MI6 didn’t waste any time with starting to research the information given to them. Mallory, thankfully, had remembered hearing the term in the American news, setting his computer experts to dig for anything connected to it.
Meanwhile, Bond prowled the medical area playing both the part of concerned friend and bodyguard. Stiles had come back from surgery and was still sedated, so he was unable to answer any questions yet. Bond wanted answers not only to what was going on with Q, but why M was so upset by the tattoo, why he felt they were in trouble.
Q was doing his best to not go out of his mind, trying to keep to the exercise the crazy man had given him, even if it did sound ridiculous. Everything was itchy, though, and loud. It wasn’t this bad before, so why is it so bad now when he’s finally alone? He just wanted to crawl out of his skin, but at the same time he wanted to go find the bloody American who started all this. And the smells! Why in the world would the infirmary smell so revolting?
Unbeknownst to Q, he was making small noises full of suffering. It took a while, but the noises became more noticeable, gaining Bond’s attention, and in turn, Stiles’. The guide jumped out of bed, not caring about any attached wires or people in his way, and reached out for his sentinel.
“All of you idiots needs to stop touching him, stop trying to give him anything.” The doctors and nurses all opened their mouths to refute the commands from the stranger in front of them, but he just kept going. “I need towels, 100% cotton, and a bowl of warm water and completely natural chemical-free soap. He is beyond hypersensitive right now to anything with chemicals, which means the clothes, sheets, and blankets all have to be switched out before he gains a rash all over his body. Make sure they are scent-free.” Stiles had already started stripping Q while speaking, but paused when he realized no one else was moving. “Well? What are you all waiting for?”
“Do it,” was all Bond had to say before the staff began moving again. “Now, explain what you can about what he needs so next time you fall unconscious, we know what to do.”
There was an implied “I’ll shoot you if you don’t answer me fully right the fuck now” in there somewhere, Stiles was sure. “Okay, first of all, everything I just said about his immediate circumstances needs to be translated to every day life. His home will have to be gone through, sheets and towels changed, meds, creams, soaps, et cetera. Got it?”
“Assume I get everything and just keep talking.”
“Aren’t you the epitome of sunshine and roses.”
“Right. I guess I’ll have to work with him on his senses to get him into habit of keeping them at level –“
“Oh, right, I skipped that part. From my research and from what Dr. Sandburg did –“
“Uh, the guy who wrote his thesis on this and then recanted because it obviously would have put his Sentinel in danger? You don’t remember this from a couple years ago, guy from Washington — the state, not D.C. — had a whole press conference on it because it was what his dissertation was on and someone published it without asking him?”
Bond just looked confused, but obviously wanted Stiles to continue.
“Anyway, he wrote a whole thing on it and I found a copy of it online, and then there’s my own studies with Shamans and other Emissaries. We’ll get to that later,” he waved the topic away before Bond could speak. “For every Sentinel there is a Guide, someone who helps level them off, grounds them. It can’t be just anyone, there’s a specific guide for every Sentinel apparently. I have no idea if it’s all mystically done or genetically done, but whatever the fuck it is, it seems that I am Glasses’ guide.”
“Yeah, that’s not a name, it’s a designation. Until he gives me something a little more name-like, and less Star Trek, I’ll stick with Glasses.”