The cab ride was short and peaceful, and in its own way strangely perfect. 

The cool London air around Canary Wharf seemed doubly bitter when the cab arrived and they were forced to part, two separate entities once more. Elliot stood on the pavement, trying not to shiver as he looked up at the towering monoliths: London's temples to business and capitalism. The Thames drifted in languid trails around the quays, somehow tamed of its usual silt and vigor to become almost mirror-smooth, and everywhere he looked there were people bustling around, as their shoes tapped over the flawless paving stones.

'It looks fake,' Elliot muttered, eyeing the trees that grew in regular lines down one of the boulevards. 'All of it.'

'It is,' London replied. 'Regenerated to within an inch of its life. If Monroe was a primary architect here, then you can read a lot about him from the landscape alone.'

Elliot glanced around, taking in the gargantuan, phallic shapes of the towers. 'Compensating for something?'

London met his eye and they both smirked, glancing away to stop themselves from dissolving into laughter. 'Perhaps, but there's more to it than that,' London said at last, gesturing to the trees. 'Uniform height, symmetrical, regularly maintained and cultivated. Paving stones following a regular prime pattern. Buildings carefully placed. I expect the ones he built are those two, and that one.' He pointed out a few of the more prominent towers. 'The eye is drawn to them by the flow of the skyline. He's a perfectionist, fond of the aesthetic, extrovert, confident, and arrogant with pride. This place is a creation, and he is its god.'

'Should we have brought some kind of sacrifice?' Elliot asked, shaking his head in disbelief. That the Consulting Criminal could get all that from just seeing a place... 'Anything else?'

'Fond of Shakespeare, since there are quotes on all the manhole covers. Narcissistic, as he appears to have written his name on everything.' London tapped the monogram of “MM” with the toe of his shoe. 'Come on. Let's go and see if I'm right.'

They walked leisurely, crossing the narrow, pristine roads that carved their way through the cities little slice of utopia. It was easy to forget, amidst a forest of stone and glass, that there was more to the capital city than this, and before long Elliot felt lost and confused, as if all his senses had been deadened by the constructions around him.

'And here we are,' London said with a flourish at one of the many buildings. It seemed almost petite in comparison to some of its neighbors, all modern steel and shining, spotless panes of glass. Elliot's reflection stared back at him, looking a bit nonplussed, and he forced a polite, friendly smile on his face as London strode through the door and towards the reception desk, all leonine power and unshakable confidence. The poor girl did not stand a chance. Elliot saw her glance up and then look again, her hazel eyes ignoring Elliot completely as she watched the Consulting Criminal from under her lashes, practically stripping him with her gaze.

'Can I help you, sir?'

'I hope so,' London replied, giving her one of those charming smiles, genuine on the surface but not quite touching his eyes. 'My name is London Holmes, and this is my colleague Elliot. I need to speak with Mr Monroe.'

'Do you have an appointment?' she asked, leaning forward a little in her chair with a hopeful, faintly pouting expression that made Elliot turn away to hide a smile.

'I was hoping that would not be necessary. In fact, it's possibly preferable for Mr Monroe if my visit isn't official. It's a police matter.' He pulled an ID from his pocket, giving her enough of a glimpse to notice the Yard's credentials without actually taking in the name or the face: one of Cruz's Elliot would bet, pilfered by London at some indeterminate time in the past.

The woman's lips made a little 'O' of shock, and she nodded obligingly. 'Let me speak to his assistant. I'm sure he'll be able to make time for you.' She flushed prettily at London's murmur of thanks and began to speak into the desk phone, her voice soft and subtle as Elliot took a moment to look around the reception area.

There were awards on the walls and occasional models, many of which Elliot recognized as modern landmarks in the London skyline. The whole place was tastefully decorated in wood and painted steel, unassuming in a way that suggested it was all very expensive, and he would bet anything that the blooms floating in a water bowl on the desk were fresh and cost a fortune.

He looked back at London, a thrill of pleasure racing down his spine as he realized that, rather than checking out the room, the Consulting Criminal was instead watching him. His pale eyes were intense and fascinated, as if Elliot were far more interesting than anything Monroe and his offices could offer.

'Mr Holmes? Mr Monroe is available to see you and your colleague now,' the receptionist said at last, tucking her hair behind her ear before gesturing to the lift. 'Top floor. His assistant will meet you there.'

'Thank you,' London murmured, keeping his body turned towards Elliot but looking back at the girl with a smile. 'You've been very helpful. Coming, Elliot?'

With a quick, friendly nod to the girl behind the desk, Elliot fell in at London's side. The lift was hidden behind wood paneled, brushed brass doors, and London stood aside to let Elliot in first before following behind, breathing out a little sigh as the doors closed, sealing them inside.

'One day, Cruz's going to find out about you stealing his ID,' Elliot warned, watching the smirk ghost across London's lips.

'He's been oblivious for the past three years,' London pointed out, 'and it's easier than acquiring a genuinely false police identification. No one bothers to look, anyway. Say “police” and everyone's instantly blinded by the internal monologue of every crime they have ever committed, no matter how minor.'

'I think she was more blinded by you, actually,' Elliot muttered. 'I might as well have been a pot plant or something.'

'It's because you're shorter than her, and she clearly had fixed ideas of what to look for in a potential partner; stature being key.'

Elliot sighed. It really would not be the first time his height, or lack thereof, worked against him.

'Besides, she has problems with fidelity, materialistic attitudes and father issues – not exactly a good prospect. She's looking for a tall paternal figure, and while Monroe is too young to fit that bill I think you'll find the other partner, Macmillan, is a good match.' London leaned back against the wall of the lift. 'In fact that's probably why someone with a masters degree in information management is working as a receptionist. She's only been employed here for a few weeks – instructions for the phone still taped to the desk – and she's hoping to catch his eye. Not much use to us, except to get us into Monroe's office.'

Elliot grinned at the rather cutting analysis and rolled his shoulders in a shrug.

The lift doors slid open, and Elliot turned his head abruptly, seeing a large, minimalist office spread out before them. A neatly groomed, brown-haired young man was already standing from behind the desk with a professionally practiced smile, and beyond him a pair of double frosted glass doors were shut against the world. Elliot could just make out a tall, shadowy silhouette pacing back and forwards, one arm raised to its ear: Monroe on the phone, and looking agitated if the tight line of his strides was any indication.

'Mr Holmes. I'm Mr Monroe's assistant, Lewis Edwards.' He did not look much older than twenty-five, but there was something familiar about him, and it took Elliot a moment to realize he reminded him of Anthea: all efficiency and masks. 'Mr Monroe is concluding some business, but he will be with you in just a moment. Can I take your coats?'

'I'll keep mine, thanks,' Elliot replied, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets even as London divested himself of both his coat and scarf and surrendered them casually to Edwards.

'Can I interest you in tea or coffee?'

London's quick glance in Elliot's direction had him changing his answer before it was voiced. He didn't need another drink, but the excuse was something they could use. 'Tea with just a dash of milk would be great, thanks.'

'And you, Mr Holmes?'

'I'm fine, thank you.' London's air was indifferent and dismissive, but Edwards seemed used to it. He simply nodded his head and walked to the wall, opening one seamless panel to step through into another room.

'Be subtle,' London warned Elliot quietly. 'Talk to Edwards and leave Monroe to me.'

The hidden door swung open once more and Elliot was handed a cup of tea, which he took just as the smoked glass doors parted and Monroe himself greeted them.

'Mr Holmes, thank you for waiting for me,' he said with apparent enthusiasm, all gleaming teeth and flawless tan as he shook London's hand. 'I assume this is about Sophie? Won't you come into my office?'

London gave a gracious nod as Elliot excused himself to keep talking to Edwards, noting absently that the Consulting Criminal left the door open, revealing a slice of a big desk and a sunny view. He could hear the two men speaking but quickly tuned out the words, leaving London to it while he got on with his job.

'I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me?' he asked, giving the assistant a sincere smile. 'Nothing ominous, I promise.'

'Of course, although I'm not sure how I can help. If you are here about Ms Hunter, she and Mr Monroe had parted ways long before I came into the picture.' Edwards slipped a pen back into his desk-tidy and shuffled some papers, drawing Elliot's eye. He could just make out the type face about the sale of the apartment on Admiral Walk, and he struggled not to tilt his head for a better look.

'Actually, at this point we're just eliminating people from the investigation. Can you tell me where Mr Monroe was on Tuesday of last week?'

'I think –' Edwards moved with skill and practice. 'Yes, Mr Monroe was at the architectural conference in Glasgow from Monday morning and wasn't back in the office again until Thursday.'

'He would have been there throughout?'

'Yes, all day, every day. They go on for hours: lectures, brainstorming, a lot of food...' Edwards tweaked free a glossy brochure from the pile on his desk and handed it over to Elliot. 'This job's as much about networking as it is about draftsmanship.'

Elliot nodded, reading quickly through the neat, white type-face and picking out the salient points. 'Did you go with him? You seem like an invaluable assistant. Must be useful to have someone like you around to help him.'

'I'm more help if I keep the office running in his absence. Normally I would have attended,' Edwards explained, his faintly vacant smile still in place, 'but Mr Macmillan is away on holiday, and we couldn't leave the office silent for three days. Not with so many projects in the works.'

'Oh, business is good then?' Elliot gestured vaguely around the room. 'I would have thought the housing market problems would –' He trailed off, since Edwards was already shaking his head with the air of someone who had explained this to others a dozen times in the past week alone.

'It's a bad time for new builds in most places, but we're involved in regeneration and urban design. At times like this we focus on acquisition, so that when the market recovers we're poised to capitalize with stylish, modern city living.' He held up a finger in a silent request for Elliot to wait as he pulled open a filing drawer that had been organised to within an inch of its life. Within seconds he had pulled free another pamphlet, and this one was familiar. Winters had a copy of it in his over-priced and underwhelming home.

'The only reason I've even heard of Ms Hunter is because I wrote to her not long ago on behalf of the company, proposing to buy her apartment. It's a prime bit of land, and it would fit in so well with Michael’s New World scheme.' Edwards looked flustered as Elliot gave him a confused look. 'It's his “big picture” idea. He really wants to leave his mark on the city.'

'Done a fair bit of that already from what I hear.' Elliot flicked through the leaflet, pretending he had never seen it before as he took in the lavish interiors proposed. 'Did Ms Hunter accept the offer?'

Edwards sighed. 'She never replied. Now we'll have to wait for her estate to clear before it goes on the market. It could delay us for months.' The young man grimaced, looking apologetic. 'I'm sorry, I don't mean to be so insensitive.'

'It's okay, it's more common that you'd think, especially since you didn't know her.' Elliot tried to sound reassuring. 'How much would these apartments go for once they're built? I mean, out of my price range, obviously, but it's good to see how the other half lives.'

'With luck they'll sell for between nine and twenty million, depending on which floor they're on.' Edwards smiled at Elliot's incredulous whistle. 'Mr Monroe specializes in elite living. Is there anything else I can help you with?' There was something a little sharp about the question. Before he could reply the phone rang, its bubbling, subtle tone effectively bringing the conversation to an end. Elliot motioned for him to take the call and stood back, pretending to examine some of the paintings on the wall as he waited for London to finish with Monroe.

Elliot was staring at a swirly mess of color, idly thinking that whoever decorated the office had bad taste in art when London's voice reached his ears, making him turn his head a fraction to better catch the words.

' – Very amicable, if she kept the engagement ring.'

'Well, Mr Holmes, it was designed especially for her. There was no other finger in the world on which it would look so divine. It seemed – petty – to take it from her.' Monroe's soft, well-spoken voice dropped to a lower register and Elliot frowned, the office around him fading from awareness as he focused on what was being said. 'I always have an eye for the exquisite, you know. I'm very good at – ah – appreciation.'

Elliot's entire body went tense, easy muscles suddenly like bedrock, pulling his spine straighter and clenching his jaw. Monroe had purred that last part, and it was clear that the target was not the late Sophie Hunter, but the ever-present London Holmes. The woman down at reception had been one thing, but at least she was passive in her admiration, all pouts and fluttered eyelashes, and Elliot's stomach dropped as he remembered the Consulting Criminal's description of Monroe.

“He doesn't seem like the kind of man to take no for an answer.”

'I'm sure,' London replied, not inviting or coy, to Elliot's relief, but not antagonistic, either. Of course, if he still wanted answers out of Monroe then he could not afford to give offence, but there was something there, a subtle edge to London's voice. Perhaps it was Elliot's imagination, but it sounded uncomfortable, as if the tables had been turned unexpectedly. 'Few people would be happy to give up such a significant investment to an ex-partner. How much was it worth?'

Monroe's voice softened further, a rich, dark invitation, and Elliot bristled. 'I honestly don't remember. The price was of no consequence. Money is simply a tool that allows me to get what I really want.'

An image flashed in Elliot's mind of Monroe leaning forward, crowding London back against a desk perhaps, or simply getting too close for comfort, and he felt the trembling growl of something primitive echo through his head. He tried to stay still, to give London the space he needed to make Monroe talk, but the thud of his pulse in his ears was too loud and visceral to allow him to concentrate, and his imagination was quickly painting lurid, threatening pictures across his mind's eye.

Mouthing a curse, Elliot shifted, keeping his movements in perfect control as he slipped into the office. He did not have to say anything to announce his presence; he knew his body language did all the talking. His very existence shifted the dynamic in the room, and Elliot kept his face carefully blank as he watched Monroe step away from London.

He had been lingering in London's personal space, not at his side but face-to-face, and making a distinct effort to emphasize his broader frame. Whether that was in an effort at seduction or intimidation, Elliot was not sure – perhaps Monroe thought the two went hand-in-hand – but either way London seemed unaffected. He stood at ease, his weight shifted over on one hip and his hand in his pocket, surveying Monroe's office and the man himself with a clinical gaze.

Monroe's bright blue eyes darted to Elliot, and the smile he offered was shallow at best. 'I hope Edwards was able to help you, Elliot. I was just telling Mr Holmes that it's been years since I've seen Sophie.' He shifted closer to London again, and Elliot clenched his teeth, refusing to break eye contact. 'She was a beautiful woman, of course.' He looked at London in blatant appraisal. 'I do so love attractive things, but it did not quite work out.'

Elliot swallowed, putting all his strength into keeping his voice steady and neutral. 'Your assistant was very helpful. He was telling me all about the project on Admiral Walk.' Elliot's hand tightened into a fist as he tried to ignore the desperate, itching urge to throw a punch – anything to stop the prick gazing at London as if he owned him. Getting into some kind of pissing contest with Monroe was not going to help them solve the case. Besides, as much as he wished it were otherwise, he had no real claim on the Consulting Criminal, and no right to be possessive.

'He said you had tried to buy out Ms Hunter's claim in the building, but you had never received a written response?' he added, throwing the information out into the room and watching London absorb it with a steady blink.

'I heard nothing from her at all,' Monroe replied, shrugging his shoulders and rubbing a hand up the back of his neck. 'I'd hoped that she would have responded by the time I returned from my conference in Glasgow, but, well, when I got back it was clear why I'd received no response.'

'You were at the architectural event in the Hilton?' London asked, one eyebrow raised, and Elliot wondered how he got that information before noticing a few receipts on Monroe's desk. Great, while he was trying not to give in to the urge to break the idiot's nose, London was still doing what he did best.

Utterly unconcerned.

'I wouldn't miss it. I always appreciate time spent with like-minded people,' Monroe replied, settling in his desk chair and leaning back. He propped one elbow on the arm, his fingers curling in front of his lips as he gave the Consulting Criminal another once-over before turning to Elliot, all hard eyes and false smiles.

The two of them stared at each other, neither deigning to look away until London moved, sauntering over to place himself very pointedly at Elliot's side. Their shoulders brushed, and the shameless, snarling creature in the back of Elliot's brain quietened to feel London so close. He would only have to move his hand a fraction to catch London’s fingers in his own grip but he held himself firm, not even glancing to his right as he watched Monroe's face.

It started as a flicker in the eyes, not so much about comprehension, because he did not think Monroe would be repentant about stealing someone else's lover. No, he was not bothered by the obstacle Elliot might present at all, and the expression on his face was nothing like defeat. Instead there was a passing flash of something like enjoyment, as if London was no longer simply interesting, but an undeniable challenge.

Elliot did not like that look at all, and he forced himself to glance away, ignoring the bristling of the hairs on the back of his neck as he spoke to London. The soldier in him wanted to stand his ground, but logic suggested that retreat was a safer alternative. 'Do we have everything we need?'

'For now. We'll be in touch if we have any more questions,' London promised, every word firm and confident in a way that made Elliot smile.'Goodbye, Mr Monroe. It's been a very informative meeting.'

'The pleasure's all mine, Mr Holmes.' Monroe got to his feet, his hand outstretched as his face radiated concern. 'I hope you can bring Sophie's killer to justice soon.' The handshake lingered a fraction too long, fingers gliding over London's palm in brief, blatant promise, only to draw back as Elliot spoke.

'We intend to. Goodbye, Mr Monroe.' Elliot did not try and shake hands; there was a good chance it would result in Monroe nursing broken fingers. Instead, he gave a thin, lethal kind of smile as he stood back, urging London through the office door with the soft splay of his hand at the base of London's spine. It was a minor gesture, but it spoke volumes – utterly possessive – and Elliot could not resist one last glance over his shoulder at Monroe.

No words were spoken, but the message was clear.

A sneer twitched on Monroe's lips, but died a second later, replaced with an ugly, twisted frown. It was only when Elliot looked back at London that he realized why. Those bright eyes were watching him, not condemning or angry – justifiably aggravated at Elliot's overbearing attitude – seeming to give an unspoken response of their own.

London could see the tension in Elliot's body. It was written in every muscle and painted in the sharp, military length of his stride as he urged London out of Monroe's office and towards the lift. The assistant was greeted with nothing more than a curt nod that looked more like a declaration of war than a gentle farewell.

Elliot seemed intent on getting the Consulting Criminal out, as if they were in enemy territory and his mind had fallen back on battlefield strategy. His face was hard, his eyes focused on the lift doors, and it was only when London gently clasped Elliot's wrist in his hand that he seemed to come back into himself with a guilty start. Blue eyes gleamed with ashamed apology.

'I'll be needing my coat,' London said, trying to keep his voice steady as he took in the appearance of the assistant with a sweep of his gaze. Reflexively, he absorbed the details, taking particular care to note his tan-lines and fingernails as his coat and scarf were surrendered with an insincere smile. The cloud of deductions flowed through his mind, cross-referenced with lightning speed to the case, and he hesitated for a fraction of a second as the new data began to percolate.

Interesting, but not as intriguing as Elliot and his volatile behavior towards Monroe.

London was hyper-aware of Elliot standing rigid at his side, his breathing tight and controlled, nasal – angry – but not at London. His fists were locked behind his back like a warrior at ease, but every pore radiated urgency. Fascinating.

The Consulting Criminal was well-versed in jealousy as a motivator. How many bloody pictures of romantic disputes had he seen daubed across murder scenes? For all that it protested otherwise, humanity was only one very short step away from the animals: base and instinctual. He had been the target of others' envy before. People sought to bring him down, to make his intelligence less threatening with cruel insults and social exclusion, but no one had ever been like this – acting as if he were something worth claiming.

It was feral, bestial, raw – nothing to do with intelligence or higher thinking whatsoever.

With a brief nod of farewell to the assistant, London allowed Elliot to lead him towards the lift, noticing with a thrill that Elliot let him in first, blocking the line between Monroe's office and London with his body. He jabbed his finger into the “down” button ruthlessly, and only once the lift doors slid shut did Elliot's shoulders drop a fraction and he lifted his eyes to meet London's.

They stood in silence, staring at each other as the air turned heavy and thick. It did not matter that Monroe's efforts had left London utterly indifferent, or that Elliot's jealousy had no strong foundation; the fact that Elliot still behaved as if that imbecile was a threat left London dry-mouthed.

Elliot's voice was a whisper.

'Should I apologize?'

The words filled the air with rough silk, and London drew in a deep breath as if he could inhale them. Elliot was not talking about showing Monroe any kind of remorse. London was aware that the world could end and Elliot would still rather break the architect's nose than offer anything like a truce in the unspoken war. Instead he was asking if the Consulting Criminal thought his behavior inappropriate (yes, but London adored inappropriate) or something he should regret (No. Never).

'What do you think?' London asked

'No,' Elliot murmured at last, his eyes dropping to linger on London's face again as if hypnotized. 'No, I'm not sorry for getting you away from him. He can't have you.' Elliot glanced away for a moment as if penitent. 'I mean, if you wanted him I wouldn't stop you. It's not – I'm not like that, but you don't, do you?'

London blinked, wondering if Elliot was looking at a different world than the one he observed. He had seen London's look in the doorway to Monroe's office, had recognized it for what it was, yet he was still voicing the question.

What must it be like to be normal?

To doubt the evidence of your own eyes so readily?

Elliot was trying to impress upon London that he was not controlling, and that he could move above his deeper, possessive instincts, but why? Society might deem his behavior intrusive, but since when had London cared what people – idiots, all – thought?

The answer came to him suddenly. False extrapolation. Elliot was drawing on reactions to his behavior in previous relationships, applying them to this situation and reaching an erroneous conclusion. One that was probably exacerbated by his uncertainty over the status of their – what? Friendship? Relationship? Partnership?

All of the above?

'Monroe is a cretin who treats lovers as possessions, not because he cares for them and fears losing them to another, but because they reflect well on his status and appearance. That was the reason for the breakdown of his engagement with Ms Hunter, I imagine.' London took a deep breath, trying to sort through the chaotic thoughts that raced through him.

'His interest in me is superficial at best, and mine in him is non-existent. He's – He's not you.'

The smile on Elliot's face could have lit up all of England, and London breathed a shaking sigh of relief at the sight. He had feared his inability to communicate sentiment to Elliot – getting caught up and tangled in his words and making everything worse. It happened so often in social interactions, where bare-faced truth was unacceptable and graceless, yet Elliot could comprehend what he meant.

Elliot always understood, or at least made an effort to do so. How many others had ever bothered to go to such lengths?

Whatever Elliot's response may have been was cut off by the slide of the lift doors, and a familiar voice let out a sigh. 'Fancy seeing you two here.'

Cruz did not sound remotely surprised. In fact, there was a smug element to his words, as if he had come to Canary Wharf with the intention of tracking them down rather than seeing Monroe. 'So, have you been saving me time or making my life more difficult?'

'As if you need to ask,' Donovan cut in, folding his arms and frowning at the two of them. 'Did we interrupt a domestic?'

London glanced back at Elliot, realizing how close they were standing: Elliot still bristling from the whole Monroe debacle and London looming by sheer dint of his greater height. It was a tableau where attraction could easily be mistaken for antagonism by an outsider, and Donovan would find it far easier to believe that the Consulting Criminal had incited Elliot's anger rather than affection.

'No,' Elliot replied with an empty smile, stepping out of the lift. He kept his voice quiet so that the receptionist couldn't hear. 'Monroe's a dick, but he says he was up at an architectural conference in Glasgow at the time of the murders.'

Cruz nodded, pulling a notebook from his pocket and scribbling in it as London added, 'It was at the Hilton. Heavily attended and reliant on networking, it's probably a firm alibi.' He narrowed his eyes, thinking through the details before he spoke again. 'Pay particular attention to whether or not he socialized in the evening. It's plausible he could get down to London and back on the last and first trains, but it would mean he was missing from the bar that night and breakfast the next day.'

'Anything else?' Cruz asked.

'He's not the murderer.' The Consulting Criminal calmly replied.

'What?' Elliot asked, giving London an incredulous look. 'Why not?'

London read the amazement on Elliot's face, and sighed. 'He has big hands, bigger than mine.' He held out his palm, fingers spread in obvious demonstration. 'According to the police file, the knife found in Winters was a broad blade scalpel, short-handled. If Monroe had stabbed Winters, the resistance of the flesh would cause his hand to slip forward, off the handle and onto the blade. There's no sign of injury on his palms or fingers, so whoever killed Winters would have hands no bigger than yours.'

'So why am I even checking his story?' Cruz asked.

'Because you'll want another warrant and holes in the alibi might allow that,' London replied in a bored tone. 'Just because he did not hold the blade that killed Winters doesn't mean he's not involved.'

Donovan rubbed a hand over his brow, scratching at his temple before glaring at London. 'So, what? Monroe's the mastermind and someone else is doing his dirty work?'

He made it sound like one of those films that Elliot was so fond of, with the unlikely gadgets and espionage where the world was always shamelessly cold-war black and white. 'Possibly, or he may have unintentionally provided someone else with adequate motivation to take drastic action on his behalf. Finding out whether he is guilty or not is your job, not mine.'

'A bit of help wouldn't go amiss,' Cruz muttered, rubbing at his right eye as he glared down at his notepad. 'Anything else?'

'The old engagement ring. Find out if it's among Hunter's personal effects,' London instructed, narrowing his eyes as he considered the trinket. It could be a superfluous detail: detritus of sentiment clogging the field of view, but it could also be the key to unraveling the bizarre knot of this murder.

'We ruled out theft as a motive. All her valuables were still there.' Cruz looked to Donovan for confirmation, and he gave a single nod. 'Her safe was still full and her jewelry box hadn't moved from the bedside table.'

'Including the ring?' London sighed when Cruz shrugged. 'Rich families like to give gems as gifts because they're investments rather than liabilities. A car loses value every second you drive it, a diamond pendant accrues worth,' he explained. 'She probably had a number of necklaces and other items, and it's clear that theft was not the motive because various expensive pieces were still present.'

He waved a hand, vaguely indicating the office upstairs and the man within its walls. 'However, Monroe let her keep the engagement ring. If it's missing, then its removal was both deliberate and targeted. That fact alone would put greater importance on her relationship with Monroe in relation to the case – enough to take him in for questioning.'

'Don't forget the redevelopment,' Elliot added. 'That's what brought us here in the first place. Whichever way you look at it, Monroe seems to be up to his neck in all this.'

'Care to tell us about it?' Cruz asked, folding his arms and glaring pointedly at London. 'You shouldn't even be here anyway. How did you get him to see you?'

'He's cooperative,' London lied smoothly before beginning to explain. 'Winters had a leaflet for a new conceptual development on Admiral Walk, a re-build of the block in which Ms Hunter had an apartment. It's one of Monroe's big projects, but for it to go ahead he needs to buy out the current owners and occupants.'

'Bloody hell.' Cruz nodded glumly. 'It sounds more and more like he might have a good motive after all.'

'Both Monroe and his assistant say an offer was made to Ms Hunter, but she was murdered before she had the chance to reply.'

'You think they're telling the truth?' That was Donovan, who was at least equally suspicious of everyone he came across.

'We can find out easily enough,' Cruz said before the Consulting Criminal could offer any kind of scathing response. 'See if she's been in contact with anyone else.' He sighed, flicking his notebook shut and meeting London's eye. 'The knife we found yesterday is definitely the murder weapon. Along with the clothes, it's enough to conclude that Winters killed Hunter, but working out who finished him off is turning out to be more difficult than we thought.'

'Didn't you find anything at the bridge?' Elliot asked, his arms folded as he shifted his weight onto one hip, fractionally closer to London.

'We know he fell into the Thames at Chiswick because of the damage to the bridge and what Holmes found on the body. He was in good nick for having traveled downstream so far, but that's more luck than anything else. We just don't know who stuck the knife in his chest.' Cruz closed his eyes for a moment, clearly tired. Overworked. It made London wonder how many crimes slipped by unsolved because the officers involved were too exhausted to see the evidence. 'We've got no evidence of anything amiss at the apartment or the bridge, and nothing but shit from the Hunter family. We were coming here looking for new leads – '

'Which we found for you,' London pointed out, glancing over his shoulder as the lift doors whirred closed and it began to ascend, summoned to another floor. 'It should be enough to keep you busy for a while. Come on, Elliot.'

'I suppose you want to know what we find?' Cruz called after him.

'You'll tell me,' London replied, smirking to himself as he pushed open the door. 'You do want to solve the case, after all.'

Elliot's stride matched his own as they picked their way back through the sterile urban paradise. The street lamps were beginning to glow now that the sun had departed its arc in the sky: another short winter's day brought to an end.

Out here, amidst the bustle and rush of London, the Consulting Criminal half-expected the hot, tempting sensation from the lift to dissipate, torn apart by the sensory input of the world. Yet it lingered on, a thick, taut bowline linking him to Elliot that intensified as he spoke: a sonogram reading his voice in smooth curves and jagged lines.

'Are you sure Monroe didn't do it? I would have loved to see him go down for this.' Elliot glanced up at London, his nose wrinkled and his lips twisted in a way that made him smother a smile.

'He might still find himself facing jail time. While you two were snarling at one another I was reading the notes he had on his desk.' He glanced at Elliot to see an open, curious expression. 'Even if he has nothing to do with the murder, this investigation could well end him. There's plenty of evidence of creative accounting all over his spreadsheets. He's skimming from his business partner.'

Elliot huffed. 'Doesn't surprise me. Greedy git. I still think he's behind the killings though. Even if he didn't do it himself, surely he's going to know someone who could do it for him?'

London rolled his shoulders in a shrug, raising his arm to hail a cab. 'Possibly. Did you find out anything of use from the assistant?'

'Not much.' Elliot stepped forward, clambering into the cab that stopped at the curb and waiting until London was seated before he continued. 'Edwards stayed behind to keep the office running, and business is good. That's about all I got, other than the fact he thought Hunter's death was an inconvenience because it would make the sale of her place go more slowly.' He looked at London curiously, perhaps wondering if he was going to pull a rabbit out of a hat with those few crumbs of information.

'Anything else?'

'Talked about Monroe's architectural “vision” a lot – the usual company spiel, you know? As if he thought people like us might be looking to buy one of their places in the future. Do you know how much they sell their apartments for?' London just gave him a patient look, watching Elliot roll his eyes and smile. 'Of course you do.'

'I doubt the speech about the properties was to entice you to buy,' London replied smoothly. 'I heard some of it – it's one of the reasons I left the door open. He was trying to impress you with Monroe's status and emphasize the gap in social standing. Trying to make you feel inadequate.'

'What – why?' Elliot spread his hands as if to indicate himself in well-worn jeans, a slate blue jumper and an unremarkable jacket. 'I'm not exactly threatening.'

London leaned closer, keeping his voice low so that the driver could not overhear as he murmured, 'Anyone who's seen you handle a weapon and your fists would say otherwise.'

The cabbie cleared his throat pointedly, shooting them an unforgiving glare in the rear-view mirror. London returned it with an icy scowl as Elliot pulled away.

He was tempted to deliver a cutting remark about the driver's clearly failing side business when a rumble from his stomach cut through the air. The noise was partly to do with the want sitting low in his gut, but mostly it was brought on by the fact that lunch had been hours ago.

A quick, sideways glance at Elliot showed him smothering a smirk, and London sighed. 'Angelo's?' he asked.

'Are you going to eat something?' Elliot's lips parted in a grin when London nodded. 'You're paying.'

'As if Angelo ever makes us pay,' London replied, leaning back in his seat and giving the cabbie one last, disdainful look before he turned his attention out of the window.

More than once, it would have been so easy to lose himself in the dark, forgotten places where crime still lay rank and black in every shadow. Let himself be swallowed and lost to the world. Before Elliot, there had been temptation. To walk away, disappear from the radar and slip, unknown but knowing into the grim underbelly.

The addition of a single item to the equation changed it utterly: properties altered by one simple variable. He should have resented it, this impact and influence, but how could he? How could he begrudge Elliot? After all, it was not that Elliot changed him, but that he made the Consulting Criminal want to fine-tune himself: re-calibration for heightened efficiency.

Re-modulation for deeper understanding.

And it was beginning to scare him.

London blinked, ignoring the gleam of the traffic and lights as his mind continued to turn, multiple trains of thought clattering along different tracks, occasionally bisecting but never coming to a halt. The storm of the case still flickered, almost background noise in his head as the issue of him and Elliot slipped to the fore. He had been examining the idea in his mind all day, turning it over in every spare moment, yet he had not found a new perspective.

All the same issues and doubts lingered on, nagging at him with sharp teeth of concern, and with each passing hour London realized that there was no way he could be certain of the outcome. Even with his brilliant mind, he could no more tell the future than anyone else, not beyond basic pattern recognition, and if there was one thing that defied logical progression, it was sentiment.

He was forced to conclude that the only way to be sure that a relationship between himself and Elliot would work was to experience it. To be reassured with every day – every moment of peace and passing conflict – that it was something that could last.

Elliot had told him it was his choice to make, and then mutely reminded him at every opportunity that really, there was only one answer. He had expected demands from Elliot on both his time and mental capacity. He had dreaded the fact that Elliot would want to talk, to rake it over the coals and try and dismiss London's concerns, but he had done no such thing.

He had remained himself, but more so. Steadfast and strong.

Then there was the confrontation with Monroe. 

Oh, Elliot had been protective in the past, vicious, cold and calculated. He had even killed in the pursuit of the Consulting Criminal's safety, but that was something different. The threat was not to his life, but something far more intimate, and Elliot's response had been taut control and lethal force simmering beneath a thin guise of civility.

All for him.

'Oi, here you are,' the cabbie called, pulling London from his thoughts. He paid the man precisely, stubbornly offering no tip as he and Elliot climbed out and began the short walk to Angelo's, falling naturally into step as the first few dots of rain began to fall from the clouds that had built up overhead.

They had just crossed the threshold of Angelo's when the heavens opened, sending a downpour crashing down onto London's towers and barren, concrete ground. 'Timed that well,' Elliot said appreciatively as they were shown to their usual table in the window, the panes of which were now dotted with crystal trails of water that glowed red and white from the lights of passing cars. 'How long do you reckon it will be before we hear back from Cruz?'

London shrugged out his coat, shaking his head briefly. 'That depends on how easily they can get a warrant and how desperately the Inspector needs some sleep. We might hear back about the ring tonight, but it'll probably be tomorrow.'

Elliot reached for the menu as Angelo greeted them with his usual boisterous cheer, and London noticed that there was no objection to the candle. All the old protests had died, it seemed, and the Consulting Criminal glanced out of the window to hide his smile.

'I know you want to pin these murders on Monroe,' he murmured, keeping his voice low as he remembered Elliot's previous requests to keep all discussions of crime, blood and body parts away from the hearing of other patrons, 'but I think we're looking in another direction.'

'You've got suspicions?' Elliot asked, his gaze shifting from the menu to focus intently on London. 'Come on then, who do you think did it?'

The Consulting Criminal shook his head. 'No, I can tell you who it wasn't, but not who it was. Not enough –'

'Data,' Elliot finished for him. 'Well, if it's not Monroe then my money's back on someone in the family. Maybe they heard about the generous offer for the apartment.' Elliot shifted his cutlery to one side, the metal chiming softly. 'Did she have a will? If not then everything automatically goes to next of kin. Perhaps they decided they could absorb her independent fortune into their own.' He looked up with a smile of thanks as Angelo poured them both some wine and took their orders. 'They have got another heir, after all, and I bet they didn't take her estrangement well.'

London watched a raindrop race down the glass of the window before turning to look at Elliot. 'True, but Ms Hunter's wealth was insignificant in comparison to that of her father. However you look at it, the risk of scandal if the murder was discovered outweighs the gain. If the family were involved, then it was purely emotional, rather than financially motivated.' London shifted his weight as he sighed in frustration. 

'I'm missing something and I don't like it.'

London blinked, ignoring the gleam of the traffic and lights as his mind continued to turn, multiple trains of thought clattering along different tracks, occasionally bisecting but never coming to a halt. The storm of the case still flickered, almost background noise in his head as the issue of him and Elliot slipped to the fore. He had been examining the idea in his mind all day, turning it over in every spare moment, yet he had not found a new perspective.

All the same issues and doubts lingered on, nagging at him with sharp teeth of concern, and with each passing hour London realized that there was no way he could be certain of the outcome. Even with his brilliant mind, he could no more tell the future than anyone else, not beyond basic pattern recognition, and if there was one thing that defied logical progression, it was sentiment.

He was forced to conclude that the only way to be sure that a relationship between himself and Elliot would work was to experience it. To be reassured with every day – every moment of peace and passing conflict – that it was something that could last.

Elliot had told him it was his choice to make, and then mutely reminded him at every opportunity that really, there was only one answer. He had expected demands from Elliot on both his time and mental capacity. He had dreaded the fact that Elliot would want to talk, to rake it over the coals and try and dismiss London's concerns, but he had done no such thing.

He had remained himself, but more so. Steadfast and strong.

Then there was the confrontation with Monroe. 

Oh, Elliot had been protective in the past, vicious, cold and calculated. He had even killed in the pursuit of the Consulting Criminal's safety, but that was something different. The threat was not to his life, but something far more intimate, and Elliot's response had been taut control and lethal force simmering beneath a thin guise of civility.

All for him.

'Oi, here you are,' the cabbie called, pulling London from his thoughts. He paid the man precisely, stubbornly offering no tip as he and Elliot climbed out and began the short walk to Angelo's, falling naturally into step as the first few dots of rain began to fall from the clouds that had built up overhead.

They had just crossed the threshold of Angelo's when the heavens opened, sending a downpour crashing down onto the City's towers and barren, concrete ground. 'Timed that well,' Elliot said appreciatively as they were shown to their usual table in the window, the panes of which were now dotted with crystal trails of water that glowed red and white from the lights of passing cars. 'How long do you reckon it will be before we hear back from Cruz?'

London shrugged out his coat, shaking his head briefly. 'That depends on how easily they can get a warrant and how desperately the Inspector needs some sleep. We might hear something tonight, but it'll probably be tomorrow.'

Elliot reached for the menu as Angelo greeted them with his usual boisterous cheer, and London noticed that there was no objection to the candle. All the old protests had died, it seemed, and the Consulting Criminal glanced out of the window to hide his smile.

'I know you want to pin these murders on Monroe,' he murmured, keeping his voice low as he remembered Elliot's previous requests to keep all discussions of crime, blood and body parts away from the hearing of other patrons, 'but I think we're looking in another direction.'

'You've got suspicions?' Elliot asked, his gaze shifting from the menu to focus intently on London. 'Come on then, who do you think did it?'

The Consulting Criminal shook his head. 'No, I can tell you who it wasn't, but not who it was. Not enough –'

'Data,' Elliot finished for him. 'Well, if it's not Monroe then my money's back on someone in the family. Maybe they heard about the generous offer for the apartment.' Elliot shifted his cutlery to one side, the metal chiming softly. 'Did she have a will? If not then everything automatically goes to next of kin. Perhaps they decided they could absorb her independent fortune into their own.' He looked up with a smile of thanks as Angelo poured them both some wine and took their orders. 'They have got another heir, after all, and I bet they didn't take her estrangement well.'

London watched a raindrop race down the glass of the window before turning to look at Elliot. 'True, but Ms Hunter's wealth was insignificant in comparison to that of her father. However you look at it, the risk of scandal if the murder was discovered outweighs the gain. If the family were involved, then it was purely emotional, rather than financially motivated.' London shifted his weight as he sighed in frustration. 

'I'm missing something and I don't like it.'

'You'll solve it,' Elliot replied, his voice strong with utter confidence as he snagged a bread roll from the basket and put it pointedly on London's plate. 'Eat that, your stomach's disturbing the other customers.'

'It's not that loud,' London muttered, but he did as he was told. It was as if his fingers and hands, lips and tongue were under Elliot's control rather than his own, breaking up bread and eating it to calm the increasing threat of his stomach. 'It's your fault anyway. I used to be able to go days without food.'

Elliot rolled his eyes. 'Which is so wonderfully healthy.' His sarcasm fell away as he continued, 'You're still recovering from a fever and the flu, remember? Just because you feel all right doesn't mean your body is back at one hundred percent, yet.'

'I've managed to survive the day with no paracetamol, and I don't feel worse for wear.' Far from it, actually, though London deeply suspected that had more to do with Elliot's constant, tempting presence than the Consulting Criminal's overall health. The faint nag of lingering aches had little sway over him when it felt as if molten iron bled through his veins, bright and burning and drawing him ever-closer to Elliot as if magnetized.

Elliot made a doubtful humming noise, scrutinizing London's face as if searching for any sign he was being less than honest.

'I'm not the only one who has been worse for wear this week,' he pointed out, changing the focus of his gaze to examine Elliot on a more physical level, looking for tired shadows or lines of weariness. Yet there was nothing to be seen. Elliot was his normal, strong, dependable self, and only the faint stamp of stress from the meeting with Monroe did anything to mar his obvious serenity. 'You were exhausted yesterday.' London glanced away. 'Too much time spent taking care of me and not enough looking after yourself.'

'A few hours of missed sleep is nothing I can't handle. You've trained me into it more than med-school and the army combined.'

'I don't hear you complaining,' London replied with a smile, thinking of all the times the two of them had whittled away the hours of darkness in pursuit of evidence.

'I still don't know how you do it. How have you trained yourself to survive on so little sleep?'

'It's not a matter of adjusting a pre-set behavior. I've never needed as much rest as everyone else. You know the eight hours a night people ramble on about is an ever-changing ideal.'

'Yeah, but I've seen you go days without getting your head down, and you're no worse for wear at the end of it. A bit more manic, if anything.'

'Normal behavior,' London pointed out. 'You should know that. I can't imagine you got regular hours of sleep in Afghanistan.'

'Hours of mind-numbing boredom interrupted by insane adrenaline surges. You got used to it after a while – always being on the edge like that.'

'So you know that anyone deprived of a regular sleep pattern will go through decreasing cycles of wakefulness and lethargy, increasing in intensity but reducing in duration until –'

'Until the person shuts down somewhere inconvenient, like slumped over a microscope.' Elliot gave London an amused look. 'At least this week has shown me that your body is still in charge sometimes. The fever and the flu knocked you out completely.'

London grimaced. 'Unfortunately. I could have solved the case days ago if I hadn't been stuck on the couch.' He could pretend all he liked that if Elliot were not there, he would have continued dragging himself to crime scenes, but the reality was undeniable. He had been utterly helpless in the throes of the fever, and the thought of struggling through without Elliot's care was enough to send a wave of coldness through him.

'Everyone's entitled to get ill sometimes. It happens to the best of us,' Elliot took a sip of his wine. 'You recovered quickly. More so than I thought you would.'

'Thanks to you,' The Consulting Criminal replied, gifting Elliot with a soft smile that was readily returned. 'I – I do appreciate it. It was – good. I know I'm not an easy patient.'

Elliot's huff of laughter was muffled, but earnest, and London shot him a half-hearted glare. 'Bit of an understatement, but, believe it or not, I've had worse. Far worse.'

London cocked his head in inquiry, listening with interest as Elliot told him of various patients, both on the battlefield and off it, who always had the doctors and nurses cursing in frustration. It was fascinating to listen to him talking with such enthusiasm and animation, switching from the sand-whipped stone of Afghanistan to the sterile hospital wards of Bart's with fluid ease, encompassing the kaleidoscope of his experiences. More than once London asked questions about the more unusual cases, losing himself happily in a conversation that, a few months ago, he may have eschewed as useless.

The topics changed and shifted, flowing with comfortable ease from medicine to crime scenes, playful games of deduction and muffled giggles at some of their guesses. The tide of patrons ebbed and flowed, providing them with a constantly changing arena, but London spared them only a glance, gleaning everything in a second before returning his gaze to Elliot to deliver his verdict.

Gradually, the wine was depleted, and their conversation took on more hushed, quiet tones.

'The rain's stopped,' Elliot said at last, looking out of the window and then glancing around the restaurant, which was steadily beginning to empty as the night wore on. 'Ready to go?

A mug of tea was waiting for him on the side, and Elliot raised an eyebrow in surprise. He could count the number of times the Consulting Criminal had ever made him tea on one hand, and two of those were in the past week. It was a change he could get used to.

'Found anything?' Elliot asked. London was leaning on the table, fully dressed with his palms braced on the flat surface as he stared at the pieces of paper had scattered in front of him, an empty plate by his right hand.

'The ring's not just a designer piece; it was a challenge to make it.' He pulled free the photo of Sophie Hunter and Michael Monroe, and Elliot took a moment of pleasure in realizing that the man had at least put on some weight in the intervening time. Too many big dinners at architect conventions, probably.

The Consulting Criminal pulled out his pocket magnifier and held it over the ring, letting Elliot squint at the piece of jewelry. 'The way the diamond is crafted. You don't get that just anywhere. See the petal burst in the middle? It's called the Eternal Cut. It's time-consuming, challenging and expensive. It's also a patented technique.'

'Specific to one jeweler?'

'Garrard's. They include several royal families among their clientele, which gives you an idea of the value.' London replied. 'I imagine they still have the paperwork for Ms Hunter's ring.'

Elliot nodded, setting about making himself some breakfast as he watched London continue to read. 'How will that help us find out who arranged the murders?' he asked, sprinkling sugar on his cereal and taking a bite before swallowing. 'Monroe already said its value didn't matter to him. It was a means to an end, and if whoever took it cared about its worth they would have pinched all the other stuff as well.'

London gave him a warm smile, openly approving, and Elliot returned it easily before he heard the sound of a knock on the front door and Cruz's voice echoed up to them, greeting Mrs Hanson.

'Only forty minutes' London murmured with a frown, talking about the time they had been awake. 'Monroe was even less helpful than they hoped.'

Mrs Hanson tapped at the door, and Elliot could have sworn that the simple sound had distinct undertones of smug delight. More noticeably, rather than pushing her way into the apartment regardless of no response, she waited until Elliot called out, 'It's open,' before leading Cruz across the threshold.

'Problem?' London asked, and Elliot winced in pity at the Inspectors miserable expression. He looked like he had been through the wringer, his shirt creased and his tie crooked. There were obvious lines of tension around his eyes, and Elliot found himself reaching for the paracetamol and flicking the kettle back on without a thought.

'Only just got out of bed?' Cruz asked, nodding towards Elliot's breakfast. 'Lucky sod.'

Elliot caught Mrs Hanson's knowing smile and smothered one of his own as their landlady winked behind Cruz's back and bade them farewell.

'I take it you're not getting much sleep?' Elliot asked, keeping his voice neutral. 'Take these, they'll help the headache.'

'Christ, is it that obvious?' Cruz rubbed his hand over the back of his neck before sagging onto the couch, staring blankly at the coffee table. 'You were right, Monroe's a dick. His alibi checks out, but he's already got a lawyer.'

'The missing ring got you a warrant,' London surmised, finally leaning back from the table and turning his attention to Cruz without so much as a good morning. 'What did you find that made you take him to the station?'

'Phone-calls between himself and Sophie Hunter as well as some – well – rather intimate messages. From him at least.'

'She didn't reciprocate?' London narrowed his eyes, clearly digesting that information.

'Strictly business from her. She had no plans to sell her place, and from the looks of what we found in his financial records, Monroe needed that project to come through. He's got significant debts –'

'And he's been skimming from his partner to pay it off. The purchase of the apartments would make it easier to hide what was missing,' London mused. 'A few “errors” in the price paid for one or the other, a couple of thousand here and there and no one would know what was going on.' He nodded as if that were blatantly obvious, seemingly ignorant of Elliot and Cruz staring before sharing a glance of equal parts amazement and disbelief. 'But killing Hunter wasn't necessary to help with that situation. It's a tangential detail at best.'

'What?' Cruz asked plaintively, accepting the cup of tea from Elliot and swallowing the paracetamol. 'It sounded like motive to me.'

'You saw his records. How many other occupants of Admiral Walk had accepted the offer of sale?'

'Seven of the fourteen owners, but other than Hunter the other six remaining are still considering the offer, all of them in a favorable light. She's the only one who seemed to be standing in his way.'

'The sale of those seven should be enough to hide the fact he had been stealing from the business. If he could conceal it before the end of the financial year, five months away, then he would get away with it.' London shook his head as he paced in a tight, agitated line. 'Hunter's apartment, while necessary to his project, was not essential for him to protect himself from losing his job and his reputation. He didn't need her dead, at least not yet.'

'Need and want aren't the same thing,' Elliot pointed out, but he could see what London was getting at. 'What about the ring?'

'Monroe's got no clue where it is,' Cruz added. 'Doesn't seem to care, either.' He pulled out a photo from the file in his hand and held it out to London. 'He provided this when asked, but he's got nothing else to say about it.' He rubbed a hand through his hair, scowling at the floor. 'In fact, generally, he's not answering anything much. Asking plenty of questions about you, though, Holmes. Seems you made an impression.'

Elliot hid his grimace behind his mug, letting his gaze flick briefly over to London. At least he seemed disinterested by the information, but that did not stop Elliot wishing a silent curse on Monroe and his predatory ways. He wasn't even sure the bastard would back off if London told him to, and that thought alone was enough to make Elliot's shoulders hunch in defensive anger on London's behalf.

London, however, was too busy studying the glossy A4 photo of the ring. Even Elliot could admit it was a significant piece of jewelry, broad and bold, modern in design, and from this angle the Eternal Cut that London had mentioned was clear. The center of the main diamond looked like a star-burst. The damn thing was probably worth more than most people would pay for a house.

'I need to go to Garrard's. Keep Monroe busy for another hour or two if you can. Threaten to have some accountants look at his spreadsheets; that might help him cooperate. I'll meet you at the Yard.'

'Garrard's?' Cruz asked, looking at Elliot for an explanation.

'They made the ring,' he replied, taking away Cruz's empty mug and smiling as the Inspector got to his feet with a groan. 'Not sure what we're going to get from them, but London seems to know what he's doing.'

'Don't let Monroe go until I've spoken to him,' London added, already shrugging into his coat. 'Elliot!'

Elliot shot Cruz an apologetic look, setting down his mug and reaching for his jacket. 'You can see yourself out, yeah? It's just –'

The Inspector waved his hand. 'Go, or he'll have left without you. For God's sake try and keep him out of trouble, yeah?'

Elliot's only response was a quick, weary kind of smile before he trotted down the stairs and stepped out onto the pavement, where a cab was just pulling up. London tugged open the door, standing back to let Elliot in before following, sitting on the edge of the back seat. 'Albemarle St' he instructed, drumming his fingers impatiently on his knee.

This was a facet of London that Elliot knew well. Not the vulnerable man ravaged by fever and flu, nor the loving creature so newly discovered and already cherished, but the Consulting Criminal, a dozen paces in front and lost inside his own head, following whatever rattling rails of deduction had caught his attention.

With a quiet sigh, Elliot relaxed back into the seat, letting the relative peace fold around him. Surprisingly, he was not bothered by London's distance, or his absorption with the case. If anything it was a reassuring sign that he was not going to try and modulate his behavior now to suit Elliot. He would rather have London being himself than some facade constructed for his own enjoyment.

Beyond the window, Portland Place inched by, followed by the chaos of Regent Street. It would probably have been quicker to walk rather than face the lunch time traffic, but the sunlight was gradually beginning to fade behind threatening clouds, and by the time the cab came to a halt it had started to drizzle in a fine, penetrating mist that left Elliot pulling a disgusted face.

'Not far,' London promised. 'Come on.'

'Are you going to tell me what we're looking for?' Elliot asked, blinking in surprise when London shrugged.

'Can't be certain. There was the hint of an inscription on the photo of the ring.'

'An endearment of some kind?'

'Possibly, or it could be something more material, like a safe combination, or a bank vault location.' London frowned. 'I wouldn't put that kind of thing past Monroe. Whatever it is, something made the ring special. As far as we can tell, Winters had no interest in it. Whoever cleaned that apartment had the opportunity and, it seems, the desire to take it. We find the missing jewelry –'

'And maybe we find our murderer,' Elliot finished, lengthening his stride to keep up with London. 'So, what? You're just going to waltz up to the jeweler and ask to see the receipt?'

London grinned over his shoulder, not something false, but a real one. 'I may be owed a favor,' he replied. 'Helped them out with a diamond smuggling problem once.' He gestured up to the large, corner building, its windows gleaming and the red flag over the door fluttering in the wind.

A couple of polished steps led up to the open doorway, and London swept in as if he owned the place, leaving Elliot trying not to look as if he were lost amidst discreet displays of jewels probably worth more than he would see in his lifetime. Even the decor looked expensive, with marble floors and burgundy walls. Casual draperies and leafy plants gave the whole place a modern, colonial feel, and there were a number of leather-seated consultation areas, no doubt where the rich and famous held design meetings for their gem of the moment.

Nothing had a price tag on it, as if the mere mention of money was too repulsive to consider. Really, that told Elliot all he needed to know about Garrard's: out of his income bracket, and out of his league.

And of course, London managed to look like he came in here every week for a new set of cuff-links – or would have done, if he had use for such things.

'Holmes!' someone cried in enthusiastic greeting, his East End accent enough to make Elliot twitch in surprise. He had expected plummy tones of Eton and Harrow in a place like this, but the man currently striding towards them looked a bit more pirate than posh.

The bohemian bloke hurried towards them, grinning widely. He was built like a rugby player, and the crooked tilt of his nose suggested a break that had healed badly, but the whole rough look was rather thrown off by the flouncy white shirt he wore. He clasped London's hand happily in his. 'What are you doing here?' he asked, dropping his voice a little and raising one eyebrow. 'Thought you'd been cut off?'

Elliot raised an eyebrow at that, although his surprise was short-lived. The Holmes family was incredibly rich, even if London himself did not appear to have access to the same funds. If the Consulting Criminal wanted something, Alexander was the one to buy it for him.

'I'm not buying, Marcus. This is my friend, Elliot, Marcus Del Reyes.' He waited as Elliot's hand was caught in a friendly grip before continuing, 'We need some information.' London pulled free the photo of the ring and handed it over. 'This is one of yours.'

'Yeah, yeah, you're right. Eternal cut, can't be anyone else's.' Marcus tilted the photo, his friendly smile taking on a professional edge. 'Bespoke, too. It's a modification of the six-two-six.' He gestured to one of the displays, where a single diamond ring gleamed in solitary splendor. It was all ice and gleaming metal, whereas the one in the photo had emeralds and sapphires at the cardinal points of the central diamond, interrupting the outer ring of smaller, dazzling gems. 'And I know who commissioned it. I remember him. Bit hard not to.' Marcus scratched his head, checking around for customers before he muttered, 'He was a right twat.'

Elliot tried to hide his laugh behind a cough, but judging from the knowing look in Marcus' eyes, he had not had much success.

'What about the inscription?' London asked, his glance at Elliot brief but amused before Marcus gestured for them to follow him, leading them away from the sumptuous frontage into the back, where the rooms looked like a cross between a forensics lab and a forge.

'I can't remember off the top of my head. Inscription's not my department, but we should have the designs here.' He stopped by a small filing cabinet, twisting a key in the lock and dragging it free. 'Has it been nicked?'

'It's definitely missing,' Elliot supplied, watching in fascination as one of the jewelers, a young woman carefully applied some kind of gemstone to what looked like an industrial power lathe. 'Was it worth stealing, or is that a stupid question?'

'Depends who you ask,' Marcus replied. 'To the average person on the street, hell yes. To the customers we normally get in here, it's small change. Not so much about money as it is about looks. The client also purchased the design, which means we can't replicate it for anyone else, not in that configuration. It's one of a kind.'

He pulled out a file and handed it to London with a flourish, watching with intelligent eyes as the Consulting Criminal skimmed through the paperwork, stopping at the design sketches.

'Amor Vincit Omnia?' Elliot read over London's shoulder. 'Not a combination then. What does it mean?'

'Love conquers all.' London scowled, and Elliot could understand the mixture of distaste and confusion on his face. 'Sentiment.'

'That doesn't seem like Monroe's style,' he muttered. 'I mean the conquering bit I could understand, but it's just... Maybe he was different back then?' Elliot asked, shrugging his shoulders. It was hard to pair the image Monroe presented with someone who would engrave something so idealized on the inside of an engagement ring. 'Was that what he originally intended to be written?'

'Seems like it,' Marcus replied, taking another look at the police photo, his brown eyes squinting as he tried to decipher what could be seen.'There's nothing else it could be? No different meaning?'

London shook his head, glancing at the clock nearby before handing the file back to Marcus. 'It's the name of a Caravaggio painting, currently on display in Berlin, but in this context it would seem its meaning is clear. A declaration of his intention to be the only thing of importance in Ms Hunter's life.' He glanced at Elliot. 'Perhaps not so unlike him after all.'

'Want me to keep an eye out for it?' Marcus asked. 'We keep tabs on the pawn shops around here for any of our pieces. They turn up now and then, normally stolen and fenced.'

'Thank you,' London said. 'You've still got my number?'

'Naturally,' Marcus said with a smile, raising his voice as they walked away. 'Hope you find it!'

Elliot waved his farewell, following London back out onto the main shop floor and down the steps to the pavement outside. The cool air brushed against his cheeks, making him huddle in his jacket as the fine drizzle caught in his hair. 'Are we still heading to the Yard?'

London blinked as if emerging from deep thought, a puzzled frown marring his brow as he looked over at Elliot. 'Yes. Why were you jealous of Monroe and not Marcus?'

Elliot faltered, looking briefly back over his shoulder at Garrard's before meeting London's gaze. 'Should I have been?' His voice sounded a bit too tense around those words, and he cleared his throat, shaking his head before London could answer. 'No, never mind. Monroe was treating you like an object. My reaction was – it was as much about being protective as it was about – other things. Marcus just – wasn't. He wasn't even –' Elliot looked over his shoulder again, feeling unbalanced. 'Was he? I mean you and him – ever?'

London's smile was a bit crooked, as if he were almost laughing at Elliot's expense. 'No, definitely not. While his body language was different to Monroe's, his manner is very engaging. I wondered if you would find it threatening, that's all.' He paused for a moment, before adding, 'Jealousy is not easily quantifiable.'

'Well, it's not very rational,' Elliot pointed out. 'Everyone reacts differently.'

London stopped, turning to look at Elliot. It was not a cursory glance, but the kind of intent stare of amazement that made Elliot feel like he had just handed London the answer to the meaning of life. 'They do, don't they?' London grinned, grabbing Elliot's shoulders and giving him a little shake. 'You're bloody brilliant!'

'I – what? Where are you going?'

'The Yard. Come on!' London hailed a cab, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other as he waited for it to draw to a halt, restless and eager in a way that made anticipation tighten in Elliot's gut.

'But what are you going to ask Monroe?' Elliot asked as they climbed in. 'Is it to do with the inscription? Have you thought of something?'

'I'm not going to ask him anything.' London rubbed his thumb over his own lip thoughtfully, staring down at the cabs floor before meeting Elliot's gaze. 'An emotional engraving on the ring is unexpected, but perhaps it's still got something to do with the deaths of Hunter and Winters. The dispassionate nature of the murders means I've been focused on property and money, value and worth, but there is something else!'

Elliot raised his eyebrows, shrugging his shoulders as he waited for London to enlighten him.

'Sentiment.' The Consulting Criminal grinned in a way that never spoke well for innocent bystanders.

'I need to conduct an experiment.'

The scent of institutional cleaner and stale coffee swirled in London's nose as he strode into Scotland Yard, paying no mind to the manned desk as he headed towards Cruz's office. Elliot was marching along at his side, and it was clear from his expression that his patience at waiting for London's explanation was wearing thin.

London paused at the edge of one of the open plan rooms for the lesser constables and sergeants, taking in the nuances of sound in the air: telephones, turning paper, muffled voices. Perfect.

'It's about time you showed up.' Donovan's voice cut through the chatter, and London looked up at him briefly. 'We can't hold Monroe any longer, so if you want to talk to him, you'd better hurry up.' He looked tense and irritated, as if the case had ground him down, and a quick glance told the Consulting Criminal all he needed to know.

'Anderson on holiday, is he?' he murmured, smirking as Donovan growled and spun around, stalking off with his hands clenched into fists at his side.

'Holmes,' Elliot murmured, but his disapproval was only a faint thread running under his words. When it came to Donovan and his insults, Elliot appeared to be of the opinion that he deserved at least some of what the Consulting Criminal threw his way. 'Are we following or what?'

'In just a minute.' London walked over to the front desk, punching in a number into the phone and listening to it ring. The tinny buzz echoed three times before the phone was answered, and Lewis Edwards voice traveled smoothly down the line.

'Macmillan and Monroe. Mr Monroe's office. Lewis Edwards speaking. How can I help you?'

'This is London Holmes calling from Scotland Yard,' London replied, not bothering with a greeting as he kept his words clipped and professional.'Mr Monroe has been helping us with our inquiries. Unfortunately, he left his vehicle in a no-parking zone, and his private transportation is unavailable. I imagine he would appreciate your assistance in returning to the office.'

Elliot cast London a baffled look, one eyebrow fractionally lifted and his lips parted as he listened to the Consulting Criminal lie by skillful omission. It was an art, telling people just enough to allow them to incorrectly fill in the blanks, and Elliot's appreciation was obvious when an impressed smile curved his mouth.

'I'll be there as soon as possible,' Edwards replied, setting the phone down with the barest hint of a goodbye and London allowed himself a grin, feeling the case begin to slide into focus. It was not solved yet, but that? That was promising.

'Are you going to tell me what's going on?' Elliot asked. 'What's this experiment?'

London turned away, his hand lifting to give a dismissive wave before he halted, a faint warning sparking in his mind. Elliot was not overly fond of such things in general, and this exercise in particular may cause upset. Ideally, he would like to keep Elliot's reactions as genuine as possible, but the changed status of their relationship was something that drew a new consideration into the tangled knot of his deductions. What London saw as a necessary omission Elliot may believe was something more threatening – something that might make him reconsider the steps they had taken last night.

Elliot was fundamentally an honest man, and not a very good actor, but perhaps it was time to enlighten him as to London's plans and allow him to polish those skills.

'I suspect that Edwards is more than Monroe's assistant,' he explained at last, considering each word with care. 'Or would like to be. When you were speaking to him yesterday, the tone of his voice changed when discussing Monroe's vision for the city, and he called him Michael in a manner that suggested more than simple respect. It sounded –' London shrugged. 'Intimate.'

He watched Elliot nod, still listening intently as he continued. 'I thought nothing of it until the inscription on the ring began to hint at the potential for something emotional, rather than financial as the cause of the murders.'

'You said it wasn't a crime of passion – that Ms Hunter's killing was all wrong for that.'

'Clinical, indifferent, almost mercenary,' London agreed. 'because Edwards didn't kill her. However, he may have been the person who enticed Winters to do it for him. Then he could finish off Winters, who was merely a tool to him, in the same disinterested fashion.'

London narrowed his eyes as he considered his own words. 'It's only a possibility, but Edwards is a player who should be considered. Most employees dragged out to collect their boss like a chauffeur would breathe a sigh of irritation at the very least.' London straightened his coat.'Edwards was already getting to his feet, keys in hand. His voice was tense, concerned – '

London watched the grimace twitch across Elliot's face, eyes cast down and to the left as his nose wrinkled a fraction in thought. 'Maybe he's just a friend?'

'Their ages and social differences make that unlikely. I imagine that either they are lovers initially brought together by strong feeling, or it's one-sided attraction and Monroe is ignorant of it.' He frowned, lips twisting in a grimace. 'That's why I need them both in the same room, preferably while I'm there as well. If I can entice the same kind of behavior from Monroe that he displayed yesterday, Edwards reaction could tell us all we need to know.'

Elliot nodded, his voice taut through his clenched teeth as he muttered, 'There's got to be an easier way to do this. One that doesn't involve you laying yourself out on a plate for Monroe.'

'You make it sound like I'm going to bend myself over a filing cabinet for him,' London replied, watching the pained twitch of Elliot's face and realizing that was the wrong thing to say. 'If I'm right and there is anything more than a professional relationship between Monroe and his assistant, it will be obvious. The correct word could be enough to give us all we need, and you'll be right there with me.'

'Won't that make a mess of things?' Elliot asked. 'It doesn't matter if I know you don't mean anything by it. Monroe will think you do, and I'll still be standing there wanting to break his face. I'm not exactly an indifferent observer.'

London lifted an eyebrow, surprised. He had thought that telling Elliot his intentions would put Elliot's mind at rest – reassuring him that there was nothing like genuine emotion involved. Instead he was more on edge. It seemed Elliot would not need to feign an envious reaction to Monroe's potential advances. Interesting.

'On the contrary,' he replied at last. 'Edwards response may be enhanced by the presence of another person in the same emotional sphere.' London's lips twitched in a faint smile when Elliot looked like he was trying to work out what he meant. 'He will feel more comfortable showing possessive behavior if there is someone else nearby doing the same. It will validate his own reaction. Now come on, I need to get Cruz to tow Monroe's car, or they might suspect something.'

'Wait.' Elliot's hand shot out, gripping London's arm and pulling him back around to face him. 'This morning, you were at a loss with this case. I know you do this all the time – this flash of inspiration – but what caused it?'

'Amor Vincit Omnia,' London replied with a grin. 'And you. The sentiment on the ring is a powerful one, but very true: a vicious motivator. Yet it was you who said that everyone responded to their own jealousy differently. My initial thought was that there was no obvious significant other in Monroe's life to care for his behavior, and then I remembered Edwards talking about Monroe to you yesterday.'

Elliot blinked, his brow cinching into a frown.

'You got the idea from Edwards calling him “Michael”?'

London hummed in agreement. 'Then there are his hands. New manicure with short clipped nails, ink-stain on his right index finger from a fountain pen and slim, small palms and fingers. The perfect size to hold a broad-blade scalpel.' London shrugged, keeping his voice low as he tugged Elliot's sleeve, encouraging him to follow as he walked through the corridors. 'By itself that's an irrelevant detail, but imagine if Edwards overheard some of those telephone conversations between Monroe and Hunter.'

'So, what, he went into a jealous rage?'

'You said it yourself. Everyone reacts differently. Yesterday you would quite happily have punched Monroe in the nose at the very least. Violent and visceral.' London waved a hand expansively. 'Edwards may have simply been a little more forward-thinking than you. More prone to planning.'

'And more murderously inclined,' Elliot muttered, flicking his fingers to catch Cruz's eye through the tiny window in the door and putting a restraining hand on London's arm to stop him from barging in. Yet there was something like acknowledgement in his voice, as if he could imagine a situation where possessive murder would become a possibility. 'This is all theory and supposition.'

'Cruz has arrested people on less.' London shrugged. 'If necessary I'm sure I can get the proof. Whatever happens, I need you to watch the assistant, all right?'

Elliot blew out a breath through his nose, an unhappy sound, but he nodded at last as the door finally opened and Cruz stepped out, giving London a quick, dark look as he muttered, 'Can I get rid of him now?'

The Consulting Criminal glanced over the Inspector's shoulder, noticing Monroe lean forward to catch his eye. A smile danced along the architect's lips, and London allowed his own mouth to tilt in response, automatically falling into role as his gaze took in everything. Nothing had changed about Monroe: polished, pressed suit, immaculately ruffled hair – there was nothing new to be found there, but the lawyer...

Recently divorced, judging by the white band where a ring had been, and his face was set into that pedantic mask of lawyers everywhere, but there were signs of strain at its edges. A faint line of sweat beaded along his hairline, and his lips were bracketed by tight lines: annoyance, or something else? He kept fidgeting with his tie as if it were too tight. Wrong color for the suit he was wearing: a gift. Well-worn despite its inadvisable hue – a meaningful present from someone important to him, but not the wife. An ex-lover, much missed.

The lawyer's eye flickered towards Monroe, and London's eyebrow lifted in interest.

Oh!

'Unfortunately Mr Monroe's personal vehicle has been towed,' he said to Cruz, adding a hefty weight to his gaze so that the Inspector would get the hint. Back in the room, he heard the lawyer sigh in annoyance and Monroe bluster in complaint. 'Mr Monroe's assistant is on his way.'

'Right,' Cruz muttered, rolling his eyes at London before jerking his head at Donovan, clearly knowing he would take the required steps to make London's lie into a truth, albeit grudgingly. 'Thank you for your help, Mr Monroe. I'm sorry for causing you any inconvenience.' Cruz sounded like the words were forced out of him as he stepped back, allowing more room in the doorway.

'I'm glad I could be of help to you and Mr Holmes, Inspector,' Monroe replied, his voice smooth and cultured. His tone was firm but polite, with a hint of warmth around London's last name.

Behind him, the lawyer pulled a face, looking a little sick, as though he remembered that tone being directed at him. Yet it was not a jealous expression, but one of self-loathing, as if he were chastising himself for hopeless daydreams. Monroe's spurned lover then, but one who blamed his own inadequacies for the end of the relationship rather than the new target of Monroe's affections.

The thought that Hunter could have been a blind behind which Monroe could hide his male lovers crossed London's mind, but then he recalled Cruz mentioning provocative letters and phone-calls to the victim. There had clearly been something there, although when a man like Monroe used sex as a weapon, it was challenging to calculate genuine affection from power-play. Either way, previous male lovers made it more likely that he and Edwards were involved, and increased the chances that the assistant felt Hunter needed to be removed from the equation.

'Could you show me the way out, Mr Holmes?' Monroe asked, all seductive smiles, and London heard Cruz's irritated snort as he led the lawyer in the opposite direction to sort out some paperwork. However, the Inspector's disdain was not nearly as obvious as Elliot's humming tension, which had not abated since London had mentioned his plan.

The urge to soothe him was all-encompassing, making the blood pulse in London's fingertips with the need to reassure him time and again that there was nothing to fear. However, jealousy was far from rational, and London knew that inciting it was unavoidable. He needed to know if he was on the right track with Edwards before wasting time chasing non-existent leads. The Work made its demands, and Elliot would have to wait.

Later, the Consulting Criminal promised himself. Once they were back in familiar territory, he would remind Elliot that this was all a masquerade – a mimicry of emotion held in a quest for new evidence.

He made a show of glancing at his watch – Edwards should be here in less than five minutes – before gesturing with his hand.

'Shall we?'

Monroe fell into step at his side, syncopating with the ease of someone to whom the game of social cues came naturally. It effectively left Elliot to follow on behind, and London forced himself to focus all his attention on the man at his side rather than allowing it to flow back to the one person who really mattered.

'I feel I must apologize,' Monroe murmured, false sincerity thick in his words and his voice quiet so that the Consulting Criminal had no choice but to lean close to hear. All it took was a fractional tilt of London's head, exposing his throat – interest both intellectual and sexual on display – and Monroe continued with a smile. 'I should have informed you of Sophie's contact with me, but I was concerned it would muddy the waters of the investigation if I implied there might be motive where none existed.'

Idiot, London thought to himself, but he kept the word caught under his tongue as he gave a slow, understanding smile. 'I'm sorry you were inconvenienced, but I'm sure you can appreciate our need to investigate every avenue.'

'Very thorough of you,' Monroe said with a hint of a purr, as if he were trying to make everyday conversation into an invitation. Elliot could do better with just a glance. 'I have to say, Mr Holmes, I had no idea that the police force made a habit of recruiting men of your obvious caliber. I'm impressed.' Monroe shifted closer as London came to a halt in the lobby of Scotland Yard, noticing a sleek car pulling up to the curb. 'I'd love to know more about you. Would you –' He paused, and now the expression on his face was a fraction from a leer, as if he thought he had already won. '– join me for coffee sometime?'

It was timed perfectly. There was Monroe, very much in London's personal space, maintaining eye contact as if he thought he could hypnotize him with a pair of forget-me-not blue irises (Elliot's were nicer, more steel, less false innocence). Everything about him from his expression to his posture was cultivated to captivate London's interest – blatant and obvious – as the doors parted to allow Edwards into the building.

All it took was a coy little tilt of his head and a glance up through his lashes, and Elliot felt the atmosphere go tense. He could not see Edwards from this angle, and he prayed that his trust in Elliot had not been misplaced.

One, two steady beats of his heart, and London shifted back, knowing that the damage was done as he pasted a smile on his face. 'Another time, perhaps, Mr Monroe.'

A flash of dangerous disappointment skated across Monroe's gaze, too subtle for anyone but London to see, and he felt himself tense. 'Of course, I mustn't keep you from your work,' Monroe replied with a hint of a patronizing smile, utterly guiltless. He did not act like a man whose lover had just caught him trying to chat up someone else, but was that because he was unaware of Edwards feelings, or because he simply did not care?

'Good day, Mr Holmes. I hope I'll be seeing you again soon.'

London took the opportunity to glance at Edwards, taking it all in with a flicker of a glance and feeling the first bloom of triumph in his gut. Elliot would have seen more, but even now that the moment had passed, emotion had stamped itself in the subtle edges of Edwards stiff face and body. His shoulders were rigid, and the hand around the car keys was clenched into a fist. The polite smile on his lips was more of a grimace, and even if it weren't for all those little tells, one glance at his eyes would have been enough.

Cold, hard hate –

All of it angled in the Consulting Criminal's direction.

As soon as Monroe walked past him, Edwards fell into step at his heels, not bothering with so much as backwards glance. His strides, however, were sharp and concise, carrying him quickly away from the brooding building of Scotland Yard and into the sleek car waiting just outside. The engine revved as it pulled away: an angry foot on the accelerator, and London allowed himself a quick, triumphant smile before he turned back to Elliot.

'You were right,' Elliot said. His arms were still folded across his chest, but his shoulders were slowly starting to relax as London moved to stand at his side. 'The moment he walked in, it was written all over his face.'

'And, like you, it was aimed at the interloper, rather than his partner. Monroe had no part in Edwards anger.' London narrowed his eyes, trying to assign relevance. 'He views Monroe as blameless. That rather suggests there is no established relationship between them.'

'Not necessarily,' Elliot cut in, already shaking his head. 'Don't you ever get jealous?'

London paused, thinking about the string of various women who had traipsed through Elliot's life, and men as well, at some point in the past. Was he jealous of them? Had he been, when they had Elliot's attention and he didn't?

'Yes, but –' He tried to find the words to explain that such things had never blocked out his thoughts nor reduced him to a baser instinct beyond a certain pettiness. He had remained rational throughout, and the feeling had soon been stifled. 'Not in the same way.'

'Right.' Elliot sighed, scratching his ear as if he wasn't sure how to explain. 'Even in an established relationship, some people have a tendency to put their partner on a pedestal. They act like they can do no wrong, so even when they're the ones flirting, it's still the recipient's fault. That's the way Edwards looked at you, as if you were to blame for catching Monroe's attention.'

'Is that how you feel?' London asked curiously, wondering too late if perhaps Elliot would not appreciate the question. Others hadn't, before, acting as if it was something he should already know – as if he should be able to read not only their minds but their hearts as well. However, Elliot was already shaking his head, and the first hint of an honest smile bloomed on his face.

'No chance. I've lived with you for too long. I know exactly how human you are – and how fallible.'

London pulled a face at that, his nose impulsively wrinkling in disgust, but the offence given was minimal. Besides, it was hard to argue with Elliot's reasoning, especially since he had borne witness to an alarming number of experiments taking unexpected turns.

'What next, then?' Elliot asked, tipping his head as he waited for a response. 'All we've managed to prove is that the assistant's the jealous type.'

'We talk to Cruz,' London replied, his coat swirling around him as he turned to walk deeper into the building. 'His warrant probably doesn't extend to cover the assistant in any way, but perhaps there'll be something telling at Monroe's office.' He smiled at Elliot. 'And while he and Donovan are busy with that, we can examine Edwards apartment.'

Elliot huffed a breath, half laugh, half reprimand, but he did not bother to voice his doubts. 'Do you know where he lives?'

'Give me three minutes with Cruz's notes, and I will.'

The Consulting Criminal blinked in surprise when he saw Cruz leaning against the wall opposite, his arms folded across his chest and something undeniably smug painted across his expression.

'Busy as always, Inspector,' he said in a cool, indifferent kind of voice.

'I could say the same for you.' The Inspector raised an eyebrow, looking meaningfully at Elliot before catching London's gaze and rolling his eyes.'I'm tired, not blind.'

'As am I,' London replied, jerking his head towards the file in Cruz's hand and deliberately cutting off the conversation. 'What's that?'

Cruz straightened up, tapping the manila file against his hand for a moment before holding it out in surrender. 'Found it in Winters' pocket. Not much of it left after the dunk in the river, but maybe you can make something of it.' He pulled the dossier back as London reached for it, the smirk that had been threatening to spread across his face blooming full force. 

Thrusting the file into London's hand. 'Look at it in my office.' He scratched his eyebrow as London began to move away, already examining the photo beneath the plain covers before Cruz's voice made him hesitate. 'Elliot, a word?'

London glared over his shoulder at the Inspector, who simply gave him a faintly enigmatic smile in return. 'Predictable,' London muttered. 'I'm sure Alexander will be warning Elliot off soon enough. You needn't bother.'

'What makes you think I'm warning him off?' Cruz asked. 'He knows better than anyone what he's letting himself in for. He'll be with you in a minute.'

London met Elliot's eyes, watching him give a one-shouldered shrug. Cruz got on well with Elliot. They met down the pub for drinks sometimes, friends of a sort, but London was still uneasy at being summarily dismissed from a conversation he had no doubt would revolve around him in some capacity.

After a brief moment, he gave a sigh and turned away, shouldering aside the door to Cruz's office and closing it behind him. Departure really was his only option. He just had to hope that Elliot would freely share whatever Cruz had felt necessary to convey. At least with any luck whatever they were discussing would give him all the time he needed to break into Cruz's files and get Edwards address.

Keeping one eye on the windows to Cruz's office, London got to work, his fingers racing over the folder. He found what he needed in under two minutes, and he quickly filled in the details before scribbling down Edwards last known address. A mid-rent part of the city, and a far cry from the elite apartments he helped to sell. Not unexpected. A quick glance at the residential history made London raise an eyebrow. He had been listed as being on a university campus no more than five years ago, yet his stay there was brief. A drop out, perhaps. Intriguing.

Voices approaching from the hallway had London putting everything back and pocketing the address. The urge to eavesdrop at the door and pluck the answers to all his questions from the air was almost overwhelming, but London clenched his teeth. Bit not good. Not that he cared for Cruz's sake, but Elliot was entitled to something like privacy, even if the Consulting Criminal hated the thought.

Easing back in Cruz's chair, he propped his feet on the desk as he forced his attention back to the photograph the Inspector had given him. It showed a piece of paper, tatty and fibrous around its edges where the Thames had inundated its threads. The fold lines were obvious, small enough to go in the back pocket of someone's trousers, and there was a faint blue wash to the paper where it had been in Winters' trousers. The words were mere shadows on the page, illegible and so-far unprocessed, but it told London enough. The paper was plain but thick, with a dense GSM measurement. High quality.

It looked like a letter of some kind, hand-written, which was unusual, and important enough for Winters to keep in his pocket. There had been indications that he had been expecting something in the mail, the postal service was a surprisingly discreet way to deliver more incriminating messages. A paper trail could be destroyed, whereas emails were surprisingly tenacious.

The office door opened, and he glanced up to see Elliot and Cruz walk in, both with open, relaxed postures. The look on Elliot's face was fractionally relaxed, and the Inspector just looked knowing, as if he could read London's desperate curiosity with just one glance. He shoved the Consulting Criminal's feet off his desk and jerked his thumb in a clear indication for London to vacate his chair, which he ignored.

'Does your warrant extend to Monroe's office?' he asked, deliberately not giving Cruz the satisfaction of asking what he had been discussing with Elliot. It was fairly obvious, anyway: a hint of "be careful" with a fair sized chunk of "I knew it would happen eventually" and a trace of vague reassurance along the lines of "I don't care." None of it necessary, but all of it probably expected.

'Yeah, why?'

'This paper is distinctive.' He gestured to the bottom right hand corner, where the discoloration from the river had revealed a faint pattern in the weave. 'Water-marked. Might be worth seeing if it came from Macmillan and Monroe's.'

Cruz grunted, taking the photo and squinting at it before nodding his head. 'Okay, I'll see what we can find. You got anything else for me?'

'Ask me again at the end of the day,' London replied, getting to his feet and heading for the door. 'Oh, and don't bother reporting to my brother about Elliot and I; I'm certain he already knows.'

London stepped into the corridor. He waited as Elliot bid Cruz farewell and followed him out. 

'I think this is the first time I've ever said this to you, but you're completely wrong.' A bright laugh escaped Elliot's lips when London stopped abruptly, staring at him in surprise. The sound was quickly smothered, and Elliot shook his head. 'Did you actually deduce that, or did you just make assumptions?'

'I was trying to deduce a murder,' London pointed out as he hailed a cab.

'Oi, do you need a cab or not?' the waiting driver shouted, and London wrenched the door open, snapping out his instructions as Elliot settled next to him.

'I'm his friend and you're his –'

'Meal-ticket,' London cut in ungraciously, sighing when Elliot gave him a dark look.

'You know that's bullshit. Cases might have brought the two of you together, but he cares for you, and not just as the line to his next promotion. I've seen his face when you're hurt.' Elliot's fist tightened on his knee, as if the very thought of injury was too much to consider. 'He panics, pure and simple.'

London did not reply; there was no point. Elliot was right, and they both knew it. Cruz's interference, and his cautions, were well-meant..

On the surface, the advice to take care of each other seemed somewhat trite, but London doubted that Cruz's meaning was as superficial as one might expect. It was a hint from someone who could see them from the outside. A nod to the Consulting Criminal to remember there was something else in his life other than the Work – to try not to forget Elliot in those heady, dizzy moments and remember that Elliot had needs which should be met, like food and sleep and simple affection.

To Elliot, the advice probably had different connotations. After all, Elliot already looked after him in the physical sense, ensuring sustenance and rest wherever possible. No, the Inspector was more likely to have given Elliot a guileless reminder that London was different from the general populace emotionally, as well as intellectually, and that the templates from previous relationships were unlikely to have much bearing on the future.

As if Elliot had not already worked that out on his own.

A nudge against his wrist made him look away from the window and back at Elliot, who was watching him with his head tipped to one side.

'Thinking about the case?'

'No. Cruz.'

'Does it bother you that he figured it out?' 

'No. If he hadn't been so tired this morning and fighting off a headache, he would have realized it as soon as Mrs Hanson waited at the door rather than sweeping in. He's good at reading changes in patterns.' London frowned at the traffic lights currently blocking the cabs way forward, shifting restlessly in his seat.

'He won't tell anyone else. Said it was no one's business, not even Alexander's.' Elliot's faint grin was wholly approving. 'Perhaps he's not as far under your brother's thumb as you think?'

'It's his job is to tell Alexander if I turn up at a case high, end up injured or am otherwise suffering,' London replied. 'He has two older siblings of his own. He doesn't say any more to Alexander than he would want his own brothers to know about himself.'

'Funny how so many people you know are too loyal to take money from your brother to spy on you,' Elliot mused.

'Mmmm, although only one threw their lot in with me within hours of our first meeting,' London added, watching Elliot lift his chin in moral pride.'The others took time, and there are still those who would sell me out in a heartbeat for a five pound note.'

'Anderson and Donovan?'

'The former, certainly.' London retrieved his wallet as the cab pulled up to the curb. 'Donovan believe it or not has strong morals and moderate intelligence. He might think twice. Possibly.'

Elliot grunted as he climbed free from the cab, waiting for London to pay before looking up at the uninspiring building in front of him. 'Neither he nor Cruz will think too kindly of you when they figure out you sent them to Monroe's office on a wild goose chase while we came here.'

'And they would have been even more aggravated if I led them to a dead end.' Dragging his coat tighter around his shoulders, London gestured for Elliot to go first. 'We're just confirming some suspicions, nothing more. Besides, we know Edwards is at work, so we shouldn't be interrupted.'

'Good, because I don't have my bloody gun.'

Slipping his hand under his coat, London pulled free the brutish shape of the Browning from where it nestled at the base of his spine. A quick flick of his fingers slipped it cautiously up his sleeve, well out of sight of any pedestrians. He moved his hand to the small of Elliot's back, up under his jacket, and transferred the weapon to its more familiar home at the waistband of Elliot's trousers.

Elliot felt the slip of skin-warmed metal and gave London a sharp look of surprise. 'When did you get that?'

'While you were shaving. I know you always feel better going into a situation armed.' London tugged at Elliot's sleeve, bidding him to follow as they approached the unremarkable apartment building on the corner of the street. 'I would have given it to you earlier, but I thought you might be tempted to shoot Monroe in the head. It's been digging into my back for hours.'

'Loaded?' Elliot asked, grinning as London shot him a disbelieving look. 'Sorry, just checking. So you're not expecting trouble, but you brought the gun anyway?'

'Trouble has a tendency to make an appearance whether I expect it or not.' London looked at the apartment door, noting the basic lock. The list of buzzers showed clearly that L. Edwards lived in number six, and the other names all looked well-worn and entrenched.

Shamming their way in was probably inadvisable, as Edwards may be the type to chat with his neighbors, and London pulled free his lock picks before setting to work. Elliot moved instinctively to shield him casually from the view of passers-by, his face no doubt innocent and unremarkable as, one by one, the tumblers slipped free.

Pushing the door open, London stepped into the small front hall, taking in the terracotta and cream tiles – original late Victorian – and the narrow, climbing stairs off to the left. The windows were narrow and high, and there was an interesting, aged fragrance of engine oil in the air.

'It's a bit of a far cry from Monroe's elite apartments, isn't it?'

'It's a conversion. Something old and industrial, judging by the smell and the pillars.' He gestured to the large trunk of painted iron that curved up to the roof, more about function than design. 'Could be an old factory of some kind turned into apartments, considering the scent of oil that's probably imbued into the brickwork.'

'No lift,' Elliot muttered, glancing around. 'What floor do we need?'

The Consulting Criminal set off up the steps, answering through movement as they climbed past slender windows looking out over shady alleyways and occasional neo-vintage mosaics placed in the walls by the renovators. The stairwell echoed with their quiet footsteps, but there was no other sound within the building. It was probably empty, its occupants more likely to be young professionals than families, but London still checked the corridor before he stepped out onto Edwards floor.

The lock on the front door was quickly dispatched, and he reached into his pocket for his gloves before carefully easing it open, training all his senses on the rooms in front of him as Elliot's presence warmed his back.

Silence pressed down thick and heavy: no dripping taps, no clanking pipes and no obvious sounds of human occupation. The front door opened onto a hallway/study, with a desk and chair tucked in one corner and shelves crammed full of books lined the walls. Bare wooden floors carried his first footstep like a drum-skin, and London deliberately eased his weight forward, trying to stay quiet as he looked around him.

Whatever Edwards may or may not be, he had taste. It was present in his design choices: complimentary color palettes, good use of textures... He seemed to have missed his calling in interior design. Alongside the books were various bits and pieces: a glass fishing float shining emerald green in the light from the window, a piece of interesting driftwood, an old compass, long defunct...

'He's spatially obsessive,' London whispered, hovering a finger over the books, noticing a range of topics. To a linguist, there was no rhyme or reason to his cataloging, but in an aesthetic sense there was a clear level of organisation. 'They're ranked with increasing size towards the door to give the room a faint illusion of size.'

'Bit of a bookworm, too,' Elliot replied. 'There's everything here from travel books and fiction to some on anatomy.'

'Classics?' London looked over his shoulder, seeing Elliot shake his head. 'What then?'

'Course books. A few years out of date, but fairly modern.'

London nodded to himself, breathing a sigh of relief as another piece of the puzzle slotted neatly into place.

'He was living in university halls five years ago. The books suggest he was studying biology, or possibly even first year medicine. I would guess he did not make it through the second term. The blow that killed Winters was clean and swiftly done – no messing around. It suggests a basic knowledge of anatomy.'