"Fucking hell they've got one, they've really fucking got one".
The voice of the man in the bed by his side cuts through the fog in his brain. Sirens blare overhead, rending the air with an ear-splitting wail, a sound unheard of in all of the time he has been here, except for simulations and drills. Greg blinks, bleary eyed in the sudden change from dark to light as the generator springs into life for the day, flooding the dorm with a harsh fluorescent glare. Is it day? The dorms are all below sea level so he can't tell for sure, but it seems like only moments since he sank into his bunk the night before after a day in the tunnels, bone-cold and tired, grimacing at the irritating grains that find their way into every orifice no matter how long he spends in the shower.
"Move it now Lestrade", snaps Murray, kicking his bed as he rushes past. Greg groans and actually rolls onto the floor, taking the covers down with him as he falls. Locker doors crash with metallic clangs which make him wince as he tries to stand, the assault on the senses overwhelming, the noise and activity, bodies jumping out of beds and pounding across the concrete floors. And all of it happens with the ear buds still in. What a shitty way to wake up.
He rips out the buds, and that's a big mistake. The noise level ramps up again, and its times like this, when there's too much of everything, that he wonders how the hell no-one's noticed, how they don't know yet.
He can feel the damn adrenaline, it's pouring off them in waves, but he damps it down, closes that door in his mind and gets on with what he needs to do, drags his sorry arse to his locker and gets dressed in silence, pulling on the grey shirt and trousers that serve as a uniform here, doing his best to ignore the gnawing pit of hunger in his stomach. None of them will eat, not yet.
The castle buzzes, alive with activity as he runs up the stairs to the observation deck, thankful for the change of scenery today and just as keen as everyone else for the first sight of the recovery mission. It is morning. Just. But the sky is grey with low-lying cloud, and the wind is high, as it always is here, audible even through the thick glass dome that covers what was once the battlements, a thousand years ago.
"The word from the top is a Category One", Murray is a bundle of energy running at his side, more animated than he's seen him in months.
"Yeah well that's what the siren is for you idiot, they're not going to risk it for anything less".
Bamburgh Castle is the fortress of the North, pre-dating the Viking raids. It stands proud at the peak of a steep, rocky hill on the Western side, the Eastern walls facing out towards the cold North Sea. Greg has been stationed here for three years now, as a latent Guide there was never any doubt he would end up at a facility. But it's a job for life and that means a lot to a kid from the lower class, his family get protection, subsidised housing and medical care, and they need it too, his dad would have died by now without the drugs for his heart condition. Still, if nothing happens by the end of year four it'll be manual grunt work for the rest of his fucking life. Like yesterday, clearing out landfalls and shoring up any cracks and gaps in the thick stone tunnels that run under the castle and out to sea. No-one knows how far east they spread, North, South and West are done as far as they can tell, and this is the last leg, the most dangerous. But they need the protection. No-one knows how far the influence of the Tower can reach.
The truth is, Greg manifested months ago and they still don't know. It hit him like a sucker punch all those emotions crowding in, the thoughts, feelings, nightmares and dreams, all of it. He was sick for days, puking and shaking in his bunk with a bucket at the side, but when they ran the tests again he still displayed as negative, dormant, but he knows what's happening, why he doesn't register and what it means.
He checks the display on the screen as he takes his place, a clear sky means nothing, he has to scan for drones. The vehicles won't be cleared for access otherwise and they need to get those vans back safe to the base. Greg runs the programme and four red blips appear at the outer edge, waiting for the signal to begin the approach. They need ten minutes for a clear run, its open country to the West, nothing but fields and farms for ten miles until you hit the forest and every second is vital. He quickly runs a scan on the Eastern side too, while the overseer clicks his tongue with impatience, but it's Greg's neck on the line if he makes a mistake and even though he knows there's a clear view from here on the summit, right out over the water to the horizon, he runs it through twice to be sure.
"Clear", he gives the green light and sits back to catch a breath, while he thinks about the implications, how everything will change the second that being, whoever it is, enters the facility.
A Category One means a Sentinel, and there hasn't been a new one in the North for sixteen years, and still it doesn't make any sense, because you can't just fly under the radar now, with the regular sweeps and enforced registration, 'unknown' is a concept that simply doesn't exist anymore. Greg wonders where the hell they came from.
His ears prick up as the airlock doors slide open again, everyone who should be here is, and no-one interrupts a vehicle recovery for any reason, it's been drilled into them from the start, delays can cause deaths. The overseer looks murderous, and stalks off to rain fire and brimstone on the poor unfortunate bastard, but quickly backtracks, scuttling back up the aisle, entering his office and closing the door hard enough to rattle the toughened glass.
One of the suits, a top dog from the research lab comes in, looks around, catches Greg's eye and crooks a finger to beckon him over. Shit, what the hell do they want with him?
Murray shoots him a 'what the fuck?' look as every pair of eyes in the room turn to stare, but this isn't exactly a choice, it's an order, so he pushes back the chair, swallowing past the nervous knot in his throat and follows the man out into the stairwell.
The airlock closes and the air is so silent he can hear the whoosh of blood as it pulses through his ears, while the suit from on high stares at him like a lab specimen. He's tall and old, with pallid skin from decades spent in the confines of the ancient castle. But his eyes are bright and all-knowing, peering out at Greg through thick glass lenses, his hands clasped confidently at the small of his back.
"Gregory Lestrade", the man states in a clipped tone, "You're….nineteen years and nine months?"
"Er….yeah?" The man gives him a withering look and he closes his mouth quickly, feeling like a prize idiot. Obviously he's here to be spoken at, not to, and this man, whoever he is, already has all the answers he wants.
He gestures to Greg to walk back down the staircase and they plod side by side, their footsteps echoing in the empty space. "Your lack of progress is a concern Mr Lestrade". He looks at Greg to gauge his reaction and Greg tries his best to remain convincingly blank. Just three more months and they'll take their eye off him again, and instead of testing him every week, it will just be a once a year.
"I have an interesting proposition to put to you". Greg's head snaps round in alarm. "Good", the man says in amusement, "You are paying attention, I thought as much…I thought you might like to work with us on the assessment team, see if it doesn't ignite that spark".
The man grins at him in a way he thinks is friendly but just comes off creepy as hell to Greg, and he knows that this could be it, he'll be fucked, because if they put him in a room with a Sentinel, which they obviously plan to do, all the carefully constructed walls he's built around himself will come crashing down.
Another alarm sounds out, but this time he's the only one that can hear it, a high pitched screech of anguish and a flash of white wing and all he can think is, I know, I tried to hold on, I'm sorry.
Sherlock is sweaty and thirsty and really fucking angry, stuck in the back of a sweltering van as it sits motionless, god knows where, and waits with the engine ticking over.
He's mostly angry at himself. This isn't exactly part of the plan, to be stuck here, trapped, when he should be out there looking for his Guide. But even Sherlock's impressive stamina can't keep him going for more than forty-eight hours, even he needs to stop, to rest, to eat to sleep. He does his best to ignore his physical needs and knows this failure could cost him dearly. He can feel it though, the Guide, they are somewhere close by. Sherlock estimates not more than a mile at most, but the kicker is it could be in any direction. And male, most definitely male.
The second guard stops talking to the driver long enough to notice he's awake. He tosses Sherlock a skin of water which slaps against his chest and drops down into his lap and he raises an eyebrow in answer; so this is the level of stupidity he's going to have to deal with.
"And how am I supposed to drink this…with my feet?"
The guard stares, looking nervous at the thought that he's going to have to approach him, despite the fact he's a good four stone heavier than Sherlock, and he's armed, oh and yeah, he isn't the one with his hands currently tied behind his back.
Sherlock lets out a long-suffering sigh, "I'll be a good boy, I promise".
The guard snatches up the skin and unscrews the cap, he extends his arm out towards Sherlock's mouth, still determined to keep him at arms length. As if he can do a damn thing in this position. As if they're scared of him. Good. They damn well should be. More water runs down his chin than hits his mouth, but he greedily gulps down what he can until the guard decides he's had enough for now and snatches it away.
"What's the hold-up?" he asks, conversationally. "Having a little trouble preparing the lead-lined cell?"
"Cocky little shit for someone in your unfortunate position", the driver says, peering at him through the rear view mirror.
Sherlock's suitably withering reply is swallowed by the crackle of static on the short wave radio.
Clear for the approach
It's the only thing he hears before the van bursts into life and he falls to the floor again, tipping sideways and cracking his head off the hard metal surface, no arms free to break the fall. They travel uphill, and the road winds along like a snake, left, right, and left again as they take the hairpins at speed. Old roads then, he thinks, so he must be still in the country, on the coastal roads and not the main route that would take him all the way into Scotland. He smiles to himself. So he's not so very far away from where he needs to be.
Sherlock wonders just how much trouble it will cause when he brother finds out where he is. He doesn't even bother to consider if his brother even knows he is alive. Of course he does. That is a given. There is nothing on this godforsaken island of which Mycroft Holmes is unaware. But sixteen months is a long time by anyone's standards, sixteen months spent searching, alone, by choice. Sherlock won't drag anyone down with him in this, The Tower means to claim him and Sherlock belongs to no-one. He means to keep it that way. And now he's here, in the wildest of the English counties, the last bastion of defence against the Scots and the final seat of defiance against the all-pervading influence of the Tower, Northumberland.
It is easy to see why. The land is wild, untouched by time and steeped in glorious history, always the most sparsely populated, always neglected by the south. There are no cities here, nor ever were, just small towns, smaller villages and farms; a mistake, an oversight which will cost the Tower and the arrogant arseholes who believe they can own him, dearly in the end.
The van slows down again, the sharp metallic groan of heavy iron gates make Sherlock clench his teeth as it sears through every nerve-ending.
The door is wrenched open, a heavy weight falls on top of him, presses Sherlock face down against the floor of the van. He struggles against the bonds around his wrists, he can't move, can't breathe; a stinking wet rag is pressed against his face.
The world goes black…