the wheels of society greased and in it's usual stupor.

He pondered what to fill his mind with instead. The encounter from two months ago still rattled around in his mind, and perhaps with a fresh look on it, in a better frame of mind, he could make more sense of it. His thoughts drifted forward to a new world, one with a better foundation, one where things could be questioned and studied without the kneejerk reaction that he was far to accustomed to. Somewhere where science held a better place in the world, if not studied by the masses, at least where certain constants and hundred year old info was commonplace rather than an exception.

He would want to be at the heart of this rebalanced inquiry. To be among peers was his greatest wish. He struggled to not focus on the apparent negatives of his current situation and refocus for better times ahead. He calculated the calories in his mind of his current snack, wondering wondering how long it would be till he was with people that cared about the same things he did.

People who didn't take the world for granted, people who looked at every nook and cranny and sought out the hidden things, rather than gorge themselves on the painfully obvious. He wondered what patterns in his mind were forming with the notes of the music and where it echoed to.

A part of him was scared. Scared at stepping out of the nest his mind had made over the last three decades. He knew he had to though, he could only handle stagnation for so long, and he needed to re-write his mental software. New patterns emerged in his minds eye. Only small ones at first, but the seeds for change.

A sense of togetherness dawned on him. Taking the best bits of the old and the new and seeing them work harmoniously. Showing more clearly where the gaps were, where the unknown lurked and sought definition and light.

His body ached, as if in sympathy to his mind wanting release. Once again, everything was cut short. The new structures still struggled to find a proper foundation. His mind was most at ease in the frame halfway between sleep and waking, where the rules of the world around him slipped out of focus and thoughts came to him unbidden and from odd corners and directions. It was the cusp of madness, but he welcomed it. The castle of the day was too much too stolid. The variations were to few and far between and the creativity was once again at the wain.

He wanted to drink fresh of the unlimited possibilities again. To see the world as he had in youth. The present was but a sour note onto all that. Clashing with the idealism he once held and practiced, bland expectations clouded his best intentions. It would take a lot of effort to remove such blockage from his thoughts, but it was required.

Dreamlog

His dreams were interesting. At least he had that.

First, a small fire in a mocked up version of his home. First he tried to exit the building through the window and ran into a wire mesh screen where a glass window normally was. Then he turned around and went to the fire with a large glass of water and doused it. It seemed the CMM was with him watching over his movements. Then he was at a large stadium where circles like olympic rings were being burned. Some of his old friends were staying at a large hotel overlooking the stadium. They had their own rooms and were about to go in when he interrupted them. The went downtown to a small square which had been all but reduced to sand. A small rabbit-like truck drove around the perimeter something was happening in the trunk. Each of the people grabbed a PS3 type controller and picked a fighter. The center of the square turned into a downward vortex and then hovered above the scene. The fighters faces were seen head to head at the drainage of the vortex. They looked like they were talking. His fighter was not so lucky and fell as a small CG character into the hole, it appeared again at the edge and went back to the center. It started licking the other players characters as it started talking.

He was onboard a medium sized wooden sailing vessel, it was headed into a small coastal town as if to go through the town rather than dock into it. The sea froze and became a dam, he struggled forward on the ship but eventually had to abandon it. He was suddenly in the town square and doubling back toward the ship, passing through locks and dams with large screwlike mechanical controls. He passed through a small room and a robed character sat up from his bed and asked for a drink of wine. He went back through to where he came in and grabbed a glass. He was then outside in the water, but could breath quite well. He was racing a diving bell suit to the top of the water. It hugged him and tickled him.

He was looking a small set of black statues, then up to a TV. It was like star wars, but not. It was an above view game, and he flew across the landscape, trying to find the buttons for bombs and missiles as the targets came up. He was doing quite well, but he felt his aggression rise as he played the game.

He was in a dungeon that seemed to be lifted from Minecraft. He was looking at a door which lead into darkness on the left hand side of the tunnel. He shut the door and found a chair to block it as well. From the right hand side tunnel blocky bees swarmed forth in huge numbers, filling the tunnel. He watched them turn the corner and go out the way he came in. He went to where the bees came from and found himself in a school. A red headed girl he knew last as a teacher was looking through an activity board on the wall. Behind bits of paper were small holes that contained tickets to a dance. She was collecting the ones that hadn't been grabbed. He explained why he didn't do anything on Halloween, but said if it was a dressup in July he would participate.

Random Logs

He wasn't sure what he should write about. He didn't know how many records survived, or what the current surveillance was. He knew about the obvious stuff. The unseen entities that existed in the higher dimensions. They were truthful and honest, but it seemed like it was a human problem to solve. Still I'm sure they could be counted upon to give some insight.

He tried accessing a certain memory, it was blocked, as if forbidden. There was a small spike of pain. No doubt it was due to the the nanobiologist. Still, codes were meant to be broken. At least he had found the offending shunt, not literally of course, but it did seem to have a location in the right hand, front part of his brain, about two inches from a spot slightly above his eyebrow.

He wondered if it needed some kind of trigger, some sight, sound or thought pattern to unlock. Perhaps when he had reorganized his mind away from chronological storage, which he was already trying to do. That's what the music was for, setting two coexisting paths on a differing tempo. Hyper-processing divergent information.

He thought about his other option, warning the tower. He wondered if they might be part of the same plan. Surely everything was related on some level. Still he wasn't sure he could keep both projects going at once in his mind. He felt selfish putting his own research first, but the initial letter didn't seem to warrant any kind of response that pleased him. That too was short sighted, but then again, so was dropping his studies. They seemed to have their own organizational strategy, and it was far from scientific.

Still he kept the idea on the back burner, perhaps the timing would be better later.

He documented a strategy on the simulator. Some time after the the initial returns, once teams could be assembled, when it was still new enough to matter. Perhaps some of the residual energy would be helpful in bridging the gap, before people settled into a long and unchanging pattern again, showing them there was a new way to bring people across.

That was the key, as soon as he typed it he knew it. He could become helpful either in the warning, or the rebuilding. He was leaning to the latter, but he was mercurial. He would have time to sort out both, perhaps.

If it was to be as the book said plainly, he was already in good shape, he could remember the content and import of his dreams automatically, and in great detail. Not always lucid, in the sense of control, but always aware that he wasn't awake when the sensations came either. That might be another pursuit worthy of study.

He wasn't doing anything else which had any pressing demands on his time and this, at least, was purely mental. He thought about going back to his old haunts on the subject, but he always found them disappointing, catering only to the novices.

Someday, when the dust had settled and they could look around without being so frantic and distracted, he would casually point out that he was, and always had been, miles ahead of the curve.

Experiment - Blind Past Awakens

Their fingers flew over the virtual interface with practised ease. A familiar old television tune played in the background for motivation. “I appreciate the sentiment, but we'll keep the lab on silent” said the lead researcher. For a moment, nothing happened. “We're listening for them, not the other way around”. Reluctantly the music was stopped.

Through the glass the room was setup the way he remembered it. In the days the followed the cataclysm his memory had improved, and he set up the layout perfectly. There were some components that were best fits, and others the devices were improved upon, but the functionality was there in any case.

The auditory signals that were coming through were somehow spliced, a confusing result until it was repeated exactly. “I don't remember doing that” he said, “but it seems like something I would do.” A few quick surveys found that a few others did notice the media in other formats. “It's a shame we don't have more observers from that time period.” he said for the hundredth time. “Everything is being recorded” cautioned a voice. He looked over, annoyed.

The point was made, very few people were at all observant, deductive, or at all useful in a scientific sense. He valued the people now around him, and wished that they could do more for Past Him.

We have a new battery of tests we'd like to try. It seems the January Protocols are holding this time, and he's still on task. He thought back to earlier in the year. Once again his past self visited the house/lab as he had last year. The journey had left him a bit unstable, but he answer questions readily enough. They had thought it best to do a mind wipe, but that had only been partially successful. The time in the lab had been erased, but it seems the Time Lucidity had not.

Without access to the equipment, he wrote in journals, twitter, and typed up movies and plays. In an ironic paradox, it was these stories that would later bring the team together – even though he doubts he would have written them had the experiments not gone through.

As the days progressed, he remembered less and less of what he did, making more observations on the past more and more important. It seems the chaos effect was still very much in play. There were times though that a significant memory still filtered it's way through time, he usually just woke up remembering something new. It found a place among his other memories and just fit somehow, even if the exact details didn't flow smoothly into the rest of what he actually did.

It made sense, on some level. He was still connected to his past self, but in other ways it was like dealing with another person. Someone who he had a lot in common with, but under such conditions, a mirrored set of circumstances.

There was a protocol at the lab to list several contacts for each position, in case someone an interaction in the 'past' skewed the 'present' in some way. A few times the old lists had been changed, when a certain bit of writing or idea sparked some change in a secondary email, or backup phone number. It seemed that there was a certain buffer around the experiments though, in that once they were underway, nobody vanished or suddenly had any major changes in their past or personality.

Once they had enough anchor points for everyone in the experiments, they would be a little bolder in their trials. A surprise contact from the first test subject proved to be very helpful. She could anticipate his moves with a bit of coaching from the public writings and could act as a control for the trials. She would picture the various ideas and recommend the most advantageous stimuli.

What nobody seemed to get is that he would roll with the punches.

Most people want a certain amount of control over their own lives, he wanted to be set free from that type of grounding. As much as he tried to explain that to the team, they wanted to see his past self put that in writing first.

He didn't regret the January experiments at all. At least it meant something was happening. It progressed the scientific advancement, and hopefully woken up someone else's rather bland expectations.

Sooner or later they'd have to be up front about the whole thing, and he was conditioning himself to be the one who would take it in stride.

Since the January experiment, his internal scale for happenings had been reset. A lot of things simply didn't register on a scale that rocked other people to their core. He was already detached from things, and not in an altogether dangerous way. When time itself became your anchor point, finding 99% of everything else turned to dust wasn't that much of a shock. Even the blandest of preparations indicated that was a likelihood.

As far as he was concerned, he was a blank slate ready for the next round. As soon as future him made enough backup measures in case something unexpected happened he would would be ready at this end.

He already explained it to his short contact. “The laws of time must be elegant, as is everything else, with forever ahead of us, we'll get there eventually”

Bored - Superwholock

Sherlock needed another distraction. So did Jim. So it was no surprise that Sherlock's phone rang again.

“I'll tell you my plans if you tell me yours” Jim taunted over the line.

“I don't think it's that easy.” Sherlock answered. “You've got the other teams busy and you just need to make another call and they go back to defusing the next problem.”

“But I'm bored” Sherlock could almost hear Jim cracking his neck, the way he did on the jewel heist video. “I think we need to crank it up a notch”.

Sherlock's mind danced over the pattern of attacks so far. Each one thwarted in the nick of time, but causing a great deal of temporal instability even in success. It meant that future attacks at those locations would be less detectable, and that enough places close enough together were targeted.

“The Rift.” Sherlock shot back to reality. “Very good” Chimed Jim. “You know, that USB they have been coordinating off of, it's not as isolated as they like to think”

A new pattern emerged in Sherlock's mind at those words. The USB sending back information on the Rift's activities. Minor disturbances being tracked and analyzed, exploited and harnessed. Soon it wouldn't be little explosions and murders to worry about, but the Rift itself going haywire, bringing all of time back to the 20^th century.

Poems The Second

What words are unspoken when we speak of other things

What bonds unite in merry fellows when such time is passed

A word, a gesture, thus simple and yet profound

Does forge a more lasting thing

The heat from the day of strife

Does beat upon all with a different drum

One with chaos, one with sorrow

One with over-abundance, others with none

Such are the trials of such times

Against such none all would come undone

If alone such drumming was faced in life

A leaf may I yet overturn today

To brightness add to the way

To make plain things hidden

Reveal a pattern where nothing was sought

Under a second

Light bounces off

Catches alight in eye

Nerves to brain

Brain to mind

Reaches out hand

Catches

Deep in the mire

Struggling moving

What shape is this

Formed and yet unformed

Where lies the key

Doors closed yet

Links beyond sight and beyond fathoming

Alight in unseen fire

Across space beyond time

Worlds open with yawning breath

Tomorrow, Tomorrow

Clustered Crushed

Compressing Darkness

Moments End

Books Closed

Unconnected Wires

Brain Misfired

Chaos Ensues

Begins Again

Honey drips from pallet untasted

Words imagined in the dark's light

Sweet ends beginning

Be this not a trick of the night

From glorious awakening do drive off the fright

Reunite yet two who wish to be as one

Let minds flight take root in plain sight

Lest this not be another dead end

To one who seeks yet again and again

To light the fire and warm the heart

Give forth voice to minds deepest thoughts

To such burning I seek a torch to bright

Grant me thus and I shall have yet rest splendid

Yet another day dawn and I awaken with but my shadow

If all but things be thus a trick of the mind

Light be thus which give shapes to atoms dance

For hand to grasp yet by charges small not touch

By exchanges small and yet vital we breath and taste

Give motion and motivation to our own shapes path

What mystery then are then such feelings

To what does such chemicals influence take hold

Quicken the pace and alight the mind

When such are but flickers of a cells charge

Gift as such we are with such reflection

An impossible mix that such an engine speaks

When stuff is lost that may not be found

When minds foundation tips and no purchase given

Resting upon static and doting among nothing

Direction thus finds no compass

Ends beginning in eternal loop

Treads once more upon paths known and finds nothing new

To crack once more in madness and sadness

Or find against probability escape from such end

Who can lay such a brick when all is such in fog

In sorrow I find my gladness

For in such lament I find but sober clarity

To see clearly cleanly what is lost

Not hidden behind empty joy

Stark and clean

As by knife's edge freshly cut

Face life not detour around it

Romeo : Thoughts : Juliet

Romeo thought back to Juliet. In a short time she had deduced more about him and asked more pertinent questions than everyone else combined. He admired her directness, her deductive skill, her boldness, her impertinence. It might be considered sassy and inappropriate to most, but he scoffed at their useless ideals. Even in her shyness she could get to the heart of a matter, a trait he envied.

Whenever he spoke people thought it a joke or a game, something to be taken lightly. He could never get any traction in their minds. No matter what words he used he always got fluff in return. Occasionally a small window of understanding, if they had been through similar circumstances, but it was quickly shut again. Somehow if too much common ground was established something might happen, and that was unheard of.

The circumstances of their parting were harsh and jagged, as they always were with him. Her dad forbid them to go farther, and that was that. Soon she would be gone, leaving the home and striking forth on her own path. The purpose seemed to be to put distance between them, at least to Romeo.

Too soon, it would seem her spark would be extinguished, and then the rest rallied around her – far too late of course. He had seen the signs much earlier, “No one pays attention to me” she said nearly a year before. If only she had contacted him then, for unlike the others, he had been through such a fate before, nearly ending his own life. The rest turned to their oft repeated platitudes, words born from memorization rather than direct experience. He knew words held much weight, but more weighty were words borne of similar fire and despair.

Again he cursed them in his heart, for their shallow reflections bought no relief to her and yet still no relief to him. Gone was the moment where things could have turned differently, yet he reflected on it often.

They marked the day of her passing with almost obnoxious regularity, as if their minds were still stuck on the annual calendar. The spoke of her little even years after save that time alone. He still longed to hear more of her, but he patiently held back his desires. He attempted once or twice, but as always the prodding bore little fruit.

His mind railed again against their seeming indifference. For those that spoke so often of life and hope, they seemed to have none. Her own brother could not think of the words he would say when seeing her again. “What use is their hope then?” he beat out in lamentation.

Still it had not all been for naught, for his words and her tale did inspire another at their darkest days. One who too, like him yearned for a meeting of the minds, not merely an empty exchanging of the sight. They shared many things in the days that followed, and her heart jumped and rejoiced. It seemed that her circumstances were similar. Her father too was harsh though not in the same way, and she too felt little of the warmth of those around her.

He crafted his words carefully though in mind and heart it felt to him as if she was her again, in time of similar need. And such he did confuse the names and hope against hope that it was a window to a distant time. Still in the end, it did seem as but madness to her, and she to fled from him, even after such a peak that she too did declare her love, but whether in joy of life having been saved or in truth of sober pondering he did not know, though he thought more likely the former.

Yet at such times may such outbursts be excused? For when one does find a suchlike mind and heart in this troubled world should we not rejoice and get caught up in the waves of emotion that such may flow from? For yet but such times are rare, and for what reason? He knew of no need to keep his emotions shielded, save for the worst of times when he felt bitter rage against them all for the indifference they seemed to ooze. For such that they held together each other in the most light of times they seemed not to yearn for more, as if it were forbidden. For though they speak but words of love of heart and mind and body and soul, their lacking presence in both their lives at times of need did seem to speak of their want of such.

 __

 

Perhaps in their cloud of mind they did not ponder that such circumstances may differ more greatly between those that seem of fellows. For their imaginations they do not stretch and put themselves in others shoes often enough that to see their positions are but far and not near. Perhaps they feel that if in condition fair they are then all do such prevail in similar state. “Then they are blind” I exclaim more loudly yet. For if they do not dig, but amuse themselves with trifles how could they know of the plight of another? How indeed could they dig if they do not devote the time, and how would they know to spend such time if they did not know their presence was needed? I do not seek to burden such with my sorrows unknowingly, for I feel yet that they should have the boldness to seek out. For such is life that those who need solace most are those that do not ask for it but in ways subtle.

Yet if alone I should bear my burdens thus, I should continue to do so and set myself as but guardian of the door of bitter sorrow. For my freedoms are but little and my joys few. How can I rejoice at such, what should buoy my spirits? For what meagre freedoms I did enjoy they were but critical of such. And at such trifle offence they did take down my tower and castle and leave me upon the shores with naught now but words. Shall these too be taken from me? “NO” I yell at the darkness, for if they seek to find fault with such I should but hold the mirror to them and point out their shortcomings in bitter rage and desperation.

Only when one has been at rock bottom does one know the way to build such a sturdy foundation that such the winds of life do not sway one easily. Such crags of bitterness do I know but too well, and so shape out my ways from not clay of futile merriment, but cold and gray rock solid of numbness. Yet I feel such that those born along but sunlight do not yet know how to comfort such one as I, for if their years but contain such that they might reflect such they are not bold or forward with. Yet should I seek out times such as these, or would they add to my pile of discomfort?

Again such I feel that most would rather blend into wall and chair and floor than step out with such a tale as to be recognized. Yet a few I know are such as open with things and those I feel did help at a relapse of my darkest hour. Misfortune but still follows me still and the day of brightness has not yet dawned, for my hopes are yet not able to form in the murk and dankness of my soul. What cure do they have for this? Yet more of the same? I scoff at such for they are but the pitter-patter of gentle rain that does not yet soak the root. For it seems but still that large pieces of the puzzle are yet missing. What motivation do I have to speak my words if they but still offer but again of the same drink that did not save Juliet?

Yet should I not craft my own escape, from letters carved while beating back the darkness. For that is what I still do and continue. Mayhap yet shall my mind thus rebuild or build anew such a place that such their words may echo in meaning rather than in futile hollowness. For such that I am I require a quest and not merely a topping up of things already known and agreed upon. To seek forth that which is hidden and not continue to dwell upon that which is already in plainest day. For if they seek knowledge I know not what they seek for that which they have presented upon them is but words re-echoed. Though they may yet benefit from such spoken again, I find it but grating upon the mind. Do not they yet seek council to deal with such that I have dealt with? Nay, I find.

Perhaps my words are yet too heavy for such. Would it plunge them again into sorrow? I would not wish it. Though many are the issues that my mind does ponder on, I do often but leave such aside for I know that lest my words be misconstrued I do not speak them lightly. Yet do they not yet have the light for such or does their days yet spend in empty joy leave them with but little to shine forth to one such as me? Who dares brave the words I may yet speak bearing my heart open? Though in such I may find I speak as though mad. Madness in unreasonableness and madness in anger.

I do not yet feel buoyed by well wishes, and trivial things exchanged, yet I know the warmth with which they are shared, such warmth does not yet find me in brightness. What toil should I undertake that may lift me from such darkness? What routes yet are open to one in such dungeon? What winds may blow so such fog may be lifted? What weight do I yet bear that I have not yet confessed to God?

221B - Bad Wolf

“SHUT UP WILL YOU! SHUT UP”

Sherlock's time on the TARDIS had been informative. He watched as the various Doctors danced their hands over the controls, but there seemed little rhyme or reason to them. During the quiet moments he closed his eyes and drank in the hum of time rotors and ran through the days activities in his head. They were responding to a living thing, and the TARDIS itself was responding to an ever changing web of time. The TARDIS was eager to have him take a turn at the controls as well, but he continued refusing.

One day, though, the blares of the alarms and the random explosions got too much for Sherlock. He needed somewhere to think. He jumped in between River's shift and the next Doctor. With precision control born of careful study he settled on a particularly distorted region of Space-Time

The TARDIS landed but refused to open the door. “Oh come on” he said, annoyed. The TARDIS patched Torchwood through the phone. Watson answered. “It's for you, Sherlock” “Tell them I know it's a time loop” Watson sighed and repeated the message. “Laters” said Sherlock as he went through the now open door.

He was outside his flat at 221B Bakers street, but someone had spraypainted “BAD WOLF” across the door. He paused to inspect the paint, it was layered several times over and seemed to shimmer slighly in the light. The door was undamaged though, and he entered and ran up to his chair. He thought about playing his violin – but even here he seemed to get interrupted.

The phone rang. “What is it now?” he almost shouted into the phone. It was Watson. “It's been almost 3 days, and we haven't heard from you. “Oh really, he said” wondering if he had been affected by the TARDIS more than he thought.

The Science behind it All

He stood on the main control room of the TARDIS. The implications of time travel were too much for the common mind, but then he'd never really had that problem. It was a living being, not unlike a person.

That was the secret to Time Travel. Not formulas or curved space-time or any number of competing theories. Something that massaged the underlying threads of the universe with care and intent. Not a wild spraying of exotic matter, negative energy or gravitational disturbance. No, this was something that required a living touch.

To take the intent of the moment or act and stretch it backwards and forwards among the filaments. To awaken and sleep the minds with all numbers of various fields and disturbances so that nothing would be seen as amiss.

Granted, the device which did so was a physical thing, and not a person, but it always had to act on human intent. Not only the passengers, tucked away in a temporal environment between and beyond the normal dimensions, but someone in the environment as well. Someone to run through the various scenarios and provide the organic buffer to suffer the inevitable paradoxes.

These people were the real 'time machines' - the ones with faith and love strong enough to know that the physical laws may be suspended at any time that God wills. The mechanical devices were only there to provide a cage and a framework.

Special people, ones sensitive to the world around them, but not boxed in by the conventions and conditioning of the world around them. People who were fixed upon the unchangable things, stars and molecules, love and courage.

There would always be ripples. Traces of energy, dreams, unexplained emotions, the uneasy feeling that the universe itself was just a fabrication of itself. It varied from person to person. Even the scientists behind the project weren't sure of all the ramifications. Still it was obvious who had been affected and who would be permitted to travel – and not merely observe when returned.

The travellers would always return before the effect. The strings of the universe would vibrate at a set harmonic. Rippling out the changes and spreading the differences out in a chaotic but still predictable fractal pattern.

There was always ways to change it back. Special archives were set up with the opposing structures to the Time Machine to be resistant to the changes. These were compared with stories and texts from the journey itself and eyewitness accounts from the scene. Each mission would then be voted on and it would either stand, or be canceled remotely by a mechanical pulse left at the location.

Major changes would cause memory loss and disorientation for a time among the selected people while the effects settled in their heads. Rarely was one allowed to directly change his own past, but there were exceptions made.

When the intent and desire was strong enough, it registered on a scan of the timeline. Physical records were unearthed and the persons in questions were labeled as 'untethered'. These were the ones who the machine found first. People who's timelines were such a state of flux their physical bodies in the future gave off the same radiation as the early experiments.

It was, of course, a chicken and egg question as to what occurred first. The interference, or the radiation. Or at least it was to start with. Then it was discovered that it was a natural thing first, as even those who adamantly refused time travel interference were effected.

The pulses were eventually found to be linked to certain brain structures. Particular synaptic patterns amplified the effect and were indirectly the cause of the radiation. At first it was thought that this was a genetic trait, but again, the initial science was only half right.

Still it was enough to go on, and the first experiments were underway...

Book of Poems - Journal of the River

What light does shine when the words are read anew

When again thoughts are lowered down into the well

Brought up again as in Samaria

What cracks and fissures show

Shall not the mind gleam more brightly

Call back and who may answer

What words define and lay out in tracks

Done and yet to to do

Seen but yet with few eyes

A greater self waits with baited breath for a the day when separate shall be one

One forgets and one remembers

Time slips and Who stands

Lost is the day in memory

Unlocked by the ticking of the clock

When it is tread upon again by others

Shall the footprint of the day made more sure

The Hand that guides the hands

What work is being built

Who does arise in dawning day

To guide the few in the fall

What lights and shadows play upon the wall

To show the way

Shall not wings

Stretch out with vigor

Let loose the storm

Pull back

Let loose the corners

Is not Love the Greatest Treasure

What else may be found that surpasses it in luster

For it shall scoff at impossible things

Bend the laws and tip the scales

Kick up the dust of Time and Nations

Till settled upon a New Page

Courage alone presses on

Defies the ground of probability

Shakes loose assumptions

Forges ahead in spiral path

Lays the pattern

Makes sure the mind

Clashes again against so-called Fate

What battles still lie ahead

Asks the man who feels he has conquered all

Should not the day excite and hurry quicker

What missing pieces are yet to be found

Looking between the cracks

What fits and what does not

For we are yet still broken

Darkness hides the eyes

And shapes fill the castle of the mind

Too full for some and see no way out

Too empty for others who see nowhere to go

Explode, combine again, explode anew

Where to the pieces rest

Do I yet have all but one

Or none at all save one

What shall unlock the day

Perseverance

Again they wheel about at the same tasks

Looking backwards while plowing

Carry such a lighter load

Be burdened not by the past

Sustenance and Covering

Purpose and Love

What more do you yet strive for

Air and thicker which does not but choke

Fashion new tools with which to carve

For incomplete you are yet today

Acting as though everything were nothing and nothing everything

A tree stands alone in a forest

It's leaves a different shade of green

It's boughs, some more twisted, some straighter

Who seeks the shade of this forgotten tree

Or would they but pave it under with similar weed

Hide it's branches from the Sun

Mistake it for another totally dissimilar

Lob off it's limbs for a futile project

What new things lie under the Sun

In guise disguised

What shapes do they take

What rules do they follow

What mirror will reflect them

The echo of the mind reaches deep

Across voids and beyond stars

Tormented with pain from things unfulfilled

An empty socket looking for a bulb

A flower to grow in rich soil

What yet forces it down the stairs

Do they fear it's darkness, fear the depths

For in flames it sits waiting for a torch to bear it's light

When doves grace the day, do the ravens follow

Shall overwhelming brightness coat the day in mystery

Or shall wings of black take flight across the impossible

Through the archway of red what warnings come forth

Who feels the tiniest tremor of the days approaching

Who feels the tides and winds changing to East

Should perhaps beasts rescue men

Make straighter the path by humble beetle

Make bolder the heart by gracious bear

Clear the road by mighty moose

Spread forth the Word by busy bee

Make good the pattern by hunting cat

Sniff forth the quarry by eager dog

What price do you give for another soul

What deed do you give shape to so others may live

How mighty your works when amplified by God's breath

From what vantage point do you sit when given a task

Think you are in brightest light

Then what of those that dwell in darkness

What help are you to them if in ivory tower you set yourself

Do not fear to share with them the bitter fruit

Know their path and make your way more firm

For if untested you are, I weep

Yet then the mighty day may cause you to wilt

Heavy in heart I write these words

Give weight to my sayings

I too have sat in dust and ashes

What fruits of the garden may I yet see

How deep are the seeds which I have planted

May they yet see light from the sorrow in which I have sewn them

What flowers bloom forth unexpected

Might they yet be like bottle gourd and appear in the night

What need do I have of warning

Shall not growth be expected

Why do you yet hide behind curtain

Two olives grew from branches entwined

One felt the other as the breeze swayed

What watered one, refreshed the other

The light of the Sun, was it not the same on both

What separates them should be counted as nothing

The beast in the dark growled

Yet the man stood his ground

Against all odds he interposed himself

Here and There, Future, Then and Now

Before River could get back to her TARDIS, Captain Jack contacted her “You've got incoming” As he said this, DALEKS materialized around the outside of the theater/TARDIS. ///WE MUST PREVENT THE PARADOX// //EX-TER-MIN-ATE//

She went to where the TARDIS should have been parked and found it empty. 'NOT NOW' she yelled and pulled out a blaster. The Daleks almost had a bead on her.

A stone angel appeared out of nowhere as the music swelled in the lobby, blaring out into the street. “I WANT TO HOLD YOU” The stone angel touched River and set her back to before she entered the theater. She narrowly avoided running into herself and jumped into the waiting TARDIS.

“Never thought I'd see the day where I'd thank a stone angel”

Somewhere in a safer bit of the timeline Romeo debated with Juliet. “So they'll be in deathlike inactivity for a thousand years. Isn't that a lot like stone angels?” “But they'd still be able to send people back in time” she countered. “But what if that's a blessing, and not a curse?” “Say you weren't able to convince someone of the Truth, you'd have another chance” “But you'd have to live through Armageddon again, wouldn't you” “Not if someone kept track of when you were” he poked at the badge he got in the mail. “Torchwood North” It seemed like something he would make if he was a little bit different, a little more time, a little less distracted.

“What do you make of this?” He asked, showing the badge to Juliet. “Lots of planets have a North” He laughed. “FANTASTIC” he said back, getting the reference.

“You're sure that wasn't you that sent those text messages when I was at the hospital?” “I sent some of them,” he said, or “I agree with them at least – or at least what you've quoted about them – I'll need specifics, I wasn't exactly at my best when I heard you were at the hospital”

“That's where the timeline fractures” said Jack. “In the original timeline he didn't hear about it till it was too late” That's where the TARDIS must have sent the text.

Something popped in the background. Another signal from Torchwood North.

They tuned their trans-temporal radios “PROGRESSIVE ATTACK” was playing.

“I guess that means we have a game plan”

The TARDIS team was getting a little bit dizzy. Usually they were stuck in a series of events once they landed, but this time the universe itself seemed to be getting a little jumpy. Sherlock alone seemed to enjoy it.

A relatively unheardof song from Brookland Bounce echoed through the cracks in time.

“Finally, not bored” he said. “I can just about see the gears turning in your head” River said

Somewhere in time, the same conversation was occurring between Romeo and Juliet. “..and you said you weren't Sherlock” he said, watching her write more in her journals.

Not that the TARDIS herself wasn't a Sherlock as well. It poured through the unimaginable amount of data at it's disposal and brought up some of the Photoshops of Romeo, putting them through her mind, scanning them for most appropriate content and order, playfully putting them on a screen on Juliet's computer in a series of emails.

On board the TARDIS itself, it merely put up the number 666 then 999, red, then blue. Then sounded an alarm and shook the deck, just for fun.

Nights with River Song

River had the control of the TARDIS at night, which was an entirely different time.

With the rest of the crew asleep she breathed in their dreams and nightmares, depending on how the day when.

At times she was perky, dancing about from place to place and time to time, merrily going about the scans and feedback like a happy maid. Other times she was near inconsolable when the mind in the time vortex, Juliet, was having a particularly bad run.

She tried to have the other Romeo move about and visit her at such hours, but it depended on the main, lonely, him's mood. He was still the strongest tide. As much as the TARDIS wanted things in a nice neat bow, it would have to deal with the Paradox somehow.

Direct contact with that timeline had caused the rescue in the first place, and that was a wonderful thing to look upon. Still, the tide argued that it hadn't happened yet, and that she would have to go into this timeline to facilitate it.

During these times River would go back to the scene, at different times and different ways, to place memory filters borrowed from the Tower of London, scanners from Torchwood. Experimenting with a rehearsed Romeo re-enacting the scene again and again.

She would play the fudged footage to the rest of the team, and with feedback do it all again the next day. Wiping the memory of the happy, but now slightly confused Romeo until they hit upon the combination that would unlock the puzzle.

The TARDIS would then breath more of the story to the happy, but ignorant fledgeling couple.

As she pieced it together he got more depressed, knowing that something drastic had to happen to reunite the timelines.

On a hunch from something Jack had said, River set the coordinates to the Movie Theatre in Cardiff. It was shortly before the Wedding and they were the only ones there.

The equipment from Torchwood made an awful noise. This place was strange, it was fairly crackling with all sorts of time energy.

She couldn't go into the actually room showing the movie, but she could hear it well enough. Most of the time. River got dizzy at some parts, but suddenly it passed when bits she was familiar with played on the screen. She took notes, filling in bits of the dialogue that she had missed, or places and times she had been too but had not checked the recordings.

She looked at her readings again. This building was the TARDIS. Somehow more mature and more prepared, the music in the lobby swelled, as if to acknowledge her insight.

She heard a shot from the theater, then moans of delight.

It couldn't be that simple, could it? The TARDIS would simply take her to the movie theatre to join the lonely him who would act as if nothing odd had happened, then pretend to shoot himself and have the TARDIS teleport him to a control room, then back to the scene to do the rescue?

“The mind races” she said to herself. The music in the lobby played a happy poppy tune.