Chameleon Chapter 4
Title: Chameleon
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John, iffily platonic Harry/John
Rating: R
Features/Warnings: Crossover with the Sentinel, AU, Plotfic. Forced Bonding, Non-con, coersion, imprisonment, incesty vibes, mild violence.
Summary: Written for This Prompt: In a world filled with Sentinels with heightened senses, strength and endurance, and Guides, with seductive empathy, who knew that seeming "ordinary" could be John's greatest strength.
Word count: 4800
A/N Aaand, here's where things diverge. People paying close attention will note that I've rewritten a large amount of this and added a fair deal. I was too heavy handed with the exposition the first time (and I knew it) so when I went back to clean it up, whoops, it was such a big change I couldn't just post the same subsequent chapters on.
Of course, this also means I'm caught up with writing (mostly), so updates will come slower from now on.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Sentinel Sherlock Holmes walked slowly through the small museum on the lowest floor of London’s sprawling Tower. This was the public wing of the ancient institute, and one of the newer additions, less than fifty years old. The outer walls were the same rough hewn rock as the rest of the place, but inside was modern and clean, sound baffled, scent scrubbed and climate controlled to within a quarter of a degree fahrenheit. The relief was seductive.
A few tourists walked silently around him, eyes glued to the displays. Sherlock took them in, catalogued them, and dismissed them. Those two were Icelandic tourists, easily discerned by their clothing. That pensioner came in frequently. He went right to the display that interested him the most and wrote in his notebook. That scared woman with her stunned looking children following mutely behind her just dropped off their older sibling for processing as a Guide. She was seeking comfort and understanding about what had just happened to her family. The older of the two remaining children clutched her younger sister’s hand and worried that she might be next to disappear past the forbidding iron doors.
He had about ten minutes before Mycroft would become restless and start looking for him. Suppressing a smile, Sherlock walked over to the display the pensioner was so keen on. 14th century male Guide’s uniform, on a faceless mannequin. It was brown and grey, roughly embroidered, frayed and dulled by use and time. Sherlock noted how the capelet fell over the chest, giving it just the barest illusion of breasts. The waist was thickened out with layers of decorative padding, a nod towards pregnancy. For the brainless masses who normally visited, a placard on the wall behind it spelled these obvious things out.
The pensioner looked up from his notes at him, then leaned over and whispered: “Did you know that back then they thought of Guides as a female role? Because of Sentinels being men mostly and the intimate relationships the two roles share. So they treated even the male Guides like they were women.”
Sherlock said nothing, and the pensioner seemed to take that as encouragement. “If you look at the literature you’d think that there were no male guides at all back then. But there was. Chaucer’s Guide is consistently referred to as ‘she’ and ‘maiden’ even though he had a full beard and at one point lifts his skirt to waggle his penis at the Friar.” He sighed. “Makes you wonder what the Guides felt about it.”
“I imagine they were quite used to it.”
The visitors all turned to look at Sherlock, shocked that he used a normal tone of voice, shattering, oh horrors, whatever social convention it was that made people whisper in museums. Uncaring, Sherlock went on: “There were plenty of Guides back then. If they didn’t want the job, they had merely to take off the dress and find some other calling.”
Would that he could do the same with this job. But he owed Mycroft a favour.
The pensioner nodded briskly and then moved quickly away from him, as though Sherlock might be contagious. Normals and their silly ideas of etiquette. It wasn’t as if the displays were harmed by sound waves.
He turned his head and caught sight of a display set in the back corner, in it’s own glass case, segregated from the rest. A somber wooden backdrop was decorated to look as if it were covered with old newspapers and photos in a haphazard jumble. Sherlock’s heart sped up and despite emotional displays being beneath his dignity, he felt a clawing sickness in his stomach.
Sherlock walked slowly over to the display. On a beige pedestal sat a small, unassuming lump of metal, about the size and shape of a dinner plate and perhaps an inch thick at it’s widest part. Something instinctive in Sherlock went tight with horror at the sight of it. There was an ugliness about it that had nothing to do with it’s rough aesthetics. There it is - the source of all our troubles.
The Empathic Bomb. The Guide killer. The haunting scourge of WWII. It was nearly inconceivable that anyone, normal or not, would consider harming Guides, and yet this awful thing existed, was still being used by terrorists around the world. So much misery because Hitler had the absolute hubris to think Guides were unnecessary. Guenidine could do the same job, neater, safer. Guides were a corrupting force: sneaky, deviant, effeminate. Their empathy made them soft. Their sexual and emotional hold over Sentinels made them dangerous. They were a chink in the mighty armour of the Nazi war machine. They were an exploitable weakness. Wipe out the Guides and the enemy’s hopelessly dependent Sentinels would fall to the new breed of Guideless Supermen.
Or so they thought.
They were wrong. They hadn’t anticipated the power of the Blessed Protector reflex that drove every Sentinel, on every front, to such a frenzy that the Nazi armies fell in mere weeks. They hadn’t anticipated that their own unbonded Sentinels would turn on them in horror. But it was too late. The weapon was built, the bombers were loaded, the missions planned. In less than eight days such havoc was reaped that the result was still bitterly felt nearly sixty years later. All those Guides. Those potential Guides. Lost.
The Sentinel in him was repulsed nearly to the point of primal terror. This monstrous thing shouldn’t be here. The sheer mayhem a single lunatic could let loose if he were able to set this one off! This one bomb alone could kill, or mind-blind and render useless, every Guide within a 500 foot radius. Surely, the Tower wouldn’t have allow a functioning empathic bomb so close to their precious remaining Guides!
Without bidding it Sherlock senses went keen, prying at the object to make sure that it wasn’t as deadly as it seemed. He felt at once the smothering influence of the guenidine he’d taken earlier, like a haze that kept the dial on his senses muted down to a bearable, though weak 4 or 5. Even so, yes! There! A scraping of the paint along one edge, a slight bump in the metal where the halves had been pried apart and the dangerous guts removed. He breathed a sigh of relief. His Blessed Protector reflex eased up, leaving an unpleasant adrenaline ache in its wake.
Footsteps, slow and measured, clopped out behind him. Sherlock didn’t turn. A smile crept across his face. “Hello, Mycroft. Gained another pound- no, two I believe. Domestic bliss is really going to your hips.”
“I thought we’d agreed to meet in my office,” said Mycroft. His voice was barely over a polite whisper. Sherlock grinned to hear the irritation in it.
“And I thought I might do with a bit of perspective, before you bog me down with the minutiae of finding your,” Sherlock leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “Rogue Guide.”
“Assumption doesn’t suit you,” Mycroft said. “There are quite a number of reasons I could be asking for your help.”
“Oh, really,” said Sherlock, stepping away from the display. “What else would you be yanking my chain for? That’s what you do these days, isn’t it. All that you do. Tell me, doesn’t it get awfully boring? Solving the same problem over and over again?” He noticed how Mycroft’s balance favoured his right leg. Not quite a twist, but a twinge. Recent. “Well at least you are getting some exercise.”
The visitors, as if of their own accord, were filing away out of the gallery. Mycroft levelled another disgusted look Sherlock’s way, berating him for disturbing the impressionable public.
“And you are still abusing guenidine. You know it is possible to build up a resistance to it. Half an hour with an actual Guide would do you a world of wonders.”
Sherlock shook his head. “The price the Tower puts on their Guides’ touch is too steep for my blood.”
“Anthea -“
“Comes with strings, as well or I wouldn’t be here. And I note, I’ve put you on the defensive far more than I should have with that jibe. You’re unhappy with your job.” He didn’t suppress the grin. “Last mission didn’t go so well for you, I take it. And now you want to drag me down into your miserable little dilemma?”
Mycroft sighed wearily. “If I had another choice, I wouldn’t. This isn’t the place for this discussion, Sherlock. Shall we head on upstairs?”
“I’m done here,” said Sherlock, satisfied that he’d made enough of a public scene to make Mycroft think twice about ordering him about.
Relieved, Mycroft lead him back through the main lobby, and then through the heavy iron doors to the non-public part of the Tower. This area was older, but very thoroughly updated with matted walls for sound absorption, full spectrum lights, and the ubiquitous hum of white noise. There was no pattern to hook the eyes, no murmured dialogue to force the need to eavesdrop, no smells to trace. It was blissfully restful. Though Sherlock had spent a bloody fortune refurbishing his Baker Street apartment, he couldn’t achieve this level of delicious peace. Oh, how easy it would be to think in this place. Despite himself, Sherlock relaxed.
The lift door opened nearly silently and Mycroft ushered him in. He let them off on the highest floor of the West wing. A receptionist nodded at Mycroft as they passed. They went down a hall, past several conference rooms and until they finally reached the corner office. Mycroft’s name was on a brass plaque. He opened the door and let Sherlock in.
Anthea was sitting at a desk, typing away at her laptop. She looked up as they entered, then went back to work. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the isn’t my Guide magnificent smugness that rolled off of Mycroft as he greeted her. Mycroft noted his expression and dismissed it with a snort. “Sit down,” he gestured to the couch, which Sherlock took. Then Mycroft turned to retrieved a large manilla file folder off of the desk. He paused to weigh it in his hands, as if Sherlock might not get that this was a heavy matter otherwise.
“This is the problem.” Mycroft tossed the thick, rubber banded file into Sherlock’s lap.
Sherlock glanced at the file name. He raised a brow. “Phantom of Barts? Does the Guide sing?”
Anthea laughed a little, but didn’t look up. Mycroft’s thin lips stretched into a tight smile. “If only.” He sat down on the edge of the desk and looked down at Sherlock. “Are you going to read?” he asked when Sherlock let the file lie on his lap.
“Eventually,” said Sherlock. “But first I’d like to hear you tell me who this Phantom is in your own words. I operate better that way.”
“Very well. In a nutshell: For the last ten years there have been ‘sightings’ or should I say ‘smellings’ of an unbonded Guide at Barts. Never consistently. Never spotted by the same Sentinel. But frequently enough that I can’t simply dismiss it as a false alarm.”
“How many ‘smellings’ are we talking about.”
“Fifty-six in all. Not counting the one incident outside of Barts which I will talk of later.”
“So why is it you haven’t taken one of your hunting packs and swept the place.”
“I have. Eight times overtly, another thirty or more times quietly. Relations with the hospital are getting quite strained over the matter, which considering Barts is the only hospital in the city that specialises in Sentinel medicine, is quite a problem. I myself have informally followed up numerous times. But yes, we’ve poked our noses into every room of the place.”
“And?”
“And nothing. The scent trail is faint to begin with and then it goes nowhere, to another floor, out the front door. The hospital is a very busy place, but even with all my senses ramped up, I’ve not been able to connect a person to the pheromone. He is a phantom.”
“Perhaps he truly is a phantom,” suggested Sherlock, “Could it be that what you’ve been taking for Guide pheromone is nothing more than an artefact - a combination of perfumes. An ingredient in a cleaner or medicine?”
“I’ve thoroughly checked. As far as I know there is no medicine, or cleaner, or perfume that mimics any part of Guide scent.”
“You said the trail lead out the door - could you simply have missed the Guide? He spotted your people and high-tailed it out of there?”
“After all these checks? Impossible. Every overnight patient, every single staff member, every visitor that we could find has been checked out. Most of them repeatedly. But none of them were Guides. We are looking for a Guide who can hide in plain sight - who can have a Sentinel in the room with him and not be spotted. Our senses are betraying us, Sherlock. We can’t track this Guide down by his scent, the way we usually do. We need to narrow down who it could be by other means. ”
“And that makes you think I’ll be able to figure out who he is, when you haven’t?” Sherlock tried to keep his voice calm and disdainful, but inside he was already itching. A mystery! And a chance to show that he was better than Mycroft at his own specialty. Oh it must stick in Mycroft’s craw to be handing this one over.
“Any Sentinel can sense what a man has eaten for his last meal - but few can take it the next step and use his diet to deduce his clothing habits. We live in a sea of information - too much so at times - but it’s the inferences we can draw from it that put it into meaningful order. This is your specialty Sherlock. I don’t have the concentrated time to devote to the matter - nor the overriding need to solve puzzles. But you do. This is exactly up your ally.” Mycroft stood up. “With your help, I know we can find him.”
“Or perhaps, ‘we’ can simply let this one go,” said Sherlock pushing the heavy file off his lap and onto the cushions next to him. He then focused his attention on Mycroft. “He’s not hurting anyone. He’s certainly worked hard to keep himself from being found. And the Tower has lived without him for ten years. Why not just admit defeat and let the poor Guide live his life in peace.”
“I can’t,” said Mycroft, shaking his head firmly. “And not because of pride. There are too many unbondeds in this Tower to leave a known Guide out, unprotected, in the cold. They won’t stand for it. It’s a poorly held secret, and there is only so long before someone decides to take the hunt into their own hands.” Mycroft crossed his arms. “Besides, Sherlock, I’m calling in my marker on this one. You have no idea how much I do to shield you from Home Office. MI5 in particular has been lusting after you for years, and it’s only by repeatedly convincing them that you are useful to the Tower in your ‘consulting detective’ position that I can keep them off your back. Find this Guide for me and you will have the cooperation of the entire Tower to help keep your beloved independence.”
Sherlock picked the file back up and slapped it onto his thighs. Otherwise he contained his anger. This wasn’t news. He’d been justifying himself to petty bureaucrats ever since he’d graduated from Sentinel school. This Guide wasn’t the only one the Tower considered “rogue”.
“You said there was one incident outside of Barts?”
Mycroft nodded. “Not a scenting. A suggestive post in one of the forums. Three months ago, someone asked if it were true that all Sentinels sent into war zones were bonded, and how likely was it that a person in the regular army would encounter an unbonded one.”
“What was the answer given?”
“The first six responses were variations on ‘turn yourself in, Guide’ with more or less amounts of profanity and bad grammar. The seventh, unfortunately, told him that during training it was common practice to have unbonded Sentinels help with the new recruits, and if he were a Guide he’d be certainly be discovered. Our Guide naturally clammed up and hasn’t revisited the forum since. Nor, despite keeping a keen eye on the recruiting centres, has he enquired in person. We lost our chance of getting him there.”
“Are you sure this was your Phantom?”
“Anthea was able to track down the IP address to a coffee shop across the street from Barts.” Mycroft ran a hand over his hair. “You realise this inquiry means that our Phantom is thinking about leaving Barts. If he leaves, we may never be able to track him down.“
“Two months ago…” murmured Sherlock. “What’s to say he hasn’t already left Barts.”
“We had a ping last night. He’s still there. But he won’t be for long. Read the file Sherlock. Find him. Unless you think this is beyond your abilities.”
Oh it smarts to ask me this, doesn’t it, brother. Sherlock gave Mycroft an ironic smile. “By the end of the week good enough?”
Mycroft looked devastatedly relieved, as if even with all the arm pulling he hadn’t been sure Sherlock would take the case. “More than adequate. Thank you.”
Sherlock waited until he was back at Baker Street to open the enormous file. Paperwork. Mycroft loved the stuff, Sherlock loathed it. So much information was lost when passed through the filter of someone else’s perceptions. Especially Sentinels. They were the worst. Always thinking that being sensitive made them experts in observing. Always getting lost in a soup of irrelevancies or zoning in too tightly on something and missing the bigger picture. And ever the ego about it - so annoyed when you second guessed them! Give him a Normal, and they won’t notice a perps cologne or get lost in the scars on the back of his hand, but they’ll remember that a door that is normally locked was left unlocked, and that that a neighbour couldn’t afford the leather jacket he now wore. Better yet, let him observe himself and he could get both: the broad brush strokes and the fine details, data and context.
Sherlock flipped the page. Lists of people. Lists and lists and lists. Hundreds of names all neatly compiled, but with no weight given to any of them. Nothing but a note saying they scented normal and were eliminated. And then Mycroft eliminated the possibility that the Phantom could be anyone else. Paradox. Sherlock covered his face with his hand.
And then reports. Over and over, all saying precisely nothing in an incredible myriad of ways. Smell. Smell. Smell. As Mycroft said, obviously they weren’t going to track the Guide by smell, so what were they doing? Tracking him by smell!
“No you idiots!” he snapped in frustration. “You have five senses? Did everyone up and forget that? My god, Mycroft, how do your lackeys even function? Did no one check the security cameras? Did no one look for someone acting furtive? Did no one notice even the most cursory thing about the person who got in the elevator - like whether he was male or female or wore a uniform? Nothing? Really? Nothing?
“And what about brains. Did no one do even the most rudimentary background check to see if it were even possible for any of the thousands on that list to be at Barts all those instances? 56 points of data, that alone should have knocked nine-tenths of the suspects off. Mycroft, you lazy arse. Had you gone out to interview any of these people, you could have eliminated most of this list at once! But no, talking to normals is beneath Sentinel dignity isn’t it. Sentinel business is for Sentinels. Don’t want it let out that there might be having a wee bit of a problem with recruitment.”
No one replied but the unsatisfying soft hum of the white noise generator.
Sherlock flipped through the pages, quickly now. What was the point. Worthless. Worthless. Ugh! WORTHLESS. More scent trails - wasn’t it obvious that the Guide was laying down false ones?
“No, of course, the Guide didn’t linger in the infectious wards because he had business there!” Sherlock shouted, flinging the offending report off across the room. “He lingered there to zone you, you idiots. He knows you are following him. He doesn’t even bother to alter his tricks! And why should he?” said Sherlock rocking back in his chair and looking disdainfully at the stack of papers. “It’s working for him. You cretins keep falling into the same trap every single time.”
Mycroft should have brought him aboard years ago. Surely he knew his people were hopeless at this. The Guide must be laughing at the Tower by now. He’d be if he were the Guide.
Sherlock leaned over his desk and unfolded blueprints of Barts. There was a rainbow of paths laid out, each colour signifying a different hunt, a different place the trace whiff of Guide scent was spotted. The emergency room was lit up like a Christmas tree.
There! Finally! That was a clue, though an obvious one. Just as Sentinels couldn’t stop being Sentinels, Guides couldn’t help but be a Guide. He’d be called to help a Sentinel in need as instinctively as Sentinels were called to protect a Guide. Sherlock pressed his lips together. This Guide was incredibly bold. Anyone with half a wit of sense would avoid a Sentinel haven like Barts. This Guide was playing a very gutsy game.
Oh, you sweet, naughty little rogue, you, thought Sherlock appreciatively. You think you are clever! You like walking so close to the edge. What a thrill it must be to have the Tower running after you again and again and again. But you want to get caught, don’t you? How you must ache to be able to brag about this. Would you, my daring, brave Rogue? Would you brag? Who would you confide your secrets to? Tell me! Who is your Achilles heel?
With a reach of his hand, Sherlock turned off white noise generator on his desk. Barts wasn’t too far away, 2 1/2 miles east through thick city. The guenidine had worn off. Temptation. A shot in the dark but why not. Sort and ignore stimuli, sounds of traffic - gone - wind - gone - voices, too close - gone. So good to be a Sentinel and fully stretch himself, free of the muting blanket of drugs. Narrower, narrower…
He was in a forest. Oaks and beech and larch trees. The floor spongy with decaying leaves and moss and fern. It was dark, night time, a quarter moon peeking through the holes in the canopy. Over Sherlock’s head something fluttered. He turned and saw his spirit guide. It had been a long time since he’d seen it, and even now it was difficult to see. A screech owl, blending in with the bark, looking like nothing more than just a broken branch.
This was new.
“What is it you have to tell me?” Sherlock said to it. Mycroft claimed he saw his eagle frequently - even used it - but Sherlock hadn’t seen his since he’d left the Tower determined to prove his worth outside the stifling bureaucracy that ruled most Sentinels lives. “Is it about the Guide? Is there something I should know about him - or her - him?“ Statistically female guides turned themselves in more dutifully than males, the idea of bonding being slightly less repugnant to them, though in the last few years the gender gap had dramatically narrowed.
The owl let out a little whirring hoot.
“Tell me,” said Sherlock. “Show me.” Frustration welled up in him when the little owl did neither. It merely held still, only it’s voice giving away its position. “You must have brought me here for a reason - is there something about this Guide I should know? Is he in danger? Is he a danger? Should I be avoiding him?”
The owl, cryptic as ever, simply stared.
“SHERLOCK!”
There was a clatter at Sherlock’s elbow and he jolted. Afternoon light poured in through the window. There was Mrs. Hudson putting down a platter with a tea pot and an assortment of biscuits. “Brought you some tea, dearie,” she said, while he pulled himself together. “Might do you a bit of good getting up your blood sugar. You look peaky.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock mechanically. “How long have you been here?” he asked. He hadn’t noticed her come in. For that matter the pot was his own. She must have been in the flat a while. He’d zoned. He’d actually zoned.
“Only a couple of minutes,” she said dismissively. “I tried knocking but you didn’t answer. All caught up in your case, I imagine.” She pushed the tea at him, and he felt compelled, in part by his own surprise, to take it. He sipped. Sugary. “You know, you worry me when you get like this, Sherlock. Are you remembering to eat at all?”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson. And sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you,” he said, contritely. It had been weeks since he’d last zoned. But then it had been weeks since he’d allowed himself to fully stretch his senses as well. He looked around for the guenidine, found a nearly empty plastic vial and shook a pill onto his palm. Perhaps this is what the Owl was saying to him. That he’d have to lay off his Sentinel powers for this case. Counterintuitive. Interesting.
“It’s alright,” said Mrs. Hudson picking up the report that he’d tossed earlier. “Oh, this looks important!” She handed it to him. “Wouldn’t want this to get ruined.”
I’m not going to get anywhere with this. Sherlock abruptly decided, putting the sheet back into the half-read file. The one thing I know is that the answer isn’t anywhere in here. I need to go to Barts.
Sherlock popped the guenidine tablet into his mouth and swallowed it with a burning sip of tea. He couldn’t let this Guide know that he was looking for him. He had to surprise him. The drug would help, numbing down his senses. He wasn’t going to accidentally trigger the Guide’s bond lust. That was the mistake all the others had made. They thought they could trick him into revealing himself, but it had done just the opposite, made him go deeper to ground. However a Normal shouldn’t arouse this Guide’s worry.
His owl had camouflaged itself - that was the key! He was going to be sneaky just like the Guide. Allow him to let his guard down. He might be able to disguise his smell, but there was no way he could stop from leaving other clues. If he could just be in the same room as the Guide for ten minutes he could find a tell tale, Sherlock was certain of it.
He got up and went to the cupboard. Inside was a large box filled with an assortment of wigs, badges - some real, some fake; bit of stage make-up for moles (nothing like a large unsightly mole to distract a mark though not necessary in this case); real make up for those times when he chose to cross dress or play up the metrosexual angle (not today). No what he needed was fairly simple, hair gel to slick down his locks, a pair of false glasses, a visitor’s badge he’d swiped from Barts ages ago, and the rest could be handled with acting.
He popped into the toilet and returned five minutes later, no longer Sherlock Holmes, detective, but Sherlock Holmes efficiency consultant, sent by the ministry to find new, innovative ways to cut costs and trim budgets, go places and talk to people.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said turning to his landlady. She was still fussing about the flat, picking up a few stray items and putting them back where they belonged. “I need to go out for a bit. Might not be back for a while.”
“Well eat a biscuit at least! You look green!” She moved to intercept him going out the door.
“I’m fine,” he said, favouring her with a smile and a quick hug, then lifting her up and out of the way. He set her down as she let out an indignant squawk.
“Watch the hip! I’m not so young!” She flapped her hands with equal parts annoyance and flattered pride.
“See you Mrs. Hudson! Ta!” He took his keys from his customary coat, put them into his pants pocket and then practically ran down the steps. The Guide had thrown down his gauntlet. Sherlock was going to take it up. And he was going to beat him at his own game.
Chapter 5
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John, iffily platonic Harry/John
Rating: R
Features/Warnings: Crossover with the Sentinel, AU, Plotfic. Forced Bonding, Non-con, coersion, imprisonment, incesty vibes, mild violence.
Summary: Written for This Prompt: In a world filled with Sentinels with heightened senses, strength and endurance, and Guides, with seductive empathy, who knew that seeming "ordinary" could be John's greatest strength.
Word count: 4800
A/N Aaand, here's where things diverge. People paying close attention will note that I've rewritten a large amount of this and added a fair deal. I was too heavy handed with the exposition the first time (and I knew it) so when I went back to clean it up, whoops, it was such a big change I couldn't just post the same subsequent chapters on.
Of course, this also means I'm caught up with writing (mostly), so updates will come slower from now on.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Sentinel Sherlock Holmes walked slowly through the small museum on the lowest floor of London’s sprawling Tower. This was the public wing of the ancient institute, and one of the newer additions, less than fifty years old. The outer walls were the same rough hewn rock as the rest of the place, but inside was modern and clean, sound baffled, scent scrubbed and climate controlled to within a quarter of a degree fahrenheit. The relief was seductive.
A few tourists walked silently around him, eyes glued to the displays. Sherlock took them in, catalogued them, and dismissed them. Those two were Icelandic tourists, easily discerned by their clothing. That pensioner came in frequently. He went right to the display that interested him the most and wrote in his notebook. That scared woman with her stunned looking children following mutely behind her just dropped off their older sibling for processing as a Guide. She was seeking comfort and understanding about what had just happened to her family. The older of the two remaining children clutched her younger sister’s hand and worried that she might be next to disappear past the forbidding iron doors.
He had about ten minutes before Mycroft would become restless and start looking for him. Suppressing a smile, Sherlock walked over to the display the pensioner was so keen on. 14th century male Guide’s uniform, on a faceless mannequin. It was brown and grey, roughly embroidered, frayed and dulled by use and time. Sherlock noted how the capelet fell over the chest, giving it just the barest illusion of breasts. The waist was thickened out with layers of decorative padding, a nod towards pregnancy. For the brainless masses who normally visited, a placard on the wall behind it spelled these obvious things out.
The pensioner looked up from his notes at him, then leaned over and whispered: “Did you know that back then they thought of Guides as a female role? Because of Sentinels being men mostly and the intimate relationships the two roles share. So they treated even the male Guides like they were women.”
Sherlock said nothing, and the pensioner seemed to take that as encouragement. “If you look at the literature you’d think that there were no male guides at all back then. But there was. Chaucer’s Guide is consistently referred to as ‘she’ and ‘maiden’ even though he had a full beard and at one point lifts his skirt to waggle his penis at the Friar.” He sighed. “Makes you wonder what the Guides felt about it.”
“I imagine they were quite used to it.”
The visitors all turned to look at Sherlock, shocked that he used a normal tone of voice, shattering, oh horrors, whatever social convention it was that made people whisper in museums. Uncaring, Sherlock went on: “There were plenty of Guides back then. If they didn’t want the job, they had merely to take off the dress and find some other calling.”
Would that he could do the same with this job. But he owed Mycroft a favour.
The pensioner nodded briskly and then moved quickly away from him, as though Sherlock might be contagious. Normals and their silly ideas of etiquette. It wasn’t as if the displays were harmed by sound waves.
He turned his head and caught sight of a display set in the back corner, in it’s own glass case, segregated from the rest. A somber wooden backdrop was decorated to look as if it were covered with old newspapers and photos in a haphazard jumble. Sherlock’s heart sped up and despite emotional displays being beneath his dignity, he felt a clawing sickness in his stomach.
Sherlock walked slowly over to the display. On a beige pedestal sat a small, unassuming lump of metal, about the size and shape of a dinner plate and perhaps an inch thick at it’s widest part. Something instinctive in Sherlock went tight with horror at the sight of it. There was an ugliness about it that had nothing to do with it’s rough aesthetics. There it is - the source of all our troubles.
The Empathic Bomb. The Guide killer. The haunting scourge of WWII. It was nearly inconceivable that anyone, normal or not, would consider harming Guides, and yet this awful thing existed, was still being used by terrorists around the world. So much misery because Hitler had the absolute hubris to think Guides were unnecessary. Guenidine could do the same job, neater, safer. Guides were a corrupting force: sneaky, deviant, effeminate. Their empathy made them soft. Their sexual and emotional hold over Sentinels made them dangerous. They were a chink in the mighty armour of the Nazi war machine. They were an exploitable weakness. Wipe out the Guides and the enemy’s hopelessly dependent Sentinels would fall to the new breed of Guideless Supermen.
Or so they thought.
They were wrong. They hadn’t anticipated the power of the Blessed Protector reflex that drove every Sentinel, on every front, to such a frenzy that the Nazi armies fell in mere weeks. They hadn’t anticipated that their own unbonded Sentinels would turn on them in horror. But it was too late. The weapon was built, the bombers were loaded, the missions planned. In less than eight days such havoc was reaped that the result was still bitterly felt nearly sixty years later. All those Guides. Those potential Guides. Lost.
The Sentinel in him was repulsed nearly to the point of primal terror. This monstrous thing shouldn’t be here. The sheer mayhem a single lunatic could let loose if he were able to set this one off! This one bomb alone could kill, or mind-blind and render useless, every Guide within a 500 foot radius. Surely, the Tower wouldn’t have allow a functioning empathic bomb so close to their precious remaining Guides!
Without bidding it Sherlock senses went keen, prying at the object to make sure that it wasn’t as deadly as it seemed. He felt at once the smothering influence of the guenidine he’d taken earlier, like a haze that kept the dial on his senses muted down to a bearable, though weak 4 or 5. Even so, yes! There! A scraping of the paint along one edge, a slight bump in the metal where the halves had been pried apart and the dangerous guts removed. He breathed a sigh of relief. His Blessed Protector reflex eased up, leaving an unpleasant adrenaline ache in its wake.
Footsteps, slow and measured, clopped out behind him. Sherlock didn’t turn. A smile crept across his face. “Hello, Mycroft. Gained another pound- no, two I believe. Domestic bliss is really going to your hips.”
“I thought we’d agreed to meet in my office,” said Mycroft. His voice was barely over a polite whisper. Sherlock grinned to hear the irritation in it.
“And I thought I might do with a bit of perspective, before you bog me down with the minutiae of finding your,” Sherlock leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “Rogue Guide.”
“Assumption doesn’t suit you,” Mycroft said. “There are quite a number of reasons I could be asking for your help.”
“Oh, really,” said Sherlock, stepping away from the display. “What else would you be yanking my chain for? That’s what you do these days, isn’t it. All that you do. Tell me, doesn’t it get awfully boring? Solving the same problem over and over again?” He noticed how Mycroft’s balance favoured his right leg. Not quite a twist, but a twinge. Recent. “Well at least you are getting some exercise.”
The visitors, as if of their own accord, were filing away out of the gallery. Mycroft levelled another disgusted look Sherlock’s way, berating him for disturbing the impressionable public.
“And you are still abusing guenidine. You know it is possible to build up a resistance to it. Half an hour with an actual Guide would do you a world of wonders.”
Sherlock shook his head. “The price the Tower puts on their Guides’ touch is too steep for my blood.”
“Anthea -“
“Comes with strings, as well or I wouldn’t be here. And I note, I’ve put you on the defensive far more than I should have with that jibe. You’re unhappy with your job.” He didn’t suppress the grin. “Last mission didn’t go so well for you, I take it. And now you want to drag me down into your miserable little dilemma?”
Mycroft sighed wearily. “If I had another choice, I wouldn’t. This isn’t the place for this discussion, Sherlock. Shall we head on upstairs?”
“I’m done here,” said Sherlock, satisfied that he’d made enough of a public scene to make Mycroft think twice about ordering him about.
Relieved, Mycroft lead him back through the main lobby, and then through the heavy iron doors to the non-public part of the Tower. This area was older, but very thoroughly updated with matted walls for sound absorption, full spectrum lights, and the ubiquitous hum of white noise. There was no pattern to hook the eyes, no murmured dialogue to force the need to eavesdrop, no smells to trace. It was blissfully restful. Though Sherlock had spent a bloody fortune refurbishing his Baker Street apartment, he couldn’t achieve this level of delicious peace. Oh, how easy it would be to think in this place. Despite himself, Sherlock relaxed.
The lift door opened nearly silently and Mycroft ushered him in. He let them off on the highest floor of the West wing. A receptionist nodded at Mycroft as they passed. They went down a hall, past several conference rooms and until they finally reached the corner office. Mycroft’s name was on a brass plaque. He opened the door and let Sherlock in.
Anthea was sitting at a desk, typing away at her laptop. She looked up as they entered, then went back to work. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the isn’t my Guide magnificent smugness that rolled off of Mycroft as he greeted her. Mycroft noted his expression and dismissed it with a snort. “Sit down,” he gestured to the couch, which Sherlock took. Then Mycroft turned to retrieved a large manilla file folder off of the desk. He paused to weigh it in his hands, as if Sherlock might not get that this was a heavy matter otherwise.
“This is the problem.” Mycroft tossed the thick, rubber banded file into Sherlock’s lap.
Sherlock glanced at the file name. He raised a brow. “Phantom of Barts? Does the Guide sing?”
Anthea laughed a little, but didn’t look up. Mycroft’s thin lips stretched into a tight smile. “If only.” He sat down on the edge of the desk and looked down at Sherlock. “Are you going to read?” he asked when Sherlock let the file lie on his lap.
“Eventually,” said Sherlock. “But first I’d like to hear you tell me who this Phantom is in your own words. I operate better that way.”
“Very well. In a nutshell: For the last ten years there have been ‘sightings’ or should I say ‘smellings’ of an unbonded Guide at Barts. Never consistently. Never spotted by the same Sentinel. But frequently enough that I can’t simply dismiss it as a false alarm.”
“How many ‘smellings’ are we talking about.”
“Fifty-six in all. Not counting the one incident outside of Barts which I will talk of later.”
“So why is it you haven’t taken one of your hunting packs and swept the place.”
“I have. Eight times overtly, another thirty or more times quietly. Relations with the hospital are getting quite strained over the matter, which considering Barts is the only hospital in the city that specialises in Sentinel medicine, is quite a problem. I myself have informally followed up numerous times. But yes, we’ve poked our noses into every room of the place.”
“And?”
“And nothing. The scent trail is faint to begin with and then it goes nowhere, to another floor, out the front door. The hospital is a very busy place, but even with all my senses ramped up, I’ve not been able to connect a person to the pheromone. He is a phantom.”
“Perhaps he truly is a phantom,” suggested Sherlock, “Could it be that what you’ve been taking for Guide pheromone is nothing more than an artefact - a combination of perfumes. An ingredient in a cleaner or medicine?”
“I’ve thoroughly checked. As far as I know there is no medicine, or cleaner, or perfume that mimics any part of Guide scent.”
“You said the trail lead out the door - could you simply have missed the Guide? He spotted your people and high-tailed it out of there?”
“After all these checks? Impossible. Every overnight patient, every single staff member, every visitor that we could find has been checked out. Most of them repeatedly. But none of them were Guides. We are looking for a Guide who can hide in plain sight - who can have a Sentinel in the room with him and not be spotted. Our senses are betraying us, Sherlock. We can’t track this Guide down by his scent, the way we usually do. We need to narrow down who it could be by other means. ”
“And that makes you think I’ll be able to figure out who he is, when you haven’t?” Sherlock tried to keep his voice calm and disdainful, but inside he was already itching. A mystery! And a chance to show that he was better than Mycroft at his own specialty. Oh it must stick in Mycroft’s craw to be handing this one over.
“Any Sentinel can sense what a man has eaten for his last meal - but few can take it the next step and use his diet to deduce his clothing habits. We live in a sea of information - too much so at times - but it’s the inferences we can draw from it that put it into meaningful order. This is your specialty Sherlock. I don’t have the concentrated time to devote to the matter - nor the overriding need to solve puzzles. But you do. This is exactly up your ally.” Mycroft stood up. “With your help, I know we can find him.”
“Or perhaps, ‘we’ can simply let this one go,” said Sherlock pushing the heavy file off his lap and onto the cushions next to him. He then focused his attention on Mycroft. “He’s not hurting anyone. He’s certainly worked hard to keep himself from being found. And the Tower has lived without him for ten years. Why not just admit defeat and let the poor Guide live his life in peace.”
“I can’t,” said Mycroft, shaking his head firmly. “And not because of pride. There are too many unbondeds in this Tower to leave a known Guide out, unprotected, in the cold. They won’t stand for it. It’s a poorly held secret, and there is only so long before someone decides to take the hunt into their own hands.” Mycroft crossed his arms. “Besides, Sherlock, I’m calling in my marker on this one. You have no idea how much I do to shield you from Home Office. MI5 in particular has been lusting after you for years, and it’s only by repeatedly convincing them that you are useful to the Tower in your ‘consulting detective’ position that I can keep them off your back. Find this Guide for me and you will have the cooperation of the entire Tower to help keep your beloved independence.”
Sherlock picked the file back up and slapped it onto his thighs. Otherwise he contained his anger. This wasn’t news. He’d been justifying himself to petty bureaucrats ever since he’d graduated from Sentinel school. This Guide wasn’t the only one the Tower considered “rogue”.
“You said there was one incident outside of Barts?”
Mycroft nodded. “Not a scenting. A suggestive post in one of the forums. Three months ago, someone asked if it were true that all Sentinels sent into war zones were bonded, and how likely was it that a person in the regular army would encounter an unbonded one.”
“What was the answer given?”
“The first six responses were variations on ‘turn yourself in, Guide’ with more or less amounts of profanity and bad grammar. The seventh, unfortunately, told him that during training it was common practice to have unbonded Sentinels help with the new recruits, and if he were a Guide he’d be certainly be discovered. Our Guide naturally clammed up and hasn’t revisited the forum since. Nor, despite keeping a keen eye on the recruiting centres, has he enquired in person. We lost our chance of getting him there.”
“Are you sure this was your Phantom?”
“Anthea was able to track down the IP address to a coffee shop across the street from Barts.” Mycroft ran a hand over his hair. “You realise this inquiry means that our Phantom is thinking about leaving Barts. If he leaves, we may never be able to track him down.“
“Two months ago…” murmured Sherlock. “What’s to say he hasn’t already left Barts.”
“We had a ping last night. He’s still there. But he won’t be for long. Read the file Sherlock. Find him. Unless you think this is beyond your abilities.”
Oh it smarts to ask me this, doesn’t it, brother. Sherlock gave Mycroft an ironic smile. “By the end of the week good enough?”
Mycroft looked devastatedly relieved, as if even with all the arm pulling he hadn’t been sure Sherlock would take the case. “More than adequate. Thank you.”
Sherlock waited until he was back at Baker Street to open the enormous file. Paperwork. Mycroft loved the stuff, Sherlock loathed it. So much information was lost when passed through the filter of someone else’s perceptions. Especially Sentinels. They were the worst. Always thinking that being sensitive made them experts in observing. Always getting lost in a soup of irrelevancies or zoning in too tightly on something and missing the bigger picture. And ever the ego about it - so annoyed when you second guessed them! Give him a Normal, and they won’t notice a perps cologne or get lost in the scars on the back of his hand, but they’ll remember that a door that is normally locked was left unlocked, and that that a neighbour couldn’t afford the leather jacket he now wore. Better yet, let him observe himself and he could get both: the broad brush strokes and the fine details, data and context.
Sherlock flipped the page. Lists of people. Lists and lists and lists. Hundreds of names all neatly compiled, but with no weight given to any of them. Nothing but a note saying they scented normal and were eliminated. And then Mycroft eliminated the possibility that the Phantom could be anyone else. Paradox. Sherlock covered his face with his hand.
And then reports. Over and over, all saying precisely nothing in an incredible myriad of ways. Smell. Smell. Smell. As Mycroft said, obviously they weren’t going to track the Guide by smell, so what were they doing? Tracking him by smell!
“No you idiots!” he snapped in frustration. “You have five senses? Did everyone up and forget that? My god, Mycroft, how do your lackeys even function? Did no one check the security cameras? Did no one look for someone acting furtive? Did no one notice even the most cursory thing about the person who got in the elevator - like whether he was male or female or wore a uniform? Nothing? Really? Nothing?
“And what about brains. Did no one do even the most rudimentary background check to see if it were even possible for any of the thousands on that list to be at Barts all those instances? 56 points of data, that alone should have knocked nine-tenths of the suspects off. Mycroft, you lazy arse. Had you gone out to interview any of these people, you could have eliminated most of this list at once! But no, talking to normals is beneath Sentinel dignity isn’t it. Sentinel business is for Sentinels. Don’t want it let out that there might be having a wee bit of a problem with recruitment.”
No one replied but the unsatisfying soft hum of the white noise generator.
Sherlock flipped through the pages, quickly now. What was the point. Worthless. Worthless. Ugh! WORTHLESS. More scent trails - wasn’t it obvious that the Guide was laying down false ones?
“No, of course, the Guide didn’t linger in the infectious wards because he had business there!” Sherlock shouted, flinging the offending report off across the room. “He lingered there to zone you, you idiots. He knows you are following him. He doesn’t even bother to alter his tricks! And why should he?” said Sherlock rocking back in his chair and looking disdainfully at the stack of papers. “It’s working for him. You cretins keep falling into the same trap every single time.”
Mycroft should have brought him aboard years ago. Surely he knew his people were hopeless at this. The Guide must be laughing at the Tower by now. He’d be if he were the Guide.
Sherlock leaned over his desk and unfolded blueprints of Barts. There was a rainbow of paths laid out, each colour signifying a different hunt, a different place the trace whiff of Guide scent was spotted. The emergency room was lit up like a Christmas tree.
There! Finally! That was a clue, though an obvious one. Just as Sentinels couldn’t stop being Sentinels, Guides couldn’t help but be a Guide. He’d be called to help a Sentinel in need as instinctively as Sentinels were called to protect a Guide. Sherlock pressed his lips together. This Guide was incredibly bold. Anyone with half a wit of sense would avoid a Sentinel haven like Barts. This Guide was playing a very gutsy game.
Oh, you sweet, naughty little rogue, you, thought Sherlock appreciatively. You think you are clever! You like walking so close to the edge. What a thrill it must be to have the Tower running after you again and again and again. But you want to get caught, don’t you? How you must ache to be able to brag about this. Would you, my daring, brave Rogue? Would you brag? Who would you confide your secrets to? Tell me! Who is your Achilles heel?
With a reach of his hand, Sherlock turned off white noise generator on his desk. Barts wasn’t too far away, 2 1/2 miles east through thick city. The guenidine had worn off. Temptation. A shot in the dark but why not. Sort and ignore stimuli, sounds of traffic - gone - wind - gone - voices, too close - gone. So good to be a Sentinel and fully stretch himself, free of the muting blanket of drugs. Narrower, narrower…
He was in a forest. Oaks and beech and larch trees. The floor spongy with decaying leaves and moss and fern. It was dark, night time, a quarter moon peeking through the holes in the canopy. Over Sherlock’s head something fluttered. He turned and saw his spirit guide. It had been a long time since he’d seen it, and even now it was difficult to see. A screech owl, blending in with the bark, looking like nothing more than just a broken branch.
This was new.
“What is it you have to tell me?” Sherlock said to it. Mycroft claimed he saw his eagle frequently - even used it - but Sherlock hadn’t seen his since he’d left the Tower determined to prove his worth outside the stifling bureaucracy that ruled most Sentinels lives. “Is it about the Guide? Is there something I should know about him - or her - him?“ Statistically female guides turned themselves in more dutifully than males, the idea of bonding being slightly less repugnant to them, though in the last few years the gender gap had dramatically narrowed.
The owl let out a little whirring hoot.
“Tell me,” said Sherlock. “Show me.” Frustration welled up in him when the little owl did neither. It merely held still, only it’s voice giving away its position. “You must have brought me here for a reason - is there something about this Guide I should know? Is he in danger? Is he a danger? Should I be avoiding him?”
The owl, cryptic as ever, simply stared.
“SHERLOCK!”
There was a clatter at Sherlock’s elbow and he jolted. Afternoon light poured in through the window. There was Mrs. Hudson putting down a platter with a tea pot and an assortment of biscuits. “Brought you some tea, dearie,” she said, while he pulled himself together. “Might do you a bit of good getting up your blood sugar. You look peaky.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock mechanically. “How long have you been here?” he asked. He hadn’t noticed her come in. For that matter the pot was his own. She must have been in the flat a while. He’d zoned. He’d actually zoned.
“Only a couple of minutes,” she said dismissively. “I tried knocking but you didn’t answer. All caught up in your case, I imagine.” She pushed the tea at him, and he felt compelled, in part by his own surprise, to take it. He sipped. Sugary. “You know, you worry me when you get like this, Sherlock. Are you remembering to eat at all?”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson. And sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you,” he said, contritely. It had been weeks since he’d last zoned. But then it had been weeks since he’d allowed himself to fully stretch his senses as well. He looked around for the guenidine, found a nearly empty plastic vial and shook a pill onto his palm. Perhaps this is what the Owl was saying to him. That he’d have to lay off his Sentinel powers for this case. Counterintuitive. Interesting.
“It’s alright,” said Mrs. Hudson picking up the report that he’d tossed earlier. “Oh, this looks important!” She handed it to him. “Wouldn’t want this to get ruined.”
I’m not going to get anywhere with this. Sherlock abruptly decided, putting the sheet back into the half-read file. The one thing I know is that the answer isn’t anywhere in here. I need to go to Barts.
Sherlock popped the guenidine tablet into his mouth and swallowed it with a burning sip of tea. He couldn’t let this Guide know that he was looking for him. He had to surprise him. The drug would help, numbing down his senses. He wasn’t going to accidentally trigger the Guide’s bond lust. That was the mistake all the others had made. They thought they could trick him into revealing himself, but it had done just the opposite, made him go deeper to ground. However a Normal shouldn’t arouse this Guide’s worry.
His owl had camouflaged itself - that was the key! He was going to be sneaky just like the Guide. Allow him to let his guard down. He might be able to disguise his smell, but there was no way he could stop from leaving other clues. If he could just be in the same room as the Guide for ten minutes he could find a tell tale, Sherlock was certain of it.
He got up and went to the cupboard. Inside was a large box filled with an assortment of wigs, badges - some real, some fake; bit of stage make-up for moles (nothing like a large unsightly mole to distract a mark though not necessary in this case); real make up for those times when he chose to cross dress or play up the metrosexual angle (not today). No what he needed was fairly simple, hair gel to slick down his locks, a pair of false glasses, a visitor’s badge he’d swiped from Barts ages ago, and the rest could be handled with acting.
He popped into the toilet and returned five minutes later, no longer Sherlock Holmes, detective, but Sherlock Holmes efficiency consultant, sent by the ministry to find new, innovative ways to cut costs and trim budgets, go places and talk to people.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said turning to his landlady. She was still fussing about the flat, picking up a few stray items and putting them back where they belonged. “I need to go out for a bit. Might not be back for a while.”
“Well eat a biscuit at least! You look green!” She moved to intercept him going out the door.
“I’m fine,” he said, favouring her with a smile and a quick hug, then lifting her up and out of the way. He set her down as she let out an indignant squawk.
“Watch the hip! I’m not so young!” She flapped her hands with equal parts annoyance and flattered pride.
“See you Mrs. Hudson! Ta!” He took his keys from his customary coat, put them into his pants pocket and then practically ran down the steps. The Guide had thrown down his gauntlet. Sherlock was going to take it up. And he was going to beat him at his own game.
Chapter 5