Fic: Observations on Sentinels & Guides in Victorian London - Part Nine (PG-15)
Title: Observations in Sentinels & Guides in Victorian London
Author: Ryuuza Kochou
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG-15
Word Count: 7021
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 Nine: Watson defies at every turn, and Holmes prepares to go after him....
Authors Notes: Urg, I did it again. Family wedding interstate, broken back up laptop, brother in custody (not paying his parking fines, silly bugger) over a long weekend, moving stuff out, buying new stuff for the house as we’re losing a key figure, legal stuff, loan stuff, house assessment stuff...plus, writers block of epic proportions, all were a big failure to help in this part. But I sat down and I forced myself past it because damn it! I want to get this done for all the readers hanging out. I know how totally frustrating it is waiting for an update. So sorry folks!
Notes/Warnings: Adult themes, some violence and light bad language. Also, some mild, non graphic sexual situations in this one (basically threats)
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
Part Eight:
http://community.livejournal.com/holmeswatson09/767937.html
Part Nine:
There was a blurry moment between unconsciousness and awakening where a half formed desert, all glint and glare, swam glowingly before him.
Why was it always the desert? Everything in his mind was a windswept, barren, rocky place, all jagged edges and boiling heat, where nothing grew. He liked forests and parks with living, green things inside them, but somewhere inside it was always a damn desert.
‘So derisive,’ spoke a soft, low voice, rich honey overlayed with the crystallized crackle of great age. ‘So judgmental. Within this place the strongest life is forged. Within this place there are no lies, no compromises. Only the strong could truly make such a home. Only the wise could make things grow here.’
He stared blearily as the hunched and wizened crone, incongruously cooking over a fire in the middle of the blazing heat of the day. Thoughts arrived slowly in his head, like they had been dragged out of treacle. He vaguely remembered there were important things he had to ask, vital things he had to know, but somehow what emerged from the sticky murk was ‘You never spoke English this well.’
The old woman smiled, a brilliant flash of crooked white teeth briefly visible. ‘Everyone speaks the same language here, child.’
‘Here...’ came the disjointed thought, falling raw and untranslated from his mouth.
‘Child, there is no time to be gentle,’ the woman shook her white head. ‘No time to be cautious. You must fight.’
He shook his head, stuttering words like weak and crippled and broken making wavering lines in the air, too painful to give a voice.
The gnarled hand shot out, catching his face in a strike that was shockingly real in this wavering, swirling between place. ‘Your Sentinel is broken then? He is twisted and useless?’
‘No! He is...’ but his adjectives ran dry at the thought of the beautiful Sentinel.
The woman sniffed. ‘You have just said so, have you not? Everything you are is a reflection of him. If you are broken then he is broken. If you demean yourself then you demean him. If your fear means you fail to act, fail in your duty, then he, ultimately fails. Did you think you were alone, that nothing you thought or did had any consequence for any other?’ she glared at him, like she had done when he was being particularly obtuse. ‘Foolish child! Idiot! You do not merely live! You share a life! No betrayer greater than one whom does not recognise his own strength for those that have need of it! No fool more useless that cuts himself and does not realize the others he hurts! You would kill him that seeks to protect you! No,’ she shook her head. ‘If he is yours, then you must fight for him. If you are not willing to fight, then be prepared to watch him die.’
‘No!’
Watson jerked to wakefulness, the scene before his eyes a blurry mishmash of colours, resolving into crusted brickwork. What....
Pain. Grief. Terror.
Watson tried to bolt upright; tried being the key word, because halfway up something heavy yanked, almost wrenching his neck joint out of its socket. The groan in his throat was cut off by the sudden pressure and Watson fell back on the gritty floor with a thump. Coughing and hacking, Watson lay until he could actually breathe again, though that small victory was pyrrhic. The stench of the place was thickly sickening, so overwhelmingly present that you could almost cut the air with a knife.
Watson became aware of a frantic voice next to him, slowly seeping into his awareness as the pain and shock faded.
“....ster Watson? Sir? Are you alright? Please sir?”
Watson blew out a breath and peeled his eyes open again; waiting for the spots to clear before experimentally turned his head. His neck protested, but it felt more like bruising than pulled muscles. Small favours.
“Sir?” the voice was smaller now. Frightened.
Watson blinked. “Miss Blakely?” Watson’s arms tensed, prepared to lift him to sitting again, but common sense prevailed enough for him to try very slowly. One arm slowly took his weight while another came up to his neck, tracing the uncomfortably heavy weight clamped around it, making every head movement a painful proposition. It was a mirror of one that was similarly locked around the young girl’s neck.
He traced the thick iron collar, suitable for any prisoner in Dartmoor, all the way around. He tracked the heavy hinges at the sides around to the complicated knot of metal shapes sitting at the back of neck. A heavy shackle lock dangled from the two closing loops, fixing the heavy fetter to him. Above the lock a hole where a chain passed though sat, passing though a loop on the inside of the hole and winding around his neck, allowing the chain to tightened with an unwise movement. Good grief, it was like an Iron Age dog collar complete with choke chain, suitable for prisoners, slaves...and Guides, apparently.
Well, he thought with bitter irony, the green silk insignia of the Consort finally has an actual use. If his captors hadn’t left it on his neck, the chain and collar would be scraping his skin to a bloody raw.
He turned to the terrified young Guide who was shackled next to him. It wasn’t just her fear and pain that had led him to nearly break his own neck, though. Looking past her, he could just make out other small, sobbing shapes huddling in the near pitch blackness. Good grief, this was a mess.
“Are you alright, sir?” Jane asked, her voice determined but shaking, and held the plaintive wish of an adult’s help.
Watson blew out a breath. “Well enough, considering.” He tried to cut out the persistent final memory of those still forms of the street, but it stuck with him doggedly. He mentally placed it within the realm of ‘things that cannot be helped’, and focused only here. Surgeons could not wonder or worry about things out of their reach, not when there was enough to do right in front of them. “Are you alright? Are you injured?”
Jane licked her lips. “My heads hurts a little, sir. And my ears ring, and my neck and, and....my,” she dissolved into sobs of anguish, small hands clenched over her chest as if she wanted to dig her fingers though the breast bone.
Watson’s lips thinned. Right. What where minor bumps and bruises compared to the crushing agony of fear and pain radiating from every soul around? He was used to pain - or at least he could act past it. Jane was one of many bright, simple signatures who had no shields and no experience; no defences against the world outside. Watson cursed the House. At least the so called ‘heathens’ thought to teach their children at least some small amount of self protection.
Watson spared a glare for the sturdy loop which affixed his chain to the wall, before slowly shuffling over as much as he was able. It was just far enough for him to stretch and arm to the girl’s shaking shoulder without choking himself. He shushed her gently, drawing on whatever reserves of calm and peace he could dredge up; though after tonight that was in short enough supply.
“It’s alright, little one,” he crooned gently.
“It was so loud! And then they came to take us a-and when the b-boys tried to s-s-stop them,” Jane struggled from breath as the sobs ripped their way up her throat, tears leaving dark spots on the dirty ground. “They were just g-gone! They were there and t-then....”
And wasn’t that just a masterly way of describing it? Watson thought, gently stroking her hair. There and then...gone. Death was different when you could feel it. There was no chance of self delusion; of faint, vain hopes. When one died around you, you could feel the cold empty space where something once was. Maiwand had been like that; a hellish place of too much boiling movement and at the same time far too much emptiness.
And the boys....yes, Watson could now dimly make out that in this fetid and dark corridor, shot through with ribbons of chains hammered into the walls, the huddled shapes were overwhelmingly female. The only notable exception was, in fact, him.
“Miss Blakely,” Watson said gently as the flood of ragged sobs receded from lack of energy and air. “I need you to take a deep breath for me. Just take a very deep breath for me, that’s right...”
The girl drew in a shuddering breath and blew it out sharply.
“And another,” Watson instructed gently trying to find some way to reach the child through her pain and terror. It was hard to think in here with these poor children screaming silently in fear, and he had to think. These children needed him to be decisive.
The old woman’s words (and how had that worked anyway? How was she able to contact him from thousands of miles distance? She had truly been here, he was sure of that. His cheek still stung) came back to him. Amazing how something half a dream could make you feel so stupid and ashamed. He looked back over his behaviour of the previous hours and had never felt more foolish. All of that defiance in the face of authority for weeks, but when it had actually counted he had been nothing more than a coward. Well, not anymore. He would fight to his death for that Sentinel. To his very last breath.
“Jane, I need you to listen to me,” Watson gave her shoulder a squeeze, willing her eyes toward him. “This is very important. Your Sentinel needs you right now.”
Confusion momentarily pierced the fog of emotion surrounding her. “But,” she frowned, her voice cracked with fatigue. “I...I don’t have a Sentinel.”
“Yes you do,” Watson insisted firmly. “You were born having one. He’s out there somewhere, waiting for you. Do you understand? And he needs you, every moment of every day. He needs you now, Miss Blakely. He needs you to fight for him. He needs you to survive. You don’t want to make him look bad do you? You don’t want to leave him to wander all alone because you are gone?” Alright, it was a little manipulative but Watson could feel amazement and concern washing away the agony, sweeping away the discordant and loud bells and leaving slower and harmonious emotions behind.
“No, sir,” Jane spoke up quickly, looked almost affronted at the thought. “I would never...”
“Right, exactly. You must be strong now,” Watson nodded to her encouragingly. “Don’t let the fear overwhelm you. You are strong - you are of the House. You will do your Sentinel proud because you will fight. Always fight for what you want; even if you lose, at least you can say you did right by yourself.”
Jane drew in another breath, this one calmer than the others. She began to recite under her breath and Watson was just able to pick up the cadences of ‘The Lady of Shallot’. Recitation was the first method the young students learned for mental discipline. Watson waited patiently while the emotional pressure eased.
“What happened here?” Watson asked when she had finished, her emotional state was now, if not completely calm, then at least controlled. “Do you know where we are?” Watson had a few ideas considering the stink in the air, but it had been years since he’d been in London.
“There was...an explosion,” Jane said, her hands briefly white knuckled on her night dress. She took a calming breath. “I woke from that noise and there was glass everywhere and...and then they came and took us from our beds. The Sentinels.” Another breath, this one sucked in, desperately needed. “And we were all screaming and they put bags over our heads. I don’t know where they took us; a very small room. Then all the Sentinels left the room and there was this smell...and I don’t remember what happened after that. I woke up here.”
“Was it a sweet smell? Like a church, but sweeter?” Watson asked grimly.
“Yes, sir.”
Opium, Watson noted. “And then? You’ve been here with the others the rest of the time, then?”
Jane made a strange face. A momentary thrum of puzzlement briefly segued into her spiritual lullaby. “No-o, not really. There were these men there when we woke up and they started to read from the Bible.”
Watson blinked. “Pardon?”
Jane looked just as confused. “One of the men, he read something from a Bible. Something about raising seeds. Then he said that we were all fortunate. That we had been chosen by God. That we were the chosen wives of the Great Sentinel...but, Sentinels can have only one Guide, right sir?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Watson replied grimly. “Now Miss Jane, I need you to do something for me. Can you reach the next girl, and tell her what I told you? Try to calm her down? This is very important,” he added to her suddenly anxious face. “It’s very important that everyone is calm and strong. You’ve been the bravest one so far; they need your help. Every girl can calm the next; I know you can do this.” And they damn well could do it too. Children were better at this than adults, Watson had seen it. Too bad the House didn’t think so.
Jane drew another breath, and stuck out her chin in fearful but determined grit. “We must help our Sentinels, sir.” Before carefully scooting to the next dim figure in the row of chains.
Watson grinned at her gumption. Outside of the army, he was finding more and more people he itched to salute. For himself, Watson sat back and radiated calm. This was the first thing he had learned from the crotchety old Guide in those dusty plains. Be still, be silent, and send out calm into the world. With Guides like her leading every wandering tribe, it was small wonder that Afghan folk were said to be so fearless. What little he was able to dredge up would only help the children here.
Watsons thoughts, bubbling beneath the glassy veneer of calm, were grimmer than what he showed. From what little Jane had been able to tell him, Watson was able to make a guess about the rest. There was a reason, he thought, that they had taken female Guides from the House. It was the same reason no one ever knew what females Sentinels and Guides names were.
There was a reason that there was statistically less female guides and Sentinels than male, and the scholars said it was down to breeding. A male Sentinel or Guide’s children - assuming they had them, which given the nature of their partnerships was rare - then their offspring only had a one in seven chance of a hereditary traits being passed. Mostly the legacy was carried by male the Sentinel or Guide’s sibling’s children, or cousins, or other relatives; but there was no telling where the traits would surface. It wasn’t enough to just have the blood; some need or event had to trigger the gifts after the child was born. Scholars and scientists had studied it for centuries, but were no closer to finding a formula that would predict it.
The best chance, however, came from the female Sentinels and Guides. A female Sentinel or Guide’s children were likely to be Sentinels or Guides themselves; Watson remembered reading in his medical studies that the chances were nine in ten. The women in the Sentinel and Guide culture were the ones most likely to produce the repeating bloodline.
History had recognised this long ago; mostly in unfortunate ways. Slavery, persecution and being used as breeding ‘heifers’ had dogged these women throughout the centuries. The reign of Elizabeth had at least hindered the abuse suffered, in which the Dark Queen had commanded that all woman Sentinels and Guides be placed under her protection; squirreled away in convents or personally attending on the Queen. She had commanded their names be hidden by law, so there was no official list for traitors and spies to sell to the enemies. Female Sentinels and Guides were considered extremely valuable commodities; to the point where kidnapping and spiriting them away was the most common hazard they faced. The tradition of obscuring them had continued long after the women had been allowed to re-enter ‘public’ life a century before. To this day, female Sentinels and Guides were stripped of their names upon entering the Sanctuary or House; their birth certificates, and family’s household records - even family bibles - scoured of any traces. They only appeared on one register, hidden within the Palace, their names only released after their deaths. They were given a false name for use in the Sanctuary, and once bonded of course took their husband’s name in marriage which they used to introduce themselves from then on. Only their husbands, Sentinel or Guide, would ever know their true name. Watson only knew Annie Hay’s name because she had been a military commander on foreign soil, where military procedures apply.
If these invaders were only taking female Guides, then Watson could guess the main reason. He couldn’t quite see how the ‘wives’ fit into the whole mess though, because Jane had been correct. The world over, one Sentinel bonds to one Guide. In the past there had been instances where a man in a position of power would claim to have multiple Guides; but they were usually just powerful men pretending to be Sentinels, or at best Guardians. Watson could not see the connection.
When Watson looked up from his musings, he realized the din of fear had eased; the children were all much calmer now, and Jane was sliding back in his direction, grinning defiantly. “We’re doing our Sentinel’s proud, sir.”
Watson gave her a warm smile. “Indeed you are.” He checked down the line of chains. He could only see Jane clearly, the rest were cloaked in murk. The corridor was a long, straight stretch of brickwork, arcing low over a dirty floor. The blackness was shot through will a single candle at the far end which cast only a dim light over the captives. The candle had been stuck to the floor just outside their prison, and illuminated another passage running perpendicular to their corridor. The stink told Watson he was in the sewers the faint wash through the walls seemed to indicate near the Thames; but it was not overly useful past that. That was still a lot of places they could potentially be.
There was a quiet, hollow sound suddenly; rather like a large but inharmonious bell being struck just past the wall where Watson leaned. The other children all stiffened at the sound. Minutes later, footsteps crunched through the murk; a group of three that Watson could identify. A murmur of conversation echoed in the tunnels, forming words as the group drew closer.
“...all we were able to get?” the first voice became clear as it rounded the corner into their dim holding place; from what little Watson could make out it looked to be a shorter man holding a sheaf of papers on a board. He was followed by two taller men, both clutching handkerchiefs to their noses; one fell in a step behind him and the other hovered at the candle.
“We were set to take more, sir, but Hope sabotaged the wagons ‘fore we went. We were limited to one,” the following man explained through his handkerchief.
“You are a Sentinel Lox, good grief,” the small man sniffed. “Hope should not be a threat to you.”
At the other end of the corridor, Watson blinked. The small man’s voice was familiar.
“You ain’t ever fought a Sentinel like ‘im, sir. ‘E’s the very devil himself,” the Sentinel called Lox replied.
“In point of fact, I have fought Sentinels; and they are not that hard to kill,” the small man retorted snidely. “And the Devil is in all things. Only by our prophet’s grace can we defeat him. You!” he jabbed a pen toward a terrified, shaking girl nearest the candle. “Your name and age.”
“M-M-M....”
The short man glared. “Name and age, child. Disobedience will not be tolerated.”
“M-my name is Bethel Twenty Two....”
From seemingly nowhere, the shorter man produced a thin cane, which was whipped across the girls hands sharply. “That is the false name that your heretic House gave you. I require your real name. If it is not given then the punishment will be twenty lashes. Our prophet expects us to conform to Gods law; you will be expected to maintain strict discipline and honesty at all times; especially with your elders. Your name!”
The girl was crying, tears dropping down her face. “B-but that name is for my S-Se-Sentinel...” the voice dissolved into a cry as the cane was applied across one shoulder, harder this time.
“Your Sentinel will choose a name for you now, should you be lucky enough to join his household! Kneel, and accept your punishment.”
“You can always tell how strong a man is by how he fights his opponents,” Watson interjected sardonically, not quite concealing his burning rage. “What do you think hitting a little girl in chains says about your level of strength, sir?”
The small man spun around, startled into dropping his papers. “What is this? What are you doing here?”
“It is Strangerson, isn’t it?” Watson peered into the gloom, finally placing the voice. “Yes, I recognise that voice. So are you really so weak that you can only strike children in chains, then?”
Outraged, Strangerson was before Watson in a flash, pressing the steel of a hidden knife up and under the collar to pickle against his Adams Apple. “Oh, no, sir. I have much better tricks up my sleeve. What I’m doing right now is just passing the time.”
Watson raised an unintimidated eyebrow. As he looked into those cold, lizard eyes, he knew that Strangerson probably considered it a pleasurable pastime too. The icy fires of righteousness burned in him. One who truly believed he was showing people ‘the way’. Watson knew that look quite well. “Well you might consider saving yourself some time in beating and instead merely asking,” Watson said around a yawn, deliberately allowing his throat to move so that knife left a little bloody nick.
Strangerson frowned at him. “You know their names?”
“Of course,” Watson replied, sounding offended at a stupid question. “I am the only senior empath here, so they had to give them to me.” There was not an inflection in his voice that changed, not so much as a stutter in his heart. Watson had been here before; he’d been in more danger than this even. He’d learned to ride the storm in calmness and peace.
Strangerson shot a glance at Sentinel Lox, who nodded slowly. Strangerson withdrew the knife, and collected his sheaf of papers. He turned to glare at the other Sentinel still hovering by the candle. “Drebber, what is the meaning of this? Why is this Guide here? He is entirely unsuitable!”
Watson looked around in surprise. But yes, there was the great hulking brute in all his dubious glory. “Drebber,” Watson nodded coldly, burying his shock. “You look awfully well for a dead man.”
Drebber sneered at him as he stepped closer to the group, before ignoring him totally. “The prophet said any who act against the will of the Sentinel will have their punishment determined by the Sentinel wronged. This filthy empath,” he waved a hand at Watson. “Insulted me, and I will demand reparation from the prophet.”
“By insult so you mean when I soundly defeated you in combat? I suppose that must be a difficult thing for a Sentinel to admit; drunken, rude and useless in battle,” Watson snorted.
Lox actually looked surprised but Watson had only half a second to register it before Drebber’s blow knocked him against the wall, the iron collar making a clanging sound that rang in his ears. Drebber followed his stumble, ending up plastered against Watson as he went against the wall.
Jane gave a cry, abruptly halted as Strangerson’s stick left a burning weal on either cheek. She cowered back, clutching her face.
While Strangerson gave a stern lecture in the background about obedience and silence, Drebber’s foul breath blew across Watson’s cheek. “You will learn your place empath,” he snarled it Watson’s ear, nearly rutting up against him while his filthy lust and rage washed over Watson greasily. “When we’re on the ship and you’re in front of the crew completely naked and kneeling like a bitch dog when I take you, we’ll see who is the weaker one.” A tongue rasped a slimy trail over Watson’s cheek, before Watson’s hands could shove him away. He smirked at Watson’s expression before moving a step back. “Not so cocky now, are we soldier boy?”
Drebber’s eyes crossed and he gave a little aborted whimper before folding like an empty suit to the floor.
“Neither are you,” Watson spat, withdrawing a well placed knee and trying to calm himself down.
“Oh for the sake of the prophet,” Strangerson exclaimed, exasperated as he turned back to the tableaux. “We haven’t time for this, the tides will be against us soon. Lox, help Drebber up and prepare the cargo. You,” he jabbed the cane at Watson, who was still willing himself to stop shaking. “The names!”
Watson sighed, pointed to the farthest girl and gave his mother’s name, then the next his aunt’s, the names of several fine nurses he’d once known, his teacher at his dame school, the wives names of some soldier acquaintances of his and ended at Jane Blakely with “And this is Annie Hay.”
Strangerson, scribbling down names, nodded with satisfaction. “You have showed proper obedience before the prophet.”
I’ve shown him all the obedience he deserved, anyway, Watson thought to himself, shooting Jane a quick grin. She grinned back, warping the two red marks across her face. “Where are you taking us?”
Strangerson finished recording. “That is not for you to know. All of you,” he turned to the whole crowd of terrified girls. “Would do well to reflect on the Providence that has delivered you from heresy and ignorance and into the glorious light of our prophet and saviour, favoured by God. You will all have shining destinies awaiting you as long as you abide by the word and law of the prophet. For now be obedient and silent, and do as you are instructed, and no harm will come to you.”
Watson very much doubted that, but held his counsel. Were he alone he would be more focused on escaping but he could not abandon these children. Shackled as they were, all of them escaping would be impossible now, even though they outnumbered their captors. Not when two of them were Sentinels and the other had knives hidden all over. All it would take was one hostage.
Each chain was unbolted from the wall, one by one, and the prisoners lead out past the candle, one hand of each Sentinel braced on the back of the collar, the other wrapped round the chain, prepared to yank if necessary. Like dogs, Watson thought darkly, as the children were lead out by Sentinels one by one.
Drebber, of course, took possession of Watson’s collar; he must have taken great pleasure in marching Watson out, chain tightened to near fatal pressure about his throat, making whispered filthy comments as they marched through fetid darkness.
Eventually, they emerged into the night, out of a small tunnel that branched out over the Thames; from what Watson could tell, they were upstream from the fish markets at Billingsgate. Stars littered the sky, half washed out by the Towers still burning.
A wood ramp had been placed on the lip of the tunnel entrance. When Watson saw what it led down to, he stared.
Drebber gave a chuckle, hand yanking cruelly on the chain. “Did you think that any Sentinel in London would be able to hear you scream for mercy? Is that what you thought?” he purred silkily. “Where you’re going, no one but those I want to hear will hear all. All the better to make it last, don’t you think,” he pulled on the chain until Watson was on his knees, gasping. “Yeees, I think I’ll keep this wonderful device; and you of course,” he ran fingers through Watson’s hair in a parody of stroking like you would a dog. “Pet.”
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Lestrade was awake long before he was aware; waking had involved searing hotness and screaming in his ears and the reek of blood - his Guide’s blood.
By the time Lestrade was actually aware, he was in an alley just off where the attack had occurred, his Guide in his arms, a low continuous growl rumbling in his throat, and Sherlock Holmes sitting cross legged in front of him.
It was so utterly surreal that it actually jolted aware the Inspector as well as the Sentinel, and Lestrade blinked. Holmes lips were moving but the ringing in Lestrade’s ears blotted out the sounds.
But not touch, though. Something hypnotic thrummed up his arms and he turned his attention to his wife cradled in his arms, a trickle of blood across her face. The rhythmic vibrations told him she was singing and he felt it in his bones. Entranced he followed her lips moving until he indentified the song. With the identification came the lyrics, matched up to the vibrations travelling from her body to his, linking it with sound. The hideous ringing faded and the sound her voice replaced it.
His Guide’s hand cupped his face. “Focus past it, my Sentinel. Focus on my voice, only on my voice. Lower your touch to a faint brush. Lower your scent to quarter mast. Raise your sight to full night...”
The throbbing pain from where the blast knocked him to the ground faded to nearly nothing and the burning stench retreated to a manageable level. The ringing in his ears washed away slowly. “Guide,” he choked out, curling up around her tighter. She stroked his hair gently while he grounded himself on her fully. His Guide was safe, she was safe; that was all that mattered. His fingers swiped at the bloody trail at her forehead, and she gave him a calm smile.
“Just a scratch,” Lady Lestrade reassured while his fingers mapped her hair, head and throat. “A flying chip of stone, nothing more. I’ve done worse to myself in the kitchen.”
To that Lestrade almost snorted; his wife was supremely careful in the kitchen after one episode very early in their marriage when the knife she was using had slipped. The scent of the blood have driven him completely feral, to the point where it had taken days to calm him.
“Thank you for protecting me, my own.”
Now Lestrade did snort in disbelief. Honestly. “Why thank me for that? It’s like thanking the sky for being blue.”
Lady Lestrade gave him a smile and Lestrade was tempted to send the next hour or so kissing her, but his hyperawareness of the other Sentinels in the area never forgot to remind him that Holmes was waiting for him and very patiently indeed, considering.
Holmes was politely looking in the other direction of the alley, fingers tapping violin notes on the cobblestones. He still sat cross legged and hunched as small as possible. He was well aware that Lestrade had been feral. It took a long time for that rage and protectiveness to fade and he was therefore being civil enough not to loom. Lestrade could never face Holmes in a fight, but to his credit Holmes did not believe in unnecessary violence.
“Sentinel,” Lestrade acknowledged the man’s presence as he rose, his Guide still in his arms. Holmes waited until Lestrade had exited the alley onto the street before rising to follow; it was never a good idea to make a near-feral Sentinel think he was cornered.
It was chaos on the street. People were clustered around Rance, tending to him. Thankfully someone had bought the ambulance, the large wagon taking up one side of the street. Crowding the rest of the space were Sentinels and Guides of all descriptions, some shouting to the Towers, other scouring the streets and being helped or hindered by dozens of street people gathering in to watch the spectacle.
Lestrade lowered his wife to the street, careful to keep his arms around her as he took in the chaos. He was surprised to see how many red uniforms of the Royal Clan were clustered here. In fact, doing a rough headcount, Lestrade was astonished to find that most if not every Sentinel in London was here, save a handful that manned the Towers. He turned to Holmes, who was viewing the hubbub sardonically. “They think they are helping,” was his only comment.
Lestrade was able to see Holmes fully for the first time, and realized he was holding a very familiar cane in his hands, hands so clenched around it that his skin was white.
Lestrade felt and icy hand reach though his chest to squeeze his spine, the last wisps of surreal detachment disappearing in a trice. He felt his wife’s arms tighten around him. “Holmes...” he spoke hoarsely. “Forgive me, Alpha. I failed to protect him.” Because when that hellish thing blew, the only thing in his mind had been getting his wife to safety. There hadn’t been room for anything else.
Holmes huffed out an exasperated breath. “One of many things I find irritating, Lestrade, is the human habit of martyrdom. Please desist wasting unnecessary breath on unasked for apologies.”
Lestrade blinked. “But...”
Holmes stopped him with a glare. “Spare me,” he turned back to scowl at the street. “It is not required. I would have done the same.”
The matter of fact admission of actual conventional thinking shocked Lestrade. He stared at Holmes as he strode out into the mess, apparently looking for something.
No, Lestrade realized as they both hurried after him, someone.
Street Arabs, urchins and other motley assortments were darting into the mess, expertly darting past perimeters and guards to converge on the Dark Sentinel, tongues wagging even before they reached him. Lestrade and his Guide caught up with Holmes just as he waved his hands for silence.
“You have found the man I described, Wiggins?”
“Too roight, sir,” one ragged lads piped up confidently. “Drove a cab, jus’ like yew said.”
“And where is he now?”
“’e’s sitting on Southwark Bridge, guv.”
Holmes distributed thanks in coinage, before taking off down the street, cane still in hand. Lestrade shook his head in exasperation before scooping his Guide up and following doggedly. Thankfully the eccentric man didn’t go far. He went east just as long as it took him to find a cab, and Lestrade was just able to jump in with his Guide before to took off down the street. The driver had been paid to hurry.
For his part Holmes just glared like an auger straight past the horses ears as they were hurried into a rapid trot. Lestrade had to settle his wife on his lap because this was a hansom cab, with only enough room for two. “Holmes,” he panted when everything was as secure as possible. “Would you mind telling me what’s going on?” Both he had his wife were staring at the Sentinel.
“There’s a man who has been hunting the men who have been stealing the Guides, Lestrade; I am going to find him and find out what he knows.”
“You mean we are,” Lady Lestrade added softly.
“You both are as well, I suppose.”
Lestrade exchanged an incredulous glace with his wife.
He has to know, Lestrade thought as he cast his ears back, the sounds of dozens of feet ringing on the pavement still very much audible. He has to know that nearly every Sentinel in London is currently following at his heels. How could he not realize? Their location was being Shouted from Tower to Tower, for Heaven’s sake!
But there was this terrible look of....of focus on the other Sentinel’s face now; one which Lestrade had not encountered before. Lestrade wasn’t entirely sure which Holmes he was looking at - madman genius or lethal Dark Sentinel.
What Holmes just revealed suddenly caught up with him. “Hang on. How can you know about this man? What was this about a cab and how were you able to find him.”
Holmes sighed, still focusing ahead. “A whole pack of foreign Sentinels have been stealing Guides; not just here, but all over the Continent. They made their way here, this is the final assault. Who was the last foreign Sentinel who came into the country? Drebber. He was one of them, as was his secretary Strangerson. The rest of the pack smuggled their way in here, probably on cargo ships; but Drebber came in officially. It was his religious tour that gave them the excuse to pass borders. Once he arrived, he could set up staying places and so on for the others being smuggled in. Then they started hunting Guides; some unfortunates from asylums, but the real prize was the House. Drebber is a registered travelling Sentinel, so he is allowed access to the Sanctuary.”
“He planted the bomb,” Lestrade spoke grimly.
“Oh yes; a simple trick. He probably hid a smaller bag inside a rather larger one. Sentinels of course use many pungent herbs and oils when travelling, so it was easy enough to mask the smell of the dynamite, I expect. He goes in with a large bag, throws out the smaller bag with the bomb, which is timed to go off in a few hours, and then departs carrying the same large bag.
“And that’s when they really prepare themselves. It’s illegal for Drebber to walk the streets after curfew unless he had a valid excuse; which he gave himself by assaulting the boarding house’s Guide. He and his secretary are kicked out and they head towards the Battersea Bridge.”
“And Drebber was attacked and slain there - by this man we’re going to see?”
Holmes shrugged. “Possibly. I don’t tend to jump to the conclusion of murder unless I can verify the crime scene myself. But the man was there. Strangerson parts ways with Drebber on Battersea before going to rob the Palace.”
“What?” Lestrade yelped while his Guide started in surprise. “Strangerson was behind the breach at the Palace?”
Holmes grimaced. “Oh yes. Small man, wearing glasses, skirmisher, educated, shoes in bad repair - all the signs point to him. He had the calluses of a professional pick pocket too, but I was in no mood to point this out to Drebber at his interview. I thought Strangerson was stealing from him, which was Drebber’s concern and not mine.” Holmes extracted the Guide ring from his breast pocket and handed it to the awed Lady Lestrade. “The Sentinel ring was stolen, along with the Talons.”
Lady Lestrade handled the relic with reverence. “But why?”
“We shall see presently,” Holmes said gnomically. “But whatever else happened on that bridge, the man hunting them went elsewhere afterwards.”
“He’s the man who carried you back to the boarding house after you were shot,” Lestrade breathed.
Holmes took back the ring. “Tall, good boots, calluses indicating he holds reins and whips, added to the smell of horses and an oilskin coat indicating he was out in all weathers. Obviously, a cab driver. All I had to do was to tell my Irregulars to find me a cab that had been abandoned near Battersea for over an hour, and who was driving it. That was easy enough for them.”
“Why is he hunting them?” Lady Lestrade asked softly.
Holmes gave a mirthless smile. “Let’s find out.”
He sprang from the cab as they reach the bridge and there, just as advised, a cab stood off to the side, abandoned. Holmes stalked towards a lone figure that was standing in the middle of the bridge, watching the river flow by. The stranger looked up as Holmes strode towards him.
“I ain’t your enemy, Sentinel,” the man spoke softly holding his hands up.
“If I thought you were my enemy, sir, you’d be dead already,” Holmes replied, his voice cutting. “Where are they?”
The stranger held up a finger as Lestrade and his Guide hurried up. “Listen; it should be jest comin’ now.”
Holmes closed his eyes, his whole pulled taut as a violin string. But he listened. It was muffled by the water somewhat but most definitely there.
Lestrade frowned as he suddenly picked up the rumbling sound too. “What is that? A cabin boat?”
He looked over the side and was astonished to see not a vessel in sight. But he could hear it, plain as day!
Holmes and the stranger exchanged mirthless smiles as the sound grew closer and closer. It would probably be very hard for an ordinary person to detect.
With some ceremony, Holmes reached for the Guide ring, and placed it sideways on the road, balancing on it’s band. The....whatever it was....rolled beneath the bridge, unseen. Within moments, the ring started to roll in a straight line, from the road to the parapet, stopping only when the walls stopped it.
They all darted to the opposite side of the bridge; Lestrade could see nothing in the murk as first, but with his Guide’s help, he was able to enhance past the ripples to the vague shape moving below the water, it’s only visible sign the snorkel dragged discretely atop the water.
Lestrade mouth dropped open. But Holmes merely smiled grimly as he retrieved the Guide ring.
“There you are,” he purred, his voice half intellectual satisfaction, half burning, molten predatory intent. “My Guide.”
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End Part Nine
** Just for reference, the first submarines were designed and built in the 1600's, and the first one used for military purposes was built in 1775 (American Revolution). They didn't become a feature of modern warefare until WWI though, because before this the devices were either too impractical or...sank on their test voyages. They did that a lot.