Fic: Observations on Sentinels & Guides in Victorian London - Part Eleven (PG-13)
Observations on Sentinels and Guides in Victorian London: Part Eleven
Title: Observations in Sentinels & Guides in Victorian London
Author: Ryuuza Kochou
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG-15
Word Count: 8862
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 Eleven: Holmes and Watson...was there ever any doubt?
Authors Notes: Yes! Booyah, writing block, you are now my whipping boy. This is the moment you’ve all been waiting for folks...but I warn you, I am as frustratingly cliffhangery as ever.
Notes/Warnings: Adult themes, some violence and light bad language. General badass behaviour.
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:
http://community.livejournal.com/holmeswatson09/798168.html
Part Ten:
http://community.livejournal.com/holmeswatson09/839282.html
Part Eleven:
Mycroft hated breaking his routine. He adhered to it like other people adhered to their religions. In fact, it was not even an equal metaphor; after all, Gods could be capricious whereas Mycroft’s gargantuan intellect was not. Were it not for one very specific thing, you could track every step Mycroft ever made by finding the grooves and scuffs made by feet walking the same routes, down to the very footprints, for year after year after year.
Everyone knew what the one thing was. Sherlock Holmes had that effect to everybody. Ripples of chaos seemed to flow out from his whipcord body, and had ever since the day he was born.
Mycroft sighed in a vexed way as he reached the final winding staircase to the Palace Tower, and opened the door. He didn’t bother to knock. If the Sentinel inside couldn’t hear a person coming up, then he didn’t deserve to be up there.
The Sentinel and Guide pair rose to their feet from where they had been sitting next to the burning torch for warmth, and saluted.
“Go down and assist the ground guards with incoming messages. We will watch for now,” he told them.
They bowed, and the Sentinel murmured “Yes, sir” before heading for the door. There was a brief, almost invisible hesitation as the Sentinel reached the threshold.
“Sentinel Thompson and his Guide have been moved to the Yellow Drawing Room for the vigil,” Mycroft told them, his voice level.
Some of the faint tension in the Tower Sentinel’s shoulders relaxed. “Yes, sir.” They departed down the stairs.
The air, despite the Tower being exposed to the weather on all sides save the flue-holed roof, was still quite warm. The signal torch smouldered in it’s iron bowl pit, ringed with hand-sized trapdoors containing various compounds to send various signals - magnesium, coppers, sodium, lithium, barium, caesium, potassium, - to change the colours of the flames. The lithium door, painted red, was still open. Mycroft toed it closed on his way past, and did the same for the rather larger trapdoor that sat in the circle like a pendant on a necklace, holding an accompanying ladle and full to the brim with paraffin oil. The retinue all muttered about switching to gas one of these days, but burning the scented woods stacked up near the door and perfumed oils was one of the few pleasures in an otherwise dreary and often uncomfortable duty, so they were in no hurry to change.
Mycroft found the heavy iron and leather padded seats sitting on the Eastern side of the Tower overlooking the quadrangle and the East facade and the Mall beyond. The Sentinel chair was more a perch, a high chair which put the Sentinel’s head at optimum height for the rows of convex brass and glass shapes hemming the top of the Tower roof, some fanned outwards and some inwards, to augment the sending and receiving of the Shout. Not many Towers had sound catchers, but the Royal Tower was a jewel in the Tower system.
Welded to the side of the Sentinel chair was the Guide chair, so that the pair was one piece of furniture. The Guide chair was at an ordinary height, allowing the Guide to reach up and grasp the Sentinel’s shoulder when the Guide’s anchoring was required.
Mycroft sat in the Guide’s chair. Clambering up onto that towering perch was ridiculous and he refused to do it.
That was it for the furniture, unless you included the clip board, paper and pencil, dangling from a string from the Guide’s backrest, which acted as both the duty docket and the Tower logs. They were not allowed to bring tables or kettles up here, in the view that this may encourage laxness in their duties. The Sentinel came here to listen, not to play cards or dice. Tea was brought up by a servant at strictly enforced intervals during shifts, to keep privies from being necessary, and the servant waited while they drank and took the used cups and pots back on leaving. Food was not allowed; one bad reaction to a taste or a spice would leave the Tower unmanned, which had not occurred for more than a minute in well over two hundred years.
Mycroft surveyed London from across the Quadrangle, torches in the Towers all still lit. London was a mosaic of bright, jewel-like fires, interconnected by the delicate filigree of gas lamps marching along the main roads - a treasure box no pirate or thief would steal, because they didn’t understand the value of the city, they couldn’t see how it generated money and ideas and technology, all that mass of people - a good fraction of which was destitute, but nevertheless churning out wealth and worth like the rains brought water.
To those who could see it, understand it - ah, there was nothing to steal. You only need to immerse yourself in it, to listen to it’s voice and it’s erratic heart, flow across it’s shifting, pulsing populace and it’s sudden, strange tides. The city was easy, once you knew how to bow to it and let it lead to waltz. People often thought Mycroft the ultimate maestro of this dance, and often failed to realize that the younger Holmes did the same, just from a different direction.
But then, people were quite dense at times, Sherlock did have a point there.
Mycroft sighed. It was really very vexing. Even when Sherlock did exactly what was asked of him, lived up to every expectation within a hair’s breadth, he still managed to make Mycroft’s life difficult. Mycroft shared an ironic little grin with the dark night over London.
Wilikin’s near-silent tread on the final steps to the Tower did not rouse Mycroft from his study of London, though he was glad to collect the hot cup of tea his Guide poured for him from the sturdy iron kettle he had lugged up into the Tower with him. He took a scalding mouthful and then handed the cup back, his gaze never wavering from London. Most would have found his body language dismissive of Wilikins. Dense indeed.
Wilikins took the cup and downed his own mouthful, almost absently handing the cup back to his Sentinel whose gaze still did not waver but whose hand moved into precisely the right spot to take the cup back without even seeing it.
“Oh, do not start, I am only mildly annoyed,” Mycroft murmured, seemingly out of nowhere. “And I do not subscribe to the view that I am over-coddling him.”
Wilikin’s set the kettle down with a slight clink.
“Yes, I do have half a dozen eyes on him at all times, but that is not coddling - that is a perfectly sensible response to a perfectly plausible fear,” Mycroft snorted to the apparently unspoken statement. “Good grief, do you not remember him in childhood? Never was there a babe more inclined to dangerous curiosities. He overturned his bassinet at three months, for heaven’s sake.”
Wilikin’s straightened, his hands pressed behind his back and into the small of it, shoulders a straight line, chin tilted slightly down and to the right. His posture was a textbook perfect Guide awaiting instructions from his Sentinel.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I am aware he is no longer a child,” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Despite all evidence to the contrary. Children would have at least enough sense not to go looking for that much trouble. We must only hope that his Guide will be a soothing influence on him.”
As Mycroft looked back over London he felt his Guide crouch next to the chair, the merest brush of soft fingers ghosting across the back of his hand. Any members of a Royal Clan witnessing that would have been properly astonished. The Royal Beta and his Guide almost never touched in public.
Mycroft sighed. “As usual, you are right in the end,” His eyes flicked momentarily to see the soft quirk of one side of Wilikin’s mouth that he was expecting to see. “His Guide’s only influence will be to make him shine brighter than he has ever done. Genius is never made by soothing and lassitude, it is fed by excitement and energy. Sherlock would never a pick a Guide that would offer anything less. And if his Guide truly understands him, then that would be all he ever wants to offer.”
Silence bloomed out from beside him as Wilikin’s simply tented his fingers and joined his Sentinel in viewing.
“Yes, I have no doubt - not one whit of a doubt - that his Guide truly does, either,” Mycroft’s lips turned upwards in a slight smile. “What a terrible force they shall make together. Our headaches, my dear, look to increase exponentially.” Mycroft paused, then added. “That is uncalled for. I certainly do not enjoy it. Much, anyway.”
People were often astonished at the way Mycroft and Wilikins communicated. It must be that they were sitting in each other’s minds. How else could Mycroft answer questions that Wilikins could not voice? It was the kind of idiotic theory that made the elder roll his eyes and the younger burst into derisive laughter. People never truly observed, Sherlock was right about that too.
Wilikin’s abruptly rose and went to the Tower’s edge, reaching the parapet just as Royal Alpha Barstone’s boots turned the final curve of the spiral staircase.
Barstone stepped around the torch and headed for him. Wilikin’s gave a brief, respectful bow, flicked his eyes lightning fast at his Sentinel, and then pushed open one side of the short half-wall that almost made the Tower a room. The stone slab swung out near-silently, revealing a winding staircase embracing the outside walls of the tower. Wilikin’s disappeared down the staircase, evidently wanting to walk the Guard’s Path that stretched and wound it’s way in a mazelike full circuit around the Palace roofs. Most aristocratic abodes had such a walkway; a final defence against invaders at the doors.
“I fail to see why it is a problem, Alpha,” Mycroft said smoothly.
Barstone had had Mycroft for a Beta for well over ten years now, so to his credit he didn’t waste time with awe or confusion. He accepted the cup silently and drained it, before leaping into the Sentinel chair with the fitness of a man half his age.
“I often wonder why your Guide makes himself so scarce when we speak, Mycroft,” Barstone commented mildly as he adjusted the angles of the sound catchers. “It’s not as if you do not share everything anyway.”
Mycroft refilled the cup. “Politics bores him when it doesn’t amuse him. Besides, he knows when I need to be focused, and calming the London Clan’s hysteria will take some concentration.”
Barstone scowled. “There’s not many a Beta that would compare their Alpha to a neurasthenic young lady, Holmes. But then, you and you brother are cut of the same cloth.”
Mycroft smiled thinly. “My, my, Alpha, such a thing has never troubled you in the past. You’ve been positively impressed with my brand of intellect. But of course, you were allowed to be impressed because I am far too listless to care much for positioning within the Clan. Public duty and leadership squabbles are just so tiresome, I simply did not have the energy to deal with them. And thus, happy compromise rules in the Royal Clan, for you are a man of great energy - great energy indeed. You are happy to keep fighting your way to the top and staying at the top, whereas I was happy to simply go about my routine and memorize my little facts. But now you are facing my sibling, and while I am rendered safe by lassitude he,” Mycroft smirked. “Is not.”
Barstone glared at him, though more in exasperation than anger. “Good grief Mycroft, we are not in the Parliament and there’s no need to draw this out. Forget politics. I just need to know what you think he’ll do once he gets back. We’ve had our share of upheavals tonight without having to worry about the shape of future ones.”
Mycroft took a sip of tea. “As I said, Alpha, I fail to see why my brother’s imminent bonding is a problem. And one thing you should never do is forget politics. They lay at the heart of it.”
Barstone ran fingers through his hair in an uncommon show of frustration. “This is about the Prime Alpha. There’s nothing political about how that happens.”
“I disagree,” Mycroft retorted. “Because I, Alpha, refuse to fall into the trap of believing that ‘Prime Alpha’ is the same as saying ‘ruler’. The Prime Alpha may control the clans, but he does not lead them, they and their laws do not dissolve as he walks by. He has their loyalty. He has no need to constantly dictate their actions.”
Barstone’s jaw dropped open. “What? You are not in earnest, surely! Queen Elizabeth...”
“Was Queen because she was born into the house of Tudor, not because she was a Sentinel,” Mycroft cut in. “If she had been the lowest of the fishwives, she still would have been a magnificent Sentinel but it was the crown, that human thing, which spurred her to Empire. People started confusing ‘Dark Sentinel’ with ‘ruler’ because the last Dark Sentinel happened to be born into the ruling house. A common but foolish mistake; everyone knows Sentinels don’t rule the tribe. That is not their destiny.”
Barstone let the ‘foolish mistake’ pass him by with practised ease. “True enough, I suppose. But there’s more than leadership to consider here. Your brother was trained by the Vernet Clan. Most high-ranking Sentinels in London feel that the Vernet clan lands are as much his territory as this city. They felt that by being sent there his loyalties would be divided. What if he decides to defect to them?”
To this Mycroft gave a disdainful snort. “You and they are as blind and deaf as a stone if you believe he would ever choose any other place than London, Alpha.”
Barstone sighed, and let that pass too.
“The Queen has already recognized what you seem to have missed, Alpha. It’s a very poor lookout for the Royal Clan when Her Majesty can spot something our supernatural eyes cannot. She will allow him to be a free agent in London, which is wise. My brother is at his best and most brilliant when he is face to face with his foes, dealing with his puzzles and problems one person at a time. He is far more use to the tribe - to us - by being a protector right at the ground level. He is not now, nor will he ever be, a figurehead,” Mycroft summarized firmly.
Barstone huffed a breath, almost sly. “And we need not discuss who may have advised her on these matters, need we? Most Beta’s would not think to go behind their Alpha’s back, after all.”
Mycroft have a slight smile. “Is that what you think? We are modern men, Alpha, in a modern world. The Sentinel of the past would scarcely recognize London and it’s clans today; it would certainly bewilder them that there was more than one clan for a start. Never be sorry that politics now plays a role in Clan life, Alpha. We learned our lessons about that; even Queen Bess understood that the role of the single, territorial and barbaric guardian would no longer give the world the protection the Sentinel sought to gift. Now we are hundreds strong, whereas before a dozen or so of the strongest would have prevailed, and killed any interlopers. It was because we cultivated Sentinels that we became the reigning force in an increasingly international world. It is because the colonists formed such strong roots with the natives in the Americas that they were able to soundly split with us, because they recognised the power those relationships brought with them. Even now the Americans are learning that; the Southern states realized, too late, subjugating the African population was a fatal error, because the African nations generate powerful Sentinels like clouds generate rain. I don’t doubt that the Dark Sentinel phenomenon is no rare occurrence in those wilds. And when those powerful people turned on their masters, there was no hope for them. Do not fight progress, Alpha, because events will move with or without you. Make the most of it. The ones who can recognize change are the ones who hold mastery over it. And if I’m not very much mistaken, the world it going to be looking to us for answers shortly enough.” This came with a smirk.
“Hmm?” Barstone turned at the sound of running footsteps. “Guide?” he called out, recognising the thudding heartbeat.
Baynes burst through the door in a most un-Baynes-like flurry, shedding paper missives like feathers. Barstone jumped from his perch and strode to him, determined to destroy the cause of his Guide’s agitation.
“Forgive me, Sentinel, but this could not wait,” Baynes cried, breathing hard. “They are coming from everywhere!”
“What is, my own?”
“Messages. Telegraphs, Shouts, carrier pigeons - from all over the Continent! Germany, France, Spain, Prussia, Switzerland, Italy, Russia, Norway - and more besides!” Paper of all sizes and shapes fanned out in Baynes’ hands. “Droves of Sentinels are heading our way! All the ships, in the Channel with a Sentinel or Guardian on board are being diverted towards the Thames mouth. Some ships will be there within hours; some were close enough or in port to already be there. There may be up to a thousand Sentinels travelling inland from the North and Ireland and the Continent as we speak, the first wave will reach us within a week!”
“What?” Barstone was thunderstruck as he scanned message after message.
“Governments the world over are protesting, Sentinel. They want to know what we are doing to cause it.”
They both turned as Mycroft let out a booming wave of laughter.
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Watson was taken below, still completely baffled. The Prophet had turned to his...well, retinue, for lack of a better term, and gave an unheard order. The Guide who took the order had gently removed the ribbon attaching him to the Prophet’s wrist and had gestured for two sailors to flank Watson and prod him along. His feverish mind was still trying to examine this event in a proper worry as he was hustled down steep steps and long, low corridors, before he was shoved into a small chamber with a second door on the other side. The floor was damp.
The sailors escorting him retreated at a glare from the leading, white-clad Guide just as the opposite door opened. Watson let out a breath of relief when he saw Jane Blakely and the others emerging. They were dressed in long, impractical shifts and pinafores, their skin pink from scrubbing and their hair sodden and tangled, but otherwise looked to be unharmed.
“Are you all alright?” Watson demanded as they were lead by a dark haired woman, dressed much the same, from the room beyond.
“We’re all fine, sir,” Jane piped up bravely, but was cut off rather sharply by a hard slap from the Prophet’s retinue Guide, who performed the blow with a kind of perfunctory superiority.
“You will speak when invited to, chattel, and not before,” the Guide snapped. “Obedience is your duty in all things. Such is the word of the Prophet.”
Jane Blakely just glared at him, stuck out her chin and looked him in the eye. Then, with an arrogant sniff that would impress a Peer, she stuck her nose in the air and loftily marched after the matron escorting them as if the Guide were not worth her notice, even though Watson could feel her shaking apart inside. Watson just had to smile.
The Guide was a young man, blonde haired and brown eyed and was short and narrow, his face handsome in a somewhat angular way. His back was ramrod straight in leading Watson here, and you certainly needed no empathic ability to sense the resentment pouring off him.
“I am Gabriel, the First of the Chosen,” the capitals snapped sharply off the young man’s tongue and through the jealous twist of his mouth. “The Prophet has commanded you wash. You will do so, quickly.” He jabbed a stiff finger at the opposite door.
Watson shrugged to himself; time to think and plan was never to be sneezed at. He obeyed silently, and slipped inside a long, damp room, lined with iron rods stretched down either side near the low ceiling. Attached to the rods on hinges was what looked to be misshapen watering cans with chains dangling from them almost to the floor. Watson realized he was looking at a cruder version of the Regency Shower device which was slowly gaining much popularity since it anonymous invention earlier in the century, especially among the Sentinel population.
He experimentally pulled on one can, and the spout tipped downwards, sending a cold deluge to the wet wooden floor. It smelled of salt, so the pump handle in the corner must have a length of pipe in the ocean, to pump up through the pipes and fill the cans. It all had a very haphazard and hastily rigged look about it. The connecting rods all leaked and there was not much adequate drainage on the floor. Cobbled together for the Sentinels and sailors too, maybe?
Watson did wash his face and hands, because while it didn’t kill his fever it at least refreshed him slightly and helped alleviate some of the increasing light headedness that was causing him to sway as the ship swayed.
He staggered back towards the door where things were relatively drier, and managed to get his back to the wall before sliding down it, his vision blurring in panic. He was moving, he was going away....it was too much, it was all too overwhelming and he was too exhausted to deal with it properly. He tried to force himself to think, not just go through the motions, but all his burning mind could bring up from the chaos was the wonderful Sentinel suddenly getting further away, and the Prophet swirling in a mass of lights. Watson scrubbed his hands through his damp hair, trying to will away his delirium with little success. Every so often, another swarm of dancing lights would buzz past, whirling and zipping. All he could do was huddle here, trying to breathe.
The door opened and thankfully it was the matron and not Gabriel who re-entered. She was just a blurred figure, and try as he might Watson could not clear her in his vision. Every so often, fireflies would swirl around her, and then vanish.
She was saying something in a low, musical voice, but the images of those vanishing lights riveted Watson. Something prodded and shouted at the back of his mind; he was momentarily lost in the sound of her voice and the hypnotic wash of lights vanishing in the mist around her.
“It you,” the words fell out of him, slurred thickly. “You’re the one hiding them.”
She froze, and there was nothing blurred about the brief spike of panic. “What is zis hiding you speak of?” Her eyes were dark, like her hair, which fell in a river to the backs of her knees. Her accent was a graceful French-like affair.
Watson, dazed, reached out a touched her forehead. “You...you’re blurred...you’re shielding them as you touch them.”
Her long, elegant fingers wrapped around his hand, her shock like a deep peal of a bell, muffled by water. “Mon Dieu, you can feel it? ‘Ow is zis possible, that you can do zis? Le Bon Dieu, it is a miracle.”
He felt the mist curl around him, wrapping his mind in soothing coolness. It wasn’t enough to alleviate the burning inside, but it offered a brief reprieve from the delirium. “Who are you?” Watson blinked up at her.
She was an exceptionally tall woman, statuesque with the right kind of well defined chin and brow to indicate imperial dignity. She was more alluring than conventionally beautiful, but whereas beauty was subject to a time limit, her face promised to look the same a hundred years from now.
“I am Sister Maria Augusta of the Convent of St. John, in Müstair,” she spoke softly, her voice low and tranquil.
“A nun?” Watson asked back, equally soft. “How does a Guide like you end up in a remote convent in the Alps, Sister?”
A soft, sad smile. “What iz it you English say? A meeting in ze middle, yes? My family vere wealthy, noble born in Paris. Zey could not live with ze shame of a daughter, stuck with zis terrible affliction, no? Unmarriagable, zey say. Zey do not allow ze dogs to run round inside, zey do not let ze wolf in ze door. A Loup, counted as blood? Non, zey could not do zis thing. So I said I vould place myself in ze hands of ze good Farzer, Le Bon Dieu. Far away from...temptation, yes? Far away from everyone. Ah, you suffer so.” Her fingers tightened on his, passing comfort. “You burn with ze terrible fire, ze holy calling.”
“How do you do that?” Watson asked in a whisper. “Muffle their presences, all those Guides? I have never heard of such a talent.”
“After spending so long, ‘iding from my family while I was with zem, I found zat I could mist zere minds, become invisible. Sometime, zey come to ze convent, oui? Ze En Attente Guides. Zey run many, many miles to hide, for Sanctuary. The Loup and the Factionnaires, zey are aggressive in ze farmlands. I found a vay to do the same for ze ozzers who came. Keep zem hidden, keep zem safe.” Her face twisted with sudden anger. “Still, zey came. Zey had heard the rumours, and zey came, stealing in ze night. Zey say zey are doing ze Farzer’s work - pah! Zey may put my body on ze wheel, like Bon Sainte Catherine, but I still do not believe in zere God.”
“So you protect the others from the unbonded Sentinels, and from the Prophet,” Watson shuddered as he remembered.
She pressed her hands to her chest, feeling for a crucifix no longer there. “I trust Mon Dieu. ‘E intended me to be here. ‘E ‘as called upon me to protect ze children and ze stolen from being chained to these false pretre and their false ways, to be dragged away from zere homes. Zat is why I am here. But,” here she pressed a cool hand to his forehead. “Pardonnez-moi, I do not zink I can hide you from ‘im. Already now ze sacre ardent burns inside you. You burn so brightly, I ‘ave not yet felt anyzing so powerful in my life. I am not so powerful zat I may block ze sun.”
Watson blinked at her slowly, uncomprehending. Then the penny dropped a hole straight through him. “The bonding heat?!”
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The Farsight was not a huge ship, for which Lestrade was grateful in a totally inappropriate way. It meant that the majority of the squabbling mass had been forced to wait for the steamer chugging towards Sheerness with grim determination, leaving only a handful of Sentinels that could fit to make their escape aboard the smaller vessel. Odds were better with numbers and all that, but Lestrade was far happier to take his chances without all the ego and noise.
The Farsight was an odd, dual purpose ship. It had a steam engine and the steam pipe, but also a mast, currently un-stepped and laying on the deck. Steam for when speed was necessary, but most of the time Drewitt and Pendley sailed for the sound of the wind and the dance of the currents.
The pipe coughed steam now as they sped towards their destination. The passengers stayed out of the way of Drewitt and Pendley as they worked tirelessly and efficiently as only sailors who know every splinter of their ships by heart. They had thrown most of the fishing gear, buoys, foodstuffs, water stores and any other weight off the boat with nary a care, making room for the weight of the passengers. Even now Pendley worked steadily to dismantle benches and tableware, chairs and other detritus bolted to the ship to make more room while Drewitt handled the rudder.
Holmes was cross legged like an Indian fakir on the bow, hunched down with his fists on his chin, swordstick across his lap, his unwavering thousand yard stare focused dead ahead. The Bradstreets, the Lestrades and half a dozen others that had secured passage were arranged as best they could on the upper deck space.
“I am not going to argue with you about this, my darling,” Lestrade tried to keep their quarrel to a low murmur. As if it would do any good on this boat.
Lady Lestrade gave a spirited toss of her head. “That’s as well, my dear, for your only other recourse is total agreement.”
Oh, how Lestrade could feel the Bradstreets silently sniggering at him. He sighed. “I need you to stay on this boat once we reach them.”
“And I need to be with my husband when he is already frail from the nights events and may require my assistance,” she retorted stubbornly.
Lestrade’s fists clenched in helpless anger. “Do you know how close I came to losing you tonight?!”
He didn’t yell, because he never raised his voice or his hands to his wife; that was unthinkable to him. But the words cut through the air anyway, slicing any other conversations in two. Everyone froze.
“More to the point, Lady Lestrade, I need you to stay on board,” Holmes’ voice drifted from the bow, breaking the tension.
Lady Lestrade turned her dark head to frown at him even as her hands moved to grip her Sentinel’s hard. “Sentinel Holmes?”
“You know about the Laws of Territory. Sentinels should always bond where their territory is. I must get my Guide back to London before the bonding. London is mine, not some anonymous stretch of water in the Channel. You are exceptionally talented at shielding. My Guide will be in no state to defend himself by time we have reached him; he’s halfway gone even now. You are the one best suited to assist him. I ask you...I beg of you to do everything in your power to do so.”
“I...I see,” Lady Lestrade nodded slowly. “As you wish, Sentinel.”
Lestrade put an arm around her, public morality be damned, and looked out over the ocean. Using her warm presence as his anchor, he was able to pick out distant, bobbing lights in the murk, like a stream of fireflies. “There are a lot of ships closing in.” He murmured, half to himself. Suddenly he scowled in surprise, his head snapping around to Holmes. “What do you mean, he’s halfway gone?” A terrible suspicion bloomed. Lestrade rose, voice getting louder with every word. “You can’t mean the bonding heat?!”
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Watson and Sister Augusta jumped apart as the door opened sharply.
Gabriel gave the nun a dark glare. “What are you doing in here? Were you not specifically ordered to stay with the children? Does your wilful disobedience of the Word know no bounds?” He held up a sharp hand when she opened her mouth. “No, I’ll hear no perverted lies from your filthy mouth. I certainly will not lower myself to listening to the mooing of a difficult heifer.”
“Watch your tongue, sir,” Watson snapped, if not completely revitalised then at least a little clearer in the head. “She is a woman of the cloth.”
“She,” Gabriel sneered, lips curling. “Is nothing more than a breeding bitch. And rest assured, chattel, you will be lashed again for you impudence. Away!” he shouted at her, and she darted away with one apologetic look at Watson. Now able to see her from behind, Watson could see the poorly washed bloodstains across the back of her white shift. Again, huh?
“Has anyone ever told you that you are charming, Gabriel?” Watson muttered sarcastically as he rose from the floor, swaying a moment but able to maintain.
Gabriel was almost snarling at him. The jealously and anger raining off him was like a third person in the room. “I am the First of the Chosen, you ignorant peasant. You would do well to remember I can order your punishment at any time. I can have them whip you until you are begging for death!” He ground out.
Watson drew himself up. “You would do well to remember that I am not some frightened and defenceless child you can bully and intimidate. You are not even close to the worst foe I have faced, I could break you like a twig if I had to!”
Shocked affront rang out. Gabriel was not like Strangerson; he was not all closed up, his rage was never turned completely inwards. He felt and projected all over the place, with no thought to self control. The young man stepped backwards, crossing his arms defensively. “I am expected to bring you before the Prophet and do not have time to waste with meaningless prattle from one of his fancies. Follow.”
Watson followed, knowing he would just be forced is he didn’t. He was lead through the long, low corridors, listening to the bang of footsteps above him on the upper deck. The few sailors they passed on their way hastily ducked into side doors or plastered themselves flat against walls at the sight of Gabriel approaching. They did not feel happy. Beneath Watson’s feet, he could hear muffled sobbing and soft voices, a faint but noticeable tang of despair was in the air. There was nowhere else to go from here but America.
Watson rubbed his temples. His headache was coming back, and his skin already felt too hot.
“Here are the rules for meeting with our Lord, the Prophet,” Gabriel’s voice noticeably changed when speaking about him. Pure, unadulterated worship exuded from every pore. “You shall speak only when given permission. You shall never look the Prophet in the face, but keep your head bowed in proper obeisance and humility. You shall never deign to touch him or seek to defile his purity. All of his orders to you will be given to me. All of your answers for questions shall go through me. Any breaking of these rules will result in severe and immediate punishment. Now,” he opened a rough hewn door and entered an antechamber ringed with racks of white shifts and robes. The only break in the walls of white was the large, heavy door on the other side. The plate on the door presumably once said ‘CAPTAIN’, but a white cross painted across the length and breadth of the door had obliterated it. “You shall be dressed as befitting a Chosen. Take a robe and change into it. You cannot meet our Lord Prophet dressed in those filthy rags.
Watson looked down at his suit, that had indeed seen better days - most of them before today. Nevertheless - “I refuse.”
Gabriel turned slowly, his whole body taut. “You defy the ways of the Chosen?” he hissed in disbelief.
“Every minute of every day,” Watson replied flatly. “I will not undress before you, put on one of your costumes and strut on your farcical stage. If the so-called Prophet does not like it, then he can damn well say so himself.” The headache was more than just fever now, it seemed to be an actual manifestation of his anger. All the things he had witnessed these people do, all the pain and fear he could feel - he was not going to stand quietly before this kind of abomination.
“You dare to...you actually dare...” Gabriel’s pupils were pinpricked with utter rage. “You will be a victim of his wrath, you shall see!” he shouted, spittle flying. “You will share the same fate as all the others who defy him, all other who have provoked his rage! And when you beg for help all the faithful shall laugh at your pitiful pleading with scorn! But hear this - I am the First of the Chosen and I will be obeyed, and I will not see him upset by the likes of you, you pitiful interloper for the Prophet is my Sentinel.”
“But you are not his Guide,” the words came out before prudence could stifle them. “You are not bonded.”
If what Watson felt before was rage, then this was something beyond, so incoherent it could even be called madness. Gabriel flew at him, face white with it, teeth bared. His fists stuck two hard blows to Watson’s chest, knocking Watson back against the racks of white linen. “I am his Guide, the First of the Chosen!” Watson was surprised the foaming spittle sprayed onto his didn’t evaporate in the sheer molten heat of Gabriel’s mad rage. As it was, Watson could barely hold his knees straight under the onslaught as the devout man continued. “I was with him from the very beginning! The very fact that he needs so many around him is only proof of his magnificence! But I was the First, I was the one he Chose, I am the one who cares for him and speaks in his voice and am his block when he sleeps, I am the one who nurses him when his terrible powers weight down his poor mortal shell! I am the one he turns to, always, me! What are you? A pretty distraction, a fancy, a toy for his amusement, nothing more! Unworthy and unimportant! You will outlive your usefulness, just like all the others, and you will end up dead like them, and he will always turn back to me!” Gabriel’s hands had found their way around Watson’s throat, and Watson was trying to prise the crazed grip loose.
The white-cross door opened. “First, what are you doing?” called the Guide who emerged.
Gabriel stepped back and away, breathing hard. “Nothing that concerns you, Fifth. Is the Prophet ready?”
“Yes, but he is upset.”
It was like she had flipped a switch in Gabriel with those words. He instantly radiated concern and purpose, pushing past her to get into the chamber beyond, practically running in his haste.
Watson, shaken and not a little wrong footed by the abrupt mood swing, followed as the Fifth motioned for him to entered. She gave a slightly puzzled look at his clothing, but it seemed to neither worry nor offend her. Watson stepped inside.
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When the French ship loomed out of the gloom, Holmes already over sensitized abilities could instantly sense the unbonded Sentinel aboard. His temper flared, but he buried it. The Dark Sentinel saw no Sentinel as a true threat. He would fight and kill every other Sentinel on the planet, if he had to.
He could feel the other man, the Guide, close by now; tantalisingly so. The Sentinel whispered from the corners of the Dark city, saying how easy it would be to dive off, to swim, to eliminate all those who dared take him...
Oh yes, Holmes nostrils flared, he could smell the other Dark Sentinel as easily as if he were standing before him. If so much as one fingertip so much as brushed his Guide’s skin, well, his fate was sealed - as if it hadn’t been already for his invasion into Holmes territory.
He had a brief, quiet conversation in French with the Sentinel on the other ship, and a stratagem was agreed upon. Drewitt killed the engine, and tossed a rope to the ship looming above them. All the lights aboard the Farsight were extinguished, and they drifted as an invisible shadow in the wake of the larger vessel.
It did not take long to intercept the frigate; it was weighted down and heavy with people, and the French corvette was lighter and sleeker, powered by both steam and sails like the Farsight.
On the command of the Captain, on the stern advice of the on-board Sentinel, the corvette turned on all forward lights and sounded a horn to the other vessel; under the cover of the din of shouting voices that followed, Farsight detached and circled under black sails outside the pool of lantern light and around the other side.
Drewitt silently took a length of rope, one end tied to the Farsight, nodded to Holmes, and dove into the inky black water. The Sentinel on board held their breath in sympathy as the fisherman moved silently under the water, towards the frigate. He did not emerge once for air once, as seconds turned to minutes. As almost every Sentinel aboard the Farsight was convinced Drewitt must have drowned, the merest ripple where the frigate’s starboard side met the water became Drewitts silent head, popping up.
Silently, a few Sentinels dropped off the side of the boat and, while Drewitt heaved and they pushed, the Farsight drifted silently toward the enemy ship.
Sentinel quiet, Lestrade sidled up to Holmes as his wife and Pendley lay out medical supplies behind him. “Well, here we are,” he murmured, Sentinel soft. “Now what?”
Holmes flicked him a glance and, pure Dark Sentinel, smirked.
Sometimes mind reading wasn’t that hard. And sometimes - just occasionally - Lestrade could read Holmes like a book. “Thought so.”
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The chamber was simple - big, yes, with a utterly enormous bed on one side, lined with windows currently shuttered and soft light from stained glass lanterns Thick swathes of fabric hung from the ceiling and draped like curtains or hung like loose hammocks, cushions lined the floor in high piles giving it an almost Arabic air, somewhat assisted by the smoking pot of incense wafting up from one small table near the bed. There was little other furniture, though, and nothing else in the clutter but the softness of the pillows.
Watson’s eyes were drawn like magnets to the figure half propped on the giant among beds, figures kneeling or crouched around him, ribbons attached to his arms all tangled about it other. Even now Gabriel was glaring at them, detaching them in an annoyed fashion and shooing them away from the Prophet, fussing and hovering over the taller man.
Watson swallowed as the signature the Prophet gave off seemed to gain even more power.
The Prophet’s head shot up at the sound, and he hastily shoved and pushed the others away, now unencumbered by silken ties. The robe was gone and the Prophet was wearing a kind of front-open, sleeveless jacket, closer to a jerkin than a vest, and loose white pants; all of which looked to be silk. Well defined torso and arm muscles peeked and displayed under tanned skin, though there was some clear unhealthy leanness there as well.
“It’s you,” he breathed, and Watson had to swallow again because there was a worrying amount of rapture in that Grecian profile.
“It’s me,” Watson agreed warily, not stepping closer. All that power focused on him. He felt his mind unravelling at the edges. “I want to release the British Guides you’ve taken. You must take them back; you cannot have them.”
Gabriel hissed in fury while the other Chosen gasped in shock. “Do not speak unless you are directed, chattel!” He bawled, advancing. His tone moderated and softened and his body language instantly changed as he came to the Prophet’s side. “My Lord, forgive me; I did instruct him in our ways but he is defiant and wilful. If you will permit me, Lord, I do not believe he will be adequate for the Chosen. He is dangerous, Lord, you must trust this. I have seen his heretic and foul ways. He had not even dressed as he should.” Gabriel’s hand gently carded through the Prophets blonde curls as he crooned. “You should not be privy to such impurity, my Prophet.”
Something about Gabriel’s cooing and petting attention irked Watson on some level. The Sentinel was clearly powerful and knew his own mind, and the sickly sweet coddling did not suit him. Watson had seen Sentinels fight - they needed help only to protect to the best of their abilities, to use their powers to the fullest. They did not need help to think.
Watson shook his head to clear it; he knew nothing of the bonding heat and how it affected Guides, but he knew a dangerous observation when he had one. Alright - remember, he told himself sternly, the Sentinel in front of you is an enemy. Watson called to mind Lox and his Guide, and it was all the cold focus he could need.
The Prophet was ignoring Gabriel, however - in fact, the room had seemed to stop existing outside of Watson. “You’re...have you any idea...how beautiful you are?” The Prophet breathed, and Watson felt uneasiness churn harder in his stomach.
Gabriel jerked as if slapped. “My...My Lord?” he asked plaintively.
“You are mesmerising,” the Prophet’s eyes were dark as he advanced. “The blood rushing through you is like a song. Come to me.” He held out his hands.
Watson swallowed. His vision was blurring. “No,” he rasped.
“Do not dare disobey the Prophet!” Gabriel snapped. “You must obey the Word.” He darted forward to force Watson to move, but was intercepted before he reached his target.
The Prophet grabbed the blonde Chosen and tossed him to the ground like a ragdoll. “Never touch him! Never! He is my Guide, Gabriel, and you would do well to treat him as a Prophet’s Guide whom the Prophet loves and esteems.”
Gabriel was white faced and shaking apart on the ground as the words rained on him like fists. “My..my Lord...f-forgive me...forgive...we are the ones who love you, my Lord! I...we esteem you above all else!” Gabriel was on his knees now, shaking hands raised palms up and pleading. “He cannot love you one fraction of what we...I...do.”
The Prophet looked down coldly and without sympathy. “You’re actions are undignified and not worthy of the First of the Chosen. If you wish to remain First, then discipline your words and actions in future. Now go from my sight until you are in a better humour.”
Gabriel sobbed and he scuttled back and away. Watson put a hand of his chest, where Gabriel’s pain radiated from. He may be devout to the point of frenzy, but his love for the Prophet was sincere. It was painful to feel the man’s heart practically torn from his chest.
“You should be kinder, Sentinel,” Watson murmured. “That was a cruel answer to his loyalty to you.”
Gabriel’s eyes locked with his, and Watson felt a wave of pure hatred wash over him. Watson pity had grated against the First’s total humiliation, especially since Watson had ‘won’ some contest for the Prophet’s favour that Gabriel had jealously waged with every Guide who ever caught the Prophet’s eyes. The insult added to the fatal final blow of his beloved Prophet turning on him now meant that Gabriel hated him with almost every cell of his heart.
The Prophet turned to him. “He must esteem and respect you, my Chosen Guide,” a hideous, shuddering sob came from behind Gabriel muffling hands at that. “For God has delivered you into my hands and it’s is His will that we be made one. All as He had planned.”
Watson remembered Sister Augusta, and the shock of fury gave him momentary clarity. “He planned? He Planned?!” the volume was not as shocking as the sheer anger. Even the Prophet jerked backwards slightly. “What bloody plan? All those children that were killed? That poor Guide murdered to punish her Sentinel? Those Guide whom you snatched from their homes without respect or care for their happiness or wellbeing, imprisoned with a bunch of ruffians and lashed and beaten besides? The House? All of that, a plan from above?” Watson spat on the ground. “If that is the will you follow sir, then you may follow it - alone! I do not forgive any man who commits such crimes claiming they are right and just!”
“The the Lord showed it to me!” The Prophet retorted, knocked off balance by the vehement doctor. “All the things He said to me came true! He said he must build a new nation, under God, with the Dark Sentinel leading the way to the light! I had the vision when I was a child in the commune, and my father and the Elders interpreted it for me! It is the reason for my divine abilities, beyond that of other Sentinels. They have no reason to lie.”
“If it brings them wealth and power, they have every reason!” Watson retorted, exasperated. The Prophet was like a sullen child, all foot stomping and temper tantrums.
“They are learned men, they are beyond such things.”
“No one is beyond such things,” Watson snorted. “You aren’t some celestial being. Sentinels aren’t all powerful gods, they are just people. They bleed like everyone else, believe me - I’ve seen it.”
“It is Gods will!” The Prophet bellowed, and strode back to the bed, scooping up something that clinked as he held it. There was a moment when his hands moved, and the other Guides in the room all looked on, wide eyed. “You see, there is proof! How could such things have come into my hands if not by His will?” He held out his hand, each of them now tipped with a wicked, obsidian and iron claw.
Watson glared; he knew what they were, every British schoolboy did. “Because you stole them,” he growled, wiping a hand across his sweating forehead. He was boiling alive, anger bouncing inside his skull like a mad swarm of bees. “You didn’t even do it yourself.”
“They are rightfully mine! I saw myself wearing them! It was prophesised!” The Prophet strode towards him. “And only once I had them was I worthy of a Guide and here, you have come. He has brought you to me! It is fate, you are mine; you must come to me now, Guide. It hurts. The world, it hurts, the air scrapes my skin raw, the lights dazzle my eyes, the sounds drives knives into my ears! You must help me! You are the one who will make it all better.”
The plea was so plaintive and childlike that for moment Watson’s hammering heart skipped a beat. His brain was swamped with the Prophet, all the Sentinel’s agonies were laid like a massacre before him. He was so obviously in agony, his heart was so obviously crying out with sincere need and Watson responded to that in people.
Watson sucked in a breath. It was too hot and too, too close in here. He had to get out of here. “No. I can’t. I can’t and I won’t. No.”
He turned and strode out, shutting the door behind him. His actions were so unexpected that he was able to get halfway down the corridor, the door to the upper deck open in front of him and that lovely fresh air beckoning. The door beyond the anteroom opened and the Prophet strode out still half dressed. “Wait! Guide!”
Watson ran for the deck, stumbling and bouncing of walls as he did; his mind was coming apart. He broke into the night, sucking in huge lungfuls of air, mind spinning out of control.
A Taloned hand grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around violently. The fabric of his jacket parted like tissue paper where the wickedly sharp claws grasped. The Prophet’s skin met Watson’s through the tears, and Watson’s mind whited out; sheer agony and lust and power and need washed his mind away in a flood as other Sentinels gathered around.
“Strangerson, the ring!” was the first order, distant and tinny in Watson’s ears. “You are mine!” The Prophet bellowed in his face, shaking him. “Mine!”
In the nothing left by the flood of emotions in Watson’s mind, something, some tiny light flickered and fought the scouring wind.
The beautiful Sentinel laying on the bed, soft in the light of the candles, his jaw nuzzled against my hand.
“Never,” Watson choked out, bringing up shaking hand to try to shove the taller man away, though it was like trying to shove a boulder. “Never without my permission.”
There was something happening behind him - distant cries of alarm, tiny echoes of pain, but it didn’t become real to him until a very familiar tzing sounded just behind him and the cool brush of metal slid across his cheek. The point of the sword jabbed a hairsbreadth from the Prophet’s Adams Apple, and the flat brushed Watson cheek. But instead of the clench of fear, it was a spicy thrill of adventure that the press of the cool metal gave to Watson. He breathed out, and leaned back into the chest lined up perfectly with his shoulder blades.
Warm breath coiled deliciously next to his ear. “And me?” a soft voice purred. “Do I have permission?”
Watson let out a huff of laughter, half hysterical with relief. “You, Sentinel?” he rasped as his vision blurred with tears. “Always.”
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End Part Eleven