Another glance at the clock was enough to suggest that was a tall order. The few stumbling steps he had managed had left London drained, and even now his eyes wanted to drift shut. Still, if Elliot was going to challenge him like that then who was he to shrink away? London held out an imperious hand for the bottle, his fingers tightening clumsily around the cheap plastic as Elliot handed it to him before the Consulting Criminal let his eyes stare pointedly at the envelope again.

'What's that?'

Elliot glanced down, his shoulders shifting in a shrug as he wandered over to turn on the lamps, chasing off the steadily encroaching twilight.'Anthea dropped it by. Said it could be useful.'

'That just means Alexander wants to interfere. Give it here.' London frowned when Elliot shook his head, turning the envelope so London could read the neat cursive on the front.

'It's got my name on it,' Elliot replied airily, slitting open the envelope with one finger and lifting a thick file partially free from the confines. 'Suppose that means it's for me.' Before he had even finished the sentence, the fond irritation had vanished from his face, replaced instead by something entirely more serious. His blue eyes had turned a little pinched, a sure sign of Elliot's temper coming closer to the surface, and his lips drew down at the corner. 'Bloody hell.'

'What?'

Elliot pulled a face that London did not understand, sliding the paperwork back into the envelope. 'Your medical file.' He did not bother to explain further as he jammed it a bit viciously onto one of the bookshelves.

London closed his eyes in a slow blink. Normally he would be pleased to be right about his brother, but really, if he did not know his brother's motives by now then he was a shame to his self-created profession. Alexander truly was manipulative to the extreme. It was his bedrock, his foundation. All other emotion and personality traits were transient in comparison.

'You're not going to read it?'

Elliot looked at him, one hand braced on the back of one of the kitchen chairs as he shook his head. 'Why the hell would I?'

Trick question, or was this one of those “caring” things that went over his head sometimes? 'Because?'

Elliot cuffed a hand through his hair, his gaze darting quickly back to the file before skating away again. 'If there's anything in there that I need to know, then I trust you to tell me.'

London blinked, frowning faintly as he examined Elliot's face. He could tell so much about him, from which shop he had visited this morning to the number of cups of tea he had consumed – five, as well as baked beans on toast for lunch – but that did nothing to help him understand the way Elliot believed in him so implicitly. He had daily evidence that the Consulting Criminal was rude, abrasive, arrogant and manipulative, and yet he still seemed to think the best of him in the face of all proof to the contrary.

He opened his mouth to say that, to challenge and query and push Elliot to see how far he would flex or whether he would simply break, but what came out instead was, 'Thank you.'

The word seemed to hover in the air between them, surprising to them both, and London frowned as he stared at the bottle in his grasp. 'I don't think I could be so trusting if the situation was reversed.'

'That's because you're pathologically curious with poor self-control,' Elliot pointed out, some of the tension ebbing from his shoulders as he straightened up. 'I don't want to read about your life from some stupid file. I don't want to hear about any of it from Alexander either, even though he is hell bent on telling me at every chance. No. If I'm going to find out anything, then I’d rather get it straight from you.'

'An unreliable source,' London murmured, watching Elliot shrug as he turned back to the kitchen, flicking on the kettle.

'Maybe, but you're the only one I would really believe.' He looked briefly uncomfortable before lifting his chin, leaning back on the kitchen surface. 'Cruz looks at you like a wayward son, your brother treats you like a reprobate child, and everyone else uses you for your brain. I don't –' Elliot shook his head, shifting restlessly. 'I don't see you the same way they do. I like to think I know you better than that. Could be wrong of course.'

London rubbed his finger up and down the straw, feeling the smooth plastic and the sudden interruption of the concertina hinge that made it bend. 'What they see isn't a fabrication. I'm not a different person around you.'

'Yeah you are. Around me, you don't try to be more or less than exactly what you are.' Elliot was getting restless again, ticking things off on his fingers as he paced in a tight line in front of the kettle. 'You don't do extra arrogance. You don't sham at being human, but more than anything you don't try and be anything but yourself around me. That's why I trust you and it's why I'm not reading your damn medical file.' He jabbed a finger in the direction of the envelope, now nestled among their books like a wolf in sheep's clothing.

London paused, his head tipping to one side as he watched Elliot – so ordinary and yet so much more – moving restlessly around the kitchen, brewing tea as if it had caused him personal offence. The quick beat of the teaspoon against the surface was agitated, and he spilled some milk through sheer clumsiness. He was worried about something. Concerned he had said too much, perhaps?

That would not do at all. Elliot disconcerted was a sight London hated almost as much as Elliot bleeding or wearing that shut down, heavy look of distress he got sometimes, normally when London had done something 'bit not good' and refused to see or understand it.

'I was wrong.' The words felt distinctly alien on his lips. Contrary to popular belief, he could actually admit when he had made a mistake. It just happened so rarely that there was barely any need. At Elliot's sharp, surprised look, he pressed his lips together, choosing his words with care. 'I have often criticized you for failing to observe anything of importance. I think, as it turns out, we were simply looking at different things.'

It was like a light had come on behind Elliot's eyes, warm and pleased at the simple, subtle praise. London did not need to say more, did not need to add I was looking at crime scenes and you were observing me, because even if Elliot did not hear the unspoken words, he got the message.

'Here.' Elliot picked up the file Cruz had left, passing it over to London.

'But it's not seven.'

'Positive reinforcement,' Elliot replied. 'Because that, what you just said? That was good.'

London snorted, opening the file and dragging it up close to his face so that Elliot could not see the smile the praise had brought to life on London's lips. Positive reinforcement indeed. The file was not as much of a reward as Elliot's bright, earnest smile, though the Consulting Criminal would rather hug Donovan or Anderson than voice that fact out loud.

Speaking of Anderson, the idiot's marks were all over the paperwork. Poorly angled photographs, blatant assumptions... heinous. How that man, along with Donovan, kept his job was one of the true mysteries of the world, and London could almost feel his brain creaking with frustration. He barely noticed Elliot begin to cook something, padding around the kitchen in companionable silence as London attempted to focus on the data in front of him.

'Ugh! Impossible.' He dragged his hands over his eyes, wishing he could shove his fingers through his skull and shake his brain into its normal sparkling activity. So far even his deductions were fruitless, obvious things, and his focus kept shifting in and out as he became distracted by meaningless tangents.

'If you're going to lose your temper, I'll take it away from you,' Elliot said, gesturing with a fork towards one of the pans. 'It's just basic pasta with a bit of sauce. Think you can stomach a spoonful?'

'No. Even the smell is too much.' London moved his fingers to his temples, dimly hearing Elliot put the extractor fan on to clear the air. 'I wish I was a brain in a jar. So much easier.'

'Not as attractive, though. That and I would have to carry you around everywhere, and how would you tell people your deductions? Unless you're a telepathic brain in a jar?' Elliot glanced over, looking questioning, and London quickly schooled his features into something indifferent.

'Yes.'

'God, London. No, just no. I'm not letting you remove yourself from your head and live a barely physical existence floating in fluid. You'd get bored.'

'But I would never get ill, which is the point.'

'Your jar might get smashed. Then what would you do?' Elliot filled his plate, grabbing a fork before waving his hand dismissively. 'No, that's enough. I don't want to talk about this, especially not when I’m eating. Put that file down and drink.'

Elliot made his way over to the couch. The lack of back cushions, which were still on the floor, meant he did not relax. Instead he propped his elbows on his knees, the lurid light of the streets outside casting faint flickers of highlight across his face as he ate.

London half did as he was told, balancing the file on the awkward bend of his knees as he sipped from the straw. He tried to keep his eyes on the paperwork, but they kept straying of their own accord, lifting to settle on the lines of Elliot's profile.

Attractiveness was such a subjective thing, entirely open to personal interpretation and carrying a vast, incomprehensible weight in a supposedly civilized society. No one was immune to the pull of it, not even him, though he did try to remain above it. Entanglements were messy at best and disastrous at worse, but that did not mean he was blind to the relative merits of those around him.

One of the first things he had noticed about Elliot was the deception. This man – determined, deadly, dangerous – purposefully hid all that behind a facet of loyalty and concern. He took care to make everyone carefully forget that he was a trained killer. He focused on the better part of his character when out among the police and other people. He let people see what he wanted them to see.

Of course, the Consulting Criminal did not work that way. One of the first things he had known was that Elliot had killed as many men as he had saved. He had never been able to hide what he really was from London, and he had never tried. He had never lied and attempted to be something he was not for him, and as Elliot seemed to have observed earlier, it appeared London had unconsciously returned the favor.

They saw each other as they were and yes, London had to admit, it was attractive to know about Elliot's depths. Aesthetically, he was pleasing, short but strong, there was an enviable power in that compact body. An intelligent mind, yes, but not a sharp one.

No, it was as much who Elliot was as what he looked like that made him attractive. The sum of his parts added up to this unexpected, delightful, indecipherable thing, and London had moments of utterly embarrassing captivation. Much like now.

He blinked, looking down and away, grateful that Elliot had not noticed him staring. It was made clear long ago and it was being reinforced that Elliot had become an unwitting essential to the existence of London Holmes.

That should be terrifying. Yet London found himself enjoying the long unspoken realization. It was, after all, another increment of understanding.

Data to which his mind could dance.

'You can't fall asleep there. Your back will never forgive you.'

London opened his eyes, not even aware he had closed them as his mind circled inwards. The empty bottle was still clutched in one hand, and the file was starting to slip sideways down the skim of the blanket. Elliot was crouched down next to him, all calm, serious eyes and faintly uneven symmetry.

'You're shivering.' Elliot pointed out, tugging the empty bottle free and replacing it with a slice of toast. Odd, London had not even heard him get up to make it. 'I gave you quite a hefty dose of intravenous paracetamol this morning, but it probably wore off a while ago. I should have given you something sooner, sorry.' Elliot tipped his head, his eyes narrowing as he examined London's face. 'You going to be okay?

'It's fine,' London murmured, his lips twitching. 'It's all fine.' He blinked down at the plate in his hands. 'Are you expecting me to eat this?'

'Just a few bites, since you managed the biscuit. Then you can take some tablets and go to sleep.'

The toast was rough and plain in his mouth, coating his tongue in a garrison of crumbs without enticing much reaction from either his taste-buds or his stomach. The pills went down much the same way, helped by a small splash of clear, cool water. London was encouraged, but Elliot still looked doubtful as he helped the Consulting Criminal back onto the couch, settling him with ease and tucking the blanket up under his chin.

'You're not going to be up to crime scenes for a while. You know that, don't you?'

'A prompt recovery is not unheard of,' London murmured, a delicate shiver that had nothing to do with fever skittering along his arm as Elliot's fingers brushed over the back of his hand. 'Maybe tomorrow?'

'No.' There was the rustle of cloth, and he opened his eyes to find himself staring directly into Elliot's. The connection sent a jolt down his spine, painfully reminiscent of those times after a chase when they caught one another's eye and something would twist between them like a Gordian knot.

He heard Elliot's breath whisper through his lips on the inhale, and the next words were stammered as Elliot glanced away. 'I – I know you're feeling better than yesterday, but Flu can intensify and wane more than once before it's properly gone. A day or two won't cut it. You know that.'

London sighed, his shoulders twitching as another, harder shudder trickled through him. Virology was not really his area, unless it was relevant to a crime scene. Except that's just what his body was now: cells dead and dying, murdered by another organism and the clues left written in muscle fibers and thudding, sickly blood. For once, he would have to follow Elliot's deductions and allow him to solve the crime unassisted.

'You'll stay?' he asked, too weary now to voice more words. He hoped Elliot understood that he meant more than just this moment. He meant yesterday and tomorrow and ever onward, into the indefinite future.

And the words drifted back to him, folding around him as sleep dragged him down into its greedy palm, the last anchor to the real world he would know for days to come.

'I'm not going anywhere, Holmes.'

Elliot sat in the armchair, his jaw working as he clenched his fists under his chin. He tried not to tremble as London's whimpered cries caught in the air of the apartment: plucked harp-strings of distress. He had no idea what was going on in that head – what images that subconscious was offering up to a fever-ravaged body – but sitting here was almost more than he could bear.

London's periods of lucidity had decreased over the past forty-eight hours, the drug's effectiveness hampered by the virus raging through his system. The evening Cruz had dropped off the police report had been a temporary lull, as if the disease was simply massing its forces to unleash the true level of its vigor on London's helpless form.

Elliot could not inject London, not without someone to restrain him, and the reaction when anyone tried to hold him down was visceral. Elliot touched the bruise on his jaw: the result of his single, ill-conceived attempt. It had not been a well-aimed punch, definitely not consciously done, but it was shocking all the same. God alone knew what the Consulting Criminal thought was happening to him, or who he believed Elliot was, but Elliot found himself wishing for the mundane of giant spiders and liquefied appliances. At least those had not reduced London to anything like this.

'Here you go, dear.' Mrs Hanson held out a mug of tea to him, her expressive face crumpled in sympathy as London's next breath caught on a cough: not rattling and clogged, not yet, but it was another burden on the pile of Elliot's concerns. 'He's sounding worse.'

'Most of it is the fever,' Elliot managed, taking brief comfort in his knowledge. 'It's gone back up, and I can't get anything in him to keep it down.' He huffed a faint, derisive laugh, pressing the heel of his hand to one eye. 'What good am I? Can't even help him through Flu.'

'That's nonsense.' Mrs Hanson tutted at him. 'You've been here all hours, barely sleeping. You're a good friend and an amazing doctor. We both know that boy would refuse and fight anyone else if they even hinted at trying to help. He wouldn't even allow a second of weakness to show but look at what he's allowed you to see. He will get better and it will be because of you. Wait and see.'

Elliot ducked his head, wishing her words made him feel better, but the truth was he had never felt so useless, nor so weak. London was a strong man despite his slender frame, and whatever he believed was happening was enough to make Elliot glance over at the medical file still shoved in the bookcase. He had meant what he said, he did not want to read it, but right now the Consulting Criminal was incapable of telling him anything.

A knock on the door had him jerking his head away, a breath of relief stuttering past his lips. Mrs Hanson hurried downstairs as fast as her hip would allow, and even Elliot could hear the gratitude in her voice as she let Cruz in. Elliot had called him earlier, almost begging for help. He had initially considered Alexander, but London would hate to know his brother had seen him like this, and Cruz was the next best choice.

As soon as Cruz stepped into the room, his gaze fell on the Consulting Criminal. There was no sign of humor in that expression now, just pure concern tempered with determination.

'Need me to hold him down?' he asked, shrugging out of his jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves.

'You sound like you've done this before,' Elliot replied, watching as Cruz took off his tie and undid his collar.

The Inspector shrugged, his face pulling down in a grimace, and Elliot for not the first time, wondered how much he had helped London in the past, before he knew him. 'More than you think. He's had a bad trip or several. Back when I first met him. It's terrifying to watch. Hurts to see him like that.'

'I know. A few hours is one thing, but this has been going on for too long. We need to get the fever down. His behavior will adjust as it drops. I'd have done it by myself but –' He gestured meaningfully at the bruise, smiling as Mrs Hanson walked in with a bowl of water and some heavy towels. 'I need someone strong to hold him still and try to keep him calm while I work.'

'What do we do first?' Cruz asked, moving to stand by the couch and putting his hands on his hips.

'Get his t-shirt off. Ignore any shivering, we can drop the heat faster than he can generate it. Especially when he's not eaten for more than twenty-four hours.' Elliot stepped closer, changing the pitch of his voice to something quiet but firm. 'London, it's Elliot. Look, we need to help you. I need you to just lie still. Do you understand?'

There was no response. The Consulting Criminal did not open his eyes, just continued to murmur something unintelligible, his head thrashing to the side and exposing the long column of his throat. It was easy to see the rash of goose flesh that danced over him as his body drove the fever higher in a desperate effort to eradicate the virus, seemingly indifferent about whether it killed itself in the process.

'Up you come,' Elliot urged, trying not to flinch as London trembled, going rigid as he and Cruz pushed him upright and peeled the t-shirt clumsily over his head, leaving London's scarred torso exposed and shuddering in the air of the apartment.

'Christ, he's burning up.' Cruz frowned, easing London back down as Elliot reached for one of the towels, soaking it in the lukewarm water and wringing it out before laying it on London's bare chest.

The response was instant. London's body jerked like he had been shot, his breath hitching in an agonized cry. His eyes clenched, still closed, and Cruz quickly leaned in, gripping his wrists as he tried to lash out.

'Hey, Holmes, listen it's me. It's Inspector Cruz. We're not going to hurt you. We're not –'

'Stop it. Please – please stop.' A hard shudder racked through London's body, making him groan as Cruz looked up and caught Elliot's eye. He shifted slightly so that Elliot could press another wet towel to London's brow. The water drenched his hair and rivulets trickled down across his temples. 'It's cold. It hurts!'

'It's not cold, it just feels like it. I promise, okay? I promise.' Elliot knew he sounded desperate, pleading as London struggled against Cruz's weight. He reached into his bag for the thermometer, adjusting the setting to make the display active for longer before he glanced at Mrs Hanson.'Do you think you can just hold his head still for me?'

'Of course.' She stepped forward, leaning over the back of the couch and speaking in a soft, crooning voice. 'London, dear. It's just me. Hold still for a moment, there's a good boy.'

'I don't – I don't.' He gave a gasp, the tendons in his neck standing out as he strained against them, but Elliot held fast, watching the temperature remain stubbornly steady.

'If I can't get this down in the next hour, I'll have to call an ambulance,' he whispered, pursing his lips tight as London's struggles turned weak, his breaths coming out in tight sounds of panic. 'God. Come on. Fight you stubborn asshole, fight!'

Minutes ticked past, the three of them frozen in a strange tableau with the Consulting Criminal insensible and quivering between them. Water trailed down his skin, collecting on the leather of the couch as each breath fluttered from between his lips: too fast and hoarse. Mrs Hanson's fingers rubbed softly, her grip not shifting from holding him still as she murmured soothing nonsense, but Elliot was not even sure if London heard her.

'London?' Cruz's question made Elliot glance up from the thermometer, and he noticed that those eyes had snapped open, glassy and dazed. 'Can you understand me?'

Carefully, Elliot moved his hand across London's face, about a finger's length away from his eyelashes to block out the light, watching those pupils dilate. 'Reflexes,' he murmured. 'He's not alert.'

'Because of the fever?' Cruz asked, pulling a face when Elliot nodded. 'It's bloody creepy. Is he getting any better?'

Elliot shook his head, removing the thermometer and dragging the towels away from London's body. 'We'll get him to the shower. He'll hate it, but it's the best thing for him now.'

'He'll drown!' Cruz protested, giving a grunt as Elliot pushed London upright.

'No, he won't. I'll get in with him and make sure of it. Give me a hand, will you? Mrs Hanson, can you turn the shower on? Warm enough that it feels about the same temperature as your skin.'

Between them, Elliot  and Cruz managed to support London's weight, almost dragging him towards the bathroom. London was barely holding his head up, possibly struggling to regain some form of consciousness, but there was no focus in his eyes or coordination to his movements, and Elliot found himself re-evaluating his decision about the ambulance.

'Ten minutes in the shower. If it doesn't bring him around at least a little bit then we head for the hospital. Someone should call Alexander.'

'I'll do it, dear,' Mrs Hanson promised, leaving the door to the bathroom open and standing aside. 'Don't let him hurt you, will you?'

'I'll do my best,' Elliot promised with a weak smile, leaving Cruz to brace London against the wall as he peeled off his jumper. He did not care if his trousers or t-shirt got wet, but the wool would weigh him down and he would need all his strength and focus to deal with London. Dragging back the curtain that clung lovingly to the side of the bath, he stepped over the edge and under the spray. It felt neither hot nor cold, but he knew that to the Consulting Criminal it would probably seem bitterly chilled.

'Alright. This is the tricky bit. He will more than likely fight us. Just try and help him over. You're going to get wet.'

Cruz grunted, doing as he was told. 'Get worse than this on a rainy night. Ready?'

'Ready.' Elliot held out his arms, supporting London's weight as Cruz lifted London's legs and moved them over the edge of the bath. As soon as the water hit his skin, he jerked again, almost knocking him and Elliot over as he tried to twist away.

'Just water. It's just water! Come on. Stay with me, just for a little bit.' Elliot grunted, his shoulder aching under the strain as he draped London's arms around his neck and looped his grip around that slender waist, holding the Consulting Criminal's dead weight with strong arms. His head dropped forward onto Elliot's shoulder, his eyes closed once more and his dark curls slicking to his head as the water cascaded over them both. It pressed the boxers London was wearing to him like a second skin and turned Elliot's t-shirt and trousers dark and heavy.

Cruz stood back, watching them both and prepared to leap forward if either of them slipped. Time measured itself out steadily in the drum of water and every quiet, shaking breath.

Eventually, Elliot's muscles began to tremble with the strain, and he lowered them both to the bottom of the bath, draping London over his lap and cradling his head and shoulders, keeping him half upright and protecting his face from the spray. The skin beneath his hands was slick, but gradually he thought he felt the burn of heat lessen, dragged away as surely as if it were being rinsed down the drain.

'Holmes, can you hear me?' he asked, searching that face for any sign of responsiveness and smiling as dark eyelashes fluttered, parting slowly over eyes that no longer stared, but found their focus within a few heartbeats.

'Hmm? Elliot?'

'Yeah, it's me. Are you with me now?' He reached out a hand, swiping London's hair back from his face as he tightened the other arm around his body.

'I didn't realize I was away.' London sounded tired, exhausted really, for someone who had been unconscious, and confusion was twisting his brow as he struggled to grasp what was happening to him.

'What's the elemental symbol for lead?' Elliot asked, knowing questions about Prime Ministers and popular culture would be useless to determine mental clarity.

'Pb,' London responded after a moment's thought. The time it took suggested he was still a bit out of it, but Elliot smiled anyway, because awake and responsive was a hundred times better than the wretched delirium of the past couple of days.

'Why is it raining?'

'We're in the shower,' Elliot murmured, dropping his fingers to London's throat to check his pulse. 'Your fever spiked and I couldn't get it to fall again. I had to cool you down quickly, and this was the easiest way.'

The Consulting Criminal appeared to digest that for a moment, as if he was turning the statement over in his head looking for flaws. At last he blinked, the water from the shower still running down his cheeks like tears as bright silver eyes drifted down to the bruise on Elliot's jaw. 'What happened to your face?'

'Nothing important,' Elliot brushed off quickly, reaching up and shutting off the shower. 'Come on, let's get you out of here. Cruz?'

'Right here.' Cruz gave a weak smile, a thick, dry towel already in his hands. As soon as London was wobbling on his own two feet, he pitched it around his shoulders, gripping it tight shut under his chin and forcing London's clumsy fingers to latch around it. Helping him out of the bath was a graceless affair, but they all managed it without falling over and Elliot quickly steered London to sit on the closed toilet seat, one hand on either side of his head as he lifted his face to get a better look at his eyes.

'Cruz, can you go and get my bag, and ask Mrs Hanson for some clean, dry clothes for London?' A knock at the front door made Elliot look up, and he saw a grin twitch across Cruz's face.

'I'll let Alexander in as well, shall I?'

'Thanks.' Elliot looked back at London, narrowing his eyes critically. 'Tell me how you feel. Don't leave anything out.'

London sighed, sounding so tired that Elliot felt his eyelids drag in sympathy. 'Aching. Head hurts. Chest hurts. Cold.'

'Anything else?' Elliot asked, nodding his thanks as Cruz passed over the bag, as well as a fresh t-shirt and underwear for London. 'Are you feeling dizzy, sick?'

The Consulting Criminal shook his head, making a rough sound of complaint as Elliot sat back a little way, reaching for the tourniquet and a fresh syringe. He was not going to even attempt to give London anything by mouth at this stage. He was already shivering hard again, his body undoing the shower's good work, and Elliot was desperate to keep the fever away from dangerous territory and give London some relief.

'Clench your hand into a fist and release it for me?' Elliot instructed, tapping at the crook of London's left arm before shaking his head and switching to the right, where the veins were in slightly better condition. 'Again.'

London mutely did as he was told, his hair still dripping occasional points of cold onto Elliot's hands and arms. They were both still wet, but the warmth of the apartment meant Elliot's hands were steady and unaffected as he measured out the dose and cleared air from the syringe before easing the needle into London's arm.

He focused on what he was doing, not making a sound when London rested his brow on top of Elliot's head as if he didn't have the strength to hold himself up any more. 'Still with me?'

'Mmmmm,' London murmured, making a tiny noise of discomfort as Elliot slipped the needle free. 'Like I said, I didn't even realize I was gone. What day is it?'

'Friday. It's been two days since Cruz came over with the file.'

London's tight noise of disgust was so familiar that Elliot grinned, looking up. From this angle he could see London's jaw and lips, set in a line of annoyed disapproval. 'That feels like five minutes ago.'

'Believe me, it's been a lot longer.' He capped the needle, twitching in surprise when long fingers touched lightly at the bruise on his jaw, not enough to cause pain, but there all the same.

'This was me, wasn't it?' London asked quietly, tracing the outline of the darkened skin before letting his hand fall to Elliot's shoulder. 'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be,' he replied, pulling back and reaching for another towel before dumping it over London's head, gently patting the worst of the moisture from his curls. 'It was my own fault. I was trying to keep you still to get some medicine in you. You took exception. Understandable, really.'

'But not helpful, ' London pointed out, his muffled voice gaining clarity as Elliot finished and put the towel over the radiator. For once, London looked less than artfully groomed. There was a shadow of scattered stubble across his jaw and upper lip, and his hair was an undignified tangle. He also looked thinner, Elliot noticed with a grimace. The slender layer of muscle had already begun to fade, letting his bones show through sharper than before.

Quickly, he reached out, tenting the skin on the back of London's hand and watching it fall back into place. It took longer than it should, and Elliot pursed his lips before meeting London's gaze.

'Mild dehydration,' London pointed out. 'Not bad enough for an IV.'

'No, but you need some fluid. Let's get you dry first, then we'll work on that.'

Elliot worked quickly, brushing the towel across London's pale skin and soaking the water away. 'Can you change your clothes by yourself?' he asked, deliberately trying to keep his voice steady.

'Yes,' London replied firmly, frowning as Elliot stood back. 'You can leave me here. I'm not going to collapse.'

'I wouldn't be so sure of that,' Elliot replied, turning his back and staring at the wall. 'This is as far as I go. Hurry up, or I'll do it for you.'

'Like you haven't done it before.' London muttered, but there was a hint of a very tired laugh under those words, and Elliot heard the whisper of movement as he resolutely glared at the paint on the wall. Finally, he heard the sound of London sitting back down on the toilet seat, punctuated by a sudden, sharp bout of coughing.

He spun around watching his the Consulting Criminal prop his elbows on his own knees, the t-shirt tangled in his fingers as his chest jerked with each spasm. At last, London quieted, clutching at his head with one hand. 'Really, brain in a jar is sounding better with every passing day.'

Elliot shook his head, reaching for his stethoscope and warming it on his palm. 'You’ll get better eventually,' he promised. 'Breathe in.'

London did as he was told, and Elliot could feel the swell and rush of air beneath his steadying palm as he listened for any tell-tale rattle over the thud of the heart everyone swore did not exist. Thankfully, his lungs still seemed clear, and Elliot dragged the plugs from his ears before reaching for London's t-shirt and pushing it over that dark head.

'You seem all right so far, but I'll get Alexander to get in some antibiotics anyway, just in case.'

London made a tutting sound. 'Abusing a health service? Rebel.'

'It's not abuse. In your case, it's being prepared. I'll have to call Molly for the prescription.'

'Because you don't keep a pad in the apartment.' There was no accusation in that tone, just a kind of faultless logic that spoke volumes about London's brain power. He was still feverish, of that Elliot was sure, but the drop from critical levels had rendered him not just alert, but fairly sharp.

'It's not that I don't trust you...'

'Yes it is, and you're right, at least when it comes to things like that. You know I'd have no qualms about faking your signature if I was desperate.' The corner of London's lip curled in a half-apologetic kind of smile. 'You allow yourself to keep basic medication around the apartment, and can justify the fact that you have them even when you really shouldn't because of my dangerous lifestyle, but you're too sensible to contribute anything tempting to a recovering addict's environment. Including a prescription pad.'

'You're not the only one who gets tempted,' Elliot pointed out, feeling London's eyes bore into him.

He could almost see the cogs turning in that brilliant mind, slowed down to normal speeds by the havoc wreaked upon its transport, but the moment of enlightenment still dawned in London's eyes. He let out a breath. 'Of course you do.'

'Not so much any more,' Elliot promised, his hand hesitating before he reached for the thermometer again. It was not really necessary, he knew London's fever had dropped thanks to the shower, and the drugs would keep it that way now, but he wanted to quantify the change – if only to put his mind at rest. 'I'm too busy looking after you to worry about myself.'

London gave him a dark look, grumbling anew as the thermometer beeped out a far better reading, and Elliot put it away with a nod. 'Good, 

right, let's get you back to the couch. At least it's leather and will wipe dry.'

'Why is it wet?' London asked, looking oddly distressed and confused.

'We tried wet towels before we got you to the shower. It didn't work,' Elliot explained. 'I needed Cruz’s help to hold you still enough to keep them on.'

'And my brother?'

Elliot glanced over, trying to read London's expression, but he did not look too annoyed. More just faintly resigned that his illness had gathered an audience. 'Thought we might have to drag you to hospital. That's a next of kin kind of situation.'

He pulled open the door, lifting an eyebrow as he saw both Cruz and Alexander hovering outside. Once again the older Holmes had abandoned both his umbrella and his suit jacket, and this time his sleeves were rolled up. It made him look strangely normal.

'We'll take him from here, Elliot,' Alexander promised, ignoring his brothers rough sound of irritation. 'You should get changed into something more comfortable than wet fabric.'

'Yeah, the only reason you don't look dead on your feet is because everyone looks good next to London right now,' Cruz added, unceremoniously taking the Consulting Criminal by the shoulders and guiding him towards the couch, which Elliot noticed had a new nest of clean blankets and pillows: no doubt Mrs Hanson's doing.

Part of him really did not want to leave, even for a few brief moments to change into dry clothes, and he scratched the back of his head before speaking. 'Fine, just try and keep him awake, and make him drink something.'

It was a bit like giving orders to troops. Both Cruz and very surprisingly, Alexander, bowed to his authority and Mrs Hanson appeared to have forgotten her “Not your housekeeper” rule as she made cups of tea and fussed over London, who at least bore it with moderately good grace. Probably too tired to really complain.

Padding up the stairs, Elliot peeled off his clothing, placing them on the radiator to dry as he dragged a spare towel over his skin. Part of him felt that he should dress in proper clothes, but the clock was already ticking towards one in the morning. Besides, his sleep over the past few days had been shattered, and the weariness gnawing at his body was starting to become a dead-weight.

In the end, he chose a half-decent t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. Not too obviously pajamas, but comfortable enough to sleep in. Warm socks went on his feet, which were chilled after the lukewarm shower, and he ran his fingers through his short hair, scattering water droplets with a few quick flicks before he reached for the phone at his bedside.

Calling Molly at this time of night for antibiotics would earn him nothing but scorn, but he knew as soon as he explained what was going on, Molly would be up and moving heaven and earth. With any luck Alexander could pick it up from her in the morning. Elliot would rather waste the medication and not need it than let any kind of infection sink its claws into London when he was like this.

Padding back downstairs, he smiled to see that Mrs Hanson was handing Cruz some blankets and urging him to use one of the beds. 'You can't go home at this time of night!'

'You can take mine,' Elliot added when Cruz looked like he wanted to protest. It was obviously the Inspector had been at the office working late before Elliot's call, and the man looked as shattered as Elliot felt. 'Save you braving whatever is in London's room.'

'Where're you going to sleep?'

'Living room floor's fine for me. Has been the past couple of nights. Besides, I'd rather keep an eye on London.'

'I'm fine,' the Consulting Criminal's voice grated from the direction of the couch, sounding far from convincing. 'Use my bed.'

'I will watch my brother.' Alexander promised. 'A few hours on a proper mattress will do you the world of good. I will wake you if we need your assistance.'

Elliot hesitated, glancing quickly towards London, but if the man protested his brother's offer, he was too tired to show it, clutching feebly at another bottle had made up and clearly struggling to keep his eyes open. 'Fine,' he agreed at last, 'but I’m still not exposing Cruz to whatever else is in your room, London, I'll take your bed. Is there anything I should know about?'

'No,' London murmured, 'but don't touch anything on the third shelf up. Or on the bedside table'

Elliot paused, glancing over his shoulder just in time to see something like a smile twitch over Alexander's lips, matched, alarmingly enough, by one from his little brother. Cruz had noticed it too, because he clapped a hand on Elliot's shoulder.

'Rather you than me, mate. Sleep well.'

'Thanks. You too.' Elliot scooped the blanket and pillows he had been using off the floor, trailing them tiredly into London's room. To be honest, he could not bring himself to worry about whatever he had hidden, as long as nothing truly vile jumped out at him in the middle of the night.

Elliot was too exhausted to brush his teeth, mentally and physically drained by his worry over London, and he collapsed onto the mattress with a quiet groan, letting his muscles relax inch by inch. It felt good, he had to admit that. No more getting irritated by his pillow slipping off the leather couch cushions, or twitching awake at every little sound London made, but still, leaving him out there with his own brother felt a little bit like abandonment.

Dereliction of duty.

Elliot gave himself an irritated grunt, rolling onto his front and burying his face into the pillow. Keeping anxious, helpless vigil would do nothing to make the Consulting Criminal better, but sleep was something they both needed, and he tried to still the spin of his thoughts. Vaguely, he could hear voices, Alexander's faintly nasal enunciation and London's deeper, richer baritone, but they were too quiet for him to pick out the words.

It did not sound like an argument, but as he knew all too well, the Brothers Holmes could keep a war going with nothing but dark looks, so that really wasn't saying much. Elliot tried to listen, to untangle the sense of syllables from the murmur of sound, but his brain was too far gone, and he found himself slipping in and out of dreams and waking: a shallow, useless sort of slumber.

It was the blackest part of the night – hazy street-lights beyond the curtains and a faint lull in the ever-present throb of city life – when Alexander shook Elliot awake. A quick glance at the clock showed him it was just before four a.m. but he was awake in an instant, wiping at his eyes as he demanded to know what was wrong.

'His fever is breaking. He asked for you.'

Elliot was out of the bed without even realizing it, padding out in the living room. Shallow, soft light bathed the room, picking out the gloss of sweat that covered London's forehead and gathered in the hollow at the base of his throat. He had thrown off the blanket, but he still looked wretched, wobbling on the border of sleep and wakefulness as his fever shattered apart the biological way – the way it was meant to.

'Okay?' Elliot murmured, sitting on the floor by the couch and watching London's eyelids flutter closed, as if he could not quite hold them open. 'It means you're getting better: battle won.'

'I know.' London mumbled. 'I do know something about the human body. Though this doesn't feel like winning.'

Elliot smiled at the tone of London's voice: undercurrents of arrogance and irritation. He reached for the bottle of water holding it steady and urging his friend to sip from the straw. 'Did you want me for anything particular, or was Alexander just getting on your nerves?'

'He was snoring,' London replied, licking his dry lips before wearily dragging a hand across his brow to wipe some of the sweat away. 'Smugly. It was either wake you or hang Alexander outside the window by his tie'

A faint chuckle escaped Elliot's throat. It never ceased to amaze him how quickly London's mind could work, even in dire circumstances. It was not rare for people to go from delirious and insensate at the hands of a fever to abruptly alert and aware as soon as the body's heat dropped away, but the Consulting Criminal seemed to have a greater ability to focus himself than most. 

Mind over matter after all.

Soft noises of conversation and the clatter of breakfast dishes punctuated the Consulting Criminal's sleep, pushing aside the veils of oblivion and dumping him rudely into wakefulness. The first thing he noticed was that Elliot's warmth was gone. London had not even felt him extricate himself, but clearly some need or other had driven him to leave. Hunger, perhaps.

London quickly took stock of his body, registering every leaden ache with displeasure. The fever had gone, leaving him feeling sticky and bruised in its wake, but the malaise lingered like some kind of parasite, chewing at him as if he were a three course meal.

Shifting his arm slightly, he bit back a groan as a plethora of different pains jangled to life, radiating through his back and joints and surfing over the crests of his larger muscles. He almost expected to see his skin dappled with injuries, but when he dragged his gritty eyes open there was no discoloration staining his flesh, just the half-hearted wash of early morning light through the window: winter's dawn. He estimated it was somewhere around seven thirty, judging by the rattles that drifted up from the cafe below and the incoming tide of traffic that signaled rush hour was getting under-way.

So, in essence, his body felt as if it had come off worse in a fight against the 113 bus from Edgeware – Scania with a transverse-engined chassis painted the patriotic London red with Aztec blue accents – but his mind was clear, if a little glassy and somewhat fractured in patterns of thought.

He was not sure whether he should be pleased that at least now he could think, or irritated that his body's recovery was set to be significantly slower than that of his mental capacity.

London shot a glance at Alexander, who was just settling himself comfortably in the nearby armchair, a mug of coffee in one hand and a jam-slathered croissant in the other. So much for the diet.

'Of course,' he replied, wincing at the rough scrape of his voice in his throat. His normal rich tones were reduced to something gravelly and faded. London frowned as Alexander paused with his pastry halfway to his mouth and shot him a surprised look.

'Hoarseness is an expected addition to a viral assault.'

'Perhaps you should think twice before speaking. You sound about three sentences off becoming mute.' An aristocratic eyebrow quirked.'Although perhaps that would be a blessing to the nation as a whole.'

London flipped his middle finger at his brother, ignoring his brothers indifference as he let his hand drop back to his side. Simple movement was almost beyond him, but he pulled a face before stiffening his resolve and dragging himself into a half-slumped sitting position. His head spun, a brief, giddy little waltz – dehydration, low potassium, sodium, magnesium, calcium, muscular ion pumps struggling and inefficient – and he was caught in the strange no-man's land where hunger and nausea become one and the same. His stomach did not want to digest anything, but his body needed the nutrition.

Catch twenty-two.

Elliot's hand interrupted his vision, a bowl with what London deduced to be porridge and a touch of milk in it cradled in his palm. The cheap ceramic was startlingly white, and made Elliot's skin glow as if it remembered the Afghanistan tan it had carried before succumbing to Britain's pallor-inducing weather. 'Eat as much as you can of that, but go slow,' Elliot instructed, his expression indicating that protests would be useless.'We need to see what your stomach can handle, and it's easy on your digestion.'

'Because it has the same consistency as wallpaper paste,' London muttered, hearing Cruz give a snort of agreement from where he was propped against the kitchen table, practically inhaling his coffee. 'I'm not hungry.'

'Does not matter, brother mine.' Alexander shook his head. 'You probably don't even recognize what hunger feels like any more; you've trained yourself out of it.'

'Food is boring,' London muttered, jabbing the spoon half-heartedly into the bowl as he leaned back into the corner of the couch, using the 'V' made by the wing and back to support his weary weight. His spine ached from lying on the couch, hunched and curled rather than lain out like a statue, and the grate of his neck clicked in his ears as bone slid over cartilage.

He picked at the cool, texture-less stuff with little enthusiasm. The first swallow made his stomach pang, sharp and hard as if it shared his disdain, but within half-a-minute the timbre of sensation changed, becoming hollow and desperate as the oily edge of nausea dwindled with the sustenance.

He managed half of it and was rewarded by a pleased smile from Elliot and Alexander, who had perhaps been expecting more of a battle. 'Right, we'll give that thirty minutes to settle, and then you can have some tablets for your aches.'

'I will pick up the required medication from Miss Hooper.' Alexander added. 'My assistant will bring it over as soon as possible.'

'Thanks. With any luck we won't need it, but I'd rather not take that chance.'

'If I can do anything else, let me know,' Cruz said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Right now, though, I have to get to work. Got to try and solve that case myself, since a certain someone can't help at the moment.' Cruz put his mug down, doing up his collar and reaching for his suit jacket. 'Let me know when you're back on your feet.'

'I will have to follow the good Inspector. This country sadly does not run itself.' Alexander licked jam from his finger with an unseemly amount of pleasure as he got to his feet. 'Do call when you are feeling better, brother mine. You know how I worry.'

London rolled his eyes as Elliot thanked them both, showing them the way out and leaving him to slump a little lower on the couch. Last night he had been too spent to care about people other than Elliot observing him unwell, but this morning was a different matter. Cruz had seen him in worse conditions, of course, as had Alexander, but that was not the point. At least then he had inflicted the damage on himself rather than being a pathetic victim.

'Sulking?' Elliot asked as he shut the door behind Cruz and Alexander. 'If it weren't for them, you would have been waking up strapped to a hospital bed this morning.'

London gave a grunt. At least he had been spared that. Nurses and doctors, mediocre in their skill and undeservedly proud of their self-sacrifice. Elliot proved he  was the exception, of course, not just from London's disdain of medical professionals. Surprisingly, he did not mind that Elliot saw him so reduced, whether that was bored out of his mind or laid low by illness.

Probably because Elliot would never use it against him, unlike Alexander and, to a lesser extent, Cruz. Perhaps they would not be malicious (much) but they would remind him of any time when he had been less than his collected, centered self. Elliot would do no such thing – at least not without adequate provocation. He treasured moments when the Consulting Criminal was blatantly human, standing guard with dogged loyalty over his weaknesses.

'Drink this,' Elliot instructed, handing London another glass of water. 'When you feel up to it, I'm also going to weigh you on the scales I borrowed from Mrs Hanson. Your metabolism will have dropped, so hopefully you've not lost too much weight, but I need to check.'

Ugh, he should have known Elliot would be as empirical about weight as he had been about the fever. He was as much a scientist as London in many respects, and he approved of quantifiable results. 'Is that really necessary?'

'Yes. I've let you get away with a frankly disturbing level of self-neglect, because you always assured me that you and your so called 'transport' could handle anything and I believed you. Now, look at you! Don't you think it's time for some changes?'

Oh, that did not sound good.

'Changes?' London asked, and at least now the sore throat made his voice sound suitably ominous. 'Allow me to deduce your intentions. Three square meals a day, eight hours sleep, force me to subscribe to all the stupid ephemera of “the average person”.'

'Is that what you think? That I'm trying to make you average?' Elliot shook his head. 'Even if I wanted to I wouldn't stand a chance. You can't make something unique mundane. I wouldn't even try.' He sounded hurt by the assumption, and London forced himself to hold back his defensive annoyance. Of course, Elliot was not his father, or Alexander, for that matter. Elliot thought he was amazing, rather than anomalous.

'All I want to do is find a compromise between the Work, your mind and its transport. Without that body, the other two are meaningless. You need it. You seem to have conveniently forgotten about that.' Elliot glanced back into the kitchen before turning his gaze to the floor, his voice softening. 'I don't want to force you to do anything, but I'd like to think you respect my expertise. I might not be the world's only genius turned Consulting Criminal –'

'But despite everything you've done, deep down inside you’re still a doctor, a damn good one.' London interrupted softly, 'and you hate to see me ignoring my health as much as I loathe an unsolved case. I get that. I really do.'

'Exactly.' Elliot smiled then, as if impressed by the faint flicker of frankly rudimentary understanding. 'I'm not trying to fix you. Because as I keep telling you and anyone who'll listen,  you're not broken.' He frowned at London's snort, his face turning hard and vicious for a second. 'You're not and I plan to keep it that way. Just let me try and help you find a balance between a razor sharp mind and a healthy body to carry it around, okay?'

It was important – London's willingness – that much was obvious in his stance and the faint way he tipped his head to one side: open, honest and trusting. Elliot was not interested in a dictatorship of health. He wanted cooperation and shared goals. He wanted partnership, and London found himself slowly inclining his head in agreement.

God help him, he would try a lot of things to stop Elliot going all stormy, like he did when the baseline of his disapproval was hiked into a mountain of distress. Of course, that meant actually standing on some scales – dull. Unfortunately, he expected Elliot might have some kind of fit at the measurement.

London might not monitor his mass the same way that others did, but he could remember the actions of the nurses after a fortnight where the next hit had taken precedence over the next meal and an unfortunate overdose. He had found himself in hospital, and once they got him on the scales there had been uproar. He was too light, too thin. Medical staff tried everything they could think of to keep him in their care and break the cycle, not that they had succeeded.

Looking down at his fingers curving around the glass, he examined the bones with concentrated care. Metacarpus and phalanges all contained in a sheath of skin, knuckles tight and prominent: a natural clenched grip, but the styloid process of the ulna was an unwelcome jut, too sharp and pressed against the thin veil of flesh. It was a minor tell, but in the poker game of healthy eating, it called his bluff. Elliot would notice it, and all the other little signs his body gave away through simply existing.

'Here.' Elliot nudged him gently, his palm unfurled to reveal two capsules: something specifically formulated for cold and flu judging by the writing stamped on the cellulose. 'Take these and rest.' London swallowed back the pills and pulled the blanket up to his chin in a petulant sulk. 

'Now I'm going in the shower. Let me know if you need anything.'

He listened to Elliot pad away, filling the apartment with comfortable sounds of habitation. There was the chime of crockery as he stacked things by the sink to wash up, then the snick of the bathroom door and the steady, solid gush of water, accompanied by the clang and creak of the pipes. It reminded London of the night before, of coming back into awareness as if he had never been gone, enfolded in Elliot's arms while the shower drummed down all around them.

Elliot had looked so relieved, his face delighted as if London had performed an earth-shattering deduction rather than merely opening his eyes. It did not take a genius to realize how clearly worried he had been, and even London could admit that Elliot had gone beyond the call of duty. He had done everything he could to treat the Consulting Criminal at home, calling in assistance as soon as it was necessary and soldiering on until the battle was won.

Gratitude was the most common thing to express in these situations, or so he had been told, but surely Elliot would know that London appreciated the effort, in his own way? It was ridiculous, how comforting and wonderful it was to have someone look after him: someone not obliged by familial bonds or simply because he was useful.

Perhaps he did not give his brother or Cruz enough credit either, but their involvement meant little in comparison to Elliot's, because he made no secret about caring. He did not try and hide it behind something else as if he were ashamed. He wore it like a medal instead, chin high as if daring London to use it as a weakness or mock him for the failing.

As if he could.

Wearily, the Consulting Criminal shuffled down on the couch some more, putting the now empty glass of water down on the table and cushioning his head on the corner of the blanket. He bunched the fabric up into a pustule of feathers and cotton, soft and comfortable.
His lips twisted into a grimace, and he rubbed his cheek absently against the blanket, vaguely hearing the scratch of his stubble as his train of thought rattled around on an eternal rail.

Sometimes he wished he could outsource emotion, or at the very least scoop it out into a bowl and pass it to Elliot and ask “What the hell is this because it's possibly ruining my life and I think it's your fault?”

'You alright?'

London jumped, which was embarrassing: an all over body flinch like some nervous wild animal, and he scowled over his shoulder at Elliot to cover it. 'Of course,' he mumbled. 'Thinking.'

'About the case?'

He hesitated a touch too long, briefly grappling with the disturbing question of “what case?” before he remembered the body in the alley and the suspiciously clean apartment. 'Can't do anything much without seeing the body. Maybe tomorrow?' The hope in his voice faded at Elliot's expression. Clearly not, then. 'I can't stay here forever. My mind and brain will rot.' he pointed out, watching as Elliot grabbed some of the files Cruz had brought over and then sat down at the opposite end of the couch.

'I know that,' Elliot replied calmly, 'but you're going to have to take this slowly. Rushing off to Bart’s to harass Molly will only make your recovery slower in the long run.'

'I don't harass Molly. I try to ignore Molly. It's not my fault she's so –' He paused, struggling to find the right word and settling instead for a flick of his fingers.

'Molly is a perfectly sweet girl.'

Amazing how Elliot made that sound like a good thing – as if a sunny disposition and crippling confidence issues were somehow preferable to a brilliant mind and a solid grasp of one's profession. She had her uses, and for London's purposes easy manipulation was a benefit, but sometimes he just wished she would stand up to him. Tell him no, if only for the surprise value.

A project for another time, perhaps.

'Anything interesting?' he asked, watching the dart of Elliot's eyes following the words on the pieces of paper.

'No, you're not missing anything.' Elliot smiled at London's doubtful expression. 'A couple of people with missing jewelry and a blackmail case. They'll probably keep you occupied for a few minutes at most when you're feeling better.'

London hummed. He could probably solve them now, despite being unwell, but something told him Elliot would not sacrifice those files so easily. Besides, Cruz's case was more interesting, and he reached half-heartedly for the bland police file again.

Flipping through the photos, London wished he had been at the scene when the body was fished from the river. Corpses and water were a bad mix, and the Thames had been unkind to the young man. He had been found at the foot of one of the bridges, but the knife wound to his chest ruled out suicide and drowning. His clothes were cheap, boring, much like the ones Sophie Hunter had been wearing, but the shoes were an anomalous touch to his outfit. A pattern, perhaps.

There was a snapshot from the apartment attached to the file, the kind taken by friends at some random beer garden in London's sprawl. Clearly the man with his arm around Sophie's waist – possessively clasped over her hip, false smile hiding hard eyes – was the same one from the river. They would have a name soon enough. Perhaps Cruz had one already, but really that was an unnecessary detail. The Consulting Criminal could read the entire story from this man's body, but he was too weak to go and see it.

Glancing up at Elliot, London hesitated, blinking in surprise. His head was lolling back on the couch cushions, his eyes resolutely closed and his mouth a little open. Every inhale was an almost-snore, a rough rasp that promised to get louder unless something was done. London glanced around the room before tipping his head to the side and considering his options.

Elliot had suffered a dearth of sleep while London had succumbed to an abundance of the same. He knew Elliot too well to think that he would have allowed himself to truly rest. He would have slumbered like a soldier, one ear open, a hand on his gun (metaphorically speaking, in this case – at least London hoped so) while London lost himself in oblivion.

Now the exhaustion had caught up with Elliot, and with every moment that London lay there and stared, he realized just how uncomfortable Elliot must be.

Well, that simply would not do.

Cautiously, he set the police file aside and slipped out of his nest on the couch, clinging to the furniture as he tested his weight on his legs. The feeling of being road-kill had not reduced, though the painkillers had taken the edge off it. He had perhaps two hours while the drugs were at maximum concentration in his body, and London decided he could put that to good use. He would use the shower and do something to feel human again, and Elliot could doze on the couch. Half an hour of horizontal rest was probably worth three hours in his current position.

Of course, actually getting Elliot to move was easier said than done. London's muscles were weakened and Elliot was built like a very efficient kind of tank. In the end he had to settle for quiet, hoarse murmurs of encouragement as he guided Elliot down to the cushions and flicked the blanket over him. Elliot did not open his eyes, but London stilled.

Eventually, he realized what he was doing – gaping like an idiot – and dragged himself away and headed for the bathroom.

Walking was awkward with unresponsive muscles, and London's irritation and impatience grew with every clumsy effort his body made. His shoulders protested as he peeled away the t-shirt, checking for dry towels before stepping out of his underwear and flicking on the shower. The water drummed in the bottom of the bath, allowing his memories from the night before to float to the surface.

Yesterday had been medicinal, he told himself forcefully, the collision of the Hippocratic Oath and caring friendship. Quickly, he shoved the thoughts aside as he stepped under the spray, his skin twitching as the water fell across him and ran in curved lines down his back and across the crest of his hips. The Consulting Criminal was thankful that at least it no longer felt like his skin was being ripped apart by the gentle spray.

Elliot dragged his eyes open, briefly confused by the skewed view of the living room. The lunchtime news was muttering away to itself on the radio. One of the windows was open a crack, letting in the chill air, but the bright beam of sunlight suggested that at least the clouds had faded away.

He was lying on the couch, alone, and wrapped up in London's blanket – not in the man's double bed after all. Elliot could not even remember how he got here, but that brief question was brushed aside by the brighter, sharper internal shriek of “Where the fuck is he?”

'I'm over here.'

Elliot lifted his head a little, his gaze finally settling on where London was slumped in one of the armchairs. His legs were hanging over one side while the other supported his back, looking for all the world like he was perfectly comfortable squeezing a six foot plus body into a three foot space. His face was shaven, and his hair was dry but clearly clean, a little fluffy because he had not bothered with any product to tame the curls. He was also wrapped in that blue silk robe Alexander had brought him some months back.

The throw blanket that Mrs Hanson had given them for Christmas was wrapped around him as well, staving off the edge of winter that filled the apartment as London continued to laze in the armchair.

'You know, if you ever actually do learn to read people's minds, they won't notice,' Elliot muttered, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

'You went from completely asleep to predominantly alert with only a 0.7 second interval in between. You were alarmed. You have spent the past few days dedicating yourself solely to my care, therefore the logical conclusion was that you did not know where I was.' London's eyes met his briefly before returning to the ceiling. 'You just asked the question without speaking it out loud.'

Elliot smiled. God, it really was good to hear London being himself again. Explaining the world like it was eminently simple rather than a chaotic tumble of nature and emotion, humanity and civilization.

'How are you feeling?' He watched carefully, searching for any hint of a lie. It was not easy on London, but he'd lived with him long enough to know the little tells by now. A slight tightening of the lips, a micro-movement of the eyes up and to Elliot's left, almost but not entirely stifled by London's incredible control. Both of those were a good hint of untruth, but he simply sighed.

'Weary. Still aching and very lethargic.'

'The paracetamol's probably wearing off.' Elliot grunted as he got to his feet, padding through to the kitchen as he rubbed the haze of sleep from his eyes. 'I'll make us some lunch and you can have some more. What do you fancy?'

He stuck his head in the fridge, ignoring London's reply about not being hungry as he glanced over the options. Something small and light would be best, since Elliot was not one hundred percent convinced that the nausea was a thing of the past. Eventually, he settled for some quick-bake crusty bread and chicken soup – more a broth than anything else – clear and inoffensive.

'Have you been awake since this morning?' he asked, tipping the broth into a pan and heating it as the bread cooked in the oven. 'Four hours isn't bad, considering we could barely rouse you twenty-four hours ago.'

'I dozed a bit when I got out of the shower. Not for long. This chair isn't very comfortable.'

'Why didn't you wake me up?' Elliot demanded. 'Or use your bed?'

'I think my brother slept in it last night after you got up. My sheets need burning and I will require a new bed.' London sniffed, then shook his head. 'And you need rest more than I do. You were exhausted.'

'Holmes...' Elliot sighed, trapping irritated words behind his lips and swallowing them back. It was a kindness, really, one that his friend had shown him with increasing frequency over the past few months. Empathy for Elliot's weariness and consideration of his needs. Some sociopath.'You could have used my bed.'

'I'll remember that next time.' London's voice was rough and warm, closer than Elliot had realized, and he glanced back to see he had moved to one of the kitchen chairs, his body slumped as he pinged a finger against an empty Erlenmeyer flask. 'Thank you.'

'Common sense,' Elliot replied, still stirring the broth and watching London with half-an-eye.

'But you don't like other people in your personal spaces.'

'Strangers. I let Cruz sleep in there, and you're more of a friend than he is. I only complain if you barge into the room, especially at three in the morning because you are bored!'

'While you're waiting for lunch, stand on those.' Elliot jabbed a finger in the direction of the bathroom scales next to their front door. 'Let's see how much we need to feed you up.'

London eyed the scales as if they were a bear trap, distinctly reluctant, and Elliot eased the heat of the pot down so the broth would not burn. Moving across the room, he picked them up, bringing them into the kitchen so that he could see the display. 'It's necessary. Come on.'

He watched as London dragged his robe a little tighter around himself, his full bottom lip taking on a petulant pout before he did as he was told. The read out moved for a moment before spelling out its verdict.

'Christ!' Elliot huffed out a breath, glaring at the numbers as if he could will them higher by sheer thought. 'I weigh more than that, and I'm shorter than you. How tall are you anyway? Six foot what exactly?'

'Six foot four.' London wrinkled his nose at the scales. 'I think I was heavier than that before I was ill.'

'I don't care,' Elliot replied. He was doing the rough BMI calculation in his head and coming up with a number he did not like one bit. 'You might have lost five pounds with the Flu, but even before that you would have been too light. As for now, ten stone one is not enough. Bloody hell.'

There was a mutter that sounded like some kind of criticism of Alexander, and Elliot sighed, turning back to the broth and doling it out into bowls. 'Your brother is not fat. No more than any man who is slightly too fond of cake and has a sedentary job. You only fixate on it because you know it's a weakness of his.'

'One of the few,' London replied, as if that were a personal irritation. 'I have never been heavy. I don't see why you're making a fuss now.'

Elliot pulled the bread out of the oven, breaking the mini baguette in half and putting it on London's plate. 'It's not about being heavy, it's about being healthy. Your body mass index is low, not dangerously so yet, but you need to look after yourself better. A good weight for someone your height and build should be closer to eleven stone than ten.' Elliot frowned before adding, 'at least.'

He watched like a hawk as London picked at the bread, dipping it in the broth before chewing on it. It was almost impossible for Elliot to stop his mind skating back over mealtimes past, trying to discern London's eating habits from memory. It was not just that the irritating sod didn't eat during a case – when apparently hunger sharpened his mind – but even in the quiet times his appetite seemed stunted. It could be due to years of neglect. The body was a tuneable instrument, at least to some extent. It had probably been existing in starvation mode for far too long. London's body survived, of course, but it certainly did not thrive.

'You're scowling,' The Consulting Criminal murmured, his shoulders shifting as he pulled one of his legs up underneath him, more perching on the chair than sitting on it. 'You're wondering if it's an eating disorder.'

Elliot was already shaking his head. 'Not really. It's about being too lazy to eat properly and having a frankly inverted hierarchy of needs. You would probably decide you could do without breathing if it wasn't autonomous.'

'The Work comes first.'

'No, you come first.' Elliot slumped in the chair opposite London, staring at his own meal unseeingly. Appetite was a tricky thing, different for every person and easily affected by anything from stress to health. 'It's – it's habit, what you do. Something that you've done for years, but quite frankly if you can't solve cases and eat at the same time then you're not half as clever as you think you are.'

Those words slipped out of nowhere, spoken out by the small portion of Elliot's brain that he tended to label as “occasionally cunning”.

'That's not going to work on me.' London looked amused as he chewed the bread, his eyes sparkling slightly. 'Might have more chance if you hadn't spent every day telling me how amazing I am.' The smile faded, and he picked up the spoon, stirring the broth thoughtfully before he spoke.

'I've always been picky with food. The opposite of Alexander, who will eat just about anything. Once I was old enough to provide for myself it just – never seemed important. I'd eat, obviously, but one or two missed meals once a week turned into a struggle to remember to eat in a day. I'd get hungry, but it would be gone by the time I actually had time to find food.' He shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable. 'Nothing more sinister than being distracted.'

Elliot sighed, eating his own bread as he watched London sip the soup with a moderate amount of enjoyment. It was not that the Consulting Criminal did not take pleasure in a meal once it was set in front of him. He might quibble about it, but childhood finickiness had given way to the sophisticated taste of an adult, merely one who was too involved in everything else around him to remember to eat and who had eventually decided deprivation was no real problem.

'You treat meals like they're a distraction,' Elliot pointed out, 'but if you turned that brilliant mind of yours to the challenge you could eat on a case. For God's sake, we spend almost an hour every day in a cab. Plenty of time to scoff an apple.'

'Drivers don't like you having food in the cab.' London smirked at Elliot's sigh, but nodded his head. 'I take your point, but I really can't make promises. Food slows me down, diverts blood from the brain...'

'You'll adapt,' Elliot promised, keeping his voice firm. 'Honestly try for the next month, to eat the right amount. By the end of that, we'll have a system worked out to make sure you don't necessarily have to stop to eat, and your body will have figured out how to sate your appetite and let you think at the same time.'

He could see the indecision in London's expression, the unwillingness to let go of old ways and possibly put the Work at risk, and Elliot found himself thinking quickly, trying to come up with something that might appease London's scientific mind. 'Six small meals a day. It's probably more than you can handle right now, but that means that you'll be constantly digesting. Rather than an on/off situation with your stomach and its demands, it will be a constant low level, and you're less likely to get that “need to laze around” feeling after a meal. It should leave your brain free to think.'

At last, London nodded: a slow, reluctant motion like he suspected the whole plan would fail and was only trying to make Elliot happy, but that was enough. Elliot smiled as he cleared away London's empty bowl and handed him some paracetamol and water. Unfortunately, getting him to actually eat was only half the problem. Sustainable weight gain would be slow going, and they would need to start carefully thanks to the 'Flu. Still, at least he had been given permission to try, and that meant he could stop attempting to stuff empty calories into him by stealth.

'What if I'm honestly not hungry?' London asked, his low voice inquisitive as Elliot washed up and put the kettle on. 'Are you going to be forcing me to eat regardless?'

'It won't be a problem for long, I imagine,' Elliot replied. 'It's not like I'm going to tie you down and stuff something down your throat. It can be something little and light. Even that's better than nothing.' He chewed his lip, wondering if he was about to make a massive mistake. 'If you really decide you can't do it, then tell me and I'll stop trying to help, but promise me you'll give it a chance? Please?'

London sighed, and Elliot thought he saw the temptation to call it quits flash across his face, but in the end he gave a tiny nod. 'Okay. I promise.' He rose stiffly from the kitchen chair and shuffled back over to the couch. He did not lie down, exactly, but there was a distinct sag into the cushions. Probably his body demanding rest again, and Elliot carried on with what he was doing, quietly triumphing over small victories.

By the time he had dried the plates and set them to one side, London had surrendered to his body's needs and wrapped the blanket around his supine form, his eyes already closed and his breathing turning slow and steady. Elliot was left to grab the seemingly forgotten pile of files from where London had left them.

Outside, the sun went down, and the air coming in from the window took on an icy edge. It felt like too much effort to get up and close it, but before long Elliot found himself abruptly getting up and closing the window.

'Yoo-hoo!' Elliot quickly spun around to see Mrs Hanson walking into the apartment and coming to a stop in the living room. London pulled the blanket over his head which caused Elliot to walk over to him and pull it back down.

'I brought you boys some chicken casserole. Enough for a few days as long as you don't keep it next to anything nasty.' She held up the crock pot in evidence, puttering through to the kitchen and looking approvingly at the relatively clean table before smiling back at them. 'You look better already, dear.'

'Elliot has been taking admirable care of me. Thank you, Mrs Hanson,' London replied, casting a crooked smile in Elliot's direction.

'Well, don't you go rushing off. You'll only make yourself worse. Oh!' Her eyes lit up, and she fumbled in the pocket of her cardigan. 'That nice girl that helps your brother dropped these off earlier.'

She waved a pharmacist bag in Elliot's direction, and he got up to take it from her, checking the label. It was a decent strength course of amoxicillin, and he glanced over at London. 'You're not allergic to penicillin, are you?'

'No.' Something odd twisted London's expression, but it smoothed itself away in the blink of an eye. 'I don't think I'll be needing those, though. I've not coughed for hours.'

'Maybe not, but complications can take days to show. I'm happier to have them on hand.' He turned to Mrs Hanson with a smile, lifting the lid from the casserole pot. The waft of fragrance was perfect, and his stomach gave an earnest groan. He and London had spent the afternoon in each other's company, and the hours had slipped away like water. 'I'll get this warmed up. Do you want to join us?'

'Oh bless you, dear, but no. I've got bridge with Mrs Turner in an hour. You boys look after each other.' She said it with a quick, suggestive twitch of her eyebrows, and Elliot smothered a smile. Clearly, in Mrs Hanson's and everyone else's mind, he and the Consulting Criminal had been sharing a bed since they moved in.

Elliot turned towards the stove, heating the metal Le Cruset pot and the stew within. He did not hear London move, and only looked up when there was a rasp of paper from the direction of one of the bookshelves. London was dragging his medical file from its envelope, and Elliot raised an eyebrow as it was thrust in his direction.

'Read it,' he urged. 'I can't be trusted to know what's important and what's not, and I would rather you were prepared than uninformed.'

'Holmes...'

'I mean it.' He ran a hand through his curls, making the riotous tumble even more unruly before he dropped the file on the kitchen table. 'I want you to know as both my best friend and I'm assuming, also now my doctor.' His shoulders shifted in a shrug and he looked away. 'It's logical.'

It was, though Elliot hated to admit it. One or both of them often ended up needing medical help after a chase, and being able to give paramedics basic information could be critical. Yet even with London's permission it felt like an invasion of privacy. Still, if he was honest with himself, it was unlikely London would ever divulge the information himself. What had he really been expecting? A heart-to-heart?

Except – wasn't that what this was, in a very London way? Perhaps he was not talking to Elliot about it, but he had not tried to hide or destroy the file. He had called himself an unreliable source, earlier. Was this London's way of giving him the information without allowing himself to muddy the waters?

'Fine, give it here.' He held out his hand, feeling the smooth skim of the manila card against his palm as London surrendered his past to Elliot's scrutiny. He did not say a word as he took Elliot's place by the stove, propping himself up wearily against the counter and staring into the stew as if it held the answer to every impossible question.

Elliot watched him for a moment before dropping his hand to the dossier. It was a print out, not the original small wallet crammed full of tissue-thin paper. No doubt Alexander had taken it straight from the abysmal new NHS system – although some of it seemed to be printed on superior paper: original private practice notes, perhaps.

It was thick, as well, not a few slips of paper but a veritable tome. Normally Elliot would not expect something like this unless a patient had a pre-existing – and ongoing – medical condition.

'You'd tell me if you were dying of something, wouldn't you?' he asked, feeling something complicated shifting around beneath his ribs, heavy and nauseous.

'I'm sure you would have diagnosed me by now, if I was,' London pointed out softly. 'Most of that is paperwork from various behavioral evaluations.'

'Can I read those?' Elliot watched London carefully, taking in everything: the peaky wash to his face and the sag of his body, as well as the edge of something uncertain in his eyes.

London's answering smile was a little sharp. 'If you like. None of them are actually a current diagnosis, though I suspect you knew that already, didn't you?'

'I had my suspicions,' Elliot replied with a smile, flicking back to the beginning of the paperwork and picking up the birth certificate. Medical records were just a life story, after all. No point jumping in half-way through. He scanned through the details, trying to picture London as an infant. It was almost impossible, although when Elliot's eyes alighted on the Consulting Criminal's full name he could not help the disbelieving snort.

'Your middle name's are –'

'Don't.' Now London looked agonized, as if he wished he had gone through the entire thing and blocked out that embarrassing detail. 'My first name is adequate proof that my parents should never have been trusted to christen a child.'

Elliot smiled, giving a mute nod. London clearly hated it, although now he was over his initial surprise, Elliot could see that it suited him. There was something about London – something more than dark curls and melodrama – that was, well, very in-keeping with the thought of his parents reasoning behind his full name.

He skimmed through the details of London's early life, noticing that the evaluations began promptly. Clearly even from childhood his mother, at least, was very aware there was something different about her youngest son. Not a worried parent, precisely, but a practical one who seemed to want to make sure she was doing best by her son.

'You didn't speak until you were nearly six,' Elliot murmured, reading through the speech therapist's notes which indicated no suspicion of mental disability, hearing issues or development problems – but rather alluded to the kind of intelligence that makes all adults wary when they see it in children: too sharp and cutting.

'I spoke in whole sentences with multi-syllabic words straight away,' London explained, his shoulders shifting in a shrug beneath the robe. 'Alexander talked enough for both of us anyway.'

'Keeping quiet until you could be sure you were doing it right,' Elliot said, more to himself than anything else. He did not know much about the psychology of the so-called prodigies. Extreme intelligence went hand-in-hand with anomalies in development. Most professionals never knew whether to label such things as troubling, or merely different.

There were a couple of other medical reports, and Elliot paused at one a year later. Just a note from the emergency room about crushed fingers. At first it looked like the future Consulting Criminal had simply got in the way of a closing door, and then Elliot noticed it was about both hands at once. 

'What happened when you were seven?' he asked, waving the page.

The look on London's face was complicated, half-smug, half-guilty. 'My brother happened. He was learning piano, trying to perfect a complicated piece. I didn't play, but I could read sheet music. I thought he'd gone out when I sat down to try it.'

'You played it better than he could?' Elliot winced; he was fairly sure he could see where this was going. 'And he heard you?'

'Slammed the piano lid shut on my hands. The first and last time he ever physically lost his temper with me.' London flexed his fingers meaningfully. None of them were crooked or obviously damaged, and Elliot had seen them stroke the most beautiful, intricate pieces from the violin with no difficulty. 'He was jealous and frustrated. Neither of us played the piano again after that.'

'You didn't mean for him to hear you. You weren't trying to show him up.' Elliot looked at London, who was studiously gazing at the casserole.'You were just trying to be more like him.'

'A passing phase,' London said with a hint of promise. 'I'm surprised Alexander did not take that bit out, actually. It doesn't exactly show him in the best light.'

'Maybe he didn't think I'd notice it among the rest, or ask you about it.' Elliot shrugged, flicking to another page about the hospital stay that Alexander had mentioned after London's fall into the pond. There were old x-ray films too, and he held them up to the light, wincing at the obvious shadows that marked both juvenile lungs. 'God, you were ill.'

'I don't remember much of it.' London's fingers fluttered to his breastbone for a moment. 'Just that it hurt to breathe. Stung and burned.' He shook his head, reaching for plates and nudging aside an empty Petri dish. 'How much of this should I have?'

Elliot put the file to one side, closing it up. There would be time enough to read the rest later, as long as London's permission was not retracted. For now he would rather focus on the man himself. 'As much as you think you can manage. Take some more paracetamol with it. You're starting to shake again.'

'Elevated fever in the evening is not uncommon during recovery,' London pointed out quietly before he allowed Elliot to guide him into one of the kitchen chairs. 'You worry too much.'

'I think I worry just enough,' Elliot replied, dishing up and getting them drinks and cutlery. 'Was the piano incident the start of the thing between you and Alexander?'

London looked around, reaching out to drag the discarded throw across his shoulders for extra warmth as Elliot put the plate of steaming casserole in front of him. 'No. We never did get on that well. He's always been –'

'Overprotective?'

'Interfering. You know how older siblings can be and you've met our father. Alexander was pretty much left to raise me, as you already know. At times he wasn't just looking after his little brother, he was raising a son.' London stabbed a bit of chicken and ate it without much vigor, despite the delicious traces of wine and herbs in the sauce.

'But how does your brother go from slamming your fingers in a piano to – ' he gestured to outside beyond the window, implying everything from his surveillance to world domination. 'He told me he worried constantly; although I have to admit, he's not the only one. You don't exactly live a safe life.'

'He's addicted to control, something our father taught him a little too well.' London replied bluntly. 'I'm a piece in his endless game of chess – and one he can't command with any level of success. He hates that. He attempts to exert his will on me at every possible moment. I'm obliged to resist.' This time the smirk was warmer, and it made Elliot wonder if the quarreling between the brothers was not so much a duel as a game. 'That's what little brothers do, after all. Besides, if I didn't keep him on his toes he would end up fused to his chair.'

'I bet he still feels guilty about the piano thing,' Elliot said. The smallest event in London's medical history was sticking with him, a multi-faceted, if painful gem. It told him a fair bit about the humanity of both the Holmes', who seemed to try so hard to hide the evidence of their sentiment.

'Whenever I mention it he says I should have moved my hands more quickly.' London pushed his food around his plate before eating another forkful and swallowing. From the look of him, though, it was sleep rather than food that his body really craved. 'I don't think he intended to hurt me. He just wanted me to stop.'

'Were they broken?' Elliot asked, gesturing to London's hands, the fingers of which were moving with easy competence around the cutlery. 'I didn't see any x-rays.'

'Badly bruised and bloody. Father was furious but I think that was due to the inconvenience my screaming in pain and Alexander's rage forcing him to leave his office to see what was going on rather than Alexander's actions. He did however threaten to take away Alexander's allowance. Which actually stopped me from screaming, so Carlton did something good there. '

'I'm guessing you were normally the one being yelled at.' He could picture it clearly, London as a young boy, all knees and elbows and endless curiosity causing havoc without anything like true malice.

London nodded, his face thoughtful. 'Never like that, though. I damaged the house, set fire to the lawns, broke some windows, deduced father's minions, annoyed the hired help around the house...that kind of thing. I didn't actually hurt any one. I think it shocked Father that Alexander was capable, even if it was an accident.' He met Elliot's gaze, shrugging his shoulders. 'He didn't mean for my fingers to get caught. He only meant to scare me.' Elliot sensed the uncertainty and possible sadness in the Consulting Criminal and decided to let the subject drop for the moment. They could revisit it another time. 

'You look tired,' Elliot said softly. 'Eat a few more mouthfuls, and then we'll put you to bed.'

'It's not even seven o'clock yet,' London pointed out, but there was a heavy, fatigued drag to his voice. 'I'm not a child.'

'No, you're a grown up still fighting off a dangerous fever and the flu. Sleep's the best thing for you.' Elliot watched as London finally obliged, managing another four mouthfuls of chicken before one need overtook the other. 'Come on then.' He got to his feet, holding out a hand and pulling London upright, taking a quick moment to rest his palm against his brow. There was a bit of heat there, but nothing too alarming. London was still coordinated enough to walk, and he shuffled through to his bedroom and glared at the sheets there.

'Alexander's slept in here,' he muttered, glaring at his bed as if it had been poisoned.

'For God's sake. He doesn't have anything...'

'He might infect me. You never know.'

'You're being ridiculous,' Elliot said softly, seeing London's smile. 'And you know it, you git. Now get in.' He nudged him gently down onto the mattress, his hands skimming along the silk that sheathed London's shoulders before he dragged the blanket up to his chin. Elliot did not miss the faint sigh of relief London gave when his head touched the pillow. His eyes were already shut, his body accelerating rapidly towards the sleep he so rarely indulged in. 'Night.'

'Shut up and sleep. Goodnight.'

He reached out, flicking off the bedroom light and leaving the room bathed in the second-hand glow of street-lamps and the kitchen light. It was easier, in the timid illumination, to let the guise of doctor fall away. London's face looked endlessly serene: a racing mind brought to temporary rest.

There was hope.

An indignant blare from a cab's horn cut across the Consulting Criminal's dreams, slicing apart the tangled mess of nonsensical images that poured across his mind and leaving him to blink at the ceiling. The metropolitan glow of outside bathed the white paint, and the clock on the bedside table told him it was inching toward three in the morning. Beyond the bedroom door there was only peace, suggesting that Elliot had gone to bed hours ago.

The soft, arrhythmic patter of rain on the windowpane added a counterpoint to the waltz of London's thoughts. The fringes of sleep clung to him still, dipping him in the warm shallows of a doze as his mind continued its orbit around thoughts of Elliot, and the night slipped by.

At last, the activity of his brain outweighed the lethargy of his body, and he eased his feet out from under the blanket, feeling the pile of the carpet beneath his toes as he wobbled upright. A faint groan caught in his throat as he dragged his hands over his eyes and limped towards the kitchen. Elliot would probably sleep for hours yet, but the Consulting Criminal usually loved this time of night. It was the darkest hour before the dawn, where London almost slept and the world was be-calmed.

It was a wonderful time for experiments. He could hear himself think in the hush and relish the flash and spark of his theories. Except now the fireworks of his mind were damp squibs, sputtering into embers beneath the fog of illness. Clearly his last medication was a distant memory, and this was his body in its natural, virus-ravaged state.

Still not pleasant, but it was an improvement on the past few days. He would take encouragement wherever he could find it.

His fingers shook as he popped two tablets free of the blister pack, downing them dry and chasing them with a few sips of water. He almost shuffled over to the couch to assume his standard thinking pose, but something made his gaze linger on the cereal boxes. They had been left in the middle of the table, and London could not begin to recall if that was Elliot's habit, or if the man was trying to leave a pointed reminder of London's promise.

Eating. Tiresome. Boring. Yet Elliot had seemed so happy with London's agreement to treat himself better, and the thought of his disappointment made an uncomfortable weight settle in London's stomach. It was tempting to simply allow others to care for him; to accept food under duress and make sure everyone was aware how pointless he thought it was, but the insincerity of such behavior tweaked at his mind.

He had given his word to Elliot. For anyone else his promise would be meaningless, but now London felt compelled to at least try and keep it.

With a sigh, he eased a bowl free from the cupboard and selected a spoon from the drawer, aware of how very noisy preparing food was. With any luck Elliot would be out of earshot, upstairs and lost in the depths of sleep, but that did not stop London from wincing at the clink of the dish and the hum of the fridge as he retrieved the milk.

He ate without paying proper attention, folded up in Elliot's armchair as he lost himself in his thoughts. Frustration was building like a monotonous vibration at the base of his skull, and this time there was nothing to blame but the weakness of his own body. He was too spent to drag his muscles through the motions of an experiment. Even something as simple as sitting in front of a microscope felt like too much effort, and that left him at the mercy of his mind's roundabout spin.

It was intolerable to be like this when there was Work awaiting his input. Cruz was no doubt still struggling with the double-murder, becoming distracted as new cases piled up on him. Rather than being able to provide an answer, London was stuck inside the walls of Baker Street, where proximity acted as a lens and brought all his nebulous feelings surrounding Elliot into a discomforting focus.

No. No. He needed to be out there again, just for a little while. He needed one small hour to reconnect with the puzzle, the chase, the game. That would be enough to remove temptation and remind himself of why London Holmes did not do sentiment.

Elliot would not cooperate. He had already made it perfectly clear that he intended to ensure London's full recovery. To be honest, London would not be surprised if he took Cruz up on the offer of handcuffs to ensure he did not go anywhere.

With a quick glance down at himself, London sighed, wondering if he could present a believable image of health. To a normal doctor it would not be a challenge. He knew enough about illness and anatomy to know what to hide and what to emphasis, but Elliot was above and beyond the mere level of ordinary. He would conveniently fail to pay any attention to a carefully crafted facade and instead see all the weakness that still lingered deep in London's bones.

The spoon clanked against the bottom of the empty bowl, and London blinked down in surprise. The cereal was all gone but for that small, inconvenient dribble of milk that always remained at the bottom of the dish. Poor design. Why did they not make bowls with some kind of funnel arrangement to allow that last teaspoon of milk to be consumed? How had this clearly inefficient model become the cereal bowl standard?

He scowled at himself, leaning forward to place the failure of a dish on the coffee table and shoving his thoughts ruthlessly back on to more meaningful lines. If he could not convincingly lie to Elliot about how he felt, then he would simply have to do everything in his power to make it truth. A seamless pattern of medication would keep the worst of the symptoms at bay, and getting dressed would probably also lead to a small, psychosomatic improvement in health.

Except that if he started clattering around now, he might drag Elliot from sleep. Normally, he had no real qualms about that. Elliot knew what he was getting into when he became involved with the Consulting Criminal, after all. London had been very transparent about the pitfalls of co-habitation. Yet after Elliot had devoted so many hours to his unflinching care, London was in no hurry to disturb his slumber. No, he would wait until a decent hour.

He glanced back at the bowl on the table, and then over at the croissants that Elliot had left on the surface. It was a miracle that Alexander had left any survivors. Really, if he wanted one it would be best to eat it now, before his annoying brother put in another appearance. It was not that he was hungry, he just enjoyed the taste.

London reassured himself of that simple fact as he padded across the kitchen, the throw around his shoulders and his bare toes curling against the gelid linoleum. The pastry crumbled deliciously as he bit into it, his tongue unconsciously darting out to scavenge the crumbs as he glanced back at the table and saw two files resting innocently on the surface. The first was the case file – oft neglected these past few days – and the second was London's medical notes.

Elliot had clearly not taken it away to read. Did that mean he had got no further than the innocent tangle of childhood injuries and developmental evaluations? Had he not read on through the thick briar of adolescence and young adulthood?

For one brief moment, he considered hiding it, or lighting the fire and incinerating the damn thing in the grate. Whatever his brother might think, London was not proud of the road his life had taken. That was not to say he was ashamed of it either, as most people probably would be, but the uncertainty about Elliot's reaction was enough to make his stomach twist sharp and hard.

His fingers hovered over the manila cardboard sheathing the papers from sight, the sleek waxed surface smooth beneath his skin. One quick burst of flame and it would all be gone. Elliot was too honorable to seek the information himself, and Alexander would not attempt the same ploy twice.

A twitch of his wrist was enough to move his hand across to the case file, and he stuffed the rest of the croissant in his mouth as he flicked the pages open. He had given Elliot permission to read his medical notes, and that was not something London intended to rescind. He knew Elliot would be hurt if the file was destroyed, and that was one thing London could not consider. Elliot was angry about some of the ill-advised decisions he had made in the past, but he would rather face that than the lined slump of disappointment in Elliot's expression if he woke up to find the information gone.

It felt strange – this constantly thinking of another person. London could not even pinpoint when it had begun, but now a good proportion of the decisions he made were cross-referenced not only with his own wishes and obligations, but those of Elliot. He had never realized it could be so easy to accommodate another, or so difficult to exclude them.

Still, if he told Elliot not to read any more, he had no doubt that he would do as he was asked. He was easily a better man than London in that respect, and his loyalty was something he had come to rely on utterly. In that, he had faith.

With a faint sigh, London removed himself from the kitchen and temptation, tucking his feet up underneath him as he settled in his armchair and pored over the evidence once more. Perhaps now he would be able to find a crumb of inspiration amidst the chaos of Anderson's ineptitude.

Two victims, one probably the killer of the other. Lovers, as evidenced by the photograph from the beer garden. Jealous man, but the crime was not one of passion which was unusual. It was swift, one cut across the throat, as if the murderer had watched too many horror films and thought it was a quick, clean way to do it. He had not wanted to look into the woman's face as she died. He had not been searching for revenge or justice.

The blood had surprised the killer, perhaps, as had the fact that the woman had not dropped dead in an instant. She would have stumbled, possibly fallen forward onto the bed, but the murderer had not struck again. Panicked enough to recoil, rather than lunge forward and attempt another blow.

He had cleaned the body haphazardly, dressed it and dumped it in an alleyway while some other presence had returned the flat to an immaculate condition. Anderson had found nothing except the blood on the ceiling: a match for Sophie Hunter.

A few hours later the lover was dredged from the Thames. His killing blow quick and clean, knife left in the wound so the blood filled the body cavity. Quick, emotionless, possibly trained? Hitting the heart was not as easy as the media would have the populace believe. The blade had to be angled up and under the ribs. Far too easy to nick a lung instead and be left with a staggering, choking corpse-to-be.

Professional killer seemed unlikely. They tended to dispatch the victim from behind in an effort to distance themselves. Perhaps a medical professional, or someone with some knowledge of anatomy? Molly would have been able to do it with ease, if she were not such a shy creature. He could have done it too, but then he was far from ordinary, and listing himself as a suspect at this point was nothing but detrimental.

Anderson and Donovan might get excited in an unseemly fashion.

London glanced back at the photo of the two victims, alive and smiling in the beer garden. It was at least five months old. The air was warm judging by the summer style to their wardrobe, and the time-stamp in the corner showed the sky still light at nine thirty-eight in the evening.

Somewhere around the Summer Solstice.

A glance at their expressions showed a relationship in decline. Long-term and familiar: boring. The spark was gone on both sides, which meant a love-based crime was unlikely. Sophie Hunter was killed because she had something that her indifferent lover wanted. Something that had nothing to do with the body or emotion. A material design, rather than a sentimental one.

Money was not the issue, or the place would have been stripped bare. London's memories of the apartment were not the sharpest, but he clearly recalled the tell-tale signs of a safe, utterly undisturbed, and a jewelry box with the Tiffany brand on its lid.

No, there was another asset, something he was not seeing. And what about the shoes?

'I hoped you'd still be in bed.'