"The footage is back Sir, would you like to go through it now?"
Mycroft Holmes looks up from the piles of paper strewn haphazardly across the surface of his desk. He is never this disorganized, ever, neat to a fault and always completely in command of both himself and the carefully crafted image he presents to the rest of the world, his superiors included. But once in a while, it slips like now, whilst pouring over the latest influx of documentation regarding his brother. Sixteen months and no positive first hand sightings of Sherlock, just conjecture alluding to vague possibilities that he could have passed through such and such a town, and nothing at all for the past six months. To his parents this means his brother is almost certainly dead or incarcerated by a faction of rebel Guides, but to Mycroft, the most likely scenario is that he's finally broken through and crossed the border into the North as they discussed. Of course there is always the unfortunate possibility they are both right, the North is not the backward realm of impotent Guides propaganda would have the populace believe. Setting aside the reports from the border patrols he nods his head in acknowledgement. They detail the arrests of fifty-six unregistered Guides and Sentinels taken at the Northern border over the last three months alone. Really, he should have more faith that his brother, though reckless and arrogant to the extreme would not have been so foolish as to tread the usual paths and attempt to cross with false identity papers. At a guess he took the most difficult route instead, over the rough terrain of the Pennine mountains. Patrols are spread more widely there and communication signals at their lowest efficiency, something that Sherlock would find easy to exploit. It still comes as a surprise however, to realize how astonishingly self-sufficient he has proved himself to be despite his coddled upbringing. But it is this very same streak of stubborn self-determination which has already brought him into conflict with the most powerful family in the country and puts all who bear the name Holmes at risk too.
The investigation into Sherlock's current location is therefore of necessity a delicate process, a balance between the power Mycroft has now and the influence he hopes to wield in the future. Detection by his superiors risks a charge of insubordination, a trial for gross misconduct, and a potential penalty of lifetime incarceration or death. In the old days before the Republic was established the charge would be treason against the Crown, but of course there is no crown now, no monarchy, no democratic process of duly elected government. There is only the Tower and its autocratic authority in the hands of the Sentinel Prime.
Professor James Moriarty.
For six generations now, this powerful family has ruled over England with a fist of iron soaked in the blood of the weak or those who would dare to disobey them.
The King is dead, long live the King. Indeed.
Mycroft chuckles ruefully knowing the boat has been well and truly rocked now, and their ordered existence could all be about to come crashing down around them, the future of them all in the hands of a whip- smart headstrong, rebellious teenage boy.
"I suppose now is as good a time as any," he sighs, pushing back from the desk a little as he pinches his brow between forefinger and thumb. No one sees this side of him usually, guard down and vulnerable. It's easy to forget that he's only twenty-three when on a good day he feels decades older.
Anthea cautiously enters the room, closing the door with the softest of clicks. She kicks off her heels and walks the rest of the way over to his desk on bare-stockinged feet that leave a trail of damp footprints on the smooth dark tiles. He appreciates the gesture, not having slept for forty-eight hours his overwrought senses become harder to push down, and so he smiles tentatively, feeling the odd unnatural pull of muscles rarely used these days as she hands him a small black data stick, innocuous in its simplicity. Such a miniscule thing to be worth so much trouble he thinks, but Mycroft has ways to manipulate the strict protocol of the Tower and use their resources for his own private agenda. In this case locating his errant sibling and establishing his innocence on an accusation of murder. Sherlock may be many things, willful, arrogant, beyond the control of both Mycroft and his parents, but Mycroft has never doubted for a second that any and all charges against his brother have been totally fabricated by the Moriarty family. He sets the ghost program running that will overlay the data from the stick and encrypt the images in an unbreakable code. He is as sure as he can be that this will work, having devised the program himself to hide personal information from Sherlock. It's a good enough endorsement. Holmes proof is about as secure as it can get. His office at home is a safe zone, a necessary haven. There are no listening devices secretly concealed here, no cameras to record his every waking moment, and no superior officers to breathe down his neck. But still his heart pounds and his palms run clammy with sweat as he pushes the data stick home.
Anthea leans over his shoulder to watch, one hand pressed against the walnut surface of the desk while the other hand lingers on his shoulder, her fragrant breath ghosting over his cheek. Mycroft doesn't mind the familiar, intimate gesture which from anyone else would be entirely unbearable, but the steadying touch of the Guide permeates his consciousness enough to cut through the heavy, numbing veil of fatigue.
"Which?" he asks simply.
"Drone 221 Sir, South-East Northumberland two days ago now."
He clicks on the file. The images are remarkably clear on the screen as the drone sweeps over a lush wild landscape, rich green grass and fields of yellow rape-seed in bloom; rolling fields melt into forest dominated by conifer trees, much of the area dense and impenetrable and Mycroft sighs in audible frustration even as he prays that his brother has the good sense to take advantage of the cover they provide. After all, he cannot presume to be the only one searching, would never be so complacent when his brother's life is at stake. The trees and fields give way to small villages and the straight grey tarmac road that bisects the County from its Southern border in an unbroken trail through to Scotland. Further to the East the roads wind in snakelike coils that hug close to the coast and it is at this point a little to the West of the coastal village of Alnmouth that Mycroft leans in, pauses the footage and locks on to the bottom left-hand quadrant of the image.
Mycroft lets out a ragged breath. It's unmistakably Sherlock in the image. The long, angular lines of his body immediately recognisable even from an aerial perspective, the way he moves, sinuous, with a natural born grace that Mycroft will never acquire despite his best efforts, picking his way carefully along the hedgerow keeping out of sight of the road. Even at a distance he can see the boy is even thinner than he's ever seen him, skin stretched taught over every bony prominence. He looks feral too, hair grown unruly even though he has obviously made some attempt to control it, hacking at the overgrown curls with a Swiss Army knife Mycroft deduces, a fourteenth birthday gift from their father usually employed in the untimely demise of various unfortunate creatures. His clothes are appalling, even more so than usual, ragged jeans too short after yet another growth spurt and a filthy white t-shirt with a grey hooded jacket tied loosely at his waist. He needs a shave badly too, the slight growth of stubble at his jaw makes him seem much, much older than his sixteen years. But Mycroft amends this with a sudden guilty pang, Sherlock is seventeen now and has been for several months, his gifts still unopened in his mother's bureau in the morning room.
Mycroft scrolls through the rest of the footage frame by frame, until the drone pans further East towards the sea and Sherlock is gone again, slipping away off-screen.
"Good news Sir?" Anthea questions gently, and he turns his head barely able to meet her steady, open gaze.
"Perhaps," Mycroft concedes at last and purses his lips, annoyed the situation still remains beyond his control when in reality he should feel elated, Sherlock is alive, functioning, and it is safe to assume from the visual evidence is in reasonable physical health. They have an approximate location too, which is more than they've had in almost a year, and by extrapolating walking speed, and allowing for periods of rest, can estimate where he could be now. But this was two days ago, and anxiety creases his brow even as Mycroft gazes at the screen and the drone pans further North along the shoreline, the high stone battlements of Bamburgh appearing in the frame. Clouds hover slate-grey and heavy above the ancient castle battlements, stretching out as far as the horizon. Foam-tipped waves crash rhythmically upon the long white stretch of sand. It is a paradox Mycroft thinks, an enigma, forbidding and sinister and achingly beautiful all at once, a dark presence that dominates the landscape, and a mocking reflection of the Tower.
And it looms much too close, its shadow encroaching on the landscape, insidious.
Sherlock is alone and Mycroft believes, unarmed. On open ground his brother has a chance at least, but within those walls he would be as good as lost. Sherlock is undoubtedly strong but the numbers Mycroft estimates, residing behind the impregnable stone would be impossible to resist without allies.
The drone pans back again, untraceable by the Castle's inferior technology and it picks out a line of armoured vehicles rolling down the steep winding bank and out along the country roads below. They head South, back along the coast toward Alnmouth.
For the first time since his brother ran away Mycroft prays. They are running out of time.
"What news of Miss Hooper?" he asks with an air of finality, saliva thick in his mouth. He stifles a cough and takes a grateful sip of water, allowing himself a moment to close his eyes and block out the incessant blue-tinged glare of the monitor.
"Dr Stapleton reports no significant change sir. The patient is stable but remains unresponsive to all external stimuli….I'm sorry sir", she adds, the gentle pressure from her palm increasing against the curve of his shoulder.
Mycroft sighs heavily. He has seen this all too often. A young and inexperienced Guide attempts to assist a Sentinel experiencing a zone. Sherlock's raw power should have been warning enough. Mycroft should have seen it coming, and put measures in place to stop this from occurring as it was common knowledge among their peers at the Academy the girl was hopelessly infatuated with his brother. A fact which had not escaped Sherlock's notice by any means and who quite characteristically chose to use such devotion for his own selfish ends. How many times had she provided excuses, defended him, lied for him or been there in whatever capacity he would have her to no advantageous end? There is little solace to be found in the fact that The Tower would never have sanctioned the match even if both parties had desired it. Sherlock as it happens defies categorization, there are no other Sentinels in the South or elsewhere with all five enhanced senses. Except one, Mycroft reminds himself harshly, which makes Sherlock both a threat and an asset, and one that must be brought under control by whatever means are at the disposal of The Tower. "In that case, one can only hope that Sherlock finds the Guide in time and convinces them to bond".
Something fierce and protective stirs in Mycroft's chest. The boy is barely seventeen and already his life is an unholy mess. Sherlock will never be like he is, controlled, conforming, not because he doesn't try but because he simply can't.
One day, one simple twist of fate and Sherlock's life would never be the same again.
"Hey, we'll drop here if you like, you can walk the rest of the way in okay".
"Don't you fucking dare," Sherlock growls, and Victor smirks, his words specifically delivered to wind Sherlock up, and slaps his hand away as Sherlock makes a grab for the steering wheel. The black soft-top jeep veers wildly, front wheel clipping the edge of the Kerb and bouncing back down into the road.
"Cool it you bloody maniacs," Alexander, Victor's terminally boring friend snaps at them both, strapped securely in the passenger seat and clinging desperately to the door handle, "Or did you plan to trash the car completely, finish off what those little bastards started last night, eh?"
"It's hardly my fault," says Sherlock shrugging off Alex's censure, "Since it was parked outside your stupid flat." Alex has the good grace at least to look guilty Sherlock thinks as his eyes flick over to the space where a wing mirror should be, and then to the windscreen stripped of its wiper's and the deep scratch running through the centre. He rolls his eyes ignoring Alex's disapproving glare and drapes one arm around Victor's neck to bite down hard on the soft flesh of his earlobe.
"Ouch!...Jesus Sherlock, do you have to?" Victor swats him away, barely keeping control of the jeep this time as he swings into the long gravel driveway that stretches up toward the large red-bricked building of The Academy. Tiny chunks of stone fly like bullets from beneath the tyres as they barely break speed and thunder on, horn beeping madly to clear the way through. Kids, wide-eyed with fear scatter on either side of them. "I told you, it doesn't matter, company car courtesy of our friends at the Tower".
"For god's sake slow down Vic." Alexander holds on to the sides of his seat and rasps, "Before you bloody well kill us all".
"Got to get our boy to school on time," Victor laughs.
"But they'll see the…you know." Alex gestures vaguely, arm sweeping along the length of the interior.
Sherlock knows exactly what he means. "So what?" he shrugs for a second time, stretching forward and linking Vic's fingers with his own and whipping the wheel round forcefully. The jeep lists over on two wheels slamming his shoulder hard into the window and a surge of adrenaline sets his skin alight until it crashes to the ground, righting itself again.
They screech to a halt at the foot of the wide stone steps leading up to the entrance and Sherlock notes with satisfaction, a small crowd has gathered to watch him. Molly Hooper hovers uncertainly on the fringes of the group, her own bag over her shoulder with Sherlock's clutched tightly in her hands. She frowns, anxious then smiles shyly, clearly relieved as she sees him through the tinted glass pane and moves towards them, pushing against the flow of bodies making their way into the building for the morning's first lesson. Alex climbs out reluctantly, flipping back the seat so Sherlock can climb out the back. Then he climbs back inside and slams the door shut as Sherlock walks unhurried around to the other side. He leans in through the window in full view of his remaining classmates and fists one hand tightly in the front of Victors shirt leaving his mark, his chaos on expensive Italian silk.
"Pick me up tonight at eight." His voice is demanding, brooking no argument and Victor licks his lips and nods, his earlier bravado wilting in the face of the more powerful Sentinel.
"That your boyfriend then Holmes?" a voice jeers behind him.
"Get lost kid," Victor drawls tearing his eyes away from Sherlock's full lips. He lights up two cigarettes as a means of distraction and kisses Sherlock lightly, pressing one between his parted lips with a grin. Sherlock inhales gratefully, savouring the curl of heat and chemicals within his body.
"Or what?" Carl Powers laughs mockingly.
"Or I'll give you a good fuck, you tight little virgin, you won't be laughing then," Victor sneers and Sherlock coughs involuntarily at the look of shock and disgust on Powers face. "Eight then and don't be late this time." Victor flashes a final smile and the jeep speeds off with a roar from the engine and a shower of gravel.
The right hand side spells out ' Sentinel Fag's' in neon pink spray paint against the glossy black surface.
"Good night was it?" Molly hands him the bag with his uniform in, and nods towards the retreating car. The staring doesn't stop as Sherlock strips off last night's clothes where he stands, right there in front of everyone not caring in the slightest at the exposure. "What do you think? I always have a good night." The cool morning breeze raises goose-flesh along his arms, nipples hardening to two taut peaks as he shrugs on a crisp white shirt and quirks an eyebrow at her. Molly shakes her head in fondness and exasperation. "You need to be more careful," she says, casting a worried eye over the obvious mouth-shaped marks on his neck and chest "Unplanned bonds can be dangerous."
"Not going to happen," and he adds, when she still looks unconvinced, "I hardly ever fuck Guides and neither do I penetrate."
Molly blushes hotly worrying at the skin on her lips with her teeth.
"Don't give me that look….You know this already, Molls, it's basic Sentinel biology.""Yes, but it's still unproven, just a theory not a recognised or reliable method of bond control…..do you have to be so…" she trails off searching desperately for the right thing to say, the appropriate thing, the thing that will make him finally stop this, whatever this is, the hedonistic behaviour, staying out all night, alcohol, drugs and sex. It's hardly his fault he thinks, defensively, knowing that he's in denial because in truth he hates giving himself over to the baser demands of his body. He knows it has, rather than merely suspecting, much to do with his burgeoning powers, the endless restless energy he feels, mind racing unable to switch off without some chemical alteration. It's a miracle he hasn't zoned yet. And it's not a case of sometimes one sense is locked on and gets too much to bear. It's all five senses, all the fucking time, and it hurts and it's always too much and he hates this so much and it will never, ever stop. It doesn't feel special, he doesn't feel blessed like his parents proudly tell him he should. Shit, sometimes he even thinks death might be a viable option on his dark days when he crashes hard and can't get out of bed till late in the afternoon if at all.
The impromptu striptease warrants a few sarcastic whistles and cat calls but other than that the rest of them keep their mouths firmly shut. It's not hard to guess why. Rumour has it, completely true for once to his surprise that Sherlock has presented with all five enhanced senses and his volatile nature and propensity to punch first and ask questions later has most of the student body quite reasonably terrified of him. Not Molly. She may be quiet but she sees through his bullshit in an instant but continues to stick around despite the unassailable fact that Sherlock Holmes is a self-confessed wanker and terrible friend.
Still, her steady, patient presence is the only thing that makes this place bearable on a day to day basis. Perhaps he should tell her that one day? But being a Guide, the pressure to bond sits too heavily between them at times, so any admission of affection however innocently meant would be a mistake, open to false hope and assumption. And despite Mycroft's doubts as to his motives Sherlock is painfully aware how she feels. It's in the small smiles, swift glances and gentle touches. But Sherlock doesn't feel things that way, not for Molly or for any girl and he knows he never will.
"So," she asks, as they make their way along the wide bright corridor to class, "Who's your new friend, he seemed er….nice?"
"Nice is not a word I would have chosen….arrogant arsehole is more appropriate, and not a friend," he adds hastily, "Well, only to the extent of the mutual exchange of bodily fluids, but I take it from your expression that's not what you wanted to hear, so I'll shut up now shall I?"
Molly nods silently and vigorously as they squeeze by a cluster of first years into the lab. As they take their seats in the third row from the front the hair on his scalp prickles as he senses rather than sees someone staring at him. Not just someone, it's always him. He slams his bag down a little too hard on the bench top and swings around angrily to face a boy in the row behind.
"Problem?"
Jim Moriarty holds his gaze and the faintest of smiles plays about his lips. Sherlock can't describe what irks him so much about this boy, other than his irritating sense of entitlement at being son of the Sentinel Prime; The only son, only child in fact, who had recently and unexpectedly manifested as a Guide. Not that Jim seemed bothered by it.
"Not at all Sherlock dear." Sherlock bristles at the unwanted familiarity. They glare at each other, unblinking for a while, until the teacher comes in and calls the class to attention.
Or rather, Sherlock.
"Holmes, when you've quite finished bothering your classmate, or perhaps a detention would be more to your liking?"
The lecture is interminably boring, and Sherlock spends most of his time doodling aimlessly in the margin of his notebook despite the dark eyes boring into the back of his skull throughout. Carl Powers sits directly in front, squirming restlessly on his high wooden stool, and Sherlock spends the rest of the lesson not listening at all, tracing the curves of Carl's admittedly gorgeous arse onto the lined white paper instead. It seems they're all a little bored today. Carl gets in trouble for passing notes to Rachel Mather and earns detention after school, cleaning out the supply cupboard in the boys locker room. Sherlock lifts up his head in sudden interest, an idea springing to mind.
"See you later, things to do," he brushes off Molly at the end of the day cutting across the football field and ducking back into the gym building. His footsteps echo down the high-ceilinged corridor and he pushes through the heavy fire door into the shower block and equipment room.
Carl looks up at his approach, sweeping at the floor with a grubby mop and a bucket of dingy looking water. There's another mop propped up against the side of the wall, and Sherlock takes it silently and dips it in the murky suds.
"What you doing Holmes?"
"Helping, I am quite capable you know."
"Yeah, but why?" Carl asks, his high tanned brow wrinkled in confusion, "I thought you fucking hated me, why would you want to help?"
Sherlock shrugs as if he doesn't actually know. Which is true to a point, altruism is so not his style. But it's more than that, much more. Carl is a Sentinel like him, so it's natural they would butt heads, competing for dominance. But Sherlock knows other things too. He's seen the way Carl stares when he thinks nobody can see him. What it means, those lingering looks, masked by the overtly masculine public persona of the broad, blond-haired boy. So it's barely a surprise when thirty minutes later they're both sat slumped on a bench between the rows of lockers swigging from a bottle of contraband vodka that they'd found locked inside the gym teacher's office.
"You're not such a twat as I thought Holmes," Carl slurs, eyes slightly glassy from the effects of the alcohol. Sherlock takes the bottle, sips carefully and grimaces, "Such sweet words Powers, I never knew you cared".
"Well I suppose for a homo, you aint so bad."
Sherlock bristles slightly at the slur. They've been creeping back into every day usage for a while now. The Tower's programme for optimum breeding potential means that sexual relations between exclusively male Sentinel couples are once again frowned upon. It's not the fact both parties are men, in a traditional Sentinel - Guide partnership the objection is irrelevant. Technology now enables a DNA splice into a donor egg with the genetic information of both men and a mute female surrogate. The odds are favourable, with only a thirty percent chance the child will take after the mother at the age of maturation, the odds slightly skewed in favour of Sentinel offspring from the union. The same cannot be said for Sentinels alone. It would seem in a Sentinel pairing, the combined DNA effectively cancel each other out, resulting in rejection by the surrogate or wholly mute offspring. Anyone would think it was all about the breeding though. You would have thought that the Tower would be in favour. Sleeping exclusively with Sentinels or mutes also eliminates the chances of an unplanned pair-bond, if either party lost control at the point of orgasm, which is a risk Sherlock just isn't willing to take. Not ever. Not with anyone.
So he ignores the insult and watches with interest as Carl's inhibitions slip further away with every mouthful of Vodka he ingests.
"Rachel, Rachel Mather, ya know," Carl jabs his finger into Sherlock's shoulder. "Last weekend, mum's out, sister's at a sleepover. Invites me round 'just to talk' she says, but we all know what that means eh?" Sherlock hums in agreement even though he couldn't care less. " We're on the sofa, kissing like," Carl continues oblivious, "I've got a handful of tit and she's making these fucking noises, and Christ then she goes for it. Pulls the zip down and sticks her hand inside my pants, and shit, it's awful, really fucking bad, she's doing it all wrong, sort of squeezing it like, and there's no grip when she's pulling at it but it still feels good so I let her, and damn I'm so fucking hard. I'm right there, you know? And then a car pulls in, lights through the window and it's her mum and she stops. She just fucking stops man, and I was right there seriously, a couple more tugs and I would've been off." Carl palms himself and groans, speech slurring and eyes glassed over. Sherlock is little better, his head rolls to the side and comes to rest on Carl's shoulder. He leaves it there. Neither move. Sherlock can see the jut of Carl's erection through the thin material of his school uniform. He shifts a little to the side, to get a better angle, draws down the zip of Carl's pants, and slips a hand inside. No objections, just a gasp then an audible groan of pleasure which leaves no room for doubt that the action is welcome. Just to be sure Sherlock pauses. "Okay?" Carl jerks his head roughly – yes. He is damp and hot and stiff in Sherlock's palm, pre-come leaking through, so Sherlock rubs Carl's prick over his underwear in firm, practiced strokes, moving quicker and pressing harder sensing the racing pulse and listening to the rapid breaths and soft moans he pulls from him at every stroke. He comes with a grunt minutes later, the warm sticky liquid seeping through to soil Sherlock's fingers. He pulls his hand out and wipes the damp smears on his trouser leg.
The door to the locker room bangs open, smacking off the chipped tile wall and Carl springs back, not meeting Sherlock's eye and guiltily tucks himself away again.
Jim Moriarty is standing there, eyes wild and breathing hard in the entrance. Carl picks up his blazer and bag, and pushes roughly past him, not looking back, face flushed and staggering slightly. Sherlock and Jim are alone.
The silence is oppressive, the tension in the air between them palpable. Sherlock has never seen him like this, the boy is normally so carefully controlled, almost unnaturally so. Some would say emotionless, blank-eyed and uncommunicative as if none of them are worth his time, that he's better than them all somehow. Hardly surprising, considering who his family are.
He stares at the smaller boy, or tries to. Two images swirl before his eyes and he blinks in an attempt to bring Jim back in focus, dark hair slicked back, the sharp clean lines of his clothes, pale skin and black eyes. The Jim's coalesce, settle into one seething whole, his small form visibly vibrates with anger and unfathomably….. disappointment? No, Sherlock blinks again, that can't be right surely?
"I thought you were better," Jim spits, his dark eyes brimming full with unshed tears. "But you're just like all the other mindless sheep aren't you. Ordinary," he sneers like it's the worst sort of insult, which it is in a way. "You're not special, you're ordinary. Ordinary Sherlock….and you were supposed to be so much more…you're supposed to be mine….it's not fair."
Sherlock suppresses the urge to laugh at this, at the childish petulance evident in Jim's tone but a choked- off giggle still slips out. What a joke. Him and Jim Moriarty? "Fuck off kid, you're not ready to play at grown-up games."
"And wanking Powers is so very mature is it? He's a Sentinel". Jim spits his reply.
Sherlock pushes up from the benches, wavers a little on trembling legs and puts a hand on the wall to steady himself.
"So? Vic and Alex are too and I really didn't hear Powers complaining either. I doubt you'd understand it anyway," he adds, shaking his head in a futile attempt to clear the irritating buzz beginning in his ears. It makes it difficult to think straight. "I get….I have to….it's just…..so fucking much sometimes. I'm not supposed to be yours, I'm not supposed to be anyone's, so just leave me the fuck alone." He lurches closer to the other boy, who wrinkles his nose in mild disgust and holds up a palm to fend him off calmly. He's too calm. A mask has descended and there isn't the slightest hint of fear on his face anymore, no anger, no tears, and not the merest flicker of uncertainty. Instead he looks almost pitying and that's worse, so much worse somehow.
His legs feel weak from too much alcohol and the persistent dull throb of an unattended erection and he sways a little more as his mind slips out of focus and a wall of white noise assaults his ears. He's on the brink of a zone from too little sleep and too many mind altering substances. It's never happened fully before and he can't let it happen here, not in front of Jim. He tries to brush past but his legs remain stubbornly rooted to the floor. Jim moves closer, steps forward until they stand mere inches apart.
"Look at you." He hears Jim's silky tones, distorted as if heard underwater, every breath is laboured as his body slips offline.
"The great Sherlock Holmes…you need me right now, so very, very much. Just….Like…. This…." Sherlock shudders at the touch of ice cold knuckles tracing the contours of his jaw. Fingers tighten either side of his chin and jerk his head roughly to the side. Something warm, and wet and horribly alive slides up his neck and a rough inhale draws a moan from Jim's lips.
"Beautiful", he hums, breath like fire against Sherlock's skin. "Open up now, I know you want to baby".
Sherlock shakes his head in mute protest and pushes ineffectually at the hand clasped tight around his jaw. Jim squeezes hard, his sudden strength alarming. It forces Sherlock's own lips against the sharpness of teeth until a rush of hot iron floods his mouth. He feels it run down his chin in a warm sticky stream, retching as his throat works to swallow the rest while his body protests and tries to reject it. "So messy," Jim hisses, "Such a shame to waste it." A cry of horror rips from Sherlock's throat at the smooth tongue lapping hungrily at every last spilled drop. But he cannot move, he cannot speak, limp in Moriarty's grasp.
"You think you're so much better than me don't you, untouchable Mr Sex, the Sentinel Prince…but you're nothing without me…you could have it all, the power, the control…we're perfect for each other, The King in waiting and the Dark One….see, I know you Sherlock, you've kept this very quiet my love but your heart is as black as a nightmare…just like mine."
"No!" His fear finds voice at last and he cries out, hoarse and desperate.
"Ah…ah…ahh," Jim teases and wags a warning finger. "We will bond, you and I….a part of you is inside me ….now let me into that incredible mind."
Dark eyes fix his gaze like staring into an abyss. There is no emotion there that he can detect, no characteristic Guide empathy, just the snaking tendrils of a bleak corrupting consciousness, reptilian and cold. It suffocates him, muffles his senses and the time stretches out, thick like molasses.
He breathes in through his nose, wills away the growing swell of nausea and gradually the need to zone recedes and sensory input floods back in. The wood of the low bench pressing hard into the backs of his calves, the sour musky smell of stale adolescent sweat and the acrid tang of industrial detergent. The afternoon sun lances through the high narrow window panes like a searchlight, illuminating, the heat of it burns into the side of his face and he feels his body ignite as a surge of white-hot anger breaks through the haze at last. It's like a furnace, destructive in its intensity and he sees it that way too; a wall of searing flame bursts forth to incinerate the intrusion and reduce it to ash.
He staggers back, falls onto the bench with a thump, Moriarty sprawled on the floor at his feet. There is no recollection as to how he ended up there and shocked surprise is etched on his porcelain features and his breath huffs out in painful, sharp bursts. But Sherlock won't leave it like this and his mind won't shake the horror and the sick violation of what he just failed to prevent in his weakened state. He lurches forward and grabs Jim roughly fisting his collar and tie in an iron grip and pulls him like a ragdoll to his feet.
The last of Jim's breath leaves his lungs as Sherlock slams him roughly to the wall. Almost nose to nose he pulls his lips back and snarls, hands moving up to circle Jim's slim neck. "Stay the fuck out of my head, you…vermin."
He's pressing too hard, thumbs into windpipe. Jim's face turns an odd shade of puce and choked sounds gurgle in his throat. He's choking for real, air cut off and dying. He could kill him like this, it wouldn't take much more. Jim's eyes bulge, skin blood hot and tight and Jim presses forward towards him, hands reaching out to clutch at his hips. Their bodies connect and Sherlock blinks in confusion pushing Jim away in disgust. The smaller boy slides to the floor, sucking in air and rubbing at the bruises, livid on the pale skin of his throat.
"Like I said," Jim croaks, laughing bleakly and palming his erection, pressing down with the heel of his hand, a shiver of contentment running through him. "Made for each other, in every single way.""What the hell are you?"
"Something new, something not boring… and isn't that just thrilling, you obviously think so too." Jim looks him up and down with a smirk eyes hovering just below the waist at his groin.
Sherlock feels sick with shame.
"We're not the same," he rasps brokenly. "I'm nothing like you…."
"Keep telling yourself that gorgeous….but you know where I am when you come to your senses….or just come, I'll take either, or both if you're lucky." Jim pushes up the wall to his feet. Sherlock lets him. He wants to run, but any retreat will be seen as weakness, and this is a power play more than anything else, what happens now is vital in the battle for dominance. Because Jim Moriarty is like no Guide he has either seen or heard of by reputation or otherwise, he is cold, manipulative and black to the core.
Jim smiles the sort of smile that has teeth. "You'll be hearing from me Sherlock Holmes, very soon, I promise you. I've enjoyed this little game of ours, but it's far from over yet." He turns abruptly then, and pushes out through the door the way he came. It clangs shut, and then he's gone, and only the ghost of his presence remains. Only a lingering scent of expensive cologne to mark he'd ever been there. Sherlock stares at the space he once occupied with a feeling of dread deep in the pit of his stomach, suddenly, startlingly sober again.
Game?
What game?
"Hey, Moriarty, what the hell do you mean? What game? " He pushes blindly through the door after Jim and scans up and down the wide, empty corridor.
Jim is gone.
Sherlock's voice echoes loud within the space, his own words thrown back at him, haunting and desperate.
Game….
Game….
Game….
Jim Moriarty is not his Guide.
Sherlock clings to this fragile certainty like a lifeline over the following days. Jim keeps his distance, but the sly secret smiles and the endless staring continue hiding daggers beneath a veil of blank politeness. By the weekend he succeeds in pissing off everyone who dares to cross his path, feels wired all the time, crawling out of his skin and hasn't slept for forty-eight hours straight. How can he, when every time he closes his eyes Jim's face leers out of the darkness, teeth dripping blood. His blood. This is why, he imagines, he never feesl the first blow as a fist slams into his stomach, only the vague confusing notion that he can't draw in a breath. The second lands on his ribs at the right side, and pushes his body into something cold and solid. Clarity returns as his head snaps back, instant and agonised in the form of sharp hot pain lancing down his spine. His arms are pinned, one thick body braced at either side of him to hold him steady and the final blow (he hopes) lands with sickening accuracy on the prominence of a cheekbone, a supernova of blinding light erupting across his vision.
The bodies pinning him move aside and he sinks to the floor with a groan. "I thought you cared Powers or is this your version of foreplay?"
"You just don't get it fag….come near me again and I'll break your fucking legs." A greasy gob of saliva splats against the side of his face rolls down his cheek. The damp dregs seep through the shoulder of his t-shirt.
In hindsight coming on to a closeted Sentinel at one of Victor's infamous parties spoke volumes about his instinct for self-preservation. And still he can't keep his mouth shut, as he delivers an ill-advised parting retort to Carl's retreating back. It's almost as if he wants to be punished.
"Call me, let's do lunch, or each other, whichever you prefer….I do a stunning milkshake by the way, but you already know that, don't you?" he calls.
The tall stocky boy halts in his tracks. Is this it – impending oblivion?"
Sherlock tenses, squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the blow. It never comes. Instead familiar hands haul him upright and he groans in discomfort.
"What the hell are you playing at…are you actually trying to get yourself killed or is self-flagellation a new hobby these days? How many beatings this week? And don't you dare tell me Powers is the first."
Sherlock shrugs. "Two, maybe three if you count Moriarty which I definitely don't the creepy little shit."
"You're an idiot" Victor sighs, leaning against an exposed brick pillar at his side. "I can't always be there to watch your back. Slow it down, stop being a tit for once in your life." He presses a beer in Sherlock's hand. "So," he adds warily, "I noticed your name on the admissions docs this week, what gives kid, I thought you were saving yourself or something."
"Hardly," Sherlock snorts, "Not in that sense anyway."
"Yeah, but seriously Sherlock there are no under eighteens on the programme, not unless there's a guaranteed bond consummated within six months of application."
"I've been sold to the highest bidder apparently, all I have to do is sign on the dotted line." It's the last thing he wants to admit, because that makes it true and Sherlock isn't ready to face this thing yet. Hence the current bout of self-destruction.
"Fuck. Who?"
"Moriarty."
"Wow." Victor shakes his head in disbelief.
"They're coming over tomorrow apparently for a friendly little family dinner. This could be my very last night of freedom so I plan on making the most of it."
"By getting your head kicked in? Good plan you fucking idiot. So you're giving up, just like that? You know he's out there, your Guide, so do us all a favour and go find him." The older boy pivots Sherlock's shoulders, turning him around to face him. He looks determined, angry and frustrated at Sherlock's air of apathy, but hurting a little too, because they both knew that their 'arrangement' was never meant to last, the Sherlock was always going to leave some day. Neither of them were expecting it to end like this.
"Since when did I 'come quietly'?" Sherlock says flippantly as he tries to ignore the stabbing in the centre of his chest. He winces anyway. "Mycroft may have an out, he's working on it, but my last assessment at the Academy this week was the final straw."
"What did you do – punch creepy Frankland? Did he tell you to take off your pants or something?"
"Not this time no, I got Stapleton, thank god, but apparently they don't take too kindly when you knock out three elite Tower Guides without even laying a finger on them."
"Yeah, maybe I'm not getting this, so when you 'knock out' out you mean…..?"
"They tried to bypass my Shield and it triggered them to swoon – two of them are still in the Infirmary. So yeah, I am now officially a potential risk, a danger to myself and others …..I got kicked out, expelled from the Academy. Aren't you proud?" Sherlock raises his drink in mock salute.
"So what? They just sign you to the Tower without your consent instead?"
Sherlock turns to face Victor fully, his eyes now clouded with anger. "Since when did they ever give a damn about consent Vic – they're worried for their own sorry skins. Yeah, they'll dress it up and say it's for my benefit because if no one can Guide me I could die, but in reality? A Sentinel Shield that no one can get through? I'm a fucking loaded gun and they know it."
"So they keep you where they can see you and bond you to the Primes own son." Victor whistles, shaking his head as the full extent of Sherlock's predicament is laid bare. "Well, it was nice knowing you, but damn it kid, you're fucked."
"Nice of you to join us Sherlock, now where the hell have you been?"
"You mean you really don't know? One might assume you're slipping brother dear." Sherlock hoists himself the rest of the way through the open bedroom window, the need for stealth and silence having passed. He manages a less than dignified roll, flops sideways onto the soft pile carpet and heaves himself back to his feet.
Mycroft glares icily, and Sherlock can see the muscles in his cheeks twitch almost imperceptibly as he clenches his jaw so tight that it must hurt. Sherlock knows the reason. The cloying sweet smell of marijuana smoke bursts from his rumpled clothing in sickening waves.
"You stink," Mycroft hisses, voice laced with acid disdain, "And you have the audacity to come home high as a bloody kite. No thanks to your dubious new acquaintances."
"And?" Sherlock resents the implication that he knows to be levelled at Victor and Alex. "What exactly is so offensive to you Mycroft, I'm forging future connections with respected Sentinel families, I thought you'd approve, I know mother certainly would."
Mycroft wrinkles his nose, no doubt composing a mental checklist of his misdemeanours by scenting alone: stale sweat, weed, ejaculate (not just his own) an extended period of time spent in a car with a diesel engine, sandalwood and bergamot essential oils, expensive cologne of French extraction, tomato and basil pasta sauce and white Belgian chocolate.
"Just wash", he snaps moving to the bedroom door, and choosing to ignore the obvious dig at his own parents motives, willingly setting his future in the hands of the grasping power hungry Sentinel Prime - Moriarty. "Immediately, before mother smells you," Mycroft adds, hand braced against the open door frame, "It's the dinner tonight with the Professor and his family, or had you forgotten – how very like you". He sweeps through the door and pulls it tight behind him. Sherlock slides the window shut, sealing the cold air outside.
Sherlock scowls as he pads across the floor to his bathroom, kicks off his shoes by the door. He walks into the cool tiled space and stands with his back pressed to the smooth wooden panels breathing hard as relief floods through him at escaping from Mycroft's penetrating gaze. As his heart-rate decreases he crosses to the sink and sets the hot tap running. Cupped palms fill with water which he splashes over his skin. The water soaks the curls at the front where they hang down over his brow, his hair in desperate need of a trim and it runs down his face, dripping off his chin into the porcelain bowl, grey and flecked with grime. Likewise, a quick probe around his mouth with the tip of his tongue confirms the assessment that Mycroft will doubtless have made; cheap food, bad drugs and the salt-sour aftertaste of a completely unsatisfying blow-job, for both parties. God he feels like shit.
Of course he hadn't forgotten. That was the point of last night.
Sherlock turns the shower on full, peels off his t-shirt and pushes jeans down freezing cold thighs. The underwear is dumped in the bin by the toilet and then he steps beneath the stinging hot spray. Every muscle protests each motion as he ducks out for a moment, feet slipping on the glossy tiles until he makes it to the cabinet below the sink. He locates a blister pack of painkillers and throws two blindly into his mouth swallows them dry, feeling them scrape down the back of his throat. Stepping back under the spray, shaking with pain and fatigue he tilts up his chin, opens his mouth and takes down a gulp of hot water. The sensation makes him retch and he drops to his haunches hugging his arms around his middle squeezed into a tight, trembling ball. This is better, he thinks, and slides down fully to the floor head bowed and arms still wrapped tight as if the very pressure will make him feel whole. Water batters the nape of his neck and last night's transgressions are carried down the drain. Sherlock feels done, unbearably tired and still his mind races and rest is a distant memory. A thousand hot needles stab into his skin and the gentle patter of liquid roars against sensitive ears. It takes every ounce of his remaining will to drag himself upright and shut off the spray. The soft towel feels like sixty grit sandpaper and after a cursory dab he tosses it aside. There is no one here to see him.
A smart tailored suit is laid out on the bed, deep-blue wool and a shirt in a lighter shade. He drags it on roughly, hating the pretence, a home reduced to a farcical stage. They must think him a child, an idiot to be blind to the evenings agenda; Sherlock's current un-bonded state.
If matters were progressing at a normal rate, it wouldn't be considered before the age of eighteen, but the status bestowed by his talents and parentage brought him to the attention of the Sentinel Prime. And of course there is the small matter of his most recent assessment. Sherlock suppresses a snarl. Nothing but the best for the Moriarty progeny, and Guide or no Jim gets what he wants. And what he happens to want, is Sherlock.
And there are still those harbouring under the mistaken illusion being born a Sentinel means a life of great privilege?
It drags at his neck like noose, which pulls tighter with every passing day.
His mother, far from being appalled at his expulsion as he expected is ecstatic, like he's the fucking chosen one or something and so here he is, about to be sacrificed on the altar of her greed and ambition. The price of an alliance between the Holmes' and Moriarty's is Sherlock's freedom and future.
He hopes they all choke on it.
As a final flourish he ruffles his hair into a halo of unkempt curls and flicks open another button at the neck to expose the marks of debauchery on his throat. Muffled voices and laughter drift on the air, a chink of crystal, signals champagne poured in premature celebration. All eyes turn as he enters the room, some disapproving, others positively predatory. He turns his back for now, fingers twitching for a cigarette to calm his jangled nerves. Jim Moriarty stands by his father, black hair oiled back sipping iced water, clearly amused. He winks and Sherlock feels his stomach lurch, nausea and fury combined. How does he have the nerve to stand there, as if nothing is wrong, as if they aren't all about to destroy his life?
"Sherlock darling", his mother sweeps across the room with a glass of champagne in hand before he has a chance to slip away. He snatches it from her outstretched fingertips instead, if he can't smoke then this will have to suffice, and sees her face cloud in anger as he drains it with one swift swallow. "You look….very handsome tonight dear".
"On the contrary mother, I look like death." He says, dripping sarcasm, and side-steps her attempt at a kiss on the cheek. He plucks another full glass from the bewildered maid, chugging half of that down too. A stray drop rolls down his chin and he swipes at it angrily with the back of his hand. What exactly did she expect? That he would make this easy? Go quietly?
Father will be no help, conspicuous in his absence. It's hardly a secret that the gentle Guide indulges his youngest son shamelessly, but would naturally be excluded by his status from making any important decisions regarding his future. Sherlock knows he tried to plead his case but Mother is the Sentinel and her word is law, even though he made his disapproval known. But he won't be here tonight, The Tower having called a congress of all senior Guides and their acolytes. How convenient for everyone involved.
"Caution brother dear." Mycroft plucks the glass from his unresisting fingertips, pressing a tumbler of water to his palm. "You play right into their hands with such…undisciplined behaviour, if you stand even the ghost of a chance to delay this unhappy union you must be fully aware."
Sherlock stares at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What do you care? Soul-bonds are sentimental rubbish in your opinion, but we all know there isn't the slightest chance of that occurring. But Jim for one looks more than happy to get his very own Sentinel whore don't you think?"
"For god's sake Sherlock, now is hardly the time for dramatics, your Shields will be compromised by the alcohol and….drugs. Think of who you're dealing with here and do not underestimate the lengths that he will go to, to have you."
"Lengths? He'll never have to go to lengths – not when he can just take – think about who he is Mycroft and stop pretending I actually have a say in all this."
The urge to rebel flares strong, but the soft insistent tone of Mycroft's voice rather than the torrent of vitriol he expects gives Sherlock pause for thought.
"On the contrary brother, I believe you've lost sight of who you are, what you can become," Mycroft continues in an echo of Victor's words to him last night, "Why do you suppose I'm un-bonded at twenty-two. It's almost unheard of and offers have hardly been lacking, perhaps we are more alike than you suppose."
"You know?" Sherlock gasps, his voice little more than a whisper of breath.
"I know," Mycroft reaches out and presses a hand to his shoulder. "And if you have any hope of finding your Guide, you must not be taken by The Tower."
The weight of Mycroft's warning sits like lead inside his chest. "How did you stop them?"
"How do you suppose I have?"
"Anthea?"
Mycroft smiles, "Indeed, an arrangement which works to our mutual benefit, a clause which stipulates the bond remain unconsummated for a minimum period of five years from her majority. It allows the bond to be dissolved painlessly should a more compatible match be found in the interim.""Why the hell would they agree to that?"
"A soul-bond is infinitely more powerful, it is in the interests of The Tower to allow a period of grace should the candidates be deemed worthy. You on the other hand…." Mycroft answers his unspoken question, "Are easily the most potent Sentinel Dr Stapleton has assessed in the entirety of her illustrious career. Is it any surprise that simple truth will make you a target for the Moriarty's son? You pose a threat to their future authority and they cannot have you run amok like a bloody loose cannon. They will bond you whether you're wholly compatible or not."
"So what you're really trying to say, is that if I'm not with them I'm against them?"
"A simplistic analysis, but yes, I believe that's how they see it, better within the fold so to speak."
Sherlock looks across the room and catches Jim's eye. "Then I'm against them," he smiles, raising his glass in acknowledgement, aware his decision made last night in a drunken stupor sets him at odds with his Sentinel parent too.
"If there's anything I can do to help…anything at all…" The uncharacteristic nature of the words makes Sherlock snap to attention; Mycroft retreats to the neutral space on the couch by the fire, and in seconds is embroiled in intense conversation with Anthea. An echoing chime calls the room to attention.
Dinner is served.
Sherlock's head is on the platter.
"Allow me, Mrs Holmes."
"Oh, Charlotte, call me Charlotte Jim dear."
Charlotte Holmes beams widely as Jim pulls out the heavy oak chair. She settles her bony arse on the seat simpering with pleasure at such easy manipulation. It is too damn simple sometimes. The woman is barely tolerable, and the only merit that Jim can see are the prominent cheekbones, tilted feline eyes and the unconscious elegance she has passed to her youngest son. Jim steals a glance at him and a frisson of pleasure arcs along his spine - Sherlock looks delicious, a filthy-gorgeous, unpredictable mess. The blue suit hugs his slender form in all the right places and a multitude of the wrong ones too. Definitely not bony. Jim's eyes sweep over Sherlock's sizeable rump in open appreciation.
Sherlock scowls in return as he catches Jim staring, and turns his back to give him an even more breathtaking view. Oh yes.
The incident with the Powers boy was….unfortunate, and his own subsequent loss of control, regrettable. But neither is Jim blind to who Sherlock is, the wild and forceful nature, the unchecked promiscuity. It will lend his inevitable taming an air of incomparable accomplishment. The most powerful Sentinel bent to his will.
To be inside that mind! His pulse kicks hard merely at the thought of it. The fire, how it burned him; the blinding pain of rejection when swept aside by unfathomable power. He will have him and conquer him if it's the last thing he does.
The things they will do together, with a Guide in his rightful place at the pinnacle of power. Jim steals a glance at his father. Better to let him continue to believe this unholy union is all his idea. When Sherlock is ready they will take him down together, the patronising old fool. He can almost smell the iron tang of blood and the crack of his skull as he crushes it beneath his foot.
But Sherlock has to agree to it first, which shouldn't be a problem after what he has planned tonight.
Looking closer at his prize, he notes the white pallor of Sherlock's skin, the thin sheen of sweat across his forehead, and a tremor in his right hand where it curls around his glass.
Crash and burn baby – a chemical dependency, oh dear; Sherlock, high, at a society dinner party and coming down hard. Jim smirks as an idea sparks into flame – push his buttons, get the juices flowing nicely then tip him over the edge.
He takes his seat, and Sherlock sits across from him at his mother's insistence. It's rather amusing to watch him squirm as if this is the last place on earth where he wants to be right now, which is perfectly true of course. But where exactly would he rather be?
Sherlock fiddles under the table with his head bowed, his soup growing colder by the minute in the bowl under the disapproving glare of his mother. "Sherlock dear, don't be rude, we have guests," she says sternly, holding her hand out with a sigh.
Sherlock slips the item in his pocket instead, no doubt texting his slutty little pals or that moronic Hooper girl. Jim allows himself a smirk of triumph. Enjoy it while you can, he thinks, stealing a glance at his platinum wristwatch, you won't have this for very much longer Sherlock my dear.
Jim sits back, content to wait for his grand finale.
Sherlock scowls at the screen of his phone willing the damn thing to ring. He needs a little help to get through this excruciating dinner, the kind of help Victor is always happy to supply. He can meet him at the door, excuse himself to use the bathroom and his mother will never even notice. But Mycroft will and Jim will too. Sherlock ignores his mother's exasperated sigh and pushes it back into his pocket. Jim smirks across the table and Sherlock's skin prickles in response. Perhaps it's for the best. The soup, a bland concoction of potato and leek assaults his olfactory system like a sledgehammer. Sherlock tries to subdue the sensation, something he has had more success with of late. It's possible he finds, to switch between the senses at will, sort of push them back, mute them if you will and bring the one he wants to use to the fore. But only it seems to work when rested and drug free, and he knows he is neither tonight. No, tonight he's firing on all five cylinders at once and this is why he's the first to hear the crunch of gravel under the weight of heavy rubber tyres as two military vehicles coast up the driveway to the house. Mycroft shoots him an enquiring look as his head snaps to the front of the house. Seconds later, the harsh white light from the headlamps lances through the heavy twill drapes and floods the room in a stark fluorescent glow.
Thick boots pound against stone, the front door shaking under the weight of four heavy blows.
"What on earth." His mother throws down her napkin in annoyance.
Professor Moriarty looks up from his dinner plate. "Are you expecting company Charlotte dear?"
"Certainly not, Mycroft darling pop and see why they're here, I'm sure there must be some mistake." Sherlock doesn't miss the meaningful glance she shoots in his direction. He's been arrested before on minor juvenile offences. This is something more, Sherlock feels it, the aggression rippling through the building, increased heart rates, perspiration, a surge in testosterone and adrenaline. He frown and makes his way across the room with Mycroft. His brother stops him just outside the door fingers digging roughly in his arm to hold him back.
"If you've done something please tell me now." There is fear there, something he has never observed in his brother.
Before he can answer the knocks occur for a second time, and with a last desperate glance towards him, Mycroft stalks down the hall and wrenches open the wide oak door.
Sherlock sees how bad it is immediately, the official pink papers which signify an arrest warrant and the words sound hollow in his ears when a black clad official, armed and looks straight past Mycroft as if he isn't there and addresses Sherlock directly instead.
"Mr William Sherlock Scott Holmes?"
"Yes," he says, squaring his shoulders waiting for the blow he knows is about to fall. He knew as soon as Jim entered the room, that his rejection of the contract was a given and therefore the choice would be taken from his hands.
"I hereby arrest you on suspicion of the murder of one Carl Robert Powers. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand sir?"
Mycroft's face is bloodless, he hears his mother scream from somewhere very far away. He holds out his arms and feels the ice-cold bite of thick metal handcuffs and Jim Moriarty stares at him coolly, raising his glass with a grin.