"That was four of them, yeah? Looks like we're done in here." Clara's hands were proudly sitting on her hips as she grinned at the pair of them. John's gaze wandered from the girl back to the doorway through which the fourth regeneration that they had discovered had gone. Though he was still unsure why he needed rest when he was inside someone's dream, since he had woken up from his brief rest, Sherlock and Clara had been sticking very close together and murmuring to each other things that John couldn't hear.

It irked him immensely.

"We should go back to the control room. Obviously they didn't find the rest of the regenerations or he would have woken up by now. There might be something we can help with." John spoke in a brisk manner, hoping to indicate by the way he spoke that he wasn't altogether pleased at being left out of the strange loop being formed. Sherlock, as usual, didn't seem to notice John's irritation.

"Excellent idea, John. Lead the way." Doctor Watson did just that, resisting the urge to mutter under his breath as he left the room. Whenever Sherlock neglected to tell him something, it was usually something important. Sherlock often shared useless facts with his partner, but the important things were left up to John to guess. Was Sherlock this infuriating naturally, or did he have to work at it? Perhaps it ran in the family. After all, Mycroft wasn't the easiest person to get along with either.

"Something wrong, Doctor Watson?" Clara was beside him now, looking at him curiously.

"No, I think I rather enjoy when Sherlock confides in girls we just met as opposed to the man he lives with and solves crimes with." Though he kept volume under control, his anger leaked out in his venomous tone. Clara didn't look surprised that he had noticed, or even bashful, which raised another small bout of anger. Instead, she smiled.

"You're jealous I'm getting all the attention, aren't you?"

"Jealous? No, I'm-"

"Don't worry, I won't steal him from you. Sherlock likes puzzles and the Doctor calls me the Impossible Girl. I'm the best puzzle Sherlock can get his hands on while doing all this leg work." John did have to concede that Sherlock hated dull work like this with no way for him to show off his intellectual prowess. "I won't be a spoilsport. I'll give him back soon." With a cheeky wink, Clara dropped back again to talk to Sherlock who looked lost in thought.

The Impossible Girl? Seemed like a bit of a puffed up title. How could she possibly be of so much interest to Sherlock who found that the most interesting people in the world were serial killers. Could she be…? No. He shook that thought out. No, Clara was certainly not a serial killer. She did have a pretty puffed up opinion of herself, and between her and Sherlock, they would be a right pain in the-

"What's this room?"

The trio ground to a halt as Sherlock veered off to the side, examining a door that appeared to collected large amounts of dust. Clara frowned as she examined it. "I don't know. I've never seen it here before. On the real TARDIS, I mean. There are lots of rooms I haven't explored but I've never seen this one before. Look, it doesn't have a handle." Where a handle should have been on the old fashioned door, there was an empty hole. Thoughts of the egos of his two companions were chased from John's mind as he too turned his mind to the curiosity.

"Should we really be poking around in another man's head?" John demanded as Sherlock went to peak through the hole.

"We've already gone trampling through the rest of his brain. I don't think he would keep the dangerous stuff in a door that just anybody can open, even if it doesn't have a handle." Clara shoved Sherlock aside to look through the hole where the handle should have been. "Just looks like a room full of boxes. That's disappointing."

John was next to crouch and peer through the hole. Clara was right, there were shelves and shelves of boxes. However, if he squinted he could make out a table at the other end of the room with photographs on it. Frowning, he saw that at least two of the faces were familiar. "That's you in there, Clara. There's a picture of you on the far end of the table."

In reward for the information, John was again pushed aside so that she could look through again. "You're right! That is me! And Amy is in there too. Blimey, that's a lot of photographs." The three of them straightened to look around at each other. Sherlock had been unusually quiet for a long time. John wondered if something was putting him off, like the spunky little brunette, or the fact that they were inside an alien's head.

"Well, it can't hurt to have a look around, can it?" Clara grinned at the both of them. Sherlock said nothing and John continued to look dubious. "Come on, boys. Time for an adventure." The door swung forward on its hinges at Clara's curious touch. The men lurked behind her as grim shadows while she walked into the room. John's eyes took an automatic layout of the room. One exit, plenty of shelves people could hide behind, no windows, and no hostiles in sight. As he glanced around, Clara marched straight to the table on the other side of the room. "Look at this!"

Coming up to her side, John looked down at the pictures sitting on the short table. In Clara's hands was the frame containing her own photograph. With a frown, John noticed that there was a small protruding piece of the frame. His thumb had barely touched it in curiosity when the picture inside of the photograph began moving and talking.

"You could always call me Oswin, seeing as that's my name." The three of them blinked down at the talking photograph. The background shifted occasionally but the constant was the occupant. "It's smaller on the outside." "Rescue me, chin boy, and show me the stars." "Is it like a snogging booth?" Clara's thumb echoed John's movements as it brushed against the small protrusion. Immediately, the talking picture went silent again, leaving John and Clara staring at it.

"Memories." Sherlock's voice jerked them back to reality. He was already examining another photograph, this one containing the familiar face of Amy Pond, the girl who had arrived with the pair of brothers. "These are some of the memories of others. Surface memories, I would guess. Nothing important enough to merit thought. Nothing to dwell and mull over, those things would be kept somewhere more secure. This is just basic information, introductions, old information, and the like."

"What's this table for then?" Sherlock spared John a quick glance from the now talking photograph of Amy. "There's rows and rows of shelves in here, why do these people have their own table? Why not shove them in boxes like the rest?"

"They're his companions." John's attention was drawn back to the little woman who had put down her own picture to pick up another, this one of a different red head. "The people that travel with him, he calls them companions. They're the people he invites to live on the TARDIS with him. His best friends." John's brow furrowed as he looked at the table. With vague amusement, he noted that the majority of the photos on the table were female, with the occasional male here and there. For some reason, Doctor Watson couldn't see the scrawny man who flew the ship having many girlfriends.

John picked up a photograph at random, letting his thumb brush that same protrusion and the man on the screen begin talking. "Jack Harkness. I've been hearing all about you on the way over. And it's a real pleasure to meet you, Mr. Spock." Watching those surface memories, John got the impression that this man would flirt with anything that moved. Still, there was a bit of vague amusement at the things that he did. The Captain's voice intermingled with the photographs that Sherlock and Clara examined.

Putting down the photo of the man now smiling cheekily up at him, John frowned at the photo beside it. This one was of a woman. Picking it up, John got the strangest idea that he knew her. His thumb traced the edges of the frame until it found the small, button-like protrusion that led the photograph to move and begin speaking. "But they're not exactly airtight. If the air was going to get sucked out it would have happened straight away, but it didn't. So how come?"

A slightly distorted voice not coming from Martha's mouth repeated the next words of the memory. "Very good point. Brilliant, in fact. What's your name?"

"Martha."

"And it was Jones wasn't it?"

Alarm spread over John's face as he looked closer at the frame. Etched into it, the same as all the others, was the name "Martha Jones." Blinking rapidly, the name still would not change. It seemed to swim up from its engraving on the golden frame until John's vision blurred altogether. He could hear a clatter as he raised his hands to his head. There was a burning there, it felt as though his entire brain was on fire.

"John!" Voices, distorted and broken, made the barest impression on his consciousness. A splitting pain in his skull erupted. Part of him was straining towards something, another part strained away. A brief jolt went through him as his knees hit the floor. Martha Jones. He knew her. He didn't know her. Yes, he did. No, no he didn't. But he could remember the cave, the circle, the bullet crunching…

No, he couldn't remember. He shouldn't remember. He shouldn't remember wanting to cut her, to bleed into her open wounds as she screamed.

He couldn't remember.

He shouldn't remember.

He was infected.

He died.

More than anything else, he felt the urge to kill.