"I was wondering, I mean, we’ve known each other for a while now, and I’d like to think we’re…friends" 

He knew what kind of friend she wanted to be and he wasn't interested but it never stopped her from trying.

"You don't want to be my friend, Irene. No-one does."

Irene reaches out and lays a hand on London's arm. Her touch is warm, even in the already hot room.

"But I do."

London's response is put on hold as a voice screams out for him to help. Of course it does. It never seemed to stop.

He moves fast, faster than anyone could imagine. London jumps the bar in one fluid movement and zigzags between the drunk patrons, on his way towards the stage.

London reaches the man with the bottle first, coming up behind him. He grabs his arm and lock it painfully behind his back. He gives a shout as suddenly nerveless fingers drop the improvised weapon. The man with the switchblade, intent on making bad choices tonight, sees his opening and moves forward to stab the restrained man in the gut. London quickly shoves the first man he was holding into a nearby table. He stumbles into it, then rebounds onto the floor, where he lies still. Good enough.

The second man, evidently just in the mood to stab somebody, makes a clumsy lunge at London. He sidesteps, then grab his right arm as he stumbles past, yanking it up and out. A grim smile of satisfaction crosses London's lips as he hears the pop of the limb dislocating from its socket. London let go of his arm and he immediately dropped to the ground, wailing and thrashing.

London then headed back towards the bar, sparing a glance at the owner of the bar who gives him an approving nod before heading into the back rooms.

Irene's still standing where London left her. As he returned to his spot by the bar, Irene looked at him in awe.

"That was really impressive, the way you handled that. It’s actually why I wanted to talk to you tonight. I’ve got this…friend and well, I think she may be in trouble."

Irene takes another sip of her water, then continues.

"We came here right about the same time, bumped into each other at the train station…I mean literally bumped into each other!" 

She laughed but London knew different. She was nervous. Worried.

"Well, we started talking, and found out we had a lot of common. Both from little towns out in the sticks, neither one of us knew a soul in the city, and we both came here to break into showbiz. We got an apartment together, figured with two of us we could make the rent easier. You know how it is."

London nodded. He knew how it is. However he didn't have the luxury of a roommate to make things somewhat easier. Who would want to share a place with a freak?

"I wanted to be a famous singer."

Of course she did. They all wanted that.

"Anyway. I got this job at the Va, so I started working nights. Nikki that’s my friend, Nikki Benson. Well Nikki had her heart set on being a big movie star. Started going to a lot of, you know, casting calls, trying out for little parts here and there…"

She trails off. You know what happens at a lot of those “casting calls”, and by the look on her face, poor innocent Irene probably knows now as well.

"Well, we didn’t see each other much the past few weeks, what with our different schedules and all. Sometimes though, I’d come home from work and hear her in her bedroom, crying. I’d ask her what was wrong, but she’d always play it off, tell me it was nothing, or that she was just a little homesick". 

Irene's frowning now, caught in the memory. London nodded at her to continue.

"One night, about a week ago, I came home from work and Nikki’s sitting on the couch in the dark, crying. When I turned on the light, I could see her dress was torn, and she had a…"

Irene pauses, wincing at the memory.

"A huge bruise on her face. I asked her what happened, but she just stared ahead, not looking at me, and said ‘This city happened to me’. Then she got up, went into her room and closed the door".

Irene takes a breath and lets it out slowly. Tears are beginning to form in the corner of her eyes.

"That was the last time I saw her, London. It’s been six days and she hasn’t come home, hasn’t called, I…I don’t know what to do."

The tears come, rolling down her pale cheeks.

London found himself torn. Irene was Irene. She spent so much time trying to get into London's pants and if she wasn't doing that, she was dragging him into insane situations, just like she was now. This situation has dark and dirty written all over it, and London had spent the last three years running as far away from the darkness as he could.

Irene looks up, hopeful.

“I just figured, well… It’s just that you know how to take care of yourself. You’re the smartest, toughest, strongest person I know. Maybe you could, you know, do your thing?

London still doubted Irene's judgment of his character, but he couldn't deny the thrill, the adrenaline rush she often brought with her requests.

"Have you called the cops?"

Irene nodded. A look of frustration upon her face.

"I went down to the station after she didn’t come home the next night. The desk sergeant told me people just disappear all the time, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. He said she probably got fed up with city life and went back home." I know Nikki wouldn’t just leave like that, without saying a word. She didn’t even take any of her clothes everything’s still there, in the apartment."

London nodded. He knew he shouldn't help her, nothing good rarely came of it, if he was a better man he would walk away and let the cops deal with it. However he wasn't a better man and the cops were an insult to London's intelligence. The Consulting Criminal was the hope for the hopeless. The light in the darkness. Criminals and cops worst nightmare.

"Alright. I'll help you. Again. But so help me, Irene, if this backfires in any way, know that I won't hesitate to drag you down with me. Understood?"

Irene let out a squeal of excitement and threw her arms around London's neck in a death grip. Repeatedly muttering 'Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!' to him.

London knew where to begin.

The Inspector came sniffing around the bar about a year ago, trying to track down some scumbag child killer. He was never in the bar, as far as London knew, but when London offered to help despite not knowing exactly what he was getting himself into, the Inspector, having no other choice by that point in time, jumped at the offer.

They caught the bastard because of his help. Heard he mysteriously beat himself to a pulp before hanging himself in his cell. Funny how he managed that with two broken legs.

London pushed out the door of his apartment and walked into the brisk morning. It’s still bitterly cold, but the wind seems to have died down and the sun shines bright overhead in a nearly cloudless sky.

Turning west, London headed to the police station. It’s been a few months since he last saw the Inspector, but they parted on amicable terms. The day after his team broke down the door of the address London was able to provide, he called London up and asked him out for drinks, to celebrate.

The precinct building is an ugly faux Gothic monstrosity of dirty limestone, complete with gargoyles. It looms over the neighboring buildings, radiating an aura of age and menace that seems to engulf the surrounding block.

London walked up the well-worn steps to the main lobby, crossing the dirty tile floor to approach the duty sergeant’s desk. He’s an older guy, his hair matching his uniform, gray with black accents, overweight, like he’s been riding a desk too long. London didn't recognize him, but then he didn't exactly make a habit of hanging around police stations if he could help it. The name tag pinned above the shining silver badge identifies him as "Greyson". He glances up at London, scowling, as he approached.

"If you want to file a complaint, fill out a form and take a seat."

He says in a bored voice, indicating a loose stack of papers near his right hand. Having discharged his duty, he turns his attention back to his own form lying in front of him.

"I’m here to see the Inspector."

He looks up again, his eyebrow cocked in suspicion. He gives London a visual pat down, then evidently satisfied indicates with a nod of his head the staircase to his left.

"Second floor." 

He says, turning back to his paperwork, effectively dismissing London.

London remember the office as being the third one down, reaching the door bearing the Inspectors name, he rapped with his knuckles on the frosted glass window and waited. He didn't have to wait long.

"Come." 

The reply sounds from inside. London opens the door to find Inspector Cruz seated at a desk piled high with stacks of paper and overflowing folders.

He looks up as London enters, a small smile crossing his lips while his eyebrows cock in curiosity.

"London Holmes" 

He says, drawing out the syllables of his name. A habit of his that never ceased to annoy London. 

"I didn’t expect to see you again. What can I do for you?"

Hopefully something. The Inspector owed him. A lot.

London casts a questioning glance at the wooden chair in front of the desk. With a nod and outstretched hand, he offers him the seat.

"I’m cashing in favor."

The Inspector is curious, but waits for London to explain.

"Someone I know, her roommate’s gone missing, about a week now. I’m trying to get a lead on what might have happened to her."

London pulls out the photo of Nikki that Irene had given him and he passes it across the desk. Cruz takes a glance at it.

"Pretty".

London nods. 

"Her name’s Nikki Benson. She’s been trying to break into movies, making the casting call circuit. Night before she disappeared, somebody roughed her up pretty good."

The Inspector watches London, waiting for him to continue.

"I was also informed that Nikki's friend, Irene, came down to the station after Nikki didn’t come home the next night. Your so called desk sergeant at the time, told her people just disappear all the time, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. He said she probably got fed up with city life and went back home." Irene said different and I'm inclined to believe her over the moron's you have around here."

The Inspector leans back in his chair.

"London. She's a grown woman. Don't waste your time. What makes you think that..."

Suddenly the Inspector was interrupted by London.

"Mind if I use your phone?"

Cruz looking somewhat confused by London's odd request, slides aside a stack of paperwork, revealing his phone. London reaches over and dials Irene's number and waited for a connection, but it just rings. After ten rings, he placed the receiver back in its cradle in defeat.

"Everything alright?"

Suddenly it wasn't and London knew it but he wasn't going to tell Cruz that.

"Everything is fine. I'm sorry for wasting your time. I'll be on my way now."

Without even giving the Inspector a chance to respond, London was up and out of his office. He was nearly outside when a voice stopped him.

"Well, well, well...if it isn't the freak. Sticking his nose where it isn't wanted. Again."

London didn't have to turn around to know who it was. Officer Donovan. Of course he was here. He was rapidly becoming a thorn in London's side. He took a moment to gather his composure, it would do him no favors if he attacked an officer in a police station, as much as he wanted to.

"As much as I would enjoy staying here and deducing you to tears, once again, I'm afraid unlike you, I actually have things to do. However if you are still here upon my return, please, come find me."

And with that said, London continued on his way out of the station, Officer Donovan yelling at him the entire way. Once outside he turned left and headed towards Irene's apartment.

Irene's place is a tidy three-story brick building a few blocks north of London's own place. It’s now early evening, but the cold is apparently keeping people inside tonight. The street is quiet and empty. Perfect.

London moved up the shoveled walk, snow covering the lawn on either side. He pushed through the outer door into the foyer, noting a row of mailboxes along the wall to his left. He scanned them all until his eyes find one labeled "I. Lara / N. Benson". Apartment 2A.
With the address in mind, London climbs the steps, the occasional creak shattering the utter quiet of the building. No sound comes from any of the apartments around. It’s like the world is holding its breath, waiting for…something.

Apartment 2A lies to London's left. He steps closer to the door, and notice it’s slightly ajar. Something is not right. With a stealthy stride he slips into the apartment, easing the door closed behind him.

London finds himself in a living room, a small kitchen to the right and a short hall that must lead to the bedrooms ahead of him. The room is dark, but his enhanced vision lets him see that the place is a wreck, furniture overturned, lamps and shelves knocked over, the accumulated clutter of a life strewn across the floor.

Shit.

London moves towards the back of the apartment, nerves tingling. One bedroom stands in front of him, another to the right. Both doors stand wide open, but it’s the one in front of him that catches his attention.

It looks like the rest of the tossed apartment, with one glaring exception...

Nikki.

She lies on the bed, not moving, wearing nothing but a white satin slip stained with blood. Her flesh is bruised and cut, and her hands are bound tightly in front of her with a length of rope.

Her throat has been slit from ear to ear, the blood fanning out and soaking into the mattress. Her blood-matted golden hair spreads out like a halo around her head, blue eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling.

A cold rage, followed by a fleeting moment of fear settles over London as he stood staring at her. 

Where was Irene?

Tearing his eyes away, London looked around the bedroom. It’s been thoroughly trashed, the mattress slashed open, clothes tossed into piles. Someone was looking for something.

London turned to leave the room, when something caught his eye. Anyone else would have missed it in the clutter, but London had the curse of seeing even when there was nothing to see. He leaned down on one knee to pick it up.

It’s a matchbook, black with white lettering on the front advertising something called Speedy's. There is a oily residue on the matchbook and a faint trace of a fingerprint, possibly a thumb on the right hand. There's also a smell not just on the matchbook but around the entire room.

As London tried to analyze the data he had found, the apartment's front door violently bursts open. Another moment passed and four officers flood into the apartment, into Nikki's bedroom, pointing their weapons at him.

Well, this just keeps getting better.

There’s no way that even he could talk his way out of this, but London also didn't want to get into a brawl with the officers. He was cornered and if he didn't act quick, he would be either be handcuffed and hauled away or shot to pieces right then and there.

Fight or flight, Holmes, fight or flight.

He chose flight before the officers in the room could react.

This was going to hurt. However it was still better than be shredded by bullets. Been there done that. Not a fan.

Taking a few steps back towards the window, London suddenly hurled himself backwards, through the wooden window frame, shattering the glass. Glass shards raining down around him as he fell through open air, the winter cold hitting his face like a fist.

With a loud, jarring thump, that signaled his arrival on the cold hard ground, a split second was taken to steady his breathing before he was up and off running, disappearing into the night as the shouts from the apartment faded behind him.

London kept moving until he was a dozen blocks away from the apartment. Ducking into an alley between two derelict buildings, he moved deep into the shadows.

He pushed his hand into his coat pocket and felt the cold metal of the police issue revolver he had from a previous visit to the police station. London was already in trouble, so carrying around a stolen weapon ranked pretty low on the care factor scale, comparatively speaking.

Now that the adrenaline rush is wearing off, London felt the bitter cold begin to seep into his bruised and aching bones. He needed to find someplace to hide out, somewhere out of the damn cold. Someplace to think this through, figure out what the hell he had actually landed in the middle of.

"Dammit, Irene. What have you dragged me into?"

Several blocks from London's apartment a police car crawls down the street, forcing him to slide into the deep shadow of a recessed doorway as they proceed up the block, oblivious. As usual. It really was mind numbing how the majority of the police force got their jobs, not just here but worldwide.

Navigating the back alleys as much as possible, London reached his apartment block. Carefully climb the creaking stairs, remembering when he crossed them last, just a couple of hours ago. It feels like a lifetime has passed since then, his entire world turned upside down by Irene's request, the discovery of Nikki's body and now the uncertainty of Irene's whereabouts.

Placing a cold hand into his trouser pocket in search of his key-ring, only to come up empty. Dammit. A rare lapse of judgement. A flaw in the data. They must have fallen out when he was dealing with the cops at Irene's apartment. London quickly searched his Mind Palace, accessing the required area, trying to remember if anything identifiable was on the key-ring… No, just three anonymous keys, no names or labels. Of course, that still leaves the issue of the locked door in front of him. Not for much longer, though.

London pulled out a smooth leather case out of his coat’s inner pocket and flipped it open, revealing a dozen slim metal rods. Despite fingers already numb and stiff with cold, he massaged the tumblers into falling open in just under twenty seconds. Not his best time by any means, but not bad, under the circumstances. He closed the door behind him, kicking free the chunks of snow and ice that still cling to his shoes. As he moved to the center of the apartment, his eyes were drawn to the bookshelf in the corner or more to the point what was in front of it.

"I told you not to bother. Told you not to waste your time. You should've stayed away. Now there is an open warrant for your arrest, London. Suspicion of murder among other things."

Son of a...

"What can I say? I'm a fast worker."

London walked past the Inspector and sat down on the couch, motioning for Cruz to do the same. He hesitated a few more moments, looking at
London, searching for something. Not being able to crack the mask, he sat down beside him.

"Why couldn't you stay away, dammit? Why did this have to capture your attention?"

London placed his feet up on the table in front of him. If his brother was here now he would be getting lectured about scuff marks and prints being left on the surface, thus damaging it but lucky for him Alexander wasn't here.

"I must confess, Inspector, my attention wasn't entirely captured up until I entered your office and showed you the photo of Miss Benson. Your body language spoke volumes. Had I been anyone else it would've gone completely unnoticed. So right then and there in your office you told me all I needed to know without even saying a word. I suggest acting lessons for future situations, you may stand a chance then, just not against me."

The tension that filled London's living room was almost suffocating.

"Why don't you want me to look into Miss Benson's murder? Why tell me now of all times to not waste my time and stay away?"

London was watching Cruz out of the corner of his eye. Once again the mans body language was betraying him.

"I'll tell you why I will not stay away. I will tell you why I will use my time. I shall tell you why you will not stop me. This has happened before, at least 3 times to my vast knowledge. Irene's roommate got into some kind of trouble, and disappeared. Finally decides to come back thinking it's safe to do so. Then upon her return home, someone, maybe the same someone who is responsible for the 3 previous murders, kills Nikki and tosses her place. What could they looking for? What has been missing from the other scenes? Judging by the way Nikki was found, I know exactly what was missing and it's only a matter of time until I find it. Then the cops kick in the door minutes after I arrived. No way that timing is just coincidence, because the universe is rarely that lazy. Someone sent them Inspector, set me up to take the fall for the murder. Someone knew where I was going..."

London could hear the gears in the Inspector's mind turning at an alarming rate. London was right, of course he was. He had once again saw and deduced.

"And that someone was you. You knew where I was headed once I hung up the phone. Those few seconds I wasted dealing with Donovan and then making my way over to the apartment, gave you enough time to get several Officer's over to the apartment as well. Please, correct me if I'm wrong."

He was a machine on auto-pilot and Cruz had to find a way to stop him.

"You're throwing around some very bold accusations, Holmes. Accusations that will put inside a cell. Again."

Oh but they weren't just accusations. It was the truth and no-one would silence him.

"You can threaten me all you like but we both know they aren't accusations."

Cruz dragged his hands down his face and let out a long shuddering breath that he had been holding since London had begun speaking. London was determined and rapidly forcing the Inspector's hand.

"You are forcing my hand here. You are crossing a line. If you insist on walking along this jagged cliff, I will not be around to save you once you fall over the edge into the rocks below."

Cruz waited a few moments to allow his words to sink in.

"Also know this. If I hear anything about you being found anywhere near apartment 2A again or you reaching out to your little 'network', the next gun pointed at you will be my own. Understood?"

The Inspector hoped London wouldn't push him that far but he had to make him realize it wasn't another one of his games. He rose from the couch and headed for the front door and out into the night, leaving the Criminal Consultant alone once more and hoping that London would for once do as he was told.

Only time would tell.

London didn't listen. Why Cruz thought he would completely baffled him. His words once again spoke volumes and convinced London that he was definitely onto something. After Cruz left and London made sure there wasn't an unmarked police car parked outside his building, he headed back towards the very apartment he'd been told to stay away from. Still not trusting the Inspector enough, London took multiple back alleys and side streets. It added extra time onto his journey but he wasn't willing to risk getting caught just yet.

God dammit...

A police car sits in the street in front of the building. London can make out two uniformed figures in the front seat, chatting and taking sips from steaming paper cups. Grey exhaust fumes spill from the vehicle’s tailpipe.

London leans back around the corner, rubbing his hands together for warmth. The fact that the cops are still sitting inside the car rather than actually being inside the apartment building told London that they weren't the sharpest knife in the drawer but which officer truly was?

It was time to test their smarts or lack of.

London rounded the corner and head towards the apartment building, making no attempts to conceal himself from the officers in the car. This was truly too easy until...

One of the officers taps on the his window before he winds it down and motioned to London to come over.

"Can we help you, sir? I'm afraid unless you live here, you're going to have to leave."

Time for some fast talking and watch as these puppets dance.

"No, I don't live here. My sister does. I just wanted to check on her. Heard there was some commotion over here last night. I'm worried. You know how it is?"

So far so good?

"Understandable. What's her name?"

Really? This police officer was apparently smarter than he looked. Still not as smart as London.

"Madison."

The smart, not so smart, officer raised an eyebrow.

"What’s her last name?"

Bravo. It would seem someone stayed awake long enough during their training but still not awake enough.

"Brett. Sir."

The officer then turns to his partner, still somewhat skeptical.

"There a 'Brett' in that building?"

The other officer just shrugs obviously annoyed at his partner for disturbing him and his nap time.

"Do I look like an address book to you?"

London had to bite his tongue and do everything in his power from letting the mask slip. He was so close. After a moment of hesitation the first officer finally gives in.

"Yeah, okay. You can go, sir."

He rolls the window back up and carries on drinking his cup of coffee. Allowing London to walk away without even a second glance.

The apartment is in the same devastated state as before. Looks like the cops moved a few things around, but London can’t be entirely sure until he takes a proper look.

Walking further into the apartment, London looked towards the back of it, more importantly the two bedrooms. One in particular.

Nikki's.

The room looks like he remembered it, with the obvious exception of Nikki's corpse which is by now resting in the city morgue. With that and the cops out of the way, for now, but for how much longer was anyone's guess, London got to work. Making a more detailed search of the room, poking into corners, crouching down and peering under the bed, but he come up empty much to his dismay. Either there really was nothing else to find or the cops already found it, which was highly unlikely.

Casting a gaze across the clutter of the rest of the room, London settled on the closet. He was about to walk over to it when he noticed it. It would've been a miracle if the cops had spotted it but luckily for London, they hadn't. Perfect. 

Dropping to his knees three steps from the bed, the floorboards not appreciating it judging by the sounds they made. Reaching into his jacket pocket, London pulled out his switchblade. Opening it he used it to pry open the loose floorboard, hoping against hope that something was indeed lying beneath. The floorboard wasn't entirely lifted before he spotted it. 

A small black shoe box. 

Leaving the shoe box unopened for the moment, London set his sights back on the closet.

The closet isn’t carpeted. Just plain wood planks, like the ones in London's own apartment and the one's back in Nikki's bedroom.

Reaching towards the back, moving around various articles of clothing, London finds one that appears out of line with rest. One tap against it with his foot and it moves at the touch.

Dropping to the floor once again, London pulled at the board harder, and it comes away from the floor easily. Two more boards join it, revealing a small hollow space under the closet floor. In that hollow lies a plain brown paper envelope.

London grabbed the envelope and exited back out of the closet, walking back over to space by Nikki's bed where he left the still unopened shoe box. Sitting back down on the floor, he used his switchblade to lift along the top of the envelope, and dump the contents onto the floor beside the shoe box.

What he saw once the photos were spilled out onto the floor, not even he was expecting it.

The photographs feature Nikki, but they’re not fond childhood memories. She and an older man London certainly recognized are in some sort of bedroom, decorated expensively but somehow managing to convey cheap, gaudy excess.

With each passing photo the level of debauchery and general filth escalates. How could anyone willingly subject themselves to something like this? London felt dirty just touching and looking through the photos but his curiosity and need for the truth kept him going. By the last few photos Nikki is strapped to the bed by her wrists and ankles, just like how her body was found. The only exception was she was still alive in the photos and there was an older man standing over her with a whip in his hand.

It was suddenly made clear. These photos and more importantly the man in them was the reason for not only Nikki's disappearance but her brutal murder and perhaps the connection to the 3 other similar cases that London had heard about.

Collecting all the photos up, London put them back into the envelope and placed it in his jacket pocket. He had found the evidence that Cruz was so hell-bent on keeping him from. Cruz wasn't protecting London, he was protecting the man in the photos.

With the photos safely inside his jacket pocket, London reached over to his left side and grabbed the shoe box. Opening the box up, he dumped the contents onto the floor and out spilled, by London's quick calculation, was over ten thousand dollars at least. 

Nikki was in over her head with a very powerful and well known older man. She was being paid off to keep quiet. How long it had been going on was anyone's guess but London was going to find out. He needed to find Irene, history had proven she neglected to tell London every piece of information and chose to act naive, which she was anything but, in hopes it would bend London to her will like it did so many men. Inspector Cruz was also owed another visit.

Picking up the bundles of cash, London placed them back inside the shoe box and closed the lid. Getting to his knees again, he tapped the floorboard back into place, then stood back up, picking the shoe box back up and placing it under his arm. Walking over to the bedroom window, he glanced down and noticed the police car and its officers were nowhere to be found, most likely headed back to the station for the shift changeover, a look at London's watch and knowledge of Cruz's roster system, told him he had another 10 minutes at most to make his exit.

Before making his exit, London made sure the shoe box and envelope were still secure. Satisfied both were, he headed back the way he entered the apartment building except this time he had a clear shot.

London's gamble paid off, and no one came looking for him at his apartment while he was out.

Stopping a block away from his apartment building London scanned the surrounding streets. They’re deserted, just like usual. Most people in the neighborhood can’t afford cars, and this time of day they’re either at work or sleeping in preparation of the night shift. The building sits quiet and undisturbed. 

Apparently.

Regardless, London keeps his head down and forces himself to walk at a casual pace as he crosses the street and approaches the front door to his apartment building. Pulling on the handle, London carefully opened the door and stepped inside. The interior is chilly, as usual, due to the poorly insulated walls and windows, but it’s still a welcome respite from the weather outside. Climbing the old and creaking stairs with senses on alert for signs of an ambush.

Nothing.

For the moment at least.

The apartment looks exactly like it was left hours ago. Walking further inside, stripping off his coat as he walked, London made his way to his bedroom. Placing the shoe box and the foot of his bed as he sat down. The cold, the stress, the after-effects of adrenaline crash all conspire to make his eyelids heavy, thoughts sluggish. He can't stop just yet, there is still plenty of questions without answers and he will not allow himself to sleep until he gets them, so he reaches over to the small bedside table, grabbing a leather case. Opening the case, he takes out 2 vials full of his own creation and a syringe. Placing the 2 vials down beside him on the bed, London kicks his shoes and socks off, followed by his jacket and shirt. Then he picks up the vials once more and heads towards the bathroom. A shower and a shot of "7 Percent Solution" was in order.
20 minutes and thousands of pieces of data reviewed, London emerged from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist and his curly hair sticking up all over. Mind and body rewired. He was walking back into his bedroom, reviewing another piece of data when something caused him to stop in his tracks.

"What are you doing here, Elliot?"

Elliot was indeed in his apartment and he was in his bedroom sitting on the edge of his bed and he was going through the photos London had
found. At the mention of his name, Elliot looked up from the collection of photos he had spread out.

"What? It's not the first time I've been in here or have you so quickly forgotten? You wound me, Holmes."

Elliot's gaze returned to the photos.

"Do not tempt me. Now if you will excuse me, I shall get dressed and then you can explain where you've been and why you're here."

Elliot let out a noise of disappointment. Of course he would, as London walked over to his closet to pull out another pair of pants and shirt for now and headed back into the bathroom. It really didn't matter what he grabbed as long as he was clothed while Elliot  was here.
Dressing as quick as he could, not entirely trusting Elliot  alone in his bedroom for any longer than required, London re-entered his bedroom moments later. Elliot was now laying back on his bed, feet resting upon Nikki's shoe box.

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, making sure to stay far enough out of Elliot's  reach, London placed the 2 empty vials and syringe back in the leather case and returned it to its place on the table. He then reached down towards Elliot's feet.

Elliot raised an eyebrow.

"Don't get your hopes up. I merely require what your feet are currently resting upon."

Elliot reluctantly  lowered his feet allowing London to grab the shoe box and place it on the floor beside him, silently hoping Elliot hadn't peered inside but knowing him, he had. Then returned his attention to the psychopath resting comfortably on his bed.

"You never answered my question."

A overly dramatic sigh was his response. London was not amused, he wasn't in the mood but Elliot sensing that and not giving a damn, pointed to the photos still spread out.

"Now I know those aren't yours, for numerous reasons. Also that money in the shoe box can't be yours because I know how much you despise it, thanks to your childhood and brother. Also that leather case of yours has made an appearance, which by the way we'll talk about later. So my dear Holmes, using a little trick you unwittingly taught me, I made a deduction. You've found yourself another little game, a game you were going to play without me. However in all honesty, I simply had a feeling and judging by the looks of you currently, I do believe I've appeared at the right time."

As much as London hated to admit, Elliot was indeed just as smart as he was violent. A fact that London would never tell anyone let alone Elliot. Reaching out his left arm, London collected the photos up, stacking them into a neat pile next to his leather case, something that didn't escape Elliot's notice but he surprisingly kept quiet. Once everything was in a form of order, London got up from his bed and walked back out into the living room, then into the kitchen, which unlike the rest of the apartment, was a sight of uncontrolled chaos. A maze of  test tubes, jars, beakers, pieces of paper, glass slides and microscopes covered the kitchen table, beside the sink, in the sink, various shelves London had built around the walls and even the fridge was used. No surface was safe.

London walked over to the sink, reached up above it to open up a cupboard and pulled out a small jar that now held a dozen white pills. Knowing it was only a matter of time before Elliot came looking for him, he emptied out 2 pills into his hand and quickly swallowed them down without even bothering to take a drink of water. Replacing the lid on the jar, London hid the pills away once more and then headed back out into the living room and sure enough, Elliot was there laying spread out on the couch. London raised an eyebrow but remained quiet as he sat down opposite Elliot in the chair he often passed out on.

"So which beautiful but completely wasted on you, damsel in a red dress came starstruck and teary eyed to the world's one and thankfully only, Consulting Criminal this time?"

The very same one who could just as easily end up like Nikki if he didn't do something about it. As much as Irene annoyed him, brought him all kinds of problems, puzzles and requests, in her own way she had become a constant in London's life, somewhat like Elliot. He wouldn't call what he had with Irene a friendship, he could never connect with someone in that way, but she made London feel less alone. She didn't treat him like the freak or machine everyone else did.

"Please tell me that lovesick little puppy, the one who worships the ground you walk on and the air you breathe, known as Molly hasn't tracked you down because if she has I shall take my leave right now."

As tempting as it was to lie to Elliot just to get him to go away, London decided against it.

"No it was not her. It was someone who I came to the assistance of a few months ago. Luckily or rather unluckily for me, she has been trying to seek out a friendship of some sort. Her name is Irene. She's a regular at a place I've come accustomed to visiting when I get bored and have no means of other distractions available."

London didn't need to mention what the "other distractions" were.

"It's her friend in those photos you saw. I had the unfortunate luck of finding her brutally murdered. She was laying on the bed, not moving, wearing nothing but a white satin slip stained with blood. Her flesh was bruised and cut, and her hands were bound tightly in front of her with a length of rope. It wasn't that which caught my attention, far from it. Her throat had also been slit from ear to ear. She was nearly decapitated. It was overkill. It was a crime of passion. The man responsible was the one in the photos. Photos he never knew that were hidden in the very floorboards the bed rested upon. As I was processing the data which I had collected, the police arrived, kicked the door in. I was set up. Someone had tipped them off. Realizing this, I took a true leap of faith. Straight out the bedroom window before the police could even fire off a shot at me."

Elliot was at a loss for words, something that rarely happened.

"I know, I know. Saying it out aloud does sound quite ridiculous but it's what happened. While the police stood around arguing with each other, I returned here only to find I had a guest waiting for me. It was Inspector Cruz and as usual he was none pleased with me. You see, he was the one responsible for not only the police showing up when they did but he was the one who was attempting to stop me from looking into what Irene had dragged me into. He sat in the very spot where you are now and begged, pleaded his case, in hopes of getting me to cease what I was doing. He wasn't doing it out of the goodness of his heart, he wasn't doing it because he was concerned for my well being, oh no, far from it. The man in the photos? We both know him, the Inspector more so than myself. I was told point blank that if I didn't stop, the next gun that was pointed at me would be the Inspectors and he would not hesitate to pull the trigger. So naturally that made me want to keep going."

Elliot let out a chuckle and sat upright once more.

"Of course it would. So, who is the man in the photos?"

"Never mind that, I shall reveal that soon enough. Now, I know that whilst I was in the shower, you not only went through the shoe box and envelope, you also went through my jacket pocket. Inside you would of found a few things. A match book with the name 'Speedy's' written upon it being one of them. There is a oily residue on it and a faint trace of a fingerprint, possibly a thumb of the right hand. I wish to have it back."

Elliot didn't even attempt to hide the dramatic roll of his eyes or the breath he exhaled to accompany it. He stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing his ankles, his right hand reached into his trouser pocket and threw said match book at London, who caught it mid air with one hand before it landed on his lap.

"Do you even know what 'Speedy's' is?"

Even though he had no use for such thing, he did know what Speedy's was.

"I most certainly know what it is, my dear fellow. It's a gentleman's club."

That admission caused Elliot to sit up a little straighter and a smirk to cross his face.

"A gentleman's club? Do you even... okay. What have you exactly been getting up to since I've been gone?"

London shook his head, smiling to himself at once again being able to surprise Elliot. Turning the match book over and over between his thumb and index finger, he looked over at Elliot, who was torn between surprise and was that a trace of anger?

"Must you be so dramatic? Just because I have no use for such a place, does not mean I'm blind or ignorant to its existence, much like with you and your own existence. Now I don't expect you to know this but there's a specific smell upon this match book."

Elliot raised an eyebrow. His disbelief was evident. 

"A smell? That's it? That's all you have to go on?"

Dear god what was it like in other peoples brains?

"Do not belittle me. Instead allow me the courtesy of further explanation."

Elliot leaned back on the couch and swept a hand out in front of him, signalling for London to continue.

"Thank you. Now I shall continue. There's a man named Cesare who always has a sickly sweet scent about him. It's a horrible combination of several cheap women's perfume with the hint of expensive and cheap cologne all wrapped in a blanket of smoke and alcohol. It really interferes and assaults every one of my senses. It's impossible to get rid of. He's a two-bit hustler and mob enforcer for a small-time family around here. He runs protection rackets and drugs in this neighborhood, and before you ask, yes I know that from personal experience. He also does the occasional burglary when he gets wind of a good score. He also has an odd fondness of poetry and literature in general but I rather fear I am steering away from the point. One night approximately 6 weeks ago, I was bored and I decided to go for a walk in hopes of finding something to do. I had barely made it out on to the street when I saw it. Across from this apartment building, over in the alleyway was a body, it was slumped against the bricks. There was no-one else around at the time and my curiosity had been awoken at the sight and the possibility of what I would find. So I crossed the street and quickly found it was Cesare, he had been beaten rather badly. He was barely conscious and before I knew it, I was kneeling down and helping him up." 

London decided to neglect telling Elliot that he stood over Cesare for several minutes at war himself in regards whether to help him or not.

"I helped him up and dragged him back here. I tended to his wounds and waited for him to regain consciousness. While I was waiting a knock happened upon the front door and a voice accompanied it. It was the police. It was then I knew why and how Cesare had found himself in the condition he was. I left him where he was and answered the door. The police were indeed searching for him and all it took from me was a simple 'I haven't seen anyone' and the police quickly left and I went back to waiting. 2 and a half hours had passed but Cesare regained consciousness. With the help of some whiskey and painkillers I was told everything. We ended up talking well into the early morning. Before he left, we came to a mutual understanding. Cesare knowing he owed me one, wrote down a name with an address and whenever the time came I was to go to that address and he'd know why."

London could hear the wheels turning in Elliot's brain as he attempted to process what he had just been told. He dragged a hand down his face and worked out the tension in his neck, before facing the Consulting Criminal once more.

"Dear god, man. One of these days you will learn the meaning of 'simplify'. So what you're trying to communicate is that you wish to go and find Cesare and see if he can assist you in some way?"

London nodded.

"I thought I made that clear?"

Elliot groaned in frustration. London was the smartest man alive but he was completely clueless on how to communicate a request simply and it had taken Elliot quite awhile to work that out and even longer how to decode what was being said.

"Well then, what are we waiting for?"

It was London's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"What are we waiting for? Are you saying that you are going to help me?"

Elliot had risen from the couch and made his way back into London's bedroom. He returned moments later with London's jacket which he threw onto his lap.

"You're correct. Besides you really think I'm going to let you loose in a gentleman's club of all places? No way my good man. You're going to need all the help you can get, for so many reasons, whilst inside there. Trust me. Let's go and I'll educate you on the way."

A scruffy looking building with a gold on black painted sign informed London and Elliot that they had arrived at 'Speedy's'. The flickering neon lights on the sign were giving London a headache already and he hadn't even stepped inside. If the outside was anything to go on, London was going to be hit with a surge of over sensitivity that threatened to overload and corrupt every piece of data he had carefully filed away in his mind palace. 

The interior is dark but surprisingly spacious, the very smell that had stained the match book and Cesare was definitely in the air. There was one large stage and two smaller stages flanking it, overlooking at least two dozen tables and a long mahogany bar along the side. The only customers in the place are two wrinkled old men, sitting right up against the railing of the main stage and leering as a bored looking young woman performs a lazy striptease to no music whatsoever. London could not see the appeal at all.

Despite "teaching" him on the walk over to the club, Elliot could not get it through to London that women would gladly take their clothes off and the men would just as gladly depart with their cash until they had none left. The Worlds only "Consulting Criminal" was truly out of his element in more ways than one. Seeing London trying to process his surroundings kicked Elliot into action.

"I told you..."

London ignored Elliot's remark as the pair headed over to the bar where a busty woman with vibrant red hair and far too much makeup was wiping down glasses  with a rag. She looked up upon hearing the sounds of London and Elliot's arrival. She quickly and very easily put on a practiced smile on her face.

"What can I get you, boys?"

To get out of here as fast as possible would be preferred.

"I’m here to see Cesare."

She looked at London with more interest now, the plastic smile fading. 

"I haven’t seen you around here before. You don’t look like one of Cesare’s friends."

While she debates whether to get Cesare or not, a shout sounds out from the back of the club.

"Ruby, you ain’t done with those glasses yet?"

London, Elliot and the woman who was obviously called Ruby,  turn to see none other than the man himself, Cesare, walking out of the back room and coming towards them, wearing a dark double-breasted suit and a scowl. When he notices London, his whole demeanor changes. He finishes crossing the distance.

"London, you sonofabitch! I didn't think you would ever show! How the hell are ya?" 

Slapping him on the shoulder. Elliot looked ready to rip Cesare's arm from his body for touching London. Ruby looked on  uncertainly between the three men. Cesare turns to her, his voice suddenly hard and angry.

"Get in the back and make sure the costumes are ready for tonight. Good lord, the hell do I pay you for?"

Ruby scowls but does as instructed, disappearing through the door into the back rooms. Cesare  turns back to London and Elliot, his demeanor shifting gears again so quickly London can hardly keep up. With a grin he claps his hand on London's  shoulder once more, giving it a little shake. Elliot was about to make a move when London reached out and placed a hand on his chest, stopping him from doing so.

Cesare finally noticing Elliot raised an eyebrow.

"And you're?"

Elliot lowered London's hand from his chest and sent Cesare and predatory grin.

"The one who will tear your arm from its socket if you touch him again."

Now? Elliot picked now of all times to have an old fashion pissing contest? This was one of the reasons why London didn't want Elliot tagging along. He couldn't help himself. The possessive and protective streak still remained within him and it always would.

"Elliot, enough. Cesare I require your assistance if it's possible?"

Cesare, not taking his eye off Elliot, who was doing the same, motioned for them to take a seat over at the bar. London broke the odd stand off by grabbing Elliot by the sleeve of his jacket and walking towards the bar with him and forcing him to sit down much like a parent would with a child. Cesare followed and instead of sitting down, made his way behind the bar, grabbing three glasses and filling them with whiskey before he placed them in front of Elliot and London. Elliot took his glass and drank from it, London didn't, instead choosing to reach into his pocket.

"I take it this ain’t purely a social call?"

London shook his head and handed over the photo of Nikki and Irene that he had managed to get from their apartment. Cesare took a glance and curled his lip in a half grin.

"Not a bad looker, either of them. Although I prefer blondes, myself."

Elliot smirked into his glass before placing it back down and folding his arms on the bar, making sure to keep as close contact with London as he could. London would most certainly confront him about it later on but for now he was completely distracted with his task of getting answers.

"Her names Nikki. Had she been here recently or if you can ever recall?"

Cesare takes another look at the photo, then lays it on the bar. 

"The blonde? No, not that I'm aware of, sorry. But..."

Cesare trailed off and tapped a finger on Irene's part of the picture.

"She's been here a few times."

You could suddenly hear a pin drop.