London looked down at the young boy lying in a heap on the cold floor in the abandoned warehouse. The lad couldn’t have been any older than eighteen – his face was obliterated beyond all recognition and he’d been stabbed so many times he lost count.  The Consulting Criminal stepped over to Inspector Cruz who was kneeling by the body.

“His I.D. says his name is Oswald Spencer,” Cruz said handing the card to London as he stood.

“Ozzie?” London looked back to the body, this time taking in every detail.

"You knew him?" Cruz asked.

Even though the boy’s facial features were unrecognizable, The Consulting Criminal was still able to deduce that the body lying before them was, in fact, Oswald Spencer.

“Yes. He helped me with some of my cases in the past. Last time I saw him he was working in a barrister’s office part-time – I helped him to get the job. Before that he’d been living rough since he was a child.” The Consulting Criminal said as he stared at the lifeless body.

“Yes, well… can you tell us anything else - maybe about the killer?” Cruz broke the silence that had fallen.

London took several moments going over the body and looked around the warehouse, shaking his head and muttering to himself as he did so. Finally, he spotted it - a chess piece, up high in one of the warehouse windows. “There!” He shouted.

“What?" Cruz asked.

“I believe the killer is telling us he thought of Ozzie as a pawn – a pawn in whatever game he’s playing. I fear poor Ozzie won’t be the last.”

London stood very still, thinking for another few minutes. He took one last look down at the young man he’d helped so many years ago, then turned quickly and walked away with Cruz yelling.

The Consulting Criminal reached the main road where he stopped and waited for a cab.

“You okay?” The Inspector carefully asked as he finally caught up with the Consulting Criminal.

“Why wouldn't I be?” London refused to look at Cruz, instead focusing on the road.

“Well, it’s just – you know? That kid, Ozzie? You said you helped him..."

“I was just returning the favor. He helped me first.” London quietly replied. “Some favor too…it got him killed.”

“How do you mean?”

“If I’d have let him be, left him on the street and not meddled in his affairs, he wouldn't have been a target. He’d still be living on the streets – invisible. Like we were before.

“We?” The Inspector was once again left unsure of what he had heard.

“Yes. We. He was a clever boy. Uniquely so. He knew the streets like no one else I’ve seen since. I was never sure how long he’d actually been on the streets, but from what I’ve been able to deduce it had been since the age of nine – possibly eight.” The Consulting Criminal remembered it like it was yesterday rather than what at times now felt like a lifetime ago.

“What happened?" Cruz was now curious.

“From what he told me, his family was killed in a home invasion. His mother hid him in a closet and he saw the whole thing. Once the intruders left, he ran and never went back. I tried once to find any family he had left, but there wasn’t any and as I said before, he was a very clever boy. I’m not sure why he took to me though. You know, I wasn’t much different then. Only then, I was high most of the time and angry all of the time. I hated my brother, my drug habit, my life…everything and everyone. Still, this little street urchin took to me. He helped to keep me fed, out of the elements. I think he even pinched and sold my drugs from time to time, both to keep me from using and to keep me fed.”

“It’s not your fault.” Cruz pointed out. “Whoever the bastard is that did this is solely to blame. You helped Ozzie. You helped get him a proper job and got him off the streets. I’m sure he was very grateful.”

“Maybe,” was all London said as a cab finally turned up. He opened the door and got in. Quickly leaving Cruz and the scene behind him.

Upon arrival at the scene, the first thing London noticed was how pristine it all was. A stark contrast to the dirty warehouse they’d found Ozzie in. The body was located in an empty office of a building, hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room. Bright lights, shiny tile floors and stainless steel seemed to proliferate throughout.  

Other than Cruz, Donovan and a few other officer's London made sure to never remember the names of, the body was the only other thing in the room.

“Oh good,” came the snide whine from Donovan. “Now that he’s finally here can we please get on with our work? I have more important things to do today than to wait on his highness's opinion.”

“Shut it Donovan,” said Cruz. “I called him.” He wasn’t in the mood to listen to the petty squabbling today.

The Consulting Criminal didn’t seem to be paying attention to Donovan anyway. He circled the body twice, looked at the man’s shoes, sniffed them and then took a sample to analyse later.

“Okay, you can lower him.” London took several steps back to allow the no name officer's to do their job. While they were busy, London and Elliot inspected the rest of the large empty office.

“So?” Elliot inquired. “Is it someone you know?”

“I’m not certain,” London said – a perplexed look on his face.

“You’re not certain?” Elliot was a little astounded. London was always certain.

“His face is not his face. I don’t recognize him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know him. We’ll have to wait and see if he’s got any identification on him, otherwise we’ll have to wait for a fingerprint analysis and that will take time we don’t have.”

London saw it first, just a smudge on one of the blinds – but it was enough that it was out of place in this environment.

“There,” he pointed to the window. London moved swiftly and drew the shade revealing the killer’s message.

“How do I rule the obsequious gang?”

London moved away quickly to the next set of blinds and pulled them shut, revealing the rest of the message.

“The secret is simple – I always hang.”

The sentence ended with a picture of a black bishop chess piece.

“Holmes, we’re ready for you,” Inspector Cruz called out.

London pulled his pocket magnifier out and carefully examined the man’s face and neck area. Then felt along the man’s impeccable suit, looking at the label and examining the stitching. He then stretched the skin along the neck and jaw and felt along the esophagus and trachea, paying particular attention to the bruising that had formed on the neck. “Hm, yes…" The Consulting Criminal murmured to himself.

“It appears his name is Marshall Jacob,” Cruz replied.

“Wrong. I think you’ll find it the other way around, Inspector. His real name is Jacob Marshall,” The Consulting Criminal was quick to correct.

“So you know him as well then?” Cruz asked.

“He’s had some surgery, but yes…I know him. As with Ozzie, he was able to get himself off the streets. He was a tailor. I haven’t purchased a new suit in some time, but I used to have all of them altered by Jacob. The man was a genius with fabrics. I’d heard his clientele was more upscale now- celebrities and such. He was very helpful on several cases, but I haven’t talked to him in over two years. He must’ve decided to change his name, make a new start- hence the surgery. He most likely wanted his clients to think he came from money.”

“How can you tell he’s had surgery?” Cruz was now hunched over the corpse trying to see any signs of an operation.

“You have to look along the jaw line,” London replied stepping up behind Cruz. “Also around the ears…there are small incisions in the lines in his neck. They’re harder to see because of the bruising, but they’re there. He also wasn’t hanged.”

“The scarf that you found him hanging from couldn’t have done the damage to the thyroid bone that you’re going to find. This man has been strangled. He was hanged to make a point. The message from the blinds. The black bishop – another chess piece. Chess is often used as a metaphor for spies. Both Ozzie and Jacob have been my eyes and ears on the streets, my spies as it were. So how does the murderer ‘rule my spies’? He kills them. He’s going after anyone that’s helped me solve a case. But why? Why not just come after me? Or even Elliot?”

“He may,” Cruz replied taking on a darker, more serious tone. "London, is there a way to contact that homeless network of yours to let them know what’s happening so they can look out for one another?” Cruz asked.

“It’s already done,” He answered. "I contacted them after we found Ozzie. It seems though, that our mysterious murderer is only interested in going after those that have been able to assimilate back into society successfully.”

“Do you know the names?” Cruz asked.

The Consulting Criminal shook his head, “No. Once they made it off the street they didn’t keep in touch. I don’t blame them really. I’m a reminder of their past. Anyway I think we’re finished here. Come find me once an autopsy has been performed. There's one piece of data I wish to have verified."

Elliot awoke the following morning to a very eerie feeling. The apartment was abnormally quiet and there was no trace of the Consulting Criminal except for a note pinned into the mantle by London's switchblade which read.

“The poem – on the blinds at the crime scene. I know where it’s from. It’s called ‘The Hanging Judge’. Whoever is doing this, they know me…not only that I know them as well.”

And underneath that note was another.

"Canary Warf. Do not follow"

London knew it would set Elliot off, sneaking out in the earliest hours of morning but the realization that he had the night before that he knew the killer, and even more that the killer knew him, made it all the more important for him to solve the case – and quickly before the unthinkable happened.

Elliot was next.

It was when he made his way to Scotland Yard, knowing how early Cruz got there, to inform him of such, he was greeted with a not so welcomed distraction.

The two bodies were found facing each other, impaled by a spear that ran through the center of their chests. Hanging on the end of the spear was a note that read:

One plant in my legal garden grows:

The mandrake’s shriek is the solace I chose;

And I water my treasure whenever I can

With the blood that drips from a gibbeted man.

I AM THE JUDGE!

“Please tell me you know who the killer is.” Cruz all but begged.

“It would appear to be someone who is fond of Alfred George Stephens,” London calmly replied.

“Who?”

“Precisely,” London said. “A very specific and obscure poet. Only one the killer would know I know, and also how I know it.”

“And how do you know it?”

“I used to use it as a code.” London said clearly distracted and lost in his thoughts. “I have to go,” he said suddenly and started to leave to find a cab.

“Oh no you don’t,” Cruz snapped and grabbed the arm of the Consulting Criminal and spinning him around. “You’re going to tell me what you know, and right now or I’ll have you locked up for obstruction.”

“Then lock me up because I don’t have time for explanations,” London replied, pulling his arm free. He was about to storm off once more but he was stopped by one of Cruz's no name officer's. He was out of breath.

“Mr. Holmes, you need to get home right now. There’s been a break in. Your landlady, Mrs. Hanson, has been injured and there’s evidence something may have happened to your friend."
 

When the Consulting Criminal arrived, the apartment was swarming with authorities. Mrs. Hanson was being looked after by a pair of paramedics who were trying to get her onto a gurney to go to hospital, but having no luck convincing her.

Upon seeing London enter Mrs. Hanson cried out, “Oh London!”

He moved forward in an instant and held her hands, assessing her injuries. Broken finger, broken rib…perhaps two. Bruised eye – will be black and blue by tomorrow. Possible concussion from blow to the head – three stitches needed.

Mrs. Hanson had put up an incredible fight against the intruder.

“ Elliot…he… Oh,” was all she could manage before completely breaking down into sobs.

“It's okay, my good lady. Whoever did this to you will pay dearly. Now do stop arguing and let them take you to hospital. You’re quite injured and I would feel much better knowing you were being cared for and out of harms way.”

“Very well dear, if you think I should go,” she sighed.

“Good. Now please, before you go, can you tell me what you know about what happened to Elliot?”

Mrs. Hanson’s account of the attack had garnered no real new information. The attacker, as he’d done before, left a note along with another chess piece. A queen this time – the most valuable piece of the game. “Invaluable,” London remarked as he read the latest note.

‘A week well spent, brings Sabbath content

To Church my steps are piously bent.

When the holy man reads the holy book

I grieve for the god, the gods forsook,

So clumsily crucified: pity rises.

He was not a remnant to my assizes!’

London was running his own tests on the samples he’d gathered at the Marshall crime scene. There had to be a clue on where to find Elliot. There just had to. Without something tangible to go on, it would be almost impossible to find him. There was no telling what he was being put through, and London for once had admitted it was entirely his fault.

Because it was.

Victor and London had become friends during his University days; more than friends really. The two were very rarely ever seen out of the company of the other. Hours upon hours were spent talking, reading, playing chess and satisfying one another’s mental desires. During their studies, Victor and London learned of an obscure poet by the name of Alfred George Stephens. A writer and literary critic from Australia, Stephens was like Victor and London’s own little secret. They’d memorized the poem “The Hanging Judge”, and periodically used passages as code when around others. Years later London would often recite passages of it to his homeless network for the same reason.

The relationship went horribly wrong their final year at University. Victor wanted to bring London home to meet his parents. Victor thought the holidays would be made even more special once his parent's met his genius best and only friend, his one true intellectual equal. The other half of him. How wrong he was. Not only were Victor’s parents livid at the idea that their son was possibly homosexual, they placed the blame for “turning him” solely on London. Once they turned their wrath on him, he did the only thing he knew how to do to defend himself…

He deduced them.
 
“Mother – alcoholic, but who could blame her. Father is a serial adulterer, mistress is pregnant and he is embezzling from his company.”

The list went on, of course, and Victor had begged London to stop, but by then it was too late. Victor's father was advancing on the young Consulting Criminal, shouting abuse, when suddenly his face went white and he fell to the floor, dead of a massive heart attack.

Things were never the same after that day. London tried on several occasions to see Victor – to try and patch things up between them, but it was no good. Victor began to feel that his family had been right all along. It was London that had led him down a primrose path, filled with sin and abomination. After that, London swore to himself that he’d never let anyone else get that close. However, he never counted on the virus that infected and corrupted his hard drive.

Elliot.

“I am the judge, the flower of the law. Bolstered in, privileged, all men’s awe.”

Elliot was vaguely aware of someone speaking as he came to. It was hard to think and impossible to move. He realized he was transfixed to a crucifix, just like Jesus himself. He even had a crown of thorns set atop his head. The only small mercy he could see was that his hands and feet were not nailed to the cross, but bound instead. Blood was flowing rather freely from his body where he’d been beaten by his captor. The injury to his head from the crown was dripping blood in his eyes making it difficult to see.

Elliot's tormentor came further into view. He was a tall, thin man with neatly cropped blond hair. If asked to recall him later, he would say he looked like Scandinavian royalty. He just had to make it out of his current situation first.

“A week well spent brings Sabbath content,” the man continued, paying no mind to Elliot’s awakened state. “To church my steps are piously bent… Welcome back dear Elliot,” said the man in a voice so calm it set off warning alarms in Elliot’s head.

Taking in the rest of the room now, Elliot could see they were in a church and he was the focal point on the alter.

So then, a sacrifice? Fantastic. Elliot sarcastically thought.

“My final gambit,” said the man as he spun about the room, his arms stretched wide. “What do you think? He will come, I’m certain of it. You are his most prized piece.”

Well clearly the man was a nutter, no doubt about it. The question was, how could Elliot stall for time?

“He’ll have to take the time to come procure his sacrificed piece,” he spun and looked up at Elliot. “That’s you by the way if you haven’t guessed,” he said smiling up almost reverently.

The man was deranged. London certainly had a knack for attracting them. Elliot was proof.

“There’s just one more thing we need do first to let him know he must hurry.”

There was no time for Elliot to react. Seemingly from nowhere, the man produced a spear and plunged it into his side, between his ribs and narrowly missing his lung.

London was still working away when Cruz knocked at his door before walking inside. The Consulting Criminal was hoping that he had the autopsy results from the last two victims. Instead Cruz silently handed over a single photo, London was horrified to find a picture of Elliot splayed out on a cross, a gaping wound in his side.

"There's more." Cruz quietly said and motioned for London to turn the photo over. He did and was greeted with a message that read. “So clumsily crucified. Your ‘queen’ is dying.”

London recognized where Elliot was being held immediately. He would never forget standing at the back of the church watching the funeral proceedings of Victor’s father. Now the Consulting Criminal only hoped there was still time to save Elliot. He had no idea of knowing how long ago the photo that Victor sent him had been taken, and for all he knew it may already be too late. Even if Elliot didn’t bleed out from the wound to his side, he could die from suffocation. London's coping mechanism kicked in, deducing exactly what was happening to Elliot, possibly at that very moment.

"Difficult to breathe. Muscles rising from the shoulder girdle and attaching on the chest wall would create an extraction force on the chest. This could cause respiration to become paradoxical. Exhaling would become an active process, requiring pulling up with the arms to allow the diaphragm and chest wall muscles to relax to let the air out, and inhaling becoming a passive process occurring when the arms relax, again causing an extraction force to the chest wall forcing air into the lungs."

It was a little known secret that Elliot had a bad right shoulder (a result of London's morbid curiosity about how much force it would take for a Proximal Humerus Fracture and how long it would take to heal without his or medical help) on a good day, hung from the cross as he was, he wouldn’t be able to last very long trying to pull himself up enough to expand his diaphragm.

The Consulting Criminal had little time left and Elliot even less.

Elliot was dying.

As he hung from the cross, blood seeping from his side, he tried to remember his catholic upbringing. How long had it taken? How long was it before Jesus succumbed? From his time with London, he knew it could be a matter of hours, or of days. The wound to his side didn’t help matters either. By his calculations, it cut his survival time in half. On top of that was his dodgy shoulder. There would only be a few attempts at lifting himself to relieve the pressure on his chest enough to breathe before the pain from his old injury would force him to relent. He supposed he could try using his legs somewhat, but knew that wouldn’t give the relief needed to carry on breathing. He was well and truly fucked this time.

It was almost dark by the time London arrived at the church. Fixed to door was another of Victor’s notes:

"And when remains of all creation,

But one alive from strangulation,

To your soul’s throat a garrote I’ll fit.

With a long drop into a bottomless pit.

And while you smother in agony,

Of the whole hushed universe I’ll swear.

I am the Executioner.

The King is Dead."

The end game, of course, he should have realized he was the King in this twisted scenario that Victor was playing. All those games of chess they played so long ago, a happier time then, now warped in Victor’s mind into this. London heaved open the heavy double doors of the church and stood transfixed at the sight in front of him. Across the vestibule, down the aisle, was an unconscious Elliot splayed out on the altar’s cross. The Consulting Criminal didn’t have time to deduce whether he was still alive before the breath was knocked from him by Victor’s sidelong tackle. The punches came fast and furious with Victor landing the majority of blows solidly to London's face and gut. London realized getting control of Victor was like trying to tame a wild beast. The man seemed to be everywhere at once landing punch after punch when finally he mustered all of his strength and used both of his legs to push Victor off and away.

“ENOUGH!” London yelled scrambling to his feet. “This has gone on long enough Victor. Too many people have died already, and for what?”

“You’re asking me for what?” Victor spat. “All of this is your doing. A direct result of YOUR actions!”

“My actions?” London countered “Oh no. I wasn’t the one that insisted you drag me to your family’s Christmas dinner. I told you exactly what would happen, how they, especially your father would react. If you only listened to me. No my dear Victor, everything that happened was a direct result of YOUR actions!” The Consulting Criminal deliberately threw Victor's words back at him.

Victor was seething, “If you hadn’t clouded my mind and tricked me into thinking I actually cared about you, maybe even loved you, I would have never brought you home to meet my parents. What we did, what you made me do, was an abomination and you are to blame. You poison every thing and everyone you touch. I’m quite certain you’re clear now on the consequences of such actions though, aren’t you?” He said with a smirk. “There’s no one to help you perpetuate your lies anymore London. I’ve taken care of all your little spies - removed them all from the playing field, including your precious queen over there. I can see why you like to play with him so much. He put up a valiant fight that one.” Victor tilted his head to the side to indicate Elliot. “I had to beat him rather severely just to get him up there I’m afraid. Not that it matters now. He’s quite dead.”

“You better hope that’s not the case, Victor,” London said in a low, calm voice dripping with malice. “I will kill you where you stand.”

“Well, isn’t that just beautiful?” Victor replied. “But I’m afraid you’ll never know you sick fuck, because you’re about to join him.” Victor pulled out a gun and pointed it at London.

A gunshot rang out a moment later, followed closely by another.

“Elliot? Elliot dear, you’re all right. You’re in hospital. Just lie back now or you’ll tear your stitches.”

Elliot knew that voice.

“Mrs. Hanson?” Elliot rasped, turning his head to find her standing next to his bed. “Wha…,” he started to say but it caught in his throat. Coughing, he tried to sit forward again and felt the pain in his side. “Argh!” he groaned and laid back down.  

Mrs. Hanson grabbed the cup of water sitting on the nearby table and offered it to Elliot. “Don’t talk. Drink,” she said in that mothering voice he knew so well. She was often using it towards London much to his utter dismay.

As he sipped from the straw she offered, he noticed Mrs. Hanson’s hand and where a broken finger had been set. Finally, he looked up to her face and the bruises prominent around her left eye and cheek.

“Jesus, Mrs. H what did he do to you?” The look on his face was both sympathetic and angry.

“It’s nothing dear. I’m just happy we have you back,” she said with a small smile setting the water back on the table.

“Speaking of we…” Elliot let the question hang in the air expecting to hear what excuse the Consulting Criminal had for not sitting bedside waiting for him to wake up. London got bored so easily. So he really wouldn’t begrudge him not staying. He was more than likely off telling the Doctors how to do their jobs or diagnosing/deducing the patients he came across.

Mrs. Hanson’s face fell.

Elliot knew in an instant something was very wrong.

“WHERE IS HE?” Elliot yelled, struggling against several of the hospital staff who were currently in the room, as he tried to get out of bed.

Mrs. Hanson backed into the nearest corner watching Elliot's fight to free himself.

“You need to calm down.” Inspector Cruz tried to reason with Elliot over the orderlies. Who were, despite Elliot's injury, were coming out on the losing end.

After a few very long minutes, Elliot's strength finally faded and he settled. The orderlies backed away and Cruz approached the bed.

“Where is he Cruz? I heard a gunshot. In the church, I heard a gunshot, I know I did. Where is he?” Elliot looked up pleadingly into the Inspector's face.

Cruz sighed and shook his head. “We don’t know. We were hoping maybe you could tell us. I received a call from Miss Hooper with the results of the soil tests that were taken from the Marshall murder and where that particular soil could be found. I had every intent on passing them onto London but before I could, I received a photo of what happened to you, with a message attached that I knew would immediately get London's attention. I quickly left the results and took the photo to him instead. The look on his face when he saw it and the message... in all the time I've known him, I've never seen it. I decided against my better judgement, to leave him alone to process whatever he needed, you know how he can get, but I just couldn't shake the feeling of something happening. So I rushed back to your apartment but he was already gone. He must have known I would eventually follow him because he left a note. I left and I owe myself quite a few tickets as I broke every traffic law to get to him before it was too late. As I opened the door to the church I saw a man with a gun raised and pointed at him. I drew my weapon and fired, but not in time. The man fired, hitting London."

Elliot's eyes grew wide. "You actually saw him get hit? Where?!”

“That’s correct. However I don't know where he was exactly hit, I was still far enough away from him to only see him hit the ground for a few seconds. The suspect had barely hit the ground himself before London, despite being hit, got himself back to his feet, limp down the aisle to you. He kept mumbling something over and over. I have to admit, seeing you …well I thought you were dead. You weren't conscious and your side was bleeding profusely. I believe London must have thought the same. There was so much blood, it was hard to tell who it belonged. He somehow cut you down, lowering you gently to the ground, feeling for a pulse while muttering something about 'Human error' over and over. I felt like I was intruding, I thought it was a final good-bye after all. So I went out to give him some privacy and called the ambulance. I was outside no more than two minutes, three at the most. When I returned to let him know the ambulance was on the way, he was gone and a blood trail leading out the back door of the church was all that was left. I had a difficult choice to make. You or London? As far as I could tell at the time, you required help the most, so I stayed with you and did my best to keep you from completely bleeding out. It took some measure to get your heart started again and they worked on you the entire way to the hospital. I still can't understand how it is you're here.”

Elliot sucked in a great breath. “He thinks I’m dead!” Elliot moved to get out of bed. “How long have I been here? I need to go. I can’t be here. I need to find him.”

“You’ve only been here a few hours. You cannot leave, we need to monitor your condition. You’ll tear your stitches if you don’t calm down,” instructed a nearby nurse.

"FUCK CALM AND FUCK YOU!” Elliot shouted. “I don’t give a damn if my stitches come loose. I will not lay back while London is out there somewhere slowly bleeding to death!” Elliot swung his legs over the side of the bed, holding his side as he lifted himself upright. “We may already be too late and if we are...”

“Elliot,” Mrs. Hanson said finally coming forward from the corner. “What can I do? What do you need?”

“Go back home, make sure he’s not there or hasn’t been there. If he’s there, make sure you let him know I’m alive. Be sure it’s the first thing you say to him. The very first. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” She leaned forward and put her hand on top of Elliot’s. “We’ll find him dear.” She nodded once and then left.

“Where’s my clothes?” Elliot asked as he looked around the room.

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Cruz replied. “You weren’t wearing much when we found you and none of your effects were at the scene."

“Christ.” Elliot stood, grabbing at his side. “Then can someone get me some clothes so I can get the hell out of here?"

Twenty minutes and numerous threats later, Elliot had a pair of borrowed trousers, a spare t-shirt that Cruz had in his car and a pair of shoes from one of the Doctors. It wasn't the worst thing he'd ever worn, but it was close.

Elliot suddenly had an idea of where the Consulting Criminal might be. “Cruz, when London was using, did he have a specific dealer he went to? Was there a certain place he'd go to use? He's never told me.”

“Jesus. You don’t really think he’d…” Cruz muttered.

“I think he would, if he thought I were dead and he was in unbearable pain. Yes. He most definitely would. Just like he would know that I’d put a bullet in my brain if I thought he was dead."

“Black Prince Road, Lambeth by Vauxhaull Walk. That’s where I would find him more often than not.” Cruz replied really not wanting to remember those days and nights.

“Thank you.”

“Good luck.” The Inspector said a little too defeated and gravely for Elliot's liking. He was going to find him.

Elliot nodded as he turned and headed out to hail a cab.

He was going to bring him back.

Dead or alive.

“Black Prince Road,” called the cab driver as the car slowed. “You sure you want to stop here, mate? Not really the best neighborhood for a stroll and you don’t look like you could handle any altercation, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Elliot opened the door to exit the cab. “An altercation is the least of my worries, but I appreciate your concern.” Stepping out, he grit his teeth at the sudden pain in his side, feeling the pull of his stitches. With all of the hurried activity, he could feel that some of the sutures had come loose. If there were too much more jostling about the wound would fully reopen. It was already beginning to seep heavily.

The light of the day was fading as Elliot began walking down Black Prince Road, he was well aware there were several pairs of eyes already on him. He was certainly out of place here and he knew it. He didn’t care, as long as he found London.

Elliot spotted a young woman who looked to be sleeping rough and bedding down for the night, so he decided to stop and ask if she’d seen the Consulting Criminal. “Excuse me, I don’t mean to bother, but I’m looking for my friend...

“Lond ‘olmes,” cut in the woman. “Yeah, I knows 'im. I’m Violet. Spoken to ‘im a number of times. Also, seen you two in the papers.”

“Yes, that’s us. Look, I know London has help sometimes with our cases from some of you that sleep rough. Have you seen him today? It’s very important I find him, he’s injured and needs my help.”

“I just got kicked out the shelter today, so I ain’t seen ‘im, but Billy might’ve done. He’s just ‘round the corner there,” she pointed in the general direction of a nearby house. “Hope you find Mr. ‘olmes, he’s good to us. He don’t treat us as rubbish like the rest do.”

“Thank you Violet,” Elliot stood up and nodded gratefully before he headed off to find Billy. As Elliot turned the corner he saw a man laying in a doorway, his left leg pulled tightly towards his abdomen and a blanket draped over him. The shock of dark curls startled him at first, but there was no mistaking that head of hair. He rushed to him at once grasping his side as he knelt down to touch the man’s head.

“London?” Elliot said with a sense of dread. Elliot lifted London gently as he could, resting his head on his now outstretched legs and gently pulled an eye open. “Please tell me you…” he reached down and pulled the blanket away to reveal why the Consulting Criminal was hugging his leg to himself. It was holding in place a blood soaked shirt and London's jacket which was tightly tied around his abdomen. Even Elliot knew what he would find beyond the layers. 

Inspector Cruz was correct. Victor somehow managed to get off a shot before he hit the ground. While it thankfully was not a head shot, this seemed more cruel. The Consulting Criminal would be left to suffer and bleed out if the Inspector hadn't arrived or if Elliot himself had succumb to his own wound.

This was not good. How in the hell had he made it THIS far? The amount of blood on his shirt, on the jacket that was being used as a tourniquet, the dirty floor he was laying on...

The Consulting Criminal had come here to bleed out and die.

Elliot reached a shaking hand to his neck and felt for a pulse. Weak, but still there. “Holmes enough! You need to wake up and tell me what the hell to do here!” Elliot pleaded.

The Consulting Criminal had lost a fair amount of blood and needed attention quickly before he went into hypovolemic shock. Elliot had no idea how much damage had been done and how he was going to get help all the way out to what he would call "The arse-end of the universe with the scum of the Earth." 

“Come on,” Elliot said softly as he ran his fingers through London’s sweaty and matted hair. “My good man, can you hear me? Come on now, you’ve got to wake up. Open your eyes and look at me. Let me know you’re still here.”

London’s eyes fluttered.

“That’s it,” Elliot gently encouraged. “Come on. Let’s go Holmes, do it. Now!” he shook the Consulting Criminal again, a bit more roughly.

London’s eyes opened slowly.

“About time,” Elliot smiled.

“Sorry,” London whispered. “Human error.” Closing his eyes again.

“No.” Elliot lifted London further onto his lap, both men groaning in agony as Elliot continued to help the Consulting Criminal apply pressure on his abdomen. “You didn't fail. I’m not dead. Look!”

London lifted his head and opened his eyes to look at Elliot. “What?” He squinted to focus more clearly at the blurry blob above him. “How?"

“Yeah, well...” He was interrupted by the sounds of sirens in the distance. It seemed that Cruz or someone had once again saved the day.

"Hold that thought until I can explain, yell and beat you senseless, without feeling some remorse. Okay?"

Everything had happened so fast, yet so slowly. Despite his dire condition, The Consulting Criminal still had enough left in him to fight against the people trying to help him and rip him from Elliot's grasp. The fight only lessened when it was agreed that Elliot could ride in the ambulance with London.

Unbeknownst to either man, due to all the bending and stress his side had taken, Elliot’s wound had completely unraveled and began to bleed profusely. The doctor made Elliot lie on a gurney to address his injury where the open wound was now stitched together using staples, causing him a fair amount of pain. The only saving grace was London was still in surgery because if he was not, things would be very different and Elliot honestly didn't have the strength to defuse any situation that the Consulting Criminal would cause.

It was well into the early hours of the next morning by the time everything had calmed down and London was finally awake from his surgery and the following emergency blood transfusion he went through. Now he found himself, with Elliot, in a private room arranged for them by Alexander, who thankfully had yet to 'grace' them with his presence.

“So...” Elliot called from his bed. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better,” London flatly replied.

“Quite,” the corner of Elliot’s mouth turned up slightly. “I have to say, I’m glad for your injury though.”

“Well, that’s a bit cruel.” London confessed.

“Just listen will you?” Elliot carefully got out of bed and padded barefoot over to where London lay and slowly sat down on the chair next to the bed.

"I’m not happy you were shot, but I am glad that you were injured only in so much as it inadvertently kept you from using, which we both know saved your life.”

“I know you’re probably angry with me for what I was going to do. I would have if I had found Billy.” The Consulting Criminal quietly admitted.

“I won’t say I’m not, maybe just a little,” Elliot concurred. “But if the tables were turned, I’d have done the same. Maybe not the same way, but you get the idea."

“A bit not good?” London asked.

“Only a bit?” Elliot laughed but immediately regretted it and lay his head down near London's legs in an attempt to hide his discomfort.

Elliot was quiet for some time and just when the Consulting Criminal thought he was asleep, he spoke again. “So…you and Victor?”

“Mm,” London replied.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Elliot asked as gently as he could.

“No, not really but as you were adversely affected by our acquaintance, I think it only fair I give an explanation.”

Several hours later Elliot and London were awakened by Cruz, who’d come to collect their statements. First to follow up on what had happened to Elliot during his abduction, then next what transpired between London and Victor before Cruz’s arrival and actions at the church.

“We’re thinking his mum’s death was the trigger,” Cruz said once he was finished with the statements. “She died about a month and a half ago. Cancer. Well, cancer by way of suicide. She was terminal. There was a letter found among Victor’s things. She shot herself and left him a note. According to authorities, Victor was the one that found the body. He hadn’t even known she had cancer.” Cruz’s face pinched in a confused manner. “What I don’t get is why he targeted you two and those homeless contacts.”

“Maybe he just saw London in the papers and became fixated. It would not be the first time.” Elliot offered as an explanation that wouldn’t involve dragging the Consulting Criminal's relationship with Victor out into the open. It wasn’t anyone’s business but London’s and with Victor dead, no one needed to be any the wiser.

Naturally London couldn’t stay quiet though. It was important to get it all out. Elliot needed to know. Ozzie, Jacob, Mason and Claire at Canary Wharf...they all deserved closure. “Victor and I were, I guess you could say we were 'involved' when we were at University together. All of the clues from the crime scenes came from our time together. The chess pieces, the poem…just secret codes, ways to communicate without anyone else even realizing. Victor wanted to finally bring our relationship into the open with his family. So, even though it was against my wishes, I went home with him for the holidays during our last year. His family did not approve of our relationship and let’s just say it ended very badly. Victor blamed me for the way things turned out and he never spoke to me again. Just like that. Out of my life forever. You say his mother’s death was the trigger? I agree with this as the most likely cause. His father died before his eyes from a massive heart attack, so his mother’s death probably caused that all to come flooding back. He was a decent fellow once; before he let his parents warp his incredible mind. You know the rest regarding my homeless network. That’s all I care to say at this time. If you need more, I can come to the station once I’m released.”

Cruz seemed satisfied with London’s statement. “It's okay. I think that’ll do. No need to drag things out. You've both been through more than enough. I'll give you guys some space and peace now. You earned it. I'll see you later.” The Inspector gave them a nod of thanks before he left and headed back to the station.

The room was silent for several minutes before Elliot broke it. "I'm sorry."

“Whatever for?” London tilted his head back to get a good look at him.

“About Victor. Whatever he became, it wasn’t your fault you know?" Elliot felt the need to point out.

“It wasn’t long after that I was on the street, using and not caring whether I lived or died.” 

“Well, I for one am very happy you lived. Life would certainly be dull without you.” Elliot admitted.

"Is that sentiment I hear, my good man?" London asked as he closed his eyes against the lights that were still burning his eyes.

"Don't be so dull." Elliot sarcastically replied.