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 JohnJohnJohn.

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).

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