Fic: Observations on Sentinels & Guides in Victorian London - Part Two (PG-13)
Title: Observations on Sentinels and Guides in Victorian London - Part Two
Author: Ryuuza Kochou
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson et al are own by Arthur Conan Doyle & estate; this in non-profit fun
Summary: Watson meets his Matchmaker....
Authors Notes: I wasn't sure where this would go, and the next thing I know I have ten thousand + words! Watch out, this part is quite long. Oh, and please note that some things being described in London don't actually exist, I know, and may not be accurate to this worlds London either. But...AU world means AU London too.
Part One is Here:
http://community.livejournal.com/holmeswatson09/684238.html
Observations on Sentinels And Guides in Victorian London - Part Two
Part Two:
The Sanctuary was the headquarters of the Guild of Sentinels, which itself dominated the entire area of what was once known as Hyde Park, overlooking the Serpentine. It had been standing since the reign of Elizabeth, and had her noble sentiment was etched in the stone lip of the massive circular structure that dominated a good part of the London skyline. All Those Who Hath Great Heart To Stand Guard At The Borders, All Those Who Hath Great Strength To Restore The Innocent, Might Find Sanctuary Here.
Aside from the massive round domed main building which acted as a meeting place, the rest was composed of a wide, multi-acre stretch of smaller buildings and parklands, filled with fragrant gardens, shifting reeds, high walls, beehives, lapping water fountains; any soothing sound and scent to blot the din and stench of the city. It was practically a small, self contained village. It had been maintained just as it was for centuries by a crew of diligent caretakers and was strictly forbidden to general public. This was the Sentinels domain.
The Guide House was a more recent addition to the Sanctuary. It was a grouping of nondescript buildings really; wedged inconspicuously behind the massive main dome of the Sanctuary, bordered on its sides with a quadrangle cloister of rectangular, functional structures. Some wags would say the cramped, tiny structures pressed against the massive dome said everything that needed to be said about the relation between Guides and Sentinels.
Watson thanked the Gate Guard who had escorted him to the House from the huge front gates of the Sanctuary’s border wall. The man, a Sentinel in a smart, royal blue and silver uniform, nodded respectfully and pointed him towards the head office; a small, slope roofed building which was the only one truly adjoined to the dome. Watson took a breath, and walked inside.
Once within he was faced with a rectangular room, low roofed, bordered on three sides by long benches and on a forth by long front desk manned by smartly dressed clerks, surprisingly of both genders. A further look revealed they were all apprentices of the Guide House. Long, smooth strips of silk were affixed neatly around their necks. That particular rank insignia for Guides, the silk ribbon around the neck, was a remnant of the centuries old practice of leather collars once worn by Guides. It was no longer particularly fashionable; the leash or chain that had once gone with the collar had been banned by the Sentinel Queen Elizabeth, and the leather collars themselves had fallen out of fashion some twenty or so years hence after the American Civil War, which highlighted even to the international community the idea that a truly modern country had no need for slaves. But still, the collars remained after a fashion, in those silken torques.
Other than the clerks, a mismatched gathering of people waited, talking only softly. There were poor, well scrubbed country folk in their Sunday best, waiting timidly; they all had a child or children with them, so they were most likely here to have them enrolled or accepted into the House, where all young empaths were trained. There were older youths, apprentices and students of the House, perhaps here to speak to the heads of their schooling. There were haggard, tired looking folk there also, unbonded Guides who reported here. It was hard going, without a bond. Even the most skilfully built spiritual shield could not be maintained indefinitely. That was why Guides needed Sentinels. The shield the Sentinel could wrap around his or her Guide was permanent, and could bolster a Guide’s own shielding ability. Without it, Guides maintained as they could, but were constantly harassed and flooded with emotions and pains of others, which wore down the shields eventually; all that could be done it to shore them up, and hope that a Sentinel would come before insanity and death.
Watson could sense the young empaths more clearly than the other, ordinary people in the room because they projected emotions more clearly; they glowed like fireflies in Watson’s mindscape. Their more ordinary family members could not project as their children could, but all humans do to some degree, and Watson was aware of them nevertheless; like the distant wash of the ocean - emotional tides ebbing and flowing. Watson was very careful not to focus attention on them, because he could not fully control his ability to block out their emotions, and he respected their privacy. The young empaths he could do nothing about; but because they were young their emotions were...uncomplicated. Simple tunes and lullabies, rather than the complex symphonies of adults. There was nothing harmful or secret about how they felt. Most of them were thin, high ringing bells of trepidation; there was a huge atmosphere of tension in the room.
There were also, Watson realised, a few Sentinel-Guide pairs in the room. Not many, only two or three; but even without his keen ability to sense the bond between them in how they echoed each other emotionally, the way they sat close together or moved together spoke of their status even without the insignia denoting it.
Watson strode up to the main counter before the main clerk. The clerk, a young man, asked him his name and business.
“Doctor John Watson,” Watson replied quietly. “I was told to report here.” He held out a folded and slightly battered letter to the clerk, who started in surprise as he read it.
“You’ve just become active, sir?” the clerk looked him up and down, clearly taken aback.
Watson nearly winced as he felt eyes turning on him. “Yes.” Was all he could say. It was extremely rare for anyone to become active as a Guide past the age of seventeen or so. Guides generally went active empathically very young. For Sentinels the active age scope was much wider, but it tended to get less likely the older they were past forty years or so.
Flustered, the clerk hastily wrote down his name. “Take a seat, sir. Er...someone will be out to see you directly.”
Watson retreated. Well that went well, he thought ruefully. He supposed he’d have to get used to that reaction; his case was an unusual one.
Watson chose a chair nearest to the front door because soldier’s instincts are hard to suppress. He took a seat next to a cluster of the aforementioned well scrubbed country families. All the Guides in Britain were trained here, so some young ones had to come from a long way away.
Watson in fact sat next to one said young Guide; a fresh and sweet faced country child of about twelve years, in a clean, plain frock with severely neat hair. She was ringing with nerves, her face pale. She maintained a white knuckled grip on the hand of her mother, who every so often would reach her other hand over to pat her daughter’s arm. Mothers, empathic or not, tended to know what their children felt instinctively.
Watson felt moved by the poor child’s terror. Bad enough she was in this huge, intimidating city that was so different from everything she’s ever experienced before; she was also carrying the burden of the knowledge that she would be left in the hands of the House today, and may not see her family again for months, maybe years while she was trained; maybe not ever again, if a Sentinel came to her early and then was deployed overseas. She bore that terrible weight with an admirably tearless stoicism that earned Watson’s respect, as her plight both mirrored his own and surpassed it.
“Excuse me, Miss,” he asked politely, keeping his voice calm and level. He quieted his own uneasiness and filled his being with a confident calm, one which years of medical training and battle field surgery had taught him to call at will. He could use his inability to control his projecting to his advantage here. “May I ask you something?”
Her head snapped around; as did her mother’s. The woman watched Watson with a hint of wariness. “Ye...” the word came out a dry throated croak. The girl swallowed. “Yes, sir?’
“I’ve only just become a Guide,” he explained softly.
“Really?” Astonishment broke through the nerves momentarily. It was echoed in her mother, who raised her eyebrows. “Just now, sir?”
“Oh, yes. I’m a little embarrassed to admit this,” he leaned closer, as if giving a confidence. “But I don’t know what any of the colours mean on the insignias,” Watson discreetly pointed to the silk collars, which were indeed different colours. “Do you know what they mean? Oh my, how rude of me,” Watson added, as if just remembering. “My name is John Watson.”
He held out a hand for the girl to take, which she took after an encouraging nod from her mother. “Jane Blakely, sir.”
“Miss Blakely,” Watson shook her hand, and passed all the calmness he could across in the moment of contact. “I’m sorry to bother you. It’s really very embarrassing.”
The girl gave him a tentative smile. “It’s all right, sir. The Sentinel who leads the clan in my village told me about it before I came here. The plain white ones,” she pointed to the white strip around her own throat; though it was rough cotton, and not silk. “Means you are not bonded and not trained; you have no shield.”
“That’s you and me,” Watson nodded encouragingly.
Jane nodded back. “Yes, sir. The plain yellow ones mean you have been trained, but are not bonded.” The clerks wore yellow ones.
“So you get them after you finish training?”
“That’s right,” Jane nodded, becoming more animated. “The red ones are for guides who have bonded with an ordinary Sentinel, and there’s a blue one for guides who have bonded with an Alpha Sentinel. I think Beta Sentinels Guides are red with a blue stripe in the middle.”
“Beta Sentinel?” Watson asked.
“A Beta Sentinel is a sort of second in command, Mister Watson,” Jane’s mother broke in. “There is a rank within most clans. Isn’t that right, Jane? The Alpha’s lead the clan, and the Beta’s are next in the line, then the Gamma Sentinels - there aren’t many of them - they are much like priests or doctors; they have authority in certain areas of the clan life, like health or bonding rites. The rest of the clan are Delta Sentinels - their Guides are the ones who wear the red collars. And the Gamma’s collars....can you remember Jane?” she nodded to her daughter.
“Red with a green stripe,” Jane answered confidently. Her grip had loosened greatly from her mother.
“That’s right.”
“Well, you certainly know much more about this than I do!” Watson smiled at her, and the girl beamed back at him, nerves forgotten. Her mother mouthed a ‘thank you’ over her daughter’s head at the doctor, who tipped his head respectfully to her.
“There’s a plain green one too,” Jane added, frowning. “But I’m not sure what those ones mean.”
“Green is for the Consorts,” a young lad, white ribboned, broke in. Their conversation had drawn the attention of a few others in the room.
“Consort?” Jane asked.
“You know, a Guide who is too weak to actually bond with a Sentinel,” the lad waved a hand.
Mrs Blakely looked surprised. “There are empaths too weak to bond?”
“Sure, Missus,” the lad shrugged. “Lots in the city. They’re used as nanny-Guides for Sentinels until they can bond, and for Guardians sometimes.”
“What’s a Guardian?” this came from another man, who had accompanied his family to the city also. The crowd was getting bigger; the levels of tension in the room were unwinding slowly.
“You know,” this came from a haughty girl in a student’s grey uniform. “A person with one or two heightened senses, but not all five. You need all five to be a Sentinel. Guardians can’t bond like Sentinels,” she sniffed. “But they still sometimes need help to control the sense they do have.”
Even though Watson knew all this, he still wanted to keep the discussion going. The lack of nervousness in the rooms was going all the empaths therein the world of good, which in turn helped the ordinary people. A nervous empath could make others nervous by unconsciously projecting. “So, how does one tell the difference between a Sentinel and a Guardian?” he asked the group.
A Sentinel came up, his male Guide walking the proper one step behind him, half blocked by the Sentinel’s body. This was the accepted way for Sentinels and Guides to move on the streets and in company. “That’s easy enough sir,” the Sentinel held out his hand for all the young people to see. “All Sentinels and Guardians wear the arm band. Five coloured pips, studs, weaves or bands denote the rank of Sentinel. One colour for each sense. Blue for sight, red for hearing, yellow for scent, green for touch and purple for taste. Guardians will wear one to four pips or studs, and wear whatever colour reflects their enhanced senses. If the armband is black, then they are an Alpha; Beta’s will have black edging on brown. Everyone else has ordinary brown leather.”
“I’ve seen a few who use beads though,” one woman added thoughtfully. “Beads, and sometimes embroidered threads too.”
The Sentinel shrugged. “Every clan has their own styles, of course.” He turned to Watson with a calculating look. “Are you really John Watson? The papers all said you’d been kidnapped off a liner.”
Watson blinked in surprise. “Excuse me? When did they say that?”
The eyes of the lad who knew about Consorts were open wide. “You are the Guide that was kidnapped? That was in all the newspapers weeks ago. A Guide kidnapped of a liner by pirates!” he looked excited by the very thought.
“Pirates?” Watson repeated in disbelief. “They weren’t pirates, they were fishermen. I...I was ill. They were a Sentinel-Guide pair who took me on because they could care for me.”
“As I live and breathe,” the Sentinel shook his head. “You may want to stop by the Times and have that sorted out.”
“The Times?!” Watson’s mouth opened at the nods around him. “Good grief!”
“Mister Watson?”
A clerk had come up, and broken into the group. “They are ready for you now, sir.”
Watson felt his uneasiness return, and felt a small hand pat his own. He looked up to see Jane Blakely giving him a brave little smile. Watson gave her a proper salute, which made her giggle, and slowly rose, gripping his cane.
The clerk led him silently through a door past the front desk and down a hallway to an anteroom holding a chair behind a desk, which had a huge thick ledger on it, and filing cabinets lined the walls. There were two doors aside from the one Watson entered, one straight ahead and one off to the left. A thin, nervous sort of man with a green band around his throat greeted him in the dull, silent chamber. He really was very nervous. He was almost twanging with it, the vibrations hovering in the aura around him, which Watson did his best to ignore.
“Mister Watson?” the bespectacled man came up, worrying his hands together.
“Doctor,” Watson corrected. “Doctor Watson.”
“Oh! Oh, yes, of course,” the man gave a nervous smile. “I hope you aren’t offended by the wait; it’s just that your coming has been so very extraordinary. We were quite unprepared for it.” The man took off his spectacles and polished them. “I am James Carmichael, by the way. I am the archivist here, as well as the personal secretary to the Matchmaker.”
Watson extended a polite hand.
“Oh, no, you shouldn’t,” Carmichael shook his head. “Unbonded empaths shouldn’t actually touch anyone unless absolutely necessary. Emotions are transferred so much more easily through touch, as I’m sure you know. It’s vital they maintain as much distance as possible so that they can avoid any potential overloads.”
Watson lowered his hand. “I see,” he replied uncertainly.
Carmichael, as if to illustrate his words, retreated back around his desk, putting distance between them. “We...er, we have your belongings. The liner company had them sent here after your...er, abduction.” Flustered, Carmichael coughed.
“I was not abducted,” Watson denied firmly. “I was ill. The fishermen who took me off the boat were a Sentinel and a Guide. They had the knowledge required to care for me.”
“Oh. I see,” Carmichael blinked.
Watson continued. “Mister Carmichael, can you please tell me what is to become of me? I was told to report here by the Guild once I was...was discharged from the army, but I don’t know why. And while I may have some personal and professional experience of Sentinels and Guides, I have no knowledge of how they are trained or anything of that nature. I don’t know quite why I am here.”
Carmichael gave a nervy little smile, which suggested he felt like he’d just been put into a frypan. “Ah yes, well...ah, you see,” he started nervously. “Your becoming active has presented us with some difficulties, you see. Your case really is quite, quite unique, and there has never been another like it. You became active recently and you are twenty four. Empaths usually go from inert to active at a very young age, you see.”
“Yes, I know that,” Watson replied.
“Yes...er, yes. Well, you see our first difficulty; all of our training programs are designed to teach the youth. We take in children as young as two, and mould them from there. I think the oldest that has been admitted to the House in the last twenty years has been sixteen at most. Our students all live and eat together, they share rooms, classes; and it just wouldn’t be appropriate for an adult man to share rooms or classes with children; especially since they are not really adept at blocking out complicated emotions from adults. Our teachers are all bonded Guides or specially trained Consorts, so they have a certain amount of self-control.”
Watson felt his stomach drop. “So...you can’t help me?”
Carmichael waved his hands. “Oh no, no, no. We will help you; all empaths are required to be given assistance, by law if nothing else. That’s almost the whole idea of The London Pride Act of ’43. It’s just,” the man looked wretched. “We’re not entirely sure where to start. Training will have to be by private tutor, which we are still sorting out for you. After training most unbonded adult empaths gain employment of some sort; it’s very important to gain useful skills outside of training, and such employments often give Guides experience in dealing with the outside world. Otherwise they will be of no use to a Sentinel. After at least a year of employment, then they are sent to the Matchmaker, who assesses them and finds them potential bondmates.”
“Hang on,” Watson frowned. “I thought bonding was a spontaneous event. It’s not like marriage; it has nothing to do with status or wealth.”
“Well, yes, in a way,” Carmichael explained. “The Matchmaker doesn’t just force two people together, you know. He or she groups together selections of Guides and selections of Sentinels that seem compatible; that have comparable experiences and education, that sort of thing. The groups meet at specially crafted events throughout the year. That way bonds can be formed within peer groups; where each participant in the bond has similar knowledge and skill sets, thereby making the bond much more likely to succeed.”
Watson said nothing, because that was news to him. He’d seen some bondings in the war, because threat and danger were often very strong triggers in inert Sentinels and Guides. They had been completely opposed to the usual standards of polite society - they had been intense and savage and passionate and unrestrained. Many found the idea of bonding, especially of the same gender, to be offensive or disgusting, an anathema to proper civilised behaviour. It was unfair to judge it so because, while it might take days to really build up, once the bonding heat took hold, you had as much hope of controlling it as a fish had of flying. Watson, always concerned with the pain and suffering of others, had never been reviled by it. He’d found the raw, primal event to be sincerely honest, and oddly beautiful. It generated so much joy, so much love; and Watson knew well how little there was to be found of that in the world. One thing he did know is that the bond didn’t care about rank, knowledge or experience. Lords could be bonded with farmers, learned intellectuals with illiterate labourers; but that wild, savage love was common throughout.
“Well, I know I have to be trained,” Watson replied to Carmichael. “So I’ll be happy with any teacher you can provide. At least employment won’t be a problem.”
Carmichael grimaced. “Er...it may be er...a problem. You see we’re not sure if you would be allowed to er...practice medicine in your current state.”
Watson’s jaw dropped open. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well...as I said you case is extraordinarily unique...and you are unbonded. The Guild hasn’t decided anything yet, mind you,” he reassured hastily. “But because medicine is such a highly skilled profession that requires mental and emotional stability to be professional, they are not sure whether you are stable enough to act as a medical doctor. Many unbonded Guides act as nurses...”
“I am not a nurse!” Watson exclaimed. “I am a trained army surgeon!”
“Yes, but, well,” Carmichael sighed. “Your circumstances have changed from when you were in college, yes?”
Watson forced himself to calm down. He knew it wasn’t the man’s fault. “Isn’t there some sort of law in place about this? The Abernathy Ruling?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Carmichael nodded. “The famous lawyer and a late bloomer like yourself. You are correct, he sued and won the right to keep practicing law; and yes, many Guides as well as Sentinels who have had their careers diverted by going active have now been allowed to stay in their professions without mandatory military or civil service but...you see...there has never been a Guide medical doctor. Sentinel doctors, yes, but no Guide, ever. They are not sure quite how that affects things. And in any case,” Carmichael added. “The Abernathy Ruling only applies to bonded Guides; while you are unbonded it does not apply. After bonding, maybe you would have the right, with your Sentinels permission of course, but er...not...not at the moment.”
Watson stepped back, stunned beyond belief. “How long exactly will it be before I can bond?”
“It will rather depend on how long your training will take, and if you will be allowed to do it concurrent with your employment, but if so, then at least a year.”
Watson could barely think. A year? A year of drudgery at some low skill position before he could be a doctor again? It was like his world had crumbled around him.
“Of course, you may bond spontaneously before then,” Carmichaels voice came from some distant place. “That has been known to happen on occasion. We do try to prevent it as much as possible, because untrained Guides may not be able to assist their Sentinels in the way they should.”
“What...happens now?” Watson asked weakly.
“Er...well, the Matchmaker, er.....wants to assess you. This will give you a rank level. Once she has done so, you will be given a physical examination by the staff doctor, to assess your general health. And then we will see about finding you somewhere to stay. As I er...mentioned, we can’t put you in the student barracks.”
“I see,” was all Watson could say.
The door in behind the desk opened, and a demure young woman dressed completely in white addressed them with her head bowed. “The Matchmaker is ready.”
Watson gripped his cane, and followed the young woman in, still reeling from what he’d just been told.
It was a sumptuous chamber. No longer low roofed like the rest of the building, it was a more expansive space, lined with deep carpets and velvet drapes, though there were no windows. It was rather like a wealthy sitting room without the proper furniture; a sideboard held enormous vases of flowers, and a chandelier hung from the uppermost roof. It looked like an enclosed space, but there must have been a door behind the drapes at the back of the room, because the young woman who led Watson in disappeared behind it silently, after dropping a curtsey to the other person in the room.
The whole thing was rather like a scene on a stage; the impression was helped by the raised dias at the end of the room which contained the only piece of furniture other than the sideboard. A well padded arm chair with a dramatically carved back rest fanning out like a peacocks tail sat like a throne in the centre of the dais. There sat the other occupant, an expansive woman with a regal air of authority about her. She was dressed expensively and with an unfortunate tendency toward gaudiness, and wore an abundance of heavy jewels. The crowning glory of it was a red leather collar with intricate silver loops, a sort of ornate throwback to the era of leashes and chains. She fanned herself laconically with a feathered fan, rustling the expensive silk of her dress.
Watson felt something hard and sharp brush against his mind, followed by a flash of annoyance that wasn’t his.
“I,” she spoke slow and deep. “Am the Matchmaker Guide of the London pride, the Lady Beatrice Ascot. You may address me as Matchmaker or my Lady. You,” gestured with one thick arm. “Are John Watson, are you not?”
“Yes, my lady,” Watson answered politely. He was feeling a sharp sense of irritation from the woman, as if she’d been somehow insulted. She rose and came down, walking around him with a critical eye.
“Why do you bring that,” Lady Beatrice jabbed an imperious finger at the cane. “Into my presence? It is disrespectful to carry such things within the House.”
Watson unconsciously straightened into attention. The day was not improving. “I need it mada... Matchmaker. My leg was recently wounded.”
Lady Beatrice sniffed. “Very well. How long have you been active?”
“Six months, Matchmaker.”
“Six months? Why did you not come earlier?” she demanded.
“I wounded in battle, madam. After which I was captured, and when I was returned to the army I was struck down with enteric fever.” The simple statement of events was all perfectly correct, but no amount of time or words could really describe what happened to him.
Lady Beatrice sniffed again. “My Lady. My Lady, or Matchmaker. Very well,” she seemed almost disgruntled at his reasonable excuse. “I assume you have received some modicum of training, for you would be quite mad without it.”
“Yes Matchmaker,” Watson replied, shifting his weight. He had been on his feet a long time now, and after the walk through London his leg was voicing complaints. There was nowhere to sit, though. “I was...rescued from my captors by a band of wandering Afghani folk. Their leader was a Guide of sorts, and she...helped me.” Help didn’t begin to describe it. The old woman had saved him, protected him, and taught him to control his sudden gifts to whatever degree possible in the mere month it had taken them to find the regiment. A month in the real world, and who knows how long elsewhere. But Watson wasn’t thinking about that. He still hadn’t sorted that...dream world out in his mind yet.
A spurt of amusement bloomed in Lady Beatrice that made Watson look up. “Surely you cannot believe,” she scoffed derisively. “Those heathens truly understand the methods of being a Guide? I think perhaps you were lied to. Understandable, I suppose. You must have been in a vulnerable state. But you know nothing about being a Guide.”
The sudden patronizing dismissal pricked Watson’s temper, though it was only a brief moment of annoyance. “British historians have confirmed the traditions of Sentinels and Guides in those countries were common a thousand years before the Romans were even here, my lady. That I do know.” He spoke calmly and without accusation.
Lady Beatrice’s face twisted sourly. “Do not be impudent to me. I know more about the ways of the Guides than any poor bred foot soldier from the countryside.”
Watson was more than just a soldier and a doctor. He was a gentleman. Not by birthright or by wealth or by bloodline, but by the simple, honest decency of a good man. And gentlemen, no matter the provocation, never raised their voices to a woman. So while he felt insulted and hurt, he merely replied quietly and firmly. “I was a surgeon not a foot soldier, Matchmaker. I gained my degree in the University of London and further training at Netley. I may know nothing about being a Guide, but I do know the most famous words of the greatest Guide in history. ‘I judge not by what other Guides may know, but only in their willingness to stand steadfast in the service of their Sentinels who protect all’. Lord Robert Dudley, my lady. I am here at you request my lady, willing to learn.”
Lady Beatrice flushed, her mouth opening and closing as she realized she had been neatly thwarted and had no means of retaliation. “Well then,” she snapped eventually. “We must assess your levels. I must warn you not to have high expectations. Most empaths who become active at your age are not powerful enough to shield properly or to bond. I can tell just from my own survey that you are extremely poor at shielding your projections,” her tone was dismissive of any other conclusion. “You will most likely be classified as a Consort; but first we must complete the tests. Tell me where the farthest Guide you can sense is.”
Watson took a deep breath, like the old shaman had taught him. Make yourself like the web of a spider. Spin your threads, catch what you need, let all other things pass through. Watson stretched out, the thin threads he pictured in his mind waving like the silken threads of a spider seen on a summer morning. Every soul they touched was a delicate vibration in the web, moving and shifting it like it was a breeze. Some were heavy, destructive vibrations, others were light, playful; some were clean, sharp high notes and others were complex, murky, full of strange tangles and discords. It was hard to keep track of it all. Every vibration shook his foundation - only very slightly, but enough waves can, with enough time, wear down even a mountain. “I can sense....eight Guides, in a circle around us.” He said eventually.
Suddenly all his threads snapped together, so sharply that Watson nearly fainted. Along the sudden tangle of threads dragged in one direction, Watson had a sudden sense of...music. Complicated, multilayered symphonies, every thread a different sound, beautiful and clear and perfect, tangled in one place. Watson was mesmerised, drawn to it like tide. Suddenly he pulled back, disorientated by the event. He wasn’t confident enough in his abilities go somewhere so unknown.
The sudden reflexive jerk hurt. Gasping, his head pounding from the shock of it, Watson came back to the Matchmakers rooms. For a moment he pressed his hand over his eyes, trying to compose himself. His heart felt like it had been ripped out of his chest.
As such, he didn’t notice the flabbergasted look on Lady Beatrice’s face. “Eight Guides....you mean the on Wall Towers around London, with the Sentinels?”
“I...don’t know. Possibly,” Watson scrubbed his face. The ripping loss in his chest had numbed, but his head felt squeezed in a vice.
“Ridiculous,” came the unexpectedly shrill response. Watson looked up in surprise. It was almost if the woman was suddenly afraid, though her normal sense of insulted disdain quickly replaced it. She repeated more calmly. “Ridiculous. No unbonded, untrained Guide could reach that far. You must be sensing Guides in the House.”
“The House has many Guides; dozens that I could feel. I felt only eight. My lady,” Watson added hastily. It was hard to tell how distant they were. Distances were....different in the mental realm. God, his head really ached. The light from the chandelier was like knives in his eyes.
“Humph. Then you are feeling Guides on the streets surrounding the Sanctuary,” she insisted. “Or you are lying.”
Watson drew himself to attention. “No, Matchmaker, I do not lie.” His voice was flat as a plank.
“Of course you don’t,” Lady Beatrice replied patronizingly. “I know men like you. Your pride is wounded from being outranked by a mere woman. You puff yourself up like a tom cat to salve puncture.”
“My last commanding officer was Lieutenant Colonel Sentinel Annie Hay, Matchmaker, and she was a leader of the best kind. I was proud to serve under her.” If he closed his eyes, he could still see her falling with her guide and husband in Maiwand. It wasn’t the worst thing about that day, because it had all been worst. But it was one of the deeper stamps in his mind.
The sheer ice cored in steel in his voice drove the Matchmaker back a step. “Well,” she said uncertainly. “Perhaps I am too quick to accuse. You are untrained, so you may not be able to fully appreciate what you sense. Very well. The next step is a spiritual gaze. That is, a Guide will sense and measure you intimately in order to get a true survey of your level of mental discipline. This will give us an idea of the training you will need.” She closed her eyes for a moment.
The drapes moved, and the young lady reappeared silently.
“Guide Lily will perform the gaze,” Lady Beatrice explained.
Watson gripped his cane firmly. “I must request a male Guide, Matchmaker.”
Lady Beatrice blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“A male Guide must be the one to gaze, my lady,” Watson repeated, trying to will his headache away. “It is no reflection on you or Guide Lily. There are parts of my mind I would never inflict willingly on a woman.”
“I’ve never heard of such...!” Lady Beatrice’s rage was incandescent. “I outrank you. You must register and submit to the rules of the House in order to legally stay in the city on London. You will either submit to the gaze or I will have you arrested as an illegally entering empath!”
“I accept the gaze, my lady,” Watson replied. He looked over at the white clad Lily, who was staring meekly at the ground, looking young and breakable. “But I insist that it must be to another man, with military service experience if possible. I cannot...I cannot justify the horrors and burdens I carry being given to a woman, who will feel them much more deeply than a man.”
Lady Beatrice pursed her lips, expressionless. “Very well. If you insist on being difficult. Guide Lily!” she snapped sharply. “Go to the Sanctuary. There are always a few police Sentinels there!”
She looked back at Watson triumphantly as the girl left. She fully expected Watson to crumble at the threat of police involvement, but Watson merely waited impassively. He felt her sudden frustration. There was another quick, hard sweep across his mind, no doubt looking for fear. She had been trained for power rather than subtlety.
Watson said nothing, and tried to shift weight off his leg, which throbbing in time with his head now.
Lily came back soon after, unexpectedly escorting a woman and a man. The woman, fair coloured and of the tall willowy proportions of an Amazon, was dressed in a proper dark blue uniform and unexpectedly trousered, but there was a roll of a blue skirt overlaying the masculine accoutrements that stopped above the heavily booted ankles, acting as a sort of sop to proper feminine fashion. A female Sentinel then. The man with her, large and broad shouldered, must be her Guide.
“Sentinel and Guide Bradstreet,” Lady Beatrice’s voice could have soured milk. “This...creature...has refused to submit to a spiritual gaze, and therefore is defying the rule of the House. Such an act is illegal in London. I demand his arrest.”
“Lady Beatrice,” the woman nodded, before turning to survey Watson. She glanced at her Guide.
The large man stepped forward. “What about it, sir?”
“I can allow the gaze. I simply insisted on it being a man, and not a woman,” Watson tried to explain.
“He is an ignorant buffoon who has never been trained,” Lady Beatrice broke in derisively. “He doesn’t even realize that we cannot see memories. A woman could see nothing that would offend her! Unless you have some disgusting perversion you wish to keep hidden.”
Watson did not turn to face her. He focused instead on the couple before him. They were an excellent team, he could see. They had decided between them that the husband would question him, because men are more likely to speak frankly to other men. “I know they won’t see memories...Inspectors?” They nodded, and Watson continued. “But I have just returned from a war. Some of the things I felt there were far uglier than what I saw. Those things are still fresh in my mind. If anyone must experience it, I would prefer strongly that it be a man, with military experience if possible.”
The pair shared a silent communication, before Sentinel Bradstreet turned to Lady Beatrice. “Far be it for me to run the workings of the House, Guide Ascot,” the Sentinel loftily ignored the angry intake of breath that came from the title. “But that not only seems practical, but also quite sensible.”
Watson sighed in relief. Lady Beatrice gaped in shock.
“I followed my own into battle before, sir,” Inspector Bradstreet shared a nod with his wife. “Would you object to me performing it?”
It was the best offer Watson was going to get. “Not at all, Inspector.”
“My husband, Inspector Roger Bradstreet,” the woman introduced formally.
“Inspector Bradsteet. Lady Sentinel Bradstreet,” Watson nodded formally, and took her hand to shake. “Doctor John Watson.”
“Consort Watson,” was Lady Beatrice’s sharp interjection. “You are a doctor only on your Sentinel’s grace.” Watson flinched internally at that.
The couple’s eyebrows rose. “Doctor?” Inspector Bradsteet asked in surprise, while Lady Bradstreet gave him another quick survey.
She held up a hand. “Wait right there,” and strode out. She returned momentarily with a chair that looked like it had been taken from Carmichael. “Please sit, doctor. That leg of yours looks painful.”
Watson was so grateful for the weight being taken off his leg he forgot to feel the sharp sense of humiliation about his wounded body being assessed by a lady.
“Really! This is most irregular!” Lady Beatrice snapped.
“Lady Beatrice, he is conforming to the law, and my Guide was trained here. He is more than suitable for this.” Lady Bradstreet’s voice was entirely firm. “I see no harm. Shall we get on with this? Inspector Bradstreet and I have business to attend to.”
Outranked and stymied, Lady Beatrice stayed silent.
Bradstreet’s mental presence was quite different than the Matchmaker’s. It was a strong, earthy, solid thing; not exactly subtle, but that was the way of male Guides. It was also careful and gentle; he was exactly aware of how strong he was, and like most big men he had an extremely light touch when necessary.
Watson quelled his reflexive instinct to protect his mind against an invader. He relaxed and allowed him to see...
It happened in an instant. The Inspector backpedalled as if punched in the face, staggering against the wall and knocking over a vase. His Sentinel dove for him, wrapping him in her arms from behind, trying to physically brace him against whatever mental blow he had sustained.
The large man bent over the sideboard like he was ill, his shoulders convulsing in an effort not to gag.
“Oh really now! This is against all proper decorum!” Lady Beatrice started forward, only to be blocked by Watson’s cane.
“Get out,” Lady Bradstreet’s voice was a growl.
“But...”
“Out!” she roared, tightening her grip on her husband, her eyes darkening to deep pools of Sentinel rage.
Horrified, Lady Beatrice retreated with Lily through the drapes. Watson went the other way, to the archive room. Carmichael was not there.
He shut the door behind him, shaking and white. God, he really was a monster. He had a monster’s memories. “I can’t tell you how very sorry I am, Lady Sentinel,” he whispered to the empty room, putting his head in his hands
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“Roger,” Lady Bradstreet pressed her forehead into her husband’s broad back. The Sentinel in her raged and roared, demanding an enemy to kill for harming the Guide.
“It’s all right, love,” the Inspector was breathing heavily, but the tremors were fading. “It was plain, commonplace stupidity on my part. The way he felt when he said it was bad should have warned me to shore up the shields but like a credulous fool, I didn’t. Why on earth did you marry an idiot like me?” He turned and brushed her face gently with his fingertips.
She kissed his hand. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she replied to him wryly. She sobered. “Was it really so bad?”
Inspector Bradstreet shuddered. “You know I don’t hold with fancies, my dear; and for once I am right glad that I do not. I don’t want to imagine what he went through. I am truly amazed the man isn’t dead or insane! There is....so much pain there. I’ll tell you one thing though,” he held up a finger. “If he’s a mere Consort, then I’m the ruddy Queen of England. I have never felt anything so powerful.”
“I don’t think he feels powerful at the moment,” Lady Bradstreet cocked her golden head, listening. “He keeps whispering how sorry he is to me, poor man. Did you see how thin he is? He has been though the wringer many a time.”
“He can’t stay here, love; even he knows it. The nightmares he must have must be spectacular. There are unbonded, untrained children here, and he’s got not talent for shielding. He was right to reject the girl. His mind is so overwhelming, it would have destroyed her.”
“He sounds a little like Mister Holmes,” Lady Bradstreet smiled.
Bradstreet made a face. “Well, at least I can say he’s not quite as bad as that. A point in his favour if ever there was one.” He squeezed his wife’s hand.
She giggled a little. “Well, Inspector, what shall we do with the good doctor?” her eyes softened to compassion as she looked at the door. “We do have that old spare room...”
Bradstreet took both his wife’s hands in his. “My sweet, I respect you, I love you and I cherish you, but I think you perhaps miscalculate when it comes to a man’s pride. That Guide,” he pointed at the door. “Is not just starting a new life, he’s trying to piece together his battered soul. Charity from us will do nothing for his pride.”
“What do you suggest then?” she demanded archly.
“We recommend to the House that he can’t stay here, and let him get out from under their influence. One thing I did learn from him is self respect is important to him. Lady Beatrice and her cronies can’t stand anyone more powerful than they are; they’ll tear him to shreds if he stays here.”
“Yes, they will won’t they? I could tell just by looking at her that foolish woman sees him as a threat. But after that?”
“After that....we’ll think of something. He needs our help. And we might need his power, because let me tell you this, my own. If ever there was such a thing as an Alpha Guide, John Watson is it.”
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End Part Two
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