Inspector Cruz had been sitting on a suspected drugs house in Brixton for two days. Well, sitting in a car a block away. He wished he had declined the assignment. He had a desk full of paperwork and three new detectives to terrorize. Instead, he’d told Donovan he’d take the stake-out so he could go to his cousin’s wedding in Abergavenny.

“It’s an in and out, Cruz. Shouldn’t be more than twelve hours. MI5 will do all the heavy lifting. They just need us for back-up – it’s the Russians.”

That was forty-eight hours ago. He emptied his fourth cup of coffee of the morning. Oh sure, he knew all about the Russians. He had just wrapped up a particularly nasty run-in with a faction in Essex. Arrested a scary bastard named Jusuf who ran upwards of a dozen brothels and drug houses in the southeast of London. They’d finally gotten a tip on the case which had led them to Essex where they’d busted a pretty substantial sex-trafficking operation and as a bonus, the Consulting Criminal had stumbled onto twenty kilos of heroin and ten kilos of coke in the basement of the house next door.

Cruz had been happy for the boost in his arrest stats, but knew London had been rattled by the discovery. He and Elliot had emerged from the basement, clothes dusted with white powder and of course, Donovan couldn’t help but get his digs in.

“Hey, freak, how much you snort before you called us?” to which Anderson chimed in with, “You know Holmes, it wasn’t that long ago we were dragging you out of places like this.”

He had shooed them away, but saw London’s shoulders stiffen at the comments. He watched Elliot look from London to Anderson, and then to him. He shrugged and shook his head and became very busy in the business of securing two crime scenes. When he looked up, they were gone. Anderson could be a pain in his arse, but he wasn’t lying. Time was, it’d be him in the basement, looking for the Consulting Criminal. Usually sent there by Alexander Holmes, to save his brother another time, another police report misplaced for the good of Queen and country. He was glad those days were over.

The phone, which was buried under files on his desk, pulled the Inspector from his thoughts.

“Cruz. It's Elliot. Have you seen London?"

The Inspector sat up straight. He hated that question. He hadn’t been asked that question, in that particular way, in quite a long time. And never from Elliot. If anyone ever knew where London Holmes was, it was Elliot. “I’ve been busy on a case. Haven’t seen him since Essex. What’s going on?”

“Well, it’s probably ridiculous, but he went out yesterday and he hasn’t come back. I would normally just wait him out, you know how he can be."

“Yeah, I do. He on a case?”

“No.”

“But you said he went out – I just thought that was code for something.”

“No, he really went out.”

“Seriously?”

“I know, and I wouldn’t even be bothering you. I know he’s done that before as well, but I don’t know...”

Cruz leaned his head against his desk. “Let me get someone to cover me here, and I’ll be right over.”

“Thanks Cruz, it’s probably nothing.”

“Yeah, but when it comes to London – probably is really shite odds.”

“Right.”

“And Elliot, you’d better call Alexander.”

“Nothing you’ve said so far has convinced me.” Alexander sat in his brothers chair, legs crossed. “My brother has merely slipped down the rabbit hole again. And I for one am not inclined to follow him this time.”

Cruz stood in the doorway with his sixth cup of coffee. “I’d agree with you, if Elliot wasn’t so sure.”

“It’s strange, Alexander."

“Strange doesn’t change the fact that my brother is-“

“-Was,” Cruz quickly corrected.

“Was a drug addict. Who will find his way home, eventually.”

Elliot leaned forward in the chair. “Well, I’m going to look for him, with or without your help.”

Cruz nodded to Alexander over Elliot’s head. He knew Elliot had no idea what he was getting himself into. He’d spent the better part of a month once, going from back room to flop house to drug den, looking for the Consulting Criminal. But he also believed Elliot when he said this wasn’t just London bored and heading out.

“Can you at least do a basic search, Alexander? Elliot and I will do the rest. Just throw out a net, see what you catch.”

Alexander rose from the chair. “I will give you Anthea and access to my data for an hour.”

Elliot stood. “Seriously, an hour?”

“Oh, you’ll discover that an hour is more than sufficient. If he’s out on a bender, you’ll find him.” Alexander walked to the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

Alexander left and Elliot walked over to the window overlooking the streets. "Where the fuck is he?”

Cruz wondered the exact same thing. On his way to Baker Street, he had called in and gotten arrest reports from the last 48 hours. Nothing unusual. He called Robert Miles from the drugs unit and gave him notice to look for London in the usual haunts. Miles had been helpful in the past – a good man with excellent discretion. He hoped they’d have some results soon. He wasn’t going to be able to keep Elliot here for much longer. And he didn’t like the idea of taking him out to look for London. Elliot had no idea what he’d be getting into. And London would probably have him sacked, arrested, and hanged if he told him.

He remembered the exchange he’d witnessed at Baker Street on the first case they’d worked together. London had roared up the stairs, full of righteous indignation because Cruz had tossed the apartment and found the pink suitcase. The Consulting Criminal had accused him of breaking in. He’d given it back both barrels.

“And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break in.” Cruz remained calm, sitting comfortably in London’s chair.

London was furious. “Well, what do you call this then?”

“It’s a drugs bust.”

Elliot whipped around and stared at Cruz. “Seriously?!"

“Elliot...” At least London had the decency to look sheepish.

Elliot didn’t understand. “I’m pretty sure you could search all day, you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational.”

London stood face to face with Elliot. “You probably want to shut up now.”

Elliot looked at London. “Yeah, but come on... no.”

“What?”

“You?”

“Shut up!”

Cruz was sure that was the last conversation they’d had on the subject. For some reason, London had still failed to share a fairly substantial part of his past with Elliot, and the Inspector was not going to be the one to spill those beans. 

Yet.

Right now it was the elder Holmes brother he was worried about. Alexander had breezed in and out just a little too fast, just a little too... breezy. He understood if he was tired of this game – waiting for his little brother to fall off the wagon, over a cliff. Hell, they’d both been tired. But this was different. 

This was...

“You hungry?” Cruz asked as he walked over to Elliot who still had not moved from the window.

“Uh, no – yeah, yeah, I could eat.”

“Think I’ll walk down to the Chinese – maybe steal a smoke.” Cruz put on his coat.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Elliot replied, still refusing to break his contact with the street below.

Cruz nodded to no one and headed down the stairs.

When he got out on the sidewalk, he realized what he had to do.

He had a call to make.

The Consulting Criminal felt himself being lifted. And then dropped. And then kicked. He curled into himself to get away from the blows, and tried to fight through the haze in his mind. He needed to figure out this problem. He’d obviously been kidnapped. It obviously had something to do with the drugs in Essex. He was obviously in a basement. He could feel the damp cement against his back. The boot that caught him just under his ribs was leather. Big – size 11 ½ at least. He rolled to his left and bumped against a table leg. He felt himself pulled from the floor and shoved in a chair. He cracked open an eye. Yes, basement. Three men. The new man was older, better dressed. Smelled like haddock. He opened his other eye and saw a kit on the table. A spoon, packets of what... heroin, cocaine, opium, amphetamines? He struggled against the arms that had him held fast to the chair. He tried to catalog every detail of the room, every inch of his captors. He needed to figure out what part of the City he was in, if he was still in London at all.

He heard a song on the little radio in the corner and snorted. As much as he could think. He estimated they had given him four doses of whatever lovely concoction that was making him feel very...happy... no ... content ... no ... fucking fine ... yes, that’s it. If there’s a remedy, I’ll run from it...

Oh, yes.

The Consulting Criminal was still seated in the chair, his hands bound behind him, eyes covered. The last time they’d come in to dose him, he’d explained to them in no uncertain terms that he’d figured out who and where they were, so they blindfolded him. Like that helped. The cloth alone told him three more things he hadn’t yet sussed out (recent visit to Turkey, diabetes, off brand biscuits). This had to be the oddest kidnapping he’d ever been a part of. Except for the initial roughing up, they’d left him alone – fed him a bit, gave him water, let him relieve himself. And shot heroin in his arm on a fairly rigid schedule. If his mind could be trusted, and if not his then whose, he’d been in this basement in Essex for about 36 hours. Essex was easy. And the basement was easier. He and Elliot had just been here a week ago. His captors were idiots. But they did have the most delicious heroin ... definitely Afghanistan. Top drawer. But why? Why not just kill him? Everyone knows the longer one keeps a prisoner, the better the odds the prisoner escapes. Regardless, the boots tramp down the steps, the lighter flares, the pressure of rubber round his arm, the prick, and the only thing he’s ever found to quiet his mind, rushes through his blood and drowns his brain in exquisite relief.

London sat up straighter in the chair and tried to put all the facts in order. Surely Elliot had figured out he’d been kidnapped. Of course there was the chance that Elliot, as well as Alexander, would think he was just in one of his boltholes. Of course he wasn’t in one of his boltholes. He’d told Elliot he was going out. Elliot would certainly be worried if he didn’t return. Alexander would be more difficult. This wasn’t the first time he’d disappeared. Cruz had to have connected the dots with the Russians, who had been quite vocal in their threats to him and Elliot both. If he could just withstand this torture slash carnival ride, he estimated they’d probably come through the door by tomorrow morning at the latest.

He ignored the nudge of concern when he calculated how many more doses he could withstand. Before he fell over the edge into addiction. Already addicted. The last time the boots were five minutes late, he’d felt his heart accelerate, his skin vibrating, needing that needle. So what was the end game? Feed him heroin until his brain exploded? Expensive. Especially when he knew the Russians favored bullets to the head. Quick and permanent. What advantage could they possibly secure by keeping him alive and high? Bargaining chip? Doubtful. Alexander would just tell them to keep him, and Elliot’s army pension wouldn’t even cover the drugs they’d already used on him.

So what?

He heard boots on the stairs and stopped thinking. Felt the relief in his body, felt the anger that he couldn’t control the relief. He wasn’t going to be able to control any of it after a few more grams. He laid his arm obediently on the table, listened to the preparation, sucked in a breath when he felt the prick. Jerked a bit when he realized this was something different. Heroin yes, but something else. Cocaine? Noscapine? His head lolled back as the dose hit his bloodstream.

Fuck.

He followed his mind underwater. 

Hoping Elliot would get here before he permanently lost sight of the shore.

By the time the older Holmes had arrived back at his office, Alexander had told Anthea and the head of MI6, who still insisted on being referred to on the phone as 'Red'. Irritating, but crucial if he was to have full access. And he needed full access.

He was relieved to get away from Baker Street and begin the processes that would get the intel dissected, deconstructed, disseminated into the bits he needed to find London. He knew the moment he looked into Elliot’s face that this wasn’t a walkabout. Confirmed his own suspicions when the chatter had taken a manic turn in the last few days regarding the Russians and his little brother.

When he’d heard that London had grown bored at the crime scene and wandered next door, taking approximately twelve minutes to find the stash Alexander had spent months ignoring, he knew there’d be repercussions. Jusuf and his crowd had reluctantly agreed to the loss of the girls only if they were allowed to keep the drugs. He would spend the next six months maneuvering through various proper and improper channels to get it all back to its delicate balance. Part of him wished he could just pay them all off and be done with it.

But then the chatter, and the threats, and he’d had to go dark. Very dark. He should have realized it was not going to be so easy. He was balancing spinning plates on the edge of an abyss. Somewhere along this road, it had gotten very personal. Towards him. And by proximity, towards the Consulting Criminal. He didn’t want to admit yet, that his reluctance to act may have been a mistake.

The small red phone on his desk buzzed and he frowned. Hardly any of his associates had this number anymore. He kept it mainly as a spare to his spare. Anthea didn’t even have the number.

He was too busy for distractions.

“Inspector Cruz.”

“You don’t sound surprised to hear from me.”

“I guess I have my answer as to whether I was convincing at Baker Street.”

“You weren’t. What the hell is going on?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Yeah, sussed that one out myself.”

“Elliot with you?”

“No, I stepped out for a smoke. Which I’ve started again because of this.”

“So he’s not . . .”

“Sod it, Alexander – where the hell is your brother?”

Alexander cleared his throat. He usually enjoyed the banter with Cruz. Looked forward to it, initiated it on occasion, when he was bored. Always under the ruse of concern for his brother.

“Gregory. . .”

“Oh fuck, it’s bad . . .”

“No, it’s . . . why do you . . .”

“You just called me Gregory.”

“Sorry, Inspector Cruz.”

“I’m having a coronary here.”

“Sorry. I must tell you, there is a chance my brother has indeed been abducted.”

"Dammit! Where is he? Who’s got him?”

“There’s also a chance he has merely gone aground – used the incident in Essex to resume his prior... activities.”

“Then why do you think he’s been abducted?”

“At this point it’s mere conjecture. But it would seem that Essex may be the tipping point for both.”

“I knew there was something up – even London “accidentally” finding that drug house. He in on this with you?”

“God no,” Alexander said a bit too forceful. “My brother managed in one afternoon to undo what I’d been working on for the last two years. Upset a tenuous balance that I am still trying to control. ”

“Don’t tell me you had a deal with those bastards?”

“I cannot confirm nor deny.”

“So what’s the plan? What do I tell Elliot? Are you going to unleash the hounds?”

“Gregory...”

“Not Gregory again.”

“Gregory, there will be no unleashing. You can tell Elliot as much as you think he needs to know.”

“He needs to know it all, Alexander. It’s Elliot you’re talking about. He’s London’s...”

“Yes, I know. But I also don’t want either of you making my job even more difficult. For now, we’re in a holding pattern.”

“You’re fucking with me, right? A holding pattern?”

“For the time being. I’ll be in touch when I have more information.”

“Yeah, and I’ll be in touch when I find him.”

“I wouldn’t advise.”

“Oh I know you wouldn’t. But I’ve got my own ideas. So I will be in touch when I have your brother."

The Consulting Criminal felt hands push him forward and a knife sliced through the bands at his wrist. He tipped to the left, almost falling out of the chair. Odd he couldn’t stop himself. (shaking, anxiety, dizziness – yes, amphetamine confirmed) He just wanted to crawl back into his cave of bliss, float across the waves, but something kept knocking at his brain. What was it?

He felt the hands lift him by the shoulders and push him down to the floor – ah, no, a mattress. Soft. Sex and death and Ivory Snow. Nice. The knock continued. “Just leave me alone,” he shouted at the knock. The blindfold was lifted and in the shrieking light of the dark basement, a man’s face swam before him.

“We will leave you alone, Mr. Holmes, as soon as you tell us what we want to know.”

London struggled to form a sentence. What words to choose? The knocking grew louder – probably Elliot forgot his key again. “Mrs. Hanson. . . go away!”

“He’s fucking insane.”

A new voice. Bulgarian he’d guess. He loved Bulgarian cheese. Kashkaval, Urdah, Sirene . . . “I love your sirene – far superior to feta, regardless of what the Greeks may tell you.”

“Can I kill him now?” The Bulgarian seemed upset.

“Not until he tells us to. But we’re getting nothing out of him now. Go back to the pure dose next go round.”

“No more for me, thank you . . .” He couldn’t lift his head, but he knew he should. There was something he was missing, something he needed to work out. He felt hands on his arm, a twist of a rubber, and he happily floated back to his cave on the wave coursing through his veins.

He woke with a gasp. He couldn’t breathe. The mattress was on fire. He rolled to his left and hit the cement floor, he tried to get up but the flames wound around his ankles, pulling him back to the mattress, melting and steaming and stinking . . .

“Holmes, come on. Get up.” Elliot. Finally. Elliot had come to save him.

“I can’t move."

“You’d bloody well better, Holmes. You’re going to die soon.” Elliot was laughing. “Very soon. Your brain has already melted. Just waiting for your body to follow.”

“Help...”

Hands pulled him up to a standing position, but his legs would not hold him. He crumbled to the ground and reached out, looking for Elliot, for anything to hold on to. He heard the laughing again, but it wasn't Elliot.

“Don’t waste a bullet. He’s so far gone now – he’ll be dead in a few hours. Put him back in the chair.”

“You want me to tie him up?”

“What for? He can’t even walk. Just don’t let him fall. You heard Jusuf, no more bruises. He’s got to look like what he is – just another junkie.”

London knew this last bit of information had to be important. His left arm was tugged onto the table and he let his right arm fall to his side. Most of the veins in it had been blown a day ago. Or a month ago. He’d lost track. Of the tracks. He snorted and his head fell forward. Now what was it he was thinking about? Oh, Elliot. Where did he go? He was here with the fire and then he was gone. Maybe to get some cheese. No more bruises. Please, more heroin. He felt the needle, watched his blood spurt, (blood on the tracks) they used to be so careful. His left arm looked like a pin cushion.

He thought for a moment he should fight the fog, struggle to a room in his Mind Palace that had not been compromised by the concoction. There had been a door he’d passed time and time again, but he didn’t enter. A bit of non-corrupted data in his brain sounded warning alarms whenever he paused and lifted a hand to the knob.

But there was nowhere else to go.

He had to think.

About things.

About Elliot.

About no more bruises and Russian gangsters.

About Elliot.

He ignored the knocking and the alarms and the siren call of the poison and opened the door.

Cruz got back to Baker Street with takeout and told Elliot everything about his talk with Alexander. He had Donovan send over the Essex case files. Requested that several similar cases be messengered over to the apartment and he and Elliot spent the rest of the night trying to familiarize themselves with the facts. The more they read, the worse it got. Cruz knew the Russians had a choke hold on much of London’s sex and drugs trade, especially heroin. He just hadn’t seen the true scope of the problem. Now laid out in front of him, it was daunting. Scared the piss out of him. No wonder Alexander had his officious hands all over it.

Elliot sat in his chair, a pile of files at his feet. He was reading a particularly thick one when he stood, and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall and landed all over the couch.

“Hey!” Cruz dropped the file he was holding.

Elliot turned to the Inspector. “They’re going to kill him.”

“Why do you say that? What is it?”

Elliot blew out a breath, straightened his shoulders and handed Cruz the one piece of paper from the file he hadn’t tossed.

Cruz took it from his hand, read quickly and looked up at Elliot. “Fucking hell.”

“They’re going to kill him. It’s what they do. It’s what they always bloody well do.” Elliot slumped back down in his chair.

“We don’t know that.”

“Cruz” Elliot had a tight grip on the arms of his chair, “I think it’s time you told me exactly how you met London and why you have his bloody brother's private number.”

London was surprised to find the room empty. A square box, with one window opposite the door, hardwood floors. And music. Soft music came from the walls. Bach. Concerto for Two Violins. D Minor. Largo ma non tanto. He relaxed into the music, wandered over to the window, thinking this might be where he’d stored that lovely garden he and Elliot had toured on their way back from that ridiculous case of the twin pie bakers and the stolen spoons in Aberystwyth. The Case of the Pied Pipers of Pastry – he’d have to remember to tell that one to Elliot. He looked out and, in that instant acknowledgement of way too late, remembered why he shouldn’t have come in this room. He pressed his hands against the window, tried to slow his breathing, hoping it would all go away. He could feel his brain shredding, layers and layers melting under the weight of what his eyes were witnessing. He was glad he was as altered as he was. His heart would have probably just stopped beating otherwise.

The trees were there, the path, the grass, the water feature. If he could just focus on the water feature. But that’s not how it worked. His mind palace. The image revolved and evolved, so that he was constantly being assaulted by it.

Over and over.

Elliot stood in the garden. Dying. First a shot to the head, then a knife to the heart. Sometimes self-inflicted, other times faceless assassins, most of the time it was his father or Alexander delivering the death blow. He pounded the window, kicked a pane with his foot. Nothing. He stood watching Elliot being murdered, again and again. Endless loop. Endless pain. Because it wasn’t just the visual experience. Elliot would smile at him every time, sometimes wave. Alexander would then come up behind him and slit his throat from ear to ear. Elliot would look at him, confused. He’d reach out towards him, like he couldn’t understand how London could just stand at the window while he was being murdered. Blood would seep, or brains would splatter, or the worst one, Elliot's eyes just dimmed and he’d pitch forward into the fountain, and London would feel such an intense pain rip through his chest that it took him to the ground.

Yes, his brilliant, brilliant brain had not only concocted an endless variety of ways Elliot could die, it also cataloged equally endless degrees of emotional pain and fear and regret and guilt. All the emotions he’d so carefully deleted over the years had actually been stored in this room. Multiplying, intensifying, waiting. So that each time Elliot died, London felt it as if it were happening for the first time.

Every time.

Dante should take notes.

He crawled to the corner farthest from the window and curled into a ball, his head on his knees, ears covered, rocking. It didn’t matter. The scene outside the window just came in, displayed its bright color on all four walls. The music turned to Mozart. Requiem. D Minor. Dies Irae. He knew outside his mind palace he must be having seizures, or cardiac arrest. In here, in this room, it was just Elliot. And death. And blood. And Elliot. As much as he had tried to ignore it, his mind had figured it out and turned it against him. The one thing London Holmes could not bear, the only person he could not live without was Elliot.

And he was afraid it was slowly killing him.

Elliot sat on the couch, empty glass in his hand, staring at the fire. Cruz had left about an hour before, wanting to check out some leads at the Yard. He didn’t want to leave, but Elliot pushed him out the door. He needed to be alone, to try to process all the information the Inspector had reluctantly supplied about those early days with the Consulting Criminal. About how Cruz had first thrown him cases just to keep him off the streets. How Alexander had also offered the Inspector a sizable cheque to spy on his little brother. How Cruz had refused, but still kept an eye out anyway. Elliot was starting to suspect that was actually Alexander’s plan – get people to do what he wanted, but never pay them a cent. Good plan. Every one of them had fallen for it – Cruz, Mrs. Hanson, Molly – he should ask Stamford some time if he’d ever been approached by a tall man with a ridiculous umbrella.

Elliot had been shocked by some of the stories. He shouldn’t have been surprised. London did nothing in halves, why would drug addiction have been any different? He wished he’d have been around during that time. Wondered why he thought he could have made any difference. He knew exactly why . . . his chest felt heavy when he remembered that his hand on London’s arm, eyes locked on his face, had already stopped a hundred bad ideas. He also remembered how London could raise his chin off the violin, lift an eyebrow and Elliot would do anything he wanted.

Fuck, he’d probably be the one to go buy the stuff for him.

He was grateful to Cruz more than ever now. Understood better the relationship between him and London now. It had always been a bit of a mystery. He had watched London insult and abuse Cruz, mock him in public, abuse his officers, never get Cruz's first name right, but the Inspector would just shrug and smile, always returning to him with another case.

“He just looked so . . . lost. That ridiculous intellect, the ability to see things in an instant whether he wants to or not, well I couldn’t imagine the torment. And he was so bloody young. And so bloody insolent. The more I arrested him, the more he was determined to show up at scenes and make everyone bloody miserable. So I did the only thing I could think of.” The Inspector had smiled at the recollection of one of the first times they’d met.

“You have a thing for arseholes?”

Cruz snorted. “Yes, that had to be it. Maybe I saw a bit of myself in him. Minus the giant ego and the need to take a blow torch to my brain.”

Elliot understood the beginning had been a bit sketchy. London had stayed at the Inspector's place for a week once during a wicked case of withdrawal. One night, to get back at Cruz, London invited all types of drug dealers and lowlifes over, and when Cruz got home, he’d spend the rest of the night rousting and arresting anyone who stayed after he pulled his badge.

After that, the Inspector started bringing his work home, leaving files out for the Consulting Criminal to mock and deride, solving most of them in minutes. One night, when Cruz realized that London was jumpier than usual, he gave in and took him with him to a crime scene.

“And the rest, as they say, is history.” Cruz downed the rest of the whiskey in his glass.

“How did your colleagues take to him?”

“You’ve met Donovan?”

“Yeah, right. So not good from the start?”

“Well at first, if you can believe it, he was even more of a prick. Probably from the shakes and the headaches. But no, he and Donovan have never been close.”

“I’m sure.”

“Actually, Anderson was keen at first. Personally, I think he’s always had a bit of a spark for London. But you know how he is – any spark he manages to snuff out fairly quickly.

London felt cold water on his face. Hands pushing and pulling at him. He was no longer in his mind palace, but couldn’t figure out where he was. His heart was thumping so loud, he couldn’t hear anything. His blood rushing so fast, he wasn’t sure he could keep it in his body; it was just going to blast out of whatever hole was made by the pressure. He wasn’t sure he cared. He thought he should. He rose up another level of consciousness and realized he was not in the basement. He was moving. Conveyor belt? What in the world would he be doing on a conveyor belt? He tried to open an eye, but the effort was too much. He tried to remember anything that would help him. He kept seeing Elliot in his peripheral. Why wouldn’t Elliot come closer? His blood was getting hotter. In what felt like the greatest bit of effort he could manage, he opened an eye.

Windows. 

Leather seat. 

Man.

Car.

“He’s waking up.”

He wished he had the motivation to explain to the man that no, actually he was not waking up. He was just spending a brief moment in reality. He wished he could tell them to turn up the air conditioner. His blood was really starting to boil. But he couldn’t be bothered to open his mouth wide enough to make a sound. He saw a syringe in the man’s hand and his body found the motivation. He lurched toward it.

“Hey there, asshole. You’ll get your candy soon enough.” The man pushed him down against the seat.

“Not yet.” A voice growled from the front.

(Russian? British? Human?) His brain was too hot. He could deduce nothing. Except that syringe. He could feel it, waiting. If he just had a small dose, a micro-hit, it would clear his mind and he could come up with all kinds of deductions.

“Where then? We’ve been driving too long already. This looks good.” The man twirled the syringe in his hand. London’s fingers twitched, his mouth watered. Sure sign of acute addiction – he could deduce that.

“Okay then, give him the whole thing. Keep him flying long enough for someone to find him.”

“Dead?”

“No. But if something happens to him out there in the cruel world, what’s that got to do with us, eh?”

London felt hands on his shoulders, pushing him up into a sitting position. He opened an eye and saw that the man was tying his scarf around his arm. He knew it wouldn’t be tight enough. He’d tried it once himself – a dismal failure. He tried not to stretch his arm out to the man. He tried to remember why they were feeding him a syringe.

Kidnapped.

Russians.

Elliot.

An image shrieked through his mind – Elliot’s chest, stained with blood, his body pitching forward – and London lurched against the door. Elliot is dead. Why didn’t anyone tell him? He shut his eyes tight against the picture of Elliot, falling forward, lifeless. Not dead. Not Elliot.

“Stay still, you fucking tweak. Almost stabbed it in my own arm. Slow down, Tarek, he’s losing it back here.”

The man leaned his body weight into London, trapping one arm against the door, the other buried between them. London struggled (not too much – don’t want to appear ungrateful). He turned his head and opened his eyes. Elliot was standing outside the window. But the car was moving... how could that...

“Elliot... please... you’re dead.”

“You’re the one who’s going to be dead if you don’t hold bloody still.” The man wrenched London’s left arm free. “You’ll see your boyfriend soon enough.”

The car stopped moving and the man in the front turned around. “Just stab it in his leg. We’ve got to get out of here.”

The man holding the syringe jabbed the needle into London’s thigh and pushed the plunger down hard. The Consulting Criminal was staring out the window, trying to find Elliot again, wanting to explain that he didn’t know he was dead, that his blood was boiling and his brain was lost somewhere in his Mind Palace and this man was going to help him. . . the first burst hit his blood, cooling it immediately. His head lolled back against the seat and the man reached over, opened the door, and shoved him out.

He landed on the pavement head first, his legs still in the car. The man kicked his legs free, closed the door and the car pulled away from the curb. London lay crumpled on the sidewalk, his forehead against the concrete. He felt like he was floating just above it. The sun burned his neck. He must have gone on holiday. Elliot would like a holiday. Somewhere warm. But not too warm. Might remind him of Afghanistan and London had spent a considerable amount of time deducing that Elliot didn’t need any more reminders of Afghanistan.

Yes, perhaps a cottage somewhere. He hated cottages. And holidays. He’d do it for Elliot. He owed him. Everything. Well, not technically true. Almost everything. Everything from the cab driver on... even before. For waiting for him in the rain, and for the acid burns on his jumpers, and for buying groceries. For defending him. The edges of his brain started to curdle and he knew it wouldn’t be long until it would all blink off and he could float away. The last thing that skittered through his brain was Elliot.

Screaming in agony as flames engulfed his body, his face melting off in an instant.

London pitched himself forward, his mind screeching, scratching against the concrete, trying to get to Elliot, to explain, until the blackness took them both.

The Inspector was at his desk when the call came in. He and Elliot had spent the last two days out looking for the Consulting Criminal. Elliot had gotten another crash course in the rotten underbelly of London’s drug scene. They’d run into a couple of tough situations, for which Elliot proved to be a worthy partner, but still no Consulting Criminal.

Not a sign.

Not a whisper.

So far London had been gone more than a week.

Even Alexander was beginning to sound more irritated than usual, which both Elliot and Cruz knew was a bad sign.

Cruz had come back to work for a few hours because he needed to work, but also so he could be in place when and if he were needed in his professional capacity.

Search and Rescue.

Recover and Arrest.

Mislead and Distract.

Whatever.

He picked up the desk phone on the first ring. Donovan told him the story in three sentences. Man matching London’s description found wandering in Walthamstow. Uniforms on the scene, waiting for him. He was glad they’d found him, but Donovan’s last sentence worried him.

“He’s rough, Cruz – they don't even know if he's alive.”

“Nobody move, nobody touches him. I’m on my way."

London knew he should wake up. Or at least ask the gentleman standing over him to use a breath mint (tzatziki, coffee, gin). Police officers, his rattled brain told him. Thank you rattled brain. He thought maybe it wasn’t the best of indicators that he was talking to his own brain. His blood had cooled to a normal temperature he thought. Right ho. Now he knew it wasn’t good that his brain was answering. So was it merely repetition? Synapses stuck in a loop? Or had his mind actually separated from his brain. How was that possible? Who cares? When's the next needle? Where the hell was Elliot? Elliot could figure this out. Oh, you killed Elliot. His chest twisted and someone howled. Did he really kill Elliot? How could he have... the images came at him again from everywhere. Elliot’s head exploding, Elliot’s throat running red with blood.

“Sorry... didn't ... no fault...”

The men above him (or below him or possibly not even there at all) pushed him down harder.

“Cruz said keep him here.”

“Yeah, and when he dies here, who are they going to blame? Not Cruz. So let's walk away right now.”

Cruz, yes. He needed to get a message to the Inspector. Explain how he didn’t really kill Elliot, it was his brain. Don’t blame it on me, London. But you killed him. But I’m you. How does that work, exactly? You’re not me. You are an hallucination brought on by consistent and substantial doses of heroin. Whatever gets you through the day. He couldn’t get his brain to stop talking. You can’t figure it out because you don’t want to. But you know and we know and soon everyone will know that London Holmes kills everything and everyone who is stupid enough to get close to him. And Elliot, well he got rather close, wouldn’t you say?

“Shut up!” London tried rise up and felt the hands push him back down.

“Really, Daniel, we’ve got to think about our careers here.”

“Since bloody when, Mark? Maybe you should go find a blanket in the boot.”

London floated away from the sidewalk and back into his Mind Palace. He wandered down a corridor, thinking, trying to blow out the fog that had settled into every corner, every surface. He needed more heroin. Surely they would give him more heroin soon. He could feel his blood starting to boil again. He wanted to go away. He wanted Elliot. He wanted to explain. He wanted Elliot. He wanted to disappear. He took a turn down a winding staircase and was gone.

Finding him solved only a part of the problem.

Now they had to save him.

Cruz was out of the car almost before he put it in park. He saw two men huddled over a dark figure. Daniel Glassman and Mark Harris. They’d finally caught a break. He knew both men, knew they could be trusted, and knew they could be convinced to help him.

Well, at least coerced.

“Cruz, Donovan told us to wait for you but, Jesus, look at him...”

The officers moved aside and he got his first look at the Consulting Criminal. He was lying on his side, his legs drawn into his chest, his arms around his knees, eyes closed. His hair was matted to his head, his cheek was scraped and bruised, and he wore a thin shirt, no coat. His scarf was wound around his left arm. His breath came in gasps and he was shaking. Cruz sank to the ground and tried to pull an arm free. “Come on Holmes, it’s me, Cruz – let us help you now.” He managed to get London’s right arm away from his leg and pulled up the sleeve. And his stomach dropped. 

The inside of his arm was a mass of bruises and track marks, many of them infected.

“He’s a junkie.” Mark Harris knelt down beside the Inspector. “This is what we’re risking our careers over? A junkie?”

The Inspector turned, stood and delivered a right hook to Harris' jaw, dropping him to the ground next to London. He then turned to Glassman. "You have anything you'd like to add, Officer?" Glassman quickly shook his head and reached down to pull his partner to his feet.

"C’mon, Mark. Let the Inspector handle this.”

“Handle what? We should be pulling him in, not giving him a bloody pass.” Despite the Inspector knocking him on his ass, Harris still had plenty to say.

“Constable Harris,” a voice rang out behind them.

Alexander.

Cruz shut his eyes for a moment and pulled London’s shirtsleeve down his arm.

“I do believe Inspector Cruz has the situation under control. Would you be so kind as to move your vehicle from the area? It’s been designated MI5 and we’d appreciate your cooperation. He looked from one man to the other, “And your discretion.”

Glassman looked to his partner “Yes, Mr. Holmes, we’ll get the car out of your way. No worries.”

Cruz watched Glassman pull his partner around the corner to their car. He felt London paw at his shirt.

“I'll behave... need...” He could barely speak, was having difficulty breathing.

Cruz reached down and lifted London’s eyelid. His pupils were pinpoints, his skin pale and sweating. “Alexander, we’ve got to get him to hospital. He’s toxic.”

London pulled himself toward Cruz, both hands hanging onto his shirt. “Please, find Elliot. Kill. . . so sorry, so . . .” His hands slipped and he fell back to the ground.

“Elliot is on his way.” He looked back at Alexander. “We've got to do something – don’t just stand there – help me get him to the car.”

Alexander stepped aside and three large men in black uniforms stepped forward and carefully lifted the Consulting Criminal off the ground.

Cruz scrambled to his feet. “Where are we going?”

“Angelo’s."

The men laid London carefully in the back seat of Cruz’s car. Alexander leaned in and covered him with a blanket. Stood for several moments looking down at him, before he closed the door and turned to Cruz.

“Drive carefully.”

“Alexander, he needs a bloody hospital.”

“Absolutely not. You know as well as I do that what he needs is a good dose of clonidine and someone to watch that he doesn’t aspirate into his lungs. Both can be achieved elsewhere.”

“Yeah, but a hospital can get him a rapid detox.”

“And paperwork.”

"He’s been kidnapped – it’s not his fault.”

Alexander's eyes narrowed. “Blame is the least of our problems.”

“You mean the drugs? Or is it something else?”

“If anyone wanted to kill my brother without actually murdering him, can you think of a better way?”

“No.” Cruz shook his head.

Alexander had a point.

Why would anyone kidnap London, fill him full of god knows what, and then dump him back on the street?

It made no sense.

London kicked the door with his foot, more than likely trying to get out and Cruz hustled around to the driver’s door and got in the car. “It’s okay, mate. You’re safe now. I’m taking you to Elliot.” Cruz waved to Alexander, who was standing in the middle of the street, a hand shielding his eyes against the sun.

“I didn’t...” London moaned and thrashed in the backseat.

He checked the rear view mirror a hundred times on the way, both to make sure London was still alive and to see if anyone was following them. It’d be their luck to scoop him out of the street only to get him killed on the way to safety.

He was halfway to Northumberland Street when he remembered the conversation he had with Donovan earlier. Man found in skip in Walthamstow - one to the forehead, two in the knees. Wrapped in London’s coat, a few thousand pounds worth of heroin stuffed in the pockets. Donovan said two radio cars were on their way to Baker Street.

“Who is it, Donovan? And how the hell did they connect the coat to Holmes?”

“I.D in the pocket. It’s Elliot, Cruz.”

“Say again?”

“Elliot. Elliot Tahiri.”

Oh, fuck. Not THE Elliot. Jesus. He knew Donovan did that on purpose – gave him a bloody heart attack. The Inspector was going to do more than that to Donovan when he saw him next. “Tahiri?”

“The detective who was point on the Russian sting operation? Been undercover with them for two years? Come on, Cruz – it was his work that shut it all down last week. You think this is coincidence? Finding him in the freak’s coat?”

“Donovan, I know. But I currently have more important things to do. Whether you like it or not, I have London's life to save. Let me get that out of the way and then we'll take things from there."

Cruz put his foot down and sped towards Northumberland Street, hearing London’s body slam against the front seat and back onto the back seat. 

Oblivious to it all.

Inspector Cruz pulled around the alley behind Angelo’s, got out and pounded on the door. Two men came out, followed by Angelo. “Ah, Cruz, you have our package?”

London thrashed in the back of the car. “No packages... don’t tell... can’t ...”

Angelo peered into the car. “Demons got him again?”

“Looks like it, Angelo.”

Angelo stepped aside and let the men lift London out of the backseat. “We’ve got your room ready, Holmes. Don’t you worry.”

The men carried London into the restaurant.

“Worse I’ve seen him.” Angelo shook his head. “Such an awful waste.”

Cruz followed the men through the restaurant and up the stairs. Opened the door at the top and the men took London into the room and laid him on the bed. Cruz walked in and had a nasty moment of déjà vu. The room was exactly the same. Bed, bureau, two chairs and a small table. Chess set in the middle of the table, game ongoing. A door which he knew led to a small bathroom. A bright blue rug covered the scratched hardwood floors. There was a small refrigerator and hotplate on a table in the corner. He imagined the cup and saucer next to it still had his fingerprints on it. He’d spent too many nights already in this room. Watching London detox. Watching Alexander pace for hours, running the British government from here. Watching Angelo provide them with lunch and tea and chocolate because according to him – “only real cure boys, chocolate and coffee. And time.”

He walked over to the bureau where Angelo had already left sandwiches and a carafe of coffee. Laid out next to it was an IV bag, needles, tape, vials of stuff he couldn’t pronounce, a syringe of adrenaline – that he knew how to use – had used on at least three occasions. The Consulting Criminal’s heart had a nasty habit of stopping in the middle of withdrawal. Usually in the middle of the night when it was just he and Cruz, wrapped together, the Inspector trying to keep London’s body temp from heading south, London kicking and clawing, bruising Cruz’s arms and thighs, all in an attempt to escape whatever nightmare the exiting drug was causing in that incredible mind of his. He knew to just punch the syringe into his chest, accuracy be damned and hang on.

He covered London with a blanket, relieved to see he was still so hopped up on whatever stuff they’d fed him, he was feeling nothing at all.

Cruz slumped into the chair and buried his head in his hands.

Wishing he felt the same.

Elliot was in hell. First the car was headed to Essex, but the driver quickly changed course and headed to Northumberland Street.

The car finally stopped at the front of Angelo’s, the restaurant where he and London first had, well, he’d had dinner. First talked about things. Things not of a case. Where Elliot left his cane and ran after the Consulting Criminal all over London. They’d only returned once – an anniversary of sorts. Angelo had certainly treated it like an anniversary. Two candles, a booth in the back, two bottles on the house. London had actually ordered food. They drank too much wine. Shoulders knocking happily together, celebrating their good fortune in the last two solved cases, their even better fortune to have found each other – London had proposed a toast to the most formidable crime solvers.

Angelo met Elliot at the front door, led him upstairs. Elliot walked into the room and saw Cruz slumped in a chair. Cruz nodded with his head toward the bed and Elliot turned to see London sleeping, covered with a blanket. His knees gave out and he stumbled into the chair next to Cruz.

“He’s sleeping.”

Elliot nodded. “What happened?”

The Inspector sighed. “Been sitting here trying to map it all out.”

“Is he . . . high?”

“As a bloody zeppelin. Alexander best get here soon, we’re going to need that clonidine.”

Elliot stood, walked over to London, pulled his arm out from the blanket, felt his pulse. His sleeve crept up his arm and Elliot gasped and he turned to Cruz. “Are you fucking kidding me? We’ve got to get him to hospital.” He opened London’s left eye. “Jesus!”

Cruz got up and stood by Elliot. “I know. But for the time being you’re going to have to forget about hospital.”

Elliot shoved the blanket aside. Pulled up London’s shirt. Laid his hand and then his head on London’s chest. “His respirations are shallow, his eyes are pinpoints, he’s cold and clammy. Greg, call a fucking ambulance. Or I will.”

“No! It’s not that simple. And we’ve done this before.”

“Done what before.”

“Been here, done this. The drugs, the detox. Why you think Angelo’s so bloody accommodating?”

“But they could help him...” Elliot kept his hand on London’s chest. “Monitor his heart.”

“So can we. You think hospital is the best place for him when he really starts to come down from this?”

“But he’s unconscious.”

“In and out. Can’t really start anything till he crashes. Keep him warm, on his side, monitor things. Which is what we’re doing.”

Elliot stood and faced Cruz. “What the hell happened to him?”

Cruz scrubbed his face. “It’s sketchy. Uniforms found him on the street. Called me. I called you. Now we're here. Where he’s been the last week is still a mystery. Well, we have a good idea where, but we still don't know why - another reason we can't move him to a hospital.  And how did he get away? Doubt he escaped in this condition.”

Elliot pulled a chair close to the bed. Took London’s hand from under the blanket. Checked his pulse. “How are you getting clonidine?”

“How do you think? Alexander.”

“Alexander?”

“He’s done this before too.”

Elliot looked down at London, wiped his hair from his forehead, and touched the bruise on his cheek. Felt the tremor in his hand even in sleep. What the hell happened to him? He pulled up the sleeve again. Winced at the damage. The infection. “He’s going to need antibiotics. Anti-nausea meds at the very least. Alexander supply those, too?”

“Nah, we were hoping you brought your prescription pad.”

Elliot never took his eyes off London. Willed his chest to keep rising and falling. “The anti-nausea meds he’s going to need are at least a level two. Just how far outside the law are we going on this?”

“Far as he needs.” Greg put a hand on Elliot's shoulder. “He’s here, Elliot. That’s most of the battle. He’s breathing.”

“Well that’s certainly a good sign.” Alexander walked into the room, carrying a large box, umbrella hung on his arm. “Here, Elliot. You’ll know what to do with this.”

Elliot took the box, set it on the table, and opened the top flaps. Roller clamps, drip chambers, vented spikes, t-connectors, sodium chloride, glucose, electrolytes. He felt sick. London should be in a hospital, not here, where anything could go wrong at any time.

“How is he doing?” Alexander asked.

“He needs a hospital. And buprenorphine is more effective than clonidine. And you’d know that if we were in hospital!”

“He has a doctor.” Alexander stood next to Elliot. “A doctor who has seen many a makeshift surgery I would imagine – heat of the battle, pocket knives and pencil sharpeners.”

Cruz joined the other two. “So, why, Alexander? Surely you’ve figured it out by now.”

Alexander sighed. “Sadly yes. And no.”

The Inspector shook his head. “Not good enough. Even your brother’s homeless network could have sussed this one out. It’s Jusuf – you know bloody well it’s Jusuf.”

“Stop it!” Elliot turned around, his face red, his arms straight, fists against his legs. “I don’t give a fuck how or why or whatever the bloody hell you did to let this happen, Alexander, but we are taking him to hospital, NOW!”

“Elliot . .”

Elliot’s head whipped around at the sound of London’s voice.

“Just need . . . top-off . . .”

Elliot took London’s wrist, lifted an eyelid. “Holmes, do you know where you are?

“Hello... are you dead?”

“Not yet. Are you experiencing any pain?”

“Am I dead?”

Elliot frowned. “No. We’re both alive. Do you remember anything?”

London closed his eyes. “Just a little more . . .”

Elliot turned to the older Holmes. “Please, Alexander. If he’s in a hospital, we can get the drugs out of him and start a rapid opiate detox. I know even you can’t get naltrexone so easily, if he’s even a candidate – who knows what he’s full of. At the least he needs to be sedated before the worst of it starts.” Elliot didn’t want to think about how much worse it was going to get.

Alexander walked over to the bed, leaned down and gently put a hand on London’s shoulder. “Brother mine, do you want to go to hospital?”

London struggled under the blanket, shook his head. “Hospitals... bad... trouble... me...”

Alexander turned to Elliot. “See? No hospitals.”

Elliot pushed close into Alexander’s smug face. “We don’t even know what they gave him.”

Cruz moved in between them. “We’ve got a pretty good idea.”

“Heroin... Cocaine ... Noscapine ...” London mumbled.

Alexander stepped back from Elliot. “I will make you a deal. I have people at the ready. When and if my brother requires more than what you can provide, we will take him to hospital.”

Elliot closed his eyes. He fought the instinct to push Alexander out the window and drag London down the stairs himself. But then he remembered The Inspector telling him about the last time, and the time before and the time before.

Christ, how was he supposed to detox London in this little room, with Cruz as his nurse and Alexander as what?

Tea-trolley girl?

“I’ll give you 24 hours. You figure out who did this and why. But if he’s still in this kind of distress,” he nodded toward the bed and all three men looked at London, thrashing under the blanket, “I’ll carry him there myself.”

The Inspector and Alexander looked at each other. Cruz nodded and Alexander sighed.

“As you wish.”

Elliot pulled the chair closer to London’s bed. Took his hand, felt his pulse, noted his fingers were warm. A good sign in a body full of bad signs. He felt some of the bone-crushing stress he’d been carrying around for the last week slip off his shoulders. At least they’d found him. At least he was alive. Tangible flesh and blood. At least he knew how to do this. Treat it like he had done so many times in the Army. Keep the soldier warm, comfortable, hydrated – alive – until the helicopter or the transport came, or their position got overrun. Treat the pain, treat the injury. Treat the patient. He watched London’s chest rise and fall, matched his own respiration with it, willed him to be okay.

Cruz put a hand on his shoulder, startling him.

“Alexander’s buggered off. Hopefully to catch the bastards that did this.”

Elliot nodded, never taking his eyes off the Consulting Criminal.

“I’m going to pop out for a bit. He’s out for a while, I think. You okay for now?”

Elliot nodded again. Of course he wasn’t bloody okay. But did he have a choice? He was a soldier. He could keep watch. He was a doctor. He could heal. So why wasn’t he watching when London needed him the most?

Why was it always his job to patch them up after they’re broken?

After the shrapnel had torn them apart?

After a needle had stripped London down to a shivering incoherent hallucinating mess?

He stood up, set his shoulders back, turned to the table and began setting up the IV. He hoped they’d left him at least one vein to work with.
London was cold. So cold. Ice cold. Cold as ice. He longed for his blood to burn again. Knew that something was different because no one was giving him a needle. No one was taking care of him. He was too cold. He heard an awful chattering and realized it was his own teeth. Molars, incisors, splintered. He slipped his tongue between his teeth to keep them from knocking together and only succeeded in biting his tongue.

Blood.

At least it was warm.

“Holmes, you’re bleeding.” 

A voice.

No, wait.

THE voice.

Elliot?

“Cold...”

Elliot’s face appeared before him. A vision? Hallucination. Withdrawal?

“I know you’re cold, but you’ve got every blanket on you. Give me your hands.”

London managed to pull a hand out from the blanket and Elliot grabbed it between his two hands. “Better...”

“Yes, well, doctor hands.”

London couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering. Elliot is warm. “Blanket.”

“We don’t have any more blankets. Angelo’s gone to get-”

He pulled Elliot’s hand toward him. “No... you... blanket.”

Elliot frowned and then his eyebrows rose. “Should have thought of that. Leave it to you to be out of your mind and still the smartest one in the bloody room. Alright...”

Elliot stood and stripped off his jacket and shirt. London watched him, shivering, teeth chattering. Elliot lifted the cover and the Consulting Criminal gasped.

“Cold...”

“Scoot down a bit, you’re too tall.”

London moved and Elliot pulled him into his chest, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, the other across his chest, pulling him closer, his leg over London’s thigh. Tugged the blankets over them.

“Okay?” Elliot asked.

London turned a bit and buried his head in Elliot’s neck. Okay for now. He was glad that Elliot was warm even when he was dead.

“Dead... you’re dead.”

Elliot pulled him closer, his face in London’s hair. “Worried to death maybe. You just lie here and think about something nice. Surely there’s a place in that brain of yours where you keep the good parts.”

London pushed hard against Elliot. “No! No...can’t go... no.”

Elliot pulled London closer, rubbed his back, whispered into his hair. “I’ve got you now. No one can hurt you. Just relax.”

London knew there was something he should remember, he should deduce, he should. 

Elliot’s heat slipped into his chest, warmed his blood.

The drumbeat behind his eyes quieted and his teeth stopped chattering.

He let out a sigh and fell asleep.

Cruz had discovered three things while talking to four junkies and two detectives. Jusuf had definitely snatched London. It was definitely connected to the drugs bust in Essex. And the last bit, the bit that had him stalking a black Jaguar parked at the entrance to Hyde Park, was the worst. A deal had been struck – apparently some stuck up government official had given up Elliot Tahini in exchange for London’s release. Cruz knew exactly who they were talking about.

He hammered the backseat window and watched it slowly open.

“Gregory.” Alexander drawled from the backseat.

“Don’t you start with me. I know what you did.”

Alexander opened the door. “Perhaps we should have this conversation in here.”

The Inspector reached in, grabbed the front of Alexander’s shirt and dragged him out of the car. Closed the door with one hand and pushed Alexander against it by his throat and the other drew his gun and aimed it at the men he could see coming for him. Alexander barely managed to get a hand free to stop the men who were barreling down on them, to save him or kill Cruz, it didn’t matter.

The men melted back into the scenery and The Inspector lowered his gun but still kept it at his side.

“You fucking sacrificed him,” Cruz growled.

Alexander tried to push off the Inspector's chest but he just pushed back harder.

“I did what was necessary to insure my brother's safe return. Isn’t that what we were all working towards?”

“You bastard. Did you even know his name?”

“Would it bring him back if I did?”

Cruz's face was a breath away from the older Holmes. “Even you can’t be this cold.”

“I can – especially when it suits you.”

The Inspector let go of Alexander’s throat and took a step back. “Suits me?”

“Yes. You. I don’t recall any moral indignation when you asked me, no begged me, to find Thomas Hardy.” Alexander brushed his shirt, straightened his suit and coat in the exact way that reminded the Inspector of the Consulting Criminal.

“Low blow. Even for you. ” Cruz knew he’d lost. Thomas Hardy was the prime suspect in a string of homicides in Brixton last year. They’d had him dead to rights and he’d gotten off on a technicality. Three weeks later, two more bodies showed up in a skip. The Inspector had turned in a chit and gone to Alexander for information. They found Hardy dead in the same skip the next day. No questions asked. No answers needed.

“Alexander...” Cruz moved beside him, leaning against the car, hip against Alexander’s.

“I truly am sorry it had to come to this.”

“Are you going to give me any real answers here?”

Alexander turned a bit, touched Cruz’s shoulder. “Can we do this inside?”

The Inspector looked at him and nodded. He opened the door and they got in the car.

“Take us back to Northumberland Street,” Alexander said to the driver and then turned to Cruz. “I can bring your car round later?”

“Yeah. We should get back.”

Alexander looked out the window.

“Indeed."

“So, are you going to fill me in? What happened?”

Alexander sighed and turned in the seat. “You know what happened. You already guessed about Jusuf - we’ve been negotiating quietly with his organization for some time. He agreed to the arrest only with several conditions, three of which you and my brother destroyed in one afternoon.

“But why snatch London? Why not go after you?”

“Jusuf also has a younger brother – Tarek – who managed to escape your raid. Apparently Jusuf decided that his brother should take care of my brother – honor killings are not uncommon in his organization.”

“But they didn’t kill him.”

“Didn’t they?” Alexander quietly replied as he looked out the window.

“He’ll survive this. He’s a stubborn bastard – he’d never let a common criminal get the best of him.”

“Your optimism is... encouraging.”

“I know your brother.”

“Yes, well, we also know what happened the few last times ...”

“Yeah, but he’s got Elliot now.”

“Let’s hope that it will be enough.”

Cruz sighed. “It’d better be.”

They barely spoke the rest of the way. When they arrived at the alley behind Angelo’s, Cruz got out alone. He came around to Alexander’s window.

“You sure about this?” The Inspector leaned down, face to face with Alexander.

“Yes, Gregory. I am sure. I will be in touch.”

The Inspector watched the car drive away and walked into the restaurant. Waved to Angelo and headed up the stairs. It had been about eight hours since they’d found London and he knew it was only a matter of time before the withdrawal would kick in.

He opened the door and looked over to the bed. Elliot and the Consulting Criminal wrapped like pretzels, sleeping. He was glad to see it. Sleep would become a precious and impossible commodity soon.

Elliot opened his eyes and looked at Cruz, but didn’t move. He mouthed the words, "He was cold."

The Inspector nodded and mouthed "You okay?"

Elliot nodded and London stirred. Tried to bury himself deeper into Elliot’s chest. Suddenly London turned, flung his head over the side of the bed and threw up. Cruz moved quickly, grabbing a bin and a towel. Elliot held onto London’s shoulders as he continued to empty his stomach over the side of the bed. He finally turned onto his back, eyes closed, breathing hard.

Cruz handed Elliot the towel, brought over a clean bin and cleaned the floor.

“You don’t have to do that,” Elliot said.

“Oh yeah, this is my part in the panto. You think Alexander ever got within ten feet? You do know his solution to London throwing up on his rugs in the past? Instead of cleaning them, he just outright replaced them.”

Elliot smiled a bit. “Right.” He pulled the cover back over London, who had started to shiver again.

“Take deep breaths. Slow and deep.” He placed his hand on London’s chest. “I should start the clonidine. It’s been at least eight hours.”

The Inspector nodded. “No way is he keeping a pill down now.”

They worked together. London barely moved – only registering their presence when he felt the needle prick of the IV in his hand.

“Finally,” he slurred and held out his arm.

Elliot froze. His hand kept the needle in place as London stretched his arm toward Elliot’s chest.

He looked up at Cruz.

The Inspector reached around and held London’s arm still, patted his shoulder. “Not this time, mate.” He turned to Elliot. “S’okay. He won’t remember any of this.”

Elliot nodded, still staring at London’s face.

Cruz knew London had the better end of the deal. 

These nightmares would be with them for a long while.

After the IV was in to Elliot’s satisfaction – they had lightly strapped London’s arm to the bedpost – The Inspector led him to the table and handed him a sandwich. Elliot took the sandwich and moved a chair closer to the bed. Cruz brought the other chair over and joined him. Filled him in on the latest details – sure Elliot didn’t register a bit of it, he was too busy watching London’s every twitch, every breath.

“It’s only going to get worse, you know that.”

“Of course I do. I have seen this before.” Elliot snapped.

Cruz nodded. “Yeah, but London is . . .”

Elliot didn’t answer, because the Consulting Criminal somehow heaved himself up in bed, thrashing and tearing at his arm. Both men leaped from their chairs – Elliot threw himself over London’s body, trying to grab London’s arm before he could tear out the IV.

“Get the sedative from the dresser.” Elliot held London’s arm tight to his chest. “Holmes, enough! Calm down, you’re going to rip out your IV.”

“Get off me,” London struggled against Elliot. “I need to get ... off... of... here...”

The Inspector brought the syringe over to Elliot, who had now straddled London, his knee holding London’s right arm, both his hands holding onto his left.

Cruz flipped the cap off the needle and held it out to Elliot.

“You do it. Put it right into the IV.” Elliot moved a bit so Cruz could get close to London. The Inspector closed his eyes, took a breath and stuck the syringe in. London stopped struggling for a moment, only aware of the needle.

They stayed still for a moment, Cruz and Elliot hoping the worst was over, while London decided what chemical had just been plunged into his body and what to do about it.

“No . . .” London thrashed against Elliot. “Not right . . . not right . . .”

Elliot held on. The Inspector joined him, taking London’s other arm and holding it fast to the bed.

“He’s got to be feeling that by now – I gave him the whole thing.”

Suddenly, the arm Cruz had been holding went limp. He and Elliot both looked at London, at each other, back to London. They stayed still for another minute more. When they were both satisfied he was truly out, they crawled off the bed. Elliot rearranged the IV, held London’s arm tight against his chest as Cruz wrapped bandages around the arm and the chest, holding the IV in place.

The Inspector went to the fridge, pulled out two drinks. “Want one?”

Elliot nodded and took the bottle. They moved back to the chairs.

“How long will he be out?”

Elliot sighed. “A normal patient? The rest of the day. Holmes and his idiopathic metabolism? Who knows? A couple of hours is all I can hope for.” Elliot grabbed a chart from the table and began recording the events of the past half hour.

The day moved into night moved into day. London moaned, thrashed, retched, shook. Elliot monitored, medicated, comforted, and meticulously recorded every moment, every movement, every milligram. Cruz took his turn keeping London calm, keeping him hydrated, keeping him in the bed. 

Keeping him alive.

Twenty four hours later Alexander called. No good news. He sent three more men to Angelo’s, one of whom parked himself outside their door after handing them two Browning 9mms with ankle holsters. Elliot barely noticed, but it took Cruz’s blood pressure up a few notches.

The Inspector finally convinced Elliot to rest a bit. Elliot agreed and slid in beside London, careful not to wake him. The Consulting Criminal moaned again, lost in some nightmare. Elliot laid his hand on London’s chest and rubbed lightly, whispering in his ear. London moved toward him, his body unclenching. Elliot let out a breath as the Consulting Criminal's head rested on his shoulder, finally quiet.

They could have used him the last time Cruz thought to himself. He shoved two chairs together, grabbed another drink, and settled in to watch over them.

Even in his dreams, London knew something was wrong. He had been experimenting with the length of time bacteria could remain alive in rainwater (a recurring and usually very pleasurable dream) and then the rainwater had turned to an ocean wave and knocked his entire kitchen into the Thames. Where he had been rescued by Turkish police officers, who took him to Cairo and had locked him in a cell with Elliot. Elliot wouldn’t talk to him, wouldn’t look at him, just kept singing the national anthem of the United States over and over in an odd falsetto.

London gave up trying to unravel the dream, and just sat in the corner, picking at a scab on his arm

His arm. 

His. 

Fuck.

He suddenly found himself strapped to a bed, Elliot standing above him, holding a syringe.

“You want this, don’t you Holmes?” Elliot smiled. His chest felt tight. Elliot’s smile caused that particular sensation quite regularly. London nodded.

“Well too bad, mate. It’s all mine.”

Elliot stabbed himself in the heart with the needle. London watched as he smiled and then frowned, clutching his chest, blood pouring out of his ears, his eyes. He pitched forward and fell on London’s chest. Dead. London tried to get him off him, to get up to get help. He felt arms pulling at him, shaking him.

Shouting.

“Holmes, wake up! Open your eyes.”

Elliot, talking. Not dead. Or dead and talking. He opened one eye. Elliot was above him, frowning. Sitting on his chest, which was making it hard to breathe.

“Can’t breathe.” London wheezed and tried to move his arms.

“Stop moving then, and I’ll get off.” Elliot looked to his right. “I think he’s waking up.”

London looked over and the Inspector headed for them with a syringe.

“Yes... please.”

Cruz frowned and turned back to the table.

“No. Need. Need...”

He watched Elliot close his eyes and take a breath. Waited for him to die again. Maybe this time Cruz would shoot him. Or strangle him. Maybe Elliot would just spontaneously combust. He closed his eyes just in case.

He felt Elliot move off him.

“Go ahead and die.”

“Hey! What the hell?” Inspector Cruz came back into his view.

London opened his eyes wider. Struggled up to an elbow. Took a good look at his surroundings. Dingy curtains, bad mattress, overwhelming smell of garlic, wheeze of a decrepit furnace.

Angelo’s?

He was at Angelo’s?

Bits and pieces began flying at him. The rush of data almost too much to handle.

Essex.

Bored.

Walking.

Black car. 

Blindfold. 

Drugs.

Pain.

Russians.

“Kidnapped?” The Consulting Criminal asked as he felt Elliot tap his arm, now realizing he had an IV.

“Don’t worry about the details, you need to calm down. Your blood pressure’s a bit dicey as it is.”

London grabbed Elliot’s arm. “Heroin. You gave me heroin?”

“Fat chance of that.” Cruz’s voice came at him in a wave. “Elliot’s been getting you off it.”

The Consulting Criminal grimaced as every minute detail of the last two weeks came flooding into his brain at the same time. Curled up against the assaults – the drugs, the pain, the memories and more drugs. 

Elliot dying.

Over and over.

“But you died.”

Elliot took London’s hand. Put it on his chest. “Nope. See, still beating. Now think you can handle some water?”

London nodded, watching as Elliot walked over, got a glass of water and brought it back to him. He took a sip, which seemed to make Elliot very happy. He took another. Which made him feel a bit sick. He didn’t care. Elliot was not dead. Unless this was still a dream.

“I’m not dreaming.”

Elliot chuckled. “Again. Nope. You were indeed kidnapped. Cruz found you. Brought you here. We’ve been detoxing you for a couple of days. You might be disoriented for a bit, probably from all those drugs, but you’re not dreaming.”

“You’re not dead.” London closed his eyes, ignoring the thrum of his blood, already searching for relief, now that he was conscious and able to ask for it. He gripped the sheet in his fingers and willed himself not to ask.

“I need...” His willpower was weak.

Elliot frowned. “No, you don’t. You’re on clonidine – it may be unpleasant for a bit, but you can do it.”

London grabbed Elliot’s arm tight. “No, I can’t. I need. I need.”

“No, you don’t. You haven’t had anything in 36 hours.”

36 hours? No wonder his head was exploding, his eyes were popping out of his head. Of course he needed it. What kind of idiot would deny him when it was obvious he would die if he didn’t get it.

“Now, Elliot. Unless you want me to die. Is that it? You want me to die?”

“Here we go,” Cruz said from across the room. “Holmes, leave Elliot alone. You’re not getting anything from us, so save your breath.”

“Why are you even here?” London rose up in the bed. “You are not relevant.”

“Dammit – enough!” Elliot came back into his view, pissed off from what London could tell. “I know this is not going to be easy, but don’t take it out on Cruz – he saved your bloody life. Again. So leave him alone!” 

The Inspector waited for London to talk back but by some miracle, or proof of the power Elliot had come to hold over him, the Consulting Criminal remained quiet, like a scolded child and watched as Elliot stuck a syringe into his IV.

Thank God.

Elliot was sneaky.

Acting like he was not going to give into him and then...

Oh hell.

Not heroin.

Not anything but run of the mill, pedestrian Ativan. Lots of Ativan. He felt his eyelids get very heavy. He struggled to keep them open because he still had a lot to say.

He felt Elliot’s hand on his chest.

Heard his voice in his ear.

“That’s it, just go back to sleep. We’ll be right here, don’t worry.”

He wasn’t worried.

He felt calm and relaxed.

He smiled to himself and closed his eyes.