Fic: Observations on Sentinels & Guides in Victorian London - Part Eight (PG-13)
Title: Observations in Sentinels & Guides in Victorian London
Author: Ryuuza Kochou
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6720
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 Seven: The Queen Speaks, Holmes Deducts, Watson Contemplates Hell....and is sort of kidnapped too....
Authors Notes: Sorry, sorry, sorry! This was even worse than the last time! Blame BBC Sherlock (Best. Show. Ever! And I’ve only seen clips on Youtube!) I got kind of distracted and started writing a BBC Sherlock/NCIS crossover. Geez, my mind works strangely....Oh, and there are a few fun facts about Queen Victoria in this chapter, a cookie to anyone who can spot them; she was a pretty interesting figure, actually. Thank God for Wikipedia.
Notes/Warnings: Adult themes, some violence and light bad language.
Disclaimer: All owned by the estate of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and associated folk. 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
Part Six:
http://community.livejournal.com/holmeswatson09/738373.html
Part Seven:
http://community.livejournal.com/holmeswatson09/752970.html
Observations on Sentinels And Guides in Victorian London - Part Eight
She was a handsome woman; not beautiful, not stunning, but that served her well. Beauty was transient, it faded. The handsomeness was solid, unchanged, it emphasized character and dignity. For a monarch, that was better than gold.
Her air and form had remained so for the last twenty years; swathed in mourning black, and if outside a widow’s bonnet holding the place of the crown. For now, her hair was pressed down neatly, her hand held a silk handkerchief tightly. Her face was smooth and unlined and she was in excellent condition for a woman of sixty years; though a look in her eye revealed a soldiers struggle under heavy burdens of a lifetime.
Holmes straightened and nodded while the others all bowed. The Dark Sentinel may acknowledge the tribal Elders and even heed them, but he was no subservient.
The Queen did not seem at all surprised. She offered him a courtly nod of acknowledgement. “Mister Sentinel Holmes,” she spoke clear and deep. “We are glad to see you in such good health.”
“Your Majesty,” Holmes replied. “I hope your first chambermaid recovers from her illness quickly.”
One did not rule a kingdom for more than forty years without having absolute poise. The only sign of surprise she showed was the rise of one sharp eyebrow. Her lips, usually drawn in a line, twitched slightly. “You are....much like your brother, Sentinel Holmes.”
Holmes rolled his eyes. “You are the regent of all England and the supreme elder for the tribe, your Majesty. You are free to speak whatever insults you please.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes too, in exasperation.
There was rather more twitching lips for a moment. “Will you walk with me, Mister Holmes?”
“You are free to command me at any moment of any day, in any capacity and in any place, your Majesty,” Holmes spoke, his voice unexpectedly fierce. “This tribe and this city are mine. But I cannot stay here. My Guide needs me. Any other day and other moment, I would acquiesce to whatever my elder demands. But not today.”
“Holmes,” Barstone’s voice was a growled warning.
“No, my Sentinel,” the Queen shook her head slightly at Barstone. “I do understand his position. Sentinel Holmes, I ask because it is important. You have my word it will not take long. It may even be of some help to you. Please, I ask again; walk with me.”
Despite the impatience burning through him, Holmes looked away in unspoken capitulation. His Guide needed him, and that tore his insides apart, but there was a reason the Dark Sentinel led all others. The Dark Sentinel was able to strategize and think and plan; he was able to approach threats in more complicated ways, able to recognize that the worst threats to safety weren’t just immediate physical ones. There were enemies in this city, conspirators, plotters and traitors, and they needed to be eliminated entirely to keep his Guide safe. If he ignored that, then his Guide would be at risk in his city, and that was unacceptable.
“Lord Barstone, please take your Beta and meet us in the forward guard room,” the Queen ordered imperiously.
“With due respect, I must stay with you, my Queen,” Barstone replied lowly. “Our perimeter has been breached, and your safety is my only concern.”
“The safety of my tribe is my only concern, my Lord Sentinel,” the Queen retorted magisterially. “I am certain Sentinel Holmes is my ally in this. Do you have any doubt, my Sentinel, any whatsoever, that I am not perfectly safe with the Dark Sentinel at my side?”
Barstone grimaced. “No, my Queen,” he admitted grudgingly. “But I feel as if I should.”
“You do have some sense, Alpha,” Mycroft murmured, impervious to his younger brother’s glare.
“Nevertheless, I am guarded and am safe.” The Queen continued. “Please do as I ask.”
Barstone bowed again. “At once, your Majesty. Forgive me if I have transgressed.”
To this the Queen merely tilted her noble chin. “Your concern over my wellbeing is never a transgression, my guardian. And please have tea prepared and taken to my chambers. You may sit with me all night, if that is your will. We shall talk. Please let Mister Brown know to come also.”
Barstone and his Guide both bowed and departed, Mycroft echoing him and leaving in his wake, but not without a parting shot. “Keep a civil tongue in your head, brother mine, or I swear on our mother’s grave you shall know the hellish depths of humiliation when I reveal all your childhood transgressions to the court.”
“You would conduct business as usual then, Mycroft,” Holmes snorted. “And do keep in mind that is a sword that cuts both ways.”
When they had departed, Holmes offered his arm. “Elder, shall we?”
The Queen led the way through the vaulted hallways of the Palace, now alight with candles and lanterns, shining across the riches of not just wealth, but also history.
“We wish you to know that we are pleased with the fact that you have found a suitable Guide, Sentinel Holmes,” the Queen spoke after a short dint of silence.
“I am sure the reformation of the London Pride after many decades of dissolution will be a boon for the Empire, your Highness,” Holmes spoke in reply, a faint trace of sardonic irony in his voice.
“No doubt,” the Queen replied frankly. “But I, personally, am glad for you. Isolation and loneliness are harsh experiences, and ones which I have never cherished.”
“And betrayal, likewise,” Holmes spoke slowly, not looking at her. “You did not perhaps cherish that either. Though I suppose it is not helpful to cling to old hurts.”
The Queen gave him a long look. “No, I suppose not. You feel perhaps there is some feminine weakness in me that is unbecoming in a tribal Elder?”
Holmes shrugged. “Never, your Highness. I respect you; you personally provided me with private trainers that weren’t complete dullards and incompetents in my childhood. For that alone I at least acknowledge that you are free to command me as the supreme elder in every matter, save one. I do wonder about your capacity to forgive your mother and Conroy for what they tried to do to you. The Sentinel in me would never excuse that kind of behaviour.”
The Queen inclined her head. “High ruler and supreme elder I may be, but I have also lived for three score. And after a lifetime of experience you may take from me the wisdom of an old woman, young man; the passions and angers of youth do not survive long into the autumn years. This I know for a fact. Youth sees the world as simply as the aged know it is complex. And it is not so easy to pass judgement on others once you have had the time to collect a few sins of your own. One day even you, Sentinel, may find it a better thing to forgive.”
To this, Holmes snorted. “That is not the function a Sentinel holds in the tribe, your Majesty.”
“No, it is not. The Sentinel hunts, he protects, he guards and fights,” the Queen intoned. “The Guide heals and stays the bloody hand and shows mercy. My predecessor was very adamant about that. I find her a supremely interesting figure; she was, and still is, my most indulged fascination.”
“I note you have had the portrait of her in battle with the Spanish armada moved to your chambers,” Holmes said blandly.
The Queen blinked. “I am impressed, Sentinel.”
Holmes shrugged. “It was no great feat, given how the paintings have all been recently re-spaced.”
They turned into a small but richly polished wood chamber, filled with ornate glass cases. Shards of glass were scattered on the floor like pebbles. The room was also filled with peppermint aroma.
The plate armour and chainmail were still in evidence, as well as the battle dress, the travel cloak and the steel capped Calvary boots. Pikes, swords, shields and daggers lined on wall, all well maintained but untouched by the intruder. In several cases there were letters and decrees of that age, as well as prizes taken in the conquests, a few assorted skulls of important enemies. Dominating the room was a life size portrait of the Dark Sentinel Queen herself. Her red halo of hair shone out from where she sat within the frame, her face encircled by an elaborate ruff in the fashion of the time, her clothing richly embroidered with primitive swirls and lines. Kneeling at her side was a beared, dark haired man, attired to match; the Lord Royal Guide Robert Dudley. Queen Elizabeth, Prime Alpha, Dark Empress, Supreme Elder. Her intense expression demonstrated her oft noted character; beautiful, powerful, proud, and pitiless on the battlefield.
Flanking the portrait were the two styles of armour she wore, assembled and hung up, so that it seemed she merely needed to step into them again. Beneath the portrait was the smashed case, which had been holding the smaller, ornamental pieces.
“The Talons, as you see, are gone,” the Queen pointed to the empty area. “Obsidian and iron, jointed to fit over the entire finger span of every finger. They say she enjoyed,” here, the Queen grimaced slightly. “Disembowelling the enemy soldiers with them, like a lioness. You can see the likeness of them in the portrait, she wears one pair of them on the two last fingers of her right hand,” The Queen gestured to the area, where the Dark Sentinel’s hand rested upon the globe of the world, the last two fingers sheathed in wickedly long black iron claws, drops of blood forming crimson specks on the globe. An empire won and ruled in battle and blood.
“But what struck me was what else they knew to take,” the Queen continued.
Holmes examined the case briefly. “You no doubt refer to the rings. Oh, it is perfectly clear, Your Highness. You can see where the locked box was secreted in at the back panel of the case, completely hidden from view. No doubt most people believe the rings are held with the rest of the Crown Jewels; but they are not technically part of those treasures.”
“You are correct,” The Queen replied with dignity. “They were secreted here once the Armoury was established. It was fitting; they were the accoutrements of a Sentinel and a Guide, not a Queen and her Consort.”
“May I see the Guide’s ring, which you hold in your hand?”
“How did you know they had only taken the Sentinel’s ring, sir?”
Holmes shrugged. “They are interested only in esteeming their precious Dark Sentinel, your Highness. I’d say their actions towards the House makes their view of Guides perfectly clear.” He held out his hand.
She wryly passed him the silk handkerchief.
Unfolded, it revealed an exquisite but simplistic circlet. The base was bright gold; dark, blood red rubies marched around its entire circumference, sunken within the thick gold band. It seemed a plain thing, until you saw it under Sentinel sight, and how the most delicate filigree of twisting gold wires braided around each stone, and the tiniest imaginable engravings etched into either side. This was a Sentinel made piece, exquisite wrought and would take the superhuman sight levels to reach such minute detail. The inside of the circlet was not gold, however, but a coppery colour shot through with a band of black.
“Commissioned by the Dark Queen and taking years to complete,” Holmes murmured distractedly as he examined it. “Artisans from around the globe were brought. They held off the formal bonding ceremony until they were finished. Seen in every portrait of the two together; often where their hands linked,” he surveyed the portrait, where the hands of the Sentinel and Guide indeed crossed, the rings clearly touching. “Said by the fanciful and the gullible that one ring can always find the other when worn by those in love, no matter how far apart; proof of the spiritual bond strength. Complete nonsense, of course,” with this Holmes derisively threw the ring in a lazy arc toward the portrait, where it was yanked unexpectedly off course, and stuck fast to one suit of armour’s breast plate with a clang. “The metal on the inside, still undefined and supposedly taken from a rock which fell out of the sky is exceptionally magnetic. Both rings have the same cold forged core, and both are pulled together once within range. That is how I knew you held it; your necklace has iron fastenings that were pulled toward your hand slightly.”
“Very good, Sentinel Holmes,” The Queen nodded. “All perfectly correct. The Sentinel ring was indeed stolen and this one left behind. By stealing it, they strike not only at the heart of the Empire but also at our heritage and our history. The ring is to a pride what a crown is to a kingdom. I would task you with ensuring it’s safe return. The reward will be plentiful.”
Holmes gently levered the Guide ring from it’s sticking place. “While I can imagine you could offer more wealth than one person could ever dream of, Your Majesty,” he replied. “I am not sufficiently rewarded by money alone. I will hunt down these men but I will do so because they threaten my city; not on an order, even from you. You have nothing to offer me that holds my interest and my patriotism is not bought or sold.”
“I know of this, Sentinel,” The Queen informed him gravely. “Which is why I do not offer pennies and trinkets. Regain the Dark Sentinel’s bond rings; if you can do so, then they are yours to keep.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “An attractive offer, Your Highness. But I sense there is more to this.”
“As the Prime Alpha you are, by statute, to be made a titled noble on bonding; you are to be given properties and tenants. But I know this holds no attraction for you, Sentinel Holmes. You are a free minded person, you reject social status and conventions. You wish to be free to pursue your calling; free from politics and administration. I see merit in that. You have done a great deal of good for a great many of my people - the innocent, the deceived, the downtrodden. The tribe is made better by your efforts, and the tribe is the Empire. So this is what I offer you; find the ring, stop my enemies, and you and your Guide will be considered free agents within the Empire. Go where you like; do as you please, within reason. Even I will not have the authority to order you. You may keep being anonymous to the general public. You may keep doing what you clearly excel at. I will not stop you, or demand a public appearance, or make you an emissary for my interests. That, I believe, may hold some interest for you.”
Ha! Holmes thought to himself. Small wonder she has ruled for so long. “So it does, Your Highness.”
They went next to the forward guard room, outside which Barstone paced impatiently. “Your Majesty,” he scanned her minutely, and glanced at his Guide, who silently inclined his head. “I see he has not completely offended you.”
Holmes rolled his eyes. “Such faith.”
“I would ask you not to venture within,” Barstone ignored this. “The scene is quite evil. Holmes, step this way.”
It was, indeed, quite evil. A Sentinel and Guide pair lay entangled around each other, their blood mingling in a pool on the marble a shade darker than their uniforms.
“Whityre and Thompson,” Barstone’s voice was a snarl. “Ten year veterans, both. Usually they worked from the Palace Tower, but Whityre begged off. Said his Guide had caught a chill. We rotated them to the forward guard room until the Guide had recovered.”
“An assailant used the water drain to gain access, one of the more commonly known hidden exits,” Holmes began as he examined the bodies coolly, blocking out the stench of the blood with every ounce of willpower he had, which was quite a lot. “A small man, he wears spectacles, is most likely American though he must have some British relations. He clerks when he’s not thieving or killing; most likely he works with a Sentinel clan in a high level capacity. Former soldier; a skirmisher, though, and an officer; not a foot soldier. He’s had wealth before, but has fallen on hard times for several years since. He found a calling in some religious sect, though not one, I think, that the Almighty would heartily approve of.”
Barstone’s jaw dropped momentarily. Then he shook his head. “I should be used to that by now after my Beta’s habits. He refused to enter.”
“Of course he did,” Holmes replied levelly. “He won’t take Wilikins into such places. He has seen his quota of bloodshed.”
“And?” Barstone gestured to the fallen men.
Holmes sighed in impatience. “The smell of algae from the cellar drains is hard to avoid. I could scent the trail up to here before it was obliterated by the peppermint. He’s small, because he took the Sentinel first; the Sentinel was the biggest threat, not the Guide who could summon help mentally. Spectacles because the Guide knocked them off as he lunged for the killer; you can see the minute chip off one lens laying there by your feet. Clerking, you see, from the shape of his shoes on the carpet; office shoes, not military boots or work mans footwear. Plus the papers that were thrown over there; he carried them in, looking official and not arousing suspicion. He looks like a clerk, and from the handwriting he also does display some knowledge of clerical wording. In a Sentinel clan because he clearly knows how Sentinels think and operate. He wouldn’t have been able to reach them so efficiently if he didn’t. Skirmisher is evident in the comfortable and decisive ways he kills; he’s used to close combat with small weapons in small groups; and is also unfazed by multiple opponents. Education levels indicate an officer; the shoe impression is clearly a well made patented leather type, but you see the irregularities in the shape and uniformity of the carpet grain as it was shifted under his feet, which mean the soles are in bad repair. He does not smoke or drink; a man intruding on a Royal residence has every reason to sedate himself, but there’s no ash and no scent which would show he indulged. A soldier would usually; unless he’s religious. We’ve already established that a religious group may be behind this.”
“I understand about being an American,” Barstone stated softly. “What makes you think he’s got connections here?”
“He had help getting in here. A lone stranger walking these walls would attract attention. That’s what you train your guards for. Someone known to the palace walked him at least as far as the Grand Staircase. A stranger in the company of one already vouched for would not be automatically questioned. Once he gained access to the forward guard, he slit the Sentinels throat while the Guide watched. When the Guide jumped in to help,” Holmes lifted one stiffening arm. “A single upward thrust. Quick, efficient, merciless. He broke three vials of peppermint to mask the blood. Then it was a simple matter to reach the Armoury display. Once the alarm was raised the guards would have rushed to protect the Royals and the entourages. A swift, cunning and fearless man would be able to slip away in the chaos.”
Barstone cursed virulently, so much so that you could scarcely believe his aristocratic upbringing. “I’ll have the entire staff questioned.”
Holmes gave a distracted grunt, focused on the middle distance while he put his thoughts in order. “Where are they keeping them?” he mused under his breath. “Where can you hide a pack of stolen Guides in this city?”
Suddenly, his whole body jerked as if electrified.
Barstone - an old experienced campaigner - was astonished at what happened next. The Dark Sentinel spun like a top and was out the door before Barstone could even draw breath. Even as he reached the corridor Holmes was a blur, a literal blur, in the far distance while the astonished monarch and the Lord Guide stared after him.
Baynes sagged, clutching his head, and his Sentinel hurried to his side.
“Oh God, Sentinel,” Baynes groaned. “The Guide! Something is happening!”
Queen Victoria frowned with concern, her hand raised in an aborted attempt to reach for the suddenly swaying man. “A Guide?”
“If you will forgive me, Your Majesty,” Barstone murmured as he pulled his Guide into an embrace, before bellowing at the top of his voice. “All Sentinels to arms! All Sentinels! Follow the Dark Sentinel! Assistance required!”
--------------------------------------------------
The coach ride was silent, any inclination to put words to voice had been irrevocably slaughtered in the small room in the Yard, after Watson had made his admission.
But honestly, Lestrade mused from his seat in the quietly swaying contraption, what could you say after a statement like that? He shot a surreptitious glace at the silent and pale former army Doctor, currently wedged in between Ascot and himself. The man’s face was blank....no, it was focused elsewhere, somewhere where only private feelings were that were never displayed on the face. Lestrade could see his own wife’s hands knotted primly in her lap, visibly restrained; she wanted to reach out and comfort the obviously grief stricken fellow empath as a Guide’s nature often dictated. She could not, however. Not under the piercing stares of the Ascots who would deride the inappropriateness of it.
They were going back to the House. Even damaged and besieged as it was, it was still the most defensible stronghold for Guides in London. Even more so now, after the great tragedy there. Any Sentinel police officer not scouring the streets would be there in full bristle, determined to protect the Guides from further harm.
The Alpha Ascot and the Matchmaker were at a loss at what to do next. The House was in chaos, the Palace had been breached and the streets were a war zone; despite all of that, the prize for the most astonishing event was spurred by this one man. This one man, whom despite the fact you could call most striking in appearance, was otherwise seemingly ordinary. Holmes may be a madman, but he looked and acted like one; he was erratic, hard to read, impossible to predict and therefore full of unexpected shocks. Watson’s strangeness, on the other hand, was shocking in a different direction. He astounded because his ordinariness cloaked his outrageous story, as much as Holmes eccentricity hid his normal, human feelings.
Lestrade now had a huge problem on his hands. Ascot probably had not cottoned on to it yet, but he would soon enough and then Lestrade burdens would increase exponentially.
Lestrade had heard the full account of the events at the boarding house. He had personally heard statements from the Charpentier’s, and had dipped in to the streams of gossip now flooding the Yard, which was now drowning in awed whispers. Holmes had gone totally feral.
Lestrade had never actually seen it happen before. Oh, he’d seen the Dark Sentinel come out to play, no question at all about that. But the Dark Sentinel had been a rational, cold, logical creature; all speed and incisiveness and precision. What the officers had seen had been closer to the berserker style of feral reaction that plagued Sentinels living in the urban centres. Lestrade could scarcely believe what he’d heard. Holmes had never completely lost his senses, had never relinquished that iron self control of his mental state. His conscience might shift places when his Dark half came to the fore, but never his rationality.
Lestrade glanced at the silent Watson. He did it for you.
Well of course, Lestrade though drily. It’s not as if Holmes, eccentric to the core, could pick a normal, everyday Guide. No, it had to be this man, this shockingly unassuming and extraordinary man, who would earn the Dark Sentinel’s regard.
But therein lay the problem. Lestrade was an officer of the law and therefore had to respect the rules, including hierarchy. Ascot was his Alpha. But equally, Holmes was his Alpha and sitting next to him was his Alpha’s Guide. Consort, Lestrade snorted to himself. Sometimes Lady Beatrice could be uncommonly stupid when she was being petty.
Lestrade had to choose between Alphas now and he knew in his bones that as annoying, as erratic and as arrogant as he could be, Holmes was the Prime Alpha and therefore outranked Ascot. Lestrade had to keep this Guide safe. Even if that meant acting against Ascot.
It gave him a sickly feeling. Lestrade may not like Ascot, but that had nothing to do with it. Sentinels who betrayed their Alphas were counted amongst the lowliest of traitors, no matter the reasoning. Lestrade was going to have to betray one no matter what he did.
But he knew he sided with Holmes. Not just because he grudgingly respected him, but also because he had no doubt whatsoever that once Ascot realized that Holmes reacted to Watson as a Sentinel would in the presence of his Guide, then he would do everything in his power to keep them apart. Ascot was too fond of his own prestige and power to acknowledge any other Sentinel’s authority. Lestrade found that positional to be unacceptable and unconscionable. He may be constantly irritated by Holmes’ antics, but at least Holmes was no hypocrite.
Lestrade looked at Watson again. If Watson belonged to the Dark Sentinel, then it was Lestrade’s duty to keep him safe until the man himself came to claim him. He had no doubt that the infuriating genius would be coming soon, if he wasn’t already on his way. He wished he could reassure the too-pallid Guide of this. The poor man looked beleaguered and battle fatigued, his stooped posture rang with a hopelessness that you needn’t be an empath to see. He wasn’t teetering on the brink of despair, he was head first into the slough, blinded and deafened by defeat. Lestrade had seen that look too many times in people standing on the parapet of many a tall building. Some part of him wished for the respite of death.
But, Lestrade cursed inwardly. He could say nothing; not without tipping his hand to Ascot. He resolved to hold on and keep the Guide close by. Holmes was not a patient man. It wouldn’t take him long.
Watson, for his part, simply stared at his feet. His thoughts were vague, detached. If he started to focus, then all he would see was the past, and that was a dangerous a bloody country, best avoided.
He never should have come here, he thought dismally. He should have stayed with the desert people, or better yet simply died in the battle with his comrades. The future now stretched before him was a bleak one, filled with the ripping, gaping pain in his soul which no amount of jezail bullets could hope to hold a candle to. There would be dreary comings and goings for the rest of his life, while he toiled at some drudgery and his once sharp mind dulled to a useless lump. All the good he had accomplish would wash away like sand in a tide over months and years until all that was left was a tired, grey haired old man who accomplished nothing that lasted, long weary of existence, limping to his grave with no one left to shed a tear. How could they? How could he ever again form any sort of meaningful connection with anyone? How could the one link, formed in an instant, that he had been absolutely and totally sure of be nothing more that some hallucination in his head? But that mesmerizing Sentinel was to be bonded, and Watson didn’t have a chance. There would never be another, Watson was sure of that.
He eyed the swordstick still in Lestrade’s hands. Dare he save Father Time the trouble of sending him to Hell minute by minute? It’s not as if anyone would shed a tear now anyway. They had taken his gun, but as a doctor he would have no trouble finding both carotid and the jugular. At least it would be quick.
He sharply turned those thoughts away, stacking them behind the same walls and his memories. The other Guides in the coach would sense his feelings if they lingered too long. The last thing he needed was to end up in the asylums. He tried to focus on something else, something neutral.
He felt Lestrade’s wife radiating sympathy and support to him, as much as she was able. She was a good woman, Watson could tell, and she had the most extraordinarily effective shielding that Watson had ever felt. She must have had an enormous knack for it even before training. Female Guides did tend to be better at shielding, though. It was one of those things that people often had misconceptions about. Women were generally considered to have less control over their emotions than men; but actually it was more to do with the fact that what they felt was much more complicated and layered than men generally were. As a result, they tended to understand the intricacies of their emotional states better; and the more you understood, the more you could control.
There, that was a safer topic. The giant difference in Watson’s life since his return to home soil had been reacquainting himself was the society of women, particularly female Guides; and of course dealing with a more varied society in general. Their spectrum of reactions to Sentinels and Guides was far more complex and immense than in the army. In the army, the only reaction usually engendered by a Sentinel was one of respect, tinged with envy. Of course, when you were in the middle of some foreign land and surrounded by enemies, it was hard not to like a person who had the best chance of saving your life, regardless of their personal lifestyle.
That attitude was not reflected off the battlefield. The bald fact of the matter was there were more male Sentinels and Guides than female. The actual ratio was about ten to one. Female Sentinels were incredibly rare; about one in a hundred. Female Guides were slightly more prevalent but were still outnumbered by males by a wide margin. Most pairs were completely male.
Society did not like same gender relations; that was indisputable. Where ordinary people were subjected to prison terms for such a relationship, exceptions were made for Sentinels. They had to be, as Sentinels were a valuable resource. But Society still frowned on it, a view exacerbated by a lack of understanding about the necessity of bonding between Sentinels and Guides. For this reason, male pairs were mostly within the army. If it had to occur, then it best occur a long way away.
For those that couldn’t go into the army or had left it, then they were rooted in some rural district where they wandered lonely places and didn’t see much ‘civil’ society who could be offended. Within the city almost all joined Scotland Yard because the instinct to defend was integral to their characters. It was not actually spoken but generally understood that most same-gender pairs within the police were almost always street patrollers, with not much prospect for promotion. A policeman with a female Guide was more likely to reach an Inspector level; they were considered more ‘normal’ or ‘natural’ and therefore more trustworthy when testifying in court.
Watson was more accustomed to the male-male pairs and their way of doing things. Female Guides on the battlefield had been few and far between, and they had been both tragic and exceptional women; brave and steadfast and as tough as nails, but also lonely, almost totally cut off from female company, doing cooking and laundry for battalions of soldiers.
But safe. No female Guide had ever been interfered with by any coarser elements of the British army. Soldiers knew very well what feral Sentinels were capable of.
Watson had never much thought about it. Where he had been raised...ah, but that was the past, a place he dare not go. He emerged from his black study, watching the streetlamps go by dully instead.
The lights flashing by were slowing, however, and Lestrade next to him was frowning in puzzlement. The Inspector reached up and rapped his knuckles against the roof of the cab. “Rance? What’s going on out there?”
An equally puzzled reply floated down from the drivers box. “Not sure, guv. There be a gennelmen a-standin’ in the midst o’ road.”
“Well then move him aside, Constable,” came Ascot’s irritated order. “It’s not as if he’ll stay there with the whole coach bearing down on him.”
“I reckoned he would move as we came closer, guv, but ‘e’s just standin’ there,” Rance replied uncertainly. “’E’s holdin’ a basket, sir. Could be a bairn.”
Watson blinked, and then hammered on the roof of the cab desperately. “Move! Move it now!”
“Consort!” Lady Beatrice snapped, offended by his behaviour. “Restrain yourself!”
“There’s no child! Can’t you sense that?” Watson turned desperately to Lestrade. “This used to be a favourite ambush tactic in Afghanistan. Slow the convoy then-” Watson stopped because Lestrade’s expression had just changed, his eyes going wide.
The Inspectors arms shot out, one for his wife and the other behind Watson. “Down!” he yelled as the bullets shattered the coach windows, yanking his wife down and shoving Watson down as well, though Watson needed no warning.
Lestrade swore, hardly audible over Lady Beatrice’s hysterical screams, pivoted his body and kicked out the door. Ascot already had a revolver in his hands and was removing the other one with a similar kick.
“Sentinel,” Lady Lestrade commanded lowly, her voice dropping into the hypnotic cadence of a working Guide. “Fade your hearing to a whisper. Raise your sight half mast.”
Lestrade responded instinctively to the voice. His hearing dropped so when Ascot shot the explosion of sound barely registered. His eyes scanned the street, zeroing in on three attackers, one with a rifle, moving in on their side. He pulled his own iron out of his pocket, and levelled an expert shot at one, dropping him with a bullet.
No time to do anything further; he dove from the coach head first to avoid an answering volley of fire, rolled and came up firing. He had to scatter them; the Guides were easy targets trapped inside the coach. He heard Ascot firing on the other side of the coach, no doubt doing something similar. Lestrade teeth were bared in a snarl. His Guide. His territory. No one was allowed to threaten either one.
They were Sentinels; half crazed looking men, clearly unbalanced. They rushed at him, and Sentinels were fast. Lestrade was forced to drop the gun, because cocking and squeezing the trigger would take too long and they would be on him. Instead, in darted his free hand into the folds of his trench coat, taking a grip on the strips of steel he found there.
The revolvers were a necessary weapon in this day and age, but most Sentinels he knew preferred a quieter method of protection. The truncheon was still much used, but had a regrettable lack of distance. Lestrade had learned to improvise.
The first man who came at him reeled back with a cry, the throwing knife lodged grip deep in the critical juncture of his shoulder, and a second turning blade just nicked the hamstring of another coming in the side. Sentinel sight and touch combined made for excellent hand eye coordination.
Lestrade tried to keep his back to the coach. Constable Rance could be of no help; the first round of fire has resulted in his wounding and he lay groaning across the box seat. From the other side of the coach there came the meaty sound of fists striking and bodies falling. Clearly Ascot was demonstrating the brutal hand to hand combat skills that had made him an Alpha to begin with. With every assault, however, he was drawn away from his sentry spot at the broken coach door. The horses were spooked and shying, making the carriage roll forward and backwards and the situation hard to control.
The decoy man with the basket was coming forward and making a grab for the reins. Lestrade growled and leapt for him. He could not allow the enemy to take control of the coach. Another man sneaking up from behind managed to gain access to the coach door, but received a nasty surprise in the form of Watson’s heavy cane cudgelling him squarely between the eyes as he tried to get access.
“Ladies, we must leave the coach,” Watson spoke calmly and firmly. Lady Beatrice had her eyes fixed worriedly on her furiously fighting Sentinel, but Lady Lestrade nodded to him. She gripped the larger woman by the arms and bodily shoved her out towards her husband’s side of the fight, moving to follow her.
“My Lady,” Watson unsheathed his sword, and handed her the wooden sheath. “You may have need of it. If any of them get too close, swing as hard you can.”
Lady Lestrade nodded. “You can be sure of it.” She replied tightly, before following Lady Beatrice out.
“Help is coming,” Watson assured her as she gingerly climbed from the jolting vehicle. “We need not hold out for long.”
He then calmly turned around, lifted a foot and planted it squarely in the groin of the next would-be intruder, exiting after him and giving him a further kick in the head from where he lay groaning on the floor.
He thrust at another approaching opponent, piercing his stomach and levelling him with a punch. The immediate concerns taken care of, he then gripped the side of the still dancing, jerking coach with his sword hand and reached up to grab Rance by the sleeve of his coat. He yanked the injured man off the drivers seat and half dropped, half guided him to the cobbles. He hit the road with a harsh thump, but there had been no kinder way.
“Lestrade! Let it go!” he shouted to the still fighting Sentinel doing his best to fend off attackers with a knife in hand while being jerked and pulled by the two panicking horses whose reins he had captured.
The Inspector flashed him a brief look of surprise, before relinquishing the horses, who took off in a wild clatter down the street. How there was just two Sentinels and three Guides against far less opponents than there had been minutes before. The defenders grouped together wordlessly, the Sentinels circling around the Guides and the injured man like moons. Watson directed a white faced and sobbing Lady Beatrice to put pressure on the man’s torso wound while Lady Lestrade gripped her makeshift weapon with white knuckles.
There was the sound of another coach, racing up from behind them. For a moment it seemed like the rescue, much needed because there were still half a dozen attackers approaching from all sides. But Lestrade’s eyes noted a flash of flame in the darkness, followed by a quick sparkle and the smell of burning.
His heart raced. “Dynamite!” he bellowed.
He instinctively dove for his Guide to shield her, Ascot doing precisely the same. Watson threw himself across his patient, but the shockwave from the hellish stick, still high mid air when it blew, knocked them about like skittles.
Dazed, Watson rose to his hands and knees and was insensible to the second coach rolling up behind him. His ears were ringing like bells.
He didn’t have time to prepare for the hands that grabbed him by the scruff and hauled him away with the moving coach, the street now charred and it’s occupants lying ominously still, faded into blackness.
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End Part Eight