The Consulting Criminal's gaze alighted on a polished wooden box, highly decorative and on display. There was a discreet metal seal pressed into the lid, bearing the entwined snake form of the caduceus. 'This, however, might be a bit more damning.'

He opened it carefully, revealing the set of scalpels contained within. They were good quality, new, rather than vintage, and undoubtedly a gift to be displayed in such pride of place. However, there was one noticeable gap in the line-up of tools which whispered about more than just murder.'The broad-blade scalpel is missing. I imagine we'll find it in the evidence locker at the Yard – the one they pulled out of Winters' chest.'

'And he left the box in plain sight?' Elliot whispered in confusion. 'I thought you said he was forward-thinking. That's a stupid mistake to make. Did he get cocky?'

'No,' London whispered, touching his hands briefly to his lips before turning to Elliot. 'No, he made a mistake. These are maintained and well-cared for. Whoever gave them to him was an important person in his life.' He gestured to the books again. 'Someone proud of his university place. He knew that they were good blades with which to kill someone, sharp and strong. He would also have known that leaving it in the body would mean there was no blood spatter to speak of, but he meant to retrieve the knife. It was too sentimental to leave behind.'

He spun around, his eyes moving towards the short flight of steps that led to the rest of the flat before darting back to Elliot. 'I don't think Winters was ever meant to fall in the river. He probably wasn't even meant to die at the bridge. Something made Edwards panic.' His eyes fell on the desk, clean and bare of any of the usual clutter, and he gestured towards the rest of the apartment. 'Search the other rooms. See if you can find that ring.'

Elliot nodded, moving with the trained stealth of a soldier on dangerous patrol as London began to open drawers, his fingers drifting over but not touching the contents. Everything was neatly aligned and perfectly organised, meticulous, just like the cleaning of Hunter's place. In fact, there was the same feeling in Edwards place – picture perfect.

The last drawer he opened was empty but for a pad of paper: thick, creamy and luxurious. London quickly flicked on the desk lamp, tugging it free and tilting it to the light. It was difficult to be certain, as he had not been able to examine the letter found in Winters' pocket directly, but it looked like a good match. Even better, he could see indents from the last thing written on the missing page: a pen pressed down hard in anger charting its message through more than one sheet.

A sharpened pencil stood next to a fountain pen in the desk tidy, and London briefly remembered the ink stain on Edwards finger as he grabbed the pencil and placed the graphite flat against the page. He shaded over the paper with firm, broad strokes so that the message written beneath showed in relief: A curt letter to Gareth Winters arranging to meet at the bridge to discuss his “additional financial demands”.

'Got you,' London whispered before raising his voice. 'Elliot?'

'Holmes, you need to see this!' Elliot sounded strong and smug, and London turned away, marching through the kitchen where a flat pack cabinet lay half-constructed and neglected. There were various screwdrivers and hammers strewn around, including a couple of power tools. They seemed to have been abandoned in a hurry, no doubt when Edwards had realized Winters had become a liability.

Carrying on through to what he assumed was the bedroom, he took in the bland walls and untouched bed with a sweep of his gaze. 'Winters blackmailed Edwards. He clearly decided he should get more for killing Hunter. If Edwards had not planned to kill him before, he certainly did after that.' His gaze lingered on the pillows, a frown hovering on his brow. 'It looks like Edwards sleeping elsewhere,' he commented as he approached Elliot's side. 'The sheets are freshly pressed, but slightly dusty. He's not been here for a few days,'

'Probably not since killing Winters,' Elliot agreed, pointing into the drawer he had opened by the bed. He had not disturbed the contents; he did not have to, because nestled in the corner was a dark green velvet box with the name Garrard's embossed across it. With one quick motion of his gloved fingers, London opened it up, revealing the missing engagement ring. He was about to say something when suddenly a faint noise caught the Consulting Criminal's attention.

London looked up to meet Elliot's puzzled gaze, his eyes closing in a split-second of disbelief as another noise reached his ears. Drifting through the air from a couple of rooms away was the unmistakable jingle of keys in the lock, and the steady, solid sound of a door's latch springing free.

'They're here.'

Elliot stared at London in disbelief, frozen for a split-second by indecision before he turned towards the window. 'We can use the fire escape!' he hissed, his fingers wrapping clumsily around the latch to drag it open only to find it stubbornly immovable. No matter how hard he heaved, it wouldn't budge, and he mouthed a curse as he realized the window was locked and there was no key in sight.

Double-glazed, it was strong and steady, but it would break if he threw something at it hard enough. Elliot looked around frantically for an impromptu missile before London grabbed his arm, already shaking his head as he dragged Elliot close to whisper in his ear. 'If we break out now, then whoever is out there will know they're not alone. If Edwards has any sense he'll destroy the evidence and flee the country. We might never catch up with him!'

'He's a murderer,' Elliot pointed out, shaking his head as he twitched the Browning free from where it was tucked in his jeans. 'And Monroe is probably with him, which won't do us any favors. Can't we hide?'

'Where?' London asked, gesturing around the sparsely furnished room. There were no cupboards, no dark quiet corners – there was not even any room under the bed. 'The only way out is through them. We're armed. I doubt they are.'

The Consulting Criminal moved across the bedroom like a ghost, his footsteps making no sound on the carpet. He pressed his back against the wall to the left of the door, well out of the way if someone kicked in the panel. The right side remained free for Elliot to lean against, shielding his body but giving his dominant hand a full range of movement to aim his gun at anyone who might try and cross the threshold.

Glancing back at the window, Elliot thought for a brief, longing moment of escape and safety, of gathering reinforcements and taking the chance that Edwards got away, but London had already made up his mind. He wouldn't follow Elliot, and there was no way he could leave London behind. No, they were in this together, and Elliot slumped against the wall, licking his dry lips as he waited.

A sudden absence of sound made them both pause, and Elliot watched London's eyes close for a moment, his expression one of self-loathing before he whispered, 'I left the desk lamp on and the drawer open. Whoever it is will know the apartment's not empty.'

Elliot nodded once in understanding, not bothering to reply as he strained to hear any noise from the rooms beyond. The thud of his heart was loud in his own ears, easily ignored after years on the battlefield. A faint prickle of sweat gathered in his hairline, but he paid it no mind as he focused every sense on the space beyond the four walls within which they stood.

A slow, creeping, half-muffled beat echoed over the hard wooden floor, quiet but not silent, and Elliot knew footsteps when he heard them. Opposite, London held up two fingers: a silent instruction that Edwards was not alone. In all likelihood, Monroe was with him, and Elliot forced the questions in his mind to fall silent. He didn't care if Monroe was innocent of the murders or the mind behind them. He did not need answers to make sure that he and London got out of this in one piece. Right now, that was all that mattered.

His hands were rock steady, every muscle braced and tense, prepared for a fight. London  was no different, a soldier in his own urban warfare. There was something clenched in his right hand that Elliot could not make out, but it was not his job to check that London was armed. He had seen him take down a much bigger man with nothing but a bottle opener once. He had to trust the Consulting Criminal to handle himself.

Breathlessness folded around them: a cloying, oppressive kind of calm that set Elliot's teeth on edge. It did not matter where in the world he was. Whether he was wearing fatigues or jeans and a jumper, this was the part he hated most – waiting. The tension increased with every passing heartbeat as his body primed itself for battle, taut and twisted over a rack of adrenaline and desperate for relief from the screeching anticipation.

There was a faint noise: a rough scrape of something on wood, and Elliot frowned over at London, reading the uncertainty there – not enough data. He could not deduce the cause of the sound, nor the clanging, tense silence that hovered in its wake.

Soldiers learned to put stock in their instincts, and Elliot's gut was writhing – twisting with little, sickening tremors that made him want to curse. Every sense was screaming about an ambush, about an enemy with more knowledge than any mere civilian should have. There should be arguments, whispered debates and discussions to coordinate their plans, not the unearthly calm of two people who knew precisely what they were doing: a well-oiled machine.

Or perhaps one person in the lead and another who simply knew when to do what they were told.

In the space between one breath and the next, the silence thickened, increasing to breaking point. Elliot felt the moment when the tension snapped all the way down to his bones.

The door exploded inwards, a hefty kick slamming it back. Elliot twitched as something shot forward into the room, slender and bright in the uncertain light, not a bullet but some other kind of projectile. Hot on its trail came Edwards and Monroe, taking advantage of the split-second hesitation to surge through the bottle-neck of the doorway.

London was quick, smacking something down on Monroe's head with a satisfying crack, but the man only stumbled, rising again with a snarl as Elliot aimed the gun, safety pulled back and fingers competent on the trigger.

Pain exploded through the back of his right hand, sharp, visceral and utterly unexpected. It was enough to cut through his concentration for a fraction of a second, his fingers flexing in shock, and Monroe leapt, smashing his fists down onto Elliot's arm as London launched himself at Edwards.

Elliot's pistol landed on the carpeted floor with a muffled thump, a few dots of blood splattering down to stain the pile. He barely noticed as he ploughed his left fist into Monroe's jaw. He followed it quickly with a jab of his right that made pain screech up his arm, radiating outwards from the long, silver object protruding from the back of his hand: a thick carpentry nail.

Elliot spat a curse as Monroe grabbed his wrist and wrenched him close, slamming his head into Elliot's nose. Blood spurted down across his mouth, but he licked it aside, already changing the direction of his stagger and tackling Monroe around the middle. The air left the man's chest in a satisfying rush as they fell to the floor, their punches clumsy and uncoordinated as they both struggled for the upper hand.

'Stop it!' Edwards voice was a shrill cry. 'Stop it, or this is going to end badly!' The voice was high – frightened and unstable – and Elliot's next punch hesitated as he realized precisely what was happening.

A nail gun was clasped in Edwards trembling hand, its clumsy, plastic form shivering like a frightened animal, but it was not aimed at Elliot. Instead the sharp end of the nail was pressed firmly against the Consulting Criminal's temple, the point drawing a sketchy, bloody line in the pale skin as Edwards fingers pulled at London's hair, holding him, snarling as he was, in place.

From point blank range, that nail would be as lethal as any bullet.

Elliot froze, his mind flashing in a brief panic even as Monroe's fist hurtled into his jaw, crunching his teeth together and making stars explode across his vision.

He sprawled backwards, the nap of the carpet rough against his cheek as his vision lurched, sick and unsteady. His muscles trembled with the need to coordinate, to bloody move before London's brilliance was brought to the end by a thin sliver of metal punching through his skull.

Yet he only managed to prop himself upright before he became aware of the black muzzle of the gun, his gun, pointing at his face. It did not tremble or stutter, only wavering slightly with the fast twitch of the pulse in Monroe's wrist, and above it was the hard grin of a man who loved the power of being armed. Elliot knew military experience when he saw it; he would guess the Territorial Army, but all thought fell still as Monroe spoke.

'You were never going to get in my way.'

Elliot had no time for more than a flinch as the man's hand lifted, the Browning tilting upwards as the butt smashed into his skull, bringing with it a quick, blank wall of darkness.

Lights out.

The pain hit him first, scrabbling at the sable veil of oblivion with crunching, grasping claws. His throat felt greasy with nausea, and everything from his throbbing temples down to his shoulders ached with a grating, sharp discomfort. Elliot almost groaned in misery, but he caught the sound back just in time, waiting for his shaky memory to translate the prickling edge of fear-danger-careful that lingered in his body into something he could use.

Edwards.

Monroe.

London.

Something moved at his wrist – a distant sweep of sensation – and it took him a moment to parse. Smooth skin brushed at his pulse, pressing desperately to the throb of it beneath his skin. They must have read his wakefulness in the rhythm, because long fingers gave his wrist a silent squeeze: a reassurance and warning all in one.

Oh, thank God. London. It had to be. Elliot could feel the calluses from the violin strings on the plump pads of his fingertips. A second later his suspicions were confirmed by the dark, tense rumble of the Consulting Criminal's voice. 'You're more likely to shoot yourself than me if you keep waving it around like that.'

'Shut up, you –'

'Don't!'

Edwards voice first, Elliot realized, tense and scathing but with a hint of something uncertain beneath. The second was Monroe: fierce and strong.

Elliot's sluggish brain was steadily gathering together pieces of the puzzle, and he tried to keep his breathing steady, his head lolling forward onto his chest as he took stock. He was sitting on the floor, his legs spread out in front of him with the tight bind of something around his ankles. Most of his weight was slumped against London, who appeared to have been arranged so that they were back-to-back.

Elliot's wrists were also tied – too tight, actually – he could still feel blood dribbling from around the nail in the back of his hand, which throbbed in sulking time with his heart. He estimated he had not been unconscious for more than ten minutes, since it hadn't clotted properly.

London's hands were wrapped around his, and judging by the chill in his fingertips, he was also restrained. Finally, something heavy banded around Elliot's waist, and he risked a peek to see it was electrical flex, the kind that might attach a lamp to its plug, insulated and thankfully not connected to any kind of current: impromptu rope, then, tethering him to London and vice versa.

Well, at least they were together, and not dead – though Elliot could feel the nebulous “yet” hovering like smoke in his mind.

'You'll have to kill them,' Monroe said, his words chilling in their logic. He sounded distant and dis-associative, as if this was just a job. Elliot had heard that before. Soldiers did it, because it was easier to kill some poor sod whose only crime was to be wearing the wrong uniform if you didn't connect with the situation: pull the trigger and move on.

'But –' Edwards whined, and there was real fear there, transmitting itself down the faint rattle of the gun Elliot presumed was clasped in his hands. 'But –'

'We can't just let them go,' Monroe reasoned, his words softening to become almost tender. 'You've done so well, but they'll ruin everything for us. They'll follow you, take you away from me... You need to do it now, and quickly, or you'll miss your flight!'

'Going somewhere?' London asked, and Elliot thought he heard a hint of that sound – the one that meant he had figured something out: the last of the case's haze falling into focus. Even when tied up and with a pistol pointed at his head, London clearly couldn't be anything but himself.

He still wanted answers.

Wanted to put the case to bed.

Even if he had to die to do it.

Elliot could feel the tension running through the body at his back. He could sense hard muscles pulled tight and those sharp scapula slightly spread as if London were a tom cat trying to puff himself up – large and intimidating. Or perhaps just big enough to keep Elliot's smaller frame safe at any cost.

Elliot held in a sigh, fighting the temptation to work his jaw as he gripped the fingers of his left hand tight around London's thumb, trying to convey I'm here and I’m not going anywhere without you with just a touch. Their bodies and the folds of London's coat hid the movement, and at last Elliot opened his eyes just a crack, taking in what he could of the scene as Edwards growled at London to shut up.

'You're not even with the police,' he snapped, but it was a soggy sound. 'I looked you up. You're just some junkie wannabe detective who thinks he's got it all figured out and if it wasn't for his last name, would have been killed long ago.'

'Consulting Criminal,' London murmured. 'And I know exactly what happened. Probably better than you do. You did it all for Michael, because you love him.' The sheer disdain dripping from the word “love” was oozing and thick. 'But you still haven't figured it out, have you? He's been pulling your strings – doing everything that he could to make you dance to his tune without letting you hear a single note. He's still doing it now, giving you the gun and telling you to pull the trigger.'

Elliot heard an in-drawn breath, not from Edwards, but from Monroe, and he finally lifted his head to get a better look at their captors. Monroe was staring, his expression flooded with that slow, dawning horror Elliot had seen a hundred times before on so many different faces, when people realize that no secret was safe from someone like London Holmes.

Edwards was frowning, the gun hanging lax in his hands as his skin turned pallid and sweaty. Monroe must have given up the weapon after he knocked out Elliot. The nail gun was by Edwards feet, the cartridge spent, and Elliot could see a pattern of silver dots in the wall and ceiling. It seemed as if the fight had gone on without him, and something cold ran down his spine. Christ, was London hurt? His last memory was of the nail gun pressed against the faint concave of London's temple: certain death, and now he tried to pick up any sign that the Consulting Criminal was in pain.

Yet there was nothing but smooth confidence in that voice as he continued to speak, building a palace of deduction from the foundation stones that Elliot already knew. 'It started off small, dropped hints here and there. My guess is that you saw a picture of the ring first – a detailed image on old insurance documentation, maybe. That's the kind of grunt work I can imagine Monroe asking you to do – shredding confidential things like that.'

There was a pause, and Elliot watched Edwards face carefully, seeing the tiny, frightened flicker of acknowledgement there.

'You'd never heard of Ms Hunter, but you saw the inscription, and that was enough to spark your jealousy.' London took a breath, and Elliot felt his fingers pluck at the mess of knots tied behind their backs, flexing and dancing in an effort to untangle them. 'She'd had him, all of him, and she threw him away, but even though you were so loyal, so faithful, you knew he would never put a ring on your finger. Too inconvenient. Isn't that right, Michael?'

'Don't call him that!' Edwards demanded, moving forward to smack the barrel of the Browning down hard with a painful, crunching noise. London rocked with the blow, and Elliot winced at the sound of breaking bone and London spitting as red stained the carpet.

'Careful,' Monroe shouted, stepping forward and tugging the weapon free from Edwards hand, switching it back to his own controlled, professional grip. 'You'll hurt one of us if you don't watch it!'

'He saw how possessive you were – are, even now – and he put it to good use,' London growled, and Elliot could tell he was still glaring at Edwards, leaving Elliot to stare at the blunt line of the pistol in Monroe's hands.

'Lewis, it's not true.'

'How do you know?' London asked Monroe, his voice a smooth purr, predatory and superior, despite the fact he was tied up and helpless on the floor. If they got out of this, he and Elliot were going to have a long, involved discussion about preservation instincts. 'I haven't said what you did, yet.'

For the first time, Monroe faltered, the faintest crack beginning to show through his confidence. 'Nothing. I – I didn't do anything!'

The gun was pointing at the floor now, and Elliot eyed it, wishing he could lunge forward and disarm Monroe, turning the tables back in their favor. However, he was still stuck, tied up and trussed together with London. He could feel the slip and stumble of London's fingers on the bloody electrical wire at their wrists – thin like earthing cable. It was hopeless; they needed something sharp.

Abruptly, London's hand shifted, brushing over the long protrusion of the nail that stabbed into Elliot's hand. It was questioning, apologetic and desperate all at once, and Elliot sucked in a deep breath as their thoughts came into line. 

Fuck, this was going to hurt.

Biting his lip, Elliot twisted his left hand clumsily, giving London's wrist a squeeze and hoping he could read the agreement there. At least the damn nail hadn't gone all the way through, but Elliot could feel from the throbbing, hollow pain and the grate of bones that it was embedded half into the back of his hand between the extensor tendons. He was not even sure London would be strong enough to pull it out.

'He fed your insecurities,' London continued, speaking to Edwards. 'It probably started as a game, a power-play, but when Ms Hunter came back on the scene – determined and obstructive – Michael realized he didn't have to get his hands dirty to get her out of the way. How many phone-calls did he let you overhear?' A strong grasp wrapped around the nail in Elliot's hand, and he braced himself, trying to focus on London's voice as, steadily, he began to pull and agony shot along Elliot's nerves. 'Two, three? A dozen? Did he leave his letters out so that you could see the messages he sent her? Perhaps you thought you were being stealthy. Watching him for his own good?'

London's fingers slipped before reclaiming their grip, and Elliot clenched his jaw tight, trying to keep his face impassive. Not that it mattered. Edwards and Monroe were staring at the Consulting Criminal as if hypnotized – both horrified – but in Monroe's gaze there was the nausea of exposure, while Edwards features bore the growing shadow of doubt.

'You didn't expect him to be so clever, though, did you, Michael?' London asked, as the nail finally slid free. Elliot hoped that the rough noise in his throat could be contributed to anger, rather than pain. His entire hand thudded like a bruise and hot blood dribbled down his knuckles. 'You expected him to do it himself, didn't you? A fit of jealous pique, and that's two inconvenient lovers out of the way. One dead and the other in jail.'

'What?' Edwards whispered. His face was grey while Monroe shook his head in numb denial. Abruptly, the pistol jerked up again, a snake waiting to strike as it wove between London and Elliot, pointing at one, then the other.

Elliot's breath caught in his throat and ice ran down his spine as Monroe's voice finally escaped him in a rough, desperate rasp. 'Shut up. Just shut up. You've got it all wrong. All of it. You're a pretty face, Mr Holmes, but you're not as good as everyone says you are.'

'Oh, I know I am.'

Elliot could feel the clumsy rub and stab of the nail at the insulated wire around his wrists, scratching at his skin as often as the makeshift rope. Still, the plastic was beginning to weaken, and he kept his arms taut and steady as he pulled against it, doing all he could to subtly help London set them free.

'Michael used you, the same as he uses the man who's his lawyer. Men are toys to be picked up and discarded on a whim, but a wife? That's worth something,' London said, his voice soft but firm as he spoke to Edwards, successfully dragging all the attention away from Elliot and back onto himself. 'Sophie Hunter was the only one he ever felt anything genuine for. Love conquers all.'

London's head moved in a sharp shake, as if he were chastising himself for not seeing it sooner. 'Everyone said the breakup was amicable, and maybe it was on the surface at least, but underneath I bet Michael was furious. You already loathed her as a nameless, faceless woman from his past, and when she turned up again, dredging up all those old feelings, he pushed you to react.'

'He did it himself!' Monroe croaked, his voice cracked and almost feral in a way that made Elliot sweat. 'Using that prick Winters, killing him! I never suggested anything like that!'

'You didn't have to.' London's fingers slipped over the plastic at Elliot's wrists. Elliot could feel the blood – his and the Consulting Criminal's – making it slick and treacherous, but London persevered until, at last, the tension slackened. It was painfully tempting to move his arms, but the motion would be too obvious, and he forced himself still as London spoke again.

'Edwards was clever enough to commit murder by proxy and hope that no one would ever trace it back to him. Then Winters demanded more in the way of payment. He had a lot to lose. Telling people he committed the murder wouldn't work well in his favor, but he was the desperate type.'

Elliot shifted one hand carefully, trying to grab the nail so he could set London free. The press of fingers to his wrist stopped him, nudging him away from London's bound arms and towards the thick, poorly tied flex that was wrapped around their waists, binding them to each other. It did not take Elliot more than a moment to get the message. London was relying on him to get himself free so that Elliot could act while he remained bound, very much the captive.

'Winters would have taken you both down with him if you called his bluff,' London added. 'He thought he'd be safe, that you wouldn't kill him because you didn't have the guts to murder Hunter yourself. He was wrong, though, wasn't he?'

Elliot risked a glance over his shoulder, taking in Edwards trembling body as he carefully shifted his arm towards the knot at his side. His breath was trapped in his throat, waiting for Edwards to notice his movements and give a cry of alarm, but the man was lost. His eyes had taken on the glazed look of someone whose entire world had fallen apart, and for the first time Elliot was glad it was Monroe who had the gun. If it was in Edwards hands, both he and London would be dead by now: the words Edwards clearly did not want to hear silenced out of desperation.

'He asked for too much,' Edwards said at last, his tongue moistening his dry lips as his hands clenched at his sides. 'Said that the new apartment wasn't enough – that one of our apartments was inadequate.'

'How dare he?' London murmured, and Elliot nudged him with an elbow, mutely begging him not to incite their captors further. 'So you thought you'd get him out of the way. You had a plan to dispose of the body so it would never be found: probably something from one of those forensics books on your bookshelf.' London's tone was almost admiring. 'That's how you knew what to do to clean Hunter's apartment so thoroughly, but Winters said something at the bridge – something that made you furious. You stabbed him there and then, and he fell into the river, taking your scalpel with him.'

Edwards shoulders went lax and his eyes drifted closed, his nostrils flaring as he dragged in a defeated breath through his nose. 'He said – he said that bitch Hunter told him that Michael used people. Everyone, even me.'

His chin jerked up suddenly, as if he had been slapped, his eyes darting around the apartment like he had never seen it before. 'But he was wrong,' he managed, his teeth drawing a bloody, ragged wound in his bottom lip as he bit into it. 'You're, you're not like that, are you?' he asked Monroe. 'They're lying, just like he was!'

'No, we're not,' London cut in before Monroe could answer. 'You both came back here to destroy the evidence: the other scalpels, the ring, everything. You were heading to the airport next. He is playing you. Did you think he would be getting on a plane with you? Didn't you listen to him? “You'll have to kill them.” “You'll miss your plane.” There is no we in this endeavor at all.' London's voice grew softer, almost bored, as if it were all so predictable. 'He'll give you a cheque, if he hasn't already, and you'll never see him again.'

Elliot saw, out of the corner of his eye, Edwards hand drift down to his pocket, touching the fabric and drawing a rustling, papery sound from its interior as London's words sank in.

'Shut up!' Monroe's snarl echoed around the apartment just as the knot unraveled beneath Elliot's shaking fingers. There was no time to think about the fact that his feet were still bound, or that he was still half tangled in a nest of loose cable, not when the barrel of the Browning swung with cold, deadly purpose towards London's head.

Elliot lunged, feeling London get yanked over behind him as he tackled Monroe around the knees. The shot was hideously loud, but Monroe was already falling, the bullet flying upwards rather than across, and Edwards cry of alarm was lost amidst the din.

The pistol skidded away on the floor as Elliot grappled with Monroe. His muscles strained against the bonds that were still wrapped around his legs, and his head pounded with a raucous pain that harmonized with his aching hand. Bloody smears charted their way over Monroe's shirt and suit as Elliot stretched for the weapon, spitting a vicious curse as Monroe elbowed him hard in the temple and sent him slumping sideways.

Edwards hit the ground with a shout, tripped up by the kick of London's feet. Even as Elliot leaned all his weight against Monroe, trying to keep him down, he saw London tear through the wire on his wrist with the nail and lean forward to rip the cable from his own legs.

In that split second of distraction, Edwards lunged for the gun.

'Look – umph!' Elliot's cry was muffled by Monroe's clumsy palm scraping across his face, gouging and smothering as Elliot's hand pushed at Monroe's chin, trying to force him off. With a vicious snap of his jaw, Elliot bit down on Monroe's thumb, tasting a fresh burst of blood before Monroe pulled back with a howl.

Another shot cut through the air, thudding into the brickwork of the far wall. Everyone fell still, locked in a frozen tableau: Elliot and Monroe on the floor, and London a few paces from Edwards side, bloody hands raised in surrender and his gaze intent.

'Get away from him!' Edwards spat, the weapon in his hand weaving as the muzzle wavered between Elliot and London, unable to cover them both at once. 'You, move!' He flicked the Browning in emphasis, and London's lip twisted in a sneer as he took a step closer to Elliot, subtly blocking the line of fire.

'Well done,' Monroe wheezed, struggling to his feet and reaching out. 'Come on, let's finish these two off and get you out of here.' His hand hovered, palm outstretched and trembling as the seconds dragged by, but Elliot could not see anything like trust in Edwards expression. Instead there were deep lines around his eyes and across his brow, and his jaw was working furiously as he shook his head.

Elliot shivered beneath the tide of adrenaline, still propped up on his elbows as cold sweat dried beneath the thick barrier of his jumper. He wanted to move, to tear the wire that still trapped his legs away and neutralize the threat of the entire situation, but too much hung in the balance. Edwards was too twitchy and unpredictable, the weapon in his hands twice as dangerous as sweat-damp fingers fluttered on the trigger.

'Is he right?' The strained whisper of Edwards question filled the room in a rush of ragged silk, hitching on his stuttering breaths. He gestured to London with the gun, waving it around in a way that would have Elliot's firearm safety officer in the army screaming in fury. 'Did I – Did I get too inconvenient for you?'

'No!' Monroe shook his head in a fretful line. 'He's trying to turn us against each other. Come on, we're in this together. I said I'd help you, didn't I? Said I'd get you out?' He nodded, clearly trying to get an echo of the same response from Edwards. 'That's what I'm going to do, because I love you.'

Elliot glanced across at Edwards before shifting his knees up a fraction, trying to reach the clumsy knot that still held his legs pinned. London saw, because even in a situation like this there was hardly anything that slipped past his notice, and Elliot watched him lean to the left, effectively blocking Edwards view so that Elliot could free himself.

'Then why aren't you leaving the country with him?' London murmured: the voice of doubt in the silence of the room. 'You've made sure that everything is your assistant's fault. You've set up everything so that he could take the fall for you, and if he ever came back to find out why you didn't join him, then the police would be waiting and you could move on with your life.'

He turned his head a fraction, directing the next question to Edwards. 'It's almost ingenious. There won't be anything to tie Michael to their deaths, will there? He never told you to do it, not explicitly. Even now, if this went to court, it would be a struggle to convict him. Your word against his.' London's shoulders jerked in a shrug. 'At worst he would be an accessory helping you destroy evidence, at best he's an innocent bystander. You'll go down for life while he walks free, and I bet your side of the bed won't stay cold for long.'

A smile curved London's lips, his face locked in a cold, disinterested mask. 'You've been together, what, two years? Tell me, Michael, when did you start sleeping with your lawyer? Six months ago, or was it nine?'

'What?' Edward spat, his head twisting back to Monroe, and even Elliot could read the thick smear of guilt on the architect's face. He looked sick, as if he were seeing every nuance of his constructed plan falling apart at his feet.

'I – I don't know what you're talking about!'

'Yes he does,' London promised, and Elliot watched as he eased a fraction closer, feeling his heart rise in his throat as he finally understood London's plan. He was trying to make sure that Monroe and Edwards were too focused on each other to pay attention to their prisoners. He was going to try and get the pistol out of Edwards hands. Elliot's pulse raced into double time as he braced himself for the moment when London pounced.

Quickly, he turned his attention to Monroe, the muscles in his legs coiling inch-by-inch as he shoved aside the giddy, rolling nausea. Elliot forced himself to focus on the architect: bloody from his wounds, bruised from the punches they had shared, and his hands still held out for the weapon that Edwards clearly had no intention of giving up.

'I – they – they meant nothing to me. It was just –'

'NO!'

Elliot leapt as the gun fired, a piercing percussion in the enclosed space. His arms wrapped around Monroe's knees, but the bigger man was already a dead weight. As soon as he hit the floor Elliot saw the red wound in his forehead: a bloom of fury and jealousy brought about by the bullet's aim.

Edwards was sobbing: great heaving, choking sounds from where he was curled on the floor, crumpled at London's feet. The gun was in London's hand, pointing at Edwards head. Elliot could see the fine tremble in those shoulders, twitching with the surge of adrenaline, but other than a few scrapes, bruises and a possible broken nose, London otherwise seemed unhurt, and Elliot allowed himself to take the first steady breath for what felt like hours.

'Are you all right?' London demanded, and Elliot was gratified to see there was nothing emotionless in that expression now. Bright, piercing eyes darted around Elliot's face, cataloging every injury. His body shifted like a metronome, as if he were desperate to move to Elliot's side but did not dare leave Edwards unguarded. 'Elliot?'

'Been better,' he managed at last, glancing blearily down at bloody knuckles and the narrow hole in the back of his hand. Elliot flexed his fingers experimentally, clenching his teeth at the ache of it, but at least everything was still working. Adrenaline was steadily ebbing away, leaving him dizzy and faintly sick with a grinding agony in his head. 'Might have a concussion, but it could be worse.' He tried to smile, but it came out in a grimace as he eased himself gracelessly to his feet.

He did not even notice the pitch of the room until there was a strong arm around his waist. He narrowed his eyes at London, who had darted closer, keeping the Browning leveled at Edwards with one hand and holding Elliot up with the other.

Elliot gripped at London's fingers where they clenched around his ribs and trying to get him to hold the weapon properly. There was already one corpse in the room, and Elliot did not want that number to grow.

'Edwards is not going anywhere,' London promised, and what he saw in one brief glance made Elliot inclined to agree. The man was broken, a string-less marionette. His skin was pallid with shock and nausea, his eyes glazed and unfocused. He was too busy staring at Monroe's body and the growing spread of blood that seeped into the carpet to think of escape. If Elliot was more with it, he would have covered the face of the corpse, but he did not have it in him to move again. All he could do was lean heavily against London's shoulder, feeling the living, breathing thrum of him transmitting itself through his skin.

The flicker of blue lights bounced off the walls of the apartment and the sound of engines reached Elliot's ears, making him squint towards the window. He thought he could hear shouting, and London glanced down at the weapon in his hands before looking at Elliot. 'Someone must have reported the gunfire. They'll have to take it in as evidence, seeing as how Edwards shot Monroe with it.'

'Could be worse. Could've been one of us instead.' Elliot pointed out.

London's arm tightened around him, brief and painfully fierce, and despite the ache of his head and the throb in his hand, Elliot returned the gesture: a quick, silent promise that he was still there at London's side.

The police brought chaos with them: shouted demands and questions as London flicked the safety on the gun and kicked it away, his hands raised and empty as Elliot copied the needless gesture. Within moments, Cruz and Donovan walked through the door, grim-faced and utterly unsurprised.

'Who am I arresting?' Cruz asked, nodding at one of the constables as London gestured towards Edwards. 'Are you going to fill me in?'

'It can wait. Elliot needs to see a paramedic.' London's response was firm and solid, a decree set-in-stone kind of voice that Elliot had not heard him use more than a handful of times since moving in to Baker Street. 'All you need to know for now is that Edwards stabbed Winters and shot Monroe.'

Cruz's gaze met Elliot's, probably looking for any hint of guile in his face. London could hide or display almost any emotion he chose, but Elliot was an open book – especially now. Whatever Cruz saw was clearly enough, because he gestured for one of the medics standing by the door  to come into the room.

He barely looked old enough to be out of training, and Elliot let himself be guided back to the bed with bad grace, answering banal questions about his focus and wincing at the light that was flickered into his eyes. Gloved hands wiped away the worst of the blood, bandaging his hand and probing gently at his head. Both would need x-rays, but the very thought of hospital, antiseptic and the fuss of his fellow professionals was enough to make Elliot's shoulders wilt. He just wanted to go home and crawl into bed and have London reassure himself that they had both made it through this wreck relatively unscathed.

London was explaining things to Cruz and Donovan, answering questions in a restless, impatient tone while Edwards hoarse, gasping breaths continued to punctuate the air. Forensics would need to deal with Monroe's body, to catalog the mess of evidence that had been found and interpret it correctly.

What a nightmare.

'We can't just let them go!' Donovan snapped, making Elliot lift his head to stare at him blearily. 'Both of them were here. For all we know one of them could have pulled the trigger!'

'No.' The faint word ghosted through the chaos of the apartment, somehow loud despite its weakness. 'No. I – I did it.' Edwards lips were pressed together so hard the pink flesh was bleached out to white, as if he were trying to hold back the confession while tears coursed down his cheeks. Yet his jaw moved again, his mouth forming the words as another shuddering sigh left his chest in a rush and his gaze lifted to stare at London.'You were right about everything, weren't you? I just didn't see.'

Elliot watched London's face, noticing the brief, clashing flicker of emotion there, all gone too quickly to be read before he muttered, 'Neither did anyone else.'

Cruz made a tight, tired sound in his throat, scrubbing his hands over his face as he looked from London to Edwards to Monroe's cooling corpse. He appeared to reach a decision when London inched closer to Elliot, his hip on level with Elliot's head, the perfect height to sag against. 'Look, Donovan, get him to the station.' He jabbed a finger at Edwards. 'Get him processed, take his statement, find him a lawyer if he wants one. I'll deal with these two.'

'At the hospital,' London interrupted. 'If it really can't wait until tomorrow.'

'No, it can't bloody wait,' Cruz grumbled, his hard glare looking a bit more pitying now as Elliot began to shiver, weak and drained in the wasteland left by adrenaline's ebb.

He twitched as something warm and heavy furled around his shoulders, wool whispering with promises of sanctuary and home. It was London's coat, still carrying the temperate climes of his body with it and far better than any shock blanket. Something in Elliot stirred a little – soldierly pride, he did not need to be coddled – but he did not have the will to protest. Besides, it looked like London needed to offer the comfort as much as Elliot wanted to receive it. He was holding it together, but anger, tension and fear may as well have been written in six-foot high letters all over him.

The unshakable London Holmes. 

Rattled at last.

'Thanks,' he murmured, clutching the wool tighter around himself. The coat was a bit damp at the cuffs, soaked with the bloody results of London's clumsy ministrations with the nail. They both had matching wounds on their wrists, shallow but plentiful, and Elliot reached out, turning the Consulting Criminal's hands palm up so he could get a better look.

'I'm fine,' London promised. 'This hurt worse.' He flexed his knuckles, and Elliot saw the deep scrapes and punctures on the fingertips of London's left hand. 'The nails are cheap, mass-produced and covered in sharp edges, not just at the point. Easier to cut through the cables, but not so good on my fingers.'

'You'll need a tetanus shot,' Elliot muttered, closing his eyes for a moment. 'We both will. At least.'

'Come on,' London murmured softly, stepping back to let the paramedic retreat before helping Elliot up from the bed, supporting his wobbling, uncertain weight with an unflinching presence at his side. He let Elliot move under his own steam, for which he was grateful, guiding him with gentle nudges and murmured words back down the stairs to the ground floor.

There was a brief discussion about whether an ambulance was necessary, but Elliot blew that idea out of the water. Ambulances were for the bleeding-to-death, the unconscious, the uncooperative and, sometimes, London. Not him. 'I'm not that bad,' he protested, already aiming himself towards Cruz's vehicle. 'Besides, they'll need it for the body. You can't prop a corpse in the back of a police car.'

'What's left of Monroe could be tied to a roof rack for its trip to the morgue for all I care,' London growled. 'They'll take him away in the van. The ambulance will get us there quicker.'

'No,' Elliot replied, his smile feeling weak and crooked on his face as he read the tattered, concerned lines of London's expression. 'If there was anything to worry about, the paramedic would have insisted.'

'The sooner you two stop arguing about it, the sooner we can get to hospital. Come on.' Cruz  held the door open, and Elliot let London ease him into the back seat, trying not to obviously slump against London's frame as he climbed in next to him.

Normally there would be a lot of arguing, deducing, swearing and total defiance from London before he got anywhere near a police car let alone get inside one, but it seemed for some things...

For Elliot...

He would now make an exception.

The scent of stale coffee and a faint trace of cigarettes teased his nose, and Elliot tried to ignore the dizzy whirl of his head as he shut his eyes, propping himself up shamelessly against the Consulting Criminal. Beneath him, the car rolled and swayed, moving steadily through London's streets, and Elliot made himself focus on the man at his side, assuaging the last, irrational edges of his fears with the input of his senses.

He could clearly smell the salty-slick of sweat, a faint copper tang of blood and, beneath all that, the ridiculously expensive soap and shampoo Alexander insisted on gifting his little brother.

He could also feel the beat of London's heart: steady, if a little fast. He counted the twitches beneath the pliable skin of his throat. Ninety-eight beats per minute – lingering stress. His deduction was supported by the tension he could feel in London's body, not just in the arm wrapped protectively around his shoulders, one hand cupped around his upper arm, but in the lines of his back and the tight, controlled swell and fall of his ribs.

'I'm all right,' Elliot murmured. 'Get worse than this chasing people through alleys.'

'Getting punctured isn't normally par for the course,' London replied, lifting the shoulder that Elliot was leaning on a fraction: a soft, indolent roll of flesh and bone. 'Don't go to sleep.'

'I'm not. I know. Doctor, remember?'

'Concussed doctor.' London's hand shifted. There was no pressure there, just a shielding presence. Deadly strength radiated outwards as if he thought Elliot might be crushed by the lightest contact. Though considering the way his head felt now, Elliot could almost agree with him. Monroe had hit him a few times too many, concentrating on the weakness his initial blow had caused. Nothing felt broken, exactly, it was just that the solid dome of his skull felt a bit tender, more egg-shell than armor-plated.

'Here we are,' Cruz said, pulling the car to a halt and climbing out. 'We'll get Elliot patched up, and then you can start telling me exactly what you thought you were doing.' He sighed, slamming the door behind London and Elliot with a bit more force than necessary before following them inside. 'Honestly, I tell you to look after each other, and the very first thing you do is confront a murderer. What is wrong with you two?'

'That's what we've always done,' London retorted. 'And we did not confront a murderer, we were confirming a suspicion. Edwards and Monroe were meant to be in their office with you.'

'Yeah, well, clearly not.' Cruz shook his head, pinching at the bridge of his nose as Elliot talked to the receptionist. It was a simple matter of speaking in a quick, clear voice to get London added to the queue as well. He might not be obviously suffering, but Elliot couldn't treat anyone in this state, and London wouldn't do it himself. Best to get a professional to check him over while they had the chance.

'Waste of time,' London said softly. 'I'm just scratched and bruised, nothing worse.'

'Go look in a mirror and then tell me that. I also saw you wince getting in and out of the car,' Elliot replied, sinking into one of the chairs. 'Ribs hurting?'

London simply pursed his lips, his arguments clearly held back for another time as he slumped at Elliot's side. He wasn't quite sure who was propping up who, but Elliot let himself stare, glassy-eyed and weary, as London and Cruz's conversation washed around him.

It was challenging to focus on the individual words. Instead, he read the tones of voice. Cruz: steady and patient, tired but with the faintest hint of pride as well – pleased that they had solved the crime even if their methods left a lot to be desired. London: tense still, worried for Elliot, hurting and probably frustrated at the case. Normally, there was a solid, straightforward answer about who was the real villain and evidence to back it up.

This time, it wasn't quite that black-and-white. Yes, Edwards had managed to get Winters to kill Hunter, and then finished him off. He'd even pulled the trigger on Monroe, but London had been right. Monroe had been using Edwards, pushing at him, driving him to take actions that, maybe, he never would have done without Monroe's subtle influence.

And there was nothing they could do to prove that.

His thoughts continued in the same vein as he was shown through triage, then radiology: whirring, clicking machines, gentle questions and competent hands. London was there for some of it, bullying his way along at Elliot's side through sheer force of personality. It was only when they dragged him off to be treated himself that Elliot was left alone, irritated, fretful and shamefully uncooperative. Doctors never seemed to make good patients. By the time he'd been given stitches, jabs, bandages and a course of antibiotics, as well as some boringly thorough instructions on wound care, he felt ready to storm out, whirling London's coat dramatically behind him.

'Can I take him home now?' London asked from the doorway, the impatience in his tone underlined by something more tender as he caught Elliot's eye, seeming to read his annoyance with just the flicker of a gaze.

'You'll be there to keep an eye on him?' the nurse asked, smiling when London nodded. 'Then, yes. If he starts vomiting or loses consciousness, bring him straight back. Sleep is fine, but you need to make sure he can be roused.' She turned back to Elliot with an apologetic smile. 'I know you're aware of all this, Elliot, but it's more than my job's worth if I don't tell you. The damage to the bone in your hand is minimal, but you need to take extra care to keep the wound clean. Antibiotics to be taken four times a day, and paracetamol as necessary, okay?'

'Thank you,' Elliot replied, trying his hardest to sound civil as he took the paper bag of tablets she offered and slid off the bed, directing his gaze at London. At least the dizziness had stopped and he could get a good look at him. There were a couple of stitches at his temple, and an impressive bruise bloomed across one cheekbone. His bottom lip had been split, one eye was beginning to bruise thanks to his broken nose and he was holding himself stiffly, leaning more to his right than his left.

Taking his coat from Elliot's grip. They walked with a slow, measured pace towards the reception, where Cruz was sitting on a chair, staring at his notebook with a frankly miserable expression. 'Looks worse than it really is. You're the one that came off worse in this fight. All mine are just –' London waved a hand to indicate his long, lanky frame. 'Superficial.'

'Thank God,' Elliot muttered, closing his eyes for a long moment as he let relief wash through him. Despite everything, they were both still alive. He had been sure, at more than one point, that one or both of them would end up on the receiving end of a bullet. Only now, bloody and bandaged but mostly whole, was he beginning to realize that the danger had passed. 'Where to now?'

'Baker Street,' Cruz replied, getting to his feet. 'Holmes filled me in, and your statement can wait. No offence, but you both look like shit.'

An exhausted laugh bubbled in Elliot's throat, and he nodded his head in grateful agreement. London's fingers curled gently around Elliot's unharmed hand, and he allowed himself to relish the warm contact as he was led like something precious away from the hospital's cloying, antiseptic grasp.

Back towards the sanctuary of home.

The front door closed behind London, blocking out the world and capturing him and Elliot within the confines of their apartment. After the rush and bite of the confrontation with Monroe and Edwards, the peace sounded almost alien – just another evening in London – and the Consulting Criminal slumped back, his head pressed against the hard wood as he struggled to sort through the tangled mess of feelings that twisted through his body.

Adrenaline had left him at last, removing the thin veil that obscured the drone of aches and the high, treble sting of split skin from his awareness. Still, it was not the pain that left London feeling breathless, as if the bruised prison of his ribs were too confined for his heart and lungs. He kept recalling the sound of the gun cracking into Elliot's skull and the dying flicker of consciousness in those blue eyes as he slumped to the floor. For one, sickening second, London had thought he was dead, and even now the aftershocks of that terror kept stirring along his frame, flaying his nerves and choking his mind with oily, slick shadows.

Desperately, he sought Elliot out with his gaze, taking in the exhausted slump of his shoulders as he shrugged out of his jacket, plucking at the cuff to manipulate it over the bandage on his hand. he was alive, even if the fight with Monroe and Edwards had left more than its fair share of marks.

Other than the obvious hole in his flesh, there was the thunderous blemish of the pistol whip against his temple, one which matched its mate on London's cheekbone. Another storm-cloud of discomfort lay at his jaw: Monroe's fist gifting its silhouette to Elliot's skin. There would be more, London knew, beneath the bloodied mess of Elliot's jumper and shirt, and he ached with the urge to find them all – to chart their boundaries and study the aftermath.

'Here.' London stepped forward, undoing the cuff of Elliot's jacket so that the sleeve would slide off without taking the nurse's careful binding with it. With a few efficient tugs, he swept the offending garment off of his shoulders, leaving it to fall on the floor before he brushed gentle fingers along Elliot's chin, skirting the edge of the contusion.

'I thought they would kill you,' Elliot managed in a gruff voice, the words trembling as he set them free. 'All the time you kept talking – pushing them like a prat – I was just waiting for the gunshot.'

London shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment and swallowing tightly before leaning back to get a better look at Elliot's rumpled face. 'I was trying to keep the gun aimed at me. Monroe almost shot you where you lay on the floor. Only Edwards panic stopped him. I had to keep you out of his sights as much as possible.' He glanced down, taking in the bloodied wreck of Elliot's jumper. 'He'd already done you enough damage. Is all this yours?'

Elliot wrinkled his nose at the mess of fractal spatter across the wool, closing his eyes wearily before shrugging his shoulders. 'I don't think so. I did manage to hit Monroe once or twice. Some of it should be his.'

'We could sell it.' London murmured, tracing one particularly interesting arc: an upper-cut causing a wound to the mouth of an opponent.

'I don't think everyone would appreciate your taste in art,' Elliot said, but there was a smile in his voice as he freed himself from London's arms and plucked at the wool, then lifted a hand to the gash at his temple. It was a small break in the skin, held together with steri-strips, but the bruising around it was significant. There was no way he was going to get the tight collar over his head without aggravating the wound.

'The jumper's beyond saving,' London promised, gesturing at the rip in one of the cuffs and the stains. 'I'm sure you can buy yourself something else harmless in grey oatmeal in a day or two, but for now...' He picked up a pair of shears off the table: the kind used in accident and emergency to remove motorbike leathers from crash victims. He had borrowed them from the morgue years ago and had never seen fit to take them back. Scissors that could cut through almost anything were too useful to simply return to their rightful home. 'May I?'

Elliot looked surprised that the Consulting Criminal had bothered to ask permission, rather than simply slicing the garment away. 'Go for it,' he said with a resigned sigh, tilting his head up and exposing his neck – so utterly trusting – as London moved the scissors from the collar down to the hem, leaving the wool to bare its threads and shift easily from Elliot's arms.

'You've not exactly escaped unscathed,' Elliot pointed out, reaching for the vee of London's jacket lapel. 'I think your shirt's had it. You've bled on it.' Elliot's gaze quickly darted around London's face, a frown gathering on his brow as he failed to find a wound that corresponded to the blemish.

Realization was like a lightning strike across Elliot's expression, and London's lips curved at one corner as he saw the veil of weary exhaustion shift. Elliot's fingers, which had been clumsy on his own clothes, suddenly found some element of finesse as he flicked London's jacket open. He did not even bother to shove it off London's shoulders before he slid the top four shirt buttons open, parting the fabric to reveal the large dressing taped to the Consulting Criminal's chest.

'I didn't notice this,' Elliot managed, brushing a light touch along the edge of the bright white square. He looked devastated, as if letting such a thing pass beneath his notice was a cardinal sin, even in the midst of fighting for his life.

'It's fine. It barely even needed medical attention: Three nails that didn't penetrate more than a quarter of a centimeter. They didn't have the force required to make an impact on my sternum. Edwards weapon of choice was alarming, but its range was rather poor.'

The tremor that ran through Elliot's frame was entirely involuntary, an London watched as he scrubbed at his face, seeing the wince as he touched the bruises and stirred them back to life. 'Where did he get a fucking nail gun anyway?'

'He was putting a cabinet together in the kitchen; I saw it on my way through. It was a simple domestic power-tool put to a more cruel use.' He touched the bandage over Elliot's hand again before shifting his attention to his shirt, which bore a faint shadow of the same blood spatter that had marked his jumper. 'We need to get this off. I – I need to see that you're all right.'

The confession rasped its way up his throat, shaking in a way that London knew revealed too much about his current state of mind. Every time he thought of Edwards pulling the trigger or Monroe throwing a punch, a fresh wave of cool sweat bloomed across his skin. Part of him was aware that this yearning was driven by instinct: something more base and animal than his logical mind would normally acknowledge, but it was hard to give a damn when his hands shook with the need to make sure that Elliot would not suffer any long-term ills from the afternoon's assault.

Elliot's smile was tired, but genuine, and he jerked his head towards London's chest as he fumbled clumsily with his own buttons. 'You too. I was unconscious for a good part of the fight. I need to see what else you're hiding from me.'

London was faster, unimpeded by bandages, and he did as he was told with barely a second thought, shrugging free of his jacket and peeling off his shirt. The cotton whispered over the shallow scratches at his wrists, catching on the raw edges of the deeper ones on his fingertips before it fell to the floor, leaving him standing in his trousers as he stepped forward.

'Will your hand be all right?' he asked quietly. Elliot had not said anything about permanent damage, but the doctor was never particularly forth-coming about his own injuries. 'The nail was not exactly removed by a skilled medical professional.'

Elliot lifted his uninjured hand to trace the edges of the marks that littered one side of London's ribs; two punches from Monroe and a sharp kick from Edwards. 'It missed the tendons, which is the most important thing. As long as it doesn't get infected, it should be fine. As for removing it, you did a good job. You didn't pivot it, you just pulled. No extra damage done.' His gaze lingered on the evidence of violence dappled on London's flesh, his face pinched. 'What happened?'

London finally got Elliot's shirt out of the way, sighing at the additional thin cotton that now impeded his view. It was like a particularly frustrating game of pass-the-parcel. At least the neckline of the t-shirt had seen better days, and it slipped over Elliot's head easily as London peeled it off to reveal the expanse of Elliot's chest and stomach, mostly unharmed. It seemed Monroe had concentrated his efforts on Elliot's head instead.

In all honesty, both of them had received worse in their time together. Death had been a closer companion, but that was before they had acknowledged what they were to each other.

'Talk to me?' Elliot asked softly, the words shaping themselves against the sensitive skin of London's throat and making him draw in a breath at the sensation. Yet the hums of pleasure from his nerves were quickly over-ruled as he sensed uncertainty in Elliot's voice. He did not sound secure and comfortable. Now, when London stopped looking for injuries and paid attention to Elliot as a whole, he could feel a scythe edge of tension in Elliot's frame, making his shoulders coil and his spine tighten beneath London's touch.

'You're worried about something,' he stated, frowning to himself as he tried to read Elliot's mood without the visual aid of his expression.'Something to do with me.' The frown became a scowl as he attempted to understand what was going through Elliot's mind. Had he said the wrong thing, or was it something he had failed to put into words or actions? He had been so intent on making sure that Elliot was all right, but had London neglected something of Elliot's welfare in his urgency to reassure himself?

'What did I do?' He deliberately kept his words flat, wincing at how cold they sounded, but it was better than the vibrato whine which wanted to tear itself free of his throat.

'Nothing.' Elliot stepped back, looking up into London's face and clearly seeing a host of information there.

London's brow was pleated with concern, his mouth shut tight but moving as if he were chewing over his words. 'Some people might think that the fight with Monroe and Edwards demonstrated our attachment was more of a weakness than a strength,' he pointed out softly, drawing his bottom lip in under his top teeth before releasing it again. 'A distraction. However we are not “some people”,' London pointed out ruthlessly. 'We had concerns for each others' safety, but how is that any different from what it was a week ago, or a month, or more?'

'I wasn't sure you would see it that way.'

London turned his head. 'Do you think things could have happened differently in that apartment? Would you have hesitated when Edwards held the nail gun to my head while I insisted we stay and fight.'

'It's not like we had much choice there,' Elliot pointed out. 'And you were right. Edwards, at least, was already on his way out of the country. If we'd turned away, then there was a good chance the case would have remained unsolved.'

London was already shaking his head, stepping back and giving Elliot's good hand a quick squeeze. 'It would have been half-solved,' he corrected as he turned away, clumsily hanging up their coats and wincing as his aching ribs protested. 'I would have known enough about Edwards involvement. Monroe's guilt, however –' He sighed, cuffing one hand through his hair and wincing as another, unnoticed lump on his skull twinged. 'I might never have realized his full role in the whole thing.'

'You had suspicions, though. You did from the start.' Elliot rubbed fitfully at his eyes again, looking bleary and shaken now that London had left his side. 'I don't think anyone would have guessed exactly what he was doing. It's not even like there was any proof of it.'

'No, it was just there in every word he said to Edwards.' London sighed, turning back to Elliot and forcing aside the angry, self-loathing spin of his thoughts. There would be time to hash over the aspects of the case later – to try and find the clues he missed – but for now there were more important things to occupy his mind.

Elliot had spent almost every waking moment over the past week taking care of the Consulting Criminal, nursing him without fail through the ebb and flow of the fever and flu's assault and never leaving his side. Now he wanted to return the favor. Perhaps he could not wipe away the pain that the injuries caused, but he could still bring comfort. It was easy to see the jangling, chaotic, exhausted clash of Elliot's mood, and a simple extrapolation to know what would soothe it.

Close proximity offered reassurance.

'Come on,' London urged quietly, taking Elliot by the shoulders and guiding him through to the bedroom, feeling the smaller man relax back into his grasp as he kicked the door closed in their wake. 'Do you want anything? Something to eat or drink? Do you need tablets?'

Elliot sat on the edge of the bed as meek as anything, no sign of a fight in him as he shook his head and toed off his boots. 'Can you – will you stay with me for a bit?' he asked, and London could see the need there, half-hidden behind a gentle air of apathy, as if Elliot did not want to force him to linger if he had other places to be.

'I had no intention of being anywhere else,' London assured him.

With a grunt, he reorganized the pillows, making a little bank against the headboard before settling back against them, half-reclined. His body was tired, but his mind was rapier-sharp and wide-awake. He would find nothing like sleep in the coming hours, but it was sorely obvious that rest was what Elliot needed.

Grabbing one spare pillow, he laid it out so that it rested behind his head and the headboard of Elliot's bed.

'You didn't answer my question earlier,' Elliot murmured.

'Mmmm?' London replied.

'What happened while I was knocked out? You clearly kept fighting.' Elliot turned over on his side facing London.

'I went for Monroe, leaving a fair amount of my hair behind in Edwards grip as I did so, but he was too surprised to hold on or fire the nail gun. I managed to land one good punch on Monroe before he grabbed me.'

The hot splay of a large palm around London's wrist was a phantom memory, but he clearly recalled the twisted leer on Monroe's expression and the way that the man had purred in his ear as he struggled. His mind had been too full of desperation – the need to break free and get the Browning – anything to make the situation secure so he could check on Elliot.

'We grappled with each other,' he continued at last. 'I ended up facing Edwards with Monroe only partially blocking the shot. We were on the other side of the room from him, over by the window when he pulled the trigger.' He reached down, tracing the adhesive strip at the edge of the dressing before letting his hand fall back to Elliot's shoulder.

Elliot, however, was captivated by the cotton pad, staring at it as if it were a snake waiting to strike. Slowly, his fingers moved to one corner of the tape, pulling at it lightly at first, and then increasing the pressure. 'I want to see,' he said, blunt and firm as London dropped his hands to his sides. 'I know you say it's nothing, but –' He shrugged his shoulders in a jerky motion and bit his lip, waiting for London's permission to continue.

With a nod of his head, he gave it, watching Elliot steadily peel the tape aside and lift away the dressing to reveal three holes. They looked worse than they felt, black pits amidst dimples of angry purple and red, but he had no doubt they were smaller than Elliot's injury.

'The nails fell out on their own when Monroe slammed me back into the wall.'

'Then what?' Elliot had gone very, very still, looking up from his scrutiny of the wound with narrowed eyes. 'What did he do to you?'

'Nothing, he just held me in place,' London replied, freeing the dressing from Elliot's fingers and taping it back in place. 'Well – he might have said something, but I was too busy trying to knee him in the groin to pay attention. Monroe had dropped the gun, and Edwards had run out of nails,' London continued. 'You saw the room. It was littered with the things. He wanted to hit me but was frightened of injuring Monroe, so his aim was poor at best. It was only when Edwards picked up the gun that I ran out of options.'

'That's when they tied us up?' Elliot asked, eventually settling himself back down against the mattress.

'I was surprised,' London confessed. 'I thought they were far more likely to kill us and be done with it, but Edwards needed some convincing, and Monroe had to make us secure while he did it. That's about the point where you woke up. You missed ten minutes, if that. Hardly anything.'

'It was enough,' Elliot muttered. 'What if they killed you while I was unconscious? What if I had woken up to find you dead?'

Clumsy questions fought for dominance in London's mind, neither sensitive nor particularly intelligent, but he quickly shoved them aside. It was too easy to imagine the reverse being true – too jarring to picture himself returning to consciousness to find Elliot a staring corpse, rather than the living, breathing essential creature he was now. While one fragment of London wanted to analyse Elliot's fears, to test and catalog his reactions, another realized that there were some things for which there was no time and place.

No experiment needed. 

No theory to prove.

'You didn't. 'I wasn't. We're all right.'

'I like cases better when they don't end up with more dead bodies than they started with, to be honest,' Elliot said, a faint hint of laughter in his voice. 'I should be grateful it was only Monroe who ended up with a bullet in his head.'

'He got what he deserved.' Nothing in the world could have kept the brutality from London's voice. 'The courts would never have found him guilty of any wrong-doing besides skimming accounts.'

'You're – angry for what he did to Edwards?' Elliot asked, frowning up at the Consulting Criminal in puzzlement.

'No.' London shook his head. 'Edwards was a fool for letting himself be led, although perhaps there's something else there – some underlying issue that could work in his favor during trial. I need to tell Cruz to get a psychiatric evaluation for Edwards before prosecution.'

'In the end, Edwards placed his trust in the wrong person, and he was used as a result,' London explained. 'I just wish there was some evidence. Something to show the world that Monroe was a manipulator – a murderer in his way – not just a petty crook, and definitely not a victim. He used people. I'm beginning to wonder if Hunter was the only one who saw that.'

'Justice doesn't work by degrees of separation,' Elliot pointed out softly. 'Mostly because you can't prove the influence that people have over others. Monroe never directly hurt either Winters or Hunter.'

'I know,' London replied.

'And in the end, he got the ultimate punishment – another murder on Edwards list.'

'I'd have called it an execution,' London murmured.

Elliot had gone quiet, his eyelashes casting brief flashes of sensation across London's skin with every blink, but he could make out a puzzled frown on Elliot's brow, an interesting landscape of furrowed flesh from this angle above him. When he eventually spoke, it was with the careful, tentative pace of a man in a minefield, uncertain whether or not the ground beneath his feet would explode in deadly wrath or remain stable.

'You – you said Edwards was easily led. Did you know that he would shoot Monroe? Is that – is that why you kept talking? Were you pushing him so that Monroe would get some kind of punishment?' Elliot levered himself up, a wince dancing across his face as his hand no-doubt protested, but his gaze met London's without flinching as he sat back on his heels, painfully distant despite being only an arm's length away.

Perhaps some people would be outraged at such an accusation, but while fear trembled along London's nerves, he knew that Elliot was not voicing an unrealistic notion. More than anyone else, Elliot knew the way London worked. Elliot knew he had no problem manipulating other people to get what he wanted; the only thing that separated him from Monroe was where they drew the line.

There was a vast difference between flirting with Molly for body parts and toying with a lover's jealousy to incite murder.

'I kept talking so that you could escape, and to delay the moment that the gun was turned on us,' London replied. 'I tried to push at Monroe, not Edwards. It was him I was trying to unsettle.' He swallowed nervously, pulling his hand back to scratch at his ear before lifting his chin. 'However, I'm not going to pretend for even a second that I'm sorry Monroe's in the morgue.'

For a moment, Elliot just stared at him, painfully still. Only his eyes moved, sweeping across the Consulting Criminal's face and searching for a hint of a lie. He looked as if he wanted to believe him, as if his trust was desperate to ease the way forward, but it still took a few moments for the doubt to fade.

At last, Elliot bowed his head, his shoulders heaving with a deep breath as he pinched the bridge of his nose. 'No, no neither am I. I'm – Sorry – I –'

'Don't ever apologize for knowing what I’m like,' he ordered. 'You're the only one who really does.'

'For implying you're someone like Monroe?' Elliot demanded. 'If I know what you're like then I should know better, shouldn't I?'

'I am like him. People can be so very easy to push and pull in the right direction. I know I'm capable of killing someone, the same way I know exactly what to say to get you to help me hide the corpse. The difference is that I don't put that knowledge to use. Just because you can do something, doesn't mean you should.'

Silence filled the bedroom then, not tense or accusing, but soft with relief. There was understanding caught within its folds, and when Elliot looked up at London one eyebrow was raised. 'You know, if I didn't already know that “high-functioning sociopath” thing was crap, you pretty much just gave yourself away with that.'

The gun had been fired, the deed was done, and if he and Elliot had survived as a result, then London could not bring himself to regret any of what had happened.

'I'm sorry,' Elliot whispered. 'Not sure I'd care even if you had made Edwards kill Monroe.'

'Yes you would,' London replied, closing his eyes and forcing himself to relax. 'That's who you are.'

There was no answer, and London smiled as he glanced down at Elliot's placid profile. Perhaps it was not the best position to sleep in – London was fairly sure he would have a stiff back within the next two hours, but right now there was nothing in the world that could drag him away.

Beyond the window, London's early evening twilight gave way to true night, pocked as always by the dapple of street-lamps and the flutter of car headlights in the road below. The single bulb the Consulting Criminal had switched on cast enough illumination for him to read by, but the ancient treatise on the world's first poisons was not holding his attention as it should. He kept finding himself captivated by the man sleeping at his side. 

Every hour or so, he made sure Elliot could be woken, letting his eyes find their focus before urging him back to sleep again. This time, though, it seemed like Elliot was coming around by himself. Probably because London's stomach had started growling, growing increasingly loud as the minutes passed.

'Think you need feeding,' Elliot mumbled, his voice creaking as he stretched and blinked himself awake. 'Did you sleep at all?'

'I'm not tired,' London replied. 'Besides, someone had to make sure you weren't going to slip into a coma.' He nudged at Elliot's ribs gently, easing his weight away and to the side. 'You need to eat something too, and take some medication. How's your head?'

Elliot sprawled on his back, scratching absently at his bare belly with his uninjured hand as he scowled at the ceiling. 'Better than it was.' He propped himself up on his elbows, and London could feel the weight of Elliot's gaze up and down his back as he got to his feet, stretching and wincing as his ribs whined at him before reaching for the blue robe. 'You getting take-away?'

London made a non-committal sound in response, glancing over his shoulder and seeing the consideration in Elliot's face. He was clearly debating whether to follow London, unwilling to let him out of his sight or remain in comfort?

A package by the front door caught his eye, and he frowned at the Harrod's logo on the side before striding over and peering at the contents. There were high quality honeys and jams, a squat, plain brown box half-hidden amidst the padding, and a dossier with government details on its cover: Alexander.

A note with London's name on it was lying in pride of place, and he snatched it free, scowling at his brother's elegant handwriting as if it were a bizarre, primitive cipher.

“Dearest Brother,
It seems that congratulations are in order.
I knew you would get there eventually.
-Alexander.”

London rolled his eyes, pitching the note towards the bin before pulling free the plain container and lifting the lid, raising one eyebrow. Alexander normally gave gifts of sweet things, something London would object to if he weren't so fond of honey, but the glistening jars now seemed like a cover for something far more worthy.

Turning back to the bedroom, he ambled through the door and put the box down at Elliot's side. 'Alexander's been around. He left this for you.'

Elliot looked at it doubtfully, probably weighing the likelihood of whether it was something pleasant or deadly inside. Technically, it was both, but London simply shook his head. 'It won't bite. I already checked.'

He hovered on the threshold as Elliot removed the lid, the frown melting away into a knowing grin as he pulled the Browning free of its confines. It was not the same one Edwards had used to shoot Monroe, but nor was it shining and new. It was a serviceable weapon, one that looked like it had seen its fair share of battle, and it was clear even from a distance that it fit into Elliot's grip like a matching puzzle piece.

'It's amazing what a minor official in the British government can do,' Elliot said, turning the gun over in his palms, learning its lines anew before he noticed something written on a slip of paper at the bottom of the box. He pulled it out, reading it with one eyebrow raised before holding it out for London to see.

“I was wrong about you.
My deepest apologizes.
You have my blessing.
-Alexander.”

'Do you think that means I don't have to suffer “the talk” with him?' Elliot asked hopefully, putting the pistol away and leaning over to slide it under London's bed before slumping back into the pillows.

'Maybe. He'll be disgustingly smug when we see him next.'

'Then perhaps we should be grateful he's leaving us in peace, for now at least.' Elliot glanced across the dim room at London, his head cocked to the side. 'Are you all right?'

London blinked, dragging himself away from vague thoughts of how best to irritate his brother at their next meeting and smiling at Elliot. 'Yes, I'm fine. Dinner.'

Whirling back out to the kitchen, he gave the contents of the fridge a critical look. The food Elliot had purchased who knew how many days ago while London lay on the brink of fever was passing its prime. However, there were some strips of steak that still looked good, and he quickly considered his options before gathering together ingredients.

He was tempted by the thought of take-away. It was easier and less mess, but everything he could think of – all their usual favorites – held no appeal.

Reaching for the frying pan, he checked it was clean before setting it on the hob. He moved without really thinking, chopping the slightly withered onion and the vaguely damp mushrooms and adding them to the melted butter. Pasta was set to boil and the meat added along with some spices, releasing a succulent scent that made his stomach growl anew.

It reminded him of late nights before Elliot, doing this: times when even the most loyal provider of free food would have turned him away and his transport's howls of complaint could not be ignored. He had cooked things in an effort to prevent food poisoning, not caring how it tasted. It was not that he did not know the chemistry of flavor and texture – there was something scientific about the perfect meal: chemical compounds artistically arranged – but the act of it bored him with its predictability.

Alexander would probably imply that meant he was not pushing the horizons of his cuisine, but there was no mystery to be found in the bottom of a frying pan, not unless it had been used as a murder weapon.

Turning around to grab a can of evaporated milk, he flipped the pan lightly, shifting the contents around with a sharp flick of his wrist to prevent them burning. Moving the skillet off the heat, he counted to thirty: just enough time to let the pan cool before he added the thick liquid. Proper dairy cream would be better, but unless the milk had performed non-toxic miracles, they didn't have any. An intake of breath from behind him, caught his attention. Turning around he noticed Elliot was staring at him with genuine confusion.

'You're cooking?' he asked, giving London a quick, questioning look. 'I've lived with you for more than a year. I didn't think you knew what a frying pan was for.'

'I don't normally bother,' London replied, pulling a face as Elliot grabbed a fork and stabbed a piece of meat. 'Can't you wait five minutes?'

'Checking it's edible,' Elliot said without a hint of apology, dripping some creamy sauce on London's dressing gown as he blew on the strip of steak to cool it down. 'Bearing in mind I once caught you making tea in a beaker that you had used for blood samples only an hour before.'

'I washed it beforehand,' London pointed out, watching Elliot's face change from somewhat doubting to surprised delight as he chewed. London rolled his eyes, checking the pasta was done before draining the water away. Quickly, he stirred the penne into the meal, which was still cooking in the frying pan, before doling it out into dishes and pressing one into Elliot's waiting grasp.

'It's basic Stroganoff,' he explained. 'Quick, easy, and one of the few meals I can be bothered to put together. Don’t expect me to turn into some culinary master just because you've discovered I am capable.'

Elliot was already chewing his first mouthful, his expression torn between a threatening glare and something far more flatteringly rapturous. 'All this time we've been eating out,' he said after he swallowed, 'and I could have been having stuff like this. Why didn't you tell me you could cook?'

'Dull,' London provided, a grin tilting his lips as he reached out to wipe some sauce from Elliot's cheek before grabbing his own bowl. 'My mother liked to cook. She taught me and my brother enough to survive. Alexander's too busy not to mention lazy, thus has others cook for him. Whereas I have more interesting things to mix in containers than ingredients.'

'Like blood and acid?' Elliot asked, sinking into one of the chairs at the kitchen table as he continued to eat with every sign of enjoyment. London had to admit that this – preparing a meal for someone else and seeing their appreciation – was a previously unexplored facet of the whole process. He was not about to put on a toque and devote himself to culinary art, but perhaps he could be persuaded to cook more than twice a year if it meant experiencing such enthusiasm from Elliot.