Sherlock 1. Part One

**FULL SUMMARY: When 'the strongest Guide in England', Mycroft Holmes, is called to Afghanistan to discover the identity of a reportedly strong Guide hiding amongst the ranks of a military camp, he forces his Sentinel younger brother to accompany him. Sherlock decides there is no better revenge than finding this Guide before his brother can, but when he does find the Guide, 'sharing' is the last thought on his mind. Sentinel!Sherlock / Guide John**

**For the johnlockgifts exchange, I received johnlockscocks (on tumblr, 'KeepCalmLoveSeverus' on AO3) whose only request really was top!John and no Mary. At the time, I'd been talking with letalkingmime about teen!Sherlock at a military camp with his military!kink, and as I don't write top!John often, I thought this was the perfect time to write it. The original details we'd been discussing have been lost, but something better's been found, and I'm going to have so much fun with it.**

**Brief Sentinel/Guide primer*:****  
Sentinels - all 5 senses are enhanced to supernatural levels  
Partials - have between 1 and 4 enhanced senses; which sense is enhanced varies  
Guides - use psychic powers called 'empathy' to keep Sentinels and Partials balanced, and to influence others' emotions and thoughts/minds  
Zone - when a Sentinel or Partial becomes so entranced on one of their enhanced senses that it becomes all they know and cannot break free  
Guiding - when a Guide uses their empathy to enter a zoned Sentinel's or Partial's mind and helps them break their trance on the enhanced sense  
Shields - a Guide's mental protection to prevent themselves from being overwhelmed by the emotions of those around them  
Swoon - when a Guide loses control of their shields and becomes so overwhelmed by the emotions of those around them that they retreat to the depths of their mind to prevent complete mental breakdown**

***Sentinelverse and Omegaverse are most commonly combined, usually with Sentinels as Alphas due to the aggressive and dominating nature of both, and Guides as Omegas due to the caretaking nature of both, but this story shall be sans-Omegaverse (though Alpha!Sentinel!Sherlock / Omega!Guide!John is literally my favourite trope of all fucking time, but it didn't fit quite right for this story so it get left out).**

* * *

"I don't see why _I_ have to go, too," Sherlock snapped from his position curled up in the window seat. And thank goodness Mycroft had made him sit there or else the Sentinel wouldn't have remained in his seat at all. The last thing he needed was Sherlock Holmes roaming (snooping) around a government plane.

"Because mummy and father are on holiday and you cannot be left alone at home."

"_I am sixteen!_" his baby brother seethed, teeth bared. And even as Sherlock continued to sprout up like an obnoxious weed, at eleven years younger, he would always be Mycroft's baby brother.

"Yes, you are. And the last time we left you alone in the manor, we lost nearly the entire west wing to your 'experiment'," he countered mildly.

The contemplative look on his brother's made his heart flutter with mild traces of fear. "Yes, the experiment with accelerants was particularly fascinating. Though I wasn't able to-"

"No, Sherlock," the Guide interrupted firmly. He'd long ago learned that there was nothing he could do, short of physical imprisonment, to stop the Sentinel from doing whatever his mind had settled on. Not even _his_ powers of Empathy, the strongest in England, could influence Sherlock's mind; unfortunately, the construction of Sherlock's 'Mind Palace' had produced some of the best mental defenses Mycroft had ever encountered. Instead, the only luck he'd ever had was if he interrupted the thought during its initial coalescence.

Sherlock huffed and promptly climbed out of his crouch, over Mycroft, and disappeared. He didn't hear from or see his brother the rest of the flight, but since he didn't hear _about_ him either, he let it go. He suspected he'd have to hunt for his errant brother when the plane touched down, but to his great surprise, the lanky Sentinel, taller than him now, appeared at his side as the door was opened to let in the dry Afghanistan air.

"Messrs Holmes?" a young man, a Mute, neither Guide nor Sentinel, called out from behind a military-standard Humvee on the tarmac as they disembarked. "If you'll join me, please," the private said, opening the passenger side front and back doors. Sherlock practically threw himself into the backseat, preparing to engage in a full sulk now that he had space in which he could throw one of such epic proportions. Mycroft, much more composed, closed his brother's door, which had been left open quite on purpose, and got into the front seat, ignoring their driver's befuddled stares at Sherlock's actions.

**.oOo.**

"Guide Holmes," Major Sholto, a Partial (enhanced hearing only), greeted with a firm nod of his head. Mycroft nodded back, adjusting his grip on his umbrella and keeping a watchful eye on where Sherlock was skulking off into the man's office, a useful room between two larger ones with windows looking out into each room, designed to keep an eye on the officer's subordinates. Just because his brother was there now didn't necessarily mean that he would remain there.

"Good afternoon, Major Sholto," he replied, voice light and perhaps a bit distracted. He had been reaching out his empathy since they'd gotten close enough for him to feel the first chaotic swarm of soldierly emotions: fear, anger, restlessness, blood-lust, camaraderie, sexual lust. After that, he'd immediately began work on sorting and categorising each soul he felt. Unfortunately, it took even him some time to get through the several hundred soldiers present in the camp, and he had been going through the final batch when they'd been let into the Major's office. "One moment, please," he murmured, closing his eyes to speed up the process. When each soul had its proper place in his mind and his shields, he opened his eyes again and offered a genial smile. "As I understand, you suspect Hidden and Latent Guides in your camp?"

**.oOo.**

Now that he had a couch to flop upon, courtesy of the Major's office, Sherlock planned on engaging in a rather spectacular sulk. He hadn't quite had one like it in some time, and the situation rather deserved it.

"Correct," his heightened hearing picked up against his will. He didn't particularly care, at all, why Mycroft had come to Afghanistan, though it wasn't difficult to deduce that his Guide abilities were needed. On one hand, Sherlock had no need and no want of a Guide; his mastery over observation and deduction prior to his presentation as a Sentinel had allowed him to master his new abilities as they had manifested faster than any Tower tutor had ever seen, and he'd never once been in danger of zoning. On the other, he recognised, even if he did not like it, that the other Sentinels of the planet did not posses his level of control and needed a Guide to prevent them from zoning. And in the eyes of the Tower and of Mutes, Sentinels were near godliness, and therefore required praise and sacrifice.

"As you know, war often exposes Latent and Hidden Guides, which is not something that someone of your power would be required for. However..." the major trailed off and Sherlock could pick up the minor squeak of boots shifting and trouser fabric ruffling. His mind built a picture of the man shifting his stance, an uncomfortable look crossing the stern face. "There have been reports from both Guides and Sentinels of flashes of a power from within the camp that does not belong to any known Guide, and that those flashes show a strength greater than any known Guide in camp. Some say greater than any they've ever felt." Despite himself, Sherlock felt his intrigue sharpen. Hidden Guides were common enough, but if the reports had any accuracy, then this Guide was infinitely more interesting than the experiments he'd been forced to abandon at home.

"A Hidden Guide is easy enough to suss out," his idiot of a brother dismissed. There were times when Mycroft, with all his seniority, had knowledge and experience Sherlock did not possess, and could best him with ease. This was not one of them. Whomever this Guide was would not be found through the use of empathy alone, if at all. "I require figures: how many occupants on base? How many among those are Sentinels or Partials? And how many are known Guides?" He knew Mycroft had already reviewed and memorised the figures, but comparing them with the major's would confirm whether the Guide was actually Hidden or just lost amongst the masses. For a moment, he berated himself for not snooping in Mycroft's things while they were aboard the plane.

The sound of a clipboard, papers shuffling, and then "Of our 2000 occupants, 164 each are registered Sentinels and Guides, 726 Partials, and 946 Mutes." Sherlock's sulk was completely forgotten. Initially, he had had 13 reasons to not leave home, to not accompany Mycroft to Afghanistan. Now he had 946 to stay.

**.oOo.**

Boring boring boring! This was useless! He was getting _nothing_!

Sherlock was prowling the edges of the seventh batch of registered Mutes, barely able to keep himself from growling in frustration. Between the fluctuating chaos of an annoyed Sentinel's power and Mycroft's empathy, they had already teased out 27 more Guides, both Hidden and Latent. But none of them were The Guide. With a snarl, he threw himself on the couch and turned his back to the room to wait for Mycroft to be done and the failed batch to leave. He gave a huff and curled into himself tighter when the current batch was dismissed and left, and Mycroft approached him rather than letting in the next group.

"Sherlock. I didn't know you wanted a Guide." The oily tone slid through his ears and he wrinkled his nose at the distasteful sound.

"I do _not_ want a Guide," he snapped in return, voice muffled by the collar of his coat where it was pressed over his mouth and nose. He'd found that high collars tended to be very useful in his line of work, when there was no way of knowing what he might encounter, and he'd been sure to only ever get coats with high collars so he could press his own scent to his sensitive olfactory orifice. As much as he was aware of his own abilities, he was just as aware that even the brightest of minds could become overwhelmed and zone before they could stop themselves if they did not take precautions. And this couch was covered in scents from decades of use.

"Then why is finding this Guide so important to you?" He was fairly sure his brother was just goading him into conversation. Mycroft _knew_ how his mind could plague him.

"The Work, Mycroft!" he cried launching himself off the couch and back to prowling the now-empty room. "My mind needs The Work! As all of what it was already working on is back in London, I must find something to replace it or it will waste away!" It was his greatest fear, the loss of his mind and what it could do. He had already turned to cocaine once when it he felt the world around him eating away at his mind like a particularly vicious necrosis. He had pulled himself free of that spiral, and he had no desire to return to it.

"Sherlock..." his brother started with a pained sigh.

"Guide Holmes, the next group has arrived, sir," a Partial-obviously not Auditorily Enhanced, perhaps Visual judging by the way his gaze darted about the room-said as he poked his head in the door.

The man-private, two dogs, affair with commanding officer and his CO's CO-jerked at the glare Mycroft sent his way, and was nearly back out the door when Sherlock snapped, "Send them in!" The private paused, eyes moving between both Holmes brothers. When the older finally nodded his acquiescence, the man disappeared for a moment before leading in the eighth group.

Immediately, though there was no apparent differences between this group and the previous ones, there was an _awareness_ that suddenly hummed through the Sentinel's veins. For some reason, when he attempted to put the sensation into words, even in his own mind, he found he had extreme difficulty in doing so. It was not unlike the feeling he experienced when standing next to a known Guide, though it was more like the feeling of standing near a strong Guide like Mycroft. But this felt even stronger than his brother. At the same time, it was... muffled? Muted? And it resonated in him, made his own abilities sharper, making them... _more_. It was strange and frustrating, especially as he wasn't quite able to tap into it properly. It felt like there was something just for him waiting beyond a curtain, so close, and yet the curtain refused to yield to him when he reached for it.

Any concentration that had been focused on the ongoings outside the room immediately diverted, all five senses focused intently on the room's new occupants as he outwardly resumed his previous prowl on the extremely off-chance any of them had actually spoken to one another about what had occurred and would compare his previously known behaviour. From inside, he cast out his rarely used ability to locate Guides, expanding it to cover the room. There was the bright blip of his brother, a few minor blips, Hiddens and Latents, and... nothing else. No trace of whoever was making him feel so _alive_. Whoever was hiding was doing it better than any Hidden Guide he'd encountered before. Better than even Mycroft, who was still standing at the front of the room, eyes closed.

Long used to the feel of his brother's empathy, Sherlock had no problem tracking it as it settled like a cloak over each person present. The amount of time it remained varied, and sometimes when it pulled away, it left a piece behind, a marker to later identify the Hiddens and Latents he himself had already identified. Mycroft didn't stop over a single one for longer than it took to sort them into one of these three categories, and it was clear that he was not finding anything abnormal. Eagerly, Sherlock waited for the moment when his older brother, the strongest Guide of all England (even if he didn't like him, he could still acknowledge his powers), found The Guide.

But as each suspect was discarded, Sherlock felt his hope wane. Why hadn't he _found_ him yet?! The thought made his mind grind to a halt. Him? Why was he so sure The Guide was a him? Did it have anything to do with the strange, unfamiliar resonance the muted empathy cast in him? There was something tickling the edges of his mind, as if a file he'd deleted was asking if he'd like it to be restored. But he had no clue what file-

Sherlock's head snapped up. _There_. There had just been something. Something Mycroft hadn't noticed, if his lack of reaction was anything to go by. The only reason he himself may have caught it was because his powers were still stretched out over the entirety of the group, whereas his brother was testing one by one. The Sentinel quickly scanned each soldier's face, and found them to either be staring straight ahead or at Mycroft, a look of boredom or disinterest on each of their faces. No. Wait. There. That man right there. A small man with a tan, blond hair, blue eyes, a doctor's coat, and a mischievous grin whom Mycroft had just finished checking was watching the Guide. Avidly.

The Sentinel moved all of his concentration to that one man, and a moment later, empathy stretched out from the man, stretching out and _poked_ Mycroft's empathy before disappearing back within the army doctor quicker than a snap, the man's head returning forward and expression neutralising. His brother's head snapped up and his powers bloomed through the room, searching for the one who had just teased him as he moved to the front of the room, using his own observation to search for some other hint of who had just revealed was no hint on The Guide's face or in his body language of what he'd just done, nothing but a twinkle in his bright blue eyes. Sherlock was _fascinated_.

It was a long time before Mycroft resumed his previous task, coating each remaining person in his empathy before moving on to the next. The entire time, he remained at the front of the room, watching carefully. The Hidden Guide didn't provoke him again, didn't move again. Not even his eyes. When the entire group had been sorted, Mycroft still didn't move. He had searched through the entire group and been poked by who he was looking for, but he still hadn't been able to locate him. Suddenly, Sherlock didn't _want_ his brother to find him.

"You're dismissed," the Sentinel called loud and clear. Mycroft turned towards him with an angry frown, mouth open to contradict him, but he was already striding for the door and walking out. There was a moment of silence behind him and then the group was following him. Right in the middle of the lot was The Guide, and after the last of them filed out of the door, Sherlock fell silently into place, his eyes never leaving the back of that tanned head. One by one, the rest of the soldiers in front of him broke off until only the one he was following remained in front of him. The man turned a corner and Sherlock waited a moment to follow, and then ducked around the corner as well. Before he could blink, he was turned and pressed against the wall of nearby building, one wrist held and pressed against his own spine and the other against the cool stone. A hard body pressed into him from behind and he couldn't help but moan at the unexpected dominance and firm yet gentle handling.

Arousal was not something that he wanted to feel, nor something that he felt often, but he had already discovered his own predilection for military types. And for dominance. The few times he'd masturbated, his mind had wandered into fantasies of a hard body restraining him as dog tags clinked in the air between them. He managed to delete it everytime afterwards, and he'd managed to ignore his urges as long as he'd been in the camp, but with the man pressed against him now, he could feel his body, still not as under his control as he wanted it to be, responding. His cock swelled behind his zip and against the wall, and he rolled his hips, trying to relieve the pressure. To his surprise, there was a sound of throaty interest from the man behind him who rolled his hips in return, his own erection swelling between them. Sherlock gasped and bucked, and suddenly he was being flipped and his back was pressed against the wall, both wrists now restrained against the stone as he blinked down dazedly at hard blue eyes. The man was at least a head shorter than him, but clearly knew how to work around a taller, heavier opponent.

"Why are you following me?" the man demanded, fingers around Sherlock's wrists tightening, in threat or warning, he couldn't have been sure. "Why was that Guide-" He cut off suddenly, taking a step back to look down at Sherlock's body and then back up at his face. "Christ, what are you, like fifteen?"

With a snap, his mind pulled out of his cock and he frowned down at the soldier. "I am sixteen," he sniffed, offended. He knew he was taller than most not just his age, but just in general, and the way he held himself and spoke often led people to believe he was a great deal older than he was. Most didn't even realise he wasn't older until they got close. The Guide jerked back from him as if burned and Sherlock's frown deepened. But then the distance allowed him to look properly at the man for the first time and his mind started giving him details: late 20s, doctor, captain, Watson, left handed, regularly handles a gun, handles gun with right hand, kind, considers himself straight but has had relations with men, knows very well that he's a Guide, hides it because...?

"Jesus Christ. Sixteen." One hand on his hip, the other pressed to his face, the soldier shook his head, the expression on his face stricken and conflicted, as if he were disgusted that he'd reacted to Sherlock's arousal.

"Yes," the Sentinel snapped, annoyed and embarrassed. He hated that he hadn't been able to control himself, just as much as he hated that he'd been caught. "If you're quite done with your little crisis, perhaps we should return to the original topic." He could feel colour rising in his cheeks, and he pulled his coat tighter around himself, raising the collar as if he could hide the evidence of his embarrassment. At least it would hide his flagging erection. "Perhaps you'd prefer to tell me why you've been hiding, Gui-" A hand slapped over his mouth and that hard body pressed into his from the front and _oh_.

The soldier, despite his obvious issue with Sherlock's age, was still hard, and his erection was hot and heavy against his hip. The Sentinel closed his eyes and _breathed_. The scent of the man's hand was first, warm and smelling of tea, as if he washed his hands in it. Then came the scent of the man's arousal, hot and vibrant, a sharp tang that made him want to _taste_. Despite himself, he could feel himself growing hard again and, mischievously, he rolled his hips, pressing his own growing erection against the man's hip. The man's pupils dilated and he inhaled quickly. Sherlock expected him to pull away again, now that he had displayed an uncomfortability with their age difference. Instead, he thrust gently into the Sentinel's movements, and that _awareness_, that _resonance_ in Sherlock pulsed sharply as the Guide's empathy washed over him, checking, testing.

There was a push against his shields. A feeling he'd become familiar with upon his first visit to the Tower Guides, when they tried testing him. He had never let them in. He couldn't trust them inside his mind. There was simply too much in there, and when he was younger, before he knew better and before he'd perfected his shields, he'd made more than one Guide swoon. It wasn't just his Sentinel abilities they couldn't handle. It was how he took in information from all five senses, how it ran through his mind, and how it was sorted. It was simply _too much_ for them. Their minds weren't built the way his was. Only Mycroft had successfully been able to enter his mind in the past. But that had only been before he'd built his shields. No one had been in since then. He didn't want to let this Guide in. He had no idea how easily this man could be pulled from a swoon, and he didn't relish the thought of waiting before he had his answers. There was another push, surprisingly gentle compared to the shoves he was used to. Frantically, he shook his head best as he could under the man's palm. The captain stopped moving and just pressed against him, solid and steady.

"If you don't speak, I'll take away my hand. If you want to talk, you can follow me. Understand?" Sherlock blinked, surprised that the other man might voluntarily answer his questions. He nodded and the warm palm pulled away. Despite the heat in the air, he found himself missing the contact and the skin-heat immediately. The Guide watched him carefully for a quiet moment before pulling away, jerking his head in the direction he planned on going before walking the same way, not looking back to see if Sherlock would follow. Sherlock, for his part, was a bit distracted by the firm, round arse emphasised by the man's camouflage trousers. He didn't move until said arse disappeared around a corner and then dashed to follow.

**.oOo.**

"First of all, who are you? And that Guide bloke you came in with? And how did you know I was a Guide?" Interesting. He was actually going to get right to it.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective. The Guide who examined you is Mycroft Holmes, my infuriating brother, commonly hailed as 'the best Guide in England', though I suspect you may be stronger than him. And because I was looking for you," Sherlock answered in a blur, striding around the small space. It was a private room, small, only enough space for the one bed made with military precision, the side table on which there was only a lamp and several medical textbooks (no familial pictures indicate familial estrangement), a desk on which was only another lamp and a laptop, and a small dresser which he suspected would only be filled with multiples of the uniform. In seconds he was opening drawers and poking about, only to be stopped by the same gentle-firm grip on his wrist as before.

"Stop and sit down," he was instructed firmly, the Guide shaking his wrists a little to make him release the white shirt in his grasp. The movement sent the clean scent of laundry and the faded, ingrained scent of the soldier into his nose and his tongue darted out, trying to taste it. It was a musky sort of flavour, tainted in old sweat and the smell of gunpowder and antiseptic and tea. It was a poor substitute for tasting it from the source. It was _glorious_. He knew he was hard again, pulse accelerated and pupils likely dilated. Was it because of the resonance? It _wasn't possible_ to be attracted to someone so soon, especially knowing so _little_ about them. And wasn't that just as fascinating? He could know everything about everyone with just a look, he knew _plenty_ about Captain Watson, and yet somehow, it just wasn't enough. He was hit with a sudden _need_ to know _everything_ about this Guide.

"Oh shit, don't zone." The comment broke him from his thoughts and he jerked, spine snapping straight.

"I have never zoned," he informed haughtily, pulling his wrists free and turning with a swirl of his coat, dropping heavily onto the straight sheets of the bed. In front of him, the soldier was unmoving and facing the wall, one hand on the drawer. After a moment, he could see the man gather his resolve in the way his shoulders went back and there was a firmness about his spine that hadn't been there a second before. It shouldn't have made his cock twitch in his pants.

"Okay," Captain Watson said. And then "Okay." He turned around, took a step forward, then seemed to think better of it and pulled the desk chair out instead and sat in it, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees and to lace his fingers together. "Let's start at the beginning. Consulting detective?" The Work. More than a safe subject.

"Yes. I observe and I deduce," he said, perhaps a bit proudly and with a quirk to his lips. "And when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they call me." The soldier frowned.

"Observe? Deduce? I'm... sorry, I don't know what that means." He wanted to press his lips to the crease in the soldier's brow. Sherlock frowned. He shouldn't want that. He shouldn't want any of the soldier at all. Yet he wanted him more than he'd ever wanted anything.

"It means that I can see beyond the obvious. Anyone can tell you're a captain by the ranking on your badge and that you're a doctor by the coat you wear." The doctor looked down at himself and blinked, as if surprised he was still wearing the bright white garment. He shuffled it off and draped it over the back of the chair and resumed his position. For a moment, Sherlock was distracted by the slightly-less-than-subtle emphasis it gave to the man's biceps. A near-silent throat-clearing yanked him from his distraction and he continued "Any Sentinel can see the calluses on your palms or smell the gunpowder and antiseptic and tea in your scent. But they don't _observe_ that the placement of the calluses on your right palm mean that that's the hand you handle your gun with or that the ones on your left mean that's the hand you write with and is therefore your dominant hand. They don't realise the gunpowder in your scent means that you're not just an army doctor, but a _soldier_, and that the tea in your scent means you drink it daily. Likely more than daily as even your clothes smell like it." The Guide's frown deepened and he lifted his shirt for a sniff. Sherlock doubted he'd be able to detect it, but it was amusing to see him try. "And the lack of any photos in your room indicate an estrangement from your family, though the lack of 'personal touch' makes it difficult to determine the cause." Blue eyes darted to the bedside table where the spot typically occupied by a family photo was tellingly empty.

"That..." the doctor started, and Sherlock tensed, bracing himself for the usual reaction, "was amazing." The Sentinel blinked. And then he blinked again.

"It was?" He knew it was. But no one else...

"Of course it was. Absolutely fantastic." The sudden smile the captain flashed at him was... blinding.

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do they normally say?" Why was he still smiling?

"'Piss off'." Now it was the Guide's turn to blink. A moment later, he started to giggle and Sherlock could only stare at him in surprise.

"Well, if that's what you can pick up from me in just half an hour, I can only imagine what you can pick up after a day."

"Half an hour?" Sherlock replied, affronted. "That was in two seconds." Captain Watson blinked at him and broke into another set of giggles.

"Of course it was," John placated between breaths. All the Sentinel could do was stare. How could this man just... accept him like that? Suddenly, Sherlock felt very young, and hyper-aware that no one had had ever praised him like the man in front of him had; his parents and Mycroft had expected it of him and his peers and his elders had been offended and disturbed. And he didn't like that. He didn't like that one bit. The Sentinel straightened and crossed one leg over his knee, closing himself off as he turned his head to the side, staring at the closed door. The giggles slowly petered out and when he glanced out of the corner of his eye, he saw the older man eyeing him contemplatively, smile turned into something much softer.

"So," he heard after a moment, the pause afterwards forcing his gaze back to the doctor, "why were you, and your brother, the 'strongest Guide in England', looking for me?" Good. Most people wouldn't have put two and two together and realised that Mycroft's search and that Sherlock had said he was looking for him were connected.

"Surely you've heard the reports of the unknown Guide flashing his power all over camp?" he asked in return. Catching him by surprise again, the Guide let out a breathy laugh.

"Of course I have. I'm a captain," he said with a smug grin. "Not to mention I'm the one doing it. But you already knew that."

Sherlock flashed a smug smile back at him. "Of course I did."

"Alright, so now the question is, why were you and your brother looking for me in the first place?"

"_I_ was looking for you because my brother dragged me out here despite my best attempts to remain at home. _My brother_ was looking for your because the Tower does not like to have power Hidden from them. Especially when they believe they can bend it to their whim." The Guide snorted and nodded, looking back at the empty spot on his nightstand. "Now, the only question that remains is why have you remained Hidden?"

"I didn't want to be bonded to just one Sentinel." Sherlock scoffed in disgust and flung himself backwards onto the bed. Boring. That's why _every_ Hidden Guide hid. Typical. There was the sudden sound of a chair scraping along the floor and then a booted foot hit his. "Not like that, you berk. I know a lot of Guides don't want to get bonded to some strange Sentinel. I don't have a problem with that." What? Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and stared, waiting. "What I have a problem with is that they would have had me bond to just _one_ Sentinel!" he exclaimed, getting to his feet and starting to pace, movements agitated. "And Sentinels are famously territorial. If I was bonded to one, what are the chances I would be allowed to help any other Sentinels? I'm on a military base and I work in the med tents. Do you know how many Sentinels or even Partials zone every day and are brought to me? I can help _so many more_ this way. I can help them _all_ this way."

Sherlock could almost see it as if he had been there: the doctor being brought patient after patient, some that he could stitch up, some who required a fixing of a more mental nature. He could see doctor with strong, steady, capable hands darting between patients with needle-and-thread, sewing up wounds. He could see the Guide sneaking in when no one was watching, guiding Partials and Sentinels out of zones other Guides couldn't before disappearing back into the chaos of the camp.

"Fascinating," he breathed. The older man blushed and Sherlock could feel his vision sharpening, tracking with interest the way blood rose to the surface under the tanned and weathered skin. A moment later, the doctor coughed as he plopped back down in his chair, turning his head to the side.

"And uh... why wouldn't you let me in your mind?" the Guide asked, gaze still averted.

"Every Guide who has attempted to enter my mind has swooned. I couldn't let you do the same before I had my answers." Instead of becoming offended like most would have, the man let out that disgustingly entrancing giggle.

"No, we couldn't have that," he laughed. "And now?"

"Now I refuse to lose the most interesting person on this base to a swoon," Sherlock replied steadily. Across from him, bent over in his chair, the soldier licked his lips, the flush in his cheeks renewing and his pupils dilating as the pulse in his neck sped up.

"I've never swooned," the Guide replied, echoing the Sentinel's earlier words back to him. "And I would really like to see what it's like to be inside you." Sherlock's mouth went dry at the double implication and he didn't realise he'd started to nod until the captain was standing up and walking towards him. And suddenly he didn't know what to do with himself other than scoot backwards until his back was against the wall. The soldier kept advancing, crawling up onto the mattress and then over Sherlock's extended legs, not stopping until he was straddling his thighs. The teenager's heart was pounding in his chest and his hands were laying useless on the sheets as he was struck by the fact that _no one_ had ever been this close to him. No one had ever wanted to be this close to him, and he's not sure he would have let them if they had.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as the captain's weight, substantial but not uncomfortable, settled over him, keeping him in place. Hands were suddenly rising towards his face and he flinched back automatically, the action resulting in the back of his head smacking against the stone and him letting out a pained hiss. The Guide laughed and cupped his cheeks, almost making Sherlock melt from the comfort of his warm, callused palms.

"Hey, shhh... It's all right," the older man murmured, still smiling, one hand smoothing around the back of Sherlock's head to slide in his curls and caress the minor hurt. "I won't do anything you don't want me to, okay? I won't hurt you. I just want to see..." There was a pregnant pause, the Guide, unexpectedly, waiting for his permission.

"Don't you dare swoon," Sherlock demanded, hands settling tentatively on the shorter man's hips.

There was a soft huff of laughter against his lips and a quiet "I won't". Then a forehead was pressing against his, and he was letting down his shields for the first time in his life.

The Guide's entrance into his mind was soft, easy, warm. It was like being submerged in a just-drawn bath, gentle and unobtrusive. There was no immediate swoon like he was used to, but the surprise he felt was muted by the other man's empathy. Slowly, he began to realise that instead of trying to actually understand the information flowing in a unending stream through his mind, the Guide was simply letting it wash over him, wasn't trying to control or even analyse the information he was seeing. Slowly, the input the Sentinel was plagued with: the smells of soldier's room and the barracks outside it, the sound of the Guide's blood in his veins and the breath in his lungs as well as the commotion outside the small room, the smell of the doctor above him and his sweat and laundry, the taste of the man's breath on Sherlock's tongue, the feel of his trousers beneath his fingertips... Slowly, everything slowed, was properly sorted in the way he could usually only do locked inside his room, behind the shields Mycroft had set up for him. Was this why Guides were so heavily fought for? Was this why Sentinels were so territorial? Because the thought of his Guide doing this for anyone else made a sudden rush of irrational anger and possessiveness sweep through him. And just as quickly as they had come over him, they were gone.

"It doesn't work that way, love," he felt more than heard against his mouth and in his mind. "I'm not suddenly yours just because I'm in your mind."

A whimper slipped from his throat and his hands tightened on the soldier's waist. "Mine?" he tried instead, tugging lightly to encourage the Guide closer. There was another soft huff of laughter, but the body in his lap followed his silent plea, shuffling the little bit required for their chests to be pressed flushed to one another. Despite the arousal with which it had all started, that no longer seemed to be a factor in their interaction. Sherlock's mind was calm for the first time that he could remember and his body felt relaxed and pliant. Above him, the Guide was a warm, heavy blanket against his body and over his mind, a comforting presence. "Mine," he breathed again.

"No, love," came that voice in a breathy laugh again. "You can have my friendship if you like, but I can't let you have me yet. You'll take me and you'll never give me back."

"Yes," Sherlock hummed in agreement. Once the Guide was his, he wouldn't ever let him go; he was too perfect. His mind was growing fuzzy, and the soldier's words were tumbling through his brain, freefalling rather than self-sorting. Before he could stop it, the soothing darkness of sleep overtook him and if his Guide spoke again, Sherlock didn't hear it.

**.oOo.**

Everyone knew that each Sentinel and Partial had a Guide out there that was just for them, someone who was a perfect match in personality, capability, and power. The only trouble was, there was no guarantee they were even in the same country as you, and everyone was taught to expect that they would likely never meet their perfect match, though you'd know right away if you were lucky enough to have done so. John Watson had just met his. Of that, he had no doubt

The Guide let out a deep breath as he eased out of the young Sentinel's mind and sat just a little back. The movement had the teenager's hands on him tightening and another adorable whimper slipping from his throat. Christ. No, there was no doubt in his mind that this was _his_ Sentinel. And yet, he didn't think that his Sentinel realised that the Guide in his lap was well and truly _his_. His subconscious knew it, but that vast and magnificent brain hadn't the foggiest where the source of entitled ownership was coming from. And oh, _that mind_.

As a Guide, especially one on the military, he'd seen the minds of more Sentinels and Partials than he could count. And he'd grown used to what he could expect from the shape and construction of their minds. This one though, he'd never seen anything like it. Sherlock's mind was an actual palace. A fucking _palace_. Information was flying through the halls and diving into rooms at such a pace that he couldn't even begin to hope to understand any of it and, at once, he knew that he shouldn't even try. There was no doubt in his own mind that that's what all those Guides before him had tried to do, the ones who'd tried to test Sherlock and swooned immediately. So, John had just let it pass by him, had let his own presence fill each hall and each room, flooding the Sentinel's mind with his own. Eventually, the blurring rushes slowed, and it was as if he'd filled the palace with molasses.

It was well known that an inexperienced Guide is only allowed to train with an bonded Sentinel, because an unbonded Sentinel will become instantly attached to whatever Guide is in their mind, whether or not that Guide is already bonded; they became... incurably possessive. And inexperienced Guides have no idea how to deal with that. An experienced Guide, bonded or not, knows how to deflect that possessiveness, knows how to nip it in the bud before it can become a poisonous weed. John, with as many Sentinels and Partials as he's Guided, has been 'claimed' more times than he can count, has felt all variations of possessiveness imposed on him, and he can deflect it without a thought. When he was hit with Sherlock's however, the strength of it was something he'd never experienced and the anger that came with caught him off-guard, and he almost didn't quell either quickly enough. He could only attribute the abnormality to the fact that they were a perfect match.

And now said perfect match was asleep below him. His sixteen-year-old perfect match. His sixteen-year-old male perfect match whom he was sexually attracted to. Christ. What a mess. He couldn't very well let the kid bond with him, at least not until John had had his fill of the army life. But he also couldn't let his perfect match get into a situation where he required a guiding. Because while he didn't know much about his Sentinel, he did know that the teen would fight any attempt on his shields. Except perhaps John's. And perhaps the best thing he could do now, the only thing he could do now, would be to see how compatible Sherlock and he really were, and hope that the Sentinel didn't reveal his secret out of some sense of duty or, worse, as a way to make John go back to England with him. And letting said Sentinel sleep in his bed was not conducive to that plan.

Slowly, carefully, John extricated himself from the surprisingly strong grasp, carefully manipulated the unconscious body on the small bed it dwarfed and then set off to find one Mycroft Holmes.

He located 'England's strongest Guide' right where he'd expected to find him: in Major Sholto's office, conversing in low tones over a rather nice set of china. He already knew his CO to be an Auditory Partial, but he made his presence known with a short rap of his knuckles against the doorway. "Sirs," he greeted with a quick salute.

"Ah, Captain Watson," Sholto said as if he'd only just noticed John arriving, even though John knew the man had heard him approaching, as he stood and walked out from behind his desk. "This is Guide Holmes." The other Guide was taking a slow, measured sip of his tea, not looking at John, but around him, the empathy of his Sentinel's brother bloomed in the small room. Major Sholto twitched when it washed over him, but John stayed perfectly still, as if he didn't notice the power probing at his external shields, the shields that created a false mind overlaying his own. It was what he'd been using to fool Tower Guides, and every other Guide he'd ever met, since Nan had taught him how to do it. The other Guide's empathy continued prodding and scratching and pressing against his shields, searching for breaks that would reveal his true nature. Unfortunately for him, John had been playing this game far too long to lose. The only way he would lose was if his own penchant for poking danger in the face pulled free of his restraint on it and tried to tease the Guide again; in a room of Mutes, Hiddens, and Latents, it had been a fun dare to himself. Doing it now would be suicide.

"Guide," John greeted with a short bow of his head. One could normally shake hands with a Partial or a Latent, but skin contact with a Guide could lead to troubles on either side, depending on each party's level of training. Not to mention it became even more difficult to maintain his facade that way.

"What can I do for you, Captain?" the Partial asked, settling against the corner of his desk.

"Actually," John corrected. "It's what I may be able to do for Guide Holmes," he said with a nod in Mycroft's direction. The man suddenly went stiff, eyes growing hazy in a way that meant he was using his empathy, and John suspected he was tracking down his brother. Sure enough, a moment later, the feeling in the air retreated, the Guide's eyes cleared, and he let out a tiny, frustrated sigh. "I'm not sure who he is, but that bloke who was in the room when you called us all in? I found him unconscious outside my room." The man stood almost faster than John could blink, and suddenly, it was clear that Sherlock's distaste for his brother was not mutual. "He's fine, as far as I can tell. I did a vitals check and I wasn't sure if he might be a Sentinel or a Partial, but I made sure there were no signs of a zone, either." The elder Holmes's shoulders drooped just enough to signal relief.

"Please, lead on," the man said, gesturing at the door. With a nod and a salute to the major, John led the way back to his room, the journey filled with a comfortable, non-expectant silence. When they arrived, he was relieved to find his Sentinel right where he left him. Though he appeared to be the messiest sleepier the soldier had ever seen: the neat bedspread was an absolute disaster, all bunched up around the curled form of the lanky teen. He was hit with a sudden fondness and a desire to join his match on the bed. But his thoughts were interrupted by the other Guide striding over and poking the sleeping form with his umbrella.

"Sherlock, wake up."

Faster than he could believe, Sherlock sat up and shouted "Guide!", startling both Guides. And instantly, John was reminded that his Sentinel may very well expose his secret, and fear washed through him. Grey eyes snapped to him and he froze.

"What Guide, Sherlock?" the older brother asked, frowning down at his younger brother. Those grey eyes left him and turned to Mycroft instead.

"The Hidden Guide you're here for. I had believed I had located them. I believe they may have discovered I was chasing them." There was a deep sigh from the older man who John suspected was close to his own age, and a drop of the posh man's chin that seemed like he wanted to drop his face to his hands if John wasn't standing in the doorway.

"And did you find this Guide?" he asked after a moment.

Sherlock frowned. "No, I didn't," he said, and John breathed a sigh of relief. Then those sharp eyes landed on him again. "Who are you?"

Despite his previous conviction that he wasn't ready to bond yet, the words had him feeling like his heart had just been ripped from his chest.

"Captain John Watson, sir," he forced himself to say. "You're on my bed."

"Obviously," the teen snapped, standing in a flurry. The older Holmes watched the younger carefully for a moment as the dark-haired teen turned in a circle, taking in the meagre accommodations. "Hn," he sneered after a moment, and John felt another pulse of pain in his chest. There was absolutely no recognition in that pale gaze when it fell on him again, and the Guide could only assume that he'd been too harsh when he'd shoved away the possessiveness. It had happened before, him rejecting a possessive emotion and the force with which he did so causing the Sentinel or Partial to forget who he was or that he'd been there at all, but it had only ever been on purpose. The fact that he'd done it to his perfect mate just made him want to reveal himself to the Sentinel, even if his brother, the man looking for him, was right there. But he didn't. He couldn't. And perhaps that was his karmic punishment for rejecting his Sentinel.

Mycroft was giving him an odd look which he could only assume was for his sudden and inexplicable bout of chaotic emotions. "Major Sholto has been kind enough to grant us accommodations while I perform the search," the man said as he moved towards the door. "Come along, Sherlock." As he passed by John, the older Holmes gave him a short nod and then he was walking away down the hall. The doctor turned to watch him go, unable to look at Sherlock any longer. He could feel the Sentinel approach him, and then he jumped when a long-fingered, warm hand closed over the back of his neck, and soft lips tickled the curve of his ear.

"I will be back for you, John Watson." John's head snapped up, but before he could confirm whether or not that promise meant that Sherlock really did remember him, a pair of lips were pressing against his own in a chaste, unhurried kiss. It only lasted for a second, and then his Sentinel was striding out his door with a cheeky wink. The sudden elation that swept through him made his knees wobble and he collapsed against the door, feeling dazed. Guide Watson had never swooned, but for a moment, he almost feared that John Watson would.

**.oOo.**

True to his word, Sherlock Holmes did indeed come back for him. In fact, he was there when John opened his door the next morning, posture perfect and waiting stiffly. John had stopped dead, caught off guard.

"It's 3am," is what he said by way of a greeting.

"Do you always state the obvious?" the teen snapped back, looking annoyed. Despite himself, John broke down into a fit of giggles.

"Sometimes, yes, I do. Problem?" he grinned. The Sentinel seemed to falter, chin dropping to take in the soldier's expression.

"From you, I suppose not." And suddenly, his breath caught in his throat. He had a feeling that that was a concession the other didn't make often.

"Well, I don't know what you're planning on doing today, but I have patients that need attending," he informed the teen as he finally stepped out his door, edging past the unmoving Sentinel.

"Work? Boring," Sherlock scoffed, turning to match him.

"Not to me it isn't, Sherlock," John corrected as he started out of the barracks and across the compound to the med tents. He wasn't sure if he was surprised when Sherlock followed him all the way there, but follow him he did. In fact, his match shadowed him all day long, though he was far from silent. The doctor continued to be surprised all day long as the teen asked not just questions, but _intelligent_ questions, ones that indicated he already had a base-line knowledge most his age didn't possess, much less care about. John found himself falling into the position of teacher more naturally than he would have thought he could, and Sherlock absorbed it all with a moue of concentration, and intelligent inquiry after intelligent inquiry. Sherlock's observations the day before had him thinking his Sentinel was a genius; now he was sure. Before he knew it, he was being relieved from duty and stepping out into the hot afternoon sun, his shadow stuck to his side. Before he could ask Sherlock what he wanted to do next, long fingers were gripping his own he was being dragged through the camp without a word.

"Is there somewhere we have to be?" he asked, amused, letting himself be taken wherever it was they were going.

"Case, John!" the teen exclaimed with a grin so infectious John couldn't help but return it. He'd forgotten Sherlock said he was a detective, but before he knew it, he was tangled in more crime than he knew existed on camp. Over the next few days, the soldier learned more about Sherlock Holmes than he had ever learned about anyone else in his life as he followed his Sentinel on two investigations regarding theft, another involving an 'accidental shooting', and a poisoning, of all things. Yet, as he watched the genius in action, listened to him deduce, even just watched him think, all that he learned still wasn't enough. Somehow, it wasn't even a revelation when he realised he was in love with the daft git.

"So this is what you do in London?" he asked once when they paused for breath during a chase. Or rather, when they ducked behind a wall to avoid detection by their Mute suspect.

"Problem?" Sherlock replied with a smirk, echoing John's question from the week prior back at him.

Grinning, John shook his head. "Nope."

"Good, because I could use a doctor on my cases." Suddenly, he could see it so clearly: Sherlock running through London's streets, his great coat fluttering like wings behind him as John gave chase, desperately trying to keep his idiot genius (as he learned his Sentinel was) out of harm's way. His heart sank when he thought of the paper's on his desk. The ones that, come daybreak, would be sending him into the field for the next few weeks.

"Sherlock..." he started, voice slow and regretful, only to be cut off by the press of a long body against his. Surprised, he could only blink up into the grey eyes that followed him even his his sleep. He could feel the flutter of that long coat against his calves as arms bracketed his head on both sides, his breath catching in his throat as that perfect face seemed to draw closer. "Sherlock..." he breathed.

"Shhh..." the Sentinel murmured back. "I know. I'll be here when you return." John's first instinct was to argue that Sherlock _couldn't_ stay if he wasn't military personnel. But one of the things he had learned about Sherlock in the last week was that once Sherlock decided he was going to do something, it got done.

"Okay," he whispered. And apparently that was what his Sentinel was waiting for, because as soon as the word was in the air between them, there wasn't air between them any longer. At the first cautious press of soft lips against his own chapped ones, John realised that, despite the sexual tension vibrating between them since he first pressed his follower up against a wall, this is the first proper kiss they've shared. And at the tentative press of a tongue against the seam of his lips, it reminded him of how young Sherlock was. The sweet sweep of his Sentinel's tongue against his own made him shiver as he wound his arms around the too-thin waist, pulling his match flush against him.

Sherlock let loose a quiet, sweet moan, and John was gone, caught up in the slow, sweet kiss.

**.oOo.**

Even though he was the one pressing John into the wall, John was all around him. John was all he could taste, smell, hear, feel, and even though his eyes were closed, bright blue eyes were emblazoned on the backs of his eyelids. He never thought that all of his senses could be so absorbed in one thing. Even when his Guide had been inside his mind, he was still able to hear and smell the things outside the soldier's room. But right now, with John's arms around him, their lips pressed together and tongues sliding against one another, his entire world was JohnJohn_John_.

When his Guide tried to pull away, Sherlock whispered "No," and pressed forward, bringing their lips back together.

John pulled away again, laughing that delicious, breathy laugh. "I've got to breathe, love."

"Breathing's boring," Sherlock breathed back, trying to re-engage the kiss. His Guide was having none of it. Firm hands slid from behind his back to his hips, keeping him at bay, and the Sentinel huffed his annoyance.

"Be that as it may, I believe you also had a suspect we were chasing." The detective snapped upright, senses already stretching out, trying to relocate said suspect. He could be angry at himself later for letting himself get so distracted from the work. Moments later, he was dashing away after the Mute, the comforting sound of John following sounding in his ears.

Later, after the Mute had been captured and detained, John stood in front of him, ready to say goodbye for the night, ready to say goodbye for the next few weeks, and his heart gave a sickly thump in his chest.

"Stay with me tonight?" his mouth was saying before his brain had given it permission to speak. Once it was out though, he only wanted a 'Yes' in return. He needed time to breathe his Guide's scent until he could remember it at the height of their separation.

A look crossed John's face that made him want to recoil at the upcoming rejection. "Sherlock..."

He stepped closer, wrapping his fingers around the callused ones he could never get enough of ducked his head. "Please?"

That look on his Guide's face melted into something a little kinder and John let out a little sigh. "_Just_ sleeping," he was instructed, and he nearly sagged with relief.

"Okay," he agreed quickly. Perhaps too quickly, judging by the suspicious look on John's face. But it was hardly important; John could sleep and Sherlock could spend the time memorising everything he could about his Guide. As much as he wanted to be optimistic that John would come back to him, alive and in one piece, he was equally a realist, and he knew what could happen in the desert. And when John saw danger, he ran towards it, not away.

It was ridiculously easy to sneak John into his provided accommodations, once they'd used their combined abilities to assure each other no one was around who might catch them. Once inside, door closed and locked behind them, they both paused, simultaneously realising this was new territory and neither sure how to proceed. After a moment, John's hands drifted to his trouser ties and Sherlock's eyes were riveted to the movement.

"If I leave off my kit while we sleep, you promise to behave?" The Sentinel was sure he would be able to hear the way the doctor's voice rasped in his throat even if he didn't have enhanced hearing. "Sherlock?" His managed to pull his eyes from still-hovering hands back up to guarded blue eyes. "I can't stay if you can't promise me that."

He suddenly had to clear his throat before he could speak, but once he found his voice, he said "I promise to do nothing unless you ask it of me." He wasn't going to make a promise he wasn't going to keep, and if John asked of him what he wished the man would, then no, he wasn't going to behave. His Guide frowned at him, clearly not entirely pleased with his wording, but after a moment, his hands completed their path. In seconds, John Watson was standing in front of him in nothing more than his dog tags and a pair of bright red pants.

If there had been any thoughts in the genius's mind, they were immediately derailed at the sight. The bright red contrasted perfectly with the tan skin he'd already caught glimpses of over the last week, and suddenly all he wanted was to lick every inch of that exposed skin until John was all he could taste.

"...ock. Sherlock." There was a snap of fingers directly in front of his eyes that made him startle backwards and he shot his Guide an affronted look. John just laughed. "Glad I have your attention. Now, were you planning on wearing that to bed?" Blue eyes twinkled in silent-laughter as the soldier gestured at his button-up, trousers, and coat. Sherlock moved his fingers towards the buttons of his shirt, and they stalled there. There was so much about his body his doctor would disapprove of once he revealed it. John's expression fell. "This goes both ways, you know.I'll never make you do anything you don't want to."

"That's not it," Sherlock corrected, fingers still hovering in place.

"What's wrong then?" The Sentinel shook his head again and this time, his Guide stepped backwards, putting distance between them. Which was the last thing he wanted. In quick, practiced movements, he undid the buttons on his shirt and the button and zip on his trousers, and divested himself of the lot until he stood there in just his pants.

"Bee pants, Sherlock?" John asked , sounding amused. Perhaps the last time he would hear that sound for a while. "Is that why you didn't want..." The man trailed off when Sherlock shook his head. He turned his head away and waited, not wanting to see the expression of disgust/anger/disappointment on his Guide's face when he finally saw them. It took a moment, but then there was a quick inhalation and the faint flutter of fingertips against the healing track marks littering the insides of his elbows.

"Why?" The single word in the quiet space startled him so much, he would have jumped if there wasn't a suddenly-iron hold around his forearms.

"My mind," he replied after a moment, his heart and stomach still somewhere in the vicinity of the floor. Why was John even standing here anymore? Why wasn't he already walking out the door? "I couldn't quiet my mind." It had been a fairly low point for him, even being as young as he was. But once he'd discovered what cocaine could do for him, he hadn't been able to stop until his third overdose almost caused him to lose his mind entirely. He had chosen the lesser of two evils and had started his work as a detective shortly after. Not something Mycroft approved of, but it kept his mind occupied enough that it was safer than the drugs.

"Are you still taking them?" He shook his head, still not able to stomach John's expression in that moment. "Sherlock, look at me." He shook his head again, more frantically, his curls flying through the air and his fringe tickling his eyes.

"If you're going to leave, just leave please," he said quietly, trying to pull his forearms out of the Guide's grasp. To his surprise, John not only refused to release him, but went as far as to tighten his grasp. Slowly, Sherlock was backed up, each step he was forced to take making his heart skip a beat. Nothing was making any sense. He didn't understand what was happening. The backs of his legs ran into his bed and he almost fell onto it. Would have if not for John's hands on him.

"Get in bed, Sherlock." He tried to use his arms to keep his balance, but no matter what, John refused to let him go. He ended up crawling backwards onto the bed on just his knees, shuffling back further and further when the soldier pulled first one knee then the other up onto the mattress to join him. Only then were his arms finally released, but only for as long as it took to stuff them both under cool, thin sheets. Once there, he was gathered against a hard chest, equally strong arms wrapping around his back and holding him tightly. His heart was racing in his chest and he felt on the verge of a panic attack, his breath coming out in quick little huffs against John's neck. There was a slow, easy push against his shields, a familiar one that he'd still only felt once before, and cautiously, he let them down for the second time.

His Guide's empathy washed over him in that same, cooling wave as before. Though this time, the slowing of his mind came a great deal quicker as a wave of calm he suspected wasn't his own slowed the frantic pace of his heart.

"Steady," John whispered against his lips. "I've got you." Callused palms slowly caressed his back in gentle sweeps, and slowly, his body relaxed as well, melting into his soldier's embrace. It was only then that he realised that he and his Guide were nearly naked, together in bed, and the only way that there was going to be more skin-on-skin contact would be if they did away with their pants. It was also in that moment that he realised how much _larger_ the soldier was than him.

He was at least taller than John, but this close, with his Guide around and under him, it was so much clearer how muscular the soldier was. Before he knew it, his hands were traveling, mesmerised by the feel of hard muscles in shoulders and biceps and forearms, underneath shoulder blades and along the front and back of ribs, mildly sculpted abs. His fingers were already tracing cords under skin along hips and down to thighs when he remembered his promise and he looked up to find amused blue eyes staring at him. At once, he moved to snap his hands back, but John was faster, hand wrapping around his wrist and putting his fingers back to the hard muscles of John's outer thigh.

"You can touch me. You're not getting a leg over, but you can touch." He was almost offended at the sexual rejection, but he was too entranced in the way his Guide turned on his back and pulled the sheet from his body. Before he could act on the offer, John was folding his arms behind his head, the action emphasising the well-kept muscles of his torso, arms, and neck. "Sherlock." He blinked, looked up into John's eyes, and then sat up on his knees, wanting-needing-both hands.

He started by pulling his tanned soldier's hands out from behind his head, putting them on either side of his head. The Sentinel's fingertips were meticulous in tracing every bone in those hands simultaneously, before he allowed himself to move on to the ligaments in pliant wrists and forearms. When he moved down biceps to shoulders, one hand lifted sluggishly, a weak grip curling around his outer thigh and attempting to tug.

"Come here," John slurred and, frowning in confusion, Sherlock moved to straddle the man's hips. "If you're going to give me a massage, might as well sit proper."

"'Massage'?" the Sentinel echoed in confusion, fingers pausing.

John let out a noise of discontent. "Don't worry about it, love. Just keep... doing what you're doing." Still confused, the teen nonetheless continued his exploration. As he moved further down John's torso, he could feel the Guide's mind slipping from his with each muscle, ligament, and bone that passed beneath his touch.

"John?" he whispered, unsure and a bit worried.

"Mmm... Don't stop..." The soldier's words came out almost more breath than sound, and it seemed as if he only heard because of his enhanced hearing. "Just... flip me over when you're done and keep going. 'Kay, love?"

His fingers had slowed, but didn't stop, remembering his previous instruction, and he lowered his head to press a kiss to John's hip. "Okay."

The doctor's heart- and breathing-rate had slowed to nearly-unconscious levels by the time he reached the man's feet, and as gently as he was able, he rolled him to his belly. John hummed and folded his arms under his head, and then every line in his body relaxed entirely.

When Sherlock had gone all the way up John's legs and torso, his Guide was snoring lightly beneath him, and he just knelt there for several minutes, no longer sure what he should do. Slowly, he pulled away, drawing back to press his back against the wall to just watch. This time, John didn't move or make a sound, and the Sentinel settled in, more than prepared for a night of nothing but watching his Guide breathing as Sherlock breathed in his scent and catalogued the feel of the older man under him.

**.oOo.**

Mycroft had been glaringly aware of the growing friendship between his brother and the captain whose room he'd been found outside the week prior, and he was fully prepared for a sulk at the loss of Sherlock's newest obsession. What he was in no way prepared for was the absolute _nightmare_ the Sentinel became in the doctor's absence.

The older Holmes was still occupied with trying to find The Guide, which he suspiciously noticed was a mystery Sherlock of all people had left _unsolved_. Even odder, when he tried to distract the Sentinel from his funk with the investigation, his little brother only gave him the most hateful glare before turning and disappearing. Even worse was the way Sherlock continued to be brought back to him in handcuffs, having been caught breaking and entering into some of the more secure sections of the base.

Three weeks into Captain Watson's deployment, Major Sholto himself brought Sherlock to the investigation room Mycroft was testing one of his suspects in.

"Guide Holmes, I can no longer allow your brother to roam the base unattended," the man said stiffly. His brother, standing at the Partials side, was scowling darkly.

"My apologies, Major Sholto. I shall see to it." Several minutes later, a fuming Mycroft had closed them into Sherlock's room.

"Sherlock Holmes, what has gotten into you?" The fact that he couldn't observe the source of the issue bothered him more than he could say. And he was more than surprised when, rather than pointing out his miss, the Sentinel threw himself onto his bed and curled up around a pillow. No, he was more than surprised; he was worried. And the only thing he could possibly imagine contributing to the situation was the army doctor. In anyone else, Mycroft would have said that the Mute was missed. But that wasn't possible for Sherlock. That wasn't possible for any Holmes. Which had been proven, voluntarily, time and time again. "Did Captain Watson... take advantage of you?"

"DO NOT SPEAK OF JOHN THAT WAY!" Sherlock roared, throwing the bed's spare pillow as violently as he possibly could across the small space. Mycroft was so startled that his shields, momentarily, dropped, and his empathy lashed out as if he was preventing an attack from another Guide. Even more surprising was the way Sherlock reacted to the touch of his empathy. Previously, even though he'd constantly stated his emphatic non-interest in Guides, his brother had, at the very least, tolerated his empathy and, when he was younger, allowed him into his mind. In fact, he was the only Guide who could handle the Sentinel's mind. But when his unshielded empathy touched on his brother's shields now, Sherlock paled, all blood draining from his face as his eyes went wide and his mouth went slack.

When the Guide managed to get his empathy and his emotions back under control, the Sentinel had fallen against the wall, the pillow he'd been previously curled around held tightly to his chest, like a child taking comfort from a stuffed animal. A strange feeling swept over Mycroft as he simply stood there, carefully eyeing the way his brother was drawing in on himself and the pillow in his arms: helplessness. It was something he had not felt since the day mummy had brought a screaming newborn home and asked if he wanted to hold his new baby brother.

"I... apologise for my accusation, Sherlock," he finally said, voice quiet and hesitant in a way it had never been before. "What may I do to atone for it?" It was a rare pass, one he did not give often. But he deeply cared about his brother and his brother's help, and he would put Sherlock Holmes first as often as he possibly could. Right now, something was wrong with his baby brother, the one it felt like he had raised himself, and if it was within his power to make him better, then that was what he would do.

"Bring him back to me, My." He almost missed the near-silent whisper, and then the shock of hearing Sherlock's childhood name for him nearly erased what he had heard. For his brother to make a request like that, for him to say it like that, for him to _call Mycroft that_... the only theory that fit the information he had was that the Sentinel had come down with some kind of physical or mental illness.

No, there was another theory, but it would only fit if Captain Watson were a Guide. Because every irregularity in his brother that was causing his concern was a symptom of a Sentinel/Guide pairbond separation. But he had tested the man himself and verified him to be the Mute he'd claimed he was on his ID and on his enlistment forms. However...

Mycroft wanted to curse his arrogance. He had become so assured in his own power that he had dismissed the most obvious signs, pointing him towards his prey: he had first felt the mysterious Guide's power during the block containing John Watson; Sherlock had disappeared when that block had been dismissed; John Watson had claimed to have found Sherlock outside his room with no traces of a Zone; Sherlock's own admittance that he had been following The Guide; Sherlock forming a relationship with the same man who had 'happened to find him outside his room'; Sherlock's unprecedented depression following the Mute's deployment into the desert.

On the heels of the flash flood of hindsight observations was a flash flood of connecting summations: Captain John H Watson was The Hidden Guide; Guide Watson was so powerful that he had been able to hide from the strongest Guide in England; Sherlock's unnatural attachment was in-line with a bonded Sentinel's attachment to their Guide; and yet, Sherlock was clearly not bonded.

Conclusion: Guide John Watson was Sentinel Sherlock Holmes's Perfect Match. Trust his brother, one of the few Sentinels who did not need a Guide, and the only one who did not want a Guide, to be the one-in-six-billion lucky enough to find their Match. He had always told his brother that he didn't believe in coincidence, that the universal was rarely so lazy, and yet, it was so astronomically unlikely that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson meet here and now that Mycroft thought he might, for once, be swayed to believe in something as preposterous as fate. All of that went through his mind and was processed in under three seconds, which was still two seconds too long for someone in such a despondent state as Sherlock was.

His brother had already began to withdraw back into himself when Mycroft spoke again. "I will see to it immediately. But you must remain here, Sherlock," he instructed. There were no signs of comprehension from the Sentinel when the older Holmes stepped into the hallway, pulling out his mobile as he strode quickly towards the exit and reception. When he returned 17 minutes later, several minions back in England already working on what could be done to pull the soldier from his deployment without putting a black mark on his record, he was quite unsurprised to find Sherlock's room empty. When he opened the door to Captain Watson's room nine minutes later, he was equally unsurprised to find the Sentinel curled in a nest of the soldier's clothes, fast asleep with a pair of red pants pressed to his nose.

**.oOo.**

_"In the early hours of July 19th, an empathic explosion of massive proportions rocked the Helmand and Kandahar provinces, causing every Guide in Marjah, Lashkar Gah, and Kandahar City to swoon. Despite frequent attempted correspondence with officials, they have remained mum on the cause. When we return from commercial, we will have the opportunity to hear a variety of theories from several world-renowned Guide experts we have in the studio with us today. Please stay tuned."_

TBC

* * *

**This seems like a good place for a break. I'll be posting part two (of two) in the next few days. I just want to let it stew a bit. :3 Please remember to leave a review in the meantime, and drop by my tumblr (themadkatter13-fanfiction).**

**Additionally, I'm trying to raise funds to avoid becoming homeless, so if you like my work enough to donate or if you'd like a gift fic in return for a donation, please drop an ask to my tumblr and click on the Donate button in the side bar. Thank you.**


	2. Part Two

**Part two of two. All right. Let's finish this.**

* * *

Later, even the most reliable of witnesses was unable to say what came first: the wave of empathy or the roar. What they could agree on was that, as one, every single Guide in the camp swooned, sending nearly every bonded Sentinel into a panic. And nearly simultaneously, there was the roar of a Sentinel from the barracks. The roar of a Sentinel whose bonded had just died.

The doctors that weren't attempting to diagnose the swooned Guides located the Sentinel in Captain Watson's room in the form of a feral Sentinel Holmes. It took five full-grown men to hold the sixteen-year-old down, and a sixth just to apply enough sedatives to take down an elephant. When supervising Mute Doctor Bill Murray attempted to locate Guide Holmes to inquire about his younger brother's bonded, he found the older brother in his room, in just a deep a swoon as every other Guide in the camp.

"What the fuck is going on?" he asked, turning to his assistant who just shrugged in response. Not that Bill could blame him. Whatever was happening was unprecedented. At least, as far as he knew. Three hours later, every Guide was as comfortable as they could be made, and Sentinel Holmes was hooked up to a constant influx of sedatives until they could locate his bonded when the helicopters started arriving.

"What the fuck is this?!" the Mute shouted over the whir of the blades as he ran up to the first helicopter to touch down and soldiers in full gear began to disembark. "What the fuck is going on?!"

"Captain Watson was shot in the shoulder and everything went to shit! Did you know he was a fucking Guide?!" one of the women shouted, breaking off from the group.

"Captain Watson is a _what_?!" There was no way he heard that right.

The woman reached him and curled her fingers in his coat, dragging his ear down to her mouth. "I said, 'Captain Watson is a Guide'!"

Bill shook his head emphatically. "John's one of the best doctor's I've ever seen, but he's a Mute!" Halfway through his statement, the closest helicopter shut off and his ears rang in the sudden silence, his words echoing in the desert night air.

"Listen! We were on mission and Watson got shot in the shoulder. We had to restart his heart once in the field and twice on the way here. But the second it made impact, that's when all of our Guides went down. We need all Guides-" Bill was already shaking his head.

"All of our Guides went down three hours ago."

"They _what_?!" She looked shocked, almost like she was about to swoon herself.

"Keep it together, Lieutenant!" he snapped, ready to shake sense into her if needs be. "We need to get all the Guides into the med tents and get in contact with home and find out far this has spread."

It was more than a relief to find out that whatever had happened hadn't spread outside of Afghanistan, but the next two hours was spent in surgery on Captain Watson, whose bullet wound was one of the messiest he'd ever seen in his life. The round had entered through the front in a small, clean hole, hit and shattered the left clavicle, and blown a hole five times the size of the entrance wound out the back. When the captain woke, he'd need physical therapy for months and the nerve damage may well ruin his abilities as a surgeon. It shouldn't have been a difficult surgery, but the bullet had broken, and pulling free the shrapnel had been tedious and exhausting. But finally, the man was cleared and Bill was able to relax.

As he walked back through the camp towards his room for a kip, the camp was eerily silent with all the Guides in swoons and the bonded Sentinels at their partner's sides. It made a shiver shoot down his spine at the ghost-town feel of it all. It wasn't until he was making his rounds the next day and he was approaching Sherlock Holmes's bedside that he remembered the Sentinel.

"Hey, did we ever get in touch with the Tower to find out who Sentinel Holmes's bonded is?" he called to his nurse as he checked the teen's vitals to make sure the sedatives weren't causing any problems of their own. According to the notes, while he'd been occupied with first Watson and then sleep, they'd tried lowering his dose several times, but each time they had, he'd began to stir, the Sentinel in him fighting to get to his Guide. It was common in bondpairs, but he'd never seen it so strong, or in someone so young. Sixteen. Christ.

"Uh, Sentinel Holmes isn't bonded, sir," the nurse called back as he reviewed the still-swooned Guides filling up most of the rest of the med tents.

Bill frowned and looked up. "That can't be right."

"Are you saying I don't know how to do my job?" the nurse snapped back with an accompanied slam of a clipboard.

He held up his hands defensively. It had been a long, tiring, confusing night, and from the red eyes glaring at him, he knew this nurse was one who'd been on since the start. "No. I know you know how to do your job. But that doesn't change the fact that when we found him in Captain Watson's room-" He stopped mid-sentence, his brain catching on to what his mouth was saying and the nurse's glare turned confused.

Captain Watson, an apparent Hidden, had been shot and had clinically died. Sentinel Holmes had been found in said Captain's room, exhibiting all the symptoms of a bonded Sentinel whose Guide had died. Now, Bill knew he wasn't necessarily the brightest in the bunch, but he liked to think he had a decent head on his shoulder and that he had a brilliant idea now and again. And he was quite sure he was having one now.

He was unhooking the Sentinel from his medication before he'd even finished his thought and wheeling the teen's bed through the unconscious Guides in seconds, ignoring the nurse's bemused looks and questions. Despite the fact that he'd only taken Holmes off his unnaturally high dosage of meds just five minutes prior, as soon as he slotted the teen's bed alongside the right side of John's in the recovering man's private room, the Sentinel began to stir. The Mute could only watch in amazement as the sedative-laced lanky form first rolled into its side, and then began to snuffle towards the swooned Guide's uninjured side. It was like watching a worm wriggling towards the comfort of cool dirt. No, that wasn't quite right. More like a snake. That seemed to better fit the strangely elegant way the teen moved, even while unconscious. In a manner of minutes, Sentinel Holmes had fit himself as close as was possible against his Guide, even going as far as to sling an arm and a leg around the unconscious man.

"Guide Watson," Bill mused aloud. "Never would have guessed." Guessed? No. But if it didn't fit the doctor's kind, caregiving personality, the Mute would eat his shoe. Highly aware of the Sentinel's potential rising consciousness, he backed out as quietly as he was able, closing the door behind him and placing a 'DO NOT DISTURB' placard on the handle.

**.oOo.**

The last thing that he could remember was the pain that was still echoing in him even now. It had woken him from sleep with all the sensation of being rent in half and hollowed. It had left his insides left empty and his mind in rebellion, screaming only one thing: Guide_Guide_**Guide**GUIDE!

_John!_

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, every sense stretched out and searching for predators.

_Protect the Guide at all costs._

His ears and nose and tongue were returning to him the sounds and smells and tastes of a hospital, and as his last memories were of falling asleep in his Guide's bed, it was leaving him feeling disoriented.

A second later, he became aware of the body in his arms, the soft heat against his chest and under both his right arm and leg, and all of his focus shifted with a snap. It was John. John was below him, naked from the waist up, a wound dressing on his left shoulder, and attached to machines that Sherlock knew the name of, knew the functions of, but for some reason, just the sight of his Guide looking that way wiped them all from his mind.

"John?" His voice, inexplicably, came out in a quiet croak, and he had to clear his throat several times before he was able to speak again. "John?" he called again, shaking fingers reaching for the bandage on his Guide's left shoulder. It was the soldier's lack of response that scared him more than anything: in the week they'd spent together, each time he arrived at the man's room while he was sleeping, it only took a single rap of his knuckles on the wood door or, if there was no one around and he lock-picked his way in, a single call of his Guide's name, for his soldier to go from asleep to awake. But now, the sound of his voice didn't even make the man's heart accelerate, the lack of response making his own heart flutter.

Slowly, Sherlock managed to get himself into a sitting position, though every muscle in his body ached inexplicably and he felt, oddly, both heavy and empty at once. When he managed to get himself upright, he just flopped gracelessly the other way, torso stretched along his Guide's still legs. One hand slapped at the outside end of the footboard until his fingers chanced on the clipboard, which he then dragged out of its slot and up onto the sheets.

Words and phrases, documentation and notations alike, jumped out at him from the stark white paper. _Guide. Shot. Swooned. Empathic explosion. Fifty mile radius impact. Three resuscitations. Two hours in surgery. Guide rescue called in from home. At least sixteen hours until a Guide becomes available for Guiding._ Letters swam in front of his eyes and in his mind and he flung the clipboard away from him, panic and anger and distress filling him. For a long moment, he just lay there, staring at John's ankles, at a complete loss. He knew nothing about Guiding, or much about Guides in general. He'd deleted everything that the Tower installed that couldn't be used for his work, and then there had been no need to relearn it when he met John because his Guide had all the knowledge and experience they required. But now his Guide was in a swoon and the Sentinel had no idea what to do.

Slowly, Sherlock managed to get himself flopped back the other way and curled himself around John's torso. What did he know about Guides? More specifically, what did he know about other Guides versus his? Guides had mental presences and shields that could be detected by other Guides; Mycroft had not been able to detect John's.  
Guides could use their empathy as an attack; John had used his as a tease. Because he could. Because he is a thrill-seeker. A Guide's area of effect depended on the strength of the user and did not require skin-on-skin contact; John had insisted on skin-on-skin contact both times he'd been in Sherlock's mind, and had been as close as he physically could to the Sentinel without physically being inside him. Other Guides had not been able to handle his mind and he could not tolerate theirs; John had been able to still his thoughts and Sherlock craved the sensation. Every Guide, including his own, within a fifty mile radius of Captain Watson's troop had swooned, and John had been shot, though it was yet unclear as to whether or not the swoon caused the shooting or the shooting caused the swoon. All of that told him nothing on how to pull his Guide from his mind.

Sherlock searched his mind, trying to find information forgotten about or buried. What he found instead was the lingering sensation of John in his head. As soon as he concentrated on it, John's heart skipped and his body twitched, and the Sentinel was instantly alert. He closed his eyes, all the better to concentrate, and concentrated on that phantom feeling again. Another heart skip and another full-body twitch. His heart nearly stopped in his chest.

Every limb was like lead as he flung himself from the bed, frantically stripping away his clothes as fast as he could. John was, luckily for the moment, only wearing a pair of clean white briefs that smelled nothing like him (hospital loan). As soon as he was down to his pants, he crawled back into bed, fitting as much of himself around and over his Guide as he could. Once settled, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and _focused_. This time, when he touched on the feel of John, he didn't let himself be startled from it when the doctor responded to it. Instead, he held onto it harder, and slowly, a path became clear. A path leading out of his mind.

Sherlock, always one to dive headlong into danger and mystery, only hesitated for a moment, terrified at the thought that whatever he was about to do would make John worse. But as soon as he did hesitate, he felt the trace of John slip from his grasp. Frantically, he renewed his concentration, unable to bear the thought of losing John now.

The thread was thin, thinner than floss, but it was still a connection between their minds. It manifested bit-by-bit, like a footpath emerging on a foggy night, but there were no breaks in it. Slowly, he could feel something new against his mind, like when John had washed over him, but a bit in reverse. This time it was like he was washing over John. It was... pleasant. When he opened his eyes, he blinked in surprise at the sight of a kitchen around him. Well, perhaps kitchen wasn't quite right. There was a good deal of glass-fronted cupboards in front of him, all of which revealed tightly spaced shelves filled with boxes and boxes of tea, each of a different flavour. There was a small table, like a bedside table with no drawers off to the side, on top of which stood a small burner and a tea kettle. Behind him were several squat chairs that looked to be the height of comfort, a jumper laid out over the back of each. A single deep breath was all it took for the smell of John to flood his olfactory system.

"John?" he called out. He spun in circle, but the room had no windows and no doors. Just jumpers, chairs, and tea. "John!" The only explanation he had was that he was in his Guide's mind, but how did he find said Guide? Warily, he stepped forward and opened one of the cupboards, eyeing the tea boxes within. Every single box was the same brand, but upon closer look, they were all labeled slightly differently. In fact, each cupboard was labeled with a different emotion. This particular cupboard's boxes were all labeled ATTRACTION.

Curiously, Sherlock ripped open a packet, and immediately, the cupboard in front of him blurred, and images started appearing of a redheaded woman's smile, her legs, the freckles across the insides of her thighs. Feeling his heart thump sickly in his chest, he flung the packet away from him and the image dissolved. He opened another one, pictures of a blonde woman and then her breasts, nearly falling from her tight shirt. Another packet, another woman. And another. And another. These were John's _memories_. He looked through the boxes again with a more critical eye, and realised some, the ones further towards the back and the ones higher up seemed to be a little aged. Cautiously, he reached for a newer box, a flutter of trepidation going through him as he opened another tea packet.

This time, when the image appeared, he blinked in surprise. He was looking at the back of his own neck. And not just that, but there was the feel of a body pressed against his front, firmly. This packet he carefully put back in the box and pulled out another. This one was a picture of his face, bright-eyed and smiling, from their second case together. He put it back and started opening packet after packet, picture after picture of his face his hands his arse, more features he didn't know attracted people, appearing in front of his eyes. Then he opened a new one and, instead of a picture, he heard his laugh, breathless the way it tended to come out because he didn't laugh often. He opened another one and heard a rapid series of deductions in the air. Slowly, he put the last packet in the box, feeling dazed. An entire box of ATTRACTION dedicated to him. More than that, it was what about him that attracted John that had him feeling out of sorts.

After a moment, he shook himself from his thoughts, remembering that he was trying to find John and realising that getting caught up in the Guide's feeling for him wouldn't help him find his doctor. He closed the cupboard and began opening others, searching for what emotion John might be trapped in. A moment later, he happened across PAIN, and tentatively opened the newest box and the packet with in.

Pain exploded in his left shoulder so suddenly and so strongly that he dropped the packet immediately at the sensation, which disappeared as soon as he did. His fingers were shaking as he realised it was the memory of John getting shot. Carefully, he pulled out the next packet in the box, flinching when he ripped the paper. That same sensation of being rent in half and hollowed flooded him, and despite his intentions, it fell from his paralysed grasp as quickly as the previous one had. What _was_ that? Why was what he had felt a memory for John?

"Sherlock?" He gasped and whirled, finding a confused John sitting in one of the chairs, dressed in full invasion kit. "What are you doing... in... my mind?"

The relief he felt at hearing his Guide's voice again, at seeing him moving and speaking, at hearing his heart at the pace of a conscious man's, stunned him. For a moment, he was frozen by that relief. John's furrowed brow deepened, and his mouth opened to speak again. Before he could, Sherlock was across the small space and in the soldier's lap, pressing himself as closely as he could to the man and pressing their mouths together. His tongue was sweeping into the other's mouth and John was responding with a noise of surprise. A moment later though, his Guide seemed to catch up and hands were on his shoulders, pushing him away.

"Sherlock, what the hell-" He dove in again, driven by a need he couldn't describe or explain to _consume_ the Guide. Wrap the shorter man in his arms and his legs and his coat; he wanted to absorb him and keep him safe and make him irrevocably _Sherlock's_.

Hard hands grasped his biceps and _shoved_, hard enough to break the hold he had on John's mouth, but still keeping him where he was perched on the man's legs. He couldn't help the hurt look that fell across his face at the rejection, though it was soothed a little by the look of concern on John's.

"Not that that wasn't a rather lovely 'Hello', but Sherlock, _you're in my mind_," the soldier stressed, fingers tightening, likely unconsciously, where they gripped his upper arms. For a moment, he was distracted by the hard edge in his Guide's voice and the aggressive way he was holding him, and all he could picture was John above him, holding him down as he 'saw what being inside of Sherlock was like'. And then the soldier spoke again. "I know you've probably deleted a lot of stuff about Guide's in that massive brain of yours, but there's no way for you to be in my mind when we're this far apart. To that end, being a Sentinel, you shouldn't even be able to get inside my mind unless I've swooned. So, again, what the hell are you doing in my mind?"

His first instinct was to feel rejected, that John didn't want him here. But when he told himself to pay attention, he could see the pinching around John's eyes and across his brow that loudly proclaimed the fear and concern his soldier was feeling. Sherlock took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Chain-reaction that his Guide would loosen his grip and that the Sentinel would slide down his legs until he was perched, pelvis-to-pelvis, in his soldier's lap.

"You were shot," he informed shortly, tensing at the stillness that came over John. "You swooned, as did every Guide within a fifty mile radius of you. They have to call in Guides from England. At least, that's what I read on your chart when I woke up in your hospital bed."

"When you...?" the doctor's frown deepened and the teen almost smiled at the way the medical side of the man overtook his own personal concerns for himself.

"I believe I had a... reaction when you were shot and I required sedation. I do not understand what the reaction was or why I had it, but the timelines match to the best of my knowledge," he said dismissively. "When I awoke from my sedation, I was no longer in your room where I'd fallen asleep, but I was in a private hospital room, laying next to you." Frustratingly, instead of clearing with understanding, John's frow continued to deepen with each word of explanation. By the time Sherlock had finished, his Guide was shaking his dropped head. It was the same head shake he normally accompanied with two fingers and a thumb pinching the bridge of his nose, employed when he didn't follow a deduction Sherlock had made and had tried already tried to get elaboration on.

"Okay. I'm going to overlook you sleeping in my _locked_ room while I've been gone, because honestly, it's incredibly flattering and absolutely adorable." The teen scowled at that but he was firmly ignored. "But, and this is really important, I need to know _exactly_ what the reaction you had was. You need to describe it to me in as much detail as you possibly can."

"You're taking the news of your injury rather well," he deflected easily, frowning at the way the soldier seemed to be ignoring that fact, turning his gaze towards the shoulder that was injured in the hospital bed but was still perfectly fine in John's mind. He reached out to touch the area, moving to pull the soldier's collar out of his way, only for one bicep to be released so his fingers could be grasped unrelentingly.

"_Sherlock_," the Guide repeated, voice and expression hard.

"I felt like I had been split in half and hollowed," he admitted grudgingly. "I felt... angry. Possessive. Bereft. Like I'd never feel happy again." John looked suddenly stricken and Sherlock's mouth snapped shut. "John?"

"Did you bond with me?" The doctor sounded the wrong kind of breathless, a bit wheezy like when he'd been punched in the solar plexus, instead of the good, slurred way he became after a long kiss.

"I had believed a Sentinel-Guide pairbond could only be formed during intercourse?" It had started as a statement and ended in a question. It was all information he'd deleted and hadn't found a need to reinstall with a walking guide on Guides at his side. Bonding was the one component of the deleted information that he had considered re-educating himself on because bonding with John meant that he'd always be Sherlock's. "I would very much like to..." he paused, face heating up at the thought but unable to voice it, "...with you, but it does not appear as if the sentiment is returned." At least, that had been his belief before he'd seen the ATTRACTION tea box full of memories of just him, but he was no longer sure.

John gave him an odd look. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"You have indicated no sexual arousal towards me since you discovered my age," Sherlock replied, voice surly.

John stared at him before dissolving into laughter. The Sentinel, highly affronted, attempted to remove himself from the Guide's lap. The hands on his bicep and hand quickly relocated to his hips, and tugged him flush against the soldier. "Feel that, love?" the man asked, rolling his his hips up into Sherlock's who gasped as a hard erection pressed against his arse. "Sexual arousal is not an issue, and you're the age of consent. Not to mention I'd like to think you're smart enough to know when you're making the right choice."

"Then... why have you made me... 'behave'?" He practically spat out that word, remembering the way he'd curled around John as the Guide slowly calmed his mind. Remembering the way he couldn't touch unless John asked him to. It was the most opportune time to bond, and yet, he had been denied.

"Because I couldn't let them know that I was a Guide. If I hadn't made you behave, I don't think I could have held up my shields and everyone would have known. They would have pulled me from the military, forced me to the Tower for testing and likely try to force a Sentinel on me. A Sentinel I didn't want, where the pairing would have been for the benefit of just the Sentinel and not for the both of us," he said pointedly, raising a hand to card through Sherlock's curls. The Sentinel ducked away from the affectionate with a glare.

"I saw your memories. You've had sex before and appear to have held up your shields just fine then," he snapped, teeth baring and nose wrinkling in disgust. "So why couldn't you just have it once with me? You knew you were leaving. You knew the risks. That you might not come back. And you still wouldn't lay with me."

"Because it wouldn't be sex, Sherlock." John's voice was calm and patient... and his words were confusing.

Grudgingly, the Sentinel fell to the bait and met amused blue eyes out of the corner of his. "Pray tell what it would have been then."

"Making love." The teen's eyes went wide and his mouth went slack with shock and his Guide had no problem using that to his advantage, cupping his cheeks and pulling him down into a soft, gentle kiss. "I would have bonded with you, Sherlock. Perhaps you didn't come across that memory, but I wanted to bond with you-_still_ want to bond with you-so bad that I was afraid I wouldn't be able to stop myself from letting it happen."

**.oOo.**

"You do?" Sherlock's voice was small, expression so warily hopeful that it hurt John's heart. Though his Sentinel hadn't said it in quite the same way, the Guide knew his life had been a lonely one, lacking in enough people who understood that brilliant mind enough to help support and manage it.

John rolled his erection back up against his Sentinel's arse again, relishing the way Sherlock's eyes fluttered. "You have no idea. I think, actually, we might have started a little bit of one the first time I entered your mind. Have you heard of a perfect match, Sherlock?"

For a moment, the teen's eyes became distant in the way they always did when he was searching his 'Mind Palace', as John had learned he called it. A second later, he was back. "The theory that each Sentinel has a Guide who is more suited to them than any other in the world."

John chuckled. "It's not just a theory, love. That 'resonance' you felt when we first entered the same room? That's it. That's the feel of a perfect match. That means that we were made for each other. I'm _your_ Guide, and you are _my_ Sentinel. We belong to each other in a way that no one else can."

"That pain; the hollowing? What was that?" Sherlock asked, an adorable crease forming in his brow.

"That, my Sentinel, was the kind of pain only bonded and perfect matches feel when their other half's heart stops," he informed, sliding his left hand to press over Sherlock's heart. "I'm sorry for that, by the way." The teen's lips quirked like he wanted to smile but wasn't sure why.

"I don't understand. If we would have felt that either way, why wouldn't you let us bond?" The hurt expression was back on Sherlock's face, the one that made John want to hold him and never let go.

"It wasn't about the pain," he started, reaching the hand not on Sherlock's breastbone to slide into his hair, curling his fingers and tugging lightly until the teen followed his unspoken command, laying gingerly against him and resting his temple on John's shoulder. "If we had bonded, any Guide would have been able to tell I was one of them; bonding requires time to recalibrate shields to properly incorporate your Sentinel. Time I didn't have. They would have taken me off the mission, kicked me out of the military, and sent me to the Tower back home." He paused, carding his fingers through the teen's hair as he tried to find the words to explain in such a way that even his emotionally-immature Sentinel could understand.

"My nan bonded to a Sentinel she loved when she was young. Probably younger than you are now. But she was strong, and when the Tower discovered that after her bonding, when she was still recalibrating her shields, they took her. They broke her bond, forced her to bond with one of their Sentinels they thought she was more suited to." Sherlock stiffened against him, finally catching on to where John was going, but the doctor tightened his grip to make sure the teen didn't pull away until he relaxed against him again. "She always said I was strong, stronger than her, and that the Tower would want me for their own. If I had bonded with you, if I had exposed myself as a Guide, they would have done the same to me.

"The Tower doesn't care about the happiness of their Guides, Sherlock." He knew his voice was bitter, but he didn't care. The Tower had always been this way, and their lack of understanding concerning Guides had always infuriated him. They understood that Sentinel's needed Guides, but the person behind the empathy was of no concern to them. "And they don't care about the Sentinels they can't control. If they had broken our bond, a true soul bond, it would have killed us. Or, perhaps worse, it would have broken our minds." He got a mental image of Sherlock's mind, that palace, in ruins, walls laid to waste, every last inch of it reduced to rubble. It might have been Sherlock's image because the Sentinel tensed against him again, and the doctor caught traces of an accelerated pulse when his fingers paused on the teen's temples.

"With Sentinels and Guides who are not perfect matches, the bond they form is superficial, at best. Their souls adhere to one another, like super glue," he continued to explain, renewing the path of his fingers through dark curls, something that seemed to sooth them both in equal measure. "The theory with perfect matches is that they are the same soul split into two bodies, and so their bond is a reunification of that one soul. Breaking that... it's like trying to break a mirror cleanly in half." An image formed in his mind of a long, oval mirror with a piece of sharp metal running lengthwise along its surface. A hammer appeared and slammed into the metal, and the mirror shattered. Another image from Sherlock's mind. He'd never had a Sentinel in his mind before, much less his perfect match, and he wondered if it was normal. Scratch that. Sherlock Holmes was involved. There was no way it could be 'normal'. "Yeah, just like that. You can plan it as perfectly as possible, but the break will create shards and dust and spiderweb cracks, and it will never be properly whole again. Even if you manage to get the majority of the shards back in the right place, there are still cracks and they will always be there, slowly degrading the reflection's integrity over time."

After his accidental speech-_cum_-lecture, they were both quiet for a long time, just sitting in that room as John continued to pet his Sentinel. He suspected Sherlock was only being quiet because he was processing every he had just said. Sure enough, a few moments later, the teen began to stir, fidgeting before sitting up and back on John's knees. "They know you're a Guide now, John. It's on your chart." John frowned, not sure what Sherlock was talking about, and rubbed absentmindedly at a sore spot on the front of his left shoulder. "I can't let them take you from me. If you'll just bond with me, I can try to get Mycroft-"

"Yes."

Sherlock stopped mid-ramble to stare at him, expression uncomprehending. John chuckled, but he was consumed with the thought of finally reuniting their souls. Something he'd been putting off since he'd met his other match, but right now, he couldn't quite figure out why he would do that. Bonding with his Sentinel was all he wanted. Bonding with _Sherlock_ was all he wanted, and right now, there didn't seem to be anything in their way.

"'Yes'?"

"Yes, I'll bond with you." A look crossed his Sentinel's face like he was just barely keeping himself in check, and there was a tension running through him like he'd just been stuck with a live wire.

"When?" The repeated one-word responses from his normally verbose genius made the soldier's lips twitched from trying to repress his smile.

John licked his lips, feeling his heart flutter in his chest. Apparently Sherlock heard it too because grey eyes darted down to his chest and then back up to his face, brow knitted out of concern.

"Why not right now?" Before he could blink, the teen was out of his lap, fingers frantically attempting to undo the buttons of his shirt as quickly as he possibly could. John laughed and stood up, wrapping his fingers around the others, stilling them. "You have to wake up first, love." Sherlock's head cocked to the side in confusion before it clicked and he nodded. "I'll be right out."

"Promise?" There was that young, small voice again, the one that made his heart clench in pain.

"Promise," he agreed solemnly. "Feel free to start without me, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded and was gone, and suddenly, the walls of John's mind felt too small, too crushing. He needed Sherlock back and he needed him now. Closing his eyes, he followed his Sentinel back to the real world.

**.oOo.**

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he jolted upright in bed. The room around them was empty, though there were traces of a foreign scent in the room that had been present more than once. A second later, his eyes snapped down to John, finding him clear of several bandages that he'd been wrapped in before he'd entered the Guide's mind.

_"Feel free to start without me, yeah?"_ Sherlock scrambled from the bed, ripping through drawers and cupboards, looking for anything that could be used as lubrication. And condoms. He had been clean after his last dose, but John would be angry with him if they had unprotected sex before the doctor could confirm they were both clear.

Unprotected sex. _With John_. Having realised there was nothing in the room that could help them, Sherlock had just moved to open the door, intent on demanding these things from anyone, when that thought stopped him dead. He was going to have sex. With John. With his Guide. He was going to _bond with his Guide_. Trembling fingers reached out to the door knob, twisting it and yanking it open, only to find a bag on the handle. Cautiously, he peered inside.

Bottles of lubricant. Box of condoms. A congratulations card. Signed by John's subordinates and coworkers. His soldier would have blushed and been embarrassed in an entirely too-adorable way. Sherlock just nodded shortly and slammed the door closed on his way back to the bed.

There was a long moment of indecision as he stared down at the still-unconscious form. Did it matter who topped whom in these couplings? After another long moment of thought, he came to the conclusion that it did not, which was really quite fine with him. Not only should his Guide not be moved, but all Sherlock had been able to think about was the other man inside him. And now he would finally have that chance.

Carefully, always mindful of the fresh wound, Sherlock tugged the hospital gown up to John's pectorals, exposing the hard planes of his stomach and the dog tags hanging on his breastbone. Unable to help himself, the teen paused, licking his lips as he let himself be entranced by the sight. The slight increase to the doctor's breathing and pulse had him startling into action, realising that John had told him to get things started and he'd really done anything but. He yanked the sheet down, exposing his Guide's cock to his eyes for the first time.

"_Oh_," he breathed, staring at the thick, stocky extremity nestled amongst curly, golden pubic hair. The teen rarely touched his own, and he ended up being more cautious with the way he reached out to stroke the impressive cock than he likely needed to be. The penis hardened under his exploratory touch, filling with blood, thickening and lengthening. "_Oh_," Sherlock repeated.

The Sentinel, more nervous about this than he'd been about anything in his memory banks, nearly dropped the condom four times as he opened the packet and rolled the latex down the erection. Once on, he gave the lovely cock a single stroke and a deep groan rumbled from the still-sleeping Guide as the hips below his hand rolled into the touch. His breath caught in his throat and, despite frequent reviews of his memories later, he still couldn't remember climbing up onto the bed, straddling the slim and tan waist, and pouring a hearty amount of lube onto his fingers, but he did remember the first press of his own index finger against his own hole that had him moaning.

He had fingered himself in the past, once, and it had been a tedious experience, made up only by the rare brushes against his prostate. Now, with John laid under him, cock brushing against his arse cheeks, every thrust of his finger into himself and every drop of his hips to help his fingers along made arousal burn through his veins and pleasure sizzle through his nerves. Impatiently, he pressed a second finger in alongside the first, hips stuttering at the stretch and the slight burn and a low moan slipping out from between his lips. He had barely stretched himself enough with two fingers before he added a third, feeling somewhat anxious to have his Guide inside him as soon as was humanly possible. It wasn't a need he could trace or explain, nor could he control it; not that he particularly wanted to.

The third finger burned a fair deal more than the second, but encouraged by the way John was writhing under him, the lubricated-condom creating wet streaks on his arse with every unconscious tense-and-release of his doctor's hips, Sherlock didn't let himself be stopped by the pain. He did, however, wait until his muscles weren't clamping on his digits like a vice before withdrawing them. He poured more lubricant on John's cock and slathered as much as he could against his hole before tossing the bottles to the sheets and wiping his hand dry on the fabric. Finally, he shifted up and back until he felt the thick head of his soldier's cock against his hole, and he lowered himself onto it.

It was thicker than his fingers had been. Harder. Hotter. _So full._ His breath was coming out in stuttering pants as he tried to keep his weight over John's waist. His fingers curled in the sheets to ground himself, rather than using his soldier's chest and risking hurting him further. He had to pause before his Guide was even halfway inside, eyes squeezed shut, his body requiring time to adjust. His thighs trembled with the strain of holding himself where he was was, but he didn't move again until his muscles relaxed enough for his body to start pulling the cock deeper on its own. John's body was tense under his as he finally allowed the cock to slide all the way inside, and then he sat there, stuffed full of John's cock and unable to stop trembling with the satisfaction and pleasure of it.

"Oh god, _John_," he moaned, nearly collapsing against the man's chest. "Please, please wake up soon. Oh god, I need you. I need you to-"

Hard hands gripped his thighs, surprising him into crying out, eyes snapping open, heart tripping over itself before stumbling into a running pace. "Oh Jesus, Sherlock." John's voice was hoarse, quiet, but the Sentinel's ears fixated on every word and his eyes fixated on the dazed look in rolling blue eyes. "What are you doing?" he gasped, neck straining as he arched under Sherlock, pressing his cock even further inside.

"I've been wanting-been wanting-hah hah-to feel you in-in me-hah hah-since the day I met you," Sherlock managed to gasp. He didn't feel he was capable of lifting his hips or using his thighs just yet, but it was easy and fulfilling to simply grind himself on John's cock, the thick head brushing his prostate with each roll of his hips. His walls fluttered with each touch, and the fingers on his thighs tightened with each rippling of muscles along the shaft piercing him.

"Oh _god_," John moaned, throwing his head back and fingernails biting into Sherlock's thighs. "Shit. Me too, Sherlock. God, me too love. And not that this isn't the most amazing way to wake u-UH!-p, but I've just been shot and-" The Sentinel didn't understand why he was even being argued with on this. John had _just told him_ to get started on this.

"I know you've been shot. Which is why we're speeding this along, _love_," the teen snapped back, finally able to use his thighs enough to raise and drop his hips. The soldier below him bit out a curse and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to control his breathing. "I need to know how to bond with you, John. And it would be best if you informed me sooner or later. I'm so hard right now that I can barely think and I've deleted this knowledge."

"Sherlock, oh fuck," the man groaned unhelpfully instead.

"Hurry, John!" he cried. John was so full in him, so insistent against his prostate as his hips began to thrust up into him. Each brush against his prostate made his cock throb harder and drove his orgasm closer and closer. The pleasure singing through him was unlike any he'd felt before, and he didn't even notice the press against his shields until John spoke again.

"Your shields, love. You have to let me in!" his Guide gasped. He'd never dropped them so fast. As his Guide's mind swept through his, the Sentinel's orgasm swept through his body and he was crying out, high and sweet as his bonded did the same under him. He was no longer just Sherlock. He was SherlockAndJohn, SentinelAndGuide, TwoAsOne, all at the same time. They were united as no one else ever could be, and no one would ever be able to part them again. Images and sounds and scents and tastes and sensations and emotions rushed by and through him, every memory of his and his Guide consuming him like the swell of the tide. He felt like he was everything and nothing all at once, first himself and then John and then both of them and then neither of them, and it left him dizzy and floating, grounded only by his fingers in the sheets and John's fingers on his thighs and John's cock piercing him, so hot and thick, filling him filling him filling him god so _full_.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, love, can you hear me?" The voice was distant and worried, but it was his Guide's. _His_. Calling tohimforhim. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell forward, John's cock slipping from his as he collapsed to the sheets. But he barely noticed. His Guide was _everywhere_. There was no longer a human called Sherlock Holmes. There was only a shell filled with John Watson.

**.oOo.**

Nothing had ever been harder than trying to concentrate in that moment. So much of Sherlock was filling him, filling him, as their souls reunited and the minds melded together. John was sure the only reason he wasn't entirely overwhelmed was because he'd already had so much experience as a Guide with joining his mind with another's. But as his orgasm faded and his vision cleared, he blinked away the fading vestiges of pleasure and looked up, the sight his Sentinel was making above him enough to make his heart stutter in fear.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, love, can you hear me?" By all indications, Sherlock could not, eyes rolled back in his head, all muscles in his face lax. But his body, his body was far from still. He was writhing like he was in the middle of a seizure. The fact that his head and his arms and legs themselves were still, only his hips to his shoulders moving like a snake, scared the living shit out of the doctor, who had never seen anything like it. Inside his mind, there was only pleasure transmitting from his Sentinel, and John nearly jumped in surprised when Sherlock suddenly slumped forward.

"Sherlock? Shit. Sherlock!" His lover's lack of response, his seizure-like movements, were terrifying to behold, and he could feel his empathy, unguarded by his recent bonding as it was, rising up, seeking to _do_ something, anything, that would quell that panic. His heart was pounding in his chest and in his ears as he laid Sherlock out on the sheets, as gently as he was able, at a complete medical loss as to what to do.

"Sherlock!" he shouted, hands flitting from his shoulders to his waist to his ribs to the pulse of his heart, accelerated, but not unhealthily so, from the underside of his wrist.

"There's nothing to worry about, Captain Watson." He whirled at the voice, an instinct so primal and so hidden that he hadn't known that it existed roared to life and he made sure he was between the newcomer and his bonded. He would always protect his Sentinel at any cost. He frowned and shook his head lightly. No, that wasn't quite right. He would protect _Sherlock Holmes_ at any cost. "He's going to be fine."

It took longer than it should have for his mind to recognise his friend and fellow doctor, Bill Murray, watching him from the doorway. It took longer than that to relax from his defensive pose, though he did reach a hand back to his lover, a steadying palm over his sternum even as the teen continue to writhe. It did comfort the doctor that the writhing seemed to slowly calm as more and more time passed. Cautiously, he shifted his attention from his Sentinel to the Mute in the doorway.

"What did you say?" he finally asked, remembering that the other man had spoke. Oddly, he still hadn't moved from the doorway, and John was realising he didn't want him to.

"I said that he's going to be fine," Murray reiterated. "Your Sentinel, I mean. Sherlock. He's going to be fine." Sherlock's body was finally calming, and the Guide realised the part of his mind that had swarmed into his Sentinel's at the bonding was slowly seeping back to him.

"You know what's wrong with him?" the doctor prompted, frowning. Bill was a good doctor, but it was uncommon for two doctor's with as equal as experience as they had to experience something as different as this from the other.

"It's how Sentinels react to being bonded to their perfect match," the man replied, eyes shifting from John's to trace the movement of his the teen behind him. John made a noise of warning, feeling exceptionally territorial at the moment, and Bill's bright, warm brown eyes snapped back to his. "I saw it once, when I was a volunteer at my local hospital. Panicked Guide brought her Sentinel, and she was acting just like your Sentinel is now. My mentor explained it to me that Sentinels can handle superficial bonds to regular Guides, but a bond to their true Guide is completely overwhelming to them," his fellow doctor explained. "This is the only way they can cope with it."

Sherlock finally seemed to stop moving, becoming so still on the sheets compared to his previous state motion that it made John grab for his wrist. His heart didn't calm until he had his Sentinel's reassuring pulse under his fingertips. Comforted by the steady beat, he let himself think over Bill's words. And really, they made sense. After all, it wasn't that far off from a swoon: being so overwhelmed by the minds and emotions of others around you that you retreat into your own mind for safety.

"Now, I actually came in here to check your stitches, Captain. Sorry to say but... your bonding wasn't exactly the silent kind." John flushed red as his friend's lips twitched with the effort not to smirk. Privacy was something he valued highly, and he wasn't sure if he should be embarrassed or flattered. "And I doubt that you were as still as you should have been for being a healing man," the Mute continued to tease, taking a step forward. Without warning, John was turned and pressed face-first into the mattress before he could blink, the sudden change in position so sudden that it left him dizzy and his shoulder aching. There was a form pressing along his back, arse, and thighs, but it wasn't the dominant position of someone attempting to... well, 'mount' him, for lack of a better term. And Sherlock was no longer laying where he had been. As carefully as he was able, the Guide turned his head and looked over his shoulder.

Sherlock was the one pressed into him, laying the opposite way, but also somewhat crouched above him, on his hands and feet. And he was growling, head turned the direction of where Bill was frozen with one foot forward.

"_**Mine**_," he rumbled darkly, shifting to pull John's legs up onto the bed. Immediately, the soldier turned and curled up, wondering what would happen if he tried to distract his bonded. "_**My Guide**_."

Bill's eyes flickered to John for as long as it took for Sherlock to growl at the unauthorised look. "Well, you've certainly got a possessive one. Congratulations, Cap." Sherlock's head cocked at the words apparently directed at him, but meant for John, which seemed to throw confuse the Sentinel's primal mind.

Slowly, John sat up and got to his knees right behind Sherlock, wary of attracting such quick movements that may turn violent any second. There was no movement from his lanky Sentinel other than to sit back on his haunches, looking like he was ready to spring off the bed and tackle Bill if the Mute moved any closer. Cautiously, the Guide wrapped his arms around his bonded's waist, pressing his chest tight to the too-thin back, wary of the pain that ignited in his shoulder at the press of his wound to Sherlock, keeping back a hiss. But his Sentinel noticed anyway, whirling around again to face John. He knew the smile he tried for was strained as he tried to ignore the pain. Before he knew it though, he was being lain down, much more carefully than he'd last been moved, and then Sherlock was curling up against his right side, somehow compacting his long form into a small ball against his ribs. A bit uncomfortably, considering he was laying on his back, the teen wrapped his waist in two bony arms and nuzzled his neck, soft puffs of breath heating his skin and ruffling his hair.

"Mine," he felt more than heard, murmured against his skin, followed by the long, languid slide of a tongue over his carotid artery that made his breath hitch in his throat..

"Yes, my Sentinel," John placated, raising his right hand as best as he could to run his fingers through fluffy curls. "My silly, brilliant Sentinel. Now, I need my wound looked at, or else I may not be alive much longer to be yours. Okay?" Sherlock didn't say anything. The doctor looked over at his friend and gave a short nod. The Mute took a step forward and, aside from the tightening of arms around his waist and the further burying of a face against his neck, his Sentinel didn't react. Bit by bit, Bill got closer until he was finally able to get a look at John's wound.

John slid his right arm under Sherlock's waist, curling it around as best as he could until he could get a good grip on the teen's waist, anticipating his reaction to the coming medical treatment and his feral Sentinel's reaction to that. Sure enough, right after the bandage was ripped away, competent fingers were poking and prodding, and John went stiff as a board, clenching his jaw together to keep from making a sound. Sherlock coiled like a snake ready to strike against him, growling softly, and the doctor tightened the hand on his lover's hip, forcing him to remain where he was.

"You all right there, Cap?" Bill asked cheerfully as he continued to poke.

"Fuck you," John snapped back, keeping his breathing as steadily as he was able and his hand as tight as he could.

"Well, you tore a few stitches during your bonding. I'm gonna have to sew it back closed," he was informed jovially, the Mute in no way offended by his curse. You heard all sorts of things as a nurse and a doctor from patients in physical pain and visitors in emotional pain; some of the most colourful insults and curses and threats in existence were born in an hospital. If you didn't get used to them rather quickly, you weren't going to last.

"Yeah, yeah. Just... fucking hurry," John demanded. He held as still as he was able as the torn thread was pulled from his skin and the new was prepared. "And since he can't tell me what happened, you tell me."

"Well, honestly, no one's really sure yet. About thirteen hours ago, every Guide in camp swooned," the man started, voice mild and factual in a way only a Mute's could be about the subject as he cleaned the wound. Even the strongest Sentinel went a bit woozy at the thought of a swooned Guide. "About three hours after it started, your entire team was brought in. Lieutenant Haversham informed me that you had been shot in the shoulder, your heart had stopped twice on the way back to camp, and about the same time as you were shot, every Guide on your team swooned simultaneously."

"Shit," John breathed out, his hand on Sherlock going lax as his brain ran fiercely with the new information. It wasn't uncommon for injured Guides to swoon, the shock of the pain they were feeling causing them to lose control of their shields. Worse than that though, if a Guide lost control of their shields, it could cause a psychic backlash of sorts, an explosion, shattering the shields of any other Guide caught in its radius. And the stronger the Guide, the greater the area of effect. John knew he was strong, and if his shields had gone down like that, there was no doubt in his mind that every Guide around him would have immediately known that he was one of them. The only question was, how far did his backlash- "Fuck!"

Caught up in his thoughts, he'd let himself grow lax, forgetting that he was about to get new stitches in. Sherlock growled and tried to lash out, stopped only by John's tight-again grasp on his hipbone. Unfortunately, it jarred the shoulder with the needle and he hissed in pain. His Sentinel stilled at his side, nostrils flaring, and for the first time, the doctor realised how dilated his bonded's pupils were. Slowly, without a word, his lover lowered himself back to his prior position, but his frame was wrought with more tension than it had been before.

"If we're all ready to go?" Bill snarked, not waiting for a reply as he quickly pushed the needle through the skin of John's shoulder. John grit his teeth at the first pulse of pain, tensing and triggering Sherlock to do the same. Both doctors waited with bated breath for the teen to relax. "As I was saying, two hours fixing you in surgery, and then we find out that every Guide within a fifty mile radius of your team swooned at the same." Jesus. Fifty miles. He hadn't realised he was _that_ strong. The largest swoon radius he'd ever heard of before could barely reach outside a football stadium, and he'd managed _fifty miles_. Christ. "We had to call in help from home and they should arrive within the next few hours to help pull everyone out of their own minds."

They fell into silence as Bill began to create tight, clean lines with the thin black thread. He had to move a great deal slower than any hospital would even permit, drawing out the pain, because with every little tug, John couldn't help but clench his jaw, which made Sherlock tense, and then the sewer had to pause until the Sentinel relaxed enough that he could continue without fear of attack.

"Congratulations, by the way," his friend said as he slid another line into place. "By the way he acted, we all thought he was bonded already. Confused the hell out of me when the nurse said he didn't have a Guide on record. Wasn't until I remembered he'd been found in your room that I put it together."

John flushed at the thought of Sherlock curled up on his bed in his absence, waiting for his return, before his curiosity caught up to him. "What do you mean, 'by the way he acted'?" Slowly, apparently lulled by John's draining tension, Sherlock was doing relaxing at his side, half draping himself on his Guide's ribs and stomach as sharp grey eyes kept careful track of the Mute's fingers and the needle and thread they were wielding.

"Well doc, have you ever been around a Sentinel at the moment they lose their Guide?" He had. More than once. Hazard of hospital work, really. Not everyone lived, no matter how much the staff worked to make it so. Even now, years out from the Commonwealth's medical sanctuary, he could sometimes hear the roars of pain in his nightmares. And then he pictured Sherlock making that sound, remembering the way he'd described the sensation: _"hollowed"_. A coldness seeped into his chest at the phantom traces of that sensation, ones he'd come across during their bonding, and at the thought that Sherlock had been through that.

Sherlock's head jerked up, eyeing him curiously, cautiously, and John tugged until he could get his Sentinel's head onto his shoulder, and then he pressed his face to the dark curls. The teen was stiff against him for a long moment before he settled again, this time with one palm pressed flat to the Guide's heart. Both doctor's watched it warily, the needle pausing in its work, both of them wary of a sudden attempt at the attending doctor's healing efforts should they be perceived as painful to Sentinel's precious Guide. After a long few minutes of non-movement, the needle finally resumed its task, nearly three-quarters done.

"Well, your Sentinel made that sound. We found him near-feral, like a rabid dog-no, probably more like a rabid bear-in your room, roaring at the top of his lungs. Took a handful of the really fit types just to keep him still long enough for a sedative to be applied. Christ," he murmured, hands pausing for a moment as his eyes went distant, as if remember what it had taken to get Sherlock to calm down "For fuck's sake, the dosage we had to use. John. He took nearly ten times the dose for someone his height and weight." He suddenly shook his head, as if clearing his thoughts, and his eyes cleared as he resumed.

"Well, you said it yourself," John murmured, the heat of Sherlock's body seeping through the thin hospital gown and making him drowsy when combined with his body's own efforts to shut down the non-essentials to heal the near-fatal wound. And he wouldn't have been surprised if the other doctor had pricked him with a sedative when he hadn't been looking. "He's a possessive one." Only Bill's needle in his skin was keeping him in the land of the conscious, and as soon as it was out, he was asleep before the excess was even cut away.

**.oOo.**

When John awoke again, it was to a delicious heat plastered around his right side like a particularly stingy limpet, and to the feel of another Guide in their room. Despite the fact that his shields were currently a discordant mess, first from the bullet he was sure caused his first ever swoon, and from his recent bonding, he could still tell when there was a Sentinel or a Guide nearby, and something about this one put him on edge. He remained still and silent, as if he'd never woken, waiting for the other person to speak first or leave.

"I know you're awake, Captain Watson," a vaguely familiar voice murmured in the dark. "Or would you prefer 'Guide Watson'?"

He bit his tongue against a habit over two decades old to deny that he was a Guide. "I'm pretty sure you know which I'd prefer, Guide Holmes." There was a rustling of fabric and the squeak of a chair and the other man stepped into the faint light from the machines and the little window in the still-closed room door.

"Yes, I do," the man replied, tapping the tip of his brolly on the ground. After that though, he was entirely too silent and his stare made John uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was practically naked, the man's younger brother _was_ naked, and curled against his side to boot, and his shields were in tatters right now-he wouldn't be able to stand against an attack if his life, if _Sherlock's_ life, depended on it. And he hated that.

The tension in the air kept mounting as the silent stare off was parsed only by Sherlock's quiet puffs of breath against where the Sentinel's nose was pressed to his neck. Finally, John couldn't take the _waiting_ anymore and broke the silence. "Is this the part where you tear me away from my Sentinel, break our bond, and take me back to the Tower for testing so you can match me with whatever Sentinel you think is better for me?"

"Touch him and I'll burn the Tower to the ground." John jumped at the words rumbled against his throat as the arms and leg around him tightened. In a heartbeat, his attention jumped from the Guide at his bedside to the Sentinel wrapped tightly around him.

"Sherlock? How are you feeling?" Without a thought, he went to move his left hand to thread his fingers through tempting, sleep-mussed curls and immediately froze as pain exploded in his shoulder, turning his vision white.

"John?" Gentle fingers fluttered around his wound as he tried to get his body back under control. When his vision cleared again, he found his bonded kneeling at his side, hovering over him with a tense, worried look on his face.

"I'm fine," he rasped, reaching up with his _right_ hand this time to curl around Sherlock's waist. His left shoulder he kept firmly where it was. "It's just a flesh wound." Despite the pain, he cracked a smile at his own joke.

"John, that shot was nearly fatal. It is _not just_ a flesh wound," the teen snapped, glaring down at him. John huffed, trying not to laugh in case it would jar his wound.

"It's a line from a movie, love," he explained, pressing hard on Sherlock's (naked) waist to push him back to the bed. Slowly, his Sentinel relaxed back against him, carefully draping his lanky form over his Guide's waist. "We'll have a movie night sometime and I'll make you watch it." An oddly hopeful look crossed the Sentinel's face and it only made him look even younger as he opened his mouth to reply.

"If we can get back to the topic at hand?" John barely kept himself from jumping, having gotten so caught up in the pain and those grey eyes that he'd completely forgotten about the other Guide.

"Sod off, Mycroft," Sherlock snarled, not looking away from his Guide's face. "You will not take him from me."

"I do not want to take him from you, Sherlock." For the first time, John heard emotion in that calm voice: a touch of exasperation. It reminded him of the apparent age differences between the two and how likely it seemed that his older brother had been the one to raise him more than his parents. "I want to test him."

John shouldn't have been surprised. After all, every newly presented Guide was_always_ tested by a tower Guide. But he hadn't had anyone in his mind since his last lesson with nan. And even then, it had only ever been her because he couldn't trust anyone else with his secret. His body was vibrating with tension, as as Sherlock's where it was pressed against him. He began to shake his head when Mycroft spoke.

"If you do not allow me to test you, I will have no inclination to stop your teammate's and commanding officer's reports from reaching the Tower. You will be caught, sedated, moved, and tested, whether or not you are conscious, whether or not you give your consent. Your bond will likely be broken and you be assigned a Sentinel of the Tower's choosing. You will never see Sherlock again." It wasn't the cold, calm way the other Guide spoke, but rather the picture he painted with his words that made John's insides go dark and cold, that made his newly-inherit need to keep his Sentinel with him at all times rear its feral head, that made him clutch the teen to him as tightly as he could (a gesture Sherlock returned twofold). The thought of their bond being ripped to shreds made him want to be violently ill. Preferably all over that expensive-looking suit. "However, should you allow me to test you, and I find that you are not a danger to those around you, primarily Sherlock, than I shall erase all evidence that leads back to you being the Guide I was sent to find. You will be free to live the life of your choosing. Do we have an agreement?"

There wasn't a choice there. Either have his soul torn in half and his mind break from the process (if it didn't just kill him outright), or be able to keep his Sentinel in his life for as long as the genius would have him. "Okay," he said quickly, Sherlock's head snapping up to peer at him from narrowed, calculating eyes. Carefully, as carefully as it seemed he was able to do so, Sherlock's right hand slid across John's hospital gown-covered stomach to lace the spidery fingers with the stubbier ones of the doctor's left hand together, gripping tonight. "I haven't done this since I was kid though. I don't really remember how to do the letting in," he warned as Mycroft stepped in, raising his fingers to press them to tanned temples. "And I'm still recalibrating so I-"

"It would be more helpful if you were silent," the other man interrupted tersely. "I have Guided many in the same condition you find yourself in now, but it does take concentration."

John bit back a British-automated apology and held himself still. Now that he properly thought about it, he hadn't been able to properly feel his empathy since he woke, a thought that should have shot him through with terror, but for some reason, failed to do just that. Now though, there was a curious sensation sliding through the air around him, slithering like thread through ratty fabric, or more like water through a colander, though he couldn't seem to detect exactly _what_ was being penetrated. But there was really only one answer: the other Guide's empathy was permeating his shields. Well, what was left of them. Slowly, those cautious tendrils probed at his mind and a strange sort of not-pain shot through him.

"Your empathy has hidden itself." The other Guide's voice seemed to come from far away as he resisted the need to clap his hands to his head. Not that he could have freed them from where one was trapped under his bonded and the other was a being held in a deathgrip by the same person. Any other time, hearing that his empathy had buried itself for whatever reason would have worried him, but his Sentinel was here, his presence more comfortable than he'd thought a Sentinel's could ever be for him. The hand holding his was grounding, a comfortable assistance to ensure he didn't fly away. "It emerged for as long as it took to complete the bond before retreating again. Be prepared that my testing will draw it back out."

He couldn't respond. There was something seeping into his brain, a foreign intrusion that made him want to shy away, but there was no way to do so. As it went deeper and deeper, he began to remember the oddest little things, random sound bites and tastes and emotions and sensations and sights and smells. Mycroft was sifting through his memories. And he knew for a fact there were some he had no desire for the other Guide to see, primarily John having sex with his young Sentinel who just so happened to be the man's baby brother. And then it stopped. The doctor cracked one eye, not realising he'd closed them, and found Mycroft frowning, both of his eyes closed.

"It seems your empathy is not so much buried as it is locked away. By yourself, it would appear. I just need..." The other man trailed off, something John didn't think really would happen all that often, and by Sherlock's sudden head raise, he didn't hear it often either. There was an insistent pressure against something in his mind, like a sinus headache, only deeper in his mind. The pressure was relentless, and he could feel something building up against it, two opposing forces challenging one another, neither giving in. Suddenly, something in the air around the ballooned rapidly and it felt like a spike shot through his brain, and without warning, the emotion of everyone in the building swarmed him at once and he blacked out.

**.oOo.**

Simultaneously, his bonded and his brother dropped, John back to the pillows and Mycroft to the floor. Unsurprisingly, his immediate concern was for his Guide.

"John?" He knew he was hovering over the doctor, hands petting the man's face anxiously. Had his Guide swooned again? Had both Guides? "John?"

A sudden, low moan had him sitting back on his heels, fingers digging into his thighs as John's hands raised to his head and he curled onto his left side, almost defensively. "Sherlock, love, I need you to calm down for me, okay?" came the man's voice, muffled from the way his forearms were nearly pressed to his face. "My shields are wrecked right now and it's going to take time to get them back in place. Shit, I haven't been this exposed since I was a kid."

Sherlock shifted anxiously for a moment before he carefully crawled up to lay on the pillow above John's head, curling his legs so his thighs pressed in a smooth line down the tanned back. Carefully, he drew the Guide's hands from his head and then his head to Sherlock's stomach. He began to draw his fingers through the short, golden strands, massaging in small, smooth circles. Slowly, John began to relax against him, making an occasional hum when the Sentinel's fingers hit a particularly pleasant spot. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked, voice a low murmur, not letting his fingers pause in their motions.

"Just, please don't stop." His Guide's voice came out slurred, and for a moment, Sherlock let his concentration move to the doctor's heart, concentrating on the steady, calm beat. If he reacted the same way he had when the detective had been examining his back before the soldier went into the field, then he would be asleep in under three minutes. His eyes flickered to where his brother was splayed on the floor, pose undignified and he felt a flutter of something in his chest.

"He'll be okay," John said suddenly, surprising him into momentarily pausing. His Guide made a discontented sound and he immediately resumed, feeling the way the other man's speech flexed his temples. "Possibly the only pro to this no-shields thing, being able to finally know what you're feeling. But he didn't guard himself properly before he tried freeing my empathy. He underestimated me." There was a note of pride in John's voice that had Sherlock curling forward, pressing a kiss to his Guide's hair. Before he could move away, the soldier's head dropped back, bright blue eyes catching and holding his. There was a long, silent moment, and then Sherlock was curling in again, pressing his lips to his bonded's upside down. This kiss was slow and sweet, and it didn't take long to lose himself to the gentle twist of John's tongue around his, completely forgetting about Mycroft, swooned on the floor at their bedside.

**THREE MONTHS LATER**

_"Take cover! Enemy fire!" There was sand spraying up everywhere, making the goggles they wore an absolute necessity. There were already men shouting for medical help and John was moving between them as fast as he could, his heart pounding in his chest and blood thrumming through his veins. He was kneeling over one of his underlings, trying to hastily sew the gaping wound in his stomach shrapnel had caused, when something hot stabbed through his shoulder and blew out the other side._

_It hurt. Oh _God_, it hurt, more than anything ever had, but for a moment, all John could do was sway in place as the sounds of battle raged around him. Quite suddenly, he no longer had any control over his shields and the strength of the empathy they helped contain warped the weakened container in a violent throb. He could feel something like heat bubbles in plastic forming all over the psychic shell that kept his mind safe. He could only watch in horror as they swelled and suddenly popped, and everything that everyone around him was thinking or feeling rushed him at once._

_He may as well have been shot in the head for all the control he had over the sudden influx of feelings and desires. They swept over him, shoved him back down when he frantically kicked for freedom, filled his mouth and nose until he was choking on it, drowning in it._

_Sherlock. Sherlock, help! he tried to shout, needing his Sentinel, needing the one who was born just for him. The teenager appeared before him, tall and imperious in his long coat with its high collar. His left arm wouldn't follow his command, his shoulder unusually numb, yet echoing a pain he didn't understand, and his left hand dripping some liquid from his fingers, so he raised his right arm, fingers reaching, straining. Sherlock! he tried to cry again, but there was no sound. There was absolutely no sound anywhere, not even a ringing in his ears; just a vast, dark void. The Sentinel looked down his nose at him, then turned and walked away._

_His insides felt like they had been suddenly ripped from him at the sight. He was frozen, unable to do anything but watch his bonded abandon him, leaving him an empty shell. The pain in his shoulder renewed and blossomed, spreading from between his collarbone and clavicle down to his fingers and across his chest, an infection consuming him to his toes as, in front of him, his Sentinel continued to walk away, fading into the darkness. Sherlock!_

"Sherlock!" John shot upright, arm reaching out and chest heaving as his lungs strained for breath. The world was white around the edges and his empathy was a roiling mass of energy around him, unable to determine where the danger was that he was rallying against.

There was a clattering sound to his right and, body still tense and flooded with adrenaline, he twisted defensive to the side. Sherlock practically flew into room, cheeks flushed and breath coming in steady pants, radiating a chill to explain his gloves and scarf.

"I heard you from the park what happened what's wrong?" The normally eloquent teen's words came out in a frantic rush and his body twitched like he wanted to throw himself at John, but his eyes were darting around the room like he expected an intruder to attack from the wardrobe.

Reality suddenly rushed in, flooding him with the sounds and smells of Baker Street filtering in from the cracked window, his eyes recognising the old wallpaper and the periodic table poster. Slowly, his empathy calmed and the soreness from his still-red, recently-healed wound made itself known. A nightmare. It had just been a nightmare. He wasn't back in Afghanistan and his Sentinel hadn't left him. He let out a low groan and raised his knees under the duvet, pressing his forehead to them even as he pressed his fingers to his closed eyes.

"John?" Sherlock asked, taking a hesitant step into the room. John could picture it: the tense frame and the slow, cautious forward steps; the furtive darts of grey eyes and the unsure expression as he attempted to determine the danger.

"Nightmare," he mumbled into his thighs, remembering the cause for it. The way he'd been left alone at Lauriston Gardens, forced to make his way home alone, his body tense with the knowledge of his Sentinel missing from his side. Long fingers encased in cold leather pressed to the bare skin at the base of his spine, slowly sliding up to cup the back of his neck. The pressure combined with the chill against his nightmare-fevered flesh was comforting and grounding, and something he desperately wished he could relax into, but couldn't until the teen _understood_.

"You left me." The thumb that had just begun massaging his neck froze, right before it jerked away. He debated for a moment whether it would be detrimental to Sherlock's understanding if he was allowed to continue comforting John. Just as Sherlock took a step back, he looped his arms around his ankles and dropped his chin down, exposing the back of his neck as he made a questioning noise. This time, the curl of leather-covered fingers around his nape was tentative rather than confident, though it was welcome all the same.

"I know you don't find this kind of stuff important at all, transport and all that, but I need you to keep this somewhere in that mind palace of yours." His voice was muffled against his thighs, but his Sentinel wouldn't have any problem hearing or understanding him.

Slowly, the teen's thumb began to slowly massage his neck again and John gave a light hum in encouragement. "All right..." his bonded said slowly, warily.

"We're bonded now, Sherlock. That's pretty obvious, but I don't think you understand what that really means," he began again. He searched his mind for a moment, trying to figure out exactly how to phrase this in a way his emotionally stunted Sentinel could understand. "I'm your Guide. I have to stay with you in case anything happens."

"I have never Zo-"

"It's not that, Sherlock," John interrupted quickly. "Well, yeah, that's part of it. Being as connected as we are may make you more susceptible, I'm not sure. Perfect matches don't really come across each other all that often, and if I have learned much else about them, I've forgotten it because I never thought I'd be lucky enough to meet you," he admitted with a minimal shrug of his shoulders, Sherlock's hand twitching at his words. "But I need you to stay with me more for me than for you. Guides have always felt bonds more strongly than Sentinels, because of our empathy. And not being close to you leaves a... a hole in a way." He heaved a sudden, frustrated sigh, knowing he wasn't explaining it properly, and Sherlock's hand twitched like it was going to jerk away before it settled again.

"Okay, imagine being asleep. You're comfortable, you're wrapped in your duvet, and you're warm. Suddenly, someone yanks the duvet away. Now there's an absence of warmth and comfort, and you're cold and feel just uncomfortably vulnerable. You know you're safe in your own bed, but you feel it anyway." He gave another gusty sigh. "Is this making any sense?" He'd never had to explain this kind of thing before, and honestly, he'd forgotten most of the stuff he'd learned in school about it because, like everyone else, he never expected to meet his perfect match.

"I felt the same way." Sherlock's quiet words startled him, and his head jerked up and wrenched around, trying to get a look at his Sentinel's expression, but the stubborn teen stepped into his blind spot. "I am not used to having a... partner. Of any kind. I rushed off without thinking about you. I have no excuse for it. When I realised your absence, it was because I was experiencing a sensation similar to when you..." The Sentinel's words trailed off, but his gloved hand slid down along John's shoulder, his fingertips dipping down from their trail to trace the raised spiderweb-lines of his scar, his unwelcome souvenir from the bullet that had stopped his heart three times, and had nearly stopped his perfect match's as well. "It was reduced by approximately seventy-three percent, but it was present nonetheless. I found that it was something I did not wish to be repeated. Additionally, though you are from the brightest of minds, I found myself missing the illuminating input you, at times, can provide." The unsteady, halting words would have seemed cruel coming from anyone else, but from his bonded, it was as close to 'I love you' as the teen had gotten. Probably as close to it as he would ever get. "I cannot guarantee that that will never happen again, but I will endeavour to always make sure of your presence at my side."

"That's relief," John said, only partially sarcastically, flopping suddenly backwards onto the pillows. He stared up at the teen standing awkwardly at the bedside, discomfort broadcasted across his face, and couldn't help but smile when his Sentinel began to fidget. "I don't want to change who you are or what you do, Sherlock," he confessed, reaching a hand out to lace his fingers with the limp ones dangling at his bonded's side. He'd already forgiven his Sentinel for his minor transgression, knowing and understanding what the detective could be like when he caught the scent of a fresh clue, but Sherlock didn't need to know that. "I love both of those things. All I want is to be a part of them. Hopefully _that_ is acceptable?"

"Yes, that is acceptable," the Sentinel replied stiffly. John only managed to hold in his laughter for a few heartbeats before it tumbled from his mouth. Sherlock tried tugging his hand free and John tugged ever harder, forcing his bonded down to engage in a kiss. Even after he'd had his fill and pulled back, the teen lingered in the air between them, hunched over him in what looked like a very uncomfortable way with his lips parted and his eyes closed. The Guide could only watch with his bottom lip between his teeth as grey eyes fluttered open, pupils dilated and breath coming out in small pants, and his cock twitched under the sheets at the sight and sound. Even though they'd shared kisses and a bed, had been sleeping together without clothes between them, they hadn't had sex since he'd woken up in his hospital room with his Sentinel sheathing his condomed cock with his hot, tight hole.

Always conscious of his Sentinel's previously-virgin status and his age, John was afraid to even ask for sex because he didn't want to push Sherlock into something he didn't want to do or wasn't even interested in. Even looking back at their first (and only) time together, it seemed like his Sentinel had only had sex with him so they could bond. But there were times like now, when his control became strained because the teen looked like one normally would right before initiating something more intimate, but he never did, and John had to hold himself back from being the one push. Because he really did love his Sentinel and he didn't want to pressure him into anything he didn't want. And if that included sex, then he was happy to make do with his hand if it meant keeping his bonded at his side. But right now, with grey eyes looking at him like _that_, and with the nightmare fresh on his mind and the lingering pain in his shoulder, he needed his bonded enough to ask.

"Would you like to fuck?" he breathed, then immediately flinched at the crassness of his question. "I'm sorry, I mean-"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted, just as breathlessly, fingers tightening around his. John's eyes went wide at the quickness, the eagerness, of his Sentinel's response; perhaps the teen had been hiding his attraction as well as he had?

"Hand me the lube," he instructed, laying back, watching his bonded scramble to do as he was bid. The teen began to tug at his gloves and, remembering the way the leather had felt against his skin, he practically growled, "Leave them on." Sherlock startled and blinked at him, and then slowly pulled them back into place, a heated look in his eyes.

"Yes, captain," he purred, pulling the bottle out of his side drawer. Then his eyes flickered over something else in the drawer, over to John, and back. It wasn't a huge leap to guess what it was.

"Are you clean?" he asked voice soft. Sherlock didn't look at him for a long few seconds and then, he didn't turn his head, but grey eyes slid towards him, examining him sideways.

"Yes. Mycroft made sure of it after my last time," he explained. John just nodded and shifted to make himself more comfortable.

"I am, as well," he informed pointedly. Now Sherlock did look at him.

"I know," he replied softly, and closed the drawer, leaving the condoms inside. John licked his lips and held out his hand for the plastic bottle. He was already uncapping it and pouring lube into his hand as his bonded, still dressed as he was, started climbing onto the bed. Then the soldier spread his legs and pressed one of his slicked fingers into himself and Sherlock stopped moving, mouth dropping open and eyes going wide. John smiled and pulled his finger nearly all the way out before pressing it slowly back. Grey eyes watched avidly as he slowly began to fuck himself with his finger.

"Sherlock," he breathed as he pressed in a second finger. Dazed eyes darted to his and he realised they were both panting in sync with one another. Sherlock's knees were still spread, and John extended one foot to rub at the _very_ prominent erection the other's trousers were hiding.

"J-John," his Sentinel stuttered out, eyes fluttering closed.

"Are you just going to watch or-?" He had a gloved finger pressing insistently in alongside his two before he could finish his tease and he moaned at the decadent stretching of his muscles to accommodate the extra girth. Gentle, but eager, fingers pulled his hand away and for a second he felt a little too empty. Then two more gloved fingers were filling the empty space and he moaned again, hips undulating and breath catching when those clever, lithe fingers brushed against his prostate. He had to grip the sheets when they did it again, more firmly this time.

There was a pleasant buzzing in his veins, arousal and pleasure lighting him on fire from the inside. The only thing he could do was ride the waves and moan, "Oh, god. Sherlock. Oh, _god_." Too soon, his orgasm was rising, his testicles tightening in expectation of his impending release, and he had to hurriedly gasp a, "Stop!" as he put a firm grip around the base of his cock. Sherlock did so immediately, shooting him a worried glance before he took in John's assuredly-dazed expression and the slow slide of his tongue across his lips. His Sentinel smirked as he pulled his fingers slowly from him, only smirking harder at his Guide's groan of disapproval at the action as he sat back on his knees to undo the button and zip of his perfectly-tailored trousers.

The ex-soldier's mouth went dry at the sight of his bonded's lovely, pale, slender cock as it was pulled free of the teen's pants, and he let out a breathy moan. It was, honestly, beautiful, a patch of dark curls at the base and contrasting beautifully against the dark trousers. John propped himself up on his elbows and beckoned with a curl of his fingers. His bonded shuffled forward, cock bobbing obscenely, and gloved hands, one slightly damp from fingering him open, wrapped around his hips to pull his arse up into the teen's lap. Before he could beg Sherlock not to make him wait, he was being filled with one smooth thrust and he threw his head back, crying his Sentinel's name.

**.oOo.**

"Sherlock!" John's cry when he thrust in was music to his ears. He wanted to record it, put it as his Guide's ringtone, listen to it on repeat. And the _feel_ of him... The tightness, the heat, even the wetness from the lube. And his smell, the musk of his sex and the precome leaking from his cock. The sight of his soldier's head thrown back, corded neck muscles emphasised by the angle. The- "Please move!" The new cry had him blinking himself back to what he was supposed to be doing. He shook his head lightly and dove in for a kiss just as he pulled his hips back and thrust back in.

He'd kissed his Guide plenty before, but somehow, with the sounds of the pleasure his Sentinel was causing him falling from the Guide's tongue, John's mouth tasted better than it ever had and he couldn't bring himself to stop. The sensation of John's tongue around his and his hole around Sherlock's cock was making him feel dazed, overwhelmed. Even the other times that every one of his senses had been concentrated on John, he'd still been aware of the other humans outside their room. But not now. The life outside of 221B didn't exist; there were no cars or people, not even Mrs Hudson. There was only the taste of John's tongue, the scent of his precome, the sound of his racing pulse and his gasps, the sensation of him clenched tight around his Sentinel, the sight of his dazed blue eyes and the blush spreading across his skin.

"Jesus, Sherlock, harder, please," the doctor managed to gasp between kisses. He didn't want to withdraw his chest from John's, but he wanted to please his bonded so he sat back on his heels and began to fuck into that passage in earnest. Muscles spasmed tight around him as the ex-soldier nearly levitated off the bed, hands shooting backwards to claw desperately at the headboard, and the genius knew he'd found the man's prostate.

After that first strike, Sherlock was nothing if not tenacious, and he ensured every single one of his thrusts into his bonded struck the nerve centre. For a second, his orgasm threatened as he remembered how it felt when John had done the same to him, the sensation like lightning through his veins. He bit his lip and began reciting the periodic table in his mind, backwards, to slow his orgasm. He didn't want to come without John, but more than that, he wanted to feel what it was like to have his bonded orgasm around him. Without warning, he gripped tighter, yanked John a little higher, and began fucking into his soldier hard and fast.

There was an oddly discordant feeling in the air and he cautiously let down his shields, more than surprised to find his Guide's empathy a chaotic swarm around him. Dropping his shields as much as he dared, he threw out what he could of his own pitiful psychic connection, grabbing onto the wildly fluctuating power, and carefully drew it into his own mind. It was either the worst or the best idea he'd ever had.

He didn't remember this happening the first time they'd had sex, or else he would have pressed for a repeat much sooner rather than attempting to respect what he'd believed were John's wishes. But as his Guide's mind sunk into his, his empathy calming the deeper it filtrated, the more he could feel the pleasure he was causing to his doctor. It wasn't location specific, he couldn't feel the violent-thrusts from his hips and cock, but the pleasure in his veins spiked without warning, and his orgasm took him by surprise. As did John's judging by the cry he let out.

He might as well have released lighting for the shocking level of pleasure he felt throughout his body. He strained to keep his eyes fixed on John's as muscles convulsed around him, as he filled his bonded with his come and his bonded's own fell to the doctor's stomach untouched. His mind was filled with only his Guide, every single one of his senses overloaded on nothing but John John JohnJohn_John**John**_.

He never wanted any of it to end.

**.oOo.**

"Sherlock? Sherlock? Did you seriously pass out again? No, you- You git. 'I have never Zoned' my arse."

FIN

* * *

**This punk fought me almost all month and, to top it off, I wrote a fair chunk of it on mobile because I didn't have a computer. ;-; Halp. My muses are getting out of control. My one-shots aren't supposed to be over 7k. What's happening to me. Ignoring that madness, hopefully you liked it (especially you, johnlockscocks), please remember to leave a review letting me know what you thought, and always feel free to drop by my author tumblr.**

**Also, may be facing homelessness and stuff and so I'm just sending out a 'help'. Any little bit helps and I've added a 'Donate' button to both author and daily tumblr pages. If you donate, please feel free to drop a prompt in my askbox (themadkatter13-fanfiction) and I'd be happy to fill it (please see my 'no's on my ao3 profile before sending tho; thank you).**


End file.
