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: GuideGuideGuideGUIDE!

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 wasalways 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 JohnJohnJohnJohn.

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).