Chameleon chapter 9
Title: Chameleon
Pairing: Sherlock/John, iffily platonic Harry/John, Sebastian Moran/John
Rating: R
Genre: Crossover with the Sentinel, AU, Plotfic.
Warnings: Forced Bonding, Non-con, coercion, imprisonment, incesty vibes, mild violence.
Summary: Written for This Prompt: In a world filled with Sentinels with heightened senses, strength and endurance, and Guides, with seductive empathy, who knew that seeming "ordinary" could be John's greatest strength.
Word count: 4500
A/N: Sorry for the long delay.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Moran and his men had just reached the Tower when the good news came: he was was the most compatible of his team, the prize was his if he wanted it. Were they joking? Of course, he wanted it! He’d be up immediately. After a little crowing from him and a bit of groaning from them, Moran straightened his beret and jogged off to the lift that would take him to much talked about but never seen interview rooms. It was his turn at last!
It wasn’t until there were a two doors and about eighty feet of corridor between him and his mates that he let the doubts creep in. Even as a surge of excitement and eagerness filled his chest (what would his Guide lookfeelsmelltaste like?), he felt a odd sting of disappointment. He was thankful Hope chose him, of course he was! Hell if he wanted one of the other Sentinels getting this. And he was getting, from all reports, a hell of a powerful Guide. That was a plum for anyone. Pride and joy and completeness and finally, finally, finally getting to go chase down some damn terrorists after all this training. It should have been perfect but…
Still, it rankled that Wilkes thought that he wasn’t good enough to actually track down the Phantom himself and had some other Sentinel to do that for him. More than rankled, it burned. This could have been the hunt of his life. Better than taking down that black bear with a crossbow. Having a Guide who turned herself in, nice and submissive, would have been reassuring. But getting to actually chase a Guide down through the streets, using all his senses, all his wits, all his carefully honed training. That would have been glorious, especially if at the end of the hunt he’d have, pinned beneath him, someone as intriguing as the Phantom. This was pure missed opportunity.
On the other hand, having some other Sentinel run the Guide down and then hand him off like he didn’t even matter, felt an awful lot like getting someone else's sloppy seconds.
And why? Did Wilkes think he wasn’t up to the task? Why the hell charge this random … weirdo (“Consulting Sentinel” what the shit?) … with looking for the Phantom. What the hell did he have that Moran didn’t? He was top of his class, for God’s sake. Strong. Brave. For an unbonded, his senses were pretty damn keen. He took only the minimum amount of guenidine each morning to soothe out the rough peaks.
Finally the lift opened it’s slow, slow doors and he stepped inside.
Almost immediately all doubts left his head because, my God, the metal box was absolutely perfumed with the best smell on Earth. That was Guide scent. Lots of it. The Guide - his guide - was not too far away now, waiting and eager to be bonded. Oh yes, Moran’s mouth was already watering and his fingers itched. There were other scents there that weren’t technically good ones: Fear. Desperation. Frustration. Anger. Grief. But they just goaded Moran’s instincts to a higher level. Here he came to the rescue and reassure and best of all pet away all those nasty feelings. He could almost imagine the Guide relaxing in his strong arms, reassured that it would all be right, now that Moran had found him. Grateful they were together. Such a pleasant fantasy.
The lift opened out on a small section of hallway. Moran couldn’t suppress a goofy grin. Even without knowing the number of the room number, he could track that scent to the right door. He stopped at the lock, and pressed his thumb against the reader - and then waited. Security on this floor was tight for obvious reasons, authorisation came and went with need. For a moment Moran worried that whatever Mute was in charge of updating permissions was at supper and that he have to wait around looking stupid in the hall or resort to pounding on the door. God help them if some damn bureaucrat ruined his chance to make a good first impression.
Ah, the quiet buzz that signalled the lock had opened. Moran opened the door before it had a chance to change it’s mind, and stepped silently into the quaint little suite. He saw Hope and Holmes first, standing close and looking away from him. They didn’t matter. Moran didn’t give a crap about either of them. Then just behind him was the Guide. His Guide.
Fantasy yielded to reality. The Guide looked haggard and exhausted. He was sweaty and faintly sick looking, though Moran’s nose assured him it was simple exhaustion, rather than illness. He was also older than he expected. Older than Moran by a few years. He was short, a bit stocky but not really overweight. Not much muscle either. Round face, with an open, almost naively innocent expression. Blond. Moran had always fancied blonds. I can work with this, he thought. Then, grudgingly: He’s not a bad looker, for a man. Funny, once, years ago, the idea of pouncing on a man instead of a woman would have put him off regardless of attractiveness. But that was back before his Sentinel senses kicked in and he was full of civvy notions and prejudices. Now the idea of having a man, this man, as a Guide just felt right. This guy could be his true partner, not just a pretty body press his ample manhood into. Someone to train up in his own image. Someone who would share his interests. Someone he could drag around islamic countries without having to fuck about with dress codes and all that shit.
The Guide was surveying the flat, staring around like some sad little doe, babbling on and in general making a poor show of hiding his fear. Aw. It was utterly adorable. Moran’s protective instincts rose up to the point that it was all he could do not to lope across the floor and gather the poor blighter up in a bear hug and cuddle every last qualm out of his body. Professional, he schooled himself. Good first impression.
Instead Moran spoke up and introduced himself.
And boy did he get that Guides attention. The Phantom looked him up and down, not even bothering to hide how impressed he was by Moran’s physique. Moran grinned with pride. He’d worked hard on this body. Then the Guide’s eyes froze at Moran’s feet. Moran, surprised, looked down and saw the faint shimmering outline of his spirit guide. Damn. It’d been years since he’d seen that thing. Not since he decided to go into special ops. Obviously, this was a significant moment. He felt a surge of excitement.
“What is it?” the Phantom asked, the corners of his lips turned down. He meant the animal. People always were surprised by it.
“You like comic books?” asked Moran. “That’s a real wolverine. Did you know they can take down prey three times their size?”
“No,” said the Phantom faintly. “I did not know that.”
Moran looked around for the Phantom’s spirit guide, wondering what sort of creature it would be, but he saw no sign of it. Not that it really mattered. Moran had never been particularly good at seeing spirit guides, and he didn’t put much stock in their significance either. It was just curiosity. Unlike the Guide, his small “g” guide wouldn’t be much help with the mission. It really didn’t matter much what vaguely appropriate shape the Phantom’s took. After a second or two, Moran shrugged and turned back to look at the Phantom instead.
The Guide was staring at Moran again, sizing him up. Moran could practically read his mind: Three times this man’s size would be huge. Aw, he’s scared of me.
“Don’t you be worried,” he reassured. “We’re going to be on the same side, after all. You watch my back and I’ll keep you nice and safe.”
But the Phantom was worried. Moran could see the man settle in a defensive posture. It was subtle, but his expression seemed to harden. Moran could sense that things were slipping away from him. “Now none of that, lad,” he said, slightly sharper. “You and me are going to be together. Show me you can man up.” He tried to smile reassuringly, but it wasn’t exactly his most natural expression. “Come here, you sad bugger. I’m not going to hurt you.” He thrust out his hand to shake.
The Phantom looked at the hand but didn’t come any closer.
Hope spoke up. “Now, John, this ain’t the way to greet your Sentinel.” He put a hand on John’s shoulder. Moran could smell the man’s fear easing. Good old Hope.
But then John shrugged himself free. “My Sentinel?” he said, his voice rising in what sounded an awful lot like horror, “Won’t I be interviewing several?”
Everyone in the room simultaneously stiffened. Moran with worry - he’d been told the Phantom was his. No one had mentioned the idea that there might be other suitors. No, they couldn’t be passing him over after they’d offered the Guide to him! Was this what they’d done to that other Sentinel, whose smell he could just barely detect? Did they offer the Phantom up and snatch him back? What kind of game was Hope playing? No, his shot wasn’t over. Not so quickly. It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t going down to the break room and telling them that he’d been rejected after less than five minutes together! They had to give him a chance, at least!
The only thing that kept him from going ballistic was that Holmes and Hope were both looking uncomfortable. They exchanged glances that said that they hadn’t planned on having the Guide interview anyone else. Moran’s panic died down, but he still felt miserably insecure and somewhat betrayed.
Seeing everyone’s expressions, John took a step back and understood that the answer was “no.” Anger made his face tighten up. “I thought Guides were rare - I know there are other Sentinels I’d be compatible with. Boudin -“
“No,” said Holmes very firmly, before Moran could launch his own objection. “I’m afraid that’s not the way it will be. Sebastian Moran has been chosen for you, John. Your combined talents were determined to be the most useful for the Crown.”
“So this isn’t an interview at all! It’s a shotgun marriage!”
Moran couldn’t hold himself back anymore. “What is this?” he said. “You are caught Guide. You think after, what, ten years of mucking around, you get to choose who you end up with. Be lucky I want you.” He had half a mind to chase the Guide. It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel - John had no where to run to. But then when he had him, when he held him down on the floor and pressed him there…. Yeah, then the Guide would understand what it was he was so callously rejecting.
Hope stepped between the two of them. “Slow down, slow down, both of you. We aren’t in the field, Sebastian, shush! Your prey won’t be getting away. You can stand down.” He turned to John. “And don’t you be stupid. Riling up your bond-mate ain’t going to make things any easier on you.”
“I don’t see how I’m being stupid,” John said, crossing his arms. “I should think my being picky about the man I’m going to be giving my goddamn life to would be a smart thing.”
“I’m fairly sure that any Sentinel we put in front of you now would not meet your standards,” said Holmes, with an oily diplomacy. Moran knew that this was meant as much for his ears as the Guide’s. “If you had come to a Tower when you were fifteen, as you were legally expected to do, you would have probably interviewed with several candidates before being pressured to pick one. And even then you’d have had a year before the choice was fully consummated - plenty of time to make sure your choice was the most ideal. But since you chose to hide yourself instead, you shouldn’t be surprised that your choices are limited.”
“So you are pairing me with him as punishment?” John looked angry. Moran was more than furious. He was insulted.
“No!” said Hope, quickly. “Not at all. What Sentinel Holmes is trying to say is that back when you were fifteen, we didn’t know you. You didn’t know you. But now, all these years later, you have a bit of a reputation. We don’t need to see you with other Sentinels to know that you’d work best with Sebastian here. Think about it, John. We know you’ve been itching to join the war effort. We know you’ve made inquiries. It’s clear to us you like challenge and danger. Who better to give you that then Sebastian? Once you and he have bonded, you’ll be routing out terrorists in caves sooner than you know. With your camouflaging ability and his hunting skills, the two of you will be unstoppable. Here’s your chance to be a hero, John. All you have to do is get over the virgin jitters and realise that Sebastian here isn’t so bad.”
Hope put his hand on John’s shoulder again. “Come on, come on,” he murmured soothingly. “He’s a catch, admit it. Strong. Handsome. High ranking man like Sebastian. You’ll be the envy of other Guides. This isn’t punishment at all. It’s not like we are going to chain you to a desk next to some boring bureaucrat. You are going to go out and catch glory. They’ll be writing your name in the papers. You’ll be in the history books. Your clan is going to be so proud of you!”
John seemed to deflate. “I don’t know,” he said.
Moran saw his chance to salvage the situation. “Well I do.” He skirted past Hope, pushing the small man carefully but firmly out of the way. Then, for the first time, he was within touching distance of his Guide. “I can feel that we are right for each other. You smell - fantastic to me.” Although, now that he said it, he realised that the delicious smell of guide pheromones had decreased a great deal in the few minutes he’d been there. What’s more, now that he was close enough he could smell the maddening scent of some strange Sentinel. Just how many liberties had the interloper taken with his Guide? Maddening thought.
Moran shook that out of his head. “It’s okay, I’m not put off that you don’t leap into my arms. I don’t care that some other Sentinel touched you first. I’m willing to woo you. Just, give me a chance, sweetheart.” John looked up at the endearment, surprised and nervous.
And that, Moran realised, was all this was: nerves. ‘Virgin jitters’ Hope called them. And maybe it was just as well the Guide didn’t passively accept his fate. Passive wasn’t much good out in the war zone. Once he’d bonded with the man, this fighting instinct would be useful. Hope was right, he just needed to be a bit patient and not take it too personally. It would take some time to ease John out of fifteen years of bad habits. But when he was done. Yeah. Having a Guide who could make him invisible to the enemy? Holy crap that would be brilliant.
Moran reached to give his poor, silly, worried Guide that hug and didn’t mind that he didn’t melt into it. He’d relax eventually. In the meantime his hair smelled quite nice, once he ignored the strange Sentinel stink, and he fit quite handily under Moran’s chin. It felt good to be wrapped around him, tight and protective. After a few seconds the Guide pushed him and he let him free with an expression that said see, nothing to worry about.
“Okay,” said the Guide, his shoulders hunched. “I get that this is inevitable. But … but… my head hurts. And I’m awfully tired. Does it have to be tonight? Can’t I at least sleep on this before we… do this thing? It’s all rather a lot for me.” He glanced around looking pathetically small and weak and helpless. Moran wanted to give in at once.
Holmes nodded. “I don’t see any reason why not.”
Hope seemed dubious. “Come here,” he said. John clenched his jaws and turned to face him. The older Guide put his hand against John’s forehead and then cocked up a brow. “Yeah, that’s what you get for fighting so hard. Gave yourself a migraine didn’t you.” He dropped his hand. “Sorry about this Sebastian. He really is worn out. Perhaps when he’s fresh in the morning you’ll find him a bit less skittish. A few hours won’t make much difference in the end. He can’t leave this suite and no one can get him either.”
Moran nodded before he realised what Hope was telling him to do. “What, do you mean I should go? But we haven’t even -“
“Wouldn’t have happened anyway,” said Hope. “Not all in one go at any rate. Don’t worry, there isn’t any one else waiting in the wings to oust you, I promise. You have all the time in the world to make him yours. But it is late.” He yawned. “And I don’t know ‘bout you, but I’m tired. Tomorrow, you’ll have breakfast together and we’ll have a proper meet and greet then. And then I’ll get out of your way and you’ll have a chance to get on proper with each other.” Hope stepped over and put his hand on Moran’s arm. “Don’t you worry. It’s all normal. Now shoo. Eight am tomorrow sharp, you be here, scrubbed and sharp and ready to go.”
Although it was absurd for a man as small as Hope to hustle a man as large as Moran out of the room, somehow he did that. Moran was never quite sure how. But next thing he knew he was standing out in the hallway with nothing but lingering trace of Guide’s scent on his uniform and a promise of “tomorrow, for real” in his ears. Stunned he stared at the closed door.
There was nothing to do for it. Waiting in the hall wasn’t going to get him anywhere. It certainly wasn’t going to ease that inner sense of frustration that settled like a brick in low in his gut. Fuck it, he thought. I’m getting a beer.
Down in the Sentinel lounge his men crowded around him, looking as surprised as he felt. “What the hell happened,” asked one of his mates.
“Damn Guide had a headache.” Moran gestured for someone to get him a beer. He sucked down about a third of it and then laughed. What else could he do.
Wilkes was already at Mycroft’s office by the time Sherlock arrived, looking for all the world like he’d been chewing lemons. Sherlock didn’t suppress his smirk. Men like Wilkes hated being told what to do. They hated being outsmarted. And most of all, they hated being forced to wait. Oh, if only Sherlock could preserve this moment for posterity. But he’d simply have to enjoy the fleeting moment for what it was.
Mycroft wasn’t there, but his Guide was. Anthea had her hair down this time, her clothes had been loosened without sacrificing her modesty, and she yawned quietly. Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was just her body language or if she’d given him a mental nudge, but he got the distinct impression that she wanted the two to finish up their business quickly so she could go elsewhere more interesting. She pushed forward a small sheaf of papers, and said, “Sign these and we’ll be done.”
Sherlock knew better than to sign anything without reading it first. So he ignored Wilkes annoyed foot tapping and read through every line and parsed out the legalese. It was clear that Mycroft had drawn up the document, not Wilkes, for though it insisted that he check in with the Tower at annoyingly frequent intervals, and that he accepted assignments from the Tower as a priority, it did not put in any exploitable loopholes or contingencies, such as performance reviews, that would have allowed the Sentinel Headquarters to arbitrarily void the contract.
Good enough.
Wilkes glared. He’d probably been hoping that Mycroft’s obnoxious caveats would put Sherlock off enough that he would delay the signing. And that in turn would open up a opportunity to offer him a more superficially generous yet more deviously booby-trapped contract instead. No doubt, behind that sour expression, Wilkes was already planning for Sherlock’s transfer to MI-5.
Sherlock grabbed a pen off of Mycroft’s desk and signed and dated the contract. Wilkes face grew uglier. Very reluctantly he signed the contract as well, and then stomped out of the office without a word.
“Sore loser,” Sherlock called after him.
“Ahem,” said Anthea, smiling that brittle smile she had when she wanted someone to sod off. Sherlock returned the courtesy, and, taking his copy of the contract, he vacated the office.
It had to be after 9 by now. The sky was fully dark and fog had started to settle in giving the Tower a misty melancholy look. Sherlock let himself out on one of the balconies over the courtyard. Below him old fashioned lamps burned with their own halos, illuminating a carefully tended garden. In front and above, the square spire rose, fifty feet higher, topped by the closed dome.
Somewhere in the dark, windowless expanse of the upper floors, the Phantom was probably already being interviewed. Some other Sentinel would be touching him soon. Scenting him.
Sherlock breathed in deeply and remembered the smell, the feel of the man, John Watson. He owed the man his freedom. If it weren’t for him, he wouldn’t have this contract. But still, this felt … wrong.
Yes, that was the word. Wrong. There was an unfinished feeling in his chest and he just couldn’t make it go away. Ever since he’d let himself begin to bond with John he’d felt a bit of tender stinging inside, as though he’d pulled stitches open. It would heal over in time, Sherlock knew. It had to. But he’d never be quite the way he was before.
Because before he hadn’t known that there was someone that compatible out there. And now he knew there was. Perfectly compatible. And that person belonged now to someone else. Chances are he’d never even see the man again. It was an utterly hateful thought.
He could almost feel him, though it was purely imagination, they were too far from each other and not bonded. And yet, on the edge of his mind he felt a thin tenuous fearfulness, like an accusation. Why did you forsake me? I bent my throat to you, and now you are gone.
Sherlock shook his head. Paranoid fantasy. Utter rubbish. He’d gotten exactly what he wanted out of the deal, pyrrhic though the victory turned out to be. He’d have been far more miserable if he had bonded with John and had in the process forfeited his independence forever. Bah. For all his sour looks, Wilkes would have won either way: heads he gave the Phantom to his friends in Defence, tails he gave Sherlock and the Phantom to his friends in Internal Security.
Wasn’t that the most poisonous thought of all?
John was surprised the headache excuse worked. It was true he had one, but it had come because he’d overused his gift, and he doubted that would make them feel at all sympathetic. He was at the very edge of his stamina now. Beyond anything he’d ever tried to do before. He was able to push one last time, a simple message, a true message, I can’t do this now. And that was it. His shields had failed long ago, and now even his empathy was falling apart. He might as well be mute. He had no more strength to give.
But it had worked. And thank god. Because if it hadn’t Hope would have won. Holmes would have won. Sebastian Moran would have won. Everyone but John Watson. It was terrifying to think of it. Hope could have used that moment to fill John’s mind with any nonsense he wanted. He could have doubtless made him feel, at least temporarily, madly in love with Moran. But he didn’t. And Holmes with those clever, clever eyes, and that tight disciplined mind, could have assessed that this would be John’s breaking point, that he’d never be this weak again. All they had to do was continue the bonding and John would have rolled over with it. But instead he’d agreed to put it off. And Moran could have just kept holding him that way he did, hugging him. And that would have undone John completely.
John could still feel Moran. The connection which had started off as seeming so wrong and off and repulsive seemed to sweeten over time. God help him, the hug hadn’t been that bad.
But still, John could tell that Moran wasn’t as compatible as Hope was making him out to be. Boudin, his sister, even that young Sentinel who sniffed him out last night at Barts, were more in sync with John than this walking mountain of man flesh was. Yeah, he could see why Home Office would prefer to pair him up with some lug from the military rather than an eccentric and unpopular semi-independent Sentinel or a cock-up sibling. But it seemed to John that it wasn’t in his best interests. Why couldn’t you have wanted me, Boudin, John thought. Why did you leave me with this?
In the end, John had thought he was going to lose. Gripped in those hard arms, he’d felt himself slipping. And then, just for a second, he’d felt the tiniest thread of strength. A whisper of a second wind. Just enough to let him push his way out of that hug and throw out probably the lamest, most hackneyed excuse ever: “Not tonight, honey, I’ve got a headache.” Oh dear God.
But it worked. Just like that Hope was on his side, pushing that walking stereotype of a Sentinel out of the room. Holmes looked at him sympathetically and assured him that all would be better in the morning and that he’d go and see to getting him migraine pills or sedatives, anything he wanted.
“Thank you,” said John, “But that’s quite alright. I think a good night sleep will be enough.” Anything for more time. Anything at all. He was suffocating.
Hope returned and showed John to his bed. He may have turned down Mycroft’s help but he couldn’t do the same with Hope. Any thoughts of showering or brushing his teeth were put to rest, literally, as he was tucked under the covers, jumper and all.
“Sleep, dearie,” said Hope, smoothing back the hair from his forehead, as if he were a child. “It’ll all seem better in the morning. Believe me.”
And then with a mental push, he knocked John out.
Chapter 10
Pairing: Sherlock/John, iffily platonic Harry/John, Sebastian Moran/John
Rating: R
Genre: Crossover with the Sentinel, AU, Plotfic.
Warnings: Forced Bonding, Non-con, coercion, imprisonment, incesty vibes, mild violence.
Summary: Written for This Prompt: In a world filled with Sentinels with heightened senses, strength and endurance, and Guides, with seductive empathy, who knew that seeming "ordinary" could be John's greatest strength.
Word count: 4500
A/N: Sorry for the long delay.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Moran and his men had just reached the Tower when the good news came: he was was the most compatible of his team, the prize was his if he wanted it. Were they joking? Of course, he wanted it! He’d be up immediately. After a little crowing from him and a bit of groaning from them, Moran straightened his beret and jogged off to the lift that would take him to much talked about but never seen interview rooms. It was his turn at last!
It wasn’t until there were a two doors and about eighty feet of corridor between him and his mates that he let the doubts creep in. Even as a surge of excitement and eagerness filled his chest (what would his Guide lookfeelsmelltaste like?), he felt a odd sting of disappointment. He was thankful Hope chose him, of course he was! Hell if he wanted one of the other Sentinels getting this. And he was getting, from all reports, a hell of a powerful Guide. That was a plum for anyone. Pride and joy and completeness and finally, finally, finally getting to go chase down some damn terrorists after all this training. It should have been perfect but…
Still, it rankled that Wilkes thought that he wasn’t good enough to actually track down the Phantom himself and had some other Sentinel to do that for him. More than rankled, it burned. This could have been the hunt of his life. Better than taking down that black bear with a crossbow. Having a Guide who turned herself in, nice and submissive, would have been reassuring. But getting to actually chase a Guide down through the streets, using all his senses, all his wits, all his carefully honed training. That would have been glorious, especially if at the end of the hunt he’d have, pinned beneath him, someone as intriguing as the Phantom. This was pure missed opportunity.
On the other hand, having some other Sentinel run the Guide down and then hand him off like he didn’t even matter, felt an awful lot like getting someone else's sloppy seconds.
And why? Did Wilkes think he wasn’t up to the task? Why the hell charge this random … weirdo (“Consulting Sentinel” what the shit?) … with looking for the Phantom. What the hell did he have that Moran didn’t? He was top of his class, for God’s sake. Strong. Brave. For an unbonded, his senses were pretty damn keen. He took only the minimum amount of guenidine each morning to soothe out the rough peaks.
Finally the lift opened it’s slow, slow doors and he stepped inside.
Almost immediately all doubts left his head because, my God, the metal box was absolutely perfumed with the best smell on Earth. That was Guide scent. Lots of it. The Guide - his guide - was not too far away now, waiting and eager to be bonded. Oh yes, Moran’s mouth was already watering and his fingers itched. There were other scents there that weren’t technically good ones: Fear. Desperation. Frustration. Anger. Grief. But they just goaded Moran’s instincts to a higher level. Here he came to the rescue and reassure and best of all pet away all those nasty feelings. He could almost imagine the Guide relaxing in his strong arms, reassured that it would all be right, now that Moran had found him. Grateful they were together. Such a pleasant fantasy.
The lift opened out on a small section of hallway. Moran couldn’t suppress a goofy grin. Even without knowing the number of the room number, he could track that scent to the right door. He stopped at the lock, and pressed his thumb against the reader - and then waited. Security on this floor was tight for obvious reasons, authorisation came and went with need. For a moment Moran worried that whatever Mute was in charge of updating permissions was at supper and that he have to wait around looking stupid in the hall or resort to pounding on the door. God help them if some damn bureaucrat ruined his chance to make a good first impression.
Ah, the quiet buzz that signalled the lock had opened. Moran opened the door before it had a chance to change it’s mind, and stepped silently into the quaint little suite. He saw Hope and Holmes first, standing close and looking away from him. They didn’t matter. Moran didn’t give a crap about either of them. Then just behind him was the Guide. His Guide.
Fantasy yielded to reality. The Guide looked haggard and exhausted. He was sweaty and faintly sick looking, though Moran’s nose assured him it was simple exhaustion, rather than illness. He was also older than he expected. Older than Moran by a few years. He was short, a bit stocky but not really overweight. Not much muscle either. Round face, with an open, almost naively innocent expression. Blond. Moran had always fancied blonds. I can work with this, he thought. Then, grudgingly: He’s not a bad looker, for a man. Funny, once, years ago, the idea of pouncing on a man instead of a woman would have put him off regardless of attractiveness. But that was back before his Sentinel senses kicked in and he was full of civvy notions and prejudices. Now the idea of having a man, this man, as a Guide just felt right. This guy could be his true partner, not just a pretty body press his ample manhood into. Someone to train up in his own image. Someone who would share his interests. Someone he could drag around islamic countries without having to fuck about with dress codes and all that shit.
The Guide was surveying the flat, staring around like some sad little doe, babbling on and in general making a poor show of hiding his fear. Aw. It was utterly adorable. Moran’s protective instincts rose up to the point that it was all he could do not to lope across the floor and gather the poor blighter up in a bear hug and cuddle every last qualm out of his body. Professional, he schooled himself. Good first impression.
Instead Moran spoke up and introduced himself.
And boy did he get that Guides attention. The Phantom looked him up and down, not even bothering to hide how impressed he was by Moran’s physique. Moran grinned with pride. He’d worked hard on this body. Then the Guide’s eyes froze at Moran’s feet. Moran, surprised, looked down and saw the faint shimmering outline of his spirit guide. Damn. It’d been years since he’d seen that thing. Not since he decided to go into special ops. Obviously, this was a significant moment. He felt a surge of excitement.
“What is it?” the Phantom asked, the corners of his lips turned down. He meant the animal. People always were surprised by it.
“You like comic books?” asked Moran. “That’s a real wolverine. Did you know they can take down prey three times their size?”
“No,” said the Phantom faintly. “I did not know that.”
Moran looked around for the Phantom’s spirit guide, wondering what sort of creature it would be, but he saw no sign of it. Not that it really mattered. Moran had never been particularly good at seeing spirit guides, and he didn’t put much stock in their significance either. It was just curiosity. Unlike the Guide, his small “g” guide wouldn’t be much help with the mission. It really didn’t matter much what vaguely appropriate shape the Phantom’s took. After a second or two, Moran shrugged and turned back to look at the Phantom instead.
The Guide was staring at Moran again, sizing him up. Moran could practically read his mind: Three times this man’s size would be huge. Aw, he’s scared of me.
“Don’t you be worried,” he reassured. “We’re going to be on the same side, after all. You watch my back and I’ll keep you nice and safe.”
But the Phantom was worried. Moran could see the man settle in a defensive posture. It was subtle, but his expression seemed to harden. Moran could sense that things were slipping away from him. “Now none of that, lad,” he said, slightly sharper. “You and me are going to be together. Show me you can man up.” He tried to smile reassuringly, but it wasn’t exactly his most natural expression. “Come here, you sad bugger. I’m not going to hurt you.” He thrust out his hand to shake.
The Phantom looked at the hand but didn’t come any closer.
Hope spoke up. “Now, John, this ain’t the way to greet your Sentinel.” He put a hand on John’s shoulder. Moran could smell the man’s fear easing. Good old Hope.
But then John shrugged himself free. “My Sentinel?” he said, his voice rising in what sounded an awful lot like horror, “Won’t I be interviewing several?”
Everyone in the room simultaneously stiffened. Moran with worry - he’d been told the Phantom was his. No one had mentioned the idea that there might be other suitors. No, they couldn’t be passing him over after they’d offered the Guide to him! Was this what they’d done to that other Sentinel, whose smell he could just barely detect? Did they offer the Phantom up and snatch him back? What kind of game was Hope playing? No, his shot wasn’t over. Not so quickly. It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t going down to the break room and telling them that he’d been rejected after less than five minutes together! They had to give him a chance, at least!
The only thing that kept him from going ballistic was that Holmes and Hope were both looking uncomfortable. They exchanged glances that said that they hadn’t planned on having the Guide interview anyone else. Moran’s panic died down, but he still felt miserably insecure and somewhat betrayed.
Seeing everyone’s expressions, John took a step back and understood that the answer was “no.” Anger made his face tighten up. “I thought Guides were rare - I know there are other Sentinels I’d be compatible with. Boudin -“
“No,” said Holmes very firmly, before Moran could launch his own objection. “I’m afraid that’s not the way it will be. Sebastian Moran has been chosen for you, John. Your combined talents were determined to be the most useful for the Crown.”
“So this isn’t an interview at all! It’s a shotgun marriage!”
Moran couldn’t hold himself back anymore. “What is this?” he said. “You are caught Guide. You think after, what, ten years of mucking around, you get to choose who you end up with. Be lucky I want you.” He had half a mind to chase the Guide. It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel - John had no where to run to. But then when he had him, when he held him down on the floor and pressed him there…. Yeah, then the Guide would understand what it was he was so callously rejecting.
Hope stepped between the two of them. “Slow down, slow down, both of you. We aren’t in the field, Sebastian, shush! Your prey won’t be getting away. You can stand down.” He turned to John. “And don’t you be stupid. Riling up your bond-mate ain’t going to make things any easier on you.”
“I don’t see how I’m being stupid,” John said, crossing his arms. “I should think my being picky about the man I’m going to be giving my goddamn life to would be a smart thing.”
“I’m fairly sure that any Sentinel we put in front of you now would not meet your standards,” said Holmes, with an oily diplomacy. Moran knew that this was meant as much for his ears as the Guide’s. “If you had come to a Tower when you were fifteen, as you were legally expected to do, you would have probably interviewed with several candidates before being pressured to pick one. And even then you’d have had a year before the choice was fully consummated - plenty of time to make sure your choice was the most ideal. But since you chose to hide yourself instead, you shouldn’t be surprised that your choices are limited.”
“So you are pairing me with him as punishment?” John looked angry. Moran was more than furious. He was insulted.
“No!” said Hope, quickly. “Not at all. What Sentinel Holmes is trying to say is that back when you were fifteen, we didn’t know you. You didn’t know you. But now, all these years later, you have a bit of a reputation. We don’t need to see you with other Sentinels to know that you’d work best with Sebastian here. Think about it, John. We know you’ve been itching to join the war effort. We know you’ve made inquiries. It’s clear to us you like challenge and danger. Who better to give you that then Sebastian? Once you and he have bonded, you’ll be routing out terrorists in caves sooner than you know. With your camouflaging ability and his hunting skills, the two of you will be unstoppable. Here’s your chance to be a hero, John. All you have to do is get over the virgin jitters and realise that Sebastian here isn’t so bad.”
Hope put his hand on John’s shoulder again. “Come on, come on,” he murmured soothingly. “He’s a catch, admit it. Strong. Handsome. High ranking man like Sebastian. You’ll be the envy of other Guides. This isn’t punishment at all. It’s not like we are going to chain you to a desk next to some boring bureaucrat. You are going to go out and catch glory. They’ll be writing your name in the papers. You’ll be in the history books. Your clan is going to be so proud of you!”
John seemed to deflate. “I don’t know,” he said.
Moran saw his chance to salvage the situation. “Well I do.” He skirted past Hope, pushing the small man carefully but firmly out of the way. Then, for the first time, he was within touching distance of his Guide. “I can feel that we are right for each other. You smell - fantastic to me.” Although, now that he said it, he realised that the delicious smell of guide pheromones had decreased a great deal in the few minutes he’d been there. What’s more, now that he was close enough he could smell the maddening scent of some strange Sentinel. Just how many liberties had the interloper taken with his Guide? Maddening thought.
Moran shook that out of his head. “It’s okay, I’m not put off that you don’t leap into my arms. I don’t care that some other Sentinel touched you first. I’m willing to woo you. Just, give me a chance, sweetheart.” John looked up at the endearment, surprised and nervous.
And that, Moran realised, was all this was: nerves. ‘Virgin jitters’ Hope called them. And maybe it was just as well the Guide didn’t passively accept his fate. Passive wasn’t much good out in the war zone. Once he’d bonded with the man, this fighting instinct would be useful. Hope was right, he just needed to be a bit patient and not take it too personally. It would take some time to ease John out of fifteen years of bad habits. But when he was done. Yeah. Having a Guide who could make him invisible to the enemy? Holy crap that would be brilliant.
Moran reached to give his poor, silly, worried Guide that hug and didn’t mind that he didn’t melt into it. He’d relax eventually. In the meantime his hair smelled quite nice, once he ignored the strange Sentinel stink, and he fit quite handily under Moran’s chin. It felt good to be wrapped around him, tight and protective. After a few seconds the Guide pushed him and he let him free with an expression that said see, nothing to worry about.
“Okay,” said the Guide, his shoulders hunched. “I get that this is inevitable. But … but… my head hurts. And I’m awfully tired. Does it have to be tonight? Can’t I at least sleep on this before we… do this thing? It’s all rather a lot for me.” He glanced around looking pathetically small and weak and helpless. Moran wanted to give in at once.
Holmes nodded. “I don’t see any reason why not.”
Hope seemed dubious. “Come here,” he said. John clenched his jaws and turned to face him. The older Guide put his hand against John’s forehead and then cocked up a brow. “Yeah, that’s what you get for fighting so hard. Gave yourself a migraine didn’t you.” He dropped his hand. “Sorry about this Sebastian. He really is worn out. Perhaps when he’s fresh in the morning you’ll find him a bit less skittish. A few hours won’t make much difference in the end. He can’t leave this suite and no one can get him either.”
Moran nodded before he realised what Hope was telling him to do. “What, do you mean I should go? But we haven’t even -“
“Wouldn’t have happened anyway,” said Hope. “Not all in one go at any rate. Don’t worry, there isn’t any one else waiting in the wings to oust you, I promise. You have all the time in the world to make him yours. But it is late.” He yawned. “And I don’t know ‘bout you, but I’m tired. Tomorrow, you’ll have breakfast together and we’ll have a proper meet and greet then. And then I’ll get out of your way and you’ll have a chance to get on proper with each other.” Hope stepped over and put his hand on Moran’s arm. “Don’t you worry. It’s all normal. Now shoo. Eight am tomorrow sharp, you be here, scrubbed and sharp and ready to go.”
Although it was absurd for a man as small as Hope to hustle a man as large as Moran out of the room, somehow he did that. Moran was never quite sure how. But next thing he knew he was standing out in the hallway with nothing but lingering trace of Guide’s scent on his uniform and a promise of “tomorrow, for real” in his ears. Stunned he stared at the closed door.
There was nothing to do for it. Waiting in the hall wasn’t going to get him anywhere. It certainly wasn’t going to ease that inner sense of frustration that settled like a brick in low in his gut. Fuck it, he thought. I’m getting a beer.
Down in the Sentinel lounge his men crowded around him, looking as surprised as he felt. “What the hell happened,” asked one of his mates.
“Damn Guide had a headache.” Moran gestured for someone to get him a beer. He sucked down about a third of it and then laughed. What else could he do.
Wilkes was already at Mycroft’s office by the time Sherlock arrived, looking for all the world like he’d been chewing lemons. Sherlock didn’t suppress his smirk. Men like Wilkes hated being told what to do. They hated being outsmarted. And most of all, they hated being forced to wait. Oh, if only Sherlock could preserve this moment for posterity. But he’d simply have to enjoy the fleeting moment for what it was.
Mycroft wasn’t there, but his Guide was. Anthea had her hair down this time, her clothes had been loosened without sacrificing her modesty, and she yawned quietly. Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was just her body language or if she’d given him a mental nudge, but he got the distinct impression that she wanted the two to finish up their business quickly so she could go elsewhere more interesting. She pushed forward a small sheaf of papers, and said, “Sign these and we’ll be done.”
Sherlock knew better than to sign anything without reading it first. So he ignored Wilkes annoyed foot tapping and read through every line and parsed out the legalese. It was clear that Mycroft had drawn up the document, not Wilkes, for though it insisted that he check in with the Tower at annoyingly frequent intervals, and that he accepted assignments from the Tower as a priority, it did not put in any exploitable loopholes or contingencies, such as performance reviews, that would have allowed the Sentinel Headquarters to arbitrarily void the contract.
Good enough.
Wilkes glared. He’d probably been hoping that Mycroft’s obnoxious caveats would put Sherlock off enough that he would delay the signing. And that in turn would open up a opportunity to offer him a more superficially generous yet more deviously booby-trapped contract instead. No doubt, behind that sour expression, Wilkes was already planning for Sherlock’s transfer to MI-5.
Sherlock grabbed a pen off of Mycroft’s desk and signed and dated the contract. Wilkes face grew uglier. Very reluctantly he signed the contract as well, and then stomped out of the office without a word.
“Sore loser,” Sherlock called after him.
“Ahem,” said Anthea, smiling that brittle smile she had when she wanted someone to sod off. Sherlock returned the courtesy, and, taking his copy of the contract, he vacated the office.
It had to be after 9 by now. The sky was fully dark and fog had started to settle in giving the Tower a misty melancholy look. Sherlock let himself out on one of the balconies over the courtyard. Below him old fashioned lamps burned with their own halos, illuminating a carefully tended garden. In front and above, the square spire rose, fifty feet higher, topped by the closed dome.
Somewhere in the dark, windowless expanse of the upper floors, the Phantom was probably already being interviewed. Some other Sentinel would be touching him soon. Scenting him.
Sherlock breathed in deeply and remembered the smell, the feel of the man, John Watson. He owed the man his freedom. If it weren’t for him, he wouldn’t have this contract. But still, this felt … wrong.
Yes, that was the word. Wrong. There was an unfinished feeling in his chest and he just couldn’t make it go away. Ever since he’d let himself begin to bond with John he’d felt a bit of tender stinging inside, as though he’d pulled stitches open. It would heal over in time, Sherlock knew. It had to. But he’d never be quite the way he was before.
Because before he hadn’t known that there was someone that compatible out there. And now he knew there was. Perfectly compatible. And that person belonged now to someone else. Chances are he’d never even see the man again. It was an utterly hateful thought.
He could almost feel him, though it was purely imagination, they were too far from each other and not bonded. And yet, on the edge of his mind he felt a thin tenuous fearfulness, like an accusation. Why did you forsake me? I bent my throat to you, and now you are gone.
Sherlock shook his head. Paranoid fantasy. Utter rubbish. He’d gotten exactly what he wanted out of the deal, pyrrhic though the victory turned out to be. He’d have been far more miserable if he had bonded with John and had in the process forfeited his independence forever. Bah. For all his sour looks, Wilkes would have won either way: heads he gave the Phantom to his friends in Defence, tails he gave Sherlock and the Phantom to his friends in Internal Security.
Wasn’t that the most poisonous thought of all?
John was surprised the headache excuse worked. It was true he had one, but it had come because he’d overused his gift, and he doubted that would make them feel at all sympathetic. He was at the very edge of his stamina now. Beyond anything he’d ever tried to do before. He was able to push one last time, a simple message, a true message, I can’t do this now. And that was it. His shields had failed long ago, and now even his empathy was falling apart. He might as well be mute. He had no more strength to give.
But it had worked. And thank god. Because if it hadn’t Hope would have won. Holmes would have won. Sebastian Moran would have won. Everyone but John Watson. It was terrifying to think of it. Hope could have used that moment to fill John’s mind with any nonsense he wanted. He could have doubtless made him feel, at least temporarily, madly in love with Moran. But he didn’t. And Holmes with those clever, clever eyes, and that tight disciplined mind, could have assessed that this would be John’s breaking point, that he’d never be this weak again. All they had to do was continue the bonding and John would have rolled over with it. But instead he’d agreed to put it off. And Moran could have just kept holding him that way he did, hugging him. And that would have undone John completely.
John could still feel Moran. The connection which had started off as seeming so wrong and off and repulsive seemed to sweeten over time. God help him, the hug hadn’t been that bad.
But still, John could tell that Moran wasn’t as compatible as Hope was making him out to be. Boudin, his sister, even that young Sentinel who sniffed him out last night at Barts, were more in sync with John than this walking mountain of man flesh was. Yeah, he could see why Home Office would prefer to pair him up with some lug from the military rather than an eccentric and unpopular semi-independent Sentinel or a cock-up sibling. But it seemed to John that it wasn’t in his best interests. Why couldn’t you have wanted me, Boudin, John thought. Why did you leave me with this?
In the end, John had thought he was going to lose. Gripped in those hard arms, he’d felt himself slipping. And then, just for a second, he’d felt the tiniest thread of strength. A whisper of a second wind. Just enough to let him push his way out of that hug and throw out probably the lamest, most hackneyed excuse ever: “Not tonight, honey, I’ve got a headache.” Oh dear God.
But it worked. Just like that Hope was on his side, pushing that walking stereotype of a Sentinel out of the room. Holmes looked at him sympathetically and assured him that all would be better in the morning and that he’d go and see to getting him migraine pills or sedatives, anything he wanted.
“Thank you,” said John, “But that’s quite alright. I think a good night sleep will be enough.” Anything for more time. Anything at all. He was suffocating.
Hope returned and showed John to his bed. He may have turned down Mycroft’s help but he couldn’t do the same with Hope. Any thoughts of showering or brushing his teeth were put to rest, literally, as he was tucked under the covers, jumper and all.
“Sleep, dearie,” said Hope, smoothing back the hair from his forehead, as if he were a child. “It’ll all seem better in the morning. Believe me.”
And then with a mental push, he knocked John out.
Chapter 10