Flashes of blue light ricocheted down the alley's walls, tingeing rubbish and filth in violet hues. The corpse lay on its back, brown, blank eyes staring at the narrow strip of overcast London sky above. Her pallid lips were lax and slightly parted, revealing the dull ivory gleam of teeth, straight but for one crooked bottom incisor. The victim's clothes were still wrapped around her form, the wings of the navy blue coat caught beneath her shoulders: a dark backdrop to the bloody wound that carved its smile into her neck.

The Consulting Criminal  pressed a finger to the injury, his  gloves doing nothing to protect his skin from the brutal edge of the winter air. It was deep, no doubt cause of death. He could see a shallow pool of blood caught in the cleft of the slash, coagulated as her body cooled. The skin at the wound's edge was waxy, the cells dead before anything like healing could begin. Not that she could have recovered from the fatal blow, of course.

'Tell me what you see.' 

The Consulting Criminal had no need to turn his head and direct the question. The staccato click of knees as they hunkered down at London's side seemed loud in the narrow alleyway, glancing over the fleshy remains of what had, little more than a day ago, been a living, breathing person.

'One knife wound to the neck, slicing through her trachea and carotid artery.' London's fingertips probed at the wound before moving down to her sternum, and then checking her hands. 'No real defensive wounds; one broken fingernail, but that's it. She would have died within a few minutes.'

London glanced sideways, watching Elliot carefully. His face was pale from the cold: vasoconstriction carrying his blood away to the warm core of him, keeping his temperature stable while allowing his extremities to suffer. His strong jaw clenched tight, molars crushed together as the unfocused distress found a futile outlet. It must be blinding, London thought, because how else could the obvious be so easily over-looked? Elliot was not stupid, but he was still not observing anything of note.

'What else?' he prompted, ignoring the shift of Cruz's boots on the grimy ground and Donovan's clipped sigh of impatience. They could wait. They had, after all, called for his help.

Elliot gave a small shake of his head, glancing over and meeting London's eyes with a faintly knowing look. It was a pattern they had fallen into at every crime scene. London observed, consumed and deduced the knowledge within moments, only taking extra time to cement the details in his mind. He knew his abilities were far beyond what most people considered normal, but Elliot found them fascinating. He took an interest, and over time London found himself returning the effort. He would never be able to tune Elliot's mind to the level of his own, but he wanted to give Elliot a taste of it: that quivering satisfaction of taking the sum of minutiae available and painting a masterpiece of truth from its fragments.

And so he demanded that Elliot push himself and enhance his shallow field of view. Success was rather limited.

He watched Elliot's gaze sweep the body, and finally, he saw the moment that focus shifted, when Elliot stopped seeing a person – twenty-seven, workaholic, longed to travel but never had the time – and observed the facts instead.

'Where's all the blood?' Elliot finally asked.

The Consulting Criminal  smiled, allowing himself the faintest exhalation of something like relief. That it took minutes for Elliot to notice what he had picked out in a heartbeat was perhaps not the most encouraging, but neither Cruz (functioning below his usual efficiency) or Donovan (merely incompetent) had brought themselves to take in this one point.

A weight in the pocket of her coat guided London's fingers, and he tugged the purse free, peeling one glove off with a snap as he allowed the information on the woman's life to unfold for him to process.

'Sophie Hunter. She wasn't killed here,' he said at last, getting to his feet and facing Cruz. The Inspector's hand was pinched over the bridge of his nose, and he managed one curt nod: a simple gesture of encouragement. Not that London needed it. 'If she were, the alley would be covered in blood, as would her clothes.'

'The killer re-dressed her?' Elliot squinted doubtfully down at the woman. 'They're a good fit, which says this was planned, but the knife wound is clumsy...'

'And with a narrow blade inadequate for the job. The wound is ragged where it was forced. The clothes fit because they are her own: cheap, high street brand pulled out of her wardrobe in a hurry, but –' London narrowed his eyes, taking in the whole picture. 'She did not dress herself.'

'What makes you say that?' Cruz dropped his hand, his gaze raking blindly over the body at their feet.

London as usual let out a harsh everyone-is-an-idiot sigh, feeling Elliot twitch at his side before inching just fractionally closer. It was not a reprimand or a warning, but a hint of movement that was the faintest presence of a leash on London's impatience. There was a mute understanding of the fact that with brilliance came arrogance, and a silent request from Elliot to spare the Yard from its bite.

'Any woman willing to spend almost a month's wages on a pair of shoes,' he gestured to the elegant stilettos, so out of place they seemed obscene amidst the gutter's filth, 'would not match them with an off-the rack skirt, polyester blouse and frankly poor quality coat. No doubt she saved her best clothes for work."

He paused, gathering the details around himself, all too aware of the lost-at-sea looks he was receiving from everyone within earshot. 'She was nude when she was killed, as evidenced by the dry blood.' He crouched down, flicking up the bottom of her blouse to reveal a sepia patina across her skin. 'The killer wiped it off her hands and chest so it wouldn't show around the edges of the clothes, but forgot her feet. She wasn't wearing shoes or hosiery, and droplets got caught between her toes, suggesting she was standing at the time of the attack. The blow was dealt from behind from someone she trusted. A lover.'

'Because she had no clothes on?' Cruz asked, and London gave a brief nod.

'To whom else would you expose your bare back? Whoever it was, she did not expect any kind of attack. Judging from the high quality threads caught on the heel of the shoe, wool blend, double twist pile, she was murdered in a high-end apartment. Her home. That's where you'll find the blood and,' he glanced at his watch, seeing the hands hovering over three in the afternoon, 'probably the identity of the murderous lover, if you hurry.'

He moved to stand up, shifting his weight with no direct thought from his mind, yet something – some indefinable sense of wrong – made his muscles twitch and weaken. In front of him, the corpse blurred, her sharp outline turning cloudy as his head spun. It passed in a matter of seconds, leaving him blinking in confusion with the warm weight of someone's hand on his elbow.

'All right?' Cruz's question was sharp; battle-edged, and London shivered beneath the burden of that probing gaze. 'When was the last time you ate?'

 'I'm fine,' he replied curtly, stepping back from the body and freeing himself from the grasp of the narrow alley's airspace. 'The address is on her I.D.' He passed it to Cruz.

The Inspector nodded, his gaze falling pityingly on the woman once more before he gestured to Anderson and his team. 'Start processing. We'll investigate the apartment and see what we can find.' He held up a hand, his expression grim as London almost walked into the warm spread of his palm. 'I'll drop by if we find anything else.'

'A waste of time,' London snapped, scowling as another shudder worked its way down his spine. The day was dying, dragged away by winter's dark grasp, and the cold, damp air seemed to seep around the edges of his coat and make nests next to his skin. 'Elliot and I will meet you there.'

He dodged around the bulk of Cruz before he could protest, heading towards the main road. He knew without looking that Elliot would follow, no doubt with an apologetic glance and smile. He seemed to have made it his mission in life to smooth the ruffled feathers the Consulting Criminal left wherever he went. He honestly did not know why Elliot bothered. The opinions of others had no bearing on his life, it made no difference to the Work, after all...

Another shudder ripped through his body, rousing a groaning cacophony of aches in its wake. His knees felt like crumbling concrete, and the muscles in his thighs shook from the effort of each step. Perhaps Cruz was right after all. The last meal had been a long time ago. As soon as the case allowed, he would eat something: a token gesture to the body that carried around the gleam of his mind.

He took a deep breath through his nose, taking a moment to appreciate the smell around him – car exhaust, diesel and unleaded, the ever present threat of rain, decay and the faint liquid fragrance of the Thames – before raising his hand to flag down a passing taxi. The hackney cab slowed at the curb, a sable, familiar bulk, and London suppressed a sigh of relief as he eased himself into the uncomfortable cradle of the seat.

'Admiral Walk,' he instructed the driver, watching the scatter of beads and other miscellany swing from the rear-view mirror as the vehicle pulled out into traffic. It was vaguely hypnotic, an unintentional metronome to the elegant roll of the cab, and London found himself staring blankly through the scuffed veil of the partition.

'You're not all right.'

He shut his eyes, trying to ignore the fact that they burned along the seam of his eyelids as he dragged them open again. Of course, Elliot would choose now to be observant. Perhaps he was naturally more attentive to the details of the living, rather than the dead. He was a doctor, after all, a detective of the biological malaise of the populace, and one who seemed aggravatingly attuned to the soft ebb and flux of both London's mood and his health.

'What makes you say that?' he asked, genuinely curious. He had not been ill in the time Elliot had known him, at least, nothing that was not self-inflicted. Injured, yes, and mildly poisoned by more than one experiment taking a turn for the unexpected, but nothing more serious. Elliot had not even been called upon to use the hospital grade overdose kit London knew he had gathered together after one too many Cruz's so-called drugs bust. There had simply been no need. Even during his deepest fits of ennui, London had not turned back to his recreational substance of choice. Yet here Elliot was, no doubt seeing far more in the lingering betrayal of London's body than he himself was willing to give away.

'You're always pale, Holmes,' Elliot pointed out, 'but now you're almost grey. More obvious is the way you're moving – stiff and sore – like you're the one with the dodgy leg.' A faint smile curved over his mouth, derisive at the mention of his psychosomatic limp, now long gone unless he was emotionally exhausted.

London tried to return it, but his face felt stiff and unnatural, his muscles unresponsive, so he aborted the attempt before giving it a chance. He closed his eyes again, aggravated by the low, crunching ache that had started to throb at his temples. Probably caused by the sick, sallow fluorescence of the taxi's interior light, he thought.

'Maybe you picked something up at the Yard,' he mused quietly. 'There's plenty going around. 'Flu season and all that.'

'No.' The word cracked in the air between them, and Elliot raised a doubtful eyebrow. 'I'm not ill. I don't have time for it.'

'Getting sick isn't something you can control, you know.'

'Mind over matter; there have been several studies...' London's voice faded as Elliot looked up at him from beneath a frown, the lines bracketing his lips deepening in doubt. Clearly this was not the time for further enlightenment.

'I can't tell if you have a fever or not, not when you've been standing out in the cold for more than an hour, but we should go....'

'No! I am in adequate health to examine Ms Hunter's residence. It could mean the difference between a murderer in a cell or walking the streets.'

It was a good argument, one he wielded before him like a cattle prod at times. It rarely failed to result in eventual surrender. Few normal people could allow the balance of their moral code to come out in favor of bed rest over the capture of a dangerous criminal, but it seemed perhaps this time Elliot had found his tipping point.

'Cruz is no idiot, Holmes, whatever you might think. He's more than capable of searching himself. He'll come find us if he finds anything interesting. Besides, you said yourself before we even left home that the case was dull.'

'It is.' He sighed, wishing there was a more intriguing pantheon of iniquity available to him. Many of London's criminals seemed painfully lacking in creativity lately. 'No locked room, no serial killer... no unique nuance to capture my interest. An open book of a case. Cruz only asked for me because his workload has reached an intolerable peak. He needs cases solved quickly and without finesse.' He smiled. 'Matches the murder, really.'

'So why are you so keen to see her apartment?' Elliot challenged, sitting back and folding his arms, his chin raised in pugnacious challenge. 'Want to make sure you're right?'

'I know I'm right,' he replied, curving his shoulders and trying not to quiver. The heating of the cab was doing a perfectly adequate job of turning the air to hot velvet around them, but it would only make the steel trap of winter snap all the tighter around them when they reached their destination. 'I live in the eternal hope that perhaps there is something more interesting to be found than a dead body in an alleyway; something that will lift this crime from the mundane and allow it to ascend to the realm of the intriguing.'

He heard the bitten back sound of Elliot's sigh. Not the one he made when he was trying not to smile, but the other one: annoyance. The timbre was lower, and there was a minuscule downwards intonation. London had heard that sound frequently over the past several months since confronting Victor and Elliot's rescue of him from certain death. Elliot was growing increasingly frustrated with the dark moods of boredom and the reckless behavior they often inspired. He was becoming weary of the way London's mind more often than not in the past several months turned inwards, destructive and biting more than usual, when there was nothing else to occupy the lightning storm of intellect and deduction.

That was the real reason London wanted to see the apartment, not because the case held any real interest, but simply because he was bored. Returning home would be the same as sinking back into those oppressive shadows – allowing the focus of his mind to scatter, sharp and painful to all the unsuspecting targets of his frustration: Mrs Hanson, Elliot, supposedly innocent strangers and, of course, himself.

No, a case – any case – was better than that. His mind needed feeding, exercising, challenging, or it began to walk the twilight avenues of “a bit not good”. If he could not deduce the flow of blood and the mystery of particulates then he found himself trapped in a loop of meaningless knowledge flowing ever inwards – the pattern of traffic lights, the life of the postman, the intimate secrets of all those around him – all taking up space on the hard drive of his mind and weighing him down in the sea of irrelevance.

Better to trawl through the mundane that the Yard could offer than subject himself to that again. Before Elliot, he would not have bothered – would have weathered the storm as best he could by whatever means necessary and keep his high standards of intrigue – but now he found himself strangely unwilling to let Elliot witness the true depths to which he could sink. After all, there was every chance that it would be enough to finally break Elliot's strength and drive him away.

No, that would be intolerable.

The taxi pulled up to the curb, interrupting his thoughts, and he bullied his limbs into activity. Elliot was left to pay the driver as London eased himself free of the seat and trotted up the steps to the pristine apartment building. It was expensive, but not good enough to keep a doorman on staff. Clearly Ms Hunter had the satisfaction of a well-paid job in the city and the benefit of some intelligent investments to afford the place, though he would still estimate it beyond the range of her earnings. She had another source of cash, though the relevance of that was open to debate.

A fob system protected the door, and he sighed in irritation before looking at the speaker system to the right. One flat was blissfully nameless, and he smirked as he pressed the button above, waiting for a voice to crackle over the intercom.

'Hello?'

Male smoker in their forties, private school education, probably high up on the board of directors in one of the nameless corporations littering the streets. 'Oh, brilliant!' London said, allowing a smile and a touch of breathlessness to enter his voice. 'I'm just coming to view the empty apartment on the third floor, but the bloody estate agent's late. Could you let me in so I can at least get a look at the building while I wait?'

Next to him, Elliot rolled his eyes, an expression that did nothing to hide the wince. He clearly hated it when London pretended to be normal, slipping with painful ease into a guise like this. Sadly, such things were often more simple than telling the truth. It should not work, the lies and deception, people should ask more questions, throw forth more challenges, but somehow they never did. Strangers were far too content to take what they sensed as truth and damn the consequences. They wanted to see the good in people. As if humanity's default setting was not naturally a grubby sort of malice, but something more worthwhile.

'Of course,' the rough voice replied. 'I hope you like it. The damn place has been empty for months.' A moment later the door opened, allowing London to sweep into the hallway beyond with Elliot at his heels.

'No downstairs neighbor,' London muttered as he made his way to the lift.

'No one to hear any bumps in the night,' Elliot concluded. 'Maybe the people to either side of her will have heard something?'

London was already shaking his head, taking in the serial number of the lift with a quick flick of the eyes. 'Premium Central London apartments built for the delight of the drones in the financial district at the peak of the housing market. The apartments are large and spacious, to better validate the extortionate price tag. She had one neighbor across the hall who hasn't been home for more than a week.'

'How...?'

'Post boxes in the lobby. Ms Hunter occupies suite number eight. The box of number seven has not been emptied for a while.'

'Well if you are coming down with something, it's not slowing you down much.'

'As I said, mind over matter.'

The smug expression on Elliot's face was entirely too sharp – too knowing – for the Consulting Criminal's liking, and he raised a questioning eyebrow as Elliot leaned back. 'So you admit something's wrong?'

'I've done nothing of the sort,' London replied with a sniff as the flat chime of the doors announced their arrival on the relevant floor. He swept through, eager to escape the unsettling focus of Elliot's gaze as he stepped onto the floor of a well-lit hallway. Broad windows gave a view of London's bustle beyond, not high enough to afford a skyline vista, but rather the more claustrophobic panorama of the street below.

The door to number seven was shut firm to their right, and the intervening space of white marble floor was unsullied by tell-tale footprints. Yet it was the scent that caught London's attention: astringent and treble. 'Bleach. Someone's been cleaning.'

'The door's not shut,' Elliot murmured, jerking his head towards number eight, and London followed his motion. Sure enough, the latch had sprung too soon, preventing the locking mechanism from sliding home into its socket. Just as well, because his picks would be no good against the swipe card system in place.

Quietly, he inched closer, slipping his hands into leather gloves as he carefully avoided the handle; it would do him no favors with the Met if he smudged any available fingerprints. Prying the door open a fraction of an inch, he peered inside, taking in the gloom that had fallen at sunset. There were no obvious signs of movement, nor sounds from within. Whoever had been here before, no more than a few hours ago judging by the scent of the bleach, had clearly already made their departure.

The soft whir of the lift made London pause, lifting his eyebrow in surprise as Elliot pressed himself against the wall beside it. His hand was on the brutish shape of the Browning in his pocket. It was rare the gun was left behind these days, the risk of being caught with it was outweighed by the likelihood of needing to shoot someone. It was comforting to see Elliot like this, his character twisting to reveal a different facet of his personality: not just flatmate, doctor, friend – but soldier and protector.

Only when the lift doors parted to reveal Cruz and Donovan did they both relax, Elliot's hand falling back to his side as his features radiated unassuming innocence.

'What's the freak doing here?' Donovan demanded, unoriginal as always.

London noticed the faint clench of Cruz's jaw. The sergeant's taunts often went by with barely a reprimand. This time was fractionally different. 'He found out where the victim lived, something neither you or Anderson could deliver.' He turned back to London with a frown. 'If you've been in there already...'

'The scene is undisturbed, and the door was unlocked when we got here. No doubt left unlatched by whoever found it necessary to wipe bleach all across the floor.' London waved a hand around. 'Someone has been attempting to cover their tracks.'

London watched as Cruz and Donovan entered the suite, walking carefully along the edges of the room rather than striding across the middle. Clearly they were making an effort to spare the evidence for Anderson's inept efforts, although London could have told them they were wasting their time. The pile of the carpet was groomed, newly vacuumed, and the stench of bleach only intensified as they left the petite hallway and moved into the open plan rooms beyond.

London narrowed his eyes, frowning at the disparity. The body was dumped in an alleyway, neither particularly well-hidden or cleaned, though some clumsy efforts had been made. Yet the apartment was immaculate. The few items of sentimental value were carefully arranged, yet there was no dust around them – making it impossible to tell if they had been disturbed. The carpet was flawless – no track marks, not even any coffee or wine stains, and the bedroom was eerily similar.

There should have been blood everywhere. A severed carotid would result in arterial spray, yet the bed was made in white linen, completely clean, and the walls were unblemished. If it were not for the chemical fragrance of bleach, London could almost believe he had been mistaken. No, someone had detailed this apartment, meticulously wiping away the evidence.

'Interesting,' he murmured, a frisson of curiosity rippling through his mind. 'There was an accomplice. Either they were responsible for disposing of the body, or for cleaning the room.' He splayed his fingers out, jabbing them down towards the floor in emphasis. 'Whoever cleared up this apartment was attentive to detail and thorough – dispassionate. The one who dealt with the body was clumsy and frightened.'

'You sure she was killed here?' Cruz demanded, his eyebrows raised. 'If you're wrong, you could save us a lot of time and just admit it.'

The Consulting Criminal smirked, and mutely pointed one finger at the ceiling above their heads. It was not much, easily missed, but a few dark spots lingered on the white paint near the light fitting. 'The peak of the arterial spray on the first cut,' he murmured. 'I'm not wrong. This is your murder scene. Get Anderson to check the bedstead, if he's capable. The black paint might hide more stains. Clearly her bedding has been disposed of, but there will be empty hangars in the wardrobe, and –'

His voice died in his throat, quelled by a bright, sudden stab of pain through his head. He could feel the hairs on his arms coaxed upright by another shiver, and this time there was no relief. It did not pass like a wave, but instead lingered, making muscles jump and twitch. The longing to rest was abrupt and keening – loathsome as it speared through his concentration and scattered his deductions to the wind, leaving him groping helplessly for what he had been about to say.

'And –?' Donovan prompted, his lips quivering around a sneer.

'Find the lover and you will find your answers. Unless that simple task is beyond you?' London bit out, trying to hide the abrupt derailment of his train of thought. Perhaps Elliot was right after all. It did happen from time to time.

He swept back out into the main room with as much dignity as he could muster, trying not to obviously slump against the wall as he spotted Elliot carefully perusing the scant few photographs decorating the place. The room was like a hollow shell: a house rather than a home, but although that thought niggled at the edge of his mind London could not make anything of it.

Hateful. Hateful! How could this happen? How could his mind be brought low with such ease: a victim to the whims of his insignificant flesh? It made him want to claw at himself and tear aside the choking shroud of weakness that had collected him so swiftly in its grasp, but he found he barely had strength to lift his arms. When he called Elliot's name it only got worse, as if the simple exercise of pushing air past his vocal chords was a Herculean task.

'Elliot?'

He lifted his head at the weak summons, the distant fog of thought in his eyes fading into an intent look of sympathy that London found both wretched and gratifying. Clearly he now looked as bad as he felt, and Elliot's attention was absolute. He took it all in with a practiced eye, moving with prompt efficiency to London's side before shaking his head.

'I told you. Come on, let's go.'

Elliot sighed, glancing across the cab as the journey passed in silence. It was not the comfortable peace he was used to, the one that came when London was lost in his private deductions. This calm was far more ominous, and he could not tear his gaze from the pallid man propped up against the window at the other end of the back seat. It was as if, for the first time since he had known him, London had simply switched off. He was still conscious, still staring at the spinning streets beyond the window with drooping eyes, but his focus seemed to have slipped away, leaving Elliot with a tight knot of worry in his gut.

It was probably 'Flu: sudden onset, abrupt malaise, head pain, and now the bright twin flags of a fever burning on the crest of his cheekbones all told the story, but the straightforward diagnosis only made him more tense. If the stubborn git had gone back home the first time he suggested it, then he could already be in bed getting the rest he needed to recover. Instead he had dragged out the inevitable. Worse, Elliot knew that the Consulting Criminal would not cooperate and sleep on request once they made it home, even though his body had made its demands clear.

'Here you are then,' the taxi driver called out, accepting Elliot's cash gratefully, quickly counting the notes and coins as the Consulting Criminal made the effort to leave the taxi under his own steam. By the time Elliot got around the car to the pavement, he could see that London was now swaying slightly on the curb, looking more miserable than before in the glow of the street lamps.

'Come on, then,' Elliot urged softly, holding out both arms to catch London in case he fell as he wobbled towards the apartment. They must look ridiculous, and before they had gone more than a few steps, he huffed out a sigh and grabbed London's arm, looping it around his shoulder and wrapping the other around that narrow waist.

He could feel the Consulting Criminal shaking through the bulk of the coat: a sporadic, bone-deep shudder that spoke volumes. It was enough to make him wonder if they could make it up the stairs. London could barely manage the flat pavement, and the seventeen steps to their door would be like Everest in his current state.

'I'll be fine,' London murmured, his deep baritone rumbling.

'Why don't you let me be the judge of that?' Elliot suggested, trying to focus on getting the key into the lock. He had forgotten his gloves again, and his fingers felt like cotton wool, clumsy and useless. London's weight leaning on his side, pressed against him from shoulder to hip, was not helping either but in the end he managed to get the door open. They stumbled over the threshold together, shutting out the slice of the wind that tried to follow them home and left them both panting for breath in the hall instead.

'Ready? Not much further and then you can lie down.'

There was no argument – no cynical, sarcastic retort – and Elliot pursed his lips. He never thought he would miss London being his normal arrogant self, but this helpless obedience was more troubling than when he had been shooting holes in the wall.

Every step was slow and painstakingly placed, as if London didn't trust his legs not to betray him and pitch them both back down to the unforgiving floor at the bottom of the stairs. They made progress by inches, and when Elliot brought his hand up to London's chest to steady him, he could feel the too-hard thrum of his heart. London really didn't have the energy for this, and  Elliot's mind raced back over various meal times, desperately trying to remember when London last ate.

'Breakfast,' London supplied as if he had plucked the thought straight from Elliot's mind. 'I had some toast.'

'One slice,' Elliot none too gently reminded him. 'One stupid little slice, and that was almost twelve hours ago. How are you meant to fight off whatever you've got without any fuel?' A new concern settled in the pit of Elliot's stomach. London's nourishment was hit-and-miss at best. He still wasn't sure how the man managed to live off the bare essentials he consumed, but now his body had earnest need for the energy, and it would attack muscle to get it. 'Flu could kill the appetite for weeks, and London simply did not have the fat to spare to keep his body running on minimal sustenance for that long.

With a silent curse, Elliot shoved the thought aside. He would deal with one thing at a time. First, he had to get London horizontal and comfortable. He could figure out how to ease the passage of his recovery once he did not have both arms full of long, lean and distinctly unwell Consulting Criminal

At last, they reached the front door and Elliot pushed his way inside, dithering about where to put London. He would be more comfortable in bed, but the last time he had glanced in at London's room the mattress had been piled high with books, papers and other things he didn't want to look at too closely. Elliot would be happy to give up his own bed, it wouldn't be the first time they shared it, but that would mean manhandling London up another set of stairs. He wasn't sure either of them had the strength for that, and besides, it would be better to have him down in the main living room so he could keep an eye on him.

'Couch it is then,' he said, guiding London over to the piece of furniture. He spent enough time lounging on it anyway – it probably felt more like a bed to him than anything else. 'Down you go.'

He slumped like a puppet with his strings cut, surrendering his entire weight to the sofa in a miserable heap. He did not lie down, but that was probably because he did not have enough coordination to arrange himself comfortably on the couch. No moves were made to remove his scarf or the leather gloves covering his hands, and as Elliot watched, London curled his coat a little tighter around himself, his eyelids drooping threateningly over glassy eyes.

'Right.' Elliot sighed, looking around for a moment as he began to formulate some kind of plan. 'I'll be right back. Don't go to sleep.'

He hurried up to his room, feet thudding up the creaky steps before he shouldered the door aside and grabbed his pillow, blanket and the bag he kept stocked with basic medical supplies. London could have Elliot's bedding for now. He would try and liberate London's later once the Consulting Criminal was comfortable and less likely to complain about someone cleaning up his room.

Carrying it all in an awkward bundle, he picked his way back to the bottom of the stairs, leaving it unceremoniously on the floor before heading for the not so alien territory of London's bedroom. He had stepped over the threshold before, but now he ignored the clutter of old police files, various things in glass vessels, leaning stacks of books, weapons and walked to the wardrobe and nearby chest of drawers.

He didn't hesitate, as he rummaged through London's things for a t-shirt, his hands lingered on silk and high count cotton shirts and pants before he finally found what he was looking for. When he had what he was looking for, he made his retreat, getting a glass of water and a slice of bread from the kitchen before turning to face the task of dealing with the man himself.

Surprisingly London had not moved, but the shivers had intensified and the unhealthy color of his face had worsened. Elliot, not for the first time in their partnership, winced in pity, nudging his collection of things over to the couch before hunkering down in front of London and reaching out to prod a bony knee.

'Hey, come on. We need to sort you out.'

London's response was a bleary, slow blink. His expression was faintly puzzled, as if he wasn't sure what Elliot was talking about, and he frowned in annoyance, tightening his arms over his chest as Elliot tried to tug one of London's hands free. 'Let me sleep,' he mumbled at last. 'You are always saying that I do not get enough.'

'You can rest in a minute. Tell me what hurts.'

He wrinkled his nose, a fraction of his old temperament showing through. Elliot knew London had a distinct distaste for admitting physical weakness of any sort, but this time he did not have a choice. 'My back, my joints. Everything is heavy.' He paused, then added, 'My head, my throat. I'm tired.'

'I figured as much.' Elliot reached into the bag of medical supplies, pulling out a tympanic thermometer and sheathing the nib. London flinched at the intrusion, making a noise of discomfort as the device beeped its verdict, flashing between centigrade and Fahrenheit. 'Forty,' Elliot murmured to himself, watching the reading go up by another point of a degree. 'And rising. Take off your scarf.'

At any other time, the way London clutched the strip of material around his throat would have been funny. He looked perfectly petulant, and at least a decade younger than his actual years. Despite everything, Elliot smiled, quickly disentangling those clumsy, gloved fingers and peeling the wool away to reveal the long, pale column of London's neck.

'Can you drop your chin to your chest for me?' London's eye roll should not have been a comforting sign, but it showed he had the awareness to know Elliot was checking for early signs of meningitis, just in case. The penlight flickered in his eyes was met with the same distaste, but he did not jerk his head away, and Elliot gave a quick nod of satisfaction.

'Eat this, and take these with the water,' he said, popping two paracetamol free of the blister pack and putting them on the plate next to the bare bread. 'I don't care if you're not hungry. You need it, if only to metabolize the drugs effectively. And no, before you ask, I've not got anything stronger.'

London gave him a dark look but did as he was told, picking halfheartedly at the bread as Elliot pulled the cushions off the back of the couch, giving the Consulting Criminal more space on the couch before he arranged the pillow and blanket and turned his attention to the fire. The drugs would help keep London's fever under control, but they probably would not do much to alleviate the illusion of chills. Comfort and warmth were a high priority.

He fiddled with fire-lighters and matches, sighing as he realized that this point of the illness would probably be the easiest to deal with. London would be at the mercy of the virus and less prone to complaints. If Elliot was very lucky, he'd do little but sleep. No, one of his deepest uncertainties was what London would be like when he was recovering, still betrayed by the weakness of his body but cuttingly sharp in mind.

Well, he would have to bear it as best he could. It wasn't as if he was completely inexperienced with the chasms of London's boredom.

Turning back to the sofa, he gave a faint smile at the sight that awaited him. London had allowed himself to lie down, simply toppling through ninety degrees until his head was cushioned on the fluffy softness of the pillow and blanket, but his shoe-clad feet remained on the floor. His eyes were already shut, and his breathing deepened with each passing moment. His body had given the order to sleep, and disobedience clearly was not an option.

Elliot scratched his head, glancing over at the t-shirt he had dragged free from London's room and then back at the man, still wrapped in his coat, designer suit and expensive shirt. He couldn't sleep like that. If nothing else, Elliot didn't like the thought or deal with the scene London would create once he finally coming around and resorted to bitching about his ruined clothes.

That meant he would have to undress London himself.

His eyes refocused on the man lying on the couch, sweeping over the dark fan of his lashes and the sharp line of those cheekbones. Forcing himself to move forwards, Elliot edged closer to the couch and reached out a tentative hand to London's shoulder.

'Hey, come on. You can't sleep like that.'

The only response was a non-verbal groan of misery. Elliot remembered having 'Flu not so long ago and how London took to his care with an unhealthy obsession. Elliot's health and care  became one of his experiments. He could remember the wretched, absolute surrender of his body and how every movement had been a gargantuan effort. Now London was stuck in the same place, too weak to even deal with the task of changing his clothes.

Taking a deep breath, Elliot nudged him upright again, fingers moving quickly down the buttons that held London's coat around his body and peeling back the heavy, dark wool. The weather was cool enough for London to be wearing a suit jacket underneath, and Elliot made quick work of that, his palms skimming the sharp line of London's shoulders as he coaxed the sleeves from those long arms.

Elliot was becoming painfully aware of the feverish burn of skin through the thin fabric of the Consulting Criminal's shirt and the fast thrum of that heavy pulse in the hollow of his jaw. He kept having to remind himself that they were signs of illness – a fever.

'Elliot.' London's whisper was rusty, the hoarseness of his voice alarming. Elliot's eyes darted upwards. He had not even realized London was still awake, but now the bow of his lips was twisted in a faintly rueful smile: half embarrassed at his own weakness, half grateful at Elliot's presence.

'People will talk.'

The hint of very weak humor made Elliot snort with laughter. His own words echoed back to him from that infamous night – the first allusion London had made that he even remembered that moment of adrenaline and relief.

'They do little else,' he replied softly, relishing the shared memory as he dropped his fingers to London's cuffs and freed them, ignoring the beat of the radial pulse beneath his fingertips as he peeled the shirt free and grabbed the t-shirt. 'Can you lift your arms?'

It hurt, that much was obvious. Perhaps London was not bothering to try and hide his discomfort, but he did not miss the grimace as he dragged the leaden weight of his arms mostly upright, making the sleek muscles of his chest and shoulders move even as his skin trembled.

Elliot tugged the cotton over him quickly, carefully putting a hand on the Consulting Criminal's left shoulder, easing him back onto the pillow and dragged the blanket free from where it was trapped under his body.

'You still with me?' he asked quietly, nodding as London managed a hum of agreement. 'Good. Not much longer, then I'll let you rest.'

He made quick work of the laces on London's shoes, tugging them off. He left the socks on. They were ridiculously expensive but they would keep London's toes warm if his feet slipped out from beneath the blanket. Last came the suit trousers, and Elliot did not to hesitate as he pulled London's belt loose and undid the fly, gripping the waist band to pull them off.

Yet London did not seem to notice, managing only a brief, jerking nod as he lifted his hips a fraction – probably all he was able – and Elliot tugged the trousers free, down long, pale legs and off. He just caught a glimpse of well-fitting black boxers, silk, knowing London, before he flipped the blanket over and covered everything from view.

He let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding, jamming his hands on his hips as he watched London draw his knees up, curling up in the makeshift nest as if it was the most comfortable thing in the world. Elliot only just managed to pick up the quiet “Thank you.”, barely more than a whisper, but it was enough.

It was everything, coming from the Consulting Criminal.

'You're welcome. Now get some sleep. I'll be right here.'

There was no argument and Elliot checked the time on his watch, putting together a medication schedule in his head as he walked towards the kitchen. While London would not be hungry; he had barely eaten more than half of the slice of bread Elliot had forced on him, but Elliot needed food. He had a feeling the coming week would be trying for everyone. Besides, if he came down with the same thing, then they were both screwed.

The virus mutated quickly, and it would be just his luck for the Consulting Criminal to enable something new and disgusting to evolve: another, unconscious kind of experiment.

Rescuing some left-overs from the fridge, he dutifully ignored the distinctly human looking stuff in a container on the bottom shelf before turning back to the table.

He would have to get some more food in, something bland and easy on the system, but preferably loaded with calories. He knew he would be lucky to get London to eat anything at all over the next couple of days, and if the Flu went to his stomach, it would be even longer.

Elliot glanced at his watch; too late to go out now, and besides, he couldn't leave London alone like this. First thing tomorrow, he would stock up, even if that meant emptying experiments out of the fridge to make room. He did not care about the complaints that behavior would induce. Whether he liked it or not, London's health took priority over mold, putrescence and murder.

He did not stir as Elliot washed the dishes and wiped the surfaces, throwing away the old stale bread and the long-neglected fruit he had bought on a whim. He checked the oven for anything London might have left to decompose in an enclosed space, and carefully moved lab equipment to one end of the table before scrubbing the other.

The fridge was treated to a thorough clean as well, he was fascinated and repulsed by some of the things he found. Christ, it was a miracle neither of them had died of food poisoning, or something worse. Some of it, if it was food-based, was easy to throw away. Anything human was moved to the bottom drawer of the freezer. Elliot did not care if it invalidated results. London could always flatter Molly for more fingers later, hell she was so head over heels for the Consulting Criminal, she would gladly part with her owns fingers if he requested it.

At last, he turned towards London's room, a bin bag in one hand and a grim determination filling him to the brim. He wouldn't touch anything except what lay on the bed, he promised himself. 

Flicking on the light, he surveyed the chaos for the second time that evening, eyeing the bed suspiciously. A skull was grinning back at him from the pillow, and there were books everywhere. Parcel tape, something wrapped in plastic that looked vile, and what Elliot hoped was a metal coat-hanger rather than some fused electrodes also lay at the peak of the junk mountains.

The books seemed fairly safe to touch, though the pressed leaf that fell out of one and landed on his foot gave him an undignified fright before he realized its harmlessness. He was braced for horror, and it was almost a disappointment when the worst thing that he found free of a container was half an apple, going furry enough to be briefly mistaken for a rodent.

Eventually, after probably about an hour, Elliot could see the quilt and pillows. The double bed seemed completely wasted on some kind of scrap heap of science. Dropping the bin bag by the door, he grabbed the pillow and blanket – soft cream, both of them and surprisingly clean – before pausing to consider his options.

Where exactly did he plan to sleep tonight? His room was too far away. If London needed him in a hurry, he could break his neck in the race to get to his side. 

The floor in the living room.

Practical, but not exactly comfortable.

A few nights on a carpeted floor would be no hardship, especially if he got inventive.

The cushions he had removed from the back for the sofa earlier to give London more space made a passable mattress. A little short, even for him, but he could cope. He briefly considered trading the Consulting Criminal for his own pillow and things back, but with one look at the sleeping man, he dismissed the idea. He was utterly out of it, pink lips parted and his lashes not even fluttering as he slept. If it were not for the faint snores emanating from him, Elliot would have reached over to check he was still breathing. As it was, he found himself standing in the middle of the living room, makeshift bed half put together and staring at London.

It was so rare to see him like that. The few times Elliot had actually caught him resting he had either been stretched out on his back along the couch, as contained and immovable as a statue, or slumped helplessly over his latest experiment: a victim to his exhaustion. Both spoke volumes of London's derision of sleep.

Now his baser instincts took over, twisting the fever ridden body into something like a fetal position and bundling the quilt around his frame. It was both human and animinalistic: a potent reminder that, underneath the flash and snap of deduction, London was not really that much different from anyone else.

Jerking himself from his thoughts, Elliot looked back at the cushions on the floor, draping the pillow and blanket over them before feeding the fire a little more. It was still fairly early, but the effort of taking care of London dragged at his energy reserves. Better to sleep now while he was quiet. God only knew how long he would stay that way.

With movements born of a practical nature, Elliot organised his bed at right angles to London, so that his head would be on the floor at the end of the couch where London's feet were tucked up. That way he would still get most of the heat of the fire, and if he threw up in the night, at least it was unlikely to land on Elliot.

With that thought in mind, he dug around under the sink for a bucket, hauling one out and placing it near London's head. With any luck, his stomach would remain unaffected by 'Flu, but Elliot had seen enough symptoms to know it was unlikely. Better to be prepared, anyway. It meant less chance of him scrubbing sick out of the carpet at three a.m.

Stirring the fire back into life, he fed it another log before turning out all but one lamp and settling down on the floor. The cushions yielded with a sigh beneath his weight, and he dragged the quilt up to his chin. A deep breath through his nose had him opening his eyes in surprise. Maybe London slept in his bed more often than he thought, because the pillow beneath his head and the blanket cradling his body smelled of him: expensive shampoo and deodorant, a faint touch of chemicals and that other, deeper fragrance that was all London's own.

Muscles jerked him upright, over-riding the shrieking pain of the aches in his body as he flailed against the burden of the blanket. The innocuous living room swam in front of his vision as his heart – beating, breathing, not burnt at all – tried to smash its way out of his ribs and land in his lap. His throat felt harsh and raw, screaming maybe? And his head had set up a whole new rhythm of discomfort.

Grimly, he pressed the heels of his shaking hands to his eyes, dragging in one breath after another as he fought the surge of adrenaline that raced through his bloodstream. He did not dream often. He normally did not give himself the chance. Sleep was a waste of time, and an intelligent mind did not lack imagination. His very existence gave him plenty of horrors with which to paint the veils of slumber, and so he normally worked himself into a fugue of utter exhaustion, allowing his mind to bypass the undignified mess of subconscious imagery.

'It's okay.'

The voice came from beside him, soft and heavy in the gloom of the night. Warm hands on his shoulders, rising and falling with his heaving, ragged breaths. Another frame, smaller and more compact, perched on the very edge of the couch cushions as if he was unsure he should be so close, but was desperate to offer comfort all the same.

London sagged forward a little, his forehead resting on his knees as he desperately tried to fight back and hide the fear screaming through him. 

A gentle hand touched the back of his head hesitantly, a perfect anchor to what was real and what was not while his brain pin-wheeled around the bizarre strangeness of the dream: not fact at all, but some convoluted fiction contrived from the abyss below the foundations of his mind palace.

 Perhaps he made some kind of noise. Either that or Elliot  had some sixth sense that told him when vomit was imminent, because the next thing London knew he had a bucket, and it felt as if his entire stomach was trying to turn itself inside out.

Clammy, uncomfortable sweat broke out across his face as the dry heaves continued. His body attempted to curl up on itself as his spine grated and muscles contracted sharply. The sheer effort involved was exhausting, and London was not sure whether to be grateful for the dry hand brushing the hair away from his forehead or resent the touch. He hated being ill: the weakness, the confusion. It did nothing for his calm, collected image when his transport took such obvious control of his being.

'Better?' Elliot asked hopefully when London finally subsided, removing the bucket (mostly empty but for viscous mix of saliva and flecks of bile) and easing his trembling form back down to the couches embrace.

'Worse,' London managed as his teeth began to chatter again. Nausea was now a solid, constant weight beneath his ribs, and his intestines were making distinctly unhappy noises. The last time that had happened was three years ago after an unfortunate cross contamination event between curry and some poorly sealed experiments in the refrigerator, and London pulled a face as he realized a trip to the bathroom was inevitable.

Elliot clearly sensed it too, because he stood up and offered London his hand, pulling him up, grabbing the bucket, and helping him across the flat to the bathroom door. 'Put a towel around your shoulders, and another across your lap,' he instructed. 'You might be in there a while.'

The involuntary expression of disgust and misery on his face must have been amusing, because London caught sight of a pitying smile before he did as he was told, grunting in acknowledgement as Elliot added, 'Just shout if you need me. If I don't hear from you in fifteen minutes, I'll assume you've passed out on the floor and break the door down.'

London's thoughts circled fuzzily around indignity and discomfort as he answered nature's uncompromising demands. Biology: it was all so ill-thought-through. Simply more proof, should he need it, that intelligent design had nothing to do with anything. If bodies had blue prints, they would be graceful, poised and above all dignified. Much of his work relied on the messy fluids that criminals left behind: blood and semen, spit and, in one unique case, tears. Surely if they had been engineered by something capable of conscious thought and aesthetic, then the human body would not shed so much of itself all over the place?

Dimly, he was aware of the faintly random disconnect of his thoughts. They did not weave themselves into the tapestry to which he was accustomed, but tended to skip and jump and dwell in unusual places. Of course: Decline in mental faculties as the body was forced to divert resources to fighting off the virus. Perhaps that explained the dream, and the fact that now, almost a quarter of an hour after re-entering the waking world, he still felt something akin to distress over the whole thing. He was not so much bothered by the dark image of him, almost choking in the blackness of his own potential, but Elliot's acceptance of it, as if he expected no better.

He shivered, wrapping the dry towel closer around his shoulders as he stared dejectedly at the bathroom floor. It was the one room in the house that remained perfectly clean. No mold experiments, nothing disturbing lingering in the sink. Right now, the white of the tiles was hurting his eyes, and the gleam of the taps kept blurring in and out of focus. He estimated he only had a handful of minutes before he was beyond getting back to the couch under his own steam, and he knew Elliot  was serious about his threat to tear the door down.

Finishing what he was doing, he pulled the toilet flush before moving to the sink, scrubbing at his hands and hunching uncomfortably as his empty stomach cramped. A splash of warm water over his face washed away the sickly sweat that marked his skin, but the movement of bending over brought on an almost overwhelming wave of dizziness. He found himself clinging to the porcelain, another, fruitless heave escaping his throat as the room waltzed around him.

Utterly wretched.

He wanted to brush his teeth, but the very thought of mint made the nausea clench tight, and he settled for cautiously rinsing his mouth with water before he opened the bathroom door and hobbled back into the living room.

Elliot looked up from where he was sitting on the floor reading a book, not far from the bathroom door. London was used to being looked at by Elliot, often in a “What?” way, and occasionally in that “I wish you'd behave as human as I know you are” manner, but this was different. This was, in fact, a bit like meeting the eye of his own reflection, which he tried not to do too often. Self-deductions were particularly unpleasant when backed up by self-knowledge.

Now, he was observing London in a patient, steady way that was distinctly unsettling, and the Consulting Criminal  belatedly realized that he was clinging to the towel around his shoulders as if it were one of the shock blankets the deranged paramedics always insisted on giving him.

Except that, unlike London, Elliot rarely felt the need to vocalize whatever it was that he noticed. Instead, he got to his feet, joints clicking before he nudged London in the direction of the living room. His ashy blonde hair was sticking up at the back, and the Consulting Criminal slowly realized that Elliot was dressed for bed.  A quick glance showed he had been sleeping on the living room floor, and London frowned, partly in annoyance at his own blindness for not seeing it sooner, and somewhat out of confusion.

'There are two empty bed,' he pointed out, the hoarseness lingering in his throat making his voice a good half-octave deeper than usual. 'Why are neither of us using them?'

'Well, your bed was covered in junk, so the couch was better for you, and I thought it was a good idea if I was close by, rather than upstairs. I wouldn't have heard your nightmare from up there.'

The embarrassed flush washed weakly through London's face, but he was too tired to bother trying to suppress it. His instinct was to sprawl on the sofa in his usual dramatic way, but his body warned him that such negligence would not be met kindly. Instead he eased himself gently down until he could lie, mostly comfortable, on the familiar piece of furniture.

'Want to talk about it?' Elliot asked as he reached for the thermometer again, taking the reading with a frown before checking London's eyes.

'I'm fine.' London provided, wishing everything ached less and his skull felt as if it were filled with useful grey and white matter, rather than the cotton wool that seemed to have been packed inside while he was asleep. 'Bit not good.'

That got him another look; one which said Elliot was fully aware that London's words were a brush off, but that the subject was not so much dropped as postponed. It was fascinating how expressive a human face could be, and even more intriguing how easy Elliot's was to understand. Was that simply born of familiarity? If he spent more time with Cruz, or Donovan, would they be as transparent to him?

The thought of spending more than the necessary few moments in Donovan's presence was too abhorrent to consider, and London discarded the rather scrambled methodology that had started to bloom in his brain. No, that was one experiment he could do without.

'Your temperature's gone up again. Looks like the painkillers have worn off. I'd give you more, but I suspect you'll just expel them in a few minutes.' He looked around for the bucket, clearly realizing that London had left it in the bathroom. He carried on talking as he went to retrieve it.'Try and go back to sleep. You might be able to keep more down in the morning.'

London blinked at the living room, lit by one of the lamps and the ruddy embers of the fire. There was central heating, of course, but Elliot was always worrying about the bill. Besides, there was something pleasantly hypnotic about watching the carmine glow in the grate. It was enough to distract him from the sickness in his stomach and the disturbing simplicity of his thoughts.

Dragging the blanket up to his chin, London realized it was not his own. This cotton had clearly never seen Egypt in its life, and it was looking a bit ragged and frayed at the corner. His own high quality, rarely used bedding was currently a cracked open cocoon on the floor, thrown aside by Elliot. Yet even without that obvious symmetry, he would have known who owned the blanket that was currently keeping him warm by the smell.

Cognizance flowed into his mind like warm sea water, pleasant and relaxing, and he blinked slowly as Elliot placed the clean bucket back by his head. The handle of it clanked on the plastic material of its construction, sounding like a tolling bell in the peace of the apartment, and he watched Elliot fidget around, active and alert at just gone three in the morning.

'I did not mean to wake you,' London rumbled, feeling the inside of his throat scrape as if he were swallowing glass.

'You'd rather be going through this on your own, would you?' It was a rhetorical question, one without bite and only a hint of exasperation on Elliot's part. 'I'm not much good as a doctor if I don't take care of you when you're ill.'

'Why do you do it?' Too ambiguous. Elliot looked confused. 'Expose yourself to other people's vile illness in the hope of making them better?'

Many reasons, London assumed, ranging from the helplessness as an adolescent when faced with family illness and addiction to the simple, almost pathological need, but it would be interesting to see if Elliot had that level of self-awareness. “Protector” was practically written in his DNA. It was certainly evident in his career choices: soldier and doctor.

'Why do you do what you do?' Elliot asked instead.

The Consulting Criminal raised an eyebrow, at least, he thought he did. His face muscles were strangely uncooperative, so perhaps the expression was not as successful as he hoped.

'Every other job I could think of was like wearing a coat that didn't fit. Doctor worked, and once I was there it made sense to go into the army. I deal better with injury than sickness.' Elliot replied once he realized the Consulting Criminal was not going to answer him.

'Trauma. High stress situations. Suits your adrenaline addiction and need for danger. Explains your attraction to me.' London pointed out.

It was not a question, but Elliot nodded anyway tidying up his medical bag and putting it to one side before sitting on the floor with his back against the couch. 'Surgery probably fit that bill, too,' he said thoughtfully, as if only just noticing this fundamental fact about himself. Really did all people go through life this unaware of not only their surroundings, but who they were as human beings?

Obviously, London thought, or he would be out of a job.

'Still, that doesn't mean I can't look after you when you come down with something,' Elliot pointed out. 'We both know what I’m talking about when I tell you that the more rest you get, the quicker you'll recover. Try and get some more sleep.'

He reached out for the book at his side, holding it open in his lap and turning back to the last page he had been reading. The corner was folded down to mark his place: savage.

Yet it was one of the many unrefined habits about Elliot that London found interesting. Tiny nuances that turned a simple whole into an endless enigma. He felt he could spend his entire life studying and reach the end of it without fully comprehending the man always at his side.

'Stop it.' There was a huff of annoyance in Elliot's voice blended in with poorly concealed amusement, and London realized he was being watched from the corner of Elliot's eye. 'I'd rather you didn't tell me how it's going to end before the first chapter's over. You've not let me finish a book in too long.

'Untrue.'

London shut his eyes, a faint smile twitching his lips as he listened to Elliot turn the page. Despite his aches and pains, he was fairly comfortable. Still not quite warm enough, but as long as he did not move the discomfort in his limbs did not flare up, leaving just a low level ache: tolerable. Withdrawal had been far worse.

After a while, he became aware that Elliot had not turned the page again. He knew he was not a speed-reader, but it should not take him so long to make his way through the fairly generic language found in most mainstream fiction. Had he stopped? Put the book down and London had not noticed? Had he returned to his strange nest of blankets on the floor?

Cracking open one eye, he realized that was not the case. The book was still open in Elliot's lap, strong, steady fingers hovering over the paper, but those blue eyes were focused instead on London, watching him as if he were afraid he would slip away somewhere should he look away. He wanted to tell him that it was all right, that he was not about to vanish or fade away, but the cotton wool in his skull had thickened, and the sheer effort of stringing the words together was too much.

All he could do was allow his lashes to fall again, shielding him from the world as darkness washed over his head once more. He slept, content in the knowledge that Elliot was at his side: a solitary guardian against the darkness.

Unfortunately, Elliot's sentry duty was useless when it came to something to defend him from the rampaging hordes of the virus. He woke up to see three massive spiders on the ceiling. Not distressing, exactly, but specimens far beyond the curve of it normal size. The legs alone seemed to be around 20 centimeters and their weight would easily push the 100 gram mark. The bodies were easily the size of London's hand and they were watching him and he stared back in avid fascination.

Elliot said they were really not there. Delirium. Hallucinations. His brain getting its signals crossed as the fever rose further. He spoke, of course, but that seemed to upset Elliot more. Perhaps he was not being as articulate as usual? He tried to swallow paracetamol again, but his stomach was having none of it. The two tablets were viciously rejected within five minutes, leaving Elliot rummaging through his medical bag for a syringe.

'Stay still, all right?' he asked. 'Do you understand me?'

Yes, of course. Was that really so hard to believe?

Clearly it was, because Elliot's lips went tight like a zip as he applied the tourniquet, finding a vein with proficient ease and pressing a small dose of something into the Consulting Criminal's blood stream. Good idea. Bypass the unnecessary mess of the reluctant digestive system all together. Elliot appeared to be taking that as some kind of concerning defeat. There were shadows under his eyes, tiredness in the lines of his face. Sleep had clearly not happened.

'Are the spiders still there?'

London wondered if he should lie. After all, they were not doing anyone any harm. They were just clinging to the ceiling happily, shuffling their trichobothria as they surveyed the world and the man staring back at them.

Clearly he took too long trying to decide, because Elliot's hand rested on his forehead, his expression pinched up tight as he urged London to close his eyes again. 'It'll be better soon. Just – just take it easy. Should have known Flu would knock your brilliant brain for six and then some.'

The empty syringe of intravenous paracetamol chimed on the floor as he shifted his knee, shaking him from his thoughts. He drew a deep breath as he picked it up, covering the sharp and putting it aside for disposal later. That was what he was meant to be doing – dealing with the medicinal and the practical – not this, whatever this was.

London was ill, barely sensate. Elliot's tangled mess of emotions could wait, perhaps forever, or at least until London was back to his old self again and not hallucinating about gigantic creatures.

Briefly, feeling stupid, Elliot glanced up at the white art-ex of the living room ceiling. Time spent sharing a habitat with Camel spiders had left him wary of anything land-bound with eight legs, and London had been utterly certain it was there. However, the plaster remained innocently void of arachnids.

It was definitely all in London's head, then. Not surprising since a temperature check not long ago had shown a reading flashing helpfully between 40.5 centigrade and 104.9 Fahrenheit. He should have tried to give London some more medication earlier, but he had foolishly hoped he would not have to resort to intravenous administration. It was not as if London had the best veins to begin with, not after God knew how long as an addict.

At least the shot would take the fever down as well, and he would manage it by injection if he had to. Really, there was not much else that could be done for viral 'Flu except ride it out and keep his eyes open for secondary infections.

Getting to his feet with a faint groan, Elliot padded over to the kitchen. It was still early, and his sleep had been fragmented at best. Not that he had expected much better. London's obvious nightmare had wrenched them both from slumber. After that, dealing with the Consulting Criminal's stomach upset had meant Elliot was too active and awake to go back to sleep. He had read for more than an hour, aware of London nestled close to where he sat, near enough that Elliot could feel every flutter of London's breath against his skin, tempting and hypnotic.

Blindly, he made himself some breakfast, boiling the kettle as his thoughts continued their lazy, wobbling whirl. Perhaps he had managed to get a couple of hours of sleep on his makeshift mattress, but London's peace was short-lived. Elliot must have woken up again at five to the sound of his name being called. That in itself was fine, but he had known the minute the Consulting Criminal told him, quite clearly, that the toaster was melting, that something was not right.

Hallucinations were not that rare with fever, and London seemed far less concerned than most. He was not sure if that was because he failed to see the danger of dissolving objects or giant spiders, or whether the fever made London react in an atypical fashion, but Elliot had spent almost as much time reassuring himself about what was real and what wasn't as he had trying to get some medicine into London.

He leaned back against the counter as he chewed his way through two slices of toast, watching the sky beyond the window lighten to a dove grey as the sun rose steadily on another overcast morning. By the time he had finished, the pattern of his day was cemented in his mind: get washed and dressed, get in supplies, and continue his endless task of taking care of the Consulting Criminal. It was a good thing he wasn't needed anywhere, because the thought of leaving London to fend for himself was frankly terrifying. What if he tried to piece the melted toaster back together, or make the spiders into pets?

He was just about to head for the shower when the sound of the phone pulled him up short. The innocuous device sounded like a gunshot echoing throughout the apartment, and Elliot quickly sprang into action before it woke London.

'Found the lover in the river, already dead. Need your help.'

Elliot raised his eyebrows, chewing thoughtfully on his lip. It was not like Cruz to be so straightforward when it came to getting London on a case unless he was at his wit's end. Either he really was snowed under by too much work or that dull case London had complained about had elevated itself to something more intriguing.

Not that London could do anything about that right now. He was bad enough to control when he was healthy and lucid. Elliot did not want to imagine what could happen if the Consulting Criminal was unleashed on a crime scene in this state. Throwing up on evidence would be the least of their worries.

'No chance, sorry. He's got Flu. Hallucinations and everything. He's going to be no good to anyone. Try again in a couple of days?' Elliot replied.

He glanced over at London, still secretly surprised that the sound of his phone going off had not activated some kind of “must respond” reflex and jolted him from sleep. No doubt he would be furious when he came round enough to realize that the Work was calling and he was unable to answer, but he would have to live with it. Even if he tried to get to the scene without Elliot's help, he doubted that London would make it as far as the front door before his body betrayed him again.

'Bloody hell, really? Take a picture. Prove he's human. Will drop a file by later, in case he can cope with that.' Cruz replied with amusement before ending the call.

A huff of laughter caught in Elliot's throat, and he shook his head to himself. At least he was not the only one thrown by London's occasional moments of alarming humanity. It just proved that the image he had built around himself for all these years was nothing more than a convincing persona. London insisted he was a manipulative genius, a high-functioning sociopath incapable of true emotion or compassion, and everyone believed him. They did not even have to ask him for proof; he gave it to them with every interaction, from shamming to get someone's keys to his complete lack of pity for murder victims. He did not empathize at all, at least not on the surface, but there were moments when it all cracked apart and Elliot caught a glimpse of something real inside.

Flicking on the taps to the shower, Elliot got rid of his pajamas and stepped under the spray as he kept half an ear open for London, straining for any sounds of distress. Mercifully, the apartment stayed quiet beyond the closed door, and Elliot felt himself steadily begin to relax as the warm water drummed at his stiff shoulder and rinsed away the shampoo suds that clung to his hair.

There was no time to waste. So he quickly did what was needed.

Stepping out, he grabbed a towel, scrubbing it quickly through his hair before wrapping it around his hips and headed for his bedroom.

Finally, he was through with his morning routine, feeling slightly more awake and collected having brushed his teeth. Clean clothes were up in his bedroom, and he belatedly wished he had thought to get them before he used the bathroom. Still, too late for that now.

Pulling open the bathroom door, he paused, his eyes falling on the couch and a blink fluttering his lashes. It was empty. No London. No blanket. Just a pillow falling drunkenly onto the floor.

For a brief, horrible moment he wondered if the Consulting Criminal had heard the call after all and somehow managed to drag himself outside and off  to answer Cruz's request. Only the fact that London's suit, scarf and coat remained piled on the floor made Elliot hesitate. London forgetting his clothes was completely believable, but he was mostly fused to his scarf. Even ill, he probably would not leave without it.

Cool air danced over Elliot's skin as he padded further into the apartment, craning his neck until he noticed a soft, lumpy shape in the kitchen, just visible between the thicket of chair and table legs. It took barely a heartbeat to get to London's side, and Elliot's head was already racing with possible emergencies when the Consulting Criminal's rough voice reached his ears.

'I hate being ill.'

He sounded earnestly miserable, sat on the floor and slumped against the cupboards as if he had decided he needed something and simply ran out of strength before he got there. From the rough shape of him, Elliot could guess that his knees were drawn up to his chest, and the bulk of the blanket was wrapped around him, leaving only his hair and his eyes clear, which were looking at Elliot in a faintly glazed, puzzled way.

'Why are you wearing a towel?'

'I was in the shower,' Elliot said, tugging the knee-length strip of fabric tighter around his waist before cautiously kneeling down. 'Didn't you hear the water running?'

London's expression suggested that he possibly had, but had been incapable of doing the necessary basic arithmetic to work out what the noise meant. Definitely losing mental acuity then. At any other time, Elliot would have taken a moment to revel in being the smartest person in the apartment for once, but really, London was looking a bit too pathetic to tease right now.

Those ever-changing eyes looked greenish in the subtle light coming in through the windows, underlined as they were by red rimmed lids and the brown of the blanket pulled up over his nose. London's gaze was less sharp than usual, but Elliot still felt his skin burn as his bare chest became the subject of that hazy focus. Elliot grinned as London lowered his head to his blanketed knees, looking for all the world like he intended to sleep where he was.

'Come on, you can't stay here.' He cupped London's elbow in his left hand, helping him to his clumsy feet. The blanket tried to slip, lolling heavily across one of the Consulting Criminal's shoulders and trailing on the floor, but Elliot was  more concerned about his towel, which seemed more intent on playing with gravity than keeping his dignity intact.

In the end, he held it closed with one hand while guiding London back to the couch with the other, watching the taller man surrender himself back to the cushions with a groan, pillow retrieved and blanket cast a bit haphazardly over his frame. At least he was not shivering any more, but that was likely to change as soon as the drugs wore off.

'Why were you in the kitchen? Did you want something?'

The Consulting Criminal blinked, the effort of marshaling his thoughts clearly almost too much before he managed, 'Water. I'm thirsty.'

'Right.' Elliot gave a quick nod, going back to fetch a small glass before checking the bucket was installed at London's side and dragging the coffee table closer so that he could put the glass down. 'The injection I gave you, as you know, was painkillers only, not an anti-emetic. You might still feel sick. Sip it slowly, all right?'

He watched London struggle into a half sitting position, clutching at the glass and skimming his top lip to the surface of the water. When he was certain he was not going to gulp it down and cause outrage to his stomach, he turned away, trotting upstairs with a promise to be back in a few minutes.

Getting dressed was a quick and perfunctory job. Underwear, comfortable trousers, a t-shirt and an old jumper were all he bothered with. By the time he padded downstairs in just his socks to search for his shoes, London had only consumed about an eighth of a glass and looked like he was already regretting it.

'Lie still, and try to take your mind off it. Here,' Elliot passed him his book. 'Read that, but don't tell me what happens.'

London accepted the paperback, his gaze lingering with a hefty dose of doubt on the strange sigils on the front cover. 'Can't I have one of my books?'

'No, nothing non-fiction. You're meant to be resting, and I know you. You'll read a book about poisons or something and suddenly be overcome with the urge to make some, and maybe even try them out.' He winced, noticing that the green-around-the-gills pallor to London's skin was only getting worse. 'And if you're going to throw up, try and use the bucket.'

He barely had time to finish the sentence before London was doing just that. He swung his legs over the edge of the couch so his feet were on the floor, snatched the bucket, and expelled the water from his stomach with a violence that had Elliot's sides cramping in sympathy. It had been too much to hope that he would be able to keep it down, and Elliot hesitated at the end of the couch, keeping his distance as the heaves turned dry and fruitless.

'Ugh,' London managed, spitting into the bucket before setting it down and slumping back onto the couch. 'Vile.'

'I know,' Elliot murmured in sympathy, reaching out to brush London's hair back from his clammy forehead before picking up the bucket. 'Can you do without this for a couple of minutes? I'll empty it for you.'

The nod London gave was fractional. If Elliot had to guess, he would say that any excess movement right now was a bad idea, and he found himself wondering if he should really risk going out and getting food while London was so clearly unwell. Mind you, Mrs Hanson was a capable, grounded kind of woman: she had to be with how long she had known London and also had him as a tenant. No doubt she could handle a little vomit if it came to that. As long as London could handle Mrs Hanson, of course.

He made his way back out into the living room, having swilled the bucket out in the bath, and put it back down by London's head. The noise of it made the Consulting Criminal's eyelids flutter, but he was already heading back into the steep valley of sleep. It was the best place for him, really, and Elliot gave him a very gentle nudge.

'I need to go out and get some things for us. There's not much in the fridge but body parts. I'll get Mrs Hanson to come up and look after you, okay?'

His only answer was a hum of agreement, and Elliot dithered for a moment before pulling himself together. London was not a child. An hour without him at his side would not be the end of the world, even in his current state. To be frank, it was more dangerous to leave him alone when he was in a slump of boredom. At least now the chances of him blowing anything up were minimal.

Quickly, Elliot collected up his keys and wallet, shrugging into his coat before slipping out of the door and trotting down the stairs. The soft sounds of the radio were already coming from Mrs Hanson's rooms, and he knocked politely, smiling as their patient-as-a-saint landlady opened the door with a smile.

'Elliot, dear, is everything all right?' she asked, her happy expression wobbling a little, no doubt as a dozen or so potential London made disasters ran through her head. 'He's not spilled acid on the kitchen table again, has he?'

'No, Mrs Hanson, nothing like that. London's got Flu, and I need to go out and get some food. I was wondering if you could keep an eye on him for me?' He sounded pathetically hopeful, and one of the benefits of having a naturally open and honest face was that people were often happy to help out.

'Oh, the poor dear. I kept telling him he'd get ill, running around in all kinds of weather and playing with chemicals.' She reached behind her, picking up a cardigan and tugging it on. 'Don't you worry. I'll make sure he gets his rest.'

'Thank you, Mrs Hanson. He's sleeping at the moment, but someone should be there in case he wakes up again. I'll be back as soon as I can.'

'Take your time, dear,' she urged. 'Even at his worst, that boy is nothing I can't handle.'

She waved him farewell, already turning to trot up to the apartment, and Elliot did up the zip on his jacket, pulling the shopping list from his pocket and clutching it in his fist as he set out. If he'd still had his limp it would have taken him the best part of twenty minutes to make it to the nearest decent sized shop at Lisson Grove. As it was, he got there in under ten, his breath steaming in the chill morning air before he stepped into the warmth of the shop.

By the time he had spent what felt like an eternity wandering around the shop and picking up everything he thought he might convince London to eat, the two baskets he had were overflowing and dragging at the muscles in his arms. Still, it should be enough to keep them going for a while. He had even bought some meat to freeze. As long as he kept it away from the fingers and things it should be fine. He was not the world's best cook, mostly falling back on simple meals, if they could be called that, when he was actually forced to make his own food, but that would probably be easier on London's stomach than take away for a while.

He chose a till with one very happy, talkative, human being behind it, who was stacking the bags with military efficiency and balancing weight to make the walk home slightly easier. The bill made him grimace, but he made himself feel a bit better with the promise that it would be cheaper than take away or eating out. He and London had fallen into terrible habits when it came to food. Maybe he could take advantage of London's illness and turn that around for both of them?

He was just stepping out of the store, fingers white-knuckled around the tenuous handles of plastic bags when a sleek, black car pulled up to the curb, its engine purring idly as it waited, blank and patient. Elliot watched it for a moment, but when it became obvious that neither Alexander or maybe Anthea were going to emerge and force him in, he inched closer, raising an eyebrow as the door popped open in invitation.

'Need a lift?' Alexander's assistant asked, not even looking up from the documents she was sorting as she shuffled over. 'Drive.'

Elliot narrowed his eyes, wondering if it was a trick. London was not the only one who liked dramatics, and he had no desire for meeting the older Holmes in another derelict building. However, the bags were heavy, and he wouldn't say no to a free ride.

With a sigh, he settled the shopping down in the back of the car, ignoring Anthea's slightly perturbed expression, as if groceries were somehow beneath her. She nudged one with the toe of a stiletto, her eyes flicking to its contents before returning to stacks of paper as the driver pulled away.

It was tragic that Elliot knew how this kind of thing went by now. Talking to Anthea might get him an answer, but it probably wouldn't be the truth, so he kept his lips shut, watching the quick skim of the streets as the car slid with practiced ease through the traffic. Before long, they were outside the front door, and Elliot gathered up the shopping, giving Anthea a quick nod before climbing out.

As soon as he let himself into the hallway, he saw Mrs Hanson cleaning, her feather duster flicking over surfaces. There was no radio playing, which was unusual, and dimly he realized that someone was speaking upstairs in a low, quiet voice. At Elliot's questioning look, Mrs Hanson smiled. 'London's brother came by. I thought it best to give them some privacy, but I'm keeping an ear open.'

'Alexander?' Elliot asked with a wince, glancing up the stairs. He should have realized that the over-protective older Holmes would make an appearance before long, but the very thought of the Consulting Criminal  suffering through Alexander's interference and a virus at the same time was almost too much to bear. 'And London's putting up with him?'

'I think he's still asleep,' Mrs Hanson's lips twitched with a smile. 'What he doesn't know can't hurt him. It's hard watching family when they're ill. At least this way Mr Holmes feels like he's helping.'

A weak huff of laughter escaped Elliot's lips, and he thanked her before setting off up the stairs, quietening his footsteps as the murmuring took on the definition of words. Alexander was speaking very quietly, still eloquent, but some of the professional sharpness from his tone had gone. There was no weary resolution wrapped up in his voice, nor overbearing concern. It was how Elliot imagined him and London might speak to each other if there was not so much resentment from both sides: London at Alexander's meddling, and Alexander's for the fact that such interference was necessary.

' – you were ill you were eight. You probably don't remember,' Alexander was saying. 'You fell in the lake just before Halloween. I never did find out what you were doing out there, but you traipsed back to the house dripping wet. The next morning you were full of cold and wretched with it. Sticky in a way only children can be.'

The door had been left open a crack, and Elliot hesitated on the threshold, unwilling to interrupt as he peered through the gap. He could just make out the lump that was London on the couch, but it was Alexander in the armchair that held his attention. He had pulled it up close to his brothers side and discarded his suit jacket, leaving him in a waistcoat and shirt sleeves. His expression was fixed in a soft, worried smile, and his hand was resting against London's head, his thumb stroking back and forth in slow comfort.

He looked like a new man, and suddenly it was easy for Elliot to see why Alexander interfered like he did. Despite the bitter sharpness of their unique relationship, London was still his little brother. They had both been children once, though that in itself was quite hard to imagine, and to Alexander, maybe London always would be that eight year old boy.

'It got worse so quickly it was frightening. Within twelve hours you couldn't breathe. Pneumonia and pleurisy. They put you in hospital, of course, and all the time I kept telling myself I should have been there, just like so many other times in your life.' Alexander sighed, and there was only one word for the expression on his face: regret.

Elliot felt guilty for eavesdropping on the conversation – for seeing Alexander as anything other than the calm, collected government official he was used to, but before he could think of how to announce his presence the older Holmes looked up at him, faintly amused.

'You can come in. Lingering in doorways is so unflattering.'

'Sorry,' Elliot murmured, his lips twitching into a smile as he nudged the door open fully. 'I should have realized you would be here when the car showed up.'

'I imagined you could use the assistance. Besides,' he added with a tiny curl of his lips. 'London is so much easier to speak to when he cannot talk back.' He got carefully to his feet, shrugging back into his jacket and collecting his umbrella, apparently unruffled by being caught in a mood that was anything but aloof. 'I must thank you for looking after him with such diligent care. Few people would be so willing. Your loyalty and devotion is truly commendable.'

His astute eyes flickered, ever-so-slightly over to the cocoon on the floor that Elliot had roughly nudged aside earlier, and he tried not to flush at the intimation in Alexander's tone.

'Now do you believe me when I say I can and will take care of him no matter what?' Elliot managed after a moment, automatically lifting his chin.

'I must admit I have somewhat misjudged you in that regard. My apologizes. I will leave him in your obviously capable yet full hands. Do call if I can be of any assistance.'

Elliot could just imagine the Consulting Criminal's reaction to that, but he nodded anyway. 'Thanks, and I'll pay attention to his lungs. It's good to know about risk factors like pneumonia.' Belatedly, Elliot wondered if the little monologue had been scripted for his attention rather than London's. He honestly would not put it past Alexander, who could be irritatingly indirect at times.

'Much appreciated,' Alexander said with that same, thin smile that Elliot had seen far too often. 'Good day.'

His footsteps echoed down the steps as Elliot watched him go, waiting for the sound of the front door clicking shut to reach his ears before letting out a breath. It was useless wondering how Alexander knew London was ill. No doubt his surveillance had picked up on his younger brother's failing health before London even knew it himself. It was one of the many eccentricities that Elliot had re-labelled as “normal” since meeting the oldest Holmes sibling.

Other people wondered how he lived with it – the scary biological experiments, pieces of human cadaver and London's undeniable arrogance – which was too much to bear for most. They decided he was either brave or completely insane to share a home and life with a man like the Consulting Criminal, but Elliot knew the truth of it.

Whether he was running across rooftops, patching wounds, or facing down death and boredom like equal enemies, this was where he was meant to be.

Meeting London Holmes was a sign. A gift. One that he would and on more than one occasion, nearly died defending.

Time moved strangely, clotting in gnarls of endless minutes only to lurch and then flow through his fingers. The last thing London remembered was the spiders on the ceiling, the quick stab of a needle and Elliot wet from the shower. Now, hours seemed to have passed him by. The furniture in the living room had moved slightly: one armchair was closer to him than it had been, and the daylight coming in through the windows had the half-hearted quality of late afternoon and cloudy skies. The nights were drawing in fast, but London's mind struggled to guess at the hour, and he glanced at the clock on the mantle, feeling as if he were cheating.

Four thirty in the afternoon. He had slept more in the past twenty-four hours than he had in the weeks, yet still his body felt like lead, heavy and aching while his stomach squeezed around the petulant knot of nausea. Prickles ran down his throat like barbed wire, and if he did not know better he would have thought he had not bathed for a week.

London groaned, pressing the fingertips of his left hand to his eye and wishing he had the brain power to think at speeds faster than that of a mollusk, but everything moving through his head had slowed down to treacle: practically useless. 

'Back in the land of the living?'

London frowned, pulling his hand away and blinking blearily at Elliot. He was leaning on the back of the couch, dressed in a beige jumper monstrosity that did absolutely nothing for his complexion. Yet his expression was not one of judgement or distrust, just tenderness and a healthy dose of pity. 'You've been out for the best part of the day. You didn't even wake up when Alexander was here talking to you.'

Elliot was still here, looking as calm and friendly as ever. There was nothing to suggest he was even the tiniest bit perturbed, and London felt a brief moment of feather-light relief before his words sunk in.

Ugh, brother mine. Interfering git.

'Missing my brother is no loss.' London wrinkled his nose, glancing at the armchair. Yes, now he looked closer it did looked a bit squashed. 'What did he want?'

'I think he was just making sure you weren't suffering too much. You know, caring for you, as I keep telling you, like brothers do.' Elliot raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile as London scowled. 'No need to sulk. At least you didn't have to listen to him.'

'Shame, really.' London sighed, frowning up at the ceiling for a moment.

'Oh, why?'

'I had the means, motivation and a perfectly valid excuse to throw up on his shoes, and I missed it.'

Elliot's laugh was a welcomed sound. There was nothing artistic about it, nothing false or crafted. It was a natural chortle of mirth, one that had the Consulting Criminal smiling faintly despite his malaise.

'Maybe he'll come back and oblige you, although someone would still have to clean up the carpet.'

'True. That wouldn't be very fair to you, as I can guarantee that Alexander would never do it. I vomited on rugs at his town-house, more than once. Expensive. Persian. Hideous. He bought new ones every time rather than scrub them.'

Elliot shook his head in disbelief, stepping around the couch and perching at London's side. His hand was dry and cool as he pressed it to his brow, lingering for a moment before dropping to his jaw and palpitating beneath the bone. 'Checking for swollen glands,' he said by way of explanation. 'Alexander was kind enough to remind you, while I was in earshot, of when you were eight and fell in the lake.'

London pulled a face, remembering the precise incident. He had done well, really, to have gone so many years without another serious illness since then. Consequences of drug abuse did not count, since they were mostly his own fault. 'Chest infection. You're worried the 'Flu might complicate?'

'It's a valid concern,' Elliot murmured. 'Pneumonia and pleurisy is more than a nasty cough, and that kind of thing contracted in childhood can come back to bite you in the arse sometimes.'

'That was more than fifth-teen years ago,' London pointed out, his voice husking slightly as Elliot's fingers lingered over his pulse a little too long.

'You've had none since? Not even when you were using?'

'Possibly. Probably.' London shut his eyes, if only to block out the sorrowful look Elliot  got when he dwelt on his past. He still remembered that fake drugs bust of Cruz's the first night Elliot moved in, and his vigorous disbelief that the Consulting Criminal had ever done anything chemically recreational.

In an abstract sense, he could see why Elliot had struggled to fathom it. In theory, intelligent people did not sink themselves into substance abuse. It was a stupid, desperate thing to do, and perhaps others could not see how London Holmes could ever fit into either of those categories.

Yet Elliot really had never asked questions, and so London did not offer any answers. The subject lingered between them, unspoken and nebulous but for faint allusions.

'Honestly, I don't really remember whether I was ill or not,' he said at last, scowling as the thermometer made a reappearance. Elliot seemed obsessed with checking his fever, although the general lack of hallucinations suggested it had ebbed somewhat. 'Is that really necessary?'

'Yes. You've not had another dose of anything to keep it down, but you've not displayed any of the signs of the fever breaking, either. Do you still feel shivery?'

'A bit. Mostly when I move.'

Elliot nodded to himself, checking the reading with a sigh before putting it away. 'Still up, but better than it was. I'm assuming you're not seeing anything strange. You certainly seem more lucid than this morning. Half of what you said made no sense, and what I could understand was mostly about the spiders.'

London nodded to himself. His memory of that bit was surprisingly clear. 'They were gigantic. Bigger than my hands. Strange. Why spiders?'

'God knows. Most people are terrified by their delusions. If anything, you seemed fascinated.' Elliot got to his feet, heading for the kitchen and rummaging in the fridge for a moment, making enough noise that London felt it necessary to raise his voice to be heard.

'Most people are aware on some level that their delusions are unlikely to be real. Their fear is often induced more by the uncertainty of reality that the actual images they see.'

'Nothing to fear but fear itself?' Elliot asked, turning around with an obnoxiously orange bottle in his hand. The lid was off, and it had a bendy straw in it leaning drunkenly against the rim.

'Something like that.' London went to wave a hand dismissively, but aborted the gesture when his wrist didn't particularly cooperate. 'What's that?'

'Something I made with no caffeine, but a fair bit of sugar and some electrolytes. Sip it very slowly.'

'Is that really wise?' London asked. 'The experiment with the water did not go very well, if you recall.'

'Yes, I remember thanks. I was standing right here.' Elliot passed over the bottle before holding out the object in his other hand. 'That was also the last thing you had to drink. You're dehydrating, and we need to get fluids into you. Try this.'

London looked at the half-biscuit with a frown. Right now his stomach felt as if it had gone on a particularly mutinous kind of strike and was chewing on itself instead.

'I feel I need not remind you of this but, ginger is a natural anti-emetic. It might help settle your stomach. I want to try this before I start drugging your body so that you'll accept food.' Elliot's face was a picture of determination, as if he thought London's flesh and bone would somehow be easier to bully into submission than the man himself. Normally, he was not so obvious in his concern. Injuries were often met with an equal measure of worry and shouting about unacceptable risks. Clearly Elliot was more prone to sympathy if the harm was not self-inflicted or acquired in the pursuit of something reckless.

Interesting, but not entirely unexpected.

'Do you always treat people with Flu like this?' He gestured to the medical bag, indicating far more than just the general paraphernalia inside.'Injections and so on?'

'No, but normally other people have better eating habits than you and are more accepting of a “wait for it to pass” approach.' He gestured to the biscuit again, nudging the damn bucket closer with his foot. 'Try and eat it, if you can.'

Grudgingly, London did as he was instructed, nibbling the biscuit little more than a crumb at a time. The taste was not entirely reprehensible, and the chunks of ginger root took the stale, flat taste from his mouth. The orange of the drink made for an interesting contrast, and although his stomach groaned threateningly, he did not feel an overwhelming urge to make use of the bucket again. Eating and drinking while mostly reclined was challenging, but not impossible, although the simple coordination required was more exhausting than usual.

Elliot was watching him carefully, his arms folded and his chin lowered a little. It was definitely his “observant” pose, rather than “belligerent soldier”, and London thought he heard a sigh of relief as he consumed the last of the biscuit and put the bottle on the coffee table. It was still mostly full, but he did not want to risk drinking too much until he was sure he would not lose it again: an idea Elliot seemed to approve of.

'You'll probably keep it down better if you don't get up,' he suggested, looking up as someone knocked on the door. 'Stay there, please?'

'Where else would I go?' London questioned, raising his voice as Elliot walked through the door. He was all-too-aware that he was a prisoner of his body's weakness. Efforts to move were not required for him to realize how utterly uncooperative his limbs were, and the aches that still rumbled up and down his back and made nests in his lumbar region suggested that lying on the sofa was the limit of his stamina.

Normally, he liked lounging around. It helped him think, rendering his transport motionless but for the simple rush of breath and the blood in his veins, but now his flesh was too loud and demanding, swamping out the lucidity of his mind with petty needs and pains. A shift of his arm brought on another rash of shivers, and he tugged at the quilt, trying to find a more comfortable spot on the couch and closing his eyes as the thud of more than one set of footsteps echoed on the stairs.

'You're right, he does look like terrible.' Cruz did not sound particularly sympathetic, and London huffed a breath out through his nose before opening one eye and trying to glare. It did not work. He would have known that even without the snort of laughter from the Inspector. 'I almost didn't believe Elliot when he said you had Flu.'

'Sadly, he's right, does happen from time to time.' London replied, gratified to see a little bit of pity emerge at his rough voice. 'Why are you here?'

'Ah.' Now Cruz shot a glance at Elliot, and some mute conversation that involved a glare and a shrug took place. 'He didn't tell you then?'

'Tell me what?' London sighed, hating his molasses mind. He felt like he was missing something important, and the expression on Elliot's face suggested he wouldn't like it.

'Before you tell him,' he began, holding a hand out to Cruz to stem his words before glaring at the Consulting Criminal, 'you have to promise me you won't try to get up and race out of the door or anything equally ridiculous.'

'And why would I do that?' London asked, raising one eyebrow and letting his voice drawl over the words. His behavior made Elliot shift to block the door, looking as if he fully intended to tackle London to the ground if he so much as twitched.

The idea had some appeal, but London ached too much to put it to the test. Besides, it might give Cruz an aneurysm. He was already looking back and forth between the two of them, something suspiciously smug tilting his lips. Eventually, he waved the file that had been clenched under his arm. The flash of manila caught London's eye, and his frown deepened as Cruz handed it over to Elliot.

'The lover you told us to look for last night turned up in the Thames. Knife wound to the chest, straight into the heart.' Cruz shrugged. 'If they murdered Ms Hunter, then someone else got to them as well. You can't come out and look at anything, but we're turning up nothing but dead ends. When you're up to it, look at the file and call me if you see anything that could give us any answers.'

'If Anderson took the photos, it'll be useless. Maybe if I could see the body...'

'If you turn up at the morgue, Molly's been told to book you into one of the wards upstairs,' Cruz said, his relaxed stance changing to something more challenging. His arms were folded across his chest, and that frown that meant he was going to be stubborn had taken up its place on his brow. 'And Holmes, if you show up at any of my crime scenes this week, I'll chuck you straight in my car and bring you back here, flashing lights and everything. Understand?'

'Oh, for God's sake.'

'Understood,' Elliot said quickly, forcing the insults to die in London's throat as he put the file down on the kitchen table, well out of London's reach. 'Thanks, Cruz. I appreciate it.'

'You're the one that's got to live with him when he's climbing the walls,' Cruz murmured with a shrug. 'If you need a hand, let me know. We can handcuff him to something for his own good if necessary. It would not be the first time, would it, London?'

London made a tight, irritated sound in his throat, turning over so he could ignore them both. Unfortunately, the motion sent the sleeping pains lancing through him again, leaving him sulking and miserable as Elliot bid Cruz goodbye. Being ill itself paled into insignificance with the irritation of being treated like a child. It was like being in hospital, where useless people in white coats hovered around and tried to tell him what he could or could not do. If he was not so weary he would prove them both wrong, Cruz and Elliot.

As if this would really hold him back for a week. He would be fine tomorrow morning, and then he would show the seemingly inept police just how they should go about catching a murderer. Honestly, if it weren't for him would Scotland Yard solve any cases?

Glancing over his shoulder, he narrowed his eyes at the file, listening to the distant sound of Elliot still talking to Cruz at the door. A quick glance at the floor calculated the intervening space as only about seven good-sized paces. Was that really beyond him? Had this stupid virus really brought him that low?

Cautiously, he lifted his head, struggling upright and waiting as his stomach clenched, then settled. Good. Very good. Now he just had to get his legs to cooperate.

Wrapping the blanket tightly around himself, he eased his weight upright, keeping one hand braced on the sofa as he inched closer to his target. The aches in his muscles ganged up on him somewhat, and a hitherto unnoticed head pain began to thud at his temples, but he persevered. It was just as he said to Elliot yesterday. Mind over matter.

Except that his knees were shaking hard now, and the thump in his skull was reaching threatening levels. He was halfway to the table but somehow both carrying on or going back seemed equally impossible. It made him want to swear, but even that level of viciousness was beyond him. Instead he sank into Elliot's armchair, trying to look as if that had been his intended destination all along. He tucked his feet up under him without really thinking about it, hunching himself into as small a ball as he could manage as another voice – female, too young for Mrs Hanson, sounded like his brother's sycophant assistant – joined in the conversation downstairs, her words inaudible but her tone quick and professional.

There was the general hubbub of farewells before Elliot's footsteps returned up the stairs, measured and steady. From this angle, London was perfectly situated to see the flash of irritation turned concern that crossed Elliot's face when he noticed the couch was empty, and the speed at which the expression dissolved into something faintly smug when he saw the Consulting Criminal hadn't got far.

'You tried to get up and get the file, didn't you?' When London did not reply, Elliot rolled his eyes, his fingers tightening around a thick, gusseted envelope. Alexander's handwriting was on the front, and London scowled. What was his brother trying to do now?

'I'll make you a deal,' Elliot said, his eyes taking on a calculating look. 'If you finish the drink I made for you, keep it down and are still awake by seven, I'll let you look at the file. Okay?'