Fic: Chameleon Chapter 11
Title: Chameleon
Pairing: Sherlock/John, iffily platonic Harry/John, Sebastian Moran/John
Rating: R
Genre: Crossover with the Sentinel, AU, Plotfic.
Warnings: Forced Bonding, Non-con, coercion, 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: 8300 words
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Harry woke to the excruciating drill-to-the-brain sound of the alarm on Clara’s mobile. Somewhere under the screech came a lower, human grumble of something incomprehensible, then the alarm abruptly cut off. The relief nearly made Harry sob. Jesus Christ. Why hadn’t her own alarm woken her first? She usually woke up a good half hour before Clara, and by the time that awful thing went off, she’d already had her breakfast of guenidine chased by a shot of vodka.
Instead she was starting the day with a headache. Lovely.
“Sorry luv. It’s time to get up,” Clara said, giving her a little shove then vacating the bed.
Oh, no, she wasn’t ready to be functioning. Not even close.
Harry was only vaguely aware of Clara as she wandered around the bedroom, mostly as a pungent combination of musky body oder, long dried vaginal secretions and sweat, and sharp-sour stress. There’d been a time when Clara had been very body conscious of all various odors she put out. It taken Harry years to convince her that her natural scent was twenty times better than boutique perfumes or even scentless soap. Harry liked it all but the stench of stress. Stress, of course, just made Harry feel guilty.
Their relationship was sinking, and no matter how hard Clara tried to patch the leaky vessel, one of these days it was going down. At least the sex was still good. Well, good for Clara, Harry remembered wryly. Clara had come twice last night, but Harry hadn’t at all. She’d been too worried about -
“John!” said Harry opening her eyes. For a second the world went kaleidoscope crazy. A rough alien landscape appeared before her: a sea of huge, fraying, blue-green ropes lying thickly one over the other, a few that rising high up only to curl and loop back. Mixed in were jagged, pitted rocks that defied gravity and clung to the ropes at odd, impossible angles. Then recognition kicked in and Harry dialled her sight back to normal, and the landscape turned back into a dusty fold of pillowcase two inches from her eyes.
Christ, she needed to get her arse in gear. What had she just been thinking of?
Oh yes, her utterly inconvenient brother. No, that wasn’t charitable. The panicked call John had made last night scared Harry precisely because he just didn’t do that sort of thing. John was the most practical, drama-free person Harry knew. He got along with everyone and he had enough sense not to get into the kind of trouble that would warrant that kind of call.
Then after scaring the shit out of Harry, he’d hung up on her. Prick.
She’d called him back six times, getting shunted to voicemail each time, until Clara took her phone away and made it very clear that she was to pay attention to her or have a magnificent row. So Harry took Clara to back to bed and shot her to the moon: reading her shifts and scents and giveaways the way only a Sentinel could and exploiting them to the fullest. For all the failure in her life, at least Harry was still bloody fantastic in bed.
Especially since she had been half-arsing it. All the while they messed about, Harry had her ear cocked in case John called back. He never did. Whatever he was dealing with probably resolved itself. Maybe. Christ, she didn’t know.
One thing Harry did know was that John was genuinely scared when he’d called her and that he was lying through his teeth for nearly the entire exchange. John had always been a fucking crap liar, even as a kid. He had that little quaver in his voice even non-sentinels could pick up on. So whatever was wrong with him probably had nothing to do with gambling. But what on Earth could be worse than being shaken down by gangsters? And why lie about mum?
She sat up and reached for her phone, meaning to wake him up and get a fuller explanation. It wasn’t recharging on her bed table where it should have been. And it wasn’t on the floor or under the bed, either. The bloody hell.
“Clara!” she called out. Clara was in the toilet now, doing her morning routine. “Clara, luv, where’s my phone?”
“I left it in the kitchen.”
“Aw, Clara, I need my phone!” Harry got up and ran for the kitchen, hoping the battery hadn’t died on it overnight. Her headache was really setting in good. It sounded like she was walking on kettle drums. But there her mobile was, on the counter near the sink.
Harry grabbed it. In the next breath she used all her concentration to keep her eyes focused and her sense of touch from flooding her with useless information about the scratches in the hard plastic shell. But no matter how hard she stared at the window, it remained black and lifeless. It was off.
“Fuck!” said Harry, horrified. “Clara, you can’t turn my fucking phone off! Are you crazy? I’m on call!”
“You are always on call,” said Clara softly, through the closed door of the toilet. Harry wasn’t sure whether she wanted to be heard or not. She sounded angry and her scent turned sharp-sour with unhappiness.
Sentinel, luv, Harry thought bitterly. You can’t hide in the toilet. I’m going to know you’re mad.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” grumbled Harry, switching the mobile back on. There were five missed messages. Harry’s blood pressure shot through the roof and she forgot her contriteness. “Oh Goddamn it! Clara, you really can’t do this to me. Oh God, I’m in so much fucking trouble.”
But none of the calls had been from the Tower, thank God. It took a second to recognise the numbers. Most were from her mother. John and now Mum. What was going on?
Harry pressed 10 on her speed dial and hoped her Mum wouldn’t mind the early morning call. After eight rings, her Mum picked up. “Hello?”
“Mum?” Harry said. “You okay?”
“Harry!” came the bright response. “How are you?”
I’m sexually frustrated, Guideless, aching for a stiff drink, and on the outs with the only woman who’ll have me… “I’m fine, Mum. I missed your calls. What’s going on?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. Have you heard from John?”
Harry’s stomach dropped. “Why, what have you heard?” she countered.
“I got the oddest call last night from the London Tower. They were asking about me - they said that John was afraid I’d been hurt.”
Harry frowned. John was fibbing to the Tower about Mum? Why was John talking to the Tower at all? Harry had always had the impression that it creeped him out, which, considering some of the stories Harry had told him, wasn’t really that strange.
“He called me last night, too,” Harry replied. “Asked me to tell people that you had a stroke. Scared me half to death. But you are fine, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely fine! Your father, too. Listen Harry, would you please get a hold of John for me, swing by his flat if you can. He’s not answering his phone and I’m rather worried about him.”
“Me, too, Mum,” Harry admitted. After a few more polite exchanges she hung up, then called John again. Voicemail. Crap.
One of the calls hadn’t been from either Mum, John or the Tower, and Harry was reluctant to call back. It was the personal mobile of one of the Sentinels who she sometimes hung out with. Casper was about as low ranking a Sentinel as existed. He didn’t even have his own territory, being stuck handling Tower security. He was one of the few people who didn’t make Harry feel like a loser, but that didn’t exactly recommend him much. Harry rang him up.
“Oh, so you are alive,” Casper said when he picked up.
“Yeah, yeah, what’s up? If you need more money, I haven’t got it. What I do have is a bit of a family emergency, so make it quick.”
“Oh yeah, I’d say so,” said Casper.
Harry’s heart stuttered.
Clara took that moment to come from the shower room looking steamy and running a towel over her damp brown locks. Clara’s eyes narrowed in on the phone at Harry’s ear, annoyed that in the tug-o-war for Harry’s affections, once again the BlackBerry had won. Harry rolled her eyes. Now was not the time to start that fight.
“Spit it out,” she said to Casper. “What do you know about John.”
“Only that he’s cooling his heels in the Tower right now. Helped take him up there myself last night.”
“Why would he be in the Tower? Did he piss off a Sentinel?”
“He’s in a bonding suite, Harry,” said Casper. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”
Bonding suite? John? For a moment Harry’s mind just couldn’t comprehend it. She knew deep down in her gut that John wasn’t a Guide, at least not outside of her wistful fantasies. She knew it. No. He couldn’t be. And yet…
“Fuck,” said Harry.
“What is it,” Clara asked, suddenly alarmed by Harry’s shift in posture. “Who are you talking to?”
Harry threw up an angry hand to block out Clara’s voice. “How? Who? What happened?”
“You didn’t hear?” said Casper, obviously amused. “Your brother’s a Guide. And not just any Guide, he’s the one hiding at Barts. The Phantom. Fatty Holmes has been hunting him down for literally years. They finally got a bead on him and brought him in last night.”
“John’s bonding?” It hit Harry like a fist to her gut. “And they didn’t call me?” But John is mine! Always mine! He was meant for me!
“Is that a surprise? It’s not like they’d let you bond with him,” said Casper. “Or me either. They brought in some high important military Sentinels yesterday afternoon. One of them got him.”
Harry could hardly hear through the wave of possessive fury that overcame her. How had she not known about John? No, she had known. She’d known for years. She’d known since that time when she was still so fresh to her senses that she barely made sense of anything. Even then she’d known it gut deep. John’s smell, his taste, the sound of his voice, it all called to her. She’d followed that call all the way to London. Five hundred miles! And before that she’d climbed into his bed, for craps sake. And if he hadn’t stopped her, she would have held him down and bonded to him, platonically, right then and there, when she first came on line.
But he had stopped her, hadn’t he. And he’d been stopping her every time they’d been together ever since. No wonder he acted like a rabbit in a snare around her. She’d been following her instincts, doing what obviously God and her genes told her to. And it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t have been safe around her. She wouldn’t have raped him or done anything perverted. She’d simply have kept him safe and with her and all those childhood adventures they’d had together would never have stopped. She’d have been the Sentinel her family was so proud of instead of the fuck up that they ignored.
Harry sobbed with rage for what she’d been denied. Goddamn it John! Why?
“Harry,” said Clara. “Are you alright. Did someone die?”
Yes, Clara, thought Harry angrily. What tiny shred of innocence I had left is dead. She grabbed a book and threw it hard against the wall. Clara backed away out of the room fast, but Harry couldn’t muster a care anymore.
She been betrayed both by John and the Tower. No. This wasn’t right. Everything in her gut said it was wrong. John was hers. He’d always been hers. From the moment of his birth he’d been hers. He still belonged to her and fuck all the rules and unnatural constrictions the Tower put on bonding, she was going to go get him.
No fucking military Sentinel was going to take her rightful Guide. She was going to bust down the doors if she had to and people were going to pay.
Mycroft looked up from his breakfast to see his eagle perched on the kitchen counter, staring at him. He turned to Anthea. “Darling, I believe that something might be up.”
Anthea swallowed her bite of egg and turned to look at the counter. Then she nodded. “Do I have enough time for make up?”
The eagle fanned out it’s wings and shook itself as if preparing to take flight.
“You are beautiful regardless,” said Mycroft. “I think we’d better go now.”
They left their breakfast dishes on the table and put on their coats. Not running, Mycroft never ran unless he absolutely had to, but not dawdling either. Their flat was only three blocks from the Tower, a fine brisk walk down the slightly misty pavements took them to the Tower’s East entrance, where Mycroft’s thumbprint let them in.
Outwardly, the place seemed to be in no more of an uproar than usual, nut up high above, the eagle circled the aerie, the way it did when it had acquired a target. Something was most definitely afoot.
“Head up to my office,” said Mycroft. “Check the logs and…” he paused as Anthea raised her eyebrow at him. “And you know what you are doing. I wish to scan the aerie, something is off.” He leaned over to give her a quick kiss to reestablish their bond, then hung back while she hurried to the nearest lift.
Even as she left he could still feel her her with him, making his senses feel solid and dependable. She was keyed to him and his moods, and should he find his control slipping she’d be back quickly to support him.
Best not to run into danger blind. After all, what use was it to be a sentinel if not to suss out the danger before putting himself in the middle of it.
Mycroft stood still in the main East corridor, near the accounting offices and began sorting and scanning. Sound first: the steady rattling of fingers on keyboards - isolated and removed. Voices, conversations, Mycroft recognised the usual assortment of normals who worked in this area. Beyond the immediate offices were the Sentinel classrooms and dormitories, but he could get no further in that direction. There were simply too many white-noise dead spots between him and the aerie.
Smell then.
He headed towards the bank of lifts that would take him up to the top of the Tower. With effort he tuned out Anthea’s reassuring scent, but the rest were well within the normal. There didn’t appear to be any out of the ordinary anxiety or guilt hormones, or at least none out of the usual day-to-days stress range. All the scents, even those that belonged to the Fort Monken Sentinels, seemed familiar. There was no stranger here.
Mycroft caught a whiff of Hope as he waited for the lift to open. The Matchmaker was worried, but that wasn’t unusual. Hope had been under stress for some time, but for quite ordinary and expected reasons. His Sentinel wasn’t doing well, poor creature. Circulation troubles had led to persistent skin ulcers on his numb left leg and they were contemplating amputation above the knee if it kept on. Maybe Mycroft had been a bit harsh in criticising Hope’s occasional blunders. A Sentinel in a similar position would be nigh useless. If Anthea had been that sick…
Mycroft didn’t even want to contemplate it.
But it wasn’t Hope that bothered Mycroft’s eagle. It was someone else. Mycroft could smell it now: the tiniest trace of distress that wouldn’t have normally bothered Mycroft if it weren’t maddeningly coupled with the personal scent of someone Mycroft knew he needed to watch out for. It was all so terribly faint, that is, until he stepped into the lift that lead to the aerie.
Then it was obvious.
Sherlock. What on earth was Sherlock doing in the Tower? Sherlock hated the place. Mycroft had fully expected, now Sherlock had his coveted contract in hand, that he’d never grace the institution with his presence again. What was he doing in the aerie of all places?
The lift ended two floors beneath the aerie on one of the Bonding floors, Mycroft used his thumbprint to open the door to the narrow, rock hewn spiral staircase. This was the oldest part of the tower and barely been touched since. The centres of each of the stone steps was bowed by the wear of centuries of feet. Mycroft ran one hand down the central pillar and another along the rough outer wall. Pencil thin window slits in the thick walls dimly lit the way. After six tight revolutions, he emerged from the floor near the centre of the the aerie. The domed metal roof had been opened and turned to the North West.
And there stood Sherlock gazing out over the streets of London.
“Really, Mycroft,” he said without turning. “You should spend more time on a tread mill. I was worried the steps would give you a coronary the way you huffed and puffed up them.”
“May I ask what you are doing here?” Mycroft asked, ignoring the jab.
“Can’t I look at the city? The view is excellent.”
Mycroft frowned. “No more than a number of other buildings. I’m truly surprised you’d show your face here now that you have no legal reason to check in at all. Aren’t you enjoying your freedom?”
The brisk cross wind was taking Sherlock’s smell with it, but Mycroft heard his brother’s heart speed up and saw the tightening of his muscles in his jaw. Sherlock turned around and gave a false smile. “I have the freedom to go where I like, why not come back here? By the way, loved the clauses you put into that contract. I’m at your beck and call apparently.”
Mycroft laughed. “It would have looked very odd if I hadn’t put anything in. But you signed it nonetheless. Try not to look a gift horse in the mouth Sherlock. You still have far more freedom to take whatever cases appeal to you than any other Sentinel I know.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “But you aren’t bothered by that. Sherlock, why are you here?”
For the first time Mycroft noticed the bag at Sherlock’s side. Was that rope fibre caught in the teeth of the zip? Mycroft wandered over to the ledge and looked down. This side of the tower was closest to the street. A two story building housing mostly dentists and contract attorneys stood a mere hundred yards away.
Mycroft sniffed Sherlock again, this time he knew what scent he was looking for. Pheromones. Bonding heat. Sherlock was calling for a Guide. The obvious one was twenty feet below them, in the arms of another Sentinel.
“Oh, Sherlock,” he said sadly, putting his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Let it go. You’ve made your choice.”
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “I have.”
“I admit he would have been quite a catch - but it’s too late. He’s bonded. But all isn’t lost. I have a good deal of influence, Sherlock, and now that we know where your compatibility lies, I should be able to find you a Guide of your own. Hope owes me more than one favour, and I have feelers out at all the other major Towers. If someone should turn her or himself in who is compatible, I shall have you into the interview room first. And, of course, I’ll include you on any hunts.”
“Thank you,” said Sherlock, stiffly, “But no. I think I’ll stick to the one I’ve already found.”
“But he’s bonded.” Mycroft frowned as a terrifying thought hit. “You don’t plan on murdering the Sentinel, do you? Oh Sherlock, even I couldn’t get you out of that mess.”
“Wouldn’t consider it,” said Sherlock pacing the floor of the aerie. He knelt down and put his hand against the tiled floor. “He’s not bonded. Yet.”
Mycroft didn’t have a chance to answer that. At his hip, his mobile chirped. He lifted it up and put it to his ear. “What is it?”
“Problem,” said Anthea. “A call came in from Sentinel Watson’s girlfriend. She says Harry Watson is very upset. She’s on her way here to get her brother. Do you think we should get involved?”
“Absolutely,” said Mycroft. “Meet me at the central lobby and bring the tranqs. Let’s cut her off before she can cause too much of a public scene. I’ll get Hope.” Mycroft took three steps towards the central stairway before remembering Sherlock and pausing.
“Don’t!” he said with a warning finger. “Whatever it is you think you are planning. Don’t. I have enough actual idiots to deal with, I won’t have you pretending to be one of them.”
Sherlock cocked his head with a sardonic smile. “I don’t plan to be stupid.”
Mycroft was half way down the steps before he heard Sherlock speaking again. “I plan to be very clever.”
John watched Seb Moran settle into the cushions of the couch. He patted the seat next to him. “Don’t be shy,” the huge Sentinel said. “I don’t bite. Well, at least I don’t until Hope says I can.”
I can do this, John said to himself. It’s just touching, and it’s not going to be for much longer anyway. Just until Hope’s had a chance to get a little farther away. Then I’ll get out of here.
Reluctantly, he pushed away from the table and sat down next to Moran. A grin broke out across the man’s handsome face. John felt a warm blush spread across his cheeks and his heart sped up. What was it about Sentinels that made them so attractive? This would be a lot easier if John could muster more disgust.
He settled for mustering confusion. Much easier.
“I don’t exactly know what I’m doing here,” he admitted. “The books I read were … kinda vague on this part actually.”
“That’s alright,” said Moran, throwing an arm over his shoulder. “I do. Just follow my lead.”
“They, um, teach you this in class?” John asked.
“How to scent?” Moran asked, momentarily horrified, but then bursting into laughter. “Bit personal for classwork wouldn’t you think? Besides, what would we practice on - a pillow?” That thought was apparently uproarious. “Oh wow.”
“Other Sentinels?”
“Hell, if I’m going to scent another Sentinel.” Moran shuddered as if such a thing were revoltingly taboo. “Dear god, you’ve got a gross imagination.”
“Guides then?” John offered. “Bonded ones, I suppose.”
Moran looked scandalised. “If I tried to scent someone else’s Guide I’d be shot. You do not touch another Sentinel’s Guide - ever.”
“But,” said John, partially out of confusion, partially because this conversation was working fabulously as a distraction, “That makes no sense. Bonded Guides are always asked to help unbonded Sentinels. There are more Sentinels than guides. How do they do it if there’s no touching?”
Moran cocked his head. “They put their hands on us, not the other way around. And they only do it to get a good mental latch so that they could give us the mental stability we need. Reset our baselines and such.”
Moran sighed and seemed to slide into a memory. “Oh, lord, you know it does get tempting, though, to do a bit of groping back, even though they do smell taken. But the Guide’s Sentinel is always in a the room with you, so, even if he doesn’t punch your face, that’s a good way to end up blacklisted from that Guide.”
“Huh,” said John. It didn’t sound any different from what he’d done with Harry and all those distressed Sentinels at Barts. Somehow he thought that Guides would do something more.
“But it doesn’t matter,” said Moran. “That won’t be your job. The only person you ever have to put your hands on is me.” His hand gripped John’s shoulder briefly, then ran down his arm. “We can be exclusive.”
Despite himself, John felt a thrill of pleasure at the touch. The Guide in him seemed to perk up. His neck felt a little pleasant tingle. No, no, not yet, he thought, sucking in a deep breath.
“It’s okay,” Moran murmured. “You can touch me, too. With his free hand he reached over and took John’s hand and placed it up on his solid chest. “Like that. Can you smell me calling to you?”
He could - not as smell, but he could feel the waves of desire coming off of Moran. They were equal parts flattering and frightening. Once again, he felt a little doubt inside. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to continue this, see where it led. Perhaps fighting was the wrong idea.
But then he remembered the wolverine and his gut lurched again. No. There was something just not right about Moran.
For the first time, John dared to really look at Moran, not just his chiseled exterior, but inside to the man himself. It felt odd to use his empathy this way. He half expected Moran to fight the way Hope did. But he didn’t, instead John slipped all too easily into the man’s mind.
Desire, barely contained by a strict military discipline, battered at John and almost at once his body reacted. He shuddered, longing to be held close. To be touched and wanted and loved. More than wanted, needed. Yearned like hunger. Like cool rain for the parched. And lower down something deep and primal and oh so pleasurable stirred. His groin grew hot and heavy as lust burned its way up from groin to throat. He neck itched and he felt the desire to bend it. It was all he could do not to bend his head back and proffer himself up.
John slammed down the connection as hard as he could. Abruptly the siren call of Moran’s emotions shut off. John breathed hard, relieved to note that he hadn’t actually moved during those seconds.
No, that decidedly hadn’t helped at all! He was still no more sure of Moran than he had been twenty seconds before.
But wait a moment, there had been something. That taint again. He’d sensed it under the surface of Moran’s mind. Now that he wasn’t being overwhelmed by his instincts he could recognise it and give it the attention it was due.
There was a darkness there. A powerful urge that didn’t seem to be contained by anything internal. Something in Moran’s emotional make up said that he wasn’t above simply taking what he wanted, anything he wanted. So long as he had no other way to get it.
The only reason he hadn’t taken John yet was that he simply hadn’t reached the end of his rope.
That kind of personality trait wasn’t going to change after bonding, either. Moran was fair on the outside and foul inside. As long as Moran got his way, he’d be the friendly man he presented himself as, but the moment John wanted something Moran didn’t, there would be hell to pay.
No, he couldn’t let this happen. It would be a nightmare.
“Oh yes,” Moran was saying, unaware of John’s thoughts. “Yes, luv, yes, babe, that’s right. Oh, you smell so ripe for bonding. I can feel you getting hard for me. Soon, soon.”
John stiffened and tried to pull away, but Moran’s arm on his shoulder just tightened to hold him into place.
“It’s okay, you don’t need to be embarrassed. It’s normal. It’s called the bonding heat. Better than beer isn’t it? Better than drugs?” He grabbed John’s hand and pulled it down to his crotch. John felt the hard, thick length of Moran’s erection, trapped between the fabric of his fatigues and his thigh.
“All that’s for you,” Moran whispered. “Eight inches of prime manhood,” he bragged, “And you made like this. Wait until I get it into you. You are going to love it.”
With his empathy shut off, John really was disgusted. He twisted suddenly and managed to slide off the couch before Moran could fix his grip. “Whoa, slow down,” he said, holding his hands up to ward the Sentinel off.
For a second it looked as if Moran was going to launch himself off the couch and onto John. That darkness inside nearly came to the surface. But then that military bearing came back down. With obvious effort Moran leaned back and put on a facade of nonchalance.
“Don’t panic, okay, I went a bit fast there. But it was only because you are so damn cute and you smelled so ready for a second. Can’t blame me if you were putting off mixed signals.”
Surely it had to be enough time for Hope to have gotten out of the hallway. If John were to make a break for it, now was his best chance, before Moran decided he’d waited long enough or John’s own body decided to betray him again.
Steeling himself up, he stepped forward. “Sorry I panicked,” he said. “I know you only mean the best, but yeah, I’m nervous about this. Maybe we could kind of … ease into things a bit? Maybe take a walk first. Is there a garden? Or we could go get a coffee?”
John pushed empathically at Moran while he spoke, ending with touching the Sentinel’s bare hand. This is a reasonable suggestion.
“London Tower doesn’t really have much of a park, but there’s a coffee place not too far away.”
“Let’s go there,” said John. “You and me. We’ll have a nice coffee and relax and I bet I’ll be a whole lot less nervous when we get back.” This is a good idea, he pushed.
“Okay,” said Moran. “Sure. I like coffee.” He stood up then suddenly frowned. “Ah shit, we can’t.”
“Why not?” said John, trying not to panic.
“It’s against the rules for you to leave the suite until we’ve finished bonding,” said Moran apologetically.
“Oh but surely we don’t have to follow all the rules,” said John, pushing so hard his head twinged.
“Yeah, I know, it sucks, but in this case it’s not my call. We gotta follow the rules. Tell you what, the minute we finish bonding we’ll go get that coffee. Now how about you come back to the couch.”
Damnit! thought John. Then inspiration hit. “But we’ve already bonded. Don’t you remember?”
“What? No!” Moran looked at him quizzically. “You smell scared. What are you doing?”
John bit his lip. Steady. “Yes we have,” John pushed harder than he ever had in his life and it hurt, oh dear God, it did. Like a bullet to the brain. ”We’re bonded,” he said.
“Okay, okay,” said Moran. “Just kidding, can’t you take a joke? Of course, let’s go get that coffee.”
John nearly sobbed with relief. He followed as Moran walked over to the fingerprint scanner. Yes, yes, yes! This was going to work! Moran put his finger down in the slot and waited a second.
John stood by the door ready to open it the moment permission came through.
But instead there was a voice at the com. “Sentinel Moran, do you need any help?”
“Not really,” said Moran blithely. “I’m just taking John out for a coffee. We’ll be back in forty-five.”
John winced. Damn it.
“Uh,” said a person over the other end. “Just a moment. Guide Hope is coming to see you. Guide Watson, if you would back away from the door and take a seat.” It was an order, not a question.
John looked up and wondered if they had a camera somehow hidden in the room, letting them know where he was. He looked but didn’t see it. If there was one it was cleverly hidden.
“Guide Watson, please take a seat. There will be consequences if you don’t comply.”
Moran took John’s arm. “Come on. Best not to get them angry. Coffee can wait until after Hope’s through with us.”
Moran tried to steer him back to the couch, but John pushed away, angrily, and lowered himself into one of the chairs. Moran looked bewildered for a second, but then shrugged. “You must really want that coffee.”
Don’t talk to me, John thought, miserably.
Three minutes later the door opened and Hope stepped smartly in. “This is your second warning, John,” he said with a little curl to his lip. “One more and I’ll bring out the big guns.”
“Big guns?” asked John. “What big guns?”
Moran looked confused. “What’s going on.”
“What did you tell him? Did you make him forget the rules? Or did you convince him you’d already bonded?” John’s eyes flickered to Moran, and Hope sighed. “Second one.”
“Hope?”
Hope reached up a hand and put it on Moran’s bicep. “Don’t get mad, it was expected he’d pull something like this off. I’ll handle it.”
John gritted his teeth.
“You tricked me,” Moran suddenly fumed. “Why did you do that?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Hope. “He’s yours, Sentinel, guaranteed. Stand down while I explain to Watson how it’s going to be, or else. Maybe this time it will sink in.”
“Why?” John burst out. “Why is it guaranteed? This is my life you are toying with. I’m going on record as saying I’m unwilling.”
“You are hardly the first Guide to have jitters,” said Hope. “And that’s what this is, John. Jitters. When you’ve bonded, you will feel differently about Sebastian. You’ll see. In the mean time, have a little care. He’s not going to forget how you treat him now. Every word you say that undermines his confidence in you and your bond is going to make it that much harder when I do let you out of here.”
“Why are you all being so unreasonable? You are treating me like a prized … bull… not a person.”
“Enough,” said Hope sharply. “It’s clear you aren’t going to trust me and there isn’t a carrot big enough to tempt you to cooperate. That leaves the stick.” Hope stepped briskly over to the bedroom.
Moran perked up an eyebrow and John quickly looked away at the floor. When Hope came back a moment later John nearly jumped out of his skin.
“I hate to have to do this to you John. But here you go. Either you cooperate and let Sebastian scent you the way things are meant to go, or I put you in these and you won’t get a choice.” He tossed a set of leather hand cuffs and softly padded shackles on the coffee table. “You won’t be the first Guide I’ve had to strip down and tie up, so don’t think this is an empty threat. You can read my mind and see I’m telling the truth.”
He was. John knew it beyond a doubt.
“So. You want to be scented in cuffs. Or do you want to go back to that couch and try to give this bonding a chance?”
John swallowed. This wasn’t a choice.
“I’m going to stay here while you do it,” said Hope. “Just so you don’t try to get clever again. Sebastian, he can’t do that to you with me here.”
“You are going to watch us?” Moran looked uncomfortable. “That’d be cramping my style.”
“Only until the bite. At that point I’ll leave you two to your privacy.” Hope sat down and looked fixedly at John. “Your move.”
John had reluctantly stood up when there came a sudden loud crash at the entryway, like the sound of someone’s full body weight against the metal door. Moran’s concentration suddenly shifted outwards from his reluctant Guide. His mind rang out Danger! Danger!
Before John or Hope could react, Sebastian put himself between the two of them and the threat. His nostrils flared. He smelled an unbonded Sentinel, female, calling out. The door shuddered again under the weight of a ramming shoulder.
Psychotic, Sebastian assessed. Sentinels in psychosis could manifest superhuman strength, though it cost them in the long run. Whoever it was out there was going to be a mass of bruises when she came down from it. If she came down from it.
“JOHN!” came a voice muffled by the door. “JOHN!”
“Harry?” John said, his voice quavered with hope. “Harry! Help!”
Seb noted John’s expression, and his guts hardened with horror. No, no, that was wrong. John was his Guide, Seb thought. His, his, his, promised and delivered and in his reach. There was no way this new Sentinel was going to usurp John.
“Get back,” he snarled, and John’s eyes grew wide with sudden fear.
“JOHN COME HERE!” called Harry. “I NEED YOU! YOU HAVE TO COME!” She beat at the door again. Seb could smell her pheromones calling and John’s answering, and together they made him even more angry.
Guide Jitters, my arse, he thought. John was holding out for this hussy! Not going to happen! Not if he had to wring her neck. He turned and stalked towards the door meaning to intercept the Sentinel on the other side and show both of them just what a mistake it was to try to take what was his.
And then John was suddenly around Seb and running for the door. How had he done that? Seb broke into a run to intercept him but not before John had grabbed the door handle and pulled down.
A siren shrieked out into the room, sending a knife of agony through Seb’s brain. Blinded, numb and stupid, he fell to his knees, clutching his ears in a pathetic attempt to ward it off. Any thought of dialling down was destroyed.
Somewhere in the haze of pain, Seb felt John grab his wrist. He had the briefest moment of hope that John was coming to his aid, before he realised John was holding his finger against the lock. John dropped Seb’s wrist and tried the handle again.
It didn’t budge, but the siren did cut off. Seb, grateful, collapsed, trying to gather his wits again.
“What’s going on,” came a voice over the speaker.
“Do not open the door,” Hope called out. “Not until I say so. Sebastian! Get him to the bedroom, we’ll have to bind him.”
Seb rose to his feet, his ears still ringing, but the pain fading quickly. He turned to John, furious. After they were bonded, Seb would make sure John paid for this. No more nice Sentinel, that was for sure. No more coddling. John was going to crawl gratefully into bed with Seb at the end of each day of Seb’s training regime from hell, if only for a chance to lay his aching body down. When Seb was done whipping John into shape, he’d be disciplined, hard, loyal and more than ready for what Fort Monken had to offer him. More than bloody ready.
But first he had to deal with this. “Come here, John,” he growled.
“No!” said John, putting his back to the door as Seb approached. “Please don’t tie me.”
“You asked for this, John. You really did,” said Hope, his normally cheerful facade completely gone. “I said I’d tie you down and I will. And then I’m going to go and deal with your sister before she breaks herself on that door.”
Sister? Seb thought it might be John’s girlfriend, but sister. What the hell was wrong with these people?
Seb didn’t have time to ponder it any more, he could whip the moral deviancy out of John later. Now, he had to get his misbehaving Guide to his bed. Seb closed on him. Though John pounded his fists into Seb’s chest and belly, Seb was able to overpower him quickly enough. He tipped John up over his shoulder, got his arm around John’s knees, and hauled him off to the other room.
John tried to punch Seb’s back, but he didn’t have the arm room for it. It felt annoying rather than painful. Seb felt an urge to drop John, but almost as soon as he felt it, it went away. Hope was right behind him, easing some of Seb’s fury and shielding his mind from John’s rebellious assaults.
“Tell me he won’t do this once we are bonded,” said Seb.
“Of course, he won’t,” Hope assured him. “You’ll share a soul - he’ll want to take care of you, support you. Your pain will be his. If you are unhappy, he’ll be miserable.”
Better damn well be, thought Seb.
When they got to the bed, Seb unceremoniously dumped John into it. The man rolled the instant he was down and attempted to launch himself out of the room for the door, but Seb was ready for him, putting a hand to his neck and a knee to his back, pinning him stomach down.
“We can worry about his clothes later,” Hope said, “Let’s just get him secured now.”
Seb held John still while Hope put the shackles around his ankles. Then the two of them flipped John over and Hope threaded the manacles through a loop hidden between the mattress and the wall, then tightened the leather cuffs around his wrists.
Seb noted that the restraints were sturdy, but not designed to injure or pinch. Good, because he wasn’t sure that he could stand to see John hurt on top of everything else. He was skating pretty close to the primal edge as it was.
“Off me, off me!” John was saying, but both of them ignored him.
“He’ll be fine,” said Hope. “Come with me.” A tap of his hand against Seb’s arm got his attention and they left the bedroom, closing the door behind them.
The metal door to the bonding suite banged loudly again. John’s sister was still beating the crap out of herself against it. How long would Hope let it go on? Every time John cried out Harry’s name, she beat it again. There was just the smallest chance she might actually break the lock.
Hope seemed to realise this as well. He locked eyes with Seb briefly then stepped towards the lock.
“Permission to use physical force?” Seb asked taking position by the door.
“Only if she attacks me,” said Hope tightly. “Otherwise restrain her. I’ll help. Remember, she is one of us.”
Seb didn’t have anything charitable to say to that.
Hope pressed his thumb against the lock and said, “Open her up,” into the mic. Seb grabbed the handle and pulled it open the moment it buzzed.
Harry staggered in. Her blonde hair was wild, her naked arms bruised. She was shoeless and wearing a nightie. How she’d gotten all the way to the suite in this state was beyond Seb. Someone should have tranqed her down well before this.
There was no more time to think. Harry had the power of primal psychosis, but Seb had military tactics and was bigger and heavier to boot. Getting her to the floor was no mean feat. Her punches hurt a hell of a lot more than John’s did, and she landed quite a few of them before Seb was able to flip her up and slam her down.
Eventually Seb had forced her stomach down on the floor. At that point Hope ducked in and placed both his hands on her head. For a moment it looked like she was going to bite him, but then she just let out a low, pained whimper.
“Calm down,” Hope said. “Calm, Sentinel. He’s not hurt. He’s not your territory.”
“Mine,” she whimpered. “My baby brother.”
“The hell,” said Seb. “What’s going on? Why is she like this?”
“It happens with twins and irish twins sometimes,” said Hope. “They grow up together, come online together. In the past they would bond, platonically. But that don’t work anymore. Not in this political environment, it don’t. Don’t worry, John’s still yours, Sebastian.”
“No!” said Harry sharply and writhed again.
“And you!” said Hope, sharper. “You should know better, Harry. You want a Guide, do you? Then you need to stop cocking up. All that boozing and swearing, you’re a bloody disgrace to the Tower and the institution. You are this close to being locked up for your own good. You get yourself clean and start patrolling your area like you should, and I’ll consider matching you up. But as it stands, I can’t trust you around Guides.”
“Hope,” she whimpered, then collapsed.
Seb breathed with relief. Harry seemed to be coming out of the psychosis. He was a little annoyed that his opportunity to smack the shit out of her had passed, but then perhaps it was just as well he didn’t beat up his Guide’s sister right before bonding. It was tough enough convincing the little man to trust him as it was.
Hope petted Harry’s hair back, tenderly. “Ah, darling. I know, I know. But you gotta give up the booze and start being more cooperative with your Alpha. It’s the only way of it. I’ve said it before. Maybe it’d be best we sent you back to Aberdeen. You might do better with your own kind. Your family.”
“Family,” murmured Harry. “John.”
“Harry!” John suddenly cried out. “Don’t listen - he’s brainwashing you!”
Harry tensed. Stress perfumed the air suddenly and whatever good Hope had done was undone. “No. John!” she shouted “Get your goddamn, filthy hands off my little brother!” She tried to push away again. Seb held her down tight.
“Best you forget about John,” said Hope, sharply, his hand tightening in her hair. “He’s taken. He’s got his own job ahead of him.”
“Harry!” John called from the other room again. Again the spell was broken and Harry started fighting.
“And you keep quiet,” Hope called back. “You aren’t helping anything! You are hurting her!”
Just then the suite door opened again. Finally Holmes and his Guide came in with a hypodermic. Where the bloody hell had they been? Was security of this Tower asleep or something?
Seb smelled the sedatives and eyed Holmes nervously as he approached, unsure up until the moment the needle pricked Harry’s arm, who the target of the tranq was. Once the medicine went in, Seb let himself relax again.
Harry let out one last inarticulate grunt, then collapsed.
“About time you showed up!” Hope scolded, standing up and patting his prim outfit down.
“She evaded us,” said Mycroft. “She took the basement route and came directly up the elevator. She must have run here all the way from her flat, half a mile away.”
“I don’t care,” said Hope harshly. “Having her get all the way here has done great harm, maybe even irreparable. It’s going to be a pain trying to salvage this. I needed you - what distracted you?”
“Where’s John?” Mycroft switching subjects and looked towards the closed bedroom door.
“Locked in and strapped down,” said Hope, nodding his head towards the closed inner door. “I want her out of town as soon as possible. Get her on a plane to Aberdeen. They already feel a pull towards each other. She can’t come near John again. Not until he’s had a tour or two with Sebastian to cement their bond.”
“No!” John cried out. “No, don’t send her away! Let me see her! She needs me!”
Seb’s heart felt like it had taken a bullet. He growled.
“You shut up,” Hope shouted at the door. “And you calm down.” He put his hand on Seb’s shoulder and Seb did calm down. “And you, Mycroft, please get her out of here, quickly.”
“Very well,” said Mycroft. He turned to his Guide. “If you wouldn’t mind dear, I’ll take one arm and you the other, Hope and Sentinel Moran have work to do.”
In the other room, John shouted again. “Don’t do this! Please don’t leave me with Moran! He’s wrong for me, I know it!”
Shut the fuck up, Guide, Seb wanted to say. Not another word. He didn’t but only by sheerest will power. If this bond didn’t happen, it wouldn’t be because Seb had screwed it up. Even if he was less than enthusiastic about the man, he damn well wanted John’s powers.
Seb noticed that Mycroft had paused with a speculative look on his face. His scent suddenly changed, turning sharp with excitement and interest. He growled in response, and Mycroft eyed him with exaggerated nonchalance.
Hope intervened yet again. “Seb, don’t listen to John. Don’t let him rile you. Mycroft, please. Now!”
Mycroft and Anthea finally lifted Harry up and carried the limp Sentinel away, ignoring John’s pleading. Seb relaxed more as they got farther away from his Guide.
He turned at last to Hope. “May I?” he asked. “Finally?”
Hope was as annoyed as Seb. “Please do! The sooner this bonding is over the better.”
Together they walked back to the bedroom, while the metal door of the suite rang shut behind them.
Chapter 12
Pairing: Sherlock/John, iffily platonic Harry/John, Sebastian Moran/John
Rating: R
Genre: Crossover with the Sentinel, AU, Plotfic.
Warnings: Forced Bonding, Non-con, coercion, 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: 8300 words
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Harry woke to the excruciating drill-to-the-brain sound of the alarm on Clara’s mobile. Somewhere under the screech came a lower, human grumble of something incomprehensible, then the alarm abruptly cut off. The relief nearly made Harry sob. Jesus Christ. Why hadn’t her own alarm woken her first? She usually woke up a good half hour before Clara, and by the time that awful thing went off, she’d already had her breakfast of guenidine chased by a shot of vodka.
Instead she was starting the day with a headache. Lovely.
“Sorry luv. It’s time to get up,” Clara said, giving her a little shove then vacating the bed.
Oh, no, she wasn’t ready to be functioning. Not even close.
Harry was only vaguely aware of Clara as she wandered around the bedroom, mostly as a pungent combination of musky body oder, long dried vaginal secretions and sweat, and sharp-sour stress. There’d been a time when Clara had been very body conscious of all various odors she put out. It taken Harry years to convince her that her natural scent was twenty times better than boutique perfumes or even scentless soap. Harry liked it all but the stench of stress. Stress, of course, just made Harry feel guilty.
Their relationship was sinking, and no matter how hard Clara tried to patch the leaky vessel, one of these days it was going down. At least the sex was still good. Well, good for Clara, Harry remembered wryly. Clara had come twice last night, but Harry hadn’t at all. She’d been too worried about -
“John!” said Harry opening her eyes. For a second the world went kaleidoscope crazy. A rough alien landscape appeared before her: a sea of huge, fraying, blue-green ropes lying thickly one over the other, a few that rising high up only to curl and loop back. Mixed in were jagged, pitted rocks that defied gravity and clung to the ropes at odd, impossible angles. Then recognition kicked in and Harry dialled her sight back to normal, and the landscape turned back into a dusty fold of pillowcase two inches from her eyes.
Christ, she needed to get her arse in gear. What had she just been thinking of?
Oh yes, her utterly inconvenient brother. No, that wasn’t charitable. The panicked call John had made last night scared Harry precisely because he just didn’t do that sort of thing. John was the most practical, drama-free person Harry knew. He got along with everyone and he had enough sense not to get into the kind of trouble that would warrant that kind of call.
Then after scaring the shit out of Harry, he’d hung up on her. Prick.
She’d called him back six times, getting shunted to voicemail each time, until Clara took her phone away and made it very clear that she was to pay attention to her or have a magnificent row. So Harry took Clara to back to bed and shot her to the moon: reading her shifts and scents and giveaways the way only a Sentinel could and exploiting them to the fullest. For all the failure in her life, at least Harry was still bloody fantastic in bed.
Especially since she had been half-arsing it. All the while they messed about, Harry had her ear cocked in case John called back. He never did. Whatever he was dealing with probably resolved itself. Maybe. Christ, she didn’t know.
One thing Harry did know was that John was genuinely scared when he’d called her and that he was lying through his teeth for nearly the entire exchange. John had always been a fucking crap liar, even as a kid. He had that little quaver in his voice even non-sentinels could pick up on. So whatever was wrong with him probably had nothing to do with gambling. But what on Earth could be worse than being shaken down by gangsters? And why lie about mum?
She sat up and reached for her phone, meaning to wake him up and get a fuller explanation. It wasn’t recharging on her bed table where it should have been. And it wasn’t on the floor or under the bed, either. The bloody hell.
“Clara!” she called out. Clara was in the toilet now, doing her morning routine. “Clara, luv, where’s my phone?”
“I left it in the kitchen.”
“Aw, Clara, I need my phone!” Harry got up and ran for the kitchen, hoping the battery hadn’t died on it overnight. Her headache was really setting in good. It sounded like she was walking on kettle drums. But there her mobile was, on the counter near the sink.
Harry grabbed it. In the next breath she used all her concentration to keep her eyes focused and her sense of touch from flooding her with useless information about the scratches in the hard plastic shell. But no matter how hard she stared at the window, it remained black and lifeless. It was off.
“Fuck!” said Harry, horrified. “Clara, you can’t turn my fucking phone off! Are you crazy? I’m on call!”
“You are always on call,” said Clara softly, through the closed door of the toilet. Harry wasn’t sure whether she wanted to be heard or not. She sounded angry and her scent turned sharp-sour with unhappiness.
Sentinel, luv, Harry thought bitterly. You can’t hide in the toilet. I’m going to know you’re mad.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” grumbled Harry, switching the mobile back on. There were five missed messages. Harry’s blood pressure shot through the roof and she forgot her contriteness. “Oh Goddamn it! Clara, you really can’t do this to me. Oh God, I’m in so much fucking trouble.”
But none of the calls had been from the Tower, thank God. It took a second to recognise the numbers. Most were from her mother. John and now Mum. What was going on?
Harry pressed 10 on her speed dial and hoped her Mum wouldn’t mind the early morning call. After eight rings, her Mum picked up. “Hello?”
“Mum?” Harry said. “You okay?”
“Harry!” came the bright response. “How are you?”
I’m sexually frustrated, Guideless, aching for a stiff drink, and on the outs with the only woman who’ll have me… “I’m fine, Mum. I missed your calls. What’s going on?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. Have you heard from John?”
Harry’s stomach dropped. “Why, what have you heard?” she countered.
“I got the oddest call last night from the London Tower. They were asking about me - they said that John was afraid I’d been hurt.”
Harry frowned. John was fibbing to the Tower about Mum? Why was John talking to the Tower at all? Harry had always had the impression that it creeped him out, which, considering some of the stories Harry had told him, wasn’t really that strange.
“He called me last night, too,” Harry replied. “Asked me to tell people that you had a stroke. Scared me half to death. But you are fine, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely fine! Your father, too. Listen Harry, would you please get a hold of John for me, swing by his flat if you can. He’s not answering his phone and I’m rather worried about him.”
“Me, too, Mum,” Harry admitted. After a few more polite exchanges she hung up, then called John again. Voicemail. Crap.
One of the calls hadn’t been from either Mum, John or the Tower, and Harry was reluctant to call back. It was the personal mobile of one of the Sentinels who she sometimes hung out with. Casper was about as low ranking a Sentinel as existed. He didn’t even have his own territory, being stuck handling Tower security. He was one of the few people who didn’t make Harry feel like a loser, but that didn’t exactly recommend him much. Harry rang him up.
“Oh, so you are alive,” Casper said when he picked up.
“Yeah, yeah, what’s up? If you need more money, I haven’t got it. What I do have is a bit of a family emergency, so make it quick.”
“Oh yeah, I’d say so,” said Casper.
Harry’s heart stuttered.
Clara took that moment to come from the shower room looking steamy and running a towel over her damp brown locks. Clara’s eyes narrowed in on the phone at Harry’s ear, annoyed that in the tug-o-war for Harry’s affections, once again the BlackBerry had won. Harry rolled her eyes. Now was not the time to start that fight.
“Spit it out,” she said to Casper. “What do you know about John.”
“Only that he’s cooling his heels in the Tower right now. Helped take him up there myself last night.”
“Why would he be in the Tower? Did he piss off a Sentinel?”
“He’s in a bonding suite, Harry,” said Casper. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”
Bonding suite? John? For a moment Harry’s mind just couldn’t comprehend it. She knew deep down in her gut that John wasn’t a Guide, at least not outside of her wistful fantasies. She knew it. No. He couldn’t be. And yet…
“Fuck,” said Harry.
“What is it,” Clara asked, suddenly alarmed by Harry’s shift in posture. “Who are you talking to?”
Harry threw up an angry hand to block out Clara’s voice. “How? Who? What happened?”
“You didn’t hear?” said Casper, obviously amused. “Your brother’s a Guide. And not just any Guide, he’s the one hiding at Barts. The Phantom. Fatty Holmes has been hunting him down for literally years. They finally got a bead on him and brought him in last night.”
“John’s bonding?” It hit Harry like a fist to her gut. “And they didn’t call me?” But John is mine! Always mine! He was meant for me!
“Is that a surprise? It’s not like they’d let you bond with him,” said Casper. “Or me either. They brought in some high important military Sentinels yesterday afternoon. One of them got him.”
Harry could hardly hear through the wave of possessive fury that overcame her. How had she not known about John? No, she had known. She’d known for years. She’d known since that time when she was still so fresh to her senses that she barely made sense of anything. Even then she’d known it gut deep. John’s smell, his taste, the sound of his voice, it all called to her. She’d followed that call all the way to London. Five hundred miles! And before that she’d climbed into his bed, for craps sake. And if he hadn’t stopped her, she would have held him down and bonded to him, platonically, right then and there, when she first came on line.
But he had stopped her, hadn’t he. And he’d been stopping her every time they’d been together ever since. No wonder he acted like a rabbit in a snare around her. She’d been following her instincts, doing what obviously God and her genes told her to. And it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t have been safe around her. She wouldn’t have raped him or done anything perverted. She’d simply have kept him safe and with her and all those childhood adventures they’d had together would never have stopped. She’d have been the Sentinel her family was so proud of instead of the fuck up that they ignored.
Harry sobbed with rage for what she’d been denied. Goddamn it John! Why?
“Harry,” said Clara. “Are you alright. Did someone die?”
Yes, Clara, thought Harry angrily. What tiny shred of innocence I had left is dead. She grabbed a book and threw it hard against the wall. Clara backed away out of the room fast, but Harry couldn’t muster a care anymore.
She been betrayed both by John and the Tower. No. This wasn’t right. Everything in her gut said it was wrong. John was hers. He’d always been hers. From the moment of his birth he’d been hers. He still belonged to her and fuck all the rules and unnatural constrictions the Tower put on bonding, she was going to go get him.
No fucking military Sentinel was going to take her rightful Guide. She was going to bust down the doors if she had to and people were going to pay.
Mycroft looked up from his breakfast to see his eagle perched on the kitchen counter, staring at him. He turned to Anthea. “Darling, I believe that something might be up.”
Anthea swallowed her bite of egg and turned to look at the counter. Then she nodded. “Do I have enough time for make up?”
The eagle fanned out it’s wings and shook itself as if preparing to take flight.
“You are beautiful regardless,” said Mycroft. “I think we’d better go now.”
They left their breakfast dishes on the table and put on their coats. Not running, Mycroft never ran unless he absolutely had to, but not dawdling either. Their flat was only three blocks from the Tower, a fine brisk walk down the slightly misty pavements took them to the Tower’s East entrance, where Mycroft’s thumbprint let them in.
Outwardly, the place seemed to be in no more of an uproar than usual, nut up high above, the eagle circled the aerie, the way it did when it had acquired a target. Something was most definitely afoot.
“Head up to my office,” said Mycroft. “Check the logs and…” he paused as Anthea raised her eyebrow at him. “And you know what you are doing. I wish to scan the aerie, something is off.” He leaned over to give her a quick kiss to reestablish their bond, then hung back while she hurried to the nearest lift.
Even as she left he could still feel her her with him, making his senses feel solid and dependable. She was keyed to him and his moods, and should he find his control slipping she’d be back quickly to support him.
Best not to run into danger blind. After all, what use was it to be a sentinel if not to suss out the danger before putting himself in the middle of it.
Mycroft stood still in the main East corridor, near the accounting offices and began sorting and scanning. Sound first: the steady rattling of fingers on keyboards - isolated and removed. Voices, conversations, Mycroft recognised the usual assortment of normals who worked in this area. Beyond the immediate offices were the Sentinel classrooms and dormitories, but he could get no further in that direction. There were simply too many white-noise dead spots between him and the aerie.
Smell then.
He headed towards the bank of lifts that would take him up to the top of the Tower. With effort he tuned out Anthea’s reassuring scent, but the rest were well within the normal. There didn’t appear to be any out of the ordinary anxiety or guilt hormones, or at least none out of the usual day-to-days stress range. All the scents, even those that belonged to the Fort Monken Sentinels, seemed familiar. There was no stranger here.
Mycroft caught a whiff of Hope as he waited for the lift to open. The Matchmaker was worried, but that wasn’t unusual. Hope had been under stress for some time, but for quite ordinary and expected reasons. His Sentinel wasn’t doing well, poor creature. Circulation troubles had led to persistent skin ulcers on his numb left leg and they were contemplating amputation above the knee if it kept on. Maybe Mycroft had been a bit harsh in criticising Hope’s occasional blunders. A Sentinel in a similar position would be nigh useless. If Anthea had been that sick…
Mycroft didn’t even want to contemplate it.
But it wasn’t Hope that bothered Mycroft’s eagle. It was someone else. Mycroft could smell it now: the tiniest trace of distress that wouldn’t have normally bothered Mycroft if it weren’t maddeningly coupled with the personal scent of someone Mycroft knew he needed to watch out for. It was all so terribly faint, that is, until he stepped into the lift that lead to the aerie.
Then it was obvious.
Sherlock. What on earth was Sherlock doing in the Tower? Sherlock hated the place. Mycroft had fully expected, now Sherlock had his coveted contract in hand, that he’d never grace the institution with his presence again. What was he doing in the aerie of all places?
The lift ended two floors beneath the aerie on one of the Bonding floors, Mycroft used his thumbprint to open the door to the narrow, rock hewn spiral staircase. This was the oldest part of the tower and barely been touched since. The centres of each of the stone steps was bowed by the wear of centuries of feet. Mycroft ran one hand down the central pillar and another along the rough outer wall. Pencil thin window slits in the thick walls dimly lit the way. After six tight revolutions, he emerged from the floor near the centre of the the aerie. The domed metal roof had been opened and turned to the North West.
And there stood Sherlock gazing out over the streets of London.
“Really, Mycroft,” he said without turning. “You should spend more time on a tread mill. I was worried the steps would give you a coronary the way you huffed and puffed up them.”
“May I ask what you are doing here?” Mycroft asked, ignoring the jab.
“Can’t I look at the city? The view is excellent.”
Mycroft frowned. “No more than a number of other buildings. I’m truly surprised you’d show your face here now that you have no legal reason to check in at all. Aren’t you enjoying your freedom?”
The brisk cross wind was taking Sherlock’s smell with it, but Mycroft heard his brother’s heart speed up and saw the tightening of his muscles in his jaw. Sherlock turned around and gave a false smile. “I have the freedom to go where I like, why not come back here? By the way, loved the clauses you put into that contract. I’m at your beck and call apparently.”
Mycroft laughed. “It would have looked very odd if I hadn’t put anything in. But you signed it nonetheless. Try not to look a gift horse in the mouth Sherlock. You still have far more freedom to take whatever cases appeal to you than any other Sentinel I know.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “But you aren’t bothered by that. Sherlock, why are you here?”
For the first time Mycroft noticed the bag at Sherlock’s side. Was that rope fibre caught in the teeth of the zip? Mycroft wandered over to the ledge and looked down. This side of the tower was closest to the street. A two story building housing mostly dentists and contract attorneys stood a mere hundred yards away.
Mycroft sniffed Sherlock again, this time he knew what scent he was looking for. Pheromones. Bonding heat. Sherlock was calling for a Guide. The obvious one was twenty feet below them, in the arms of another Sentinel.
“Oh, Sherlock,” he said sadly, putting his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Let it go. You’ve made your choice.”
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “I have.”
“I admit he would have been quite a catch - but it’s too late. He’s bonded. But all isn’t lost. I have a good deal of influence, Sherlock, and now that we know where your compatibility lies, I should be able to find you a Guide of your own. Hope owes me more than one favour, and I have feelers out at all the other major Towers. If someone should turn her or himself in who is compatible, I shall have you into the interview room first. And, of course, I’ll include you on any hunts.”
“Thank you,” said Sherlock, stiffly, “But no. I think I’ll stick to the one I’ve already found.”
“But he’s bonded.” Mycroft frowned as a terrifying thought hit. “You don’t plan on murdering the Sentinel, do you? Oh Sherlock, even I couldn’t get you out of that mess.”
“Wouldn’t consider it,” said Sherlock pacing the floor of the aerie. He knelt down and put his hand against the tiled floor. “He’s not bonded. Yet.”
Mycroft didn’t have a chance to answer that. At his hip, his mobile chirped. He lifted it up and put it to his ear. “What is it?”
“Problem,” said Anthea. “A call came in from Sentinel Watson’s girlfriend. She says Harry Watson is very upset. She’s on her way here to get her brother. Do you think we should get involved?”
“Absolutely,” said Mycroft. “Meet me at the central lobby and bring the tranqs. Let’s cut her off before she can cause too much of a public scene. I’ll get Hope.” Mycroft took three steps towards the central stairway before remembering Sherlock and pausing.
“Don’t!” he said with a warning finger. “Whatever it is you think you are planning. Don’t. I have enough actual idiots to deal with, I won’t have you pretending to be one of them.”
Sherlock cocked his head with a sardonic smile. “I don’t plan to be stupid.”
Mycroft was half way down the steps before he heard Sherlock speaking again. “I plan to be very clever.”
John watched Seb Moran settle into the cushions of the couch. He patted the seat next to him. “Don’t be shy,” the huge Sentinel said. “I don’t bite. Well, at least I don’t until Hope says I can.”
I can do this, John said to himself. It’s just touching, and it’s not going to be for much longer anyway. Just until Hope’s had a chance to get a little farther away. Then I’ll get out of here.
Reluctantly, he pushed away from the table and sat down next to Moran. A grin broke out across the man’s handsome face. John felt a warm blush spread across his cheeks and his heart sped up. What was it about Sentinels that made them so attractive? This would be a lot easier if John could muster more disgust.
He settled for mustering confusion. Much easier.
“I don’t exactly know what I’m doing here,” he admitted. “The books I read were … kinda vague on this part actually.”
“That’s alright,” said Moran, throwing an arm over his shoulder. “I do. Just follow my lead.”
“They, um, teach you this in class?” John asked.
“How to scent?” Moran asked, momentarily horrified, but then bursting into laughter. “Bit personal for classwork wouldn’t you think? Besides, what would we practice on - a pillow?” That thought was apparently uproarious. “Oh wow.”
“Other Sentinels?”
“Hell, if I’m going to scent another Sentinel.” Moran shuddered as if such a thing were revoltingly taboo. “Dear god, you’ve got a gross imagination.”
“Guides then?” John offered. “Bonded ones, I suppose.”
Moran looked scandalised. “If I tried to scent someone else’s Guide I’d be shot. You do not touch another Sentinel’s Guide - ever.”
“But,” said John, partially out of confusion, partially because this conversation was working fabulously as a distraction, “That makes no sense. Bonded Guides are always asked to help unbonded Sentinels. There are more Sentinels than guides. How do they do it if there’s no touching?”
Moran cocked his head. “They put their hands on us, not the other way around. And they only do it to get a good mental latch so that they could give us the mental stability we need. Reset our baselines and such.”
Moran sighed and seemed to slide into a memory. “Oh, lord, you know it does get tempting, though, to do a bit of groping back, even though they do smell taken. But the Guide’s Sentinel is always in a the room with you, so, even if he doesn’t punch your face, that’s a good way to end up blacklisted from that Guide.”
“Huh,” said John. It didn’t sound any different from what he’d done with Harry and all those distressed Sentinels at Barts. Somehow he thought that Guides would do something more.
“But it doesn’t matter,” said Moran. “That won’t be your job. The only person you ever have to put your hands on is me.” His hand gripped John’s shoulder briefly, then ran down his arm. “We can be exclusive.”
Despite himself, John felt a thrill of pleasure at the touch. The Guide in him seemed to perk up. His neck felt a little pleasant tingle. No, no, not yet, he thought, sucking in a deep breath.
“It’s okay,” Moran murmured. “You can touch me, too. With his free hand he reached over and took John’s hand and placed it up on his solid chest. “Like that. Can you smell me calling to you?”
He could - not as smell, but he could feel the waves of desire coming off of Moran. They were equal parts flattering and frightening. Once again, he felt a little doubt inside. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to continue this, see where it led. Perhaps fighting was the wrong idea.
But then he remembered the wolverine and his gut lurched again. No. There was something just not right about Moran.
For the first time, John dared to really look at Moran, not just his chiseled exterior, but inside to the man himself. It felt odd to use his empathy this way. He half expected Moran to fight the way Hope did. But he didn’t, instead John slipped all too easily into the man’s mind.
Desire, barely contained by a strict military discipline, battered at John and almost at once his body reacted. He shuddered, longing to be held close. To be touched and wanted and loved. More than wanted, needed. Yearned like hunger. Like cool rain for the parched. And lower down something deep and primal and oh so pleasurable stirred. His groin grew hot and heavy as lust burned its way up from groin to throat. He neck itched and he felt the desire to bend it. It was all he could do not to bend his head back and proffer himself up.
John slammed down the connection as hard as he could. Abruptly the siren call of Moran’s emotions shut off. John breathed hard, relieved to note that he hadn’t actually moved during those seconds.
No, that decidedly hadn’t helped at all! He was still no more sure of Moran than he had been twenty seconds before.
But wait a moment, there had been something. That taint again. He’d sensed it under the surface of Moran’s mind. Now that he wasn’t being overwhelmed by his instincts he could recognise it and give it the attention it was due.
There was a darkness there. A powerful urge that didn’t seem to be contained by anything internal. Something in Moran’s emotional make up said that he wasn’t above simply taking what he wanted, anything he wanted. So long as he had no other way to get it.
The only reason he hadn’t taken John yet was that he simply hadn’t reached the end of his rope.
That kind of personality trait wasn’t going to change after bonding, either. Moran was fair on the outside and foul inside. As long as Moran got his way, he’d be the friendly man he presented himself as, but the moment John wanted something Moran didn’t, there would be hell to pay.
No, he couldn’t let this happen. It would be a nightmare.
“Oh yes,” Moran was saying, unaware of John’s thoughts. “Yes, luv, yes, babe, that’s right. Oh, you smell so ripe for bonding. I can feel you getting hard for me. Soon, soon.”
John stiffened and tried to pull away, but Moran’s arm on his shoulder just tightened to hold him into place.
“It’s okay, you don’t need to be embarrassed. It’s normal. It’s called the bonding heat. Better than beer isn’t it? Better than drugs?” He grabbed John’s hand and pulled it down to his crotch. John felt the hard, thick length of Moran’s erection, trapped between the fabric of his fatigues and his thigh.
“All that’s for you,” Moran whispered. “Eight inches of prime manhood,” he bragged, “And you made like this. Wait until I get it into you. You are going to love it.”
With his empathy shut off, John really was disgusted. He twisted suddenly and managed to slide off the couch before Moran could fix his grip. “Whoa, slow down,” he said, holding his hands up to ward the Sentinel off.
For a second it looked as if Moran was going to launch himself off the couch and onto John. That darkness inside nearly came to the surface. But then that military bearing came back down. With obvious effort Moran leaned back and put on a facade of nonchalance.
“Don’t panic, okay, I went a bit fast there. But it was only because you are so damn cute and you smelled so ready for a second. Can’t blame me if you were putting off mixed signals.”
Surely it had to be enough time for Hope to have gotten out of the hallway. If John were to make a break for it, now was his best chance, before Moran decided he’d waited long enough or John’s own body decided to betray him again.
Steeling himself up, he stepped forward. “Sorry I panicked,” he said. “I know you only mean the best, but yeah, I’m nervous about this. Maybe we could kind of … ease into things a bit? Maybe take a walk first. Is there a garden? Or we could go get a coffee?”
John pushed empathically at Moran while he spoke, ending with touching the Sentinel’s bare hand. This is a reasonable suggestion.
“London Tower doesn’t really have much of a park, but there’s a coffee place not too far away.”
“Let’s go there,” said John. “You and me. We’ll have a nice coffee and relax and I bet I’ll be a whole lot less nervous when we get back.” This is a good idea, he pushed.
“Okay,” said Moran. “Sure. I like coffee.” He stood up then suddenly frowned. “Ah shit, we can’t.”
“Why not?” said John, trying not to panic.
“It’s against the rules for you to leave the suite until we’ve finished bonding,” said Moran apologetically.
“Oh but surely we don’t have to follow all the rules,” said John, pushing so hard his head twinged.
“Yeah, I know, it sucks, but in this case it’s not my call. We gotta follow the rules. Tell you what, the minute we finish bonding we’ll go get that coffee. Now how about you come back to the couch.”
Damnit! thought John. Then inspiration hit. “But we’ve already bonded. Don’t you remember?”
“What? No!” Moran looked at him quizzically. “You smell scared. What are you doing?”
John bit his lip. Steady. “Yes we have,” John pushed harder than he ever had in his life and it hurt, oh dear God, it did. Like a bullet to the brain. ”We’re bonded,” he said.
“Okay, okay,” said Moran. “Just kidding, can’t you take a joke? Of course, let’s go get that coffee.”
John nearly sobbed with relief. He followed as Moran walked over to the fingerprint scanner. Yes, yes, yes! This was going to work! Moran put his finger down in the slot and waited a second.
John stood by the door ready to open it the moment permission came through.
But instead there was a voice at the com. “Sentinel Moran, do you need any help?”
“Not really,” said Moran blithely. “I’m just taking John out for a coffee. We’ll be back in forty-five.”
John winced. Damn it.
“Uh,” said a person over the other end. “Just a moment. Guide Hope is coming to see you. Guide Watson, if you would back away from the door and take a seat.” It was an order, not a question.
John looked up and wondered if they had a camera somehow hidden in the room, letting them know where he was. He looked but didn’t see it. If there was one it was cleverly hidden.
“Guide Watson, please take a seat. There will be consequences if you don’t comply.”
Moran took John’s arm. “Come on. Best not to get them angry. Coffee can wait until after Hope’s through with us.”
Moran tried to steer him back to the couch, but John pushed away, angrily, and lowered himself into one of the chairs. Moran looked bewildered for a second, but then shrugged. “You must really want that coffee.”
Don’t talk to me, John thought, miserably.
Three minutes later the door opened and Hope stepped smartly in. “This is your second warning, John,” he said with a little curl to his lip. “One more and I’ll bring out the big guns.”
“Big guns?” asked John. “What big guns?”
Moran looked confused. “What’s going on.”
“What did you tell him? Did you make him forget the rules? Or did you convince him you’d already bonded?” John’s eyes flickered to Moran, and Hope sighed. “Second one.”
“Hope?”
Hope reached up a hand and put it on Moran’s bicep. “Don’t get mad, it was expected he’d pull something like this off. I’ll handle it.”
John gritted his teeth.
“You tricked me,” Moran suddenly fumed. “Why did you do that?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Hope. “He’s yours, Sentinel, guaranteed. Stand down while I explain to Watson how it’s going to be, or else. Maybe this time it will sink in.”
“Why?” John burst out. “Why is it guaranteed? This is my life you are toying with. I’m going on record as saying I’m unwilling.”
“You are hardly the first Guide to have jitters,” said Hope. “And that’s what this is, John. Jitters. When you’ve bonded, you will feel differently about Sebastian. You’ll see. In the mean time, have a little care. He’s not going to forget how you treat him now. Every word you say that undermines his confidence in you and your bond is going to make it that much harder when I do let you out of here.”
“Why are you all being so unreasonable? You are treating me like a prized … bull… not a person.”
“Enough,” said Hope sharply. “It’s clear you aren’t going to trust me and there isn’t a carrot big enough to tempt you to cooperate. That leaves the stick.” Hope stepped briskly over to the bedroom.
Moran perked up an eyebrow and John quickly looked away at the floor. When Hope came back a moment later John nearly jumped out of his skin.
“I hate to have to do this to you John. But here you go. Either you cooperate and let Sebastian scent you the way things are meant to go, or I put you in these and you won’t get a choice.” He tossed a set of leather hand cuffs and softly padded shackles on the coffee table. “You won’t be the first Guide I’ve had to strip down and tie up, so don’t think this is an empty threat. You can read my mind and see I’m telling the truth.”
He was. John knew it beyond a doubt.
“So. You want to be scented in cuffs. Or do you want to go back to that couch and try to give this bonding a chance?”
John swallowed. This wasn’t a choice.
“I’m going to stay here while you do it,” said Hope. “Just so you don’t try to get clever again. Sebastian, he can’t do that to you with me here.”
“You are going to watch us?” Moran looked uncomfortable. “That’d be cramping my style.”
“Only until the bite. At that point I’ll leave you two to your privacy.” Hope sat down and looked fixedly at John. “Your move.”
John had reluctantly stood up when there came a sudden loud crash at the entryway, like the sound of someone’s full body weight against the metal door. Moran’s concentration suddenly shifted outwards from his reluctant Guide. His mind rang out Danger! Danger!
Before John or Hope could react, Sebastian put himself between the two of them and the threat. His nostrils flared. He smelled an unbonded Sentinel, female, calling out. The door shuddered again under the weight of a ramming shoulder.
Psychotic, Sebastian assessed. Sentinels in psychosis could manifest superhuman strength, though it cost them in the long run. Whoever it was out there was going to be a mass of bruises when she came down from it. If she came down from it.
“JOHN!” came a voice muffled by the door. “JOHN!”
“Harry?” John said, his voice quavered with hope. “Harry! Help!”
Seb noted John’s expression, and his guts hardened with horror. No, no, that was wrong. John was his Guide, Seb thought. His, his, his, promised and delivered and in his reach. There was no way this new Sentinel was going to usurp John.
“Get back,” he snarled, and John’s eyes grew wide with sudden fear.
“JOHN COME HERE!” called Harry. “I NEED YOU! YOU HAVE TO COME!” She beat at the door again. Seb could smell her pheromones calling and John’s answering, and together they made him even more angry.
Guide Jitters, my arse, he thought. John was holding out for this hussy! Not going to happen! Not if he had to wring her neck. He turned and stalked towards the door meaning to intercept the Sentinel on the other side and show both of them just what a mistake it was to try to take what was his.
And then John was suddenly around Seb and running for the door. How had he done that? Seb broke into a run to intercept him but not before John had grabbed the door handle and pulled down.
A siren shrieked out into the room, sending a knife of agony through Seb’s brain. Blinded, numb and stupid, he fell to his knees, clutching his ears in a pathetic attempt to ward it off. Any thought of dialling down was destroyed.
Somewhere in the haze of pain, Seb felt John grab his wrist. He had the briefest moment of hope that John was coming to his aid, before he realised John was holding his finger against the lock. John dropped Seb’s wrist and tried the handle again.
It didn’t budge, but the siren did cut off. Seb, grateful, collapsed, trying to gather his wits again.
“What’s going on,” came a voice over the speaker.
“Do not open the door,” Hope called out. “Not until I say so. Sebastian! Get him to the bedroom, we’ll have to bind him.”
Seb rose to his feet, his ears still ringing, but the pain fading quickly. He turned to John, furious. After they were bonded, Seb would make sure John paid for this. No more nice Sentinel, that was for sure. No more coddling. John was going to crawl gratefully into bed with Seb at the end of each day of Seb’s training regime from hell, if only for a chance to lay his aching body down. When Seb was done whipping John into shape, he’d be disciplined, hard, loyal and more than ready for what Fort Monken had to offer him. More than bloody ready.
But first he had to deal with this. “Come here, John,” he growled.
“No!” said John, putting his back to the door as Seb approached. “Please don’t tie me.”
“You asked for this, John. You really did,” said Hope, his normally cheerful facade completely gone. “I said I’d tie you down and I will. And then I’m going to go and deal with your sister before she breaks herself on that door.”
Sister? Seb thought it might be John’s girlfriend, but sister. What the hell was wrong with these people?
Seb didn’t have time to ponder it any more, he could whip the moral deviancy out of John later. Now, he had to get his misbehaving Guide to his bed. Seb closed on him. Though John pounded his fists into Seb’s chest and belly, Seb was able to overpower him quickly enough. He tipped John up over his shoulder, got his arm around John’s knees, and hauled him off to the other room.
John tried to punch Seb’s back, but he didn’t have the arm room for it. It felt annoying rather than painful. Seb felt an urge to drop John, but almost as soon as he felt it, it went away. Hope was right behind him, easing some of Seb’s fury and shielding his mind from John’s rebellious assaults.
“Tell me he won’t do this once we are bonded,” said Seb.
“Of course, he won’t,” Hope assured him. “You’ll share a soul - he’ll want to take care of you, support you. Your pain will be his. If you are unhappy, he’ll be miserable.”
Better damn well be, thought Seb.
When they got to the bed, Seb unceremoniously dumped John into it. The man rolled the instant he was down and attempted to launch himself out of the room for the door, but Seb was ready for him, putting a hand to his neck and a knee to his back, pinning him stomach down.
“We can worry about his clothes later,” Hope said, “Let’s just get him secured now.”
Seb held John still while Hope put the shackles around his ankles. Then the two of them flipped John over and Hope threaded the manacles through a loop hidden between the mattress and the wall, then tightened the leather cuffs around his wrists.
Seb noted that the restraints were sturdy, but not designed to injure or pinch. Good, because he wasn’t sure that he could stand to see John hurt on top of everything else. He was skating pretty close to the primal edge as it was.
“Off me, off me!” John was saying, but both of them ignored him.
“He’ll be fine,” said Hope. “Come with me.” A tap of his hand against Seb’s arm got his attention and they left the bedroom, closing the door behind them.
The metal door to the bonding suite banged loudly again. John’s sister was still beating the crap out of herself against it. How long would Hope let it go on? Every time John cried out Harry’s name, she beat it again. There was just the smallest chance she might actually break the lock.
Hope seemed to realise this as well. He locked eyes with Seb briefly then stepped towards the lock.
“Permission to use physical force?” Seb asked taking position by the door.
“Only if she attacks me,” said Hope tightly. “Otherwise restrain her. I’ll help. Remember, she is one of us.”
Seb didn’t have anything charitable to say to that.
Hope pressed his thumb against the lock and said, “Open her up,” into the mic. Seb grabbed the handle and pulled it open the moment it buzzed.
Harry staggered in. Her blonde hair was wild, her naked arms bruised. She was shoeless and wearing a nightie. How she’d gotten all the way to the suite in this state was beyond Seb. Someone should have tranqed her down well before this.
There was no more time to think. Harry had the power of primal psychosis, but Seb had military tactics and was bigger and heavier to boot. Getting her to the floor was no mean feat. Her punches hurt a hell of a lot more than John’s did, and she landed quite a few of them before Seb was able to flip her up and slam her down.
Eventually Seb had forced her stomach down on the floor. At that point Hope ducked in and placed both his hands on her head. For a moment it looked like she was going to bite him, but then she just let out a low, pained whimper.
“Calm down,” Hope said. “Calm, Sentinel. He’s not hurt. He’s not your territory.”
“Mine,” she whimpered. “My baby brother.”
“The hell,” said Seb. “What’s going on? Why is she like this?”
“It happens with twins and irish twins sometimes,” said Hope. “They grow up together, come online together. In the past they would bond, platonically. But that don’t work anymore. Not in this political environment, it don’t. Don’t worry, John’s still yours, Sebastian.”
“No!” said Harry sharply and writhed again.
“And you!” said Hope, sharper. “You should know better, Harry. You want a Guide, do you? Then you need to stop cocking up. All that boozing and swearing, you’re a bloody disgrace to the Tower and the institution. You are this close to being locked up for your own good. You get yourself clean and start patrolling your area like you should, and I’ll consider matching you up. But as it stands, I can’t trust you around Guides.”
“Hope,” she whimpered, then collapsed.
Seb breathed with relief. Harry seemed to be coming out of the psychosis. He was a little annoyed that his opportunity to smack the shit out of her had passed, but then perhaps it was just as well he didn’t beat up his Guide’s sister right before bonding. It was tough enough convincing the little man to trust him as it was.
Hope petted Harry’s hair back, tenderly. “Ah, darling. I know, I know. But you gotta give up the booze and start being more cooperative with your Alpha. It’s the only way of it. I’ve said it before. Maybe it’d be best we sent you back to Aberdeen. You might do better with your own kind. Your family.”
“Family,” murmured Harry. “John.”
“Harry!” John suddenly cried out. “Don’t listen - he’s brainwashing you!”
Harry tensed. Stress perfumed the air suddenly and whatever good Hope had done was undone. “No. John!” she shouted “Get your goddamn, filthy hands off my little brother!” She tried to push away again. Seb held her down tight.
“Best you forget about John,” said Hope, sharply, his hand tightening in her hair. “He’s taken. He’s got his own job ahead of him.”
“Harry!” John called from the other room again. Again the spell was broken and Harry started fighting.
“And you keep quiet,” Hope called back. “You aren’t helping anything! You are hurting her!”
Just then the suite door opened again. Finally Holmes and his Guide came in with a hypodermic. Where the bloody hell had they been? Was security of this Tower asleep or something?
Seb smelled the sedatives and eyed Holmes nervously as he approached, unsure up until the moment the needle pricked Harry’s arm, who the target of the tranq was. Once the medicine went in, Seb let himself relax again.
Harry let out one last inarticulate grunt, then collapsed.
“About time you showed up!” Hope scolded, standing up and patting his prim outfit down.
“She evaded us,” said Mycroft. “She took the basement route and came directly up the elevator. She must have run here all the way from her flat, half a mile away.”
“I don’t care,” said Hope harshly. “Having her get all the way here has done great harm, maybe even irreparable. It’s going to be a pain trying to salvage this. I needed you - what distracted you?”
“Where’s John?” Mycroft switching subjects and looked towards the closed bedroom door.
“Locked in and strapped down,” said Hope, nodding his head towards the closed inner door. “I want her out of town as soon as possible. Get her on a plane to Aberdeen. They already feel a pull towards each other. She can’t come near John again. Not until he’s had a tour or two with Sebastian to cement their bond.”
“No!” John cried out. “No, don’t send her away! Let me see her! She needs me!”
Seb’s heart felt like it had taken a bullet. He growled.
“You shut up,” Hope shouted at the door. “And you calm down.” He put his hand on Seb’s shoulder and Seb did calm down. “And you, Mycroft, please get her out of here, quickly.”
“Very well,” said Mycroft. He turned to his Guide. “If you wouldn’t mind dear, I’ll take one arm and you the other, Hope and Sentinel Moran have work to do.”
In the other room, John shouted again. “Don’t do this! Please don’t leave me with Moran! He’s wrong for me, I know it!”
Shut the fuck up, Guide, Seb wanted to say. Not another word. He didn’t but only by sheerest will power. If this bond didn’t happen, it wouldn’t be because Seb had screwed it up. Even if he was less than enthusiastic about the man, he damn well wanted John’s powers.
Seb noticed that Mycroft had paused with a speculative look on his face. His scent suddenly changed, turning sharp with excitement and interest. He growled in response, and Mycroft eyed him with exaggerated nonchalance.
Hope intervened yet again. “Seb, don’t listen to John. Don’t let him rile you. Mycroft, please. Now!”
Mycroft and Anthea finally lifted Harry up and carried the limp Sentinel away, ignoring John’s pleading. Seb relaxed more as they got farther away from his Guide.
He turned at last to Hope. “May I?” he asked. “Finally?”
Hope was as annoyed as Seb. “Please do! The sooner this bonding is over the better.”
Together they walked back to the bedroom, while the metal door of the suite rang shut behind them.
Chapter 12