Fic: Observations on Sentinels & Guides in Victorian London - Part Six (PG-13)

[ryuuzakochou]

Title: Observations in Sentinels & Guides in Victorian London
Author: Ryuuza Kochou
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7662
Spoilers: None; complete AU

Summary: A Victorian era AU where Sentinels and Guides are members of everyday society. Starring Sentinel! Holmes and Guide! Watson.

Part Five: Watson gets to examine his Sentinel at his leisure...of course, it would have to happen while London comes under attack....

Notes/Warnings: Adult themes, some violence and light bad language. There are most likely spelling errors, somewhere. Sorry! I just never get them all.

Extra Warning! Here there be the gushy melodrama that we all secretly love to read......

Disclaimer: All owned by the estate of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and associated folk. The Sentinel is owned by Pet Fly. Written for fun and not for profit

Part One:
http://community.livejournal.com/holmeswatson09/684238.html
Part Two:
http://community.livejournal.com/holmeswatson09/698815.html
Part Three:
http://community.livejournal.com/holmeswatson09/699151.html
Part Four:
http://community.livejournal.com/holmeswatson09/728249.html
Part Five:
http://community.livejournal.com/holmeswatson09/728426.html



Observations on Sentinels And Guides in Victorian London - Part Six:

The soul, the mind, the heart; these are not always full, complete things, not from the beginning. Sometimes they are chained, hard shelled things that must be broken before they can be made whole. Some are directionless and light as air, unrestrained but unconnected, and need an anchor to truly understand the beauty of the flight. Most are riddled the awkward corners, blind spots, unseen layers and holes. Holes...yes, some were riddled with them.

There was a very important, near essential, hole in the souls of certain people. Enhanced senses, physical and mental, came at a heavy price. It wasn’t really spoken of or written about, but the culture itself was aware of it, to varying degrees of clarity. Within each Sentinel and each Guide, there was a huge hole - a canyon, tear in their fabric that gaped like a wound - that they struggled against daily. Where did Sentinels go when the last, deep fugue took them? Where did the mind of a Guide flee to, when the outside world overwhelmed them? Some place within, deep and dark. As close to death as you could go, without actually crossing the borders.

Throughout history, it had been called various things. The Hollow. The Soul Cavern. The Death. Watson’s teacher, a child of deserts, had called it the Well. Deep, dark, cold.

Of course, it wasn’t all bad news. The Well could be filled. It was just a space, half of a connecting device, waiting for a bond to fill it. Some souls were made broken; the pieces had to find each other.

Of course, none of this meant a damn thing to Watson as his back hit the cobblestones, the weight of his Sentinel pressing on his chest. For a moment it was like he was back at Maiwand, the smell of it, the feel of it and the horror of it, transplanted into a foggy London night.

Watson lost his mind. He wasn’t proud of it. He had watched comrades - friends - hacked to pieces before his eyes and had still held his nerves, but now they splintered like brittle glass, his thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind.

No! It wasn’t even a thought; it was a pure scream of emotive anguish. No, no, no!

His arms reflexively went around the body lying on top of him, warm and limp. His heart raced, it hummed it was going so fast. His breath came in panicked little gasps, his chest could barely move it was clenched so tight. He felt shattered and full of sharp edges. His body slowly tightened around the jagged pieces. It was agonising.

The Well inside him became more of a sinkhole, sucking him down, expanding to the edges of his being. For a brief, torturous moment Watson was bare before the city of London. All the emotions, every petty, spiteful, angry, joyful, ecstatic, loving thing felt was suddenly pouring in. The emotional detritus of four million souls struck him from all sides.

Ironically, it saved their lives. Because all Watson could do was cast it back out, all the terror and hurt and revulsion and pain - and because there was just too much to dissipate, it earthed like lightning into the nearest available receptive minds. And Sentinel minds were receptive on certain levels. They had to be, otherwise they couldn’t bond.

The hunting pack of Sentinels dropped to their knees, yelling in pain. Of course, the sudden spiritual upheaval didn’t translate into Sentinels empathically, as they didn’t have that ability. For them it was sensory chaos of the highest order, the din, the stink, the taste, the blinding lights, the grittiness and revolting slimy feeling of the city.

But the influx did tell Watson one thing...

His mind snapped back into focus, and his fingers sought blindly in the darkness for the neck of the Sentinel. Watson never prayed, never. On the battlefield he’d always felt that whatever role God played, it certainly wouldn’t include appearing to save anyone. Better, then, to bandage than to pray. But after feeling that faint echo of frustration and protectiveness....

Please, Watson begged frantically. Please, please, please, please....

He found it! There, under his questing fingertips, a steady pulse under that precious skin. Watson blew out a breath in sheer relief. Thank you, thank you, thank you. He pressed his face into the dark haired head under his chin, nearly laughing in hysterical joy. His hands carded through the hair worriedly, and drew a hiss from him as he found a warm, damp and sticky mass of hair near one temple. He gently prodded the area, and mapped out the shallow gouge in the scalp. Creased, Watson diagnosed, struggling to reassemble his professional demeanour. The bullet clipped his temple.

Lucky, was his first opinion. Followed closely by I as well.

The sounds of the outside world suddenly intruded on his focus. There was moaning, swearing, the smell of vomit and blood. Watson felt a snarl rise in his throat. They had tried to kill him, the magnetic Sentinel that had ripped the breath from him.

Watson’s leg was a fiery rod of agony, it had twisted as he fell. His cane was somewhere...it had skittered away from him at some point. His revolver - damn it - was back at the boarding house. There were at least five Sentinels there. They were still recovering from the sense chaos, a Guide flitting between them to assist them free of fugue, but eventually they would be coming to see what had become of their prey and Watson’s cursed crippled body was not up to those kinds of odds.

But leave the Sentinel here, helpless? Never.

Watson thought frantically. How could he escape, how could he save them both? Escape....

Watson sucked in a breath at the sheer enormity of the idea that occurred to him. Surely he couldn’t do it. He’d only ever seen it done a few times, had tried it even less, and even then never unassisted.

The hunting Sentinels began to stagger to their feet.

Watson’s grip tightened around the fallen man.

What would you do to save him? Came the question.

Anything. Everything. Was the only answer.

Watson took a breath, and focused.

“Sentinel...” he whispered, barely a breath of sound.

------------------------------------------

The Dark city was in shambles. Great pieces of clockwork machinery had crashed to the chipped ground, the buildings were sagging, water was gushing from holes and gouges. The city was sinking into itself, it’s Underground tunnels collapsing, making each exquisite construction smash into each other like dominoes. The city was half flooded, the falls washed and plummeted into pipes that could no longer channel them. Damage had been done.

Holmes struggled to right it, piecing it together stone by stone, stubbornly determined not to give in. He needed to get a clear picture of what was happening, he needed to get out of here. He needed to protect the Guide!

“Sentinel...”

The voice fell across him, as soft and mesmerising as starlight. “You....” Holmes replied.

Pipes begun to bend and twist back into shape, aqueducts began to repair in a flurry of flying stones, taking with them the machinery. Holmes would accept nothing else. He forced his own mind to obey. His Guide was out there, alone and vulnerable and....yes, he snarled, he could see their echoes in his mindscape now, those crude and primitive Sentinels, walking unencumbered near his Guide. The Dark Sentinel roared, still half trapped in the crumbled city. It screamed in rage. If they so much as came within spitting distance of his Guide, then every battle they had ever been in combined would seem like a light scuffle compared to what he would visit upon them. He would erase them from the world....

“Sentinel,” came that soft, world filling, beautiful voice again. “Do you trust me?”

Flowing out from the now crooked and bent street lamps came tiny points of glowing lights; fireflies, by the dozens, streamed into his mindscape like glowing, ever floating snow. It was astonishing. Nothing living existed in his mindscape. The ghosts and echoes weren’t alive; they were just records, moving ideas.

It was brilliant, stunning.

“Do you trust me?”

“With everything,” Holmes replied. There was no other logical answer, not to that voice.

“Then follow me.”

“Anywhere,” Holmes tracked the fireflies, which were heading for the Thames in a radiant stream of flowing lights. He chased them.

He chased them to the city limits, to the banks of the silent, fast flowing river. He sprinted out across the water, because this was his river and it wasn’t deep here. He ran, faster than eyes could track, glowing lights spinning around him.

As the city faded into blackness behind him he heard it - the roar of water always somewhere in the back of his mind. The river of his city didn’t flow into the sea. It instead turned into a roaring waterfall, dropping into a bottomless abyss, the white water of the churning falls over the jagged, abrupt edge a stark contrast to the back, glassy smooth river preceding it and the fathomless depth it vanished into. This was the very edge of his mental world.

Holmes could see what needed to be done. He didn’t hesitate.

Fireflies now spinning and swirling around him like armour, he dove...

Watson, his mind wrapped around the Sentinel’s, pulled them both down the Well.

------------------------------------------------------

It was hard to describe what happened to the clan that night. Lestrade and his wife were yanked from a sound sleep. The Bradstreets, working late at the Yard were both struck with a bolt of terror that made them both drop whatever was in their hands. Constables, walking the streets, all faltered in their strides.

A world splitting blast, that nearly shook the ground, burst out into the night.

But the sudden shock didn’t have time to settle into them. Screaming started to echo at the Guide’s House. Dozens, maybe more Guides started transmitting distress. Sentinels even at the edge of the city were startled awake by it. Without exception, they ran to the streets, looking to the Towers.

Ah, yes, the Towers - the Wall Towers, the Watch Towers. Sentinel manned since the reign of Elizabeth, the Royal clan watched over the city. They listened to it’s cries and heartbeats. They were nearly useless in stopping actual, individual crimes because London was a din of noise. Even the best pair of Sentinel ears had difficulty saying with any certainty exactly what was heard. But the point of the Towers was just to be there. They jutted out of every clan territory, across every district, rich and poor, they marched in a line down the Thames all the way to Tilbury, Gravesend and the sea, matching the ancient stone Watch Towers along almost the entire English and Scottish coast, picketing the entire continent. The skyline of London itself was shot through with them. They spoke a warning to all who saw them. We Are Listening.

Before the telegraph came into it’s own earlier in the century, the Shout was the best way of delivering messages throughout England. Messages were yelled from Sentinel mouth to Sentinel ear up and down the coast. Once used only for watching for invading armies, it became a crude intercommunications network throughout England. The telegram had gained ascendancy now, because it was more reliable, less likely to be garbled and messages were kept more private, but clans throughout England still used the Shout. A machine couldn’t tell if you were lying, but a Sentinel could.

In times of trouble, Sentinel eyes turned to the Towers....

There, atop the Sanctuary Tower, a red flare lit the fire pit like an ominous low star. Breach. Attack. Assault. Throughout the city, Sentinels turned towards the Sanctuary and ran.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. The Royal Palace Tower suddenly lit up crimson as well; but there was little help for them. The Sentinels were heading for Guides in distress.

The drama happening on the fog shrouded street was lost in the sudden tumble into chaos. The Guide Hounds circled their fallen prey.

“They’re dead,” one muttered. “Both of ‘em. Cain’t hear no heartbeats.”

“I can’t sense nothing, neither,” the one faceless Guide added. “Come on, we got somewhere to be. That damn writer man should be just free o’ the palace by now.”

“We should probably check....”

“No! Don’t touch ‘em. Our smell will already be on the street!” Something small and glassy smashed onto the cobbles. “Come on, we gotta go. We have to be ready to help the others with the...” a snigger, “Spoils of war.”

They withdrew into the fog, just as the Towers across London started lighting up with white, magnesium fire in their fire pits. White, white, white, across every tower in the city. Responding, responding, responding...

The city was filled with white fire at the tips of it’s crown.

Watson suddenly gasped in air, like a man surfacing from an ocean. He sucked in another, and coughed. There was an overwhelming smell of peppermint in the air around them.

As close to death as you could go, with crossing borders....

Watson felt bone tired, cold and sick. The Well was a deep and dark place, not somewhere to venture lightly. But it had worked, it had fooled the hunters into leaving them. He sat up carefully, the Sentinel still cradled in his arms. Between the injury and the sudden dive in the Well, he wasn’t quite strong enough to regain consciousness yet, but he was safe. His mind had been held as delicately as the most fragile treasure in the world.

And what a mind! It had been like wrapping himself around a raging storm, a cataclysm full of violence and force. It had been overwhelming, electrifying. He had never felt anything quite like it. He’d been utterly stunned at how fast it had moved - no shock, no hesitation, just movement faster than Watson could track and a heartrending trust in him...

More than that. Protectiveness, overpowering and irresistible had poured across him. It had burned like fire, had blocked out pain and hatred, had kept him from every hurt, every bad memory. It had been indescribable how safe he had felt.

Watson clutched as the hard body and tried to reassemble his thoughts. He had to get the Sentinel inside, had to see to the wound. He cursed his crippled body as he never had before. There was no way he could carry him to safety.

“Yer alive?” A voice came from behind him.

Watson snapped around it, trying to keep his body between the intruder and his Sentinel.

A tall, broad shape appeared out of the fog. Watson couldn’t tell at first, but as the man stepped closer it became clear he was a Sentinel himself. There was something about him, something Watson was too distracted to really pick up on. Something about him was...painful, sad.

“I felt y’all’s heart stop,” the strange Sentinel added. He held up his hands to show he was no threat. “I saw yer walking the streets, I heard the Sentinels givin’ chase, I thought you might need some help. I ain’t with them others.” He added, seeing the wariness in Watson’s eyes.

He became clearer as he stepped closer - big, tanned, red haired. His accent was American, his clothing suited towards outdoor life than indoor. His face was florid with cold, his nails weren’t well kept, and he wore a broad brimmed hat which dripped with moisture. Watson’s empathic control was shaky, but he didn’t feel any hostility from the stranger.

“I...” Watson’s voice was a croak. “I do need help. Can you carry him? He’s hurt, I have to help him.”

“Sure, no problem,” the red head tipped his hat, and lifted the injured Sentinel up effortlessly.

Watson, limping badly, directed the American Sentinel back towards the boarding house.

“What happened to y’all?”

“I’m not sure,” Watson replied quietly. He was feeling a little more in control now. “I...he was being chased and they shot at him,” his grip tightened on his cane. “I don’t know who they were. They weren’t the police.”

The stranger, who seemed a fairly quiet man, spoke after a thoughtful pause. “Heard the gun. Came runnin’. But I heard your hearts...fade. How’d ya do that?”

Watson scrubbed his face. “It’s...complicated,” he replied. “I don’t know that I can really explain it.”

The stranger seemed to accept this. “This the place?”

“Yes, this way,” Watson lead the stranger to the front door. He stopped to look around London. Up until now he had not even noticed the scenery, far too focused on the injured Sentinel. “I wonder why the Towers are all lit up like that.” He said idly, still trying to clear his blurred mind.

The American shrugged. “Dunno. Ain’t been in the city long.”

“Hold it,” came a snarl from the door. Charpentier stood there, changed into fresh clothing and in full bristle, defending his territory from the foreign Sentinel.

“It’s alright, Charpentier,” Watson held up his hands quickly.

Charpentier growled, his eyes fierce. “No. No Sentinels.”

Watson replied, his tone steely. “This man needs medical attention, Lieutenant.”

Charpentier pursed his lips, and relented slightly. “He can come in,” he said eventually. “But not him.” He jabbed a finger at the American.

Watson was about to protest, but the stranger broke in first. “Whatever ya want, kid. C’n ya take him?” He held out the limp form of the injured Sentinel.

Charpentier grudgingly took possession of the wounded man, and chivvied Watson in behind him so he was blocked from the foreigner’s view. The stranger tipped his hat and silently vanished into the fog.

Charpentier manhandled the unconscious form upstairs and back into the Charpentier partition of the boarding house.

“How is Alice?” Watson asked softly, fussing gently over the injured Sentinel’s head.

Charpentier grumbled. “Asleep. At rest. Mother’s curled up with her.”

Watson blinked. “You’re not...” how in the hell had Charpentier kept from fully bonding with her?

Charpentier gritted his teeth. “Three months to go. If we bond now they’ll treat her like dirt forever. She deserves to be treated like the saint she is. If we go along with what they want, then they won’t have any excuse for treating her badly.”

Watson sighed. But Charpentier was young. He didn’t know yet that most people don’t need or even apply excuses for their bad conduct. He saw no benefit in Charpentier holding his self control, even if he admired what it must have cost the younger man. But he said nothing. He was still too thoroughly rattled by tonight’s events and Charpentier was too clearly teetering on a knife’s edge for making an issue of it.

He had Charpentier hold onto the injured man while he dug around in his trunk for...ah, here it was. Most doctors in Afghanistan had kept a roll of silk with them; sometimes it was the only bandage or bedding that could be used for a fragile Sentinel. His was ragged edged from being ripped up for bandages, but even after Maiwand he hadn’t the heart to discard it.

He unfolded the roll and lay it on the floor. It was just about big enough. Charpentier lay the other Sentinel down on it. He stepped back abruptly, clapping a hand of his nose and mouth as he did.

“I have to go,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, it’s the blood...I can’t...” the young Sentinel was backing up almost fearfully. “I may lose my mind if I keep smelling the blood.”

“Go, it’s alright,” Watson waved him out. “I can take care of him.”

Charpentier retreated with speed.

Watson was left alone with his Sentinel.

He was handsome, Watson noted. Beautiful even, but in a strange, unsymmetrical way. His face was filled to the brim with character and energy even in repose. Watson lit candles in the room, watching the soft light glow across those sharp, lightly lined features. He was stubbled and rumpled, his clothing relaxed and almost improperly used; there was nothing straight or neat about him, nothing that would indicate rigid deportment so prevalent in this day and age.

It should have made him rough and uncouth, but instead it made him alluring, attractive, unbridled by normal constraints, liberated from the everyday world, unique, utterly captivating and charismatic. Watson thoughtlessly curled his fingers across the plains of that fascinating face and the rough skin. His hands were shaking.

Watson sharply got a hold of himself. He rose from the floor, dug out his medical bag and a handful of silk handkerchiefs, and after placing them near his patient went out into the kitchen, returning with a pan of warm water and soap.

He washed the wound as gently as possible, drawing any of the pain away from the injured man. He placed a careful, excessively neat row of stitches across the wound, and then proceeded to wash the entire head of hair, lathering and rinsing away any dirt and mud from the streets.

Watson was slow, he was methodical and thorough. He cared too deeply to want to miss anything, so he gently washed the face, fingers brushing a split lip from a recent fist fight. But it didn’t stop there.

It couldn’t stop there. Watson moved almost without thought, his fingers and hands moving slowly and carefully over every inch of exposed skin, from the face to the shell of the ear to the back of the neck, drawing soft lined around to the jut of the Adams apple and notch beneath, silk cloths stealing away any dirt and filth from the perfect skin.

He came and went, refreshing the water pan before undoing the shirt, hissing under breath and the vivid purpling bruises and contusions, interspersed with angry red welts of rashes. He stretched out with his senses, trying to get a read on any pain centred around the ribs, chest or back. Relieved at finding no strong ones, Watson continued his slow journey, cleansing the wiry shoulders and taut chest and abdomen, brushing fingers over the multitude of scar tissue twisting the already damaged skin in ways that hurt to look at.

He tenderly turned the insensible man on his side, cradling the wounded head as he did so, she he could access the back. He felt a sharp spurt of anger at what he saw there, more scars and more shadowy bruises. Who had dared attack him from behind?

Watson washed the back, the spine showing at too high a relief. The man was thin, underweight even if he maintained impressively strong muscle tone. He dug a salve out of his medical bag, one he reserved for Sentinels as it was mostly odourless, and salved the horribly welted skin. His clothes must have felt like sandpaper. Why wasn’t anyone taking care of you? Watson wondered.

He focused the same attention on the hands and feet, removing the scuffed shoes and cleaning each appendage, up to the shoulder and halfway up the shin to rolled up cuffs of the pants, massaging in scentless oil to the calluses on the feet and exploring each joint of the rough, working hands in intimate details.

The man was half naked and Watson’s ministrations went well beyond what could be considered medically necessary, but the Guide was entranced, hypnotised by the Sentinel’s presence, even to the point where he was completely insensible of the fact that the rippling emotional tide of London no longer drowned him or suffocated him.

It should have felt erotic, brazenly sexual, maybe even embarrassing, but all Watson felt was an all encompassing care and warmth and concern for this creature who had stopped a bullet for him, whose mind was a sheer force of nature, who deserved to be clean and comfortable and looked after.

Watson wished the other would wake. He wanted to see those eyes again. But he was keenly aware now of almost every exposed inch of the Sentinel, including the bags under his eyes. His whole body and mind was the very epitome and careworn fatigue. He needed a good sleep.

Watson hadn’t removed the trousers, even though a part of him wanted to. He cared far too much to expose the Sentinel in that way, to make him vulnerable while he was still insensible and defenceless. The shirt had been necessary, even medically, but Watson would not go any further without permission.

Instead he tidied up, bundled away the dirty cloths, the sutures and the medicines packed back into his bag, the blankets on his narrow bed were rolled down. He then cocooned the Sentinel in the silk sheet and, with some painful effort, managed to drag the Sentinel over to his bed, heaving him into it as gently as he could. The wiry, thin frame was heavier than it looked.

He tucked the man in warmly with the blankets, and took the time to dig out a vial of subtle perfumed oil from his trunk. He placed a few drops on a spare handkerchief and left it folded across the Sentinel’s forehead. It would provide a scent block to the odours of London, and let the Sentinel get some sleep.

The Sentinel stirred a little while Watson dug one last item out of his trunk, and Watson hurried back to see if he was waking. The Sentinel’s mind was still sluggish, but Watson could feel a rising tide of upset bubbling within. Sentinels did not react to being taken out of their own homes or territories well, and this place probably smelled and felt strange to him.

Watson’s hand seemed to move of it’s own accord, gently carding through the uninjured side of hair, brushing tenderly down across the temple and cheek. “It’s alright,” he whispered soothingly. “You’re safe.”

The Sentinel’s head turned to nuzzle his hand like a cat, making Watson blush. The Sentinel settled back into deep sleep, and Watson did not take back his hand. He settled on the floor, his still aching leg held straight out in front of him, his bones suddenly filled with a weary ache. He closed his eyes, just for a brief break from the lantern light, and was unexpectedly encompassed by sleep himself.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the streets, Sentinels and Guides swarmed like a kicked ants nest. Police Inspectors scoured the streets while white flares cut through the fog. There was clamouring in the streets, as noisy as the day.

Police Sentinels in their blue uniforms grouped around the House, the courtyard now blazing alight with lanterns and lamps, glinting over a hundred thousand glittering shards of glass from where the windows had blown out.

The Royal Sentinel clan, resplendent in their rich red and gold uniforms, had formed a grim faced barrier around the entire circumference of the Palace, armed to the teeth, their Guides ramrod straight behind them, making it a double ring of bodies.

One group of many scouring the streets found splattered blood and an empty coat on Battersea Bridge. They dug through the pockets, revealing a small bible, and a sheaf of business cards for an Enoch J Drebber. Two distinct scent trails poured off from the grisly scene. One led to the Palace, where they were not allowed access. The other was backtracked through the streets, where they found more blood almost obliterated by the vial of peppermint oil smashed on the street. Most clever criminals were able to find a way around a Sentinel’s nose.

Reports were Shouted back and forth from Tower to Tower, station house to station house, great slabs of information that progressively painted a picture getting worse and worse.

Lestrade, half dishevelled from going from sound sleep to full sprint to the House, his Guide actually on his back, was dismally aware of the growing chaos.

Gregson came up, looking far more proper but, to his credit, just as worried. He was a big man, blond and bearded and bearing a leather arm band with two pips - red and green. “As near as we can tell, they stuck a rather crude incendiary device packed with dynamite in a leather bag on the flat roof of the student barracks,” Gregson pointed to the building in question. “The Sentinels are still tracking down pieces, but it appears to have been engineered with a timer - some sort of clock. Constable Sentinel Clark was able to discern a faint trace of gun powder residue on the upper window around the dome lip, which means some as yet unknown intruder got in through there, got to the window and threw the bag from the dome to the roof. No mean feat, but not impossible. Left it there, clock ticking and...”

“An explosion,” Lestrade finished grimly. “Blew out every window in the cloister, and conveniently deafened every Sentinel in a mile, or fugueing them. Then they just came in, snatched every child they could get their hands on. Simple, efficient, effective. Casualties?”

Gregson looked ill. “Two House Masters, who got in the way of the kidnappers. Several other Sentinels in training who gave chase despite being half crippled by the noise. Fourteen children,” Gregson’s mouth twisted in utter disgust. “Some by shrapnel, others were killed for fighting back.” Gregson broke off, looking physically ill. “It’s horrific. A sickening nightmare, to attack these children. I had to send the Sentinels away from the...bodies. Just the sight and smell of them made some nearly go feral.”

Lestrade’s eyes cut to his wife, who was across the courtyard, bandaging and managing injuries and frightened children who remained. She was dead white, like most of the empaths here. Her hands shook and her back was rigid with the fear and horror of it, but she soldiered on. They all did.

“I can imagine,” Lestrade replied softly.

“What of the Palace?” Gregson asked. “Has there been any word of what happened there?”

Lestrade grunted. “Nothing as yet. The Royal Clan are keeping tight lipped about it, and no one is allowed access.”

“You don’t think the Queen...” Gregson started, and trailed off.

“I hope not,” Lestrade spoke grimly. “But until we know, let’s deal with this. Where is Alpha Ascot?”

Gregson shrugged. “Consoling his wife, I think. He’s back at the Yard with her now. She was horrified by what had happened.”

So was my wife, Lestrade thought sourly. But she came, and she battled, and she endured. He didn’t deserve someone as truly exceptional as she was.

Lady Sentinel Bradstreet and Inspector Bradstreet came into the disaster area at the dead run. “Lestrade!”

“What is it?” Lestrade demanded, spurred by the urgency on their faces. Lady Lestrade hurried over.

“We found an assault scene on Battersea Bridge. There were signs of a violent struggle and an empty coat...the best we can figure is a man was attacked and thrown into the river,” Lady Bradstreet began, huffing in breaths.

“There were two distinct scent trails from the scene,” the Inspector took up the narrative. “One led to the Palace.”

Gregson’s eyes narrowed. “The attack, whatever it was, is connected to whatever happened at the Palace?”

The Bradstreets nodded.

“Who was attacked?”

“The coat seemed to belong to an Enoch Drebber...” Lady Bradstreet began.

“Drebber?” Lestrade broke in, stunned.

They all turned to him. “You know him, Lestrade?” Gregson demanded.

Lestrade exchanged a look with his Guide. “Not personally. He was interviewed as a foreign Sentinel at the Yard by Holmes a week ago. An American.”

“Holmes! That was the other thing,” Inspector Bradstreet’s voice was filled with strain. “We traced the second scent trail and it lead us to another street close by. Lestrade,” he took a breath, his voice heavy. “Something happened there. There was blood on the street. Someone deliberately obliterated scent trails with peppermint, but one of the Sentinel Sergeants was able to eventually get a scent off the blood.” Bradstreets face was grim as stone. “It was Holmes’ blood.”

“Holmes?!” Lestrade was thunderstruck. Behind him, his Guide gasped in shock. “Someone attacked Holmes? Someone actually managed to get close enough to attack Holmes? Dark Sentinel Sherlock Holmes?” It couldn’t be real.

“They’re absolutely sure, Lestrade,” Lady Bradstreet was pale. “It’s him. We can’t find him anywhere. We checked Baker Street, but Mrs Hudson said he’d been out all evening. She was half out of her mind with worry.”

Someone had invaded the Guide House. Someone had managed to infiltrate the Palace and do God knows what. Someone had actually left a wound on Sherlock Holmes, Alpha Prime in all but name...

Lestrade ran fingers through his hair. “Are they trying to identify scents on the street?”

The Bradstreets nodded. “They are,” Lady Bradstreet confirmed. “They seem to have a lead on a faint scent trail heading north. Superintendant Alpha Ascot is joining the search crews. The scent trail, what little can be discerned through the blasted peppermint, seems to indicate the attacker on Battersea Bridge has absconded with Holmes.”

“Absconded,” Gregson shook his head in disbelief. “Holmes is either dead or unconscious.”

Lestrade glared at him. “Lady Sentinel, Inspector,” he turned to the Bradstreets. “See what you can do about co-ordinating the search parties. Make sure every member of every clan in London knows what has occurred at the House. I’m sure Ascot will want us to scour every last inch on the city.”

Lady Bradsteet saluted. “As you say.”

Gregson surveyed the scene. “I’ll get full reports from here. I’ll also check if we can’t get the River Division out on the waters, make sure no Guides disappear by boat. The Royal clan’s already blocked off the roads.”

Lestrade nodded, and reached for his wife’s hand. It was cold in his, minutely trembling. He chafed it. “Come, my own. We’ll go back to the Yard, see if we can’t start unravelling this mess.”

--------------------------------------------------------------

Watson was startled awake by pounding on his door. The arm not currently in possession of the still deeply sleeping Sentinel shot up straight, gripping his service revolver.

“Open the door! Police!” came the yell through the wood.

Bewildered, Watson rose, gently disengaging his hand from the Sentinel and still holding his revolver loosely in his hand limped toward the door. He limped faster as the pounding started again, and wrenched it open.

“Please be quiet,” he hissed to the surprised, plain clothes police officer whose hand was still raised to pound again. “There is a wounded Sentinel in here, he should not be disturbed.” Watson looked out of the room. There had to be half a dozen Sentinels and their Guides coming through the still broken door of the Charpentier apartment. Pounding footsteps came from deeper in the hallway, and Arthur Charpentier appeared in the main room in stockinged feet, looking fit to be tied.

“What is this?” he snarled. “What are you all doing here?”

“It’s you,” came sharp, familiar voice out of the sudden crowd.

Watson blinked. “Matchmaker?”

Lady Beatrice emerged from the pack of Sentinels, dressed in a huge, gaudy silk dress that was ostentatious in the simple wood lined apartment. “I might have known!” she hissed, infuriated. “You, you uncouth foot soldier! What have you done with the Dark Sentinel! How dare you interfere in clan business!”

Watson was completely confused. “What?”

The pounding Sentinel, dark and heavy set, and the only one not in uniform, shoved on the door and nearly knocked Watson backwards. “Where is he, Consort? Interfering in clan matters is a serious offense.”

“Who are you?” Watson growled, regaining his balance and gripping his revolver firmly.

“I am Superintendant Alpha Sentinel Ascot!” the big man roared. “And you will answer my questions!”

Lady Beatrice let out a little scream when she saw the sleeping Sentinel on the bed. “What have you done to him?”

“Nothing!” Watson protested. “He was attacked...”

Ascot crowded into his personal space, nostrils flaring. “That’s his blood on your face, Consort. I have no doubt he was attacked! I am placing you under arrest! Someone fetch Sentinel Doctor Anstruther.” He grabbed Watson by the shirt front and tried to roughly haul him from the room.

Charpentier leapt in, and knocked the Alpha’s hands away. “Unhand him!”

“I am the Alpha, boy!”

“And his Guide was nearly indecently assaulted by the foreign Sentinel that you sent here, Alpha!” Came the scathing response. Madame Charpentier had entered, in a nightdress and a shawl and looking utterly furious. “You are no Alpha, sir! No Alpha would ever put any Guide in that sort of position!”

“How dare you!” Lady Beatrice shrieked, outraged.

“How dare I?” Madame Charpentier drew herself up. “Because I witnessed the consequences of what he did, that’s how. Now if you all will kindly shut up, please? You are disturbing a very fragile young Guide and I will not stand for it. Not in my own home!”

“Alice!” Charpentier spun to his mother in worry.

“Is fine,” the old woman raised placating hands. “As long as everyone stops yelling.” She added in normal if stern tones. She turned on her heel and strode out again.

The molten atmosphere of temper cooled some. Ascot took Watson roughly by the arm and pulled him out into the main room, ruthlessly yanking the gun from his fisted hand when Watson turned his head to check his patient. Still undisturbed, thank goodness.

“What is this?” Ascot demanded while the rest of the Sentinels were firmly asked to leave by Charpentier, though a pair stayed outside the broken door. The Alpha waved the revolver accusing, thumping it onto the table and forcing Watson to sit while he loomed overhead.

“A Webley Bulldog RIC,” Watson replied, irritated and becoming more so by the second.

“It’s a gun,” Ascot snapped. “Empaths are not allowed to purchase guns by law!”

“I didn’t buy it, sir, I was issued it as a part of my enlistment in the army,” Watson retorted. “I wasn’t always an empath. Those laws only applied to me recently. No one asked me to get rid of it.”

“You should have known!” Ascot blustered sharply.

Watson turned a flat look to Lady Beatrice, whose smug smile faded slightly. “Who would teach me that, sir?”

Lady Beatrice drew in a sharp breath, face flushed.

Ascot seemed to have realized he’d made a tactical error. He tried to redirect. “Well that is of no great importance compared to what else has occurred tonight. What did you do to the Dark Sentinel?”

“Treated him,” Watson bit out. “We crossed paths on the street. Men were chasing him, but I didn’t get a good look at them. One had a gun, he fired toward the Sentinel and the bullet creased his temple. I had him brought here to see to the wound and ensure there was no great damage.” Watson felt that perhaps he shouldn’t make his explanations too complicated and bypassed the Well and all implications therein.

Ascot laughed derisively, surprising Watson. “You? You would treat him? Do you really expect anyone to believe that? A trained doctor, are you?”

“As a matter of fact,” Watson replied levelly. “I am. I was a Surgeon Major in the army.”

The response was so unexpected that Ascot looked to his wife for confirmation.

“He said he was,” she confirmed sourly. “If we can believe a word which comes from that foul heathen mouth. But even if he was, he can no longer legally practice medicine.”

Watson sighed. “I am new to London. I was told not to wander the streets unchaperoned, by you yourself Matchmaker. I don’t know where any of the hospitals are. I didn’t know where I should take a wounded Sentinel in London, and even if I can’t legally practice medicine, I can still make an assessment of how serious a wound is. Rules of Nursing, Chapter Three, Clause Twenty Three,” he quoted. Those days over dry tomes hadn’t been a total waste. “Once I assessed the situation, I was forced to take action in order to prevent fugue or sensory chaos. He was already breaking out in welts across his skin, and he was bruised black and blue which demonstrated hypersensitivity of touch. A Guide is Obligated to Act on any Sentinels Physical Distress, Chapter One, Clause Fourteen.”

Ascot huffed out an impatient breath, unexpectedly thwarted. Charpentier and the other Sentinels were open mouthed. Lady Beatrice’s mouth was opening and shutting.

“So you are a Guide pretending to be a doctor?” Ascot scoffed. “Who ever heard of a Guide doctor?”

“If I were bleeding in some hidden place,” Watson replied coldly. “Almost dead and only detectable by a spiritual signal, I, sir, would certainly want to hear of one.”

“He’s got you there, Ascot,” came a sardonic reply from the doorway. A tall, thin man with a rather crotchety face and a medical bag strode in through the doorway. “My patient?”

Watson pointed into his room. “Pupil reaction and pulse rate normal, unconscious for about ten minutes, sleeping the rest of the time.”

Anstruther raised an eyebrow, but vanished within without a reply.

He strode back out not a minute later, this time looking thoroughly irritated. “This is a joke, surely?”

Ascot blinked. “What do you mean, Sentinel Doctor?”

“There are dozens of Guides who need medical attention at the House right now, and you bring me here to treat a Sentinel who has clearly already seen a doctor?” Anstruther’s voice was angry.

“What?”

“The man’s one serious wound has been stitched as neatly as I have ever seen, the irritants have been washed from his skin, he is wrapped in silk and a scent has been used to ensure rest. Everything the medical journals say you should do for a wounded Sentinel,” his eyes searched Watson. “You were well trained.”

“And experienced,” Watson muttered. “Do you see, Alpha Ascot? Why would I have assaulted him and then brought him here for treatment?”

“That’s not what we’re arresting you for,” Ascot growled. “Scent trails leading to this boarding house have been connected to the street where the Dark Sentinel was injured, a presumed murder scene at Battersea Bridge and a plot to infiltrate the Palace, as well as an explosion and subsequent multiple kidnapping from the House.  We are arresting you for suspicion of murder and high treason.”

“What?” Watson leapt to his feet. “What are you talking about? I don’t know about any explosion!”

“Well, you have been connected to suspicious activities on the same night as two savage attacks, sir. You may only be an accomplice, but scent trails prove you have recently been in contact with at least one of the suspects. We have the right in detaining you until it can be sorted. Constable!” he gestured a uniformed officer in, carrying a pair of iron derbies.

“This is madness!” Watson exclaimed. “I have nothing to do with any of that!”

“Even if you are not,” Lady Beatrice broke in imperiously. “You are still guilty of pair bond interference. The Dark Sentinel has been scheduled for a Bonding Event within days, and any approach by any empath is considered unlawful. I should have expected no better of a weak and uneducated Consort.”

Watson’s heart stopped. “He’s...he’s bonded?” the words came out a tortured whisper, as his insides were sliced open with a dull knife.

“It is a matter of time,” Lady Beatrice said smugly. “What did you expect? Did you expect him to bond with a lowly Consort like you?” She laughed with scorn.

Blood roared in Watson’s ears, and he bent double, struggling to breathe. His heart hammered. It couldn’t be!

In the next room, the Dark Sentinel’s eyes snapped open, and he leapt from the bed in one movement. Who threatens what is MINE!

The Dark Sentinel burst from the room in a flying flurry of silk. He ploughed through one Constable near the first doorway, nearly throwing him all the way through a wall, leaving cracked and bent boards in his wake.

“He’s feral!” Anstruther roared, snapping open his bag. “Hold him down!”

The Constables all came running and joined the scrum, but it was like holding back a tide with a teaspoon. The Dark Sentinel raged silently with no roar or yell; just sheer, bloodthirsty brutality.

“Wait, wait!” Watson exclaimed over Lady Beatrice’s scream of terror as Constables went flying left and right. Even Charpentier was thrown all the way down one hallway, landing at his startled mother’s feet as she re-emerged from her room from the noise.

Watson ripped free of Ascot’s shocked grip, and the Alpha himself dove to protect his wife as the Dark Sentinel turned into a blur of fists and feet, blood spattering where he struck.

Watson hit the enraged man in a full body tackle. “Sentinel!”

The Dark Sentinel froze, breathing hard, his arms suddenly full of distressed Guide. They locked eyes, and the Sentinel was lost - completely lost, in the colour of his Guide’s irises. Suddenly he sagged to the floor, even as Anstruther withdrew his syringe from where he’s jabbed it into the torso.

Watson grabbed a hold of the suddenly unconscious Sentinel. “What did you give him?” he demanded angrily.

“Morphine, just morphine,” Anstruther held up his hands. “That’s all. No enough to do him any harm.”

Watson glared at him, but was abruptly yanked backwards by the scruff.

“Take care of him, Anstruther,” Ascot growled, hauling a suddenly fighting mad Watson. “You are under arrest, Consort, and coming with us!”

Watson fought wildly over outraged shouts from Madame Charpentier and her son as he was dragged apart from his Sentinel, struggling to keep him in sight as Anstruther bent over him and Constables got to their feet, bloodied and groaning. His heart felt like it had been torn to useless scraps, his world went blacker and blacker every step he was dragged.

It was worse than the war. Nothing could have prepared him for this kind of torture, nothing at all.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

End Part Six