London looked up, blinking the haze of words from in front of his eyes to see Elliot standing at the bottom of the stairs. The soft, cheap cotton trousers he wore to bed were slung low around his hips, and the t-shirt, long ago stretched out of shape was hanging low at the neck, revealing the strong line of his collar bone. His hair stuck up at the most ridiculous angle, and the light dusting of golden stubble was just about visible in the glow from the kitchen light.

'Dull,' London replied, dragging his eyes back to the file in his hands and trying to focus. His mind obliged, but it was as if Elliot's presence had awoken a sixth sense, something kept beneath London's skin and locked up in his hind-brain. It appeared completely devoted to ascertaining Elliot's precise location in reference to himself. If he were to shut his eyes, he would still know exactly where Elliot was, and probably where he would be in a few seconds or minutes from that time.

It was a surprisingly reassuring sensation. Distracting, though.

'I estimate I slept for almost seven hours, and dozed for a further two. That's more than adequate.'

'It's practically a record for you,' Elliot agreed, and London could hear the smile in his voice. 'And you ate breakfast.' There was a moment of silence, and London could feel Elliot's gaze warming the back of his neck. 'Thank you.'

'I believe I made you a promise,' the Consulting Criminal muttered in reply, glancing up from the file to watch Elliot pad around the kitchen, all disheveled and human. He had never realized that having someone to live with could become something like this – little moments of vulnerability couched in the guise of domesticity. Before Elliot had arrived in London's life, the idea of sharing his living space with anyone was frankly an intrusion. Now, he could not imagine mornings without Elliot there, clattering around in the kitchen, slow and lackadaisical.

'You don't have a great track record with keeping promises, or I wouldn't still be finding human body parts in the fridge,' Elliot replied, 'or suffering your other experiments.'

London snorted, shaking his head to himself and returning his attention to the file. 'Irrelevant. Hurry up and eat your breakfast, I need to go to the morgue.' He said it quickly, almost hoping he could get Elliot to agree through miscommunication, but the sudden, stark silence from the kitchen suggested comprehension. Not good.

'No. Absolutely not. I mean it.' It was that special voice, the one where soldier and doctor collided into some magical Elliot-chimera of forcefulness. 'You're nowhere near well enough for that. You should be resting!'

London stood up, flinging the file aside as he shook his head. 'I've slept, I've eaten, I've taken medication! All I need is one hour, please. One hour to look at the corpses and gather some meaningful data and then I will come back here and submit myself to your attentions.' He realized that sounded too much like a sexual invitation, and did not care. 'You can coddle me to your heart's content, but for the sake of your sanity and mine, you need to let me out!'

He flapped his hands helplessly towards the window in emphasis, where the winter's dawn was sluggishly beginning, but Elliot's expression was less than convinced. His arms were folded and his breakfast utterly forgotten as he watched London, his lips pursed tight. 'You'll exhaust yourself and set your recovery back days.'

'You'll be with me. The moment you decide I'm looking too tired, we'll come straight back here. There is still a murderer on the loose.' That got his attention. London could see him wavering. It was there in the downward flick of his eyes and the slump of his shoulders, and his gaze raked over London's form, no doubt making his own deductions about the state of his health.

'No arguments?'

'I will bow to your superior judgement as my doctor,' London promised, trying his best to sound sincere.

'I mean it, Holmes. I'll only let you do this if you swear you'll do as you're told.' Elliot pressed his lips in a thin line before speaking again. 'No running off to the Yard or chasing down one more clue. The minute I think you're flagging, we'll be heading right back here.'

'Yes, yes, of course.' London flapped one hand in dismissal before he headed for the phone in his bedroom, vaguely hearing Elliot sigh as he moved about getting his breakfast together.

'Drink this! You need to stay hydrated,' Elliot requested, thrusting another bottle of water in London's direction. Clearly he had bought an endless supply. With a grunt, London twisted off the cap, swigging it back as he wandered through to his bedroom and closed the door before peeling off the dressing gown and the clothes beneath it as he sat down on the side of his bed and dialed the number for Molly.

'Molly! Hello. I need to see both bodies relating to Sophie Hunter murder. I'll be there in an hour.' London finished tugging on his shirt, leaving it undone as he reached out, pulling his trousers over his hips.

'Hello. Sorry London! I've been told by Elliot and that nice Inspector not to let you near the morgue. Heard you're ill? Let me know if I can do anything. Get well soon!' Molly ended the call before London could get a word in.

'NO, NO, NO!' Ripping open the bedroom door, yelling as he made his way back out to the living room. 'Ring Molly back and tell her you'll be with me. She's laboring under the misapprehension she can keep me out of the morgue!' 

'If you keep rushing around the here like a maniac, you're going to be too exhausted to go anywhere,' he pointed out, clearing his throat. 'I'll ring Molly back, but can it wait for thirty minutes? I'd rather not have to rush all across the city before I've had a cup of tea.'

London huffed, glancing at the clock before giving a grudging nod. 'But no more,' he demanded as he turned around and almost fled back through to the bedroom, doing up his buttons with neat flicks of his fingers. He left the one at his collar open before fastening his trousers and reaching for his suit jacket. Socks and shoes came next, and when he briefly caught sight of his reflection, he had to admit it gave a favorable impression. He looked paler than usual, and a little thinner, but not alarmingly so. Unless people actually knew he had been out of his head with fever not forty-eight hours ago, they would not think he was less than well.

Unfortunately, the only person he really needed to convince would see through it all in a second. How infuriating that Elliot could look at a corpse and observe little more than the absence of life, but he could glance at London and deduce every inch of his health.

Muttering in annoyance, he sorted out his hair before wandering back out to the living room and reaching for the file again. The spark and flash of excitement about the mystery was there, a little more muted than normal, but the paracetamol was doing its job, leaving him mostly free of distracting symptoms. Unfortunately, a glance at the clock showed that he was already at the peak efficiency of the drug, and the effects would soon start wearing off.

Snatching the box from the kitchen surface, he read the instructions diligently, rolling his eyes at the maximum dosage printed across the back of the box. Taking more now was inadvisable and would only make Elliot cross. Better to wait another hour and hope he could ride out the slump. The last thing he needed was for Elliot to decide to turn the cab around before they even made it to Bart's.

He was tempted to lie on the couch as he waited for Elliot to get ready. He could hear the man bustling around upstairs, no doubt drinking tea as he got dressed. However, as well as wrinkling his suit, there was every chance that if he lay down now he would not feel inclined to get up again. Better to keep moving.

By the time Elliot finally clattered downstairs, London was glaring out of the window at the street beyond, his back ramrod straight and his muscles beginning to nag at him again. Without a word, he reached for his coat, watching Elliot shrug into his jacket and stuff both the tablets and some snacks into his pocket.

'In case you get hungry,' Elliot said when he caught London looking. 'You're still ill, remember? You need your energy. Do you even know what you're looking for at the morgue?'

'Anything that ties a third person to both victims. There's some element of commonality that we've missed.' London tugged the scarf around his neck, and handed Elliot a pair of gloves, giving him a pointed glare. 'Your hand will shake less if you keep it warm.'

'Yeah, yeah. Don't you have any theories about this murder?' Elliot's expression slipped to one of concern. 'It doesn't matter if you don't, you've been ill, it's just –'

'I have plenty of theories, that's the problem.' London opened the door, gesturing for Elliot to go first. 'Ideas are no good when what I want is an answer.'

Their footsteps fell into easy time as they went down the stairs, and Elliot called goodbye to Mrs Hanson, promising they would be back before long as London stepped outside and hailed a cab. The air was uncomfortably cold, dragging him back to the first night in the alleyway where it seemed to settle in his bones, and he found himself hunching his shoulders as the cab pulled to a halt at the curb.

'You sure you're up to this?' Elliot asked, frowning when London just nodded and climbed into the cab. 'Fine, tell me about them then, these theories.'

It was tempting to say something cutting, to endure the brief cab ride in silence and give himself some time to think. He normally did most of his talking in the apartment, either to the skull or Elliot. Now though, he could sense his thoughts were in danger of becoming overwhelming. Too many trails to follow and not enough time or energy for the pursuit thanks to this damn virus.

'It was not about love, neither of them were,' he began. 'Both killings were dispassionate. The second, more than the first. Ms Hunter's killer was surprised and somewhat distressed by the death throes. Whoever killed the man was disinterested at best.' London frowned, the possibilities running through his mind. 'There is an asset. Something at least two people want and Sophie Hunter had.' He rubbed his gloved thumb over his lip, switching his focus from looking beyond the window to see Elliot's reflection instead.

'You think working out what that is will lead us to the killer?'

'Possibly. The problem is that a woman of the victim's station could have quite a number of things others might desire: successful job, money, and, it seems, strong family connections...'

'Oh?' Elliot asked, eyebrows raised until London picked up the paper a previous passenger had abandoned and showed him the headline about the dead heiress, Sophie Hunter 'God, Cruz's going to love that.'

'It will mean the case is his focus, at least for now. Hunter's grandfather was an oil Baron, and the family have taken their wealth from one strength to the other.' London closed his eyes for a moment, wondering how he had missed the connection. 'I should have recognized her. She deliberately distanced herself from the others to make her own way – not an uncommon life path for a woman of her age from a wealthy background and stubborn blood-stock.'

'Stubborn? How do you figure that one out?'

'Oil barons always are. They're the war lords of the modern age. It takes a certain kind of personality to be successful in such a business, and that kind of thing tends to be ingrained through the generations to some degree.' London straightened up, shifting his weight to ease the ache starting up in his back again as he turned to look at Elliot. 'Besides, I believe I met the family at one of Alexander's intolerable functions. They were everything you might expect.'

London scowled out of the window again, recalling a gruff, large man, well-built but not fat with the kind of gaze that weighed everyone's worth. The victim's father, he assumed.

'Anderson's efforts at collecting evidence were desultory at best. The bodies might be able to tell me something useful. Call Cruz at the first chance we get at the morgue and ask him to drop off any additional paperwork to us tonight.'

Elliot removed the newspaper free from London's grasp to read over the text. It was all the standard thing, a fair bit of railing at the inefficacy of the police force and bemoaning the crime rate: as if the death of an heiress was somehow more important than anyone else's murder. 'Maybe it was a sibling after her share of the inheritance. Promised the boyfriend a cut?'

'Unlikely, she only has one: a much younger brother by her father's second wife. An eight year old murderer is not unheard of, but quite uncommon. The step-mother would be a more likely suspect.'

'Cruz's probably working on the family angle, don't you think?' Elliot asked, his voice so easily curious that it made the Consulting Criminal  smile.

'Yes, I bet he's enjoying every minute of it. Dealing with the elite always puts him in such a wonderful mood.' He could imagine it now, Cruz tense and uncomfortable in some nouveau riche pile out in the suburbs, trying to do his job around a growing feeling of inadequacy that the Hunter's would no doubt foist upon him.

'Elite?' Elliot snorted. 'They're not landed gentry or anything.'

'You don't need a title to act high and mighty, you know that. Besides, opulent surroundings make Cruz defensive.' He shook his head, watching the approach of Bart's with careful eyes. 'No, I don't think the Hunters are behind this, not even the simpering second wife. Not unless we uncover something that might have threatened their stability.'

The cab's brakes squeaked as the car came to a stop, and London climbed out, slamming the door and handing the driver a couple of notes before striding towards the hospital. Elliot followed, the paper still clutched in his grip as he jogged to catch up. Their footsteps echoed in tandem as they made their way to the morgue, through institutional corridors smelling like antiseptic and desperation until at last the rubber sealed doors parted beneath London's hands.

Molly looked up, a quick, tight smile skating across her lips as she scurried forward with her clipboard wrapped close to her chest. 'They're ready and waiting for you, but – I mean – are you sure...'

'I'm fine,' London said, quickly cutting her off when she opened her mouth again to speak. 'Have you conducted the autopsies?'

'The woman's is here,' she said, handing over the file. 'The man's next on my list. We've been getting a lot of pressure from the family to release the body...'

'It's part of an ongoing investigation. They'll have to take it up with the Met, but I'll doubt they'll have any luck.' London came to a halt by the first table, waiting impatiently as Molly unzipped the bag to reveal Ms Hunter's pallid face. The body had already been processed and cleaned, and the Y- incision was neat and bloodless. Molly's work. London had seen it often enough.

'Where are her things?' he asked abruptly, noticing Molly twitch in surprise.

'I'll get them for you, but you can't take them away. They're going back to the police.'

'Fine. Open up the other one before you go.'

She did as she was asked, murmuring an apology to Elliot as she reached in front of him and parted the second bag to reveal its contents. 'He's called Gareth Winters. A banker, apparently. Not that you would think it from his clothes. I'll get those as well, shall I?'

Ignoring the keen edge to her voice, London nodded, turning his back on the Hunter woman. She had told him almost all she could in the alley, though he would give her a second quick inspection before he left. The man, however, was an unopened book, and London fully intended to read every part of his story.

Taking out his pocket magnifier, he pushed away the growing drone of aches and pains. Every sensation was disregarded in favor of the Work. This was what he did, this was who he was. It was all about the puzzle.

Except that, working in quiet harmony with his focus, there was the gentle, reassuring sense of Elliot's presence: an unflinching warmth within arm's reach.

Back at the beginning of their time together, it would have been distracting. London knew it would have divided his attention from the mystery in front of him, but now Elliot simply stood there, silent and stable as the jagged edges of London's mood were smoothed away by the most unlikely symbiosis of companionship.

Elliot was not an inhibitor but a catalyst, driving London to ever greater heights of brilliance with soft praise and constant belief.

Briefly, London looked up, watching Elliot's expression crease in friendly puzzlement at the scrutiny. It was an amazing thought, to realize that another person so outside himself could enable him with such ease, and London found himself folding the idea away in his mind palace for closer scrutiny: another facet of the enigma that was Elliot.

Later. He would make time for that later. Now, the Work was calling, and the Consulting Criminal could not fail to answer.

He had a murder to solve.

Abruptly, London looked up at Elliot, and Elliot's breath tried to escape his chest beneath the sudden pressure of that gaze. It was not a social look. It was not polite, either, but Elliot was immune to that by now. It was the kind of stare that sidestepped all social conventions and just started reading every secret he'd ever had off the back of his skull. Except London looked a little puzzled and confused, somehow off-balance, and Elliot almost asked if he was alright.

Yet before he could utter a sound, the Consulting Criminal's attention was re-captured by the body of Gareth Winters, and it was like it never happened. Elliot was left standing there, a sensible distance away, watching as London unlocked the mysteries of the murder. The pocket magnifier was in his hands, catching the light and pitching it around the morgue as Molly hurried back in with a couple of clear bags containing clothes and shoes.

'This is everything. I really didn't find much on either of them, but I took a few samples from her hair, and most of what was on him was from the river.' Her lab coat rustled as she shrugged, smiling in Elliot's direction as London continued to ignore her. 'I'll um – I'll just leave you to it then.'

'Thanks, Molly,' Elliot called out after her, giving London a half-hearted glare before reaching for a pair of latex gloves and opening the first bag. Sophie Hunter's clothes still smelled faintly of the alleyway – rubbish and mud – but he began laying them out, keeping his eyes open for clues.

'Anything?' London asked, his deep voice relatively hushed. It sounded less hoarse today, which Elliot took as a good sign, but there was a faint edge to those words: a bit too tired and strained.

'I've only just started. What about you?'

'Nothing useful.' London frowned down at the late Gareth Winters as if he was being bland on purpose. 'He was a man who took a surprising amount of care over his appearance. Professional manicure, extensive dental work – unnecessary for a banker. Tan-lines suggest he has been abroad in the past three months, shorts and t-shirt, but it was a city break, not a beach holiday. He wore his watch the whole time.' He held up the man's wrist, showing Elliot the clear band of pale skin.

Elliot retrieved a Rolex from the bag, its hands stopped at nearly four and a few drops of Thames water trapped behind the face. 'This one?'

'Exactly, you would not risk getting sand or sea water in a watch that cost more than twenty-thousand pounds by leaving it on.' London took the watch, tipping it to the light before looking at the inside of the strap. 'Well-cared for. It constituted a significant investment at the time of purchase which was last year. What do you want to bet that's when he started working at one of the big banks?'

'Dress to impress?' Elliot asked, tugging the trousers and t-shirt that had been on the body from the bag. 'Doesn't quite match these though, does it?' He checked the labels, turning them around for London to see.

The expression that flickered across London's face could only be described as disgusted, and Elliot fought the urge to laugh. Of course, he knew the full value of wearing the right suit. Nothing he had on today cost under two-hundred pounds. Not even his pants.

'Bit odd, isn't it? Two people with serious amounts of money to their name found dead in high street clothes.'

'Yes and no.' London pointed to Sophie, his voice taking on that quick, punctuated tone he used when revealing his deductions. 'Stubborn young heiress distances herself from family to make her own fortune. A high level job requires a sophisticated wardrobe, but she needs to make the clothes last. Buys cheap high street garments to wear at home. The same goes for him.' He gestured to the body of Winters. 'Needs to inspire confidence in his customers for better opportunities and rapid promotion. Sees his self-image as an investment, rather than pandering to his own vanity. This – this is all about status.'

'So why are they dead? Young and successful, but he kills her, or so we think...' Elliot frowned. 'Did he find out she had a big inheritance that she wasn't using? Lose his temper?'

'No. The murder is all wrong. Anger, revenge, jealousy... They're brutal and vicious. Done face-to-face. You want to see the other person suffer.' London squinted for a moment, head tipped to one side. 'This was something that was just a job. Something he felt he had to do to further his own social standing. A marriage was not on the cards. Their relationship was lukewarm at best. Convenient.'

London steepled his fingers together in front of his lips, leaning back on the desk at Elliot's elbow. He was close enough that his coat was brushing against Elliot's hand where it rested, a rough scratch of wool as Elliot listened to London breathe. Those eyes stared off into the distance for a few minutes, unfocused but intelligent, before he turned back to Winters' possessions and picked up the shoes.

'So why dress in your cheap, old clothes and wear new shoes?' He turned them over, exposing the soles, barely scuffed or marked from the pavements. The leather had been saturated from the Thames, but even Elliot could see it was still stiff and relatively crease free. 'Pass me hers.'

Elliot reached into the other bag, pulling out the woman's shoe and handing it to London. To be honest, it didn't tell him much: black, cut to leave the toes exposed... wasn't there a word for that?

'Peep-toe sling-back court-shoe. This season. ' London turned them over, revealing the sole. Again, it was clean, almost immaculate. 'These have not been worn outside. Nor, I imagine, to work. They can't be more than a week old...'

'And she only wore them at home?' Elliot asked, his confusion escalating as London's lips twisted into a smirk.

'Breaking them in. She was wearing these shoes around the house to increase her tolerance for the fit and allow them to stretch around her feet. Same for him. Stiff leather... They changed out of their other clothes to make them last, but they were both still adapting to the shoes, and therefore were either wearing them at the time of their murder.' He gestured to Gareth Winters. 'Or had them nearby for the killer to put on their feet. They were rich enough for high-end shoes, but did not get anything bespoke, so they were not a perfect fit.'

'You can get tailor-made shoes?' Elliot asked, glancing down at London's feet. 'Christ.'

The Consulting Criminal was already dragging the magnifying lamp closer to inspect Winters' brogue.

'The average person has one foot at least a half-size bigger than the other, widths vary, and toe lengths can adjust the fit entirely. How people expect to squeeze their unique appendages into mass-market shoes is beyond me.' London sniffed, then smiled as he tipped the shoe to the light and pointed out a small smear inside.

'However,' he continued, 'it means Winters was probably wearing these shoes at the time of Hunter's murder. Droplets of blood on the inside of the upper, but are they hers, his, or someone else's? Molly!'

Elliot watched as Molly scurried back in, her face pulled into a frown as London asked her to run the blood and see if she could match it to either of the victims.

'It's – it's not really my job but –' She hesitated as London gave her that slow, lazy smile, his head tilted fractionally to the left and his eyes growing intense. Elliot liked to think himself immune to that look, at least most of the time, but Molly was helpless.

'I know, Molly, but you could do it so much more efficiently than the forensics at the Yard.' He pitched his voice just right, and Elliot winced as Molly blushed prettily, mumbling something that sounded like a promise before she set to work.

'I'm surprised you're not doing it yourself,' Elliot murmured, narrowing his eyes at London. 'You still feeling fine?'

'Doing analysis wastes too much precious time. I have no idea when you're going to drag me back to Baker Street. Delegation is logical.' London rummaged through the bags of possessions, pulling out a wallet and keys that belonged to Winters. 'The clothes will be useless. Even if he was dressed at the time of the murder, he will have disposed of whatever he was wearing. He had time to return to his apartment between killing Sophie and his own demise.' He faltered, and Elliot looked up into a pale, puzzled gaze.

'Didn't he?'

Seeing the Consulting Criminal not in possession of all the facts was a fairly unique experience. Of course, Elliot realized, the illness had interfered with London's internal clock. 'Probably. They found him at the bottom of Southwark Bridge early on Wednesday morning. Sophie was found on Tuesday evening, but she had been dead for longer than that.'

'And Winters had only been in the river for a few hours from the look of him. He was dead or dying when he went in the water, but the state of him tells us he was not killed at the bridge where he was found.' London whirled back to the slab, his fingers hovering over the fleshy, bloodless contusions on the body. 'He hit several objects while he being carried downstream. Pass me some tweezers?'

Elliot obliged, leaning over London's shoulders to watch as he pulled some grit free from a deep wound on the temple and held it up to the light, squinting at it as if he could discern its secrets with the naked eye.

'I need a –'

Elliot was one step ahead of him, already holding out a glass slide. The look London gave him could only be labelled as approving, and he tried not to feel too pleased as the Consulting Criminal moved over to the microscope. This kind of thing was happening increasingly often – a synchronization where Elliot could anticipate London's next demand before he even made it. It was one of the few times he ever got anything like surprise from him, and Elliot knew he should not be so thrilled by that prospect.

He watched those nimble fingers turn the wheel for focus as he moved around the opposite side of the bench. From this angle, he could see the twin circles of light reflected back through the microscope lenses. They bathed London's eyes as he pulled back, turning irises bright silver as one eyebrow lifted. 'Portland stone. High calcium content with erosion on one cut face consistent with flowing water. Only four bridges across the Thames are dressed in Portland Stone. Tower Bridge is downstream of where he was found and therefore irrelevant. That leaves Waterloo, Richmond or Chiswick.'

Elliot blinked at the flood of information. Even after knowing him so long, he was amazed at the volume of facts London kept packed away in his brain. 'Richmond and Chiswick are a fair distance upstream. You think he came all that way?'

'From the state of the body, it's unlikely.' London did not even bother looking over his shoulder at the corpse. 'He would probably be more battered if not dismembered by river traffic and scavenging, but it's not definitive. There must be something more.'

He flicked his fingers through his hair, a quick rubbing motion that Elliot had seen him do before. It was frustration pure and simple. 'That contusion on his head is peri-mortem, received at or just after the time of death. If we can isolate the debris, we have his entry point into the river, and possibly his murder scene.'

He set his eyes to the lenses again, and Elliot heard the faint sound of delight pass London's lips. He knew it well – that whisper that meant he had an answer where everyone else saw nothing but questions.

'Concrete is also present. High rubble density, more aggregate than homogeneous but modern suggesting war-time Britain. That rules out Richmond which was built in 1777. The concrete comes from the core which is underneath the cladding. The bridge is damaged and in need of repair.'

London's fingers beat a quick rhythm on the focus knob of the microscope before he pulled away. If Elliot had not been watching him work, he would have missed his expression entirely, but he saw the flinch of pain tighten those eyes and a faint grimace pull at London's mouth. It was the sign he had been looking for, one that meant he stopped being a lab assistant and went back to being a doctor.

'Stop,' he said, soft and determined, reaching out without thinking and catching London's hand in his own before he could move away. 'You've had enough.'

London made a tight, aggravated noise in his throat, the frown already dipping his brow and his nose wrinkling in distaste. 'But –'

'No!' Elliot kept his voice steady and utterly unrepentant. He was not going to apologize for putting London's health before the case. As it was, he had been chastising himself for letting the Consulting Criminal leave the apartment at all. It went against every ounce of better judgement that he had, and he had not been too pleased with his own surrender. Part of him had hoped that the Consulting Criminal would be too exhausted before they even made it to the morgue, but he had been proved wrong. He could push himself to extremes if he wished, but this time Elliot was not about to let him have his way. 'You promised.'

They stood in silence for a moment, watching one another from opposite sides of the lab bench. From here, he could see the stiffness of London's expression, that mask he used to hide the emotional tells of his thought processes. Yet it was not a completely blank look: there was consideration there in the faint pinch of his eyes as they raked over Elliot's frame, no doubt reading a thousand things that Elliot did not even know about himself.

'Fine. You win. Just let me talk to Molly, and then we can go.'

Elliot's left hand twitched, a tight, sudden movement that made his knuckles ache. He had expected everything from outright confrontation to compromise, but surrender? He frowned to himself, pursing his lips. He was waiting for the catch, the trick, the petulance – something to indicate that London was not actually being as straightforward as he seemed.

Was it possible that he genuinely still felt too ill to continue?

Elliot watched London move over to Molly's side, speaking in a quiet voice that he could not quite overhear. Still, he could observe, and he watched all the conscious, calculated ways in which London moved his body to get her attention: dominant, alpha male things like leaning into her space and maintaining eye contact except for an occasional, well-timed blink.

Forcing himself to ignore London shamming his way into Molly's good books, he instead focused his mind on the more subtle clues the Consulting Criminal's body gave away.

He was leaning on one hand. On the surface it looked casual, but he could see the leaching of color on the edge of the palm, turning the skin white. It suggested he was supporting a fair amount of weight on that one hand: the muscle aches had probably returned full force. The throb of his pulse in his carotid also suggested higher than normal blood pressure, but despite that his cheeks were pale. Definitely flagging.

Elliot put the plastic bags to one side just as London gave Molly that dazzling, victorious smile – not the real one at all, and Elliot wondered if Molly actually knew what London's genuine smile looked like. He knew it well – knew that it dawned slowly rather than flicking on like a light switch, evolving from a one-cornered smirk to a true smile which showed just a hint of teeth and made London's eyes glow.

At last, London turned away from Molly, burying his hands in his coat pockets as he fell into step at Elliot's side. His movements were as controlled and graceful as ever, but as soon as they were in the corridor those long fingers tangled in Elliot's coat cuff, pulling him up short.

'Tablets.'

Elliot sighed, pulling the packet out of his pocket and popping two capsules into London's palm. 'Can you eat this as well?' he asked, handing him an apple. Ordering him to do so would do no good, that wasn't what the whole eating thing was about. He just hoped to remind London that there was a choice other than malnutrition.

'Shouldn't eat in a hospital. You could catch anything,' London muttered, but he took it anyway, biting into it and chewing in silence. Their shoes squeaked over the linoleum as they traversed the corridors, unraveling the maze of Bart's interior until at last they stepped out onto the pavement. The apple core was thrown with chilling accuracy into an open bin before London raised his hand, effortlessly flagging down a cab.

'Baker Street,' Elliot told the driver, casting London a glare as he gave a suffering sigh, but it was his only protest, and Elliot's concern increased.

'You've done something, haven't you?' he asked, frowning at London's affronted expression. 'I'd notice if you'd stolen a corpse, but I refuse to believe you'd cooperate so easily. Unless you're really ill?' That last bit sounded dreading, even to his own ears. He had feared that London might set himself back days by insisting on this little outing, but he desperately wanted to be wrong.

'I'm tired,' London admitted at last. 'More so than I thought I would be. However,' He reached into his coat and tweaked out a couple of files so Elliot could see their corners. 'I did borrow Molly's preliminary paperwork on both victims.'

Relief bubbled through Elliot's body, and he gave a faint huff of laughter. 'She'll notice they're missing.'

'And she won't say a word. Molly likes being helpful; I simply enable her.'

'You use her, Holmes, and you know it. Are you sure you're okay, though? I don't feel like repeating the events of a couple of days ago because you pushed yourself too hard.'

'That makes two of us. Don't worry, I'm not about to keel over again. Molly will call me with any further results, and I'll make sure to get Cruz to check the bridges.'

By the time they pulled up at the curb, London was slumped a little in his seat. Despite his protests, he looked fit to drop, and Elliot already had the front door unlocked by the time London had emerged from the cab and stopped at his side.

'A bit of sleep might help,' Elliot suggested, reaching into London's coat and pulling the files free before he could protest. 'An hour will make the world of difference.'

'I'm not an infant; I don't need a nap,' London grumbled, sweeping through the door in front of Elliot and casting the stairs a faintly miserable look before he climbed them. 'A cup of tea will do. Besides, I can't –' The ringing of the living room phone stopped London's sentence short. He pushed his way into the apartment to answer it. 

It was Cruz.

'Something wrong?' Elliot asked, heading for the kettle as his mind raced. Caffeine wasn't enough to keep London awake, at least not what could be found in a teabag. Maybe if he could just get him to lie still then London's body would do the rest and take precedence over the whirl of his mind? It was a faint hope, but one Elliot  would work with. It was that or force London to bed, which would not work out well for either of them.

'He is out in Richmond at the Hunter's town house, chasing pointless leads. Can't he see I'm giving him an excuse to get out of there?' London huffed in irritation, pacing back and forth across the living room before perching on the arm of the couch and firing off a reply before ending the call. He had taken off his coat and jacket, and as Elliot watched he put the phone on the coffee table and rolled up his shirt sleeves, each fold precise.

'If the Hunters are in any way behind it, they won't be forthcoming. Whether they are guilty or not, Cruz will leave that place wanting to pin the blame on them.'

'He doesn't do that, you know. He's a good guy. He can put his personal feelings aside when it comes to a case,' Elliot muttered.

'Can he?' London mused before glancing up. 'It's irrelevant anyway. Whoever killed Winters was better at it than he was. They knew that by throwing him into the river they would put almost all evidence into question. There will probably be too much contamination.'

London touched his fingers to his lip, just for a moment, his wrist twisting delicately as he did so. It was a pensive gesture, one Elliot had not seen him use before, and he watched, fascinated, before he realized what it looked like. It was the same movement London would use when inhaling from a cigarette. It seemed he was experiencing his Pavlovian response to a case: a nicotine craving.

'You'll have to do without,' Elliot muttered, gripping London's arm without thinking and watching the distracted gaze take on more focus. 'No cigarettes. It's the last thing your body needs.'

London blinked down at where Elliot's fingers manacled the slender girth of his wrist, and Elliot belatedly realized he was rubbing his thumb against the vulnerable underside, his flesh alarmingly brown against the pallid skin.

He almost retreated, but before he could move London's hand twisted, grabbing Elliot's palm and urging him down until he was perched on their much abused coffee table. Putting down his tea, London slid down to sit on the sofa so that the points of their knees were pressed together, their feet sharing space like a waltz gone wrong as he propped his elbows on his knees and began to speak.

'Completely unexpected. The grit in Winters' head suggests he hit the foot of the bridge with some force at around the time of his death. It did not bleed much at all because of the already fatal wound to his heart.' London rubbed his fingertip down the bridge of his own nose, his eyes looking at Elliot but seemingly focused elsewhere as he continued.

'The angle of the gash and fracture beneath suggests it was sustained during a fall from some height, which indicates he was either dropped over the bridge's edge, or stumbled back and fell, but without more evidence I cannot conclusively say that he was killed there. It's all assumption!' He made a tight, aggressive gesture of frustration, and Elliot grabbed his other hand, holding them both steady.

For a moment, he had thought London was going to say something else, something less about murder and more about them, but of course, the case was everything right now. That was the way London was, and despite himself, Elliot would not change that for the world. However, the Consulting Criminal working himself into a state about it was not going to do them any favors.

'Assumptions are better than anyone else has got. Occam’s razor, right? The straightforward explanation is normally the right one.' He smiled as London's face did that twitch that meant he wanted to roll his eyes but thought the gesture was beneath him. 'It makes sense that he was dropped from that bridge, or fell off himself. The alternatives are, what, that he was pushed from a height onto something else made of Portland stone and concrete?'

'The composition of more than three hundred and seventy six of London’s monuments and buildings,' The Consulting Criminal muttered. 'It's what I'd do.'

'Well let's assume the killer isn't like you, alright?' Elliot suggested. 'If they are, then we're really in trouble. So another assumption? It's just another one of us mere mortals. Do the bridge have any surveillance?

'Waterloo more than Chiswick, though both have some security presence.' London gently disentangled his right hand from Elliot's grasp, picking up his tea and draining the mug before he eased back. It was not a quick, sharp bid for freedom, but a gentle, almost clinging departure. The fingers of London's left hand lingered, drifting across Elliot's palm before he lay back along the couch, his eyes staring fixedly at the ceiling.

'Data. There simply isn't enough data....'

Elliot was tempted to tell London to ask Alexander for help, but he could sense that would go down like a lead balloon. The Consulting Criminal would probably rather wait for Cruz to get there than suggest his brother could be helpful.

London was gone already, lost in his own head with blank, staring eyes, and Elliot got quietly to his feet, taking away the mugs and busying himself in the kitchen. By the time he had washed the dishes and risked another glance at London, he realized those hands had fallen away, resting flat-palmed on his chest. Even better, his eyes were shut and his breathing had turned steady as his body over-ruled his mind. London would be furious about that when he woke up, but Elliot could only be grateful.

However, that left him trapped, unwilling to do anything that may disturb London from his impromptu nap, and he found himself looking around the kitchen for inspiration. Before long, his eyes fell on London's medical file, and he only hesitated a moment before easing one of the chairs out from the table and settling into it.

Part of him felt a little guilty as he pulled the paperwork closer, like he should be doing this while London was awake and aware, but he had given Elliot permission.

The pages skimmed beneath his fingertips as he found the point where he had left off. The pneumonia appeared to be the last illness worthy of any note, and then the batch of files took on a decidedly different slant. The focus shifted away from the body and moved onto the mix of personality and behavior.

London was ten when he first saw a behavioral therapist, too young for a full evaluation, and as Elliot looked over the notes he could not see anything that could strictly be listed as a symptom. There was no consistency to it. Every session the doctor would list a different set of potential issues, as if they were trying to fit him into the right box, and every time the suggested diagnosis changed. Sometimes London was simply placed at different points on the scales of Asperger's, but as he progressed through adolescence the conclusions grew darker, stepping more towards anti-social personality disorders and psychopathy.

The notes became more frantic and alarmist, but still the contradictions continued. The various professionals never seemed able to agree with each other. It was probably the reason no true diagnosis was ever made. They simply had not been able to decide, and London had chosen the one he preferred.

Except, well, Elliot was no psychologist, but from the beginning there was only one trend, and that was London's intelligence. They all commented on it, every single professional he came across, and increasingly they used it as a poor crutch to support their diagnoses. They cited the frail link between high IQ and personality disorder too often for comfort, and all the while it was almost as if London was just – playing?

Elliot was not even certain what gave him that impression, the inconsistency, perhaps, but it was almost like London went to every new practitioner with a pre-chosen diagnosis and steered them in that direction. As a child he played up his isolation and a dislike of change, as well as a spectrum of other factors, but through his adolescence it became darker and more vindictive. Spiteful, and yes, arrogant.

He sighed, casting a glance at the man asleep on the couch. It really would not surprise him if London had done it for entertainment, yet he stopped going to see anyone just after he turned seventeen. Perhaps he grew bored, or maybe he realized that he could convince others of a personality disorder of his choice without providing the supporting paperwork. Either way, at least Elliot now had solid proof that, while London had spent far too much time with a variety of psychologists, he had no concrete diagnosis.

As far as Elliot was concerned, he was just London. Different, yes, but not nearly as alarming as the self-applied label of “sociopath” could imply. The Consulting Criminal used that word as a scare tactic, something to keep the rest of the world at arm's length. It worked, of course, or had done, until Elliot had seen through it.

Turning the next page, Elliot stopped, his lips pressing tight together as another hospital admission form swam into focus in front of his eyes. It seemed the evaluations were at an end, and another, far more destructive part of London's life was beginning.

He was barely eighteen, and the notes spoke for themselves. Narcotics abuse. The blood panel was enough to make Elliot wince, and he muttered a curse as the image of London, younger, so much more vulnerable than the confident man he knew today came to the forefront of his vision. The hospital stay had been brief, culminating with London discharging himself against medical advice.

What followed after that was a mixture of reports, spaced out over the years. Some were from rehab, and Elliot distinctly sensed Alexander's hand there. He could imagine London's knee-jerk rejection of the efforts. No, he was the kind of person who needed self-motivation to break a habit. That was precisely what Cruz had given him. Really, Elliot should buy him a drink, no, a whole God-damn vineyard for that: Thanks for saving this man from himself.

But Elliot had not got to that point, yet, that time of life where London actually stopped dosing up and stayed clean (or so he hoped). He was still caught up in the endless flow of information, the notes about malnutrition, concern over London's heart and general health. He was killing himself slowly, and Elliot could see it all unfurling before him in a way that made his throat close hard and tight.

Paper turned beneath his nerveless fingertips, and Elliot's blood steadily turned to ice in his veins. At first glance, this report looked like all the others: another mistake, a wrongly calculated high, but there was one thing different. This time, the staff had seen something more. Perhaps there were clues in London's behavior this time, or something else which had not been recorded in the file, but the doctor's notes recorded the simple conclusion they had reached.

What had been a continuing abuse of the human body – a stop-start decline of wasted life – had become something else, and showed Elliot a whole new facet of London's existence.

“Attempted suicide by deliberate narcotics overdose. Multiple times.”

Elliot's breath choked in his throat, as sharp as broken glass while the truth sunk into his mind like tar.

London had tried to kill himself.

Multiple times.

Before he even opened his eyes, London knew something had changed. He had not even intended to fall asleep, not when there was a murder to solve, but it seemed his body had other ideas. However, after the brief flash of irritation at his own weakness, he began to realize that more was amiss than simple wasted time.

The apartment felt different. When he had shut his eyes, it had been warm and safe, filled with Elliot's comforting presence. There had been lingering touches and things unspoken, things that orbited on the periphery of London's musings on the case and did not impinge, but thrilled him all the same – a dangerous line to walk.

Had Elliot left? No. London could still feel him. Yet the sensation of warm sunlight had been eclipsed, turning cold and dark, and his stomach clenched with uncomfortable anticipation as he lifted his lashes and turned his head.

Elliot was standing at the window, making London twist uncomfortably to get a good look at him, obtuse from this angle. His weight was leaning against the wall, not comfortably, but like it was the only thing holding him up, and the mug in his hand shook slightly: the returning tremor a sign of obvious distress.

Perhaps another person would be confused at the change, but London was nothing if not himself. He might be under the weather and cramped from the nap on the couch, but he was not an idiot. Elliot had read his medical file while he had slept, and that meant he had been marinating in confusion, concern and a myriad of other sentiments for an unspecified amount of time while London slumbered on, oblivious.

Quietly, he sat up, smothering a wince as his neck complained. Elliot had heard him of course, he had to. The couch was a noisy traitor, sighing its relief as his weight shifted. Yet Elliot did not turn around or utter a word. He simply kept staring out at the street, his tea steadily growing cold in his hand.

He was a different man, in some ways. Still Elliot, still an enigma – but London was interested to realize he much preferred the other Elliot – the one who had moved from being best friend, constant presence, moral compass to someone who caught London's wrist without thinking, who looked at him like he might vaguely understand, who treated London normal, rather than a freak.

'You weren't even twenty-one.' Elliot laid the fact down as if it were the most important foundation stone in the world, cut from black marble and gleaming with accusation. 'And you already had tried to kill yourself on more than one occasion.'

Of course, Elliot would focus on that. Not the issue of him toying with psychiatrists, who all deserved it for being so inept. Not even for the long road of on-again, off-again addiction that carved its path through his young adult life. He concentrated on that point – which was not even a terminus. That was not where the drug abuse ended, it was just the deepest rut in the path. The one that had shaken all of London's axles and nearly ended him for good.

'Yes.'

Elliot sucked in a breath, and London cocked his head to one side, watching the fingers of that left hand spasm around the mug. He could see the rigidity of shoulders and spine beneath a grey jumper: overcast like Elliot's mood. London wanted to reach out and touch, to run his palm up the column of his back and curl comforting fingers over the nape of his neck. To feel his warmth, because with every passing second, he grew increasingly cold. Not from fever, but from the uncertain, gyroscopic fear that this was where Elliot brought it all to an end.

Elliot's right hand reached up, dragging over his own face like he was trying to scrub the entire day from existence – as if he was trying to unlearn something – but it was to no avail. London could only see his profile, the fanned lines etched at the corner of his eyes: retired smile lines, disused now. All of his attention was focused on the tautness of Elliot's jaw and the set of his shoulders, watching for the break.

Yet it never came. Elliot did not spin around and walk away. There were no slamming doors or hasty footsteps as he simply departed, as others had done before him. Instead, Elliot leaned harder against the wall, and London was left perched on the couch, feeling as if someone had scooped out his insides and left him hollow.

'Why?' Elliot looked over his shoulder, and London winced to see those blue eyes looking so lost. There was a faint redness around his lids, though London was hesitant to deduce that Elliot would have shed a tear over this – something that happened long in the past, long before they knew one another existed.

'I need you to tell me why, because I don't understand.

Forthright, of course. Was that not Elliot's way? He was not a man for guile and manipulation. He liked things straight forward, and so he spelled it out for London. Yet it was not a request to share the information, either, it was almost an order. Tell me because I have to know.

The Consulting Criminal rose from where he sat, approaching Elliot carefully. The man did not move or try to maintain the distance between them, he just tipped his head up, bravely maintaining eye contact as if he was afraid to look away. It was not something London could do, not for this. He could not stare Elliot in the eye and say it, though he was unsure why. Instead he leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the window, him and Elliot separated by the width of the glass and the broad sweep of the street beyond.

It was easy to recall that memory, undeleted still. He assumed other people, if they had the ability, would deliberately kick over the traces, but London had remembered. It was important. Not an experiment at the time – not an effort to see what dying felt like (not good) – but afterwards he could pretend it was, at least to himself.

Though not to Elliot. It was tempting to be dismissive of it, intelligently opaque, but Elliot could be perceptive at all the wrong moments, as he had proven over the past few days. So, the truth, then. All of it.

'It was a convergence of influences,' he said, speaking to the glass, to the phantomesque pedestrians scurrying about their busy, meaningless existences below. 'A number of things encroaching at once, and the world – my world – went wrong.'

'What things?'

Clearly Elliot was not interested in vagueness or metaphor. No, he was a doctor still, a soldier still; he needed facts. 'Cruz cut me off from crime scenes in an effort to shake me out of my habit some time previous. I tried, but it was difficult. I had nothing to employ my mind, no way to block out the vast expanse of everything by finding some focus.'

He looked blindly at the white splay of his own hand against the much mutilated wallpaper, trying to breathe as the memory drifted across his mind's eye, a gauzy veil of darkness. 'I had been clean for two months – Cruz insisted on three – and then my mother died.'

Elliot froze a little, a noticeable stiffness like permafrost locking in his muscles. London could almost hear the cogs turning, the cross-references of any previous mention of London's mother with the conclusion that somehow her passing had been traumatic enough for the Consulting Criminal to attempt to follow her.

'Wrong,' London murmured before John could voice a question. 'You think I sunk into deep grief or some other ridiculous folly, and you're wrong. My mother was a brilliant woman, she did not deserve someone like Carlton Holmes. When he wasn't having her locked away for whatever ridiculous reason he could think of, he was abusing her and I, more often than not, was the reason. She spent every moment she could defending me. Her death was a blessing for her. She got away.'

He clenched his jaw, still remembering all those hateful, hurtful times. Nothing as straight-forward as outright abuse. That, in a way, would have been easier. No, this was more subtle, more emotional. As a boy London had actually revered his father, had strived to be somehow wonderful in his eyes, and it had all been a failure. His father made sure he knew that every time he abused his own wife.

'I suppose death is not the great cleanser everyone believes. Its proximity does not change people; it does not make them virtuous. When my mother took her own life, Carlton wasted his breath later on reminding me why I hated him and, more importantly, why he hated me. It was...'

Agonizing, but he could not say that to Elliot. It sounded selfish, somehow. His mother had died and, rather than grief and mourning, London's mind had been consumed with the pain of never living up to his father's expectations and being a reminder of his mother. Alexander had mentioned the “bad days” only yesterday morning, but to London, there had not been many good ones where his father was concerned.

'It was the last straw,' he said, swallowing against a knot in his throat. 'There were no cases to occupy me, and no one to remind me that everything my father said was –' He shrugged. 'Irrelevant, even if it was true. I did not react well. Alexander and other family members were occupied with her funeral. I waited until after, of course. I would have loved to steal the old man's limelight. Ten days later I put my drug of choice to its deadlier use ever. I was done being so close only to be brought back.'

'Who –' Elliot paused, clearing his throat around his cracked voice as he licked his lips. 'Who found you?'

'Cruz and his brand new sergeant, who I had never met before.' London knew his smile was grim. 'Donovan's never liked me since. They thought it was a standard overdose, everyone did at first, but Alexander asked the right question at the right time and found out the truth. He has always been irritatingly good at that.'

'Question?' Elliot asked, his beautifully expressive face locked in some of the saddest lines London had seen in their time together.

'He asked what father said to me after mother died. Weeks too late, of course, but he asked all the same.' London swayed closer to the wall, leaning his weight more fully against it. His knees felt too weak to hold him upright any more, his body exhausted despite just waking from sleep.'Alexander never suffered father's disdain. He was intelligent without being strange. Did not know the meaning of recklessness, and could act like a relatively normal human being when required. He was an adequate child, and that seemed enough. I wanted to be more, and yet could never be half as much in my father's eye but to mother I was everything.'

London frowned, thinking over his explanation. Even now he felt the need to be clear. 'It was not just my father's words that drove me to it. I had generally distanced myself from people, deeming outside opinion as irrelevant to myself, but –' He gestured in a futile way. 'You've seen me bored. You know how I can be. Back then I was the same but – quieter.'

'No shooting the walls?' Elliot asked, and there was a glimmer of something there – strained humor – which made London’s lips curl at their edges.

'No gun,' he pointed out, his face falling serious again. 'But no, no shooting the walls. No drugs either, which was what I usually turned to when the moods struck. It was just dark, and cold, and scathing. It was easy to get lost and I - I'd had enough.' He shrugged his shoulders, turning back to look at the cars passing by below. It was easier than looking at Elliot's face. His expression seemed so hurt, as if this one aspect of London's history had blind-sided him entirely. It only served to highlight how little they knew of each other before their lives had collided so thoroughly.

Elliot moved suddenly, and for a brief second London's heart squeezed tight with fear. This was it. Elliot had reached his breaking point. The Consulting Criminal had finally found out what it took to drive him away from his side.

Yet Elliot stepped towards him, not away, and London stiffened reflexively as Elliot's arms wrapped around him, twin, strong bands of bone and muscle folding around London's frame. Not to capture or claim, but just there, reliable and unfailing: Elliot proving to the Consulting Criminal once again that he did not know everything.

'You prat,' Elliot whispered quietly, his voice muffled by London's shoulder, the movement of his lips detectable through the thin cotton. 'You bloody prat. I should have guessed something like that after the whole mess with the cabbie, but I didn't think –'

'The cabbie was different,' London cut in, pulling back so he could at last meet Elliot's eyes. He was not sure what he expected to see there. Alexander's and Cruz's had both held the same resigned kind of fear when they had found out, as if they had been waiting for it all along. Elliot's eyes were instead intense, examining London as if he could pluck an answer to all his questions from his face alone. Elliot, London realized, looked more understanding than anyone else had ever done, as if perhaps he knew something of the same kind of feeling, that folding inwards darkness that blotted everything out until all you could hear was your own hate.

'You were going to take that pill. I was there. I saw.' Elliot's arms tightened meaningfully, as if daring London to say otherwise.

'It was the correct one,' London replied with a strong kind of confidence. He had never been able to prove that, of course, but he was still sure, even now. 'And that was about being right – and a bloody awful, but rather convincing cabbie.' He sighed, wondering if perhaps he should step back from Elliot, but the embrace was far too comfortable: sympathy not pity, understanding not fear, and the scent of him was only serving to ground him further in the earnest solace that was the moment.

He allowed himself to relax a little further, resting his cheek on the crown of Elliot's head as he stared unseeingly out of the window, his gaze lifted to the cluttered horizon rather than the pavement below. He would never have told Elliot about that day of his own accord: of the hour when he had finally filled the syringe and pushed death into his vein, fully aware of his choice.

He could still remember the hit: not a slow seep, it never was. When he wanted a high, his pursuit was relentless. Yet this was like being struck by a fast train, excruciating. He could still recall the first palpitation becoming a dysfunction, falling into arrhythmia as his heart failed. How the blood in his veins had hurt, no longer a strong current but a confusion dragged around wrong as the muscle that dictated his life spasmed. He could still bring to mind, in that last moment before the darkness claimed him, how the beat stopped in his chest.

For the first time in his life, there had been silence

Logically, he knew that Cruz must have already been there, pulling up at the curb at London's old residence. Perhaps even halfway up the stairs, an unwitting guardian angel. He had not meant to visit that day – had no real purpose to be there and had not notified London of his intention. He had simply materialized and forced an unwilling heart to beat while the ambulance was called. He had been forceful, desperate, two cracked ribs that ached for weeks once London discovered the world again.

There had been resentment, of course. Failure was embarrassing, regardless of the situation, and London had not appreciated his one effort being thwarted. Even now that the lowest point was long gone, his pride still prickled perversely at the thought that he had not achieved his goal. Even though he was grateful to be alive, chasing criminals and solving puzzles with Elliot now at his side, he could not prevent his faint annoyance at the fact that he had been foiled.

'What happened?' Elliot asked softly, his arms loosening to release London. Warm hands slid down the smooth cotton of his shirt sleeves, Elliot's fingers cupping bare elbows and stroking along London's forearms before gripping his hands. Elliot probably did not even realize he was doing it, but London looked down at the contrast of their skin, soft honey tan – faded Afghanistan – and unmarked alabaster – England's pallor.'Afterwards, I mean. Did you get help?'

The Consulting Criminal looked down into Elliot's face before nodding in the direction of the file. 'It's all in there. Alexander won't have left it out.'

Elliot looked over at the stack of paper on the table, the covers closed and innocuous. Yet there was something in his face that suggested he was looking at a venomous snake, rather than a simple stack of wood-pulp and ink.

'I'd rather hear it from you,' Elliot replied at last, meeting London's gaze with trusting eyes. 'I know you called yourself an unreliable source but –' He shrugged, licking his lips before he nudged London back towards the couch, sinking into it as if he were exhausted and dragging the Consulting Criminal down to perch next to him, one leg tucked up under his body and half-turned to face Elliot. 'I just don't need to read it off a page, that's all.'

London blinked as Elliot's hands released him, leaving his wrists feeling cold, ugly and exposed 'The doctors were uncertain. Some suspected depression caused by the drug addiction affecting my brain chemistry, others decided it was grief plunging genetically low serotonin levels into an abyss.' He lifted one shoulder helplessly. In the end the why had not mattered, not even to him.

'I saw a therapist Alexander's instruction, who was even more useless than yours. I went back to the drugs –' He looked up at Elliot's sharp intake of breath, knowing his own smile was dark and a little dangerous. 'For a while, anyway. About another nine months, I think.' Admittedly, there was a bit of uncertainty in his own head at that point about the precise time-line. 'Just to prove I could. To prove to everyone that, regardless of their every effort, I was still the one in control of my life.'

'There are better ways of doing that, you know.'

'Like joining the army?' London asked, but without any venom. It irritated him, sometimes, the gloss of lies people put on their actions. They said they did it for Queen and Country, for justice, truth, honor... but when it came down to it, every decision made was an exercise of control. This is my life to live. My life to end if I choose to do so... He seemed to be the only person who did not attempt to deceive himself in that regard.

Elliot sighed, rubbing his fingers over his forehead. 'What made you get clean after that? You – you are clean, aren't you?'

'Dull.' London flopped back on the couch, his neck lying against the arm of it. 'You know the answer to that, the second part at least. The first bit, too, if you think about it.'

'Holmes...' Elliot clearly was not in the mood for deductions. His brow was pinched with a frown, probably still just the right side of concerned, rather than angry, but London knew better than to push his luck.

'I stopped because I wanted to, because eventually Cruz grew trusted enough in the force to get honestly interesting crimes – and I could help, if I behaved myself. As for being clean now, you know addicts are never cured. They do not wake up to realize they can be never tempted again.'

'I'm asking whether you've given into that since then,' Elliot said softly. 'There's a difference between being tempted and actually using. You know that.'

London sighed, fixing his gaze on the ceiling as he thought back. Again it was tempting to be ambiguous, because when it came down to it, such things were none of Elliot's business. However, even as that thought washed across his mind, he realized how unfair it was. Elliot was not asking because he was being nosy or controlling. He wanted reassurance. He wanted to know that his trust – and it was trust, to be involved with someone like London – had not been misplaced.

'Despite everyone's never-ending suspicions to the contrary, I've not been shooting up behind your back. I've not taken anything of that nature for the best part of over a year. Although I doubt anyone else would be inclined to believe that. I have not done anything since you moved in.'

For a minute, he could see the battle on Elliot's face. He wanted to have faith in London, that much was apparent, but no doubt he was thinking of Alexander's paranoia, and Cruz's actions during that fake drugs bust that occurred in their first night together. The Inspector had made it sound like a much more recent problem, something that had puzzled London for a while, before he wondered if perhaps Cruz had been testing Elliot, pushing at him to see if he knew what he was getting himself into.

A test he had obviously passed with flying colors, since he was still here.

'I believe you,' Elliot said at last with a fragile smile. 'Same as I believe that if you ever feel like you did back then, you'll tell me. Won't you?'

London closed his eyes, letting the question wash over him as he gave it careful consideration. The idea of telling anyone, Alexander or even the distantly orbiting Cruz had been incomprehensible to him all those years ago. Yet now Elliot was sitting there and asking for faith. Trust worked both ways, and while Elliot believed in London, it had to be returned. He had to hope that if he ever found himself back there, then Elliot would act in his best interests, whatever they may be.

'It's not happened again,' he pointed out, opening his eyes to see Elliot's reaction. Yet there was not much to observe. He simply continued to watch London, his hands interlocked neatly in his lap as if he were trying to keep himself under tight control. 'Not in the same way. Risking my life is not the same as deliberately attempting to end it.' He sighed before struggling upright again, meeting Elliot's eyes for a moment before giving a nod. 'But if I do, I'll tell you.'

Elliot's shoulders relaxed, the hard, straight line of their bearing turning softer, rounder as he let out a breath. His jaw worked, as if there were still a dozen unspoken words lined up on his tongue, but in the end, all that came out was a rough voiced, 'Thank you.'

'The same goes for you. If you – I mean –' London cursed inwardly. That he could be so articulate about murder and make such a mess of everything else was a source of endless frustration. 'Tell me, if you need to. Ever.'

Now Elliot's smile was stronger and more genuine, clearly somewhat amused by the Consulting Criminal's obvious ineptitude at anything remotely pertaining to sentiment.

London watched him get to his feet, drawing a line under the conversation with every movement of his body as he made his way to the kitchen, picking up the medical file by one corner as if it were one of London's vile experiments and dropping it back into the bookshelf. 'I'm making lunch. What do you want?'

The Consulting Criminal made a gruff sound of indifference, watching Elliot with narrowed eyes. Somehow he felt like the issue was not entirely over. He had told Elliot all he could, but there was something uncomfortable lingering in the air still, something that normal people would probably know how to deal with, but London could only observe.

'Fine, if you don't have a preference then I'll just make whatever and expect you to eat it,' Elliot warned, observing the contents of the fridge and gesturing towards the coffee table with his hand. 'A call came in while you were still asleep, by the way. It was Molly. The blood was a match for Sophie Hunter.'

So, Ms Hunter's blood had ended up on the inside of Gareth Winters' shoe. Assumptions would be so easy at this point, but all that could be accurately deduced was that he had been in her presence at a time when she was bleeding. One sanguine droplet did not a murderer make.

Still, it was the job of the police to actually build a compelling case. All London could do was point them in the right direction. Winters had killed Hunter. It was written all over the inferences of the victim, and no doubt the forensics would back it up once the idiots in the labs got around to processing.

A plate nudged his arm, and he glanced at the frankly monstrous sandwich Elliot was offering him. The bread was a mere afterthought in contrast to the filling, and he narrowed his eyes at it.

'No tomatoes,' Elliot sighed. 'And more ham than lettuce. Vegetables are not poisonous. At least not the ones Mrs Hanson grows. Come on, a few bites would be better than nothing.' He surrendered the plate, then settled in the armchair, digging into his own lunch with enthusiasm as he got comfortable.

London spared a moment to inspect the interior of his sandwich, but the scent of thick sliced ham and creamy butter detoured around his cynicism and went straight to his stomach, which let out a meek grumble of approval. Wonderful. A few regularly spaced meals and his body was beginning to remember that it had a vote in whether or not food was consumed. He took a bite, his thoughts still darting around the murders before something he had seen in the beginning that came rushing back to him.

It was the engagement ring gleaming on her finger, almost out of shot, that made London pause. A modern piece, not classic. Unusual design, possibly bespoke. Very expensive. It made a statement, not just about the woman being spoken for, but about the man who had laid his apparent claim: confident, involved in the aesthetic, ruthless.

Quickly he reached for the phone and dialed Inspector Cruz's number.

'Sophie Hunter's ex-fiancé could be worth investigation and I need to know what you found at Winters' apartment.' As usual he hung up before Cruz could get a word in.

'What?' Elliot asked

London flicked some butter off his thumb. 'The engagement ring. The one Sophie was wearing. Not Winters' style at all, and significantly out of his price range even if he had attempted to con her into marriage. It suggests another connection for the police to explore.'

'Marriage isn't a con,' Elliot spluttered, taking another bite of his sandwich as London shot him a dark look. 'What? It's not.'

'Yes it is. The concept of equality and sharing, of two halves making one whole is a modern invention, as little as a handful of decades old. For centuries before that, it was simply another form of slavery.' London glared at the phone, willing Cruz to call him back before he bit grumpily into his sandwich and chewed before swallowing. 'White picket fences and domestic bliss don't come into it. You don't need rings and a certificate for that.'

The ringing of the phone had the Consulting Criminal bolting upright to reach it.

'Dammit, Holmes! Do not hang up on me again. What ex-fiancé? What apartment? All information we have says he lived with Hunter. How many times do I have to tell you that?' Cruz spat in frustration.

'Idiots,' London hissed, stuffing another bite of the sandwich in his mouth and pitching the phone aside. 'We need to go out again.'

'No.' Elliot gave a thin, insincere smile and shook his head. 'Your trip to the morgue this morning was more than enough. You need to rest.'

'Elliot –'

'I mean it. I don't care if I have to sit on you, you're not going anywhere else today.' Elliot put his plate aside, looking for all the world like he intended to carry out his threat. Was he really strong enough to stop London even in his still weak state?

Was he fast enough?

'Don't.' Elliot's voice was low with warning, as well as the faintest hint of laughter, as if he could see that London was considering making a break for the door. 'I let you go to the morgue this morning, against my better judgement. I'm serious you're not well enough to go racing off all over the city.'

'But I've slept, enough! Nearly three hours wasted!'

'It's not wasted. It's called recovering.' Leaning over the armchair, Elliot scooped a couple of files off the floor, 'Look, you've got Molly's pathology reports. Won't that be enough? If you're still feeling all right tomorrow, then we can go wherever you want and I won't say anything to stop you.'

London frowned, eyeing the proffered documents with annoyance. As if they could contain anything even remotely useful when there was the un-searched domain of Winters' apartment  to inspect. At last he leaned forward, snatching the paper from Elliot's grasp and leaning back on the couch. Elliot's smile was satisfied, but short-lived as London shot him a glare.

'I'll read the files, eat some dinner since you'll no doubt insist, and then go wherever I please this evening.' He allowed his voice to drop, becoming deep with promise.

'Because I would love to see you try and stop me.'

Elliot scrubbed his hands over his eyes, staring blankly at the kettle as it boiled. Too much tea had passed his lips already today, adding a caffeine headache to the twinge in his right leg, but he needed the comfort the warm drink could bring. At least he wasn't limping – not being so obvious as to draw London's attentions. He felt like one sharp glance of scrutiny might crack him right through.

The afternoon had ebbed away while London moved between the available files on the murders, his mind racing even as his body seemed to lag, his movements less graceful and fluid than usual. Elliot could see the weariness there, trapped within the outlines of that long frame. London was pushing himself, and any efforts to get him to sit still for a few minutes went unheeded.

So Elliot was left to the fragile, uncertain spin of his thoughts, all of which revolved around London's earlier revelations. Seeing the truth written in black and white was bad enough, but hearing the reasons, the details, the facts behind London's attempts on his own life had left Elliot feeling hollow and shaken, conflicted by juxtaposing emotion: his own shifting guilt and a burning hatred for Carlton Holmes.

Elliot's therapist said he had trust issues, but she had never really touched on the compulsive behavior he had to take care of those around him. It did not matter that he hadn't yet known London, or that he had been fighting for Queen and Country in Afghanistan, he still felt the thick swarm of blame. London had been in need, and he had not been there to offer his help, his presence, a listening ear.... anything that could have stopped silver darting into skin and vein to deliver a self-inflicted death blow.

God, it could have been so different. What if Cruz had not arrived in time? Did the Inspector even realize how close London had come multiple times to being nothing but a coffin and a gravestone? Did he know – really know – the life he had saved?

The thought made Elliot's next breath shudder between his lips, and he put his hand over his mouth in an effort to suppress the sound. He kept telling himself that it was all right, that they had reached London in time and he had never turned back to suicide as a choice, but the thought was a pathetic comfort. Like water circling the drain his mind kept coming back, again and again, to how close London had been to success. If Cruz had been five minutes later, all this – all this life Elliot had now built around THE London Holmes wouldn't even exist.

The Consulting Criminal would be gone.

He clenched the fingers of his left hand, blinking his eyes quickly before grabbing the kettle and pouring boiling water over a teabag, nudging the dinner plates that were stacked by the sink aside as he did so. This had to stop. A man could drive himself insane lingering on all that could have gone wrong in his life. What he had now, this friendship or – or whatever it was with London – this was the reality, body parts and all. And if it meant sticking by London's side until he took his last breath, a friend and nothing more, Elliot would do everything he could to make sure that London always had him to turn to.

'Got it,' London yelled out, already unfolding himself from the chair and striding purposefully across the room.

'Got what?' Elliot called out.

He grabbed his coat, shrugging it on. 'Nothing. I need to go.'

London's words shook Elliot to life, stirring him from the grips of his own dark thoughts. He moved, planting himself firmly between the Consulting Criminal and the door, arms folded and his weight shifted slightly onto his good leg. He should have known after London's thrown gauntlet earlier that day that it would come to this. He had been awarded a compromise. London had not simply dashed out the door after lunch, but the past six hours had been spent in a fit of activity. London had paused only for another dose of paracetamol – the last he could have today, which Elliot knew London would regret later – and a few mouthfuls of dinner.

'No, you're not going anywhere. I mean it.' He lifted his chin, watching London look at the door before focusing on Elliot's face, his pupils dilating slightly as he stepped forward until they were toe-to-toe. One eyebrow raised a fraction in challenge, and Elliot licked his lips, not allowing himself to waver as London spoke.

'Is this you trying to stop me?'

'There's no trying about it,' Elliot muttered. London could loom all he wanted – if he was looking for surrender he would be waiting a long time.

He saw the moment the decision was made, written in the micro-expressions of London's face. The tightening of the eyes, the faint shift of his weight before he made to duck around Elliot, hand already outstretched for the door handle. However, Elliot was just as fast, grabbing his wrist, spinning them both around and pressing London's back against the door.

It was all instinct born of too much time spent in conflict, though he did at least have the presence of mind not to slam London's stubborn self into the wood too hard. Instead he found himself with both hands locked firmly around London's wrists, pinning them neatly either side of his head so that he could not get the leverage to break free. His body moved reflexively, lending his weight to keep London trapped.

'Well ,well...' London murmured, his lips curved in a smile. 'Are you going to keep me here all night?'

'I won't have to if you'd just listen to me,' Elliot pointed out, trying to keep his voice level as London tipped his head to one side: an attentive motion that exposed the column of his throat.

'Look, it's dark, cold and pissing it down with rain. You're still ill, and you're going to charge out there anyway. You don't need to be a genius to realize how daft that is.' He sounded almost normal when he said it, and if London noticed the strain in his voice then he did not comment. In fact, Elliot could feel the tension in that taller body relaxing, seeping away as London stopped pushing against Elliot's grip and simply slumped back against the door.

It was a false surrender. Elliot realized it a second too late and grunted as he found himself twisted around until their positions were reversed, the wood of the door hard against his back and London's hands pressed gently against his shoulders. It was a much less captivating grip than Elliot's had been. He could have broken it easily, but there was something in the line of London's body, some gleam in his eyes that told Elliot this was more a game than anything serious. London wasn't trying to stop Elliot from getting away, he was just trusting that he wouldn't.

'I'll be gone an hour, no more than that. Don't you see? The case will grow cold –'

'And you'll solve it anyway. You do it all the time!'

'It's not the same.' London shook his head. 'And we both know that if you don't let me go, I'll simply wait until you've fallen asleep and leave, when it's darker and wetter and colder outside than it is now.'

He would as well. Elliot knew that from experience. How many times had he woken up in the morning to find London conspicuously absent and, more often than not, up to his neck in some trouble or other?

'Christ.' Elliot shut his eyes, his arguments spent. He had neither the strength nor the right to make London do as he was told, and Elliot was done trying. For tonight at least. 'Fine, but I'm coming with you. At least that way if you keel over there's someone around to drag you home.'

'Of course.'

London smiled, soft and warm, and Elliot  let out a haggard, irritated breath, snatching his coat from the hook and dragging it on, doing it up before he jammed his hands into gloves. He had been played, and he knew it. London never had qualms about manipulating anyone to get what he wanted, even Elliot, and this time he was too drained to try and out-think the git. He had probably intended Elliot to go with him all along: it was a compromise without cost, and Elliot wished he could feel more anger than grudging respect at the way the Consulting Criminal worked.

Elliot's musings scattered as, at last, the taxi came to a halt, leaving them standing on the rain-soaked pavement and looking up at some of London's more impressive apartments. Elliot huddled inside his coat, shivering as he stared up at the apartment building in front of them. The cab pulled away with a squeal of tyres, sending spray up into the air to join the rain that dripped miserably from the clouds overhead. Forget the Consulting Criminal, he was going to come down with something if they stood around much longer.

'Fine, we're here. Now where is here exactly?' he demanded, rubbing his hands together and falling into step at London's side as he moved towards the front door.

'Byranstan Court. Where Gareth Winters had an apartment.' Something jangled in London's hand, and Elliot saw the keys gleaming where they hung from gloved fingertips. 'One of these should let us in.'

'Where did you –' Elliot sighed, shoulders dropping. 'You nicked them from the morgue, didn't you? Cruz's going to have a fit when he realizes evidence is missing.'

'He is too busy being twisted into knots by the PR disaster that is the Hunter family to notice. He wasn't even aware Winters had a place. He thought he lived with Ms Hunter.'

'That's not an unreasonable assumption,' Elliot pointed out. The Consulting Criminal would fit in here, immaculately tailored from head to foot and, thanks to his last dose of paracetamol, alert and aware.

'You think not? How about the fact that there was only one change of clothes for Winters at Hunter's apartment? Or that clearly only one end of the sofa was put to long-term use, judging by the distortion of the cushions? I was ill, and I knew that Winters did not live with Hunter. They were –'

'Just screwing? Friends with benefits?' Elliot asked, taking perverse delight in watching London squirm at the crudeness of the term.

'Yes,' London replied as they approached the front door. 'Perhaps that was not always the case, but by this point their relationship had diminished to mutual gratification and not much else.'

The door onto the lobby was unlocked and opened with ease, the fine polished wood and brass detailing giving way to reveal a marbled interior. A porter's desk stood nearby, mercifully empty, but Elliot doubted they would be stopped anyway. Anyone else would look shy and awkward, guilty even, but London just breezed in and out as if he had every right to be there.

The lift doors parted, allowing them access into the opulent interior of the small space. Elliot tried not to grimace. There was tasteful, and then there was this: a palace pretender. His reflection cast his own face back at him, and he glared at his hair, spiky and disheveled from the brief exposure to the rain. He flattened it uselessly, just catching sight of London's faint smirk.

'Don't know what you're smiling at,' he muttered. 'There's people all over the place. All anyone has to do is ask and they'll know we've been here. Cruz will flip his nut and we'll never be allowed on a case again. How do you even know what floor we need, anyway?'

'Mail boxes in the lobby. They give away far too much information, especially when they're pretentious enough to have the names of the owner emblazoned on them in gold leaf.' London flicked his gaze around before turning dismissively away. 'Why would the police need to ask about who was here today?'

'Just hope they don't.' Elliot looked around as the lift chimed and the doors parted, leaving them to step into a narrow corridor. Compared to the lavish surroundings of the downstairs, it was a bit of a disappointment. He'd seen hotels with nicer passageways. A thin and slightly threadbare carpet muffled their footsteps as London swept along, passing the occasional blank oak front door before reaching the correct one. The key slipped into the lock with ease.

Low ceilings and big windows greeted them, the curtains pulled back to show a panorama of street lit London and Elliot watched the Consulting Criminal's expression smooth over as he took in the details.

To Elliot, it looked lived in: a far cry from the show room clarity of Sophie Hunter's place. There was mail dumped on the table and dishes stacked by the sink. Some dry cleaning had been left over the couch. The carpet had not been hoovered in the near past – the crumbs alone told that story – and Elliot would bet anything that the toilet seat was still up in the bathroom. Especially if Winters lived here by himself.

'What exactly are we looking for?' Elliot whispered, shifting uncomfortably as he closed the door behind them, sealing off the outside world.

'No one can hear you,' London replied in a normal tone. 'There's no need for stealth.' He flicked on the lights, pushing open the door to both the bedroom and the bathroom before shaking his head. 'It tells us one thing straight away. Winters was not murdered here and then dragged to the bridge. It's highly probable he met his killer there. We're looking for anything that could help us work out who that might be, and to tie Winters in with Hunter's death.'

London moved into the kitchenette, and Elliot could hear the open and close of drawers and the rattle of cupboards. Shaking his head to himself, he began to search through the post, looking around helplessly when all it revealed was a couple of bills and a credit card application. 'A few hints would be good, Holmes.'

'Names, phone numbers... anything like that.'

Elliot sighed, rubbing his hand over his forehead before flicking through a stack of magazines and looking at the pictures on the wall. While the place was much more homey than Sophie's apartment, there was something hasty about the whole set up, as if Winters was only ever really passing through. The city demanded work at all hours, but still, there was something not quite right about the whole thing.

'Check the bedroom.'

Doing as he was told, Elliot sighed, staring around the uninspiring chamber. It looked like every other man's room he had ever seen, right down to the tissues and lotion by the bed. Tangled sheets and a pillow almost on the floor suggested Winters couldn't be arsed to make his bed in the morning, and the socks thrown in the vague direction of a dirty laundry basket suggested he couldn't wait to fall into it, either. There were no photos of girlfriends, and nothing incriminating lay hidden under the bed.

The dressing table was a clutter of hair product and moisturizer – well, London had said he took an unusual amount of care over his appearance. Contact lenses as well, so Winters had issues with his eyes. The only thing slightly out of place was a brochure for a new apartment complex. Perhaps he was looking to move out soon?

'Anything interesting?' London asked, arriving abruptly at Elliot's shoulder and narrowing his eyes at the same glossy leaflet.

'Not much. It just looks like a normal apartment.'

London gave him a brief, exasperated glance, the one he always shot at people who patently failed to see things of note. 'If you say so. Winters was working twelve or thirteen hour days at HSBC, probably in investments. He had time for breakfast, but spilled milk on the surface, tiredness made him clumsy.'

The Consulting Criminal whirled around, speaking a mile-a-minute as Elliot listened on, rapt. 'He sought sex with Hunter but did not stay the night. His recycling bin holds junk mail dated consecutively for almost the past fortnight; he was always here to pick up his mail. Perhaps expecting something.' He gestured towards the kitchen.

'He probably murdered Hunter with a six inch ceramic blade vegetable knife. The only one missing from the full set I discovered moments ago.'

'That's –' Elliot blinked, shaking his head. 'Brilliant, as always. Where's the knife now?'

'Probably the same place as his clothes. There's no bag in the kitchen bin, so we need to look outside. Rubbish isn't collected until tomorrow morning. With any luck, the evidence will still be –' 

London froze, his head cocked to one side in a way that made Elliot's blood go cold. He had heard something?

'What is it?'

'The lift's stopped at this floor. Have you got your gun?' London asked, sighing when Elliot shook his head. His coat whirled around him as he turned, snatching the wardrobe open and urging Elliot inside before stepping in himself, closing the door all but a crack.

'All the lights are on,' Elliot hissed, his heart beating hard in his chest as he tried not to trip on the shoes underfoot. 'If someone's coming in here, they'll know they're not alone!'

'The element of surprise will be enough,' London promised, his words barely shaping a breath as he shifted, wincing at the clatter of coat hangers.

There was hardly enough space for one person to hide in the wardrobe, let alone two, especially with Winters' suits hanging thick on the rail. London's chest was pressed against Elliot's, the taller man's head ducked in the cramped space and one hand braced by Elliot's shoulder to balance his weight.

They were breathing each other's air as the enclosed space grew humid, filled with the scent of apprehension and adrenaline. The velvet darkness pressed down on Elliot's skin, only marred by the chink of light that splashed itself across the absurd edge of London's cheekbone, turning one eye bright silver.

A sharp click from the door to the apartment suggested someone had pushed it open and closed it in their wake, and Elliot bit his lip, cursing himself for leaving his gun behind. He had been too intent on keeping up with London to grab it, and stupidly he had hoped they were going somewhere relatively harmless, like the morgue or the Yard.

London leaned in, his movements slow and choreographed, drawing not even a whisper from the fabric occupants of their space as he pressed his lips to Elliot's ear.

'One male, roughly eleven stone two, unfamiliar with the apartment. They've not been here before. They're alone.'

Elliot nodded, swallowing tightly as he stretched up a fraction. 'Two against one?'

'Could be armed,' London replied, and Elliot drew in a deep breath, trying to concentrate on the actual words. 'You go high, I'll go low.'

Blindly, Elliot reached out, letting his fingers trail over Winters' clothes until he found what he was looking for. A long, thin ribbon of silk, fatter at one end. A tie could make a perfectly serviceable garrote if necessary, and double up as a decent rope to tie up a potential criminal. It was that or throw shoes at the bastard's head.

He could hear the footsteps now, moving with the slow, careful tread of someone who does not think that they're alone. Elliot pursed his lips, timing his own breaths to the steady swell of London's rib cage until every rush of air was taken in tandem. London's hair was tickling Elliot's forehead where he still leant close, forced near by the limited space, and Elliot could only stare into the uncertain darkness, counting each passing heartbeat as the stranger drew near.

Abruptly, London cocked his head to one side, his spare hand moving to circle Elliot's wrist. 'Wait,' he whispered, a faint huff of disbelieving laughter escaping him as the footsteps entered the room. 'It's Cruz.'

'What?' Elliot asked. 'How can you possibly know? Holmes!' That last bit was hissed as the Consulting Criminal straightened up and stepped out of the wardrobe with a flourish, earning a very familiar cry of alarm, followed by a string of swear words that Elliot had only heard after a strong night of drinking with the Inspector.

'Inspector, how good of you to join us,' London said, barely concealing his mirth at Cruz, who had lurched back against the bedroom wall, one hand against his chest and the other wrapped around a standard issue truncheon. 'Got bored of the Hunters at last?'

'Fucking hell, Holmes, you prick!' Cruz managed at last, sagging where he stood. 'I will shoot you!'

Elliot grunted in agreement. That made two of them. One day London was going to do something rash and irresponsible and get shot by the Inspector for his efforts. He stepped out of the wardrobe, the tie still gripped loosely in one hand as he kicked a shoe out of his way and shot a glare at London.

'What are you two doing in here anyway?' Cruz demanded, his gaze flicking down to the tie in Elliot's hand before lifting to the wardrobe as a smirk crossed his face. 'Or don't I want to know?'

'We prefer handcuffs, Inspector. Ties break so easily and I have far too many expensive ones to just randomly destroy.' London sarcastically said as he looked over at Elliot who then threw the tie aside, shaking his head in disbelief. 'I was going to strangle you with it,' he said flatly. 'We thought you were someone else – a murderer maybe.'

'How did you know I wasn't?' Cruz asked, raising an eyebrow as London sighed.

'Dull. Now tell me, Inspector, what exactly are you doing here? I thought you were in denial about the existence of Winters' apartment.'

'You seriously expect me to get a call like the one you had with me earlier and not start asking the right kind of questions?' Cruz looked faintly insulted as he pushed himself away from the wall. 'I know how to research as well, you know. Once we actually knew Winters had a place, it didn't take much to find it, nor a great deal to guess I’d find you here when you weren't at Baker Street. What are you doing out, anyway? I thought you were still ill.'

'He is,' Elliot cut in before London could try and brush off the fact that he was still recovering. 'I'm here under protest, and I plan to drag him back home as soon as possible.'

'So what was so important that it couldn't wait until tomorrow?' Cruz demanded. 'We could have let you look at the place then. Now I have to call a team and secure the scene tonight.' Spotting Winters' phone, he threw London a quick, dark look before he dialed the station and gave his orders. 'Yeah, Hopkins. I need a scene sweep. Byranstan Court, as soon as you can.'

'We won't be graced with the marvelous presence of Donovan and Anderson this evening?' London asked, his voice low and scathing.

'No, because the two of them are currently at Chiswick bridge.' Cruz looked smug at London's surprise. 'I told you I'd check them, didn't I? So I delegated. They know what they're looking for.'

London gave a grunt of disbelief, as if he thought it unlikely that Anderson or Donovan would be able to find the bridge, let alone the evidence that might be in the water at its footings. 'If we waited until tomorrow, you might have been searching the local landfill for the murder weapon, rather than the bins outside. Come on.'

He swept out of the room, leaving Elliot to give an apologetic shrug to Cruz as they both followed. 'We did our best not to disturb the scene too much. We've got gloves.' He held up his hands in demonstration. 'The only thing we might have contaminated is the wardrobe.' He winced at the sound of that. 'Because we hid in it, I mean.'

'Yeah, okay. I believe you.' Cruz's grin faded away as they stepped out of the apartment and walked down the hall before entering the close confines of the lift. His face became serious as he gave London and Elliot an equally hard glare. 'That doesn't make up for the fact that you're on a scene without my authority.'

'It wasn't your scene, yet,' London pointed out. 'We were simply....'

'Breaking and entering?' Cruz challenged.

'Looking for our good friend Gareth Winters, who left us a spare key,' London corrected, digging in his pocket and reluctantly surrendering his prize into the Inspector's palm.

'A key which you stole from the morgue. I've already had Molly on the phone. It's a challenge, listening to that poor girl trying to tell me you've wandered off with stuff without her actually accusing you of anything.' He dragged a small, clear polythene bag from his pocket and slipped the key inside. 'Is there anything else you took from the apartment?'

'Please,' London scoffed. 'I'm not an amateur, and neither is Elliot. It's undisturbed.'

Cruz turned around as the lift came to a halt, depositing them in the lobby. 'Wait here. I need to talk to the porter, let him know what's going on. They gave me a key to investigate, but they'll want to know why there are going to be police crawling all over their building.'

Elliot rocked back on his heels, thinking longingly of Baker Street's warmth. The ebb of adrenaline had left him more tired than before. If London were at full health he'd be tempted to leave him with Cruz and just go home and crawl into bed, but he could not risk it. Worse, he could feel the night stretching out in front of him, one spent outside in alleys and lurking at bridges while the police did their work and London put the pieces together – London's promise of “just one hour” turning into an all-nighter.

He blinked, feeling his eyelids burn. God, but he needed hot tea and bed. Everything felt too heavy, from his head to his leaden feet. Only moments near London lifted him from the drag of it, elevating him to a new level. The hug they shared earlier, the confusing moment against the door. Even crammed in a far too small wardrobe he had felt himself again, awake and alert. Yet now his mind was thick with fog, overburdened with the weight of the day.

A warm hand curled around his wrist, touching skin in the gap between his sleeves and his gloves, and Elliot blinked up in surprise, finding himself the unerring focus of London's attention. Those expressive eyebrows were pulled into a frown, and Elliot licked his lips, wondering what the Consulting Criminal could see.

'We'll just make sure Cruz's got the evidence from the bins, and then we'll head back.' London said abruptly, giving Elliot's wrist a quick squeeze before releasing him again.

Elliot blinked, shaking his head in confusion. 'What about the bridges? Don't you want to –?'

'That can wait. Any real evidence there will have been displaced, and I’m sure that the report will be adequate to prove my theories.' London's voice was casual, almost indifferent, and totally at odds with his earlier, urgent need to leave their apartment.

'Are you feeling unwell again?' Elliot narrowed his eyes, trying to pick out any clues in London's appearance, but there was nothing to give him away. He was standing up straight, poised and elegant, his hands in jacket pockets.

'I'm fine. You, on the other hand, are not. I can't have my doctor falling ill now, can I?'

Elliot lifted his head, raising a hand in a dismissive wave before dropping it back to his side. 'I'm okay. Really, just –'

'Tired. You're still recovering from taking care of me, and your generosity in that regard means your sleep schedule is thrown. Add to that the anxiety of reading my medical file and your failed attempts to keep me away, and it's obvious you're overwhelmed.' London's lips twitched, a tiny, sad little smile. 'The last thing you need is to end up following me all over while I try and solve this case, and you won't go back to our place alone. Therefore it's only logical that we both go home.'

London stopped, perhaps expecting Elliot to argue or object, but he had already given his token protest. Besides, how often could he honestly say that London put him before a case? He would take what he was given and be damn grateful for it.

'Are you two coming?' Cruz called from where he was waiting by the door, squinting at the rain that rushed down outside. 'This had better not take long, London.'

'If you'd rather avoid getting wet we can leave it until the morning, and then you can waste days fruitlessly combing the landfill for the evidence you need.' London strode out into the downpour and turned left, leaving Elliot and Cruz to follow on his heels. They splashed through the puddles and avoided dripping gutters, the rain steadily seeping through Elliot's coat before they ducked into the narrow alley.

Here the glow of the street lamps was dim and useless. Instead it was the light from the Consulting Criminal's torch that pierced the gloom, cutting a bright swathe as it danced over the bank of bins.

'What are we looking for?' Elliot asked. 'Is he going to have bagged it?' He lifted the lid of one of the bins and pulled a face at the smell of week-old rubbish: table scraps, nappies and God knew what else, all barely contained in bulging black plastic.

'It will probably be double or triple-bagged,' London called, already rummaging. 'It should have been ditched a few days ago, so it's unlikely to be on top.'

'Wonderful,' Cruz muttered, pulling out some gloves and slipping them on his hands. 'This is just how I wanted to spend my Sunday. First I'm patronized by the most arrogant prick I've ever met, which is saying something, since I know you, Holmes, and now I'm digging through this mess.'

'Did the Hunters say anything helpful?' Elliot asked, trying not to look too closely at whatever had just squelched under his hand.

'All mouth and no actual answers,' Cruz complained, picking up a rag between thumb and forefinger, giving it a critical look before pitching it aside. 'Rich as bloody anything and rude with it. God save me from entitled dickheads.'

Elliot could hear the thick veins of tired irritation running through Cruz's voice. Part of him thought that there should be some sympathy for the Hunters. They had just lost a daughter after all, but from the sound of it there had been little in the way of genuine grief during the interviews.

'Back-stabbers, the lot of them,' Cruz added, 'But I did find out that the ex-fiancé is a man called Michael Monroe. Amicable break-up three years ago. As far as they know all contact had ceased.'

London had gone still, a brief moment of calm amidst the flurry of activity as he processed that information. 'Interesting.'

He did not elaborate, and Elliot just shrugged when Cruz looked at him questioningly. He had no more idea what went on in London's head than anyone else. Most of the time anyway.

At last, with the rain dripping down his neck and soaking through the uppers of his boots, Elliot tugged free one of the bin bags, rousing a thick, rotten, metallic scent from its interior. 'I think I've got something.'

Within moments, London was at his side, his torch clenched in his teeth as he unraveled the knot and parted layers of black plastic to reveal the bundle of clothes. Wrapped up in their heart was a ceramic knife, watered down streams of blood still present on the white blade.

'This should be enough to prove Winters killed Hunter, premeditated as well, since he took the knife with him.' London surrendered the bundle to Cruz just as the flash of lights indicated the arrival of the rest of his team.

'Now we just need to work out who killed him,' Cruz replied, his brown eyes pinched. 'Don't suppose you've got any leads on that?'

London's smile was all teeth. 'I'm working on it. Drop off copies of all the relevant files from both here and the bridges tomorrow morning.'

'What about transcripts of the interviews with the Hunters?'

A flash of distaste twisted London's lips, but he eventually nodded his head. 'Everything. Somewhere there’ll be a lead that takes us straight back to the killer, and I plan to find it. Come on, Elliot.'

His fingers caught on Elliot's sleeve, a beckoning, plucking motion as Elliot bid Cruz farewell and picked his way out of the water-logged alley. Out in the open, the rain hammered down, not a few desultory drips between the buildings but a solid downpour. Within moments he went from being damp to drenched-to-the-skin, and he yanked his collar up around his neck as he followed London past the police cars towards the main street.

Abruptly, a patch of dry enveloped him, sheltering his head and making him look up in surprise. London had peeled off his coat and was holding it over both their heads, one arm out-stretched expectantly for Elliot to take the other corner. The scarf hung undone around his neck, trailing low as rain drops gleamed in his hair, bright in the headlights of passing cars.

For a minute, Elliot considered rejecting the offer. London was the one who was meant to be ill after all, but the thick wool was more water-resistant than Elliot's jacket, and the dense fabric was better than nothing against the elements. At last, Elliot reached up, shifting closer to London's side so they could both claim its shelter as they waited for an available cab to pass.

'Thanks,' Elliot murmured, trying not to sniff pathetically. 'I hate getting caught in the rain. We should get an umbrella.'

'Steal Alexander's,' London suggested. 'He probably keeps government secrets in the handle.'

'I thought a sword blade.'

'No, he's abysmal at fencing.'

Elliot tipped his head to the side, a smile quirking his lips at the thought of an idyllic life where fencing was something people actually did. 'Can you fence?'

London just gave Elliot a sideways glance and that crooked half smile before he stepped forward, releasing his corner of the coat tent and lifting his hand to hail a cab. Elliot was left bundled in warm, heavy wool as London opened the back door and scooted across, leaving Elliot with plenty of space to clamber in. The cabbie gave a quick nod of understanding at the instruction to head for Baker Street, and Elliot tried not to obviously huddle into the hot draft that escaped the heating vent.

The close warmth of the cab was perfect, and London's coat now draped over his shoulders smelled like rain, wool and London, particularly at the collar, which was currently folded down rather than pulled up in a dramatic ridge. It made Elliot relax, sagging gratefully into the seat and trying not to let his eyes slip shut as they sped towards home.

Before he knew it, the engine was idling once more, and London was thrusting a ten pound note at the cab driver. Elliot struggled free, shivering in the rain and absently clutching London's coat closer around himself as he hurried to the door, trying to hide in the small overhang as London let them in.

Elliot's feet left wet prints all up the stairs as he staggered into the apartment, reduced to uncertainty by whether he would rather have sleep or a hot cup of tea. Thankfully, the decision was removed from his hands as London plucked his own coat from around Elliot's shoulders and hung it on the hook before repeating the process with Elliot's jacket.

'Go and get into dry clothes,' he instructed. 'I was serious, earlier. Both of us being ill would be a disaster.'

'But I'm the one who is meant to be looking after you,' Elliot protested, frowning when London just looked pointedly towards the stairs.

At least the Consulting Criminal looked almost completely dry, other than his hair, which was sculpting itself into damp curls. His coat had protected him, whereas Elliot's clothes had let water in at the seams, and his trousers (a fraction too long) had soaked up the rainwater like wicks.

Grudgingly, he did as he was told, forcing himself not to limp up the stairs before closing the bedroom door behind him. The heating had not come on yet, and the room felt chilled and damp, not exactly ideal. Elliot quickly got undressed, spreading out everything, even his socks, to dry. It took only a few minutes to throw on his pajamas and wrap his terry dressing gown around himself, then he grabbed his blanket and headed back downstairs. He could warm up and then return to bed later, once he felt comfortable enough not to shiver all night.

Back in the living room, he blinked at the flames in the grate, smiling as their heat slipped outwards like hot syrup, taking the chill edge off the air. London was in the kitchen, and Elliot was surprised to see he had changed out of his suit. Though actually, now he looked closer, he could see that the Consulting Criminal was not as well as he had claimed. His shoulders were slumped, the blue dressing gown trailing off one shoulder as he stirred two mugs of steaming tea. His face had taken on a faintly grey tinge once more, and Elliot worried at his bottom lip.

'You should have kept your coat,' he said softly, dumping his blanket on the couch and moving closer to rest the back of his cold hand across London's forehead. 'Paracetamol worn off?'

'Unfortunately, yes,' London murmured, looking more than a little irritated at the fact. 'I was going to stay up and look at the case files, but...' He shrugged, handing Elliot his tea and heading for the couch, shamelessly tucking himself under the blanket and leaving some spare for Elliot. 'I don't think I can focus like this. How long until I'm better?'

The “I told you so” was lingering on the tip of Elliot's tongue, but he swallowed it back as he joined London. 'If you keep charging all over the city like you have been, it could take weeks. If you'd rest...' He let the rest of the sentence wither as London shook his head.

'I can rest when there's no case.'

'Except you don't,' Elliot muttered, dragging the feather blanket up to almost his chin. He kept the hand with his tea in it free and took a sip, feeling the hot liquid warm him all the way down. It was enough to make him take another, and before long the mug was empty. He set it on the coffee table before leaning back with a sigh.

Now, for example, the peace was furling around them, serene and comfortable, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire and the gentle, melodic voice of the presenter. Gradually, the chill was fading, heat spreading through him as the bite of rainy winter receded from his bones. His leg ached less, as did his shoulder. Each blink was getting slower, his eyes taking longer to open, and he vaguely wondered if he should actually get to bed. But no, he did not want to go back to an unwelcoming bedroom when he could be here instead.

Elliot did not even notice the world around him growing fainter, stretching further beyond his reach. Nor did he feel the blanket being tugged up over his shoulder, wrapping him in a soft cocoon.

The last thing he heard was London's voice, not simply travelling through the air but rumbling beneath his ear and harmonized by the steady rhythm of another's heartbeat.

'Goodnight.'

London tweaked something out of one of the files on the coffee table and stretched his arm over the back of the couch. His body arched, a languorous, cat-like motion as Elliot leaned forward to see what London had found. It was an old photo. Sophie was smiling at the camera with her arms wrapped around a tall, blond man. He was about London's height, but broader, tanned in an artful way. He looked like the kind of person who spent twenty minutes trying to make his hair look like he'd just got out of bed. Elliot's dislike was pretty much instantaneous.

'Looks like a right twat.' He sighed before nodding his head.

'Hmmmm.' London's voice sounded next to Elliot's ear, and he stiffened slightly in his seat. He had not realized the Consulting Criminal had even moved – too busy reading to hear the couch's squeaky sigh. 

'What?' he asked when he realized he had not picked up a word London had said.

'It looks like we might have a connection after all,' London replied, his tone a little curt at having to repeat himself. 'The brochure for new apartments in Winters' bedroom was conceptual. They've not been built yet, but look at the company behind them.

Elliot looked at the writing on the brochure. 'Macmillan and Monroe. So Winters liked one of their apartments. What of it?' Seeing the look in London's eyes, Elliot sighed and admitted defeat.  'I'll make tea then, shall I?'

'Now who's the mind reader?' London asked, meeting Elliot's gaze appreciatively. 'Make it quick though, I think we should pay Monroe a visit.'

Obligingly, Elliot wandered through to the kitchen and put the kettle on, drumming his fingers on the surface as he waited for it to boil. Clearly London had found something worth investigating, but Elliot knew better than to ask. The Consulting Criminal could not keep discoveries to himself; he would speak up before long.

The kettle clicked, interrupting his thoughts, and Elliot poured the water into the mugs they had used earlier, absently running back through his mind to try and recall if London had taken any paracetamol recently. Lunch had been about an hour ago, and he had eaten it with every sign of enjoyment, but had not bothered with any more tablets.

Looking over his shoulder, Elliot narrowed his eyes, trying to judge London's health in the meek light of the day and the glow of the light around him. He seemed all right – his eyes bright and alert and his cheeks a healthy pallor. His body was also back to its usual fluid grace, leaning against the couch with no sign of pain or awkwardness.

'You feeling all right?' Elliot asked, stirring sugar into London's tea as he waited for the answer.

'Hmmmm? Oh, yes. Adequate, anyway.' He replied as he ambled over to the kitchen and picking his mug up from the surface, sipping at the scalding liquid with barely a flinch. 'You're not going to try to stop me leaving?'

'It's not really worked too well the last couple of times I've tried,' Elliot pointed out with a grin. 'What are we looking for at Monroe's then?'

London absently picked up a biscuit from the packet resting on the side, staring into his cup of tea as he spoke. 'One of his projects caught my eye, a re-development in the W9 area. It seems he wants to build on Admiral Walk.'

'That's where Hunter's place is, isn't it?' Elliot narrowed his eyes, feeling suspicions beginning to prickle at the back of his mind. 'Go on then, what do you know that I don't?'

'It's not just on Hunter's street; it's a redevelopment of the apartment complex she lived in.' London smirked as Elliot's eyebrows rose. 'He would have to buy up the land and the buildings on it to be able to make his design a reality. It's a connection we can't leave unexplored.'

'So, what? You think maybe Hunter got in his way and refused to sell?'

London gave a single, eloquent shrug of his shoulders. 'Not enough data, hence why we need to visit his office. It could be that the project never got off the ground – a pipe dream and nothing more. Though he doesn't seem to be the kind of man who takes no for an answer. Macmillan and Monroe are known for aggressive acquisitions. It's made them one of the wealthiest design and construction companies in Europe.'

Elliot took a gulp of his tea, cool enough now to drink without burning his throat. 'Aggressive enough to kill someone?'

'I doubt it will be official company policy.' London muttered, the teasing tone in his voice fading away as he continued, 'but if there was more at stake than just a contract...' He shook his head. 'That's why I need to talk to Monroe, and maybe take a trip back to Admiral Walk. Hunter was not the only one who would need to be bought off if he planned to build.'

'Why go to the effort, though? I mean, I know there's not much space in the city, but there's derelict patches. He could build there instead.'

''Architects that good don't see just a plot of land. The city is their canvas. They find the best spot for their idea and don't let go. Admiral Walk is convenient without being plebeian and, if utilized correctly, could offer some of the best views in the city. It's prime real-estate, worth a fortune. That could be how he got Winters on board. Nothing as filthy as money changing hands, but perhaps the promise of an apartment in the new complex?'

Elliot wished he could pretend that real people did not think like that, but he had been too long in the world to believe it. For some, human life was worthless. For God's sake, even the army treated it like currency to pay the price of peace.

'So what do you want me to do?' Elliot asked, setting his cup aside and walking towards the front door, already reaching for his jacket.

London shrugged on his coat, his scarf curving around his neck and tucked in underneath the thick wool as his eyes met Elliot's. 'Observe.'

'More your thing, isn't it?' Elliot asked.

'Oh, I don't know,' London murmured. 'You have your moments. I can keep Monroe's attention on me while you nose around, chat up the secretary, all those things that you do so well.'