Title: Alias Smith And Jones
Author: kbk
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: fictionbya read it for me and told me it was not shite. That was good.
Timeline: Runs from a few months after Aliens of London, through The Christmas Invasion, to some time just after School Reunion.
Summary: Sarah Jane Smith, meet the Prime Minister.

"Smile for the cameras, Ms Smith."

"Must I?" says Sarah, but she forces the corners of her mouth upwards anyway. "I'm dreading the captions," she mutters.

Harriet Jones chuckles. "Oh, I doubt this will be published," she says, and she's right enough; they are neither young nor scandalous.

Then the host hustles Sarah off the stage, and the next award is introduced, and Sarah returns to her seat to tolerate the backslapping of her colleagues. The Prime Minister catches Sarah's eye briefly, gives her a fleeting wry grimace, and Sarah replies with the most genuine smile she's felt all day.

The next day - not that Sarah counts them, of course - seven papers carry a picture from the event, each one showing one or more of their respective award winners, most of them with the Prime Minister.

Sarah's editor chooses a picture from the reception afterwards, where Sarah's colleagues flock about her like vultures while she chats amiably with Harriet Jones. In the background, there is a anxious young aide who, a few minutes after that picture was taken, broke in to tell the Right Honourable Ms Jones that, really, it was time to leave, had been for a good ten minutes at least, and the schedule was tight enough as it was, they simply couldn't afford...

Harriet Jones had laughed, shaken hands with Sarah once more, and walked to the door with her ear turned attentively to her aide, before pausing to wave a genial farewell to the whole room.

Eleven days after that, a call comes through inquiring as to whether Ms Smith would be interested in an interview with the Prime Minister. The editor accepts on her behalf, and the news has spread halfway round the office before Sarah answers her phone.

There's gossip, of course, because Sarah isn't in politics and she doesn't do interviews. And there are jealous looks, especially from a features writer who's been trying to get inside the metaphorical Number 10 ever since it was transformed from an unimportant Cabinet member's London offices to the hub of the new government.

Sarah actually ends up a couple of streets away from there, in a private room at a small restaurant. She arrives early and reviews her questions yet again with only a glass of water to soothe her nerves. Her proposed angle, as approved by the press office, is rebuilding: both literal and metaphorical.

The Prime Minister is right on time, and once they've exchanged pleasantries, Sarah starts in on her questions.

By the time dessert is brought in, they're busily sniping at the Thatcher government and the Iron Lady's effect on media representation of women in politics. Before leaving, they exchange home phone numbers.

The ash is still drifting from the sky, but already people are finding ways to dismiss it all, despite the official press releases and the headlines splashed high and wide - "Mars Attacks!" said one, "We are not alone!" said another, and now those same papers speculate about a secret weapon from the Chinese, a new form of terrorist attack, or an American experiment gone wrong.

Sarah calls, and calls, but the Prime Minister is unavailable, the Prime Minister is busy, the Prime Minister doesn't have time to speak personally to yet another reporter.

Late on the evening before New Year's Eve - so late that by the time they hang up, the clock will have ticked over into a new day - Harriet returns the call. Sarah has a hundred questions, but the only one she asks is, "How are you doing?"

They talk, deftly avoiding newsworthy subjects, until Harriet yawns down the phone line. An answering yawn takes Sarah by surprise when she opens her mouth to speak, and they giggle at each other as though they aren't decades away from the foolish schoolgirls they used to be.

"Get some sleep, Harriet," Sarah says, striving for the remembered sternness of her History teacher's voice.

"You too, Sarah," murmurs Harriet. "Good night."

"Good night." Sarah listens to the humming line for a few minutes after Harriet hangs up. It slowly filters into her tired brain that she's just used the Prime Minister's Christian name for the first time.

Sarah drops the phone.

Harriet takes a short holiday not long after surviving the Vote of No Confidence. "Personally," she tells Sarah, over a glass of wine in an Oxford pub, "I would far rather be working, but I've been advised..."

Sarah rolls her eyes sympathetically.

Harriet sips at her wine, and continues. "And they've insisted I get a makeover - another one - say it'll be 'rejuvenating', because obviously this job couldn't possibly be one that requires experience."

Sarah smiles wryly, and sets them off on a tangent about the importance attached to how a woman dresses.

The conversation circles back. "Don't take this the wrong way, Harriet," Sarah says gently, and watches her friend tense, "but you do look tired."

Harriet frowns. "Well, of course I'm bloody tired!" she cries, then glances around to see if she's caught anyone's attention. They are incognito, and she hopes to stay that way. Reassured, she leans closer to Sarah to make her point. "I'm trying to run the bloody country! And the half of my Cabinet with more experience than me are pulling one way, and the other half are pulling the other, and I'm trying to please everybody without compromising my goals..."

Sarah swore on everything she holds dear that she would not use their friendship for professional gain; that anything Harriet said as a friend would not make it into the papers. She's not going to break that promise, but she doesn't enjoy being tempted, so her next comment is a little tarter than it ought to be. "And the millions of pounds you poured into Guinevere went up in smoke."

"And don't think I didn't notice your bullshit article about our American allies; you have noticed the government they have over there, haven't you?"

They're friends again by the time the bottle is finished.

After the Doctor leaves, Sarah Jane takes K-9 home, then heads back to the office. She files another article, a follow-up to yesterday's fluff piece on the explosion and the children's reaction. This one uses the background she's been researching for a week, and her interview notes, to create a half-page piece on the tragic loss of life. She comments on Mr Finch's ambition, and praises those responsible for evacuating the children, and repeats the common theory of a gas leak, since the explosion started in the kitchens, though there won't be an official statement for some time yet. When she runs out of ways to twist the truth, she starts on the blatant lies, and those are the sections her editor asks her to expand on.

Sarah's fine when she walks home, just fine when she cooks her dinner, perfectly fine when she tidies up and then settles down with a good book and a nice cup of coffee. She answers the phone when it rings, and she doesn't know who she was expecting, but she's glad it's Harriet.

"Oh, Sarah," Harriet says, "I've been so busy, I only just realised that the journalist at Deffry Vale was you, are you all right?" The concern in her voice is tangible, and Sarah smiles.

"I'm fine, really," she says. "I was outside, and I'd been talking to the staff so of course it's upsetting, but it's not..." Not like I said goodbye to someone who changed my life. Not like my secret robot dog sacrificed himself, even though he's still here. She finally notices the tremors that have been running through her ever since she walked away from the TARDIS.

"I'm fine," she sobs, pressing the phone harder against her ear.

"Well, you certainly don't sound it, dear girl." Harriet sighs, and then muffles her call with the distinctive sound of a hand over a mouthpiece. Sarah can hear her calling out, swift orders being given, but she can't make out the words. Then Harriet is back, saying, "I can be there in twenty minutes or so."

Sarah sniffles her gratitude.

Twenty minutes becomes thirty, and that's long enough that Sarah is dry-eyed and feeling more than a little silly by the time Harriet's small, unmarked car pulls into her driveway.

Then she opens the door and is immediately enfolded in a hug, and she's crying again.

Harriet, terrifyingly competent as always, manoeuvres them inside and settles Sarah in front of the fire. She's never been in Sarah's house before, but she finds whisky and glasses and a patchwork blanket that Sarah's grandmother made. She pushes a drink into Sarah's hand, and then busies herself lighting the fire until Sarah is a little more under control.

"Thanks," Sarah murmurs, and smiles wanly at her friend.

Harriet switches off the light, and sits next to Sarah, draping the blanket around both of their shoulders. They watch the firelight flicker on the walls. Sarah takes another sip of whisky, and feels rather than sees Harriet follow suit.

"The kids are being split between the three closest schools," Harriet says quietly, "and we're diverting funds to allow for rebuilding on that site. And a memorial..."

Harriet talks on, and Sarah listens, and after a little while, she places her arm around the other woman's waist. Harriet looks at her, and Sarah looks back.

And then wheels trundle in the hall, and a high, tinny voice says, "Mistress?"

Sarah had forgotten, after years of K-9 sitting lifeless under a throw in her spare room, that he had a propensity for interrupting. "Come in, K-9," she calls. Harriet will have to learn about this side of Sarah's life sooner or later, if they're to stay friends.

Her dog glows sleek and strange in the dim light, and Harriet gasps, just a little.

"Mistress is crying," K-9 states.

Harriet frowns. "I didn't think robots were so advanced."

"They aren't," Sarah tells her.

Harriet narrows her eyes and pulls Sarah a little closer. "You do have some stories to tell, don't you?"

"We can talk now, if you want." Sarah reminds K-9 of the rules she instigated long ago for when she has visitors and sends him off to sulk in his room.

Harriet sips her whisky again. She looks at Sarah for a long time. Then she kises Sarah, lightly, lingeringly, on the lips.

"There's plenty of time for that."

Sarah returns the kiss.

They curl around each other, warm and safe, and talk about nothing until the fire goes out.