The Phantom of St. Bartholomew 2/?
Title: The Phantom of St. Bartholomew
Author: tipsy_armadillo
Rating: R
Warnings: violence, non/dub-con
Summary: John has spent his whole life hiding
Written in response to velvet-mace's fic Chameleon which was in turn inspired by this Prompt. It's a fic within a fic. We need to go deeper.
Prologue
Many years later:
Sherlock was bored. Bored. Bored. Boooooored. There wasn’t a single case that needed solving, not a single suspicious murder had taken place within the last 24 hours, not even a tiny little case of fraud had popped up that could relieve his boredom.
It was madness.
What was the world coming to?
Sherlock contemplated the idea of turning the tables and maybe knocking off the annoying neighbors from next door who insisted on playing their music into the early hours of the morning. So what if the music wasn’t actually loud by normal standards, he could still hear it and it was rude. In fact, everything about them was rude. They cooked terrible curry all the time, likely a young male with an equally young and male roommate, both lacking the skills to cook anything more complicated than pre-packaged curry and occasionally cup ramen. He could plant the bodies in such a way as to make it look like a ritual murder suicide. That would liven up the Yard a bit; maybe they would even call him in. The Curry Murders, they would call it.
No no, that wouldn’t work. It wasn’t fun solving a murder you already knew the answer to.
Sherlock groaned and let his arm thump to the floor. Then his leg. Slowly he oozed of the sofa and lay on the floor, looking up at the cracked, bullet hole ridden ceiling and mourning his lot in life.
The remote was next to him.
Dully he picked it up and turned on the telly. His arm immediately fell to the floor; he didn’t even have the will to keep it aloft.
The too loud voice of some over-eager young people filled the quiet flat. Sherlock craned his neck to see what was on.
Almost immediately he rolled his eyes. Shaky cam, young adults with a lot of high tech looking equipment that was more than likely useless for any practical application, annoyed hospital employees dodging the camera crew. A ghost hunter program.
One of the young crew members shoved a microphone in the face of a young, pretty resident.
“Well most people say it’s an urban legend but I know several patients who have claimed to have scented the Phantom. I haven’t myself, but I believe them. We’ve even had government type people come in and sweep the place. I wasn’t here for that but I’ve heard people say they might have found something but then as soon as they got their Trackers on the scent it vanished. Like a ghost.”
“A ghost! Do you think the Phantom could be a ghost?”
The resident nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes! Legend says the Phantom is the ghost of a Guide whose Sentinel died in this hospital. They say she was so heartbroken over the loss she died soon after and has haunted the hospital ever since, soothing unbonded Sentinels in memory of her lost love. It’s so tragic.”
Sherlock flicked the telly off.
Boring.
***
Mycroft was in the midst of a truly horrific headache. Not a real headache, the metaphorical kind. The kind that came with a scandal in the DTS.
Inwardly he sneered; outwardly he was calmly, blandly even, sending text messages while sipping a cup of rather lukewarm tea.
A Tracker had gone and gotten herself in a heap of legal troubles over reportedly bonding with an underage Guide. Had it been any old random Sentinel off the streets this might never have come to his attention but no, it simply had to be a Tracker and thus was, in some ways, his personal responsibility.
What a mess. This sort of thing was becoming more and more common to his dismay. At least once a month he had to deal with either an underage Guide being bonded or one Sentinel killing another over a Guide or, and this was unfortunately becoming far too common, a Sentinel falling into madness and either killing themselves or killing those who were unfortunate enough to be within striking distance. All this because of Guides. Not because of them precisely, they were just as unfortunate victims as the Sentinels, but rather for lack of them. And it was the lack of them that seemed to drive even more into hiding.
It was a growing and troubling trend that had made the headache he was dealing with even more troublesome. When Guides were found naturally the process of finding them a Sentinel was eased and could be a natural, even beautiful thing. When Guides choose to hide more often than not they ended up being found by desperate and half crazed Sentinels whose madness addled minds were so focused on finding a Guide to relieve their suffering they were often far more successful at finding rogue Guides than even trained Trackers. When a frightened and flighty Guide met a desperate Sentinel … well, you ended up with a headache. Even moreso if the Guide in question is underage.
“Do you want me on this?” Anthea asked, reading over his shoulder, something he allowed very few people to do. Very few people numbering in exactly two people, Anthea was a special case as the other person was family.
“No, this requires a more personal touch.”
“Of course.”
“Be a dear and take over for me here while I see to this.”
“Of course.”
Mycroft stood, a faint twinge in his back making itself known. Anthea produced a bottle of Acetaminophen and passed it to him wordlessly while taking his seat. He nodded an acknowledgement and put the pills in his briefcase before he left. Who knew when his metaphorical headache might turn into a real headache after all, those pills might be needed. Good help was so hard to find these days, he would have to remember to send Anthea on a nice trip this year, he had been working her dreadfully hard and he didn’t know what he would do without her.
She almost felt like a Guide at times. Almost.
His own Guide had passed some years ago and the memory of her was still far too fresh for him to accept another. Perhaps if Anthea had been a Guide he might feel differently. Sometimes he suspected she might be a rogue Guide but the idea was laughable, rogue Guides in London were practically unheard of, one existing right under his nose would be unthinkable and an embarrassment of the highest order. Leaving aside the fact that he had personally run every test known to man on her. He was nothing if not thorough.
Ah, but time now to leave his fanciful thoughts aside; he had business to attend to.
Mycroft got into his car and ordered the driver to his destination.
“St Bartholomew’s Hospital.”
***
John had a headache, an aching pounding headache. Another bunch of silly unemployed twenty-somethings were mucking around the hospital again in search of the Phantom. He was just glad he didn’t have to deal with the paperwork; he was simply tasked with putting up with their nonsense while he was trying to work. Normally he didn’t mind but this group had a Sentinel and no matter where he went there they were.
It was exhausting him.
Add to that an injured Guide and their newly bonded Sentinel had just been brought into the ER, it was the second time this month. John hated these ones so much, partially out of pity for the Guide but mostly because of the powerlessness he felt in having to discharge a Guide who was often frightened and traumatized to their Sentinel, leaving them to an uncertain fate and leaving John with just one more reason to continue hiding.
He passed the Ghost Hunters, pulling his thoughts tightly to himself as the Sentinel walked past, carefully setting his pace and not making eye contact. The Sentinel didn’t even spare him a glance, and who would, a middle aged Doctor, non-descript in every way. He wasn’t Guide material. Guides, unbonded ones at least, were young things. Easy to capture, easier to control. Nobody in their right mind would be looking at him. It also didn’t hurt that none of them were looking for a living Guide.
“I think I felt something!”
John tensed but it wasn’t the Sentinel who had spoken, just one of the normals.
“In that room, there’s a cold feeling. Don’t you feel it?”
Everyone in the group agreed and John rolled his eyes as they all worked themselves up over nothing. That room was always cold; the air-conditioning unit was centered there.
He left the Ghost Hunters to their own devices and hurried to his patients room.
He knew he was getting close, the room stank of fear and pain and an undercurrent of contentment. It was always the same. John steeled himself, and looked for his spirit animal. There, barely visible, blending into the plain white wall was his little chameleon.
Good, stay hidden, keep me hidden.
He entered the room and immediately twitched. The Sentinel was awake, her eyes locked on John the moment he stepped into the room. Johns back straightened, his military training coming back to him as he projected an air of authority and quiet strength at the half mad mind. The Sentinels eyes grew hazy. With bonded Sentinels it was usually best to use a heavy hand when dealing with them as they were less susceptible to his empathy than their unbonded brethren due to their bond with another Guide. Luckily he rarely got bonded Sentinels coming through. His talent lay in calming and soothing, while he could take the heavy handed approach John never felt as safe as he did when he had a Sentinel in a blissfully calm state.
Just to be certain the Sentinel wouldn’t be a problem he put a hand on her clammy forehead and projected serenity into her frantic mind. He soothed her guilt over the rape, her fear that her beloved Guide wouldn’t love her back. The fear that was strongest was the fear that her bond would be severed. For a brief moment John indulged himself in fantasy, he could sever the bond, any reasonably talented Guide could really. Bonds formed in the heat of an attack were weak and usually required that the Sentinel and Guide couple repeatedly, melding their minds into one until the bond was strong enough to withstand an attack.
There was very little reason for this Sentinel to worry. Breaking a bond was severely punished these days. John pushed that idea to the forefront of the Sentiniels mind, reinforcing feelings of safety and security within her new bond.
Almost immediately the Sentinel calmed, eyes closed as she lay back into the pillow behind her. Once John was certain she was no threat to his cover he took up a position by her bed and began reading through her chart, unconcerned by his proximity to her as her limbs were securely fastened to the bed.
“Quite a talent you have there, Doctor. This must be what they call bedside manner.”
John stiffened, his head snapping in the direction of the voice.
A very tall, very posh, very official looking man stood by the other bed, next to the sleeping Guide who was being looked over by one of the nurses specializing in the types of trauma unbonded Guides were often subjected to. An area John kept himself firmly away from.
“Who are you?” John demanded of the posh man. “Nobody but hospital personnel are allowed in this room. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“No need for that,” the man said, pulling out his wallet and showing John his ID.
One look at the logo and John knew he was in danger.
John instinctively pulled his camouflage close, masking his scent and appearance in a veil. The man’s eyes glazed momentarily and almost immediately cleared. His eyes seemed to slide away from John, looking at him but never focusing, never taking in detail. John couldn’t keep this up for long, the headache was thrumming in his head to the beat of his heart but the ID that had just been presented to him gave him no choice.
Department of Tracking Services. This man was from the DTS and John had somehow completely missed his presence on initially entering the room. Either John was more exhausted than he had realized after working twelve hours and dodging the Ghost Hunter Sentinel or this man was a powerful Tracker, capable of concealing his true nature from unsuspecting Guides.
“What does the DTS want here? Was she one of yours?”
The man put the ID back in his pocket and nodded. “Yes, most unfortunate. I felt it was prudent to come in person and reassure the staff at your hospital that we are doing everything in our power to keep incidents like this from happening. I am personally overseeing this case.”
The man was lying and they both knew it, he was here to make sure the staff kept their mouths shut about DTS employees raping and illegally bonding to fifteen year old Guides. John felt sick to his stomach and his camouflage momentarily weakened before he set it to right again.
“Are you feeling well?” The posh man asked in an overly worried tone that just screamed of fake concern.
“I’m fine,” John said. “Our staff knows the DTS is doing everything they can but this is the second incident this month. Our resources are stretched already, we can’t keep up with the added cost and time of having these types of … incidents occurring regularly. I can already tell you the presence of an injured Guide is probably setting our ER back at least an hour, every Sentinel within a mile radius is probably going to come sniffing around our doors, not to mention the ethical and legal issues and all because your employees couldn’t keep it in their pants!”
John’s body was shaking and the nurse was looking at him funny. He took a deep breath and noticed the man’s eyes had a strange look to them; John sent a calming wave over the room and knew he needed to get out of there. He forced himself to hide further. Everything would be ok if he could just hide.
“I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”
“Not at all, Doctor - “
“Smith,” John offered. The man’s brow furrowed as though trying to remember something, John saw the man’s eyes drifting towards his name tag. It didn’t matter, in a few minutes he wouldn’t remember anything. “I have to go. Nurse O’Connor will answer any questions you may have.”
“Doctor Watson-“
“Forget,” John said, projecting his voice over the group. He sent a wave of encouragement and calm, easing their minds into a sedate and impressionable state, planting his idea in their minds. “I was never here. You didn’t see me.”
Everyone in the room turned away from him and began going about their routine as though he had never been there.
Perfect.
John rushed out of the room, towards his safe place, barely noticing how even the staff outside the room were affected by his empathy. The strain of projecting had sent his headache from painful into agonizing and his safe place was the only area he could collect himself. The little used area of the Hospital in the old wing, an old Janitors closet long since put to use storing sheets. It took him far too long to get there.
He ran to the supply closet. His fingers were weak and sweating and for a moment he couldn’t get a grip on the handle. He was shaking so badly.
Finally his hands managed to grip the handle and John rushed inside to his quiet black sanctuary.
He quickly secured the door shut and allowed his rubbery legs to fall out from beneath him, sinking to the floor, curling up into a ball and clutching his head. It was an unfortunate side effect of using his camouflage on a great number of people or very powerful Sentinels. The headaches weren’t nearly as bad as they used to be but when they struck they were often dangerous in that they weakened his ability to hide and made him vulnerable. It was worth it, he was confident that the man he had just talked to and everyone else in the room would have already forgotten about him, his name, what he looked like, even that he was there.
John didn’t enjoy doing that but he did what he had to. Even if it reduced him to a weak, shaking puddle on the floor afterwards.
Mycroft Holmes of the DTS seemed like a dangerous man.
Next Chapter
Author: tipsy_armadillo
Rating: R
Warnings: violence, non/dub-con
Summary: John has spent his whole life hiding
Written in response to velvet-mace's fic Chameleon which was in turn inspired by this Prompt. It's a fic within a fic. We need to go deeper.
Prologue
Many years later:
Sherlock was bored. Bored. Bored. Boooooored. There wasn’t a single case that needed solving, not a single suspicious murder had taken place within the last 24 hours, not even a tiny little case of fraud had popped up that could relieve his boredom.
It was madness.
What was the world coming to?
Sherlock contemplated the idea of turning the tables and maybe knocking off the annoying neighbors from next door who insisted on playing their music into the early hours of the morning. So what if the music wasn’t actually loud by normal standards, he could still hear it and it was rude. In fact, everything about them was rude. They cooked terrible curry all the time, likely a young male with an equally young and male roommate, both lacking the skills to cook anything more complicated than pre-packaged curry and occasionally cup ramen. He could plant the bodies in such a way as to make it look like a ritual murder suicide. That would liven up the Yard a bit; maybe they would even call him in. The Curry Murders, they would call it.
No no, that wouldn’t work. It wasn’t fun solving a murder you already knew the answer to.
Sherlock groaned and let his arm thump to the floor. Then his leg. Slowly he oozed of the sofa and lay on the floor, looking up at the cracked, bullet hole ridden ceiling and mourning his lot in life.
The remote was next to him.
Dully he picked it up and turned on the telly. His arm immediately fell to the floor; he didn’t even have the will to keep it aloft.
The too loud voice of some over-eager young people filled the quiet flat. Sherlock craned his neck to see what was on.
Almost immediately he rolled his eyes. Shaky cam, young adults with a lot of high tech looking equipment that was more than likely useless for any practical application, annoyed hospital employees dodging the camera crew. A ghost hunter program.
One of the young crew members shoved a microphone in the face of a young, pretty resident.
“Well most people say it’s an urban legend but I know several patients who have claimed to have scented the Phantom. I haven’t myself, but I believe them. We’ve even had government type people come in and sweep the place. I wasn’t here for that but I’ve heard people say they might have found something but then as soon as they got their Trackers on the scent it vanished. Like a ghost.”
“A ghost! Do you think the Phantom could be a ghost?”
The resident nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes! Legend says the Phantom is the ghost of a Guide whose Sentinel died in this hospital. They say she was so heartbroken over the loss she died soon after and has haunted the hospital ever since, soothing unbonded Sentinels in memory of her lost love. It’s so tragic.”
Sherlock flicked the telly off.
Boring.
***
Mycroft was in the midst of a truly horrific headache. Not a real headache, the metaphorical kind. The kind that came with a scandal in the DTS.
Inwardly he sneered; outwardly he was calmly, blandly even, sending text messages while sipping a cup of rather lukewarm tea.
A Tracker had gone and gotten herself in a heap of legal troubles over reportedly bonding with an underage Guide. Had it been any old random Sentinel off the streets this might never have come to his attention but no, it simply had to be a Tracker and thus was, in some ways, his personal responsibility.
What a mess. This sort of thing was becoming more and more common to his dismay. At least once a month he had to deal with either an underage Guide being bonded or one Sentinel killing another over a Guide or, and this was unfortunately becoming far too common, a Sentinel falling into madness and either killing themselves or killing those who were unfortunate enough to be within striking distance. All this because of Guides. Not because of them precisely, they were just as unfortunate victims as the Sentinels, but rather for lack of them. And it was the lack of them that seemed to drive even more into hiding.
It was a growing and troubling trend that had made the headache he was dealing with even more troublesome. When Guides were found naturally the process of finding them a Sentinel was eased and could be a natural, even beautiful thing. When Guides choose to hide more often than not they ended up being found by desperate and half crazed Sentinels whose madness addled minds were so focused on finding a Guide to relieve their suffering they were often far more successful at finding rogue Guides than even trained Trackers. When a frightened and flighty Guide met a desperate Sentinel … well, you ended up with a headache. Even moreso if the Guide in question is underage.
“Do you want me on this?” Anthea asked, reading over his shoulder, something he allowed very few people to do. Very few people numbering in exactly two people, Anthea was a special case as the other person was family.
“No, this requires a more personal touch.”
“Of course.”
“Be a dear and take over for me here while I see to this.”
“Of course.”
Mycroft stood, a faint twinge in his back making itself known. Anthea produced a bottle of Acetaminophen and passed it to him wordlessly while taking his seat. He nodded an acknowledgement and put the pills in his briefcase before he left. Who knew when his metaphorical headache might turn into a real headache after all, those pills might be needed. Good help was so hard to find these days, he would have to remember to send Anthea on a nice trip this year, he had been working her dreadfully hard and he didn’t know what he would do without her.
She almost felt like a Guide at times. Almost.
His own Guide had passed some years ago and the memory of her was still far too fresh for him to accept another. Perhaps if Anthea had been a Guide he might feel differently. Sometimes he suspected she might be a rogue Guide but the idea was laughable, rogue Guides in London were practically unheard of, one existing right under his nose would be unthinkable and an embarrassment of the highest order. Leaving aside the fact that he had personally run every test known to man on her. He was nothing if not thorough.
Ah, but time now to leave his fanciful thoughts aside; he had business to attend to.
Mycroft got into his car and ordered the driver to his destination.
“St Bartholomew’s Hospital.”
***
John had a headache, an aching pounding headache. Another bunch of silly unemployed twenty-somethings were mucking around the hospital again in search of the Phantom. He was just glad he didn’t have to deal with the paperwork; he was simply tasked with putting up with their nonsense while he was trying to work. Normally he didn’t mind but this group had a Sentinel and no matter where he went there they were.
It was exhausting him.
Add to that an injured Guide and their newly bonded Sentinel had just been brought into the ER, it was the second time this month. John hated these ones so much, partially out of pity for the Guide but mostly because of the powerlessness he felt in having to discharge a Guide who was often frightened and traumatized to their Sentinel, leaving them to an uncertain fate and leaving John with just one more reason to continue hiding.
He passed the Ghost Hunters, pulling his thoughts tightly to himself as the Sentinel walked past, carefully setting his pace and not making eye contact. The Sentinel didn’t even spare him a glance, and who would, a middle aged Doctor, non-descript in every way. He wasn’t Guide material. Guides, unbonded ones at least, were young things. Easy to capture, easier to control. Nobody in their right mind would be looking at him. It also didn’t hurt that none of them were looking for a living Guide.
“I think I felt something!”
John tensed but it wasn’t the Sentinel who had spoken, just one of the normals.
“In that room, there’s a cold feeling. Don’t you feel it?”
Everyone in the group agreed and John rolled his eyes as they all worked themselves up over nothing. That room was always cold; the air-conditioning unit was centered there.
He left the Ghost Hunters to their own devices and hurried to his patients room.
He knew he was getting close, the room stank of fear and pain and an undercurrent of contentment. It was always the same. John steeled himself, and looked for his spirit animal. There, barely visible, blending into the plain white wall was his little chameleon.
Good, stay hidden, keep me hidden.
He entered the room and immediately twitched. The Sentinel was awake, her eyes locked on John the moment he stepped into the room. Johns back straightened, his military training coming back to him as he projected an air of authority and quiet strength at the half mad mind. The Sentinels eyes grew hazy. With bonded Sentinels it was usually best to use a heavy hand when dealing with them as they were less susceptible to his empathy than their unbonded brethren due to their bond with another Guide. Luckily he rarely got bonded Sentinels coming through. His talent lay in calming and soothing, while he could take the heavy handed approach John never felt as safe as he did when he had a Sentinel in a blissfully calm state.
Just to be certain the Sentinel wouldn’t be a problem he put a hand on her clammy forehead and projected serenity into her frantic mind. He soothed her guilt over the rape, her fear that her beloved Guide wouldn’t love her back. The fear that was strongest was the fear that her bond would be severed. For a brief moment John indulged himself in fantasy, he could sever the bond, any reasonably talented Guide could really. Bonds formed in the heat of an attack were weak and usually required that the Sentinel and Guide couple repeatedly, melding their minds into one until the bond was strong enough to withstand an attack.
There was very little reason for this Sentinel to worry. Breaking a bond was severely punished these days. John pushed that idea to the forefront of the Sentiniels mind, reinforcing feelings of safety and security within her new bond.
Almost immediately the Sentinel calmed, eyes closed as she lay back into the pillow behind her. Once John was certain she was no threat to his cover he took up a position by her bed and began reading through her chart, unconcerned by his proximity to her as her limbs were securely fastened to the bed.
“Quite a talent you have there, Doctor. This must be what they call bedside manner.”
John stiffened, his head snapping in the direction of the voice.
A very tall, very posh, very official looking man stood by the other bed, next to the sleeping Guide who was being looked over by one of the nurses specializing in the types of trauma unbonded Guides were often subjected to. An area John kept himself firmly away from.
“Who are you?” John demanded of the posh man. “Nobody but hospital personnel are allowed in this room. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“No need for that,” the man said, pulling out his wallet and showing John his ID.
One look at the logo and John knew he was in danger.
John instinctively pulled his camouflage close, masking his scent and appearance in a veil. The man’s eyes glazed momentarily and almost immediately cleared. His eyes seemed to slide away from John, looking at him but never focusing, never taking in detail. John couldn’t keep this up for long, the headache was thrumming in his head to the beat of his heart but the ID that had just been presented to him gave him no choice.
Department of Tracking Services. This man was from the DTS and John had somehow completely missed his presence on initially entering the room. Either John was more exhausted than he had realized after working twelve hours and dodging the Ghost Hunter Sentinel or this man was a powerful Tracker, capable of concealing his true nature from unsuspecting Guides.
“What does the DTS want here? Was she one of yours?”
The man put the ID back in his pocket and nodded. “Yes, most unfortunate. I felt it was prudent to come in person and reassure the staff at your hospital that we are doing everything in our power to keep incidents like this from happening. I am personally overseeing this case.”
The man was lying and they both knew it, he was here to make sure the staff kept their mouths shut about DTS employees raping and illegally bonding to fifteen year old Guides. John felt sick to his stomach and his camouflage momentarily weakened before he set it to right again.
“Are you feeling well?” The posh man asked in an overly worried tone that just screamed of fake concern.
“I’m fine,” John said. “Our staff knows the DTS is doing everything they can but this is the second incident this month. Our resources are stretched already, we can’t keep up with the added cost and time of having these types of … incidents occurring regularly. I can already tell you the presence of an injured Guide is probably setting our ER back at least an hour, every Sentinel within a mile radius is probably going to come sniffing around our doors, not to mention the ethical and legal issues and all because your employees couldn’t keep it in their pants!”
John’s body was shaking and the nurse was looking at him funny. He took a deep breath and noticed the man’s eyes had a strange look to them; John sent a calming wave over the room and knew he needed to get out of there. He forced himself to hide further. Everything would be ok if he could just hide.
“I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”
“Not at all, Doctor - “
“Smith,” John offered. The man’s brow furrowed as though trying to remember something, John saw the man’s eyes drifting towards his name tag. It didn’t matter, in a few minutes he wouldn’t remember anything. “I have to go. Nurse O’Connor will answer any questions you may have.”
“Doctor Watson-“
“Forget,” John said, projecting his voice over the group. He sent a wave of encouragement and calm, easing their minds into a sedate and impressionable state, planting his idea in their minds. “I was never here. You didn’t see me.”
Everyone in the room turned away from him and began going about their routine as though he had never been there.
Perfect.
John rushed out of the room, towards his safe place, barely noticing how even the staff outside the room were affected by his empathy. The strain of projecting had sent his headache from painful into agonizing and his safe place was the only area he could collect himself. The little used area of the Hospital in the old wing, an old Janitors closet long since put to use storing sheets. It took him far too long to get there.
He ran to the supply closet. His fingers were weak and sweating and for a moment he couldn’t get a grip on the handle. He was shaking so badly.
Finally his hands managed to grip the handle and John rushed inside to his quiet black sanctuary.
He quickly secured the door shut and allowed his rubbery legs to fall out from beneath him, sinking to the floor, curling up into a ball and clutching his head. It was an unfortunate side effect of using his camouflage on a great number of people or very powerful Sentinels. The headaches weren’t nearly as bad as they used to be but when they struck they were often dangerous in that they weakened his ability to hide and made him vulnerable. It was worth it, he was confident that the man he had just talked to and everyone else in the room would have already forgotten about him, his name, what he looked like, even that he was there.
John didn’t enjoy doing that but he did what he had to. Even if it reduced him to a weak, shaking puddle on the floor afterwards.
Mycroft Holmes of the DTS seemed like a dangerous man.
Next Chapter