London Holmes was anything but ordinary, that much was obvious. He was well-aware of the impression he gave others: cold, analytical, socially indifferent, freakish. People did not understand his fascination with murder and the macabre. They did not realize that he saw not the blood, or the body, but the mystery. They projected their own distaste onto him and then complained when he failed to respond in the expected, human manner.

Dull.

Now, for example, he was cutting open eyeballs on the kitchen table. If Mrs Hanson walked in, there would be uproar. However, she was visiting her sister, which left only Elliot to complain. Elliot, who was a doctor and not prone to excessive sensitivity over body parts – but who was still watching what he was doing with a vaguely curious look.

'This is for an experiment, isn't it? You're not just –' He made a vague gesture – a sort of fluttering hand wave. He did that frequently, and the Consulting Criminal had deduced long ago it was Elliot's silent way of asking “Have you gone off the deep end?” without actually voicing the question.

'It's an experiment,' he confirmed, wiping vitreous humor from the scalpel blade before carefully slicing free another section of the sclera.

Elliot did not ask for further details as he sank into his armchair and picked up the newspaper. He was one of the few people of London's acquaintance who didn't require overly complicated explanations to ease his moral imbalance over meddling with human remains. London had realized some time ago that he could get away with quite a lot by telling Elliot whatever he was doing was for science, whether it was cutting up dismembered toes or taping a steak to the ceiling and leaving it there for a week.

'Fine, just put them away when you're finished with them. They're staring at me.'

London glanced up at the other three eyeballs. They were currently undisturbed, none of them matched their companions, and yes, he had lined them all up to be looking at Elliot rather than himself. He was never very fanciful, but the brown one seemed particularly judgmental.

'Since they have no eyelids, they don't have much choice but to stare,' he pointed out logically. 'It's not like they're reading over your shoulder and beating you at the crossword.'

'Which you've already done, I noticed,' Elliot huffed.

'I thought I would save you the trouble. You find them more frustrating than entertaining. Yesterday you sulked for almost an hour when –'

London blinked, the scalpel hovering uselessly above another sample as he listened to the clanging, echoing, horrible silence in his head: all thought wiped clean in an abrupt and startling fashion. It was as if his brain had become just a collection of pink and grey matter rather than the collusion of facts and experiences that made him who he was.

'You okay?'

The paper rested forgotten in Elliot's lap, and he was staring at London looking nothing short of alarmed. Why was that? Oh, he had been talking, but what had he been saying?

Abruptly, like a spark catching alight again, everything came back online. Thoughts exploded into life and the peace abated, leaving the Consulting Criminal to glare at the tabletop. Perhaps other people experienced such placid moments on a more frequent basis. Stopping in the middle of sentences was a common occurrence for almost everyone else on the planet. Even Alexander did it when he was distracted, which was not often, but this – this was different.

'I'm fine,' he said dismissively, putting the scalpel down and getting to his feet.

'Did you have a brain freeze? Don't think I've ever seen you do that before – stop in the middle of a sentence like that and stay silent, I mean. Normally you're just correcting yourself or something.'

'Something like that. I need to check some data.' He could feel Elliot watching him as he strode over to his room, leaving the door open a fraction as he began to search. After several minutes, he found the right notebook. Red, unlike all the others he owned. That was deliberate, because while these events were rare, they were important. Not murder, but still fascinating and horrible all at once: a personal mystery that remained unsolved.

He had a tendency to delete just about everything once its usefulness had passed, but this – this refused deletion. This hovered around in the back of his brain and reminded him of how it had been last time, and the time before that – of confused doctors, his father's rare showing of parental concern and Alexander talking in a calm, patient voice while London's entire head was overcome with agony and his brilliant brain was reduced to chaos.

London skimmed through his own handwriting, screwing up his eyes as he tried to decipher it. He tended to write the notes shortly after each attack, and the evidence of it was all over the place. Backwards letters, foreign nouns dropped into English sentences, words written in the wrong order... yet there was information to be gleaned from the mess – particularly the date.

There it was. He had not had a major episode for almost four years. Oh, there had been a couple of warning signs that faded away to nothing. Perhaps this was the same – a blip, rather than a pre-cursor?

He would need to be vigilant. London possessed many things, but his mind was his most valuable treasure. Yet during these episodes, everything went wrong. Thoughts lost cohesion, pain took control, and the neatly ordered bastions of his mind palace fell to rubble.

Worse, his symptoms went beyond the realms of severe towards inexplicable. No doctor had ever found the cause. They tested and tested and found nothing unusual. No signs of brain abnormality, clots, burst blood vessels.... nothing.

Migraine, they said. Take painkillers and sleep. As if that could ever be enough.

It terrified him when all his control was reduced to nothing. When his most powerful tool became a repulsive liability. He had tried to stop it last time – had not really cared about anything at all but ending it, and he had nearly succeeded.

That was his last overdose. The one that almost killed him. Even now, he was not sure if it had been an accident. Had he honestly miscalculated the dose, or had he simply been looking to make it all go away?

Shaking his head, London took a deep, shuddering breath, putting the notebook back in his drawer. Perhaps it would not come to that. He had been told, after all, that he would grow out of them, and they had reduced dramatically in frequency. At sixteen he had experienced eight in one year. Maybe the fleeting blankness of his mind had been more like an aftershock than a primary tremor?

With a sigh, he turned away from the sanctuary of his room and returned to the microscope, ignoring Elliot's worried gaze as he resumed his experiment. 

This was his life now: puzzles and answers. 

The Work and Elliot.

Not mind-breaking events that confused doctors and nearly reduced his older brother to tears.

Maybe Elliot could not look at other people and tell their life stories from the little details that surrounded them, but he was not nearly as blind as London seemed to believe, especially when it came to him. It was difficult to share a space with someone and not become intimately aware of their habits, their quirks, their neuroses – and the Consulting Criminal had plenty of all three.

So when he started acting strange – well, stranger than usual – Elliot noticed. It helped that London was an irritatingly captivating man. It was hard not to stare at him. Elliot had tried, because there was only so long you could visually appraise your friend before people started to talk, but it was useless. The rumors spread, and Elliot just kept watching, attempting to learn everything he could about the mystery that was London Holmes.

The eyeball incident had been the first thing that whispered a warning in his ear. Something about that's not quite right, but he put it aside. Everyone was entitled to stop in the middle of a sentence sometimes. Hell, it happened to him several times a day, but he was fairly certain he had never heard London do it before, and his behavior afterwards had been faintly agitated, more tense and controlled.

London was a tall man, one that moved with a grace that came from growing into that elegant frame. Yet for the past three days he had seemed more compressed, elbows tucked in, shoulders hunched, strides shorter, as if he was not quite sure where his body began or came to an end anymore.

He ate, too, which made Elliot twitchy. Normally it was a battle to get a meal down his throat once a day, but now breakfast, lunch and dinner passed London's lips. He did not raven his food, like a man sating a sudden surge in appetite, but put it away one meticulous forkful after another, like someone stocking up for future deprivation.

Elliot frowned, trying not to worry as he watched the Consulting Criminal examine the latest corpse, every movement too controlled and inadequately flamboyant. He seemed diminished, and the subtle wrongness of it was starting to make Elliot feel sick with worry.

'Is he all right?' Cruz asked, leaning back against the police cruiser. Around them the blue lights flashed, drowned out by the weak morning sunlight. 'Barely said a word when he got here. Ignored Anderson and Donovan, and he looks...' The Inspector shoulders shifted uncomfortably, and Elliot could see that open face setting itself into lines of genuine concern.

'I don't know,' Elliot said at last, which was the truth at least. 'He's been acting a bit strange these past few days, ever since his kidnapping. I simply put it down to him trying to deal with it and the withdrawals.' He kept his voice low, not quite sure why he did not want London to hear the exchange. It felt a bit like betrayal, admitting that the Consulting Criminal had been anything but himself, but he knew Cruz cared, which was more than could be said for most people.

'He seems –' The Inspector pursed his lips, and a whole new level of discomfort twisted in Elliot's guts. 'It's just he used to look like this, you know, before.'

'Before?' Elliot asked, feeling as if the conversation had turned down an unexpected tangent, leaving him more than a bit lost. 'Before what?'

'Before he cleaned up.' Cruz said it, quick and quiet. There was nothing like law and order in his voice. He just looked sick, as if he were afraid of what he was seeing. 'He used to turn up at crime scenes and be all –' He gestured weakly at where London was still crouched, looking thoughtfully at the victim's face. 'Not right. I swear, he was the most high-functioning addict I’d ever seen. You had to look close to realize what was wrong, but it was like this – like someone trying too hard not to be drunk, you know?'

'Yeah,' Elliot muttered to himself. 'Too self-aware.' He shook his head in sudden, sharp rejection. 'He's not using. I promise you that. This is something else.'

'No offence, Elliot, but you're the one who's always willing to see the best in him, and he's clever.' Cruz snorted, self-derision thick in the sound.'More than clever. He's good at hiding it.'

'I know.' Elliot straightened up, his left hand clenching tight at his side as a twinge ran through his leg. 'I know, but I still don't think he's using. This is something else, and wish I knew what it was.'

Over by the body, London straightened up, and both Elliot and Cruz saw him sway. It was faint, quickly hidden by tight muscles, but it was enough to make Elliot's stomach go cold.

With half an ear, Elliot listened to Greg call orders to his men, instructing them to take control of the scene. They were parked up at an old industrial estate, and Elliot watched the police officers spread out, looking for clues across the vast sprawl of land.

To anyone else it probably looked like standard procedure, but Elliot briefly wondered if Greg was deliberately reducing the number of witnesses. Before long, only Donovan remained, along with Anderson and his team, who paced towards the body as London walked over to the car, apparently concentrating on where he was putting his feet.

This close, Elliot could see a faint gleam of sweat at London's hairline, despite the chill of the day. His eyes were pinched at the corners, and his pale skin had taken on an unhealthy tinge. When he spoke his voice was softer than usual, not a decisive, triumphant monologue, but something pointed: a straight answer for once.

'Carbon monoxide poisoning. Landlord panicked, made it look like a sexual assault gone wrong. Sexual abuse conducted with an object, I imagine. Do what you want with that.'

'Aren't you going to tell me how you know?' The Inspector asked. 'Even I can't just arrest someone because you say so.'

London blinked, and Elliot licked his lips. That was too slow. The normal human blink was a fraction of a second, and he found himself trying to check London's pupils without him noticing. Not that it worked. London just gave him a faintly disappointed look before he answered.

'Carbon monoxide poisoning is obvious. She's pink. Add that to the fact that there are no signs of a struggle suggests that she was moved here, and abused, post-mortem. She lived in the low rent residence over there.' He gestured to one of the tower blocks dominating the skyline. 'Ex council properties now privately owned and rented out cheap. Who would want to hide carbon monoxide poisoning? A landlord that was shit at maintenance.'

Elliot frowned. It was not like the Consulting Criminal to curse; he thought vulgarity showed poor vocabulary. He noticed a gentle, steady tremor running through the taller man's frame. It was subtle, not the ravages of a fever, but something else. Greg had seen it too, because he folded his arms across his chest, his chin dropping as he spoke quietly.

'Holmes, what’s wrong with you? Please, please tell me this is not what it looks like.'

A tight sound caught in London's throat and his fingertips pressed to his right temple. 'Must you be so gun-metal grey?' he spat, his eyes clenched shut as his fingers splayed across his own brow. 'Obvious. You're always so obvious. Brutal Beethoven.'

Elliot stepped forward, inserting himself between Cruz and London in one efficient movement. The army taught him many things, but one of the best skills other than shooting people from far away was how to make himself seem tall and commanding while still being the shortest man in the room.

'Leave it,' he ordered Cruz, not shouting or vehement, just firm, before he carefully looped his fingers around London's wrist and pulled his hand away. 'London, I need you to tell me what's happening so I can help.'

This time the sway was more obvious, and London's weight pressed against him, leaning forward like he knew Elliot could hold him up if necessary. The fan of his lashes did not part, but after a few moments his lips moved, framing whispered words that Elliot had to cock his head to hear.

'My head. It's all failing. All gone wrong, wrong, wrong.' He opened his eyes then, veins making road-maps across the whites and the irises more green than Elliot could recall seeing them before, but it was his pupils that caught his attention. The right one looked normal for the amount of light around, but the left was significantly larger, and when Elliot carefully shielded London's eye with his hand, the dilation was far too sluggish.

'I'm going to call an ambulance.'

'No!' London's barked word cut across the air, making Donovan look over, but Elliot was too busy watching London flinch from the sound of his own voice, rocking back on his feet as if the sound were a physical thing. 'Sharp, vulgar, acid green. No.'

'Holmes –'

'What's the freak going on about now?' Donovan called out, lips curling into a sneer as she stopped by Elliot's shoulder. His face fell as he looked at the Consulting Criminal, becoming tense and suspicious. 'What the hell is this?'

'Please stop,' London murmured, one hand curling in the collar of Elliot's jacket as if he was trying to anchor himself. 'Electric pink. Make him leave.'

'Are you talking about me?' Donovan jammed his hands on his hips, looking from London to Elliot in disbelief, as if he was not quite sure whether to be offended or amused by the Consulting Criminal's bizarre statement. His lips were pulled into a straight line, but his eyes were wide and curious. Perhaps he felt vindicated in his description of London as a freak, but Elliot really had no time to deal with him as he reached up a hand, wiping some sweat from London's brow only to recoil as he whimpered in distress.

'Take charge of the scene, Donovan,' Cruz ordered. 'Check out the landlord, and keep me updated. I think we need to get Holmes back to Baker Street.' He jerked his thumb at the car behind him. 'Get him in, and if he throws up on the upholstery, you're cleaning it up.'

It was a weak, half-joking kind of threat, but Elliot could not bring himself to smile as he guided London gently into the back seat. A large part of him wanted to forget Baker Street and head for Bart’s instead, somewhere that they had scans, painkillers and emergency equipment. Seeing London like this made his thoughts jump to the bad, dark places: brain injury, aneurysm, stroke. His mind circled, fixated on the contents of London's skull. Was there something in there, some flaw killing him in front of Elliot's very eyes?

Christ, what was he meant to do?

'Don't go,' London said softly, his hand reaching out to clasp Elliot's once more until he climbed into the car. He let London lean, loose-limbed and drained against his body while he propped himself uncomfortably against the closed door. A rough growl erupted from the engine, making London jerk, and his spare hand flew to his ears as he murmured, 'Tastes like petrol.'

'Don't worry,' he whispered, swallowing as the Consulting Criminal turned his face into the dark curve of Elliot's neck. 'I'm here. We'll fix this.'

Elliot met Cruz's gaze in the rear-view mirror, daring him to comment. However, the Inspector just smiled in a sad, uncertain way before he steered the car back out into the bustle of the streets and headed for home, leaving Elliot to bear London's trembling burden as best he could and pray that, whatever this was, it was something he could cure.

Elliot was an anchor, an island, a sanctuary in a turbulent sea, and London shielded his throbbing eyes in the dusky curve where Elliot's neck joined his shoulder. He had been a fool to set foot outside today, to agree to Cruz's plea for help, but he had stupidly hoped the storm growing inside his head would wait another day to unleash its full fury.

Wrong.

He had perhaps an hour before the full assault of the pain would hit, bringing with it a vortex of disorientation and misery, and already he could feel everything starting to crumble. Every sense was turned up to eleven. Light made his eyes burn while his skin itched and crawled. Sound was sharp and bitter, a nail gun fired along his ear canal. Scent and taste confused each other, no longer partners side-by-side but lovers entwined, indistinguishable.

Cruz's car did not purr, it roared, and the roll of the road was enough to make London press himself closer to Elliot's side in a quest for something stable. Elliot was a warm, strong presence, worried in a way London could do nothing to ease. The words would not work. Simple vocabulary was beyond him, his language bleeding outwards in an inarticulate wound.

And the synaesthesia was making him want to vomit. Sounds should not have associated colors, nor tastes, but every time he opened his eyes there were flickers of hues that had no place in the scene and strange ripples of flavor over his tongue: acid fumes and beef.

Elliot feared head injury, brain damage and other, equally dreadful things. The Consulting Criminal knew because those same uncertainties had been shared by many a specialist before Elliot. People who had clucked over brain scans like chickens as they tried to find the elusive cause. Empty-handed. They were always empty-handed. Then their palms brimmed with pills that did no more than take the edge off the pain. A screeching string quartet meta-morphing into a percussion section, which was no better.

'Did you take something?' Elliot's voice was a breaking wave in his ear – a soft sound made loud. Yet it was not a bad noise. It did not stab at him like the others: Sunny sand and golden glow – that was Elliot. Warm and tropical, almost comforting. 'If you did, you need to tell me.'

It was tense and concerned, and Elliot's heavy arm draped over his shoulder was pressing him closer as if trying to imbue the Consulting Criminal with the strength to respond. He did manage, in the end, after his brain had dissected the question word-for-word and turned it into nonsense before putting it together again.

'Codeine. Recommended dose. I swear. Two this morning.' He paused, dimly aware that he was whispering into the skin of Elliot's throat. Perhaps he couldn't hear. 'It's not working.'

He felt the softness seep through Elliot's shoulders, and at least he was not too far gone to recognize relief. Elliot had feared other, less legal medications. At least codeine could be purchased at a pharmacy, rather than a street corner. He slumped further into Elliot's body, chasing the dark that made his eyes stop aching so much, half-noticing the soothing skim of Elliot's hand up and down his arm, heavy through the barrier of coat and suit.

Perhaps he slept, or maybe the spinning streets of London's roulette had already settled on approaching Baker Street, because the next thing he felt was Elliot gently trying to lever him upright with murmured promises of home. Dry, steady hands braced his weight as the gunshot of the door opening breached the Consulting Criminal's mind. The wave of fresh air was almost overpowering, tainted with car-exhaust, rubbish, rain and the scent of Speedy's entire menu battling for dominance.

However, even that was preferable to the light. Logically he knew the day was overcast, yet the glow stabbed through the veil of his eyelids, piercing through his optical orbit and piercing his skull with enough force to make a groan of misery tremble in his throat.

'Ah, Elliot.' The tap of an umbrella tip on the pavement and a voice like toffee.

Alexander.

His butterscotch brother.

'Gregory. Perhaps I can be of assistance?'

Grimly, London pried his eyes open and immediately wished he had not. So far, he was still slumped on the back seat, holding himself up now that Elliot had climbed out. The front door looked miles away, and Elliot was hunkered down on the pavement, one hand outstretched towards London while he gazed over at Alexander, who had dipped slightly to peer into the car and was giving his little brother a hard stare.

Analyzing, London realized vaguely. It made him seem constipated, but then his brother always looked a bit like that.

He jerked away when Alexander's light, cool finger touched his jaw. The movement made his head clang in warning, his skin prickling and itching from his brother's gentle prod. 'Fuck off,' he managed to mutter, though whether the words sounded the same spoken as they did in his head was doubtful. Both Elliot and Cruz, who hovered by the door, looked perplexed.

Only Alexander appeared comprehending, one eyebrow raised and his expression locked in a mixture of gentle reprimand and sympathy: wretched smugness.

Vivaldi all over the place.

'That was in French,' Alexander said, 'though perhaps you don't realize it. I'm assuming you can understand me?'

Obviously. London wanted to glare, but couldn't. His eyes hurt too much. Even the act of dropping his chin down in a nod made his neck feel like it was made of brittle steel. Sharp, spiteful splinters shoved through his vertebrae.

'Oh, bother mine,' Alexander murmured. 'I thought you'd got over these.'

'You – you know what it is?' Elliot asked, and there was such hope in his voice, as if he thought he would get an explanation rather than a dull excuse.

Alexander appeared to consider the answer for a moment before he bent down to the Consulting Criminal's level again, stepping closer and sliding his umbrella so it lay on the floor of Cruz's car. 'I will tell you all I can but our first priority is to get my brother inside. Straight into bed is probably the best idea. This is not the worst of it. Not yet.'

The whole ordeal of getting from the car upstairs was unpleasant. His muscles were working, but only in an approximation of their normal manner. It was as if he had forgotten how long his legs were, so each step either fell short or jarred him until it felt as if his teeth were going to rattle loose.

Alexander's arm was around his waist, helping him up the stairs with a steady kind of patience London thought his brother had long forgotten existed. He was so used to being pushed around by his brother that this – firm support, shining understanding – was enough to make him wonder if he had actually lost consciousness and started dreaming without realizing it.

Ahh, except no, because if he had, then the rippling waves of pain would be muted by the tatters of unconsciousness. Instead they were building, gathering speed behind his temples, crushing his sinuses and pressing on his ear drums.

He could hear Elliot and Cruz climbing the stairs behind them, asking Alexander muted, worried questions to which they received no answer. Instead his brother held his silence as they eased their way inside, and London allowed himself to be guided towards his bedroom.

Alexander eased him down onto the bed as if he were made of spun glass, leaving London sitting on the mattress' edge, his elbows on his knees and his shaking fingers pressed to his temples.

'Can you open your eyes?' he asked quietly, rewarding London with a thin smile when he managed it. 'I'll get hold of some Norazophen, but it will take a few hours.'

'Won't work. Nothing does. You know that.'

'You're still talking French, with an appalling Toulouse accent I might add.'

London groaned. He had no idea if his brother was talking French back to him or English. He understood, and that was what mattered. 'So glad I amuse you.'

'If you were not in such discomfort, you would find it fascinating. You clearly think you are speaking English. However, what's coming out of your mouth is anything but.' Alexander got up, shutting the curtains with a rasp that sounded like gunfire to the Consulting Criminal's ears.'Norazophen is still what’s recommended in your medical file, and so it's what you'll take. I'll brief Elliot on its purpose, if he does not already know. What else do you need?'

'Rest,' London managed, dropping his hands weakly and tugging off his scarf before shrugging out of his coat. All his joints felt too elastic and dis-coordinated, but he had to get out of his clothes. The strafe of the fabric against his skin was becoming too much, reaching beyond itches and irritation to the point of undeniable pain. 'Dark.'

Alexander nodded, quickly helping his brother divest of everything except his underwear. Perhaps he remembered something from the childhood bouts, because he pulled the blanket away from the bed, leaving just a sheet to cover his body, as if he were aware that any more weight would seem too smothering.

Easing himself gently to the pillow, London stifled a rough cry of pain as his neck tried to seize and the first full wave of agony slammed through his skull. It brought the hot bite of tears to his lashes, and he grabbed the second pillow on his double bed, placing it over his eyes and leaving his nose and mouth free to breathe the air unimpeded.

'Bucket.' It was a blunt reminder. Nausea was a forgone conclusion. Often it came to nothing, but London had deliberately been eating these past few days, attempting to stave off the incoming disaster. The last thing he wanted to do was throw up on the carpet.

'Of course. Try to sleep, if you can.' There was a whisper of cloth as Alexander folded London's clothes, radiating silver lines of neatness amidst his fudgy smug undertones. London did not even need his eyes to know that. The colors turned up in his brain anyway: ghost images echoing across his mind.

At last he was gone, leaving London alone in the blank canvas of his room. But no, it was not blank, impressed as it was with the footsteps of his life, his body remembering the patterns of his paces as if his outline was blurring. He could feel the varnished wood of the wardrobe against his palm, the cold flash of the windowpane against his cheek, the mirror's baleful eye watching... 

Sensory hallucinations: a point where memory and sensation blurred together, whipping into a vortex of data that left him pressing his body harder into the bed, desperate to ground himself even as, at last, merciful oblivion rose to claim him.

Elliot fidgeted around the apartment, his footsteps echoing sporadically back and forth as he turned to glare at the door to London's room. He could hear Alexander's voice, so much softer than usual, less clipped and more rounded at the edges. Then there was London's answering baritone, a beautiful sound in its own right, made all the more mysterious and worrying by the language.

French. One of the many languages the Consulting Criminal knew, but the fact he was speaking it now, without any apparent intention of doing so, was enough to make Elliot feel like a spring wound too tight, ready to snap with his need for some solid, medical facts to work with.

'Here.' Cruz held out a mug to him, and Elliot felt a stab of gratitude/shame as he realized the Inspector had taken it upon himself to make tea.

'Thanks. Sorry, I should have offered. Spared you the horrors of our fridge, if nothing else.'

'Don't worry about it. Look who you live with. Allowances are made.' Cruz glanced towards the bedroom door before looking back at Elliot. 'You got any idea what's going on with him?'

'It's not drugs.' Elliot said it a bit quickly, but he kept his voice firm. He trusted London, and besides, he had no idea what kind of pharmaceuticals could have such a disturbing effect on a human being. Unless it was some form of bizarre cocktail the Consulting Criminal had created.

'No, no I got that. Never seen him act like that before, not even when he was off his head. Normally I'd suggest calling a doctor, but –' He gestured towards Elliot with his own mug of tea. 'Well, you’re already here.'

The door opened, revealing Alexander, who moved with his usual fluidity and reached into the cupboard under the sink, not even blinking at the unusual array of chemicals as he grabbed a bucket and returned to his brothers room before emerging a final time. The door closed behind him softly, whispering against its catch as his shoulders slumped, and Elliot watched him let out a faintly shuddering sigh.

'Can you give me one good reason why he's in his room and not at hospital?'

'Because the staff would have no idea what to do with him,' Alexander said calmly, turning towards the kitchen and making himself a cup of tea. Elliot would never have known the older Holmes had such domesticity in him, yet he moved around their cramped and frankly disastrous kitchen as if it were an everyday occurrence. 'His first experience of a similar event was his ninth birthday."

Alexander poured milk into his tea, wrapping his hands around the mug before he leaned against the kitchen surface: all tight, controlled lines and stiff shoulders. 'Throughout his life he has undergone repeated diagnostic regimens, including spending the best part of a year when he was sixteen not only stuck in bed but almost insensate with the pain in his head. At last, the doctors were forced to conclude that it was a type of migraine.'

'Migraine?' Elliot repeated, not bothering to keep his skepticism out of his voice. He knew that the term was used to cover all manner of ills: the inexplicable glitches the human mind sometimes exhibited.

Characteristically, a migraine described an acute, recurrent head-ache accompanied by nausea, vomiting, visual disturbance and disorientation, although many other symptoms were also indicated. Sometimes they occurred in “storms” affecting a patient four or five times in a month before vanishing for years. The cause was not well-documented, and neither was the treatment.

'That's not just a headache.' He jabbed his finger in the direction of London's door. 'I have never seen a migraine do that to a person before. He was speaking in the wrong bloody language.'

'Indeed.' Alexander sipped some tea, showing neither appreciation nor distaste for the brew. 'However, I think everyone who knows my brother can agree that he is anything but ordinary. His brain is a hard drive and these attacks are an electro-magnetic pulse. His mind gets scrambled. Synaesthesia, allodynia, aphasia of varying degrees... Though no physical damage occurs within the brain, and believe me, that has been checked time and again throughout his life, the effects are far-reaching.'

'Um...' Cruz looked confused, casting a glance at Elliot. 'Can you explain what he just said? I got most of it, but not those words in the middle.'

'Synaesthesia and the others?' Alexander asked, and for once his smile was genuinely apologetic. 'Most of my brothers symptoms can be described as his brain getting its wires crossed, resulting in confusion. His language becomes muddled, he becomes overwhelmed, often registering even the lightest touch as pain, and his senses begin to overlap. He seems to taste sounds, for example –'

'When you started the car, he said it tasted like petrol,' Elliot pointed out. 'If he's seeing sounds as colors as well, it could explain why he was describing you as gun-metal grey.'

'What about brutal Beethoven?' Cruz asked, looking between the oldest Holmes and Elliot for some kind of answer.

'He will have to explain that one himself. He'll remember, which is perhaps more disturbing. His recall of what happens is explicit. Considering how much London values his mind, to be aware of its degeneration is nothing short of horrific for him.'

Elliot frowned down at his tea, which was steadily growing cold in the confines of his mug. 'Is he all right in there?' he asked at last. 'Should he be on his own?

'For now, yes. Minimizing the amount of sensory input is still the best way we have found of helping him through these episodes. The room is dark and quiet, two things which he will value greatly in the coming hours. If he sleeps, then it's all for the best.' Alexander checked his watch.'My assistant will bring by three vials, which he will need to take intravenously. One dose every twelve hours, if you would be so kind, Elliot?'

'What is it?'

'A pain-relief agent and anti-coagulant with sedative effects. Available only on the private health system if you know the right people. Fortunately for my brother, he has been seeing the best specialists since his symptoms first emerged. It is inadequate, but necessary. It will reduce his pain level to some extent, particularly once he reaches the peak of the attack, and lower the risk of a blood clot in his brain.'

'Is that likely?' Cruz asked, aghast. 'That's – that's what a stroke is, isn't it? He's way too bloody young for that to happen.'

'Migraine sufferers are considered to be in a risk group,' Elliot supplied, chewing on his bottom lip before setting his tea aside. It was cold now anyway, and what he had drunk sat slick in his stomach.

'London has never shown any indication of brain abnormality in a physical sense. It's simply a precaution,' Alexander said, his voice level and soothing, as if he were discussing the weather. Elliot was not buying that tone for a minute. His voice might say one thing, but his body language said another. He was tense in that three piece suit and pale with concern. This was something from which even the Consulting Criminal could not be protected.

All Alexander could do was try and ease his way, and from the sounds of it even that was a losing battle.

The Inspector looked at his watch and let out a sigh. 'I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave.' He shot a look at London's bedroom door, then turned to Elliot. 'Let me know if you need anything, or, you know –' He gestured with one hand, looking as helpless as Elliot felt.

'Yeah, thanks. I'll call you when he's back on his feet.' The promise sounded hideously weak, and Elliot wished there was a way to inject more certainty into his voice. However, when even Alexander looked ill with worry, how was he meant to be sure of anything?

'As reluctant as I am to leave my brother in this state, I am afraid I must also depart.' Alexander's blue gaze swept over the kitchen floor as if his schedule was written on the tatty linoleum, his lips curving downwards in displeasure. 'I will return as soon as possible. Obviously should his symptoms become any more alarming, I encourage you to seek my advice.'

'Seek your –?' Elliot gaped, his head already shaking back and forth. 'Alexander, this is insane. I can and have dealt with your brother throwing up, bruised, beaten and bleeding, but this is completely different.'

'As alarming as it may be to an outsider, Elliot, my brother has learned, in his way, to cope with these events. The best thing that can be done is basic medical care and a comforting presence. While I can offer the former, I am afraid the latter is beyond my capabilities. As I said, I will do my best to return at the earliest opportunity. Look after my brother, please. Just like you always do. '

There was no time for him to reply as Alexander bade him farewell, gliding down the stairs. Dimly, he hoped that Cruz had driven off with the older Holmes' umbrella. It might be petty, but it would serve the bastard right for leaving Elliot like this, stuck with the barest scraps of information and the Consulting Criminal, helpless, in pain and speaking in the wrong language.

'Christ,' Elliot muttered, feeling his own headache beginning to dwell in his temples as he considered his options. Alexander had said London was best left alone, but there was no way he could simply sit down and wait for signs of movement from the bedroom. No, the Consulting Criminal was in his care and Elliot at least going to do his own rudimentary diagnosis.

The basics could be done while London was asleep, at least if he was careful.

Creeping over to London's bedroom door, he eased the handle down, hearing the metal slide free of its catch before he nudged his way inside. The hinges stayed silent, and though the room was very dark, there was still enough light for Elliot to make out London's form on the bed, outlined by the drape of the sheet.

He was lying on his back, a pillow pressed over his brow and covering his eyes. In the frail illumination of the room, he looked monotone, bleached of color and washed out. Even the usually pink flesh of his lips was pallid, parted as they were around every steady breath. Sleeping then. His body was too lax for anything else, his bare shoulders rolled back into the mattress and his fingers motionless at his side.

Right, good. With the greatest amount of care possible, Elliot reached out and flicked on the bedside lamp, hoping that the additional glow would not disturb London. Alexander had mentioned allydonia as a symptom – a confusion of the pain response where even the slightest touch could register as agony. If he could, he would do most of his examination by sight. Most doctors thought there was not much that could be gleaned through the visual alone, but Elliot had learned to use whatever tools he had to hand. 

If it was eyes only, then so be it.

Hunkering down at the side of the bed, he watched the pulse throbbing in the hollow of London's jaw, counting off the beats. It did not take long for him to conclude his pulse rate was high, and venular distortion also suggested that his blood pressure was up. There were no obvious signs of shivers or sweats, and Elliot cautiously reached out, hovering his palm over London's exposed sternum. It was inaccurate as hell, but he was still comforted by the normal level of heat radiating away from the Consulting Criminal's body.

'Good,' Elliot breathed, scratching at one of his eyebrows as he nodded to himself. He might still feel hideously out of his depth, but at least while he was here, right by London's side, he could see every breath and heartbeat, every minute sign of life that could bring him comfort, and he had no intention of simply leaving him alone to suffer.

Moving quietly, he tiptoed back through into the living room. For now, though, he needed to research, and he slipped back into London's room, flicking off the bedside lamp and settling on the floor, his back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him as he prepared to wait.

He had just got comfortable when a slight knocked sounded from the front door. As carefully as he could, Elliot got up from the bed and went to investigate. He found nothing but a thick manila folder resting neatly against the wall beside the door. Reaching down he picked it up, gently shut the door and crept back to London's room and resumed his previous position beside the sleeping form.

The folder and its contents were signed by Anthea, and included a document – a compilation of notes from London's specialists. It seemed Alexander was not leaving Elliot totally in the dark after all. With just a moment's hesitation, Elliot opened them, preparing himself for an education.

Within minutes, it was clear that for once the older Holmes had not been exaggerating. To say London had suffered was to miss the opportunity to claim he had been plagued. The first attack had been one of the worst. Terrifying in an adult and doubly horrifying in a child. It made Elliot's heart ache and his guts twist to think of London like that, agonized and petrified by the betrayal of his young mind.

The notes described years of diagnosis and searching, detailed brain scans which all came back as normal: proving that London's fabulous mind was no different from anyone else's, at least on the surface. The pattern of attacks was also evident. Throughout childhood and into adolescence, London would suffer one every three to six months. Then, abruptly, at sixteen, there was an explosion of them, different intensities, different seemingly disconnected symptoms, although Elliot was quick to pick out the obvious hormonal interference of puberty. London had grown like a weed that year, shooting up from five foot six to six foot four in eighteen months.

It was an image that made Elliot smile despite himself. London had not been a short child by any means. That last surge had taken him to full adult height. Obviously, the hormones had wreaked havoc on him, and the blood panels that had been taken cited that as a cause for the increased frequency of the so-called migraines. God, it must have been hell. They kept him sedated for the last one, a crippling event that rendered him helpless with pain for almost seventy-two hours.

After that, they vanished, dipping off the radar except for one, brief report when he was twenty-one. It indicated the formation of London's drug habit as a potential interfering factor in the usual pattern of the migraines. It was, after all, hard to measure pain when the patient was stuck in a cycle of narcotic abuse.

Alexander had made it sound like there had been more, though, throughout London's adult life. Had he just handled them himself, locked away from the light and the noise until his brain found its equilibrium once more... all on his own?

Elliot looked across at the figure on his bed, sadness weighing heavy beneath his ribs. It was all too easy to picture London in that situation, trapped and solitary in the chaos of his own head with no one in the outside world to help him.

Well, not this time. When London woke up hurting and confused, then Elliot would be there, for however long he was needed.

Just like all the times before.

Something was brushing on the edge of London's awareness, a feather-light, timid kind of touch over the knuckles of his right hand. It was enough to peel back the dark shelter of his sleep in steady increments, unfurling him to the hateful, stabbing edges of the world once more. A groan caught in his throat, wretched and miserable, and he could feel a golden, glowing pity at his side.

'Holmes, I need to give you the dose.' Elliot's voice drifted softly into London's ears, his consonants sanded smooth like polished marble: careful and considerate. His vowels tender, curving lines of comfort. Brahms. 'I have to touch you to find a vein. I'm sorry. Lift your little finger once if you think you can bear it.'

There was not really much choice in the matter. The pillow's weight on his head felt like too much, and everywhere the sheet and mattress touched his skin was a scald, raw and weeping. Yet he needed the drug: a blissful mix of chemicals. Oblivion's needle to sew his slumber together once more.

A twitch of his finger was enough to bring on the whispering symphony of Elliot's movements, and he listened to the umber and vermilion tones of Elliot's voice, trying not to flinch as pain ricocheted up his right arm from the gentle tap of Elliot's fingertips raising a vein. He tried to squeeze his hand into a fist to assist, but his knuckles grated against one another: ruination and strife. At last he could only lie still, waiting for the quick flick of a needle diving in to the yield of his flesh.

The drug whirled through his bloodstream, a chaotic internal rush of sanguine smoke, filling up his empty spaces with haze. His pain did not go, it never did, but the edge eased from the panicky, anxious alarm that filled him, allowing him to observe the chaos of his mind palace with a detached eye.

To say it was a mess was to miss an opportunity for other, better words: Disaster and cataclysm in shades of cerise filled his skull, staining the scatter of facts and knowledge with putrid tones of rot and maleficence. The walls were tumbledown, overgrown as if a century had passed. His metaphor literal in the caverns of his head.

He was not sure how long he walked the cracked marble floor, surveying the damage with indifference. There was nothing, now, to protect him from the rasp of the desert winds driving across his mental landscape. He allowed the sand to scratch at his face, clawing at his eyes and turning his lips bloody as they scoured ever inwards.

Eternity lay here, captured in the vault of his skull. He could see it all from beginning to end, alpha to omega, useless chatter and life and stars gone wrong in their waltz. It was madness, probably, human and base. So much left to rattle, lost and forgotten, with neither order nor purpose. How many times had he put it back together? How many endless hours had he spent recreating his brilliance from the ashes only to have it laid to waste once more?

If he did not bother, if he left it here to crumble away, would he still be himself on the outside, or would he be changed in all essentials? Would he still be the man he recognized, or would something new emerge from the destruction: better or worse, dark or bright? Would he be human at all, or just a body's shell and an empty mind, forever impressed upon but unable to interact with the world he knew?

'It's all right. I'm still here.'

Elliot's voice. Was he speaking still? Again? Had seconds passed, or years? London felt hazy at his edges, shielded from the world by drugs and sedation. Fuzzy in a way flesh had no right to be. The pain was still in his head, of course, a nauseating, throbbing ache that shot through him at every moment, dull drums of war, but at least the rest of his body had been given a temporary reprieve.

'I'm going to move the pillow. Do you think you can open your eyes for me?'

Elliot sounded like velvet, undertones of concern and crystal dew. Strange, had the drugs changed the way he was perceived, or was this Elliot in all his changeability, finally showing London different fragments of his world? A glimmer and a gleam, the dart of fish scale and splash of quenched thirst?

'Holmes?'

He lifted his hand, clutching at the pillow and lifting it away, a slab of granite shoved aside from his anchor hold door to let reality in once more. The bedroom's air was silken against his face, soothing fingertips rather than desecrating claws, and London steadily pried his eyes open, braced for the merciless skewer of light.

Yet the room was mostly dark. Only a few hazy patches of colored illumination wavered, seemingly suspended in mid-air. Hallucinations were a fair possibility, but this was not his normal style. They were innocuous, innocent, friendly, even. Not malicious or malignant.

He frowned, unsure that the last one was even a word, and a confused noise rasped hoarse in his throat.

'Candles,' Elliot said, his voice disembodied still. Probably forever. London's eyes could not trace an outline in the gloom, nor find any kind of silhouette. 'I put them behind smoked glass. Diffuse light is meant to be easier if you're photo-sensitive.' A hand shifted in his peripheral vision, blocking out the weak flow of illumination to first the right, then the left eye without actually touching him. Possibly checking pupil response, or just general activity, like blinking.

'Can you try and say something?' Elliot asked, and there was a tension in his voice that London did not enjoy. It was not the angry-edged tone he used when he had done something stupid, but the slightly higher, softer cadence that suggested pity and concern and fear all wrapped up into a bundle of cinnamon-scented emotion.

'My head hurts,' he managed, closing his eyes again as the deep rumble of his own voice seemed to fall back on itself, eating through his skull with clenching, gnashing teeth. He should have whispered, though he was not sure he was capable.

There was the sound of a fingernail scraping over sparse hair, Elliot scratching his eyebrow: vermilion confusion. 'That – I don't know what that was. Not English. Didn't sound French, either. Do you think you can try again for me?' He sounded so hopeful, like he really wanted to get something sensible out of the Consulting Criminal's brain.

He took a deep breath – air like thorns all down his throat, filling his lungs with cerulean acid – and focused, shoving at the spongy resistance of pain to try and find some element of familiarity as he repeated himself.

'My head hurts.'

'Yeah, I guessed that much,' Elliot murmured, and the mattress dipped as he shifted, allowing London to finally place his invisible friend. He was next to him, his weight pinning the sheet neatly at London's side, back propped against the headboard and the short length of his legs stretched out in front of him. A slight movement of London's left hand was enough to catch a dense crease of Elliot's knee: cool and rasping, individual fibers in brilliant complexity as if they were woven of Elliot himself.

'You were having a bad dream or, or something,' Elliot explained, his voice still oh-so-smooth and easy on London's ears as he closed his eyes again. 'Maybe the drugs are wearing off. You've been out for almost nine hours since the injection. Alexander came to check on you again.'

London gave a frail sigh through his nose, hoping it was adequate to convey all general feelings pertaining to his brother. Elliot seemed to get the message, because there was a brief bubble of quiet laughter, a bit too high, a bit too fretful, but good all the same. Elliot was here, not dripping all over him with hideous regret, nor fluttering in the useless patterns around his bedside. He merely sat and waited, as if he knew that this too, like all things, would pass: It was a temporary motionlessness in their lives – a brief cessation. It would go, as all things did, but Elliot still followed him, even when there was no “could be dangerous” about it.

'Keep talking?' London asked, repeating himself again in a different nuance of languages in his head in the hopes of hitting English. 'Keep talking. It's good. Distracting.'

Elliot made an aborted noise in his throat, something that sounded like the start of a question, but maybe he realized that London was not looking for conversation, but monologue.

He spoke of his time in the army, stories that the Consulting Criminal had not yet heard and making London think of Afghanistan's mountains and surprising verdancy. The rippling flow of ridiculous stories: grit in army boots, laces undone, practical jokes and poker, tent canvas flapping in the wind all filled London's mind. He could taste cumin at the back of his tongue and scent the hot, dry air, twisting through the shattered avenues of his mind palace. It danced across the loose papers, stirring the pinned butterflies back to life so that they danced in the air once more, bright flashes of color in the growing glow of the sunrise.

And Elliot sat next to him on a sand-worn slab of stone, watching the golden light pour through glass less windows. They were hip to hip, shoulders pressed together as they leaned back, braced on their hands so that their fingers touched. Not moving, simply being.

Connected as the storms of pain rolled around the horizon and they existed in the eye of it all, together.

The second dose went in as easy as the first, with London hovering on the edge of consciousness as Elliot slipped the needle into the vein. It seemed to be doing its job, though he was aware that the drug was merely taking the sharpest edge off the pain in London's head and easing the jangling lies his nerves broadcast through his body.

Yet London himself did not seem to be improving. There was no real sign of him returning to his usual self as midnight came and went, and Elliot's eyes began to grow heavy and exhausted. Mostly, he slept, which Elliot knew was a blessing. The times that he was awake were brief and full of pained breaths and fragmented words, sometimes in French, German, Danish or something that could have either been Spanish or Italian. Asking him to repeat things seemed to help him find the English variant, but clearly talking was a painful effort, and at his pleading Elliot had been the one to speak, his voice little more than a whisper as he filled the air with words: anything and everything.

A tiny price to pay if it could soothe the Consulting Criminal.

Now, though, just as Elliot was debating getting some bedding so he could sleep on the floor, London was beginning to shiver. It started out as gentle tremors rippling up his bare arms, but gradually the intensity increased, growing stronger as he curled up on his side, pressing closer to Elliot as he sought out some warmth.

An effort to cover him in a thin blanket had resulted in a cry of agony which shot Elliot through with guilt. He had ripped away the offending item and flung it into the corner of the room, murmuring meaningless comfort as London drew his knees up to his chest. Now, Elliot perched on the edge of the bed, quiet and worried, the hastily consumed leftovers of a late dinner sitting uneasy in his stomach.

A quick, light touch to London's brow did not suggest fever; he was just cold. The temperature of the room had fallen away as midnight came and went, and although he wore a jumper Elliot was not quite warm enough. Yet it seemed that even the sheet was causing London pain, making him scratch red welts into his ribs where it itched.

After a few moments, London turned around, pressing himself closer to Elliot's hip only to recoil as if burned, drawn to his heat but repelled by the contact. His long fingers plucked mutely at Elliot's jumper and pants, and Elliot watched his eyes blink open and scowl up at him, more focused than they had been all day.

'Cold,' he muttered, retracting his hands and pressing them briefly to his eyelids before curling his arms around himself, hunching up tighter. 'I hate this part.'

'Does it always happen?' Elliot asked, still keeping his voice low and soft, incredibly aware of every flinch that danced over London's face. 'What do you normally do?

The Consulting Criminal's shoulders moved, a quick, sharp jerk upwards that made a soft moan of discomfort catch in his throat, trembling in the still air of the room. 'Wait for it to go?' He sounded like a child, then. Not petulant but hopeful, as if he was desperate for Elliot to offer a better alternative.

Rubbing his hand down the bridge of his nose, Elliot sighed as the options ran through his mind, each as unhelpful as the last. At least London was speaking in English, now, although how long that would last he wasn't sure. 'The blanket hurts, so I'm guessing putting you in clothes won't help. What about a shower? Hot water?'

London closed his eyes, his lips pulling down into a miserable grimace. 'No, can't move.' He shivered again, harder this time, and Elliot saw him wince as his teeth clattered together, undoubtedly loud in his own head.

If they were in a hospital, they could use heated blankets, something they could put close to London to radiate the heat, but they did not even have any hot water bottles in Baker Street. All Elliot could offer was himself, and he swallowed tightly as he considered the idea. London's attitude towards personal space was notoriously indifferent, but this was about more than standing just a bit too close. However Elliot looked at it, there were connotations to sharing a bed, regardless of the relationship between the two parties. It was intimate, either way.

Another shudder beneath the sheet made up Elliot's mind for him, and he stood up, pulling off his jumper, toeing off his shoes, peeling off his socks and stepping out of his pants until he wore just a t-shirt and his boxers. London was watching him, looking fleetingly confused, and Elliot padded round the other side of the bed before lifting up the sheet and slipping underneath.

Deja vu.

'It's the best I can do. I probably won't radiate much heat, it's not exactly warm in here, but with any luck it will help.'

He watched London roll over to face him, his movements careful and tender, as if his spine was made of crumbling stone rather than strong, solid calcium. His eyes were dazed and pinched, foggy with the medication still lingering in his system, and his hair was insane. At any other time, Elliot would have laughed, but right now the picture of London was surprisingly innocent and artless.

'Is it okay?' Elliot asked, watching London shuffle towards him, not actually touching Elliot in any respect, but huddling as close to his warmth as he could.

A quiet hum was his only response as London closed his eyes, blocking out the flickering glow of the candles as, inch by inch, his muscles uncoiled. Elliot could feel the tension easing away, smoothing out from London's body to leave him lax and languid. His eyelashes made dark fans near the crest of those impossible cheekbones, and the furrow of discomfort between his brows smoothed away.

Elliot was not sure how long he lay there watching the Consulting Criminal, the sharp angles of his face softened by slumber and the candlelight. His exhaustion was a heavy burden on his body, but somehow the very act of closing his eyes felt like too much of an effort. He was too busy observing London, measuring the whisper of each breath and the rare flicker of his eyelids.

At some point, the shivers started again, and Elliot found himself in the same situation. True night had taken away the warmth of Baker Street, and he slipped cautiously from the bed, grabbing the blanket and trying to arrange it so only he was weighed down by its bulk. London remained completely out of it, but when Elliot slipped back into the bed, his cotton clad shoulder brushed against London's, and the cry of pain that followed was enough to shatter apart any lethargy with a burst of adrenaline.

'Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!' Without really thinking about it, Elliot peeled the t-shirt off, casting it aside and nestling under the blanket's edge. 'There, it's gone. All right?'

London mumbled, curled up and miserable again. 'Barbs everywhere. Asteraceae.'

Elliot sighed quietly, the noise plaintive even to his own ears. He couldn't be sure whether that last word was in a foreign language, or just outside his vocabulary. Only London, it seemed, could have a brain-malfunction and still remain the smartest person in the room. 'Can you go back to sleep?' he asked, hovering his hands uselessly above the bare curve of London's shoulder, desperate to touch and offer comfort but fully aware it could bring him nothing but pain. 'I didn't mean to wake you. I'm –'

'Not your fault,' London murmured, burrowing further under the thin veil of the sheet until only his eyes were visible, watching Elliot with a hazed, mercurial gaze which gradually disappeared under the droop of his eyelids. He spoke again, syllables of the English language giving way to something softer.

'Tu ne m'as jamais échoué.'

French again, and Elliot breathed out a sigh, scrubbing his hand over his face before staring at London. He wished he knew what that meant – what words London was murmuring in the night – but his linguistic skills were poor at best. A few words of Pashto and Dari, like “Don't shoot” and “Medic” were no good to him now, not when London was murmuring as if he had been born across the Channel, utterly fluent. To Elliot's ear he may as well have been other-worldly, and he found himself listening to the breathy whispers, not sentences, possible not even words, but London's voice made his mind race.

It was to that sleepy whisper, uttered on the fringe of wakefulness, that Elliot finally surrendered to slumber. His breathing slowed and his muscles unwound, comforted by London's presence within arm's reach.

Peace found them both as, beyond the windowpanes, the outside world slept.

Darkness bound him, weighing its heavy burden on his bones. He could feel it pressing between his lips like smoke, tainting every breath, but there was no conflagration, no heat to balance the toxic choke of fumes. The corridors of his mind palace, shattered now, carried the ghosts of his footsteps as he paced, alone and lost amidst the thickening fog.

All around was cold, Arctic and raw. It clawed at the skin of his cheeks, sand and snow intertwined with the sun's light gone. He looked up through the broken roof, jagged teeth of slate framing the endless black maw of the sky: patient oblivion. No stars, no moon. No glow, no heat. He looked down at his bloodless skin, his nude body revealed to the cruelty of the elements: pulse-less.

It should have alarmed him, this extinction, but his mind felt too distant and scattered to comprehend. No life left in him then, but thought still lingered in shards that hovered in the air. They cut his arms and chest as he pushed through their swarms, leaving tears in his skin as if it were no more than fabric: parted threads – splitting at the seams.

He padded onward, his flesh shrinking tight to his bones with the cold as he wandered deeper into the tangled hallways. Doors to rooms lay askew on their hinges: drunken defeat. Others lay in pieces, splinters underfoot that stabbed into tender soles, piercing through bone until he could only limp, a wretched, shadow of his former self.

At last, beneath the endless stretch of the putrid sky he found one door still standing, one slice of warm illumination cutting from beneath its panel, closed as it was to block out the world. Something in all this wreckage survived, light and life to all his apocalypse. He reached out; his fingers, skeletal and thin, torn by the endless passage of violin strings, pushed the portal open to reveal what lay beyond.

Baker Street. He recognized it instantly, brimming with the connotations of hearth and home, sanctuary and serenity. The hideous wallpaper awaited him, shaded in tones of drab and green made warm by the fire's insouciant glow. There was the skull, the dagger embedded in the mantelpiece, the couch and the glistening trove of glassware from one of his experiments, empty and benign.

Yet it was the man in the armchair that caught his attention, hair made gold by the firelight, skin remembering Afghanistan's tan: a living, breathing body to his own macabre image. A cup of tea steamed by Elliot's hand, propped on the arm of the chair, and the paper rustled like a flock of starlings as he turned the page, engrossed and content.

Abruptly, he looked up, and London flinched away, stepping back into the darkness and smog, abruptly ashamed. Elliot could not see him like this – a broken, bitter creation of death and destruction. He did not want to be the one to bring fear into the brave soldier's life, nor spark repulsion on that friendly, open face. Light and warmth were not for him.

Yet before he could move, strong fingers encircled his wrist, tugging him back through the door-frame to stumble, grotesque, into the room.

He expected a cry of horror, but Elliot just smiled, his relief glowing bright in his eyes as he grabbed a blanket and cast it around London’s shoulders, wrapping the fabric tight around an emaciated corpse creature as if he were something precious. 'You got lost,' he said softly, 'but you're home now.'

He stepped closer, arms folding around London's ribs in a tight embrace. Blood bloomed through London's frame, pushing through collapsed veins to surge on wards – life, not merely existence. He felt the stirring drum beneath his ribs.

Thudthud, thudthud, thudthud: a leviathan awakened from its slumber.

London opened his eyes to darkness again and knew the dream was done. His head throbbed in a bass, glacial way, birthing tiny calves of icy sweat at his temples, and his entire body felt raw and swollen, slumbering nerves slowly awakening to bitter life once more. The shadows of night still lay thick about him; the candles (A memory or a dream themselves? He could not recall.) had gone. Now fey light crept in from the window: dawn of a sort, mostly blocked out by the heavy weight of the curtains, but a few threads slipped past to weave their hints in the shadows of his bedroom and throw weak highlights onto the profile of the man sleeping next to him.

Elliot: his soft, sunlight tones pulsed with every passing whisper of breath, diffuse and painless. Part of London knew that was because it was not real light, but a sensory misinterpretation – the synaesthesia still in effect – but it was pleasant to watch the fantasy and bathe in its warmth.

Except that, no, it was the wrong kind of heat for light. This was more organic – a dull, leaden humidity that seeped across his skin like treacle, no longer hurting but welcome. They were not touching, not quite, but at some point Elliot had rolled closer, his right arm creating a furtive ridge under London's pillow and his left hand lying in the gap between them, elbow bent and awkward.

The narrow width of one of Elliot's surgeon hands – exquisite metacarpals, blunt fingers elegant nonetheless – was all that held them apart. As London watched they curled against the mattress, drifting closer to graze lazily across the flesh of the Consulting Criminal's waist.

He flinched, expecting the sharp bite of agonizing retribution from his petulant skin, but it was as if Elliot carried the desert's summer with him, melting all London's ice caps. Opium smoke in his lungs, cocaine surging through his veins: addictively scorched. He shuffled closer without thought, a tight breath catching in his chest as a creak of pain in his head gave its warning, and a nauseating flash of color danced across his vision at the minor movement.

He needed sleep: more, most, endless slumber to ease the jagged fractals of his bloody, broken mind, but first he sought out Elliot. Light and life: a different kind of sustenance than London's body normally demanded, but one he knew he could not exist without. Something whispered in the back of his head – worried lime green and fresh cut grass; personal space, inappropriate intimacy – Elliot might be angry, his golden sunlight turning red and Vulcan, but the thought broke apart, a wave of sea-foam crumbling down on itself.

Carefully, with fingers that felt strangely elastic and too responsive for their own good, London grasped Elliot's wrist, lifting his arm so that he could slip closer and press himself to his torso: cold cat by a warm radiator – no chance of moving in the foreseeable future. Elliot's hand draped easily back over London's waist, enclosing him comfortably in the tropical air that lingered around Elliot's body, easing aside the slick ice of his chills.

Gradually, the shivers that had twitched across his skin intensified, then abated, dragging his temperature back up to normal as his body whined with pain. The burn of his eyes in their sockets grew more intense, and he bowed his head, shuffling down the bed to hide his face in the warm crook of Elliot's neck: hard ridge of collarbone, soft, torpid flesh before the harsh interruption of the shoulder.

The last thing he felt was Elliot's arm tightening across his waist, a dry palm and the splay of fingers stroking across his back, drawing out his discomfort as London's sleep reclaimed him.

This time, there was no mind palace, nor a twisted delusion of metaphor and madness. There was only Elliot's touch and, at last, after hours of pain and misery, something like respite.

The blanket fell from the bed in a hush of feathers and fabric. The sound infiltrated Elliot's sleep, tweaking him back towards the surface of wakefulness as his body gradually roused itself to the idea of re-entering reality. Shame though, because he was amazingly warm and comfortable. Normally his nightmares jerked him from sleep at Oh-God o'clock, leaving him shattered, but his internal time-keeping was telling him that this was no pre-dawn awakening. It was, instead, a languid return to consciousness, one he could not recall experiencing for years.

Perhaps it had something to do with the body entwined with his: long legs pressed against his own, a strong arm draped across his hips and soft hair against his jaw. He hummed quietly to himself.

A second later, his hand stuttered to a halt as his mind caught up with what his senses were telling him. His eyes snapped open, blinking aside sleep as he stared. A soft pillow obscured half his vision in peaks of white cotton, and all he could make out was a chaos of black curls until he carefully tilted his head, pulling back just a fraction to take in London's sleeping profile.

He looked completely at peace, the tightness that had lingered across his features the previous day wiped clean. At some point in the night he must have moved closer, though Elliot could sense a fair expanse of empty mattress behind his back, so it seemed it was not just London who had shuffled over seeking out comfort. Instead it looked like they had met in the middle of the mattress, inexorably drawn together.

It was strange, seeing all of the Consulting Criminal's chaos reduced to this kind of peace.

Someone at the door cleared their throat, and Elliot's head snapped up guiltily. Before he even looked he knew it would not be Mrs Hanson. It was a man's voice, for a start, and Mrs Hanson would be more likely to twitter in happiness than make such a pointed, judgmental kind of noise.

'Go away, brother mine.'

London's mumble was an additional shock Elliot could have done without. His heart leapt and then plummeted.

'I'll help myself to brunch,' Alexander replied smoothly, giving Elliot a rather meaningful look. One eyebrow lifted in a way that managed to indicate he was utterly un-surprised by it.

However, the older Holmes was not his main concern. Alexander, thankfully, was not the one who he had to live with, who he followed to crime scenes, who he had built his whole god-damn life around, or who was currently lying in his arms, lazy and quite possibly still not really with it. 

'Holmes?' he whispered, clearing his throat as the name emerged in a hoarse nothing-voice. 'How are you feeling?'

There was a moment of considering silence, and Elliot held his breath, praying that the answer was both understandable and in English. Surely that would indicate that London was at least a fraction better than he had been yesterday?

'Like someone detonated a high yield nuclear bomb inside my skull and my brain is now laminated across the internal wall of my cranium,' London finally replied in a rusty voice. 'Warmer, though. Thank you.'

'You're welcome. Is it – do you feel better than yesterday?'

London lifted one shoulder in a fractional shrug, still moving as if his body were made of granite rather than hot, pale flesh and languid muscle.'Different. More aware, unfortunately: a normal progression.' There was the chime of crockery from the kitchen, and London sighed. 'He'll start making tea in a pointed fashion in a minute, and eating all the biscuits. Tell him not to be so fudge.'

'Fudge? Is that – is that his colour?' Elliot asked, feeling ridiculously pleased as London cracked open one eye to give him an approving look.

'Mmmm, mostly butterscotch, but the tones change.' He blinked, then closed his eyes again. 'When I was younger he used to be jam.'

Elliot gave a weak huff of laughter, shaking his head in amazement. Synaesthesia was always something that had fascinated him. Some people were born with it, their brains constantly wired to interpret the signals they received differently. Of course, coupling the condition with London's already highly analytical mind was as enthralling as it was disturbing.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Elliot reached for his clothes, pulling them on before he tried to make his hair look like less of a wreck. Not that it mattered, since Alexander had already seen him and his brother curled up together. 

On multiple occasions.

'I'll get you something to drink while I'm out there,' Elliot promised, watching the lump on the bed that was London for any signs of movement.'You must be gasping, unless you think it will make you throw up?' He glanced at the unused bucket still by the bed. 'We'll give it a go, all right?'

When London did not respond, Elliot reached for the door-handle, squaring his shoulders before stepping out into the living room. Alexander was sitting in London's chair, his legs neatly crossed and a mug of tea in one hand.

'Your attention to my brother is truly to be commended.' Alexander said pointedly. 'Few others would be so – diligent – in their care.'

The words themselves were fairly innocent, but Alexander's tone was not. He oozed contempt, as if Elliot had once again over-stepped an invisible line by treating the Consulting Criminal like a human being, rather than a machine.

'Stop right there.' Elliot jabbed a finger in Alexander's direction. 'You left me here with very little to go on, which is becoming a bloody frustrating habit of yours. I could cope with just about all of it, but he got cold. I used what “methods” I had available.' He lifted his chin defiantly. 'The heating's on a timer so I couldn't turn it on, and we have nothing in this whole damn place that would radiate warmth without touching him and causing him pain except me.'

'And yet again I find him smeared against you like butter on toast.' Alexander's smile was thin and taut: big brother mode fully activated. 'I am sure that your intentions were for the best, but you are treading on very dangerous ground.

'Not that it's any of your business. It's between me and your brother, no one else.'

Alexander lifted his chin, giving Elliot a narrow-eyed, calculating look as he set his tea aside and got to his feet, tugging the line of his jacket straight.

'Whether you realize it or not but whatever you two do, directly involves me.' Alexander tipped his head up, looking down his nose a fraction. 'I know in light of recent events, my brother has realized he has a heart after all and has trusted you with it. I would be loathe to see it or him come to harm because of it.'

'Stop being so melodramatic, please.'

London's voice made them both look over to his bedroom door, where he leaned heavily against the frame, the blue silk dressing gown wrapped around his form. He looked bleary and unsteady on his feet, but he was at least supporting his own weight, mostly, even if his eyes were narrowed painfully against the light in the living room.

'You shouldn't be out of bed.' Alexander tutted, standing aside as Elliot quickly moved over to the windows and pulled the curtains closed, blocking out the sun and plunging the living room into a softer, easier kind of twilight.

There was a pause, and Elliot got the impression that London was struggling to make sure his words came out right. 'And you should not be harassing Elliot. So why are you here?'

Alexander raised an eyebrow. 'To check on you, and if you think this display is going to convince me you're feeling better, then you're very much mistaken. Phase two, I take it?'

London just grunted, picking his way unsteadily to the couch and sinking into it with a sigh. 'It's not a government reform, brother. There are no phases; it just hurts until it doesn't any more.'

'Improved cognitive function, better lingual control, and pain that is no longer utterly unbearable, but still powerful enough to render you predominantly immobile – except when you're being stubborn. It sounds like a different phase to me.' Alexander sniffed, his voice softening somewhat as he glanced in Elliot's direction.

'It seems perhaps I have underestimated Elliot's abilities once again.'

It was all the apology Elliot was going to get, and a weak one at that, but one look at London curled up on his side on the couch, not petulant but miserable, was enough to make Elliot think twice about pushing the issue. Alexander was a heavy-handed, overbearing, protective older brother, but London did not deserve to suffer for that.

'So glad I'm exceeding your expectations,' London mumbled. 'Now leave. You're dripping on the carpet.'

Elliot hid a smile behind his hand as Alexander's lip curled at the very thought that he would be doing anything so indecorous as dripping. Normally, he would have chided the Consulting Criminal for being so rude, but this time he was inclined to believe Alexander deserved it. 'You don't need me to show you out, do you?' he asked, his tone indifferent. 'Only I should get back to looking after your brother. You know, like you asked me to?'

'Indeed,' Alexander murmured. 'Get well soon, brother.'

His retreat was as stately and dignified as ever, and Elliot breathed a sigh of relief as he heard Alexander's footsteps descend the stairs. The door closed in his wake, shutting out him and all his assumptions, however right or wrong they might be. Without a word, he moved into the kitchen, getting London a glass of tepid water to drink before he padded back through to the living room.

'Here,' he said softly, urging London to take the glass and helping him sit up. After a few wobbling seconds, Elliot realized London could not actually brace his own weight, and he quickly sat down, letting him lean against him in a half-reclined position like a puppet with its strings cut.'You've overdone it. Why didn't you stay in bed?'

'Alexander was being cochineal.'

Elliot frowned for a moment before taking a stab at what London might mean. 'Food coloring?'

'Yes. Crushed beetle shells. It's red. I could hear him being smudged and obtuse.' London's voice sounded plaintive, but Elliot suspected it was more about the fact that he struggled to be understood than having to explain to Elliot. At least now London was able to shed some light on what the hell he was talking about.

'How much did you hear?' Elliot asked, suspecting he already knew the answer. The walls of Baker Street were not exactly thick, after all.

'I'm not butter, and you are not toast,' London said by way of response, repeating his brother's earlier, somewhat strange metaphor. 'Thank you for not letting him make you question your actions.'

Elliot did not point out that he had been questioning himself just fine without Alexander's intervention. It seemed wrong to do so, now, when London was so earnestly, helplessly grateful. It made him wonder if anyone had done this for him before, not just looked after him, but been there if London needed to reach out.

'He's jealous.'

Elliot blinked, looking down at London in surprise. 'Who, your brother?'

London hummed in agreement, leaning more fully back into Elliot before he explained. 'You can take care of me – make it easier. He can't. It has always bothered him.'

Elliot breathed out a sigh, too concerned about London to worry about the older Holmes. He doubted it was as straightforward as London made out, but right now he had other, more immediate problems to solve.

A glance at his watch told Elliot it was almost time for another dose. They had slept late, London at the mercy of the drug and Elliot pulled under by the comfort London's bed and company had to offer. 

Now noon was rapidly approaching.

'I need to give you another injection,' Elliot said quietly, resting his hand ever-so-gently behind London's head on the couch before slipping out from behind him and easing him back down to the couch. The glass of water pivoted before Elliot eased it from London's grasp. 'Would you rather be here, or in your bedroom?'

'Where will you be?'

It was rare to hear him like this, unguarded and open, and Elliot smiled despite himself. 'With you, if you need me to be.'

'Want,' London corrected. 'Want you to be.' His eyes darted around the living room of Baker Street for a moment, a faint frown on his brow as if he were struggling to recognize the room. 'I'll stay here.'

Elliot did not question the idea; he had asked, after all. London did not seem to care that the couch was too short for his frame. With a quick pat on the cushion by London's hand, Elliot got to his feet, grabbing London's bedding from his room and dragging it back out. One pillow went under the Consulting Criminal's head, and the other was put on the floor nearby, in case he wanted to block out the thin ribbons of light seeping through the chinks in the curtains.

'Blanket?' Elliot asked, smiling in relief as London nodded. 'I'm guessing it doesn't hurt to be touched, any more.'

'It just itches. It's the first thing to change.'

'And the rest of it?' Elliot asked, spreading the blanket across London's frame.

'Varies. Takes days, normally.' London reached out, dragging up the extra pillow from the floor and hugging it somewhat clumsily to his chest.

'I'm not leaving you here by yourself.' With proficient movements, Elliot retrieved the last vial, loading a syringe and clearing the air before turning over London's arm, exposing scarred and still healing skin and the blue line of well abused veins.

London barely even blinked when the needle went in, easing its relief gently into his bloodstream. Elliot withdrew and pressed his thumb lightly to the minor breach it left in London's flesh, rubbing in unconscious circles as he watched the haze fog those pale eyes: clouds blocking out the moonlight of London's brilliance. 

'Sleep well.'

Alexander had melted, which would not be nearly so bothersome if it had also removed his ability to speak. No such luck. There was no face, nothing to indicate that the thick, sweet-scented substance contained in the jar in London's hands was actually his brother except the smug voice that seeped up from its surface.

'This is another dream,' London told the contents of the jar. 'If it were real, you would never fit in a container that small, and I don't think liquid human being is that color. You should be more pink.'

'How perceptive of you,' came the dry reply. 'I'm surprised you haven't done an experiment to find out.'

'Don't be ridiculous. People don't melt in normal conditions. They are more likely to immolate.' London paused thoughtfully. 'Purée is a possibility, but Elliot wouldn't like it.'

'Oh yes. Elliot.' Alexander's voice spoke volumes, oozing with implication. 'I have told you before that caring is not an advantage.'

'He is an asset. Stop interfering.'

'You will break each other, he will leave, and then where will you be? Alone once more. Leaving me to pick up the pieces. Again.' The liquid bubbled. 'It would be the end of you.'

Yes, he could see that. Baker Street gone dark. No footsteps on the stairs or slow peck-peck-peck of fingers on keys. No one complaining about heads in the fridge. No steady hand and the blunt line of a Browning watching his back. Elliot could depart and leave all that – all of the Consulting Criminal – behind.

'That's not how it has to go.' London sat down cross-legged on the shattered floor, setting the jar none-to-gently down at his side before tracing his fingers over the fault lines in front of him, charting their deep clefts and hearing their stories. 'It is a risk, not a certainty.'

He tilted his head, trying to see the way forward – attempting to pick apart the tangled knot of potential to make a tapestry he could understand. He did not want to be the one to tear Elliot asunder – to pull him apart, strew his pieces to the winds and make him leave – but what could be done to stop it? Where did the break lie: In truth, or in silence?

London could sense a turning point here, in the recesses of his subconscious mind. Perhaps awake and aware he would have missed it entirely, but when he had opened his eyes to find Elliot at his side in bed that morning, London had felt the possibilities open up before him. For once he had seen not the killer or the motive, the crime and the punishment. He had seen his own future and all the strands of what could be.

But would acknowledging how he felt be the one thing that finally drove Elliot from the sanctuary of Baker Street, or would it be all that was necessary to ensure he would stay?

London licked his lips, his words falling from his mouth like stones as he gave them voice. 'He should be told. Literature, culture, our very instincts tell us sentiment such as love cannot go unspoken.'

'Love?' Alexander's scoff was so familiar that London clenched his jaw tight. 'What do you know about love?'

'More than you.'

Silence, then. It dripped down the walls in emerald green, welling up in the cracks on the floor and flowing outwards, strangely sticky. His fingertips became tacky with it, gummed up and useless as he listened to the steady beat of his heart in his chest. Back in Baker Street, the real one, not the surviving core here in his head, Alexander had told Elliot that London had just found his heart – had warned him against breaking it – but in amidst all the denial the Consulting Criminal had heard Elliot's words:

“It's between me and your brother.”

True on so many levels. Superficially, Elliot was trying to warn Alexander to keep his big nose out of his personal life, unless he wanted it broken, but the meaning went deeper, more literal. There was something between them: a thread. Sometimes it lay slack and platonic, a simple tether. Others it tautened, burgeoning to draw them close again.

'Love, brother?' Alexander's voice asked again, softer now, less accusing. 'For a tired ex-army doctor with a worrying addiction to danger?'

'Maybe.'

The stuff in the jar said nothing in reply, beaten at last by one simple word, and London got to his feet, picking his way through corridors he had walked in these dreams before. He was neither dead nor cold now, and nor was he lost. In front of him, a line of light glowed, thick and heavy with promise, leading his steps unerringly back through shattered darkness and broken masonry to the one door that still stood.

Elliot stared blankly at the pages of his book, his eyes unfocused as the words danced in front of him, so many useless black dots on the paper. The Consulting Criminal had been asleep for hours, the accumulation of the sedative leaving him utterly oblivious to the world. Elliot was fairly sure the entirety of Scotland Yard could show up for a drugs bust and London would be none-the-wiser. The downside was that Elliot was left with nothing but his own, circling thoughts for company.

He looked over at London, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest: a vision of pale skin and parted lips. He had barely moved since he had given him the injection more than six hours ago, too far gone in the medicine's grasp. That and the effort of seeing off his brother had clearly been too much for him.

'Bloody Alexander,' Elliot whispered, shuffling in a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment. Perhaps it would not have been so bad if his words had not hit so close to home, but true to form the older Holmes was relentless. He seemed to see through everything, and whereas most other people would have the decency to believe whatever Elliot said.

It was not even as if he had been lying. For God's sake, he was a doctor. Of course he would do whatever he could to help London through this – this whatever it was. 

Somehow London had long ago managed to be the very anti-thesis of what Elliot defined as a friend, but at the same time the best one he had ever had. The Consulting Criminal did not fuck about with social cues and niceties. He was brutally honest and a massive pain in the arse, but he knew exactly what made Elliot tick as surely as if he had taken him apart and seen all the cogs. He had flicked all the lights back on in Elliot's life when no one else had even been able to find the switch.

The Consulting Criminal was the switch.

Elliot was not an idiot. He knew that his current state of peace and contentment, occasionally interspersed with moments of adrenaline-fueled oh my God, we're going to die was all down to London. Without him, he would have neither. It was not just that the access to crime scenes and ill-advised break-ins and such would be gone, but the promise of them would also have faded. The Consulting Criminal was dangerous, and Elliot loved it.

He huffed a breath, glancing over at London again as his thoughts followed their inevitable path. He had never had a friend like him. No one had ever filled his life up so completely with their presence, or made him feel that everything else was somehow secondary to the two of them – as if Elliot and London would carry on even if the rest of the world fell apart at the seams.

'Damn it,' he muttered, putting his book down and getting to his feet, stretching out his body and wandering over to the fire to poke it back into life. The embers glowed with promise, and the flames rose up at the fresh fuel Elliot had put in the grate, their joyful crackle lending definition to the peace of Baker Street.

Stiffly, he sat on the floor by the hearth, the poker a solid weight in his palm as he gazed sightless at the tame fire and the dark mouth of the chimney above it. The truth was that he did not know what to think any more.

He muttered a curse to himself, jabbing halfheartedly at the grate before setting the poker aside and getting to his feet. The faint nauseous feeling in his stomach was probably more about emotion than hunger, but it was about the right time for dinner, and he set about examining the leftovers in the fridge.

'Wishful thinking,' Elliot hissed to himself, grabbing the carton of what he hoped was food and shutting the fridge door.

'What is?'

The hushed whisper of London's voice made him jump, the container twitching in his hands before he set it down on the surface and padded back over to the couch. London had not actually moved, but his eyes were open a fraction, staring up at the ceiling in a faintly disoriented way.

'Hoping you'll bloody learn to label your toxic experiments,' Elliot lied smoothly, deliberately softening his voice as he hunkered down at London's side. The fact that the Consulting Criminal did not seem to know it was a deception, or at least did not acknowledge it as such, told Elliot pretty much almost all he needed to know about how London was feeling. 'Did I wake you?'

For a moment, he thought London wouldn't answer. His glazed eyes were still staring upwards, almost motionless, but at last his gaze shifted slightly, and London's head twitched a negative before he groaned softly. 'No.' He clawed uselessly for the spare pillow that had slipped from the couch while he slept, and Elliot eased it gently back over London's face, keeping his nose and mouth free and hearing the Consulting Criminal sigh in relief as the cool cotton touched his face.

'Light still hurting your eyes?' Elliot asked, wincing in pity when London gave a cracked hum of agreement. It was already dark outside, and Baker Street was positively gloomy apart from the firelight. 'Anything I can do?'

'Get the bucket.'

Elliot doubted that there was anything in London's stomach to expel, but he knew better than to argue as he retreated to London's bedroom, grabbing the bucket and placing it by the couch within very easy reach. He noticed the twitch of London's muscles at the noise and stifled a sad sigh. He had hoped that the last dose of the drug would tide him through to the recovery stage, but if anything he seemed even more unwell.

'Maybe I should try and get you another dose?' he asked softly, frowning as London gave a tight, mirthless laugh.

'You won't get any. Three's all I'm allowed.' There was something dark in London's hoarse voice, and when he continued the reason was clear. 'My own fault. Addict, remember?'

'Dormant, despite recent events.' Elliot reminded him, but it was a weak response. A dormant addict could become an active one again at the slightest trigger, which had been proven in the aftermath of the Consulting Criminal's kidnapping at the hands of the Russians. While, as a doctor, he could appreciate the complexities of pain management in London's case, the fact that there would be no relief from now on made his stomach sink.

'Is there anything you can take?' he asked softly, considering checking the medical file again for more information.

'Like throwing a gnat at a hurricane. No. It's useless.' London's fingers twitched vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. 'You were getting yourself dinner?'

'Won't the smell make you sick?' Elliot watched as London's lips, the only part of him uncovered by the pillow, twitched in an odd grimace.

'Won't make it any worse.'

Elliot bowed his head. There really was nothing he could say to that. If they had something he could eat cold, he would, just to spare London the extra sensory data, but already he was looking tight-lipped, and that ivory skin had taken on a faintly green tinge. No one stayed in the medical profession long without knowing that look, and Elliot grabbed the bucket and held it out even as London jolted upright and heaved, dry and fruitless.

The sound caught on a sob, and Elliot had never felt more useless: not even on a bloody battlefield where all the skill in the world couldn't save every soldier who came his way. London was now shaking from head to foot, a shiver so vicious it seemed more like a seizure, but those eyes were focused now, and the gloss of cold sweat on his skin told its own story.

It was the same as last night. Rigors: chills without fever, and he passed London the bucket before he clumsily tugged the blanket around his shoulders and propped the pillows behind his back. It was enough to help him sit up, and Elliot tentatively splayed his hand across London's brow, feeling the sick drum of a pulse at his temple. Blood pressure was painfully high, driven up by the muscular constriction of the heaves. 

God, he had to be in horrific pain.

'What can I do? Anything?'

'No.' London's voice was clipped, but Elliot knew better than to take offence, or argue, for that matter. Sometimes the presence of another person during illness was more hindrance than help. 

Space had its uses, and he reluctantly obliged.

Elliot kept one eye on London as he set about eating his food, which he ate over the sink, as far from the Consulting Criminal as he could get without actually going outside.

There were one or two more heaves which made Elliot wince and his own stomach clench in sympathy, but they were equally unproductive, and eventually London abandoned the bucket, slumping back with his hands pressed to his temples, white-knuckled as if he were trying to hold his skull together.

London's lips quirked in a sad smile, and Elliot dutifully ignored the glimmer of moisture that lingered on the Consulting Criminal's lashes: tears brought on either by memories or pain, he wasn't certain, but they made his heart clench either way. 'The drug's not cleared my system yet.' London drew in a deep breath, and Elliot could hear it shuddering between his lips. He sounded more like a man about to go into battle than one contained within the peace and sanctuary of his own home. 'It's going to get worse.'

Elliot bit his lips, trying not to dwell on what “worse” could mean. He had to focus on what London needed now, rather than borrowing trouble from the hours that lay ahead of them.

'I'll be here,' he promised softly.

'I know,' London whispered, and this time the smile was small, but honest. 'Thank you.'

Evening's hush drifted distantly across London's mental horizons, the minutes and hours punctuated by the hungry nibble of the fire in the grate and the city's whirl and blare beyond the window. It was a pin-wheel of muted input: high-heels on distant pavement, car engines purring, the hum of the occasional bus and the beep of the pedestrian crossing – urban jazz reduced to a clamor by the ache in his head.

Once again, Elliot tethered him in place. He was an moor-line holding London's ship in the harbor – gravity that kept his feet on the ground while his mind wanted to bleed out to the distant stars. London had never been more grateful for the simple touches that reminded him of all life's little essentials, from who he was and where he lay to the natural rhythm of breath and heartbeat.

'You're uncomfortable.' He murmured it, his words sliding across his tongue like oil – solvent and bitter – as he tried to focus his mind outward beyond the pitching veil of crunching pain that stirred in his head.

'No,' Elliot replied from where he sat on the floor by the couch, facing the Consulting Criminal where he lay on its cushions. 'I'll be fine. You're the one who's uncomfortable.'

He would have laughed at the understatement if he were sure his head wouldn't simply detonate with the effort. Part of him was desperate to lift away the pillow, to open his eyes and check that Elliot was not being dishonest in his rumpled, good-natured way, but the weight that rested across his eyes felt as if it were the only thing stopping his sinuses from collapsing inwards. In the end, he left it where it was, trying to distract himself from the agony by listening to the orchestral, amplified flare of his other senses.

'We really need to get some water into you.' Elliot sighed. 'I found some ice cubes. Think you might be able to suck on them without throwing up?'

The Consulting Criminal considered the possibility, and one part of his mind – one not totally thrown loose to orbit, distant and untouchable – had the common sense to try and recall any experiments that may have involved the ice-cube tray. 'It's definitely water?' he asked, hating the low, jarring pitch of his voice as it scraped through his head.

There was a moment of silence; no doubt Elliot was considering the possibilities, working his way through the unique equation of...

London + freezer + experiments = very questionable ice cubes.

'It looks right, smells okay, and froze without a problem in a domestic appliance. What could it be other than water?'

'Acid?'

'Why would you freeze acid?'

London's lips twitched in a weary smile, not because of the question, exactly, but because of Elliot's tone of voice, which suggested he knew that the answer would be “Because I can.”

'There's some litmus paper on the kitchen table,' London managed, turning each word over in his mind before stringing them together in a sentence. His lingual control, at least, was improving, and he had not said a word of anything but English for quite some time. Still, the effort involved was not only frustrating, it was exhausting. 'Check the pH.'

'See? This is why you need to label stuff,' Elliot scolded, but there was an edge of fondness to it. Something rustled as he got to his feet and began to rummage on the kitchen table. 'Right, got it. Red for acid, blue for alkali?'

'Yes.' London paused, trying to listen over the strange, half-heard hum in his ears. It was a very faint sound, an imagined sensory input as a person might find in total silence, when the ear makes something from nothing. Tiresome and aggravating, but possible to ignore if he could concentrate on all Elliot's subtle noises: a domestic symphony of calm breaths and sliding skin, wool jumpers and peace.

'No change. It's probably water,' Elliot said at last, and London could picture him giving the ice cubes another hard look as the patter of his socked feet on the carpet heralded his approach. 'If it tastes weird, spit it out. It's that or try to drink something from a glass. I don't think that will end well.'

London grimaced, knowing Elliot was right. If he were in hospital, or the God-forsaken clinic he had spent most of his sixteenth year, an IV line would provide him with hydration. Here, in Baker Street, there was no such equipment. Elliot was an army medic and could probably improvise if he had to, but that might be a step too far for the good doctor.

Water would make him throw up. He could feel it in the dizzy, wretched tumble of his stomach, but ice?

Mutely, he lifted a hand, intending for Elliot to put a chip of frigid, slippery solid into his palm, and he jumped in surprise when something cold touched his lip and slid into his mouth. His teeth ached at the abrupt temperature change, the pulp at their core aggravated by the sensitivity in his head. Quickly, it began to change, going from something almost uncomfortable to a blatant relief, distracting jangling nerves from their aches with the intense bite contained in the pocket of his mouth.

Water slipped down his throat, a mere hint of fluid. It would not be enough to disturb his stomach, but the taste of it – bright, clear, not chemical at all – felt like an elixir of life to his tired, dry flesh.

'Okay?' Elliot asked, and London could almost hear his happiness and relief when he hummed in agreement. 'Another?'

Elliot was clearly a genius, and London would have said so if his lips and tongue were not engrossed with the skim of frozen water, friction-less, across their planes. One sensation to over-rule the others, shoving the pain back and down and beyond, not gone, but almost out of reach for a fleeting moment. It was merciful respite where normally none could be found.

There was a musical chink of ice against ceramic – a cup or bowl? – as Elliot reached for another piece. Salt and water, a hint of tannin almost lost beneath the wave of the ice's thaw and a fraction of something like cumin.

'It's all gone,' Elliot murmured 'We'll see if you can keep it down.'

'I don't feel sick,' London promised. His voice sounded hideous and brutal in the cocoon he had built around himself: an airspace where only Elliot was welcome. He found himself longing for his own silence, but if he held his tongue then Elliot would probably do the same, and the peace would crush him. 'Thank you.'

'You're welcome. Next time maybe you'll have the coordination to feed it to yourself.'

Odd. 

London was sure that statement should have sounded hopeful. Perhaps he was reading the tone wrong, but there was no upward intonation, no bright challenge, just a downward tilt to the words as if Elliot were disappointed by the prospect.

Of course, Elliot wanted to be helpful, lived for it, really, and he hated to feel useless. Perhaps that had plagued him too often since London had fallen ill, that purposelessness, and now he sought any menial chore to alleviate his sense of inadequacy?

But, no. That didn't seem right.

His mind wobbled and tilted, too uncertain on its axis to process the thought properly. Elliot was an enigma at the best of times, and now he was a fractal creature, all promising umbra and tender resplendence. The Consulting Criminal felt torn between fascination and frustration, and he let out a gusty sigh. It became a groan as his sinuses protested to the change in air pressure, and he pressed the pillow back to his face in desperation.

With every passing minute the Norazophen was becoming less effective, taking its comfort with it and leaving his body to return to its natural, agony-riddled state. Part of him knew it was better than it could have been. Without the drug, he would have been caught in an endless loop of sleepless pain for days, driving his body to further extremes through the sheer inability to escape the biting, snarling, slashing creature the migraine became. However, even now, he could barely function as a human-being, let alone display anything like his usual genius.

'Bed,' he said decisively. 'I need to get to bed.'

'Sure you won't throw up if you move?' Elliot asked.

London felt the pillow shift, cotton clinging lovingly to the contours of his face for a moment before the dull twilight of the living room tried to crowbar its way around his eyelids, drifting through the web of his lashes like smoke as he hesitantly peeled his eyes open.

The firelight made the ceiling undulate softly above his head, and he turned away, choosing to examine Elliot instead as he considered the question. 'If I don't move now, I'll be stuck here all night. You're not going to leave me, and I'm not going to let you sleep on the floor.' He laid out the facts like a poker player putting down a winning hand, inviting no arguments and making no apology. He knew Elliot too well to believe the doctor would leave London in this state to retire upstairs to his bed. At least in London's room there was a big mattress and enough soft pillows for them both. 'I don't know if I'll sleep, but I don't intend to let you deny yourself of the chance through stubbornness.'

'That's pretty rich, coming from you,' Elliot pointed out, lunging forward to grab London's shoulders as he sat up and wobbled. The room pitched and swirled around him. His stomach clenched, but the retch did not materialize, and London drew in a deep breath. The vertigo normally came on sooner than this, but then no attack was precisely the same, and he swallowed hard as he gripped Elliot's arms and dragged himself unwillingly to his feet.

'I'd carry you if I thought it would help, but I'm guessing it would make it worse,' Elliot murmured. He kept one hand steady between his shoulder-blades as he guided London the short distance back to the bedroom.

God, yes. Being picked up would be awful, although part of him was impressed with the knowledge that Elliot could almost certainly bear his weight without difficulty. At least now he knew his feet were rooted on the floor, even if every other sense was trying to make him a liar. The very thought of being picked up and suspended, unattached and weightless in a pirouetting world, was enough to turn London's skin clammy, and he pressed his lips together in mute response.

The bed swam in front of his vision: an altar of comfort amidst a jagged, cruel reality. London eased himself onto it, wishing that the gasp of feathers and the flex and give of springs could bring as much comfort to his head as they did his body.

'You need to get that dressing gown off,' Elliot said bluntly, and despite himself, London smiled to hear the embarrassed stammer in Elliot's explanation. 'I – I mean you'll probably choke yourself on the sash if you toss and turn in the night. Come on.'

Warm palms tucked beneath the loose lapels of the silk dressing gown, brushing the thin, delicate fabric from London's skin: down around the curve of his shoulders and, when he shifted his weight to free it, along the length of his arms to fall from his fingertips. Elliot simply tugged it out from beneath London's back like someone performing that trick with a tablecloth where they could whip it off and leave cutlery and crockery in place. It would be hell on the material, but London was too busy studying the sensation to care.

'I need to go and bank the fire, and bring back your bucket. Can you do without me for a few minutes?'

London hummed a vaguely positive response, keeping his eyes shut tight against the waltz of the world and grounding himself through the other senses available to him. It lessened the rocking, sickly sway, although even his skin seemed to suggest that his surroundings were pulsing, losing themselves in paroxysms.

Eventually, he became aware of the metallic percussion of the catch of the door, and the faint clank of the empty bucket at the side of the bed. A brief, bright flash of light suggested Elliot had turned on one of the bedside lamps, but it was hurriedly muted, and London opened one eye a fraction to see that a thick towel had been draped over the shade, allowing through only the faintest hint of light. Enough for him to see the bucket, should he need it, but adequately dim for the orchestra in his head to concentrate on velveteen Vivaldi, rather than descending into a crescendo of Beethoven's fifth.

Elliot had changed into a t-shirt and pajama pants, modestly covered from neck to toe with only his forearms and feet bare. 'Is this all right?' he asked, gesturing to the cotton. 'It's not going to set you off again, is it?'

'No,' London managed. 'Sensitivity's gone. Now everything’s –' He waved a hand, then pressed it over his eyes. 'Rippling.'

A sympathetic noise escaped Elliot's throat, but it was a fruitless one. The Consulting Criminal knew there was nothing Elliot could do to ease the swaying, sinking feeling, and he winced as Elliot gently eased his weight down onto the mattress. He did his best not to make matters worse, that much was obvious, but the very real movement adding to the maelstrom of imagined vertigo was almost too much. London felt the sweat burst across his forehead and settle in the hollow of his cheekbones, and he clutched his fingers tight in the sheet, for once trying to let his body over-rule his fallacious mind.

'Better?' Elliot asked, and London opened his eyes just a fraction. There was still something a bit distorted about the world, but he could ignore it for long enough to see the earnest light in Elliot's tired eyes.

London wriggled on the mattress, his hands moving up before he slotted his body in close, feeling the rasp of tired old cotton against his stomach, chest and thighs as he bound himself thoroughly to the one stable element in a volatile existence.

'Better.'

Elliot meant to stay awake, to keep fragile vigil over London's pain-racked form, but the stress of the day took its toll. He could not even find the line where reality – London warm and vivid in his arms – faded away, replaced instead by a hot, dusty wind and the scent of cedar mixed with gunfire.

Initially, the dream was innocuous: a memory of another time and place. Afghanistan's rugged terrain awaited him, where mountain met desert and the slim belt of green land in between carried the fragrance of both. The ground beneath his boots brimmed with sultry heat, beating back onto his face and making the nape of his neck slick with sweat as his pack dragged at his shoulders.

His helmet was a snug burden over his skull, and the cotton of his fatigues, dyed to match the distant sand, were stained almost bland with the collection of too much dust. His feet ached from the long patrol, but even before his mind began to turn, he knew something was wrong.

There was no one else here. He should have been surrounded by the rest of his unit, all of them together as they scoured the area for insurgents or IEDs, yet there was no one but him and the ghostly, empty breath of the wind. Elliot blinked grit from his eyes and licked his dry lips, forcing himself to focus on the ground beneath his feet. This was not right. He could feel a sense of threat all the way down to his bones. The heavy presence of death hung in the air, and he found himself cringing at what he might find.

It was Carter he saw first. Part of his mind, distantly logical, whispered that the soldier had never died here in the battle-zone. He was back in Britain, safe and sound, and so was Elliot... This was just another nightmare. Yet the rationalization could not be heard over the dull thud of his pulse in his ears as he hunkered down at the corpse's side.

He was too late – days too late. Carter's eyes had turned cloudy, and his face crawled with flies, darting in and out of slack lips around the thin, black maw of an open mouth. His skin had started to desiccate, turning dry and paper thin in the arid heat. His hair was clogged with dust, his body lax and unresponsive – rigor mortis long since passed.

Cautiously, Elliot put his gun down beside his boot. It meant it was within easy reach in case of an ambush but left his hands free to probe the body. His fingers moved jerkily, first at Carter's throat, then eyelids, then chest with no obvious movement in between. He looked for a blocked airway, a broken hyoid bone, a bullet wound – anything that might show him how Carter had ended up like this, but there was nothing. It was as if he had just dropped where he stood. His pack was beneath his back, making his spine arch and twist. The canteen at his hip was still full of brackish, hot water, and his gun lay not far from his right hand, fully loaded.

Sitting back on his heels, Elliot cuffed the back of his hand over his sweat-glossed brow, squinting around the brush and feeling his heart drop as he saw the other bodies. Like Carter, they lay where they had fallen: puppets with their strings cut. All his old unit gone. Even those who Elliot had seen blown to nothing were there, whole and untouched but dead all the same, and his skin crawled with the wrongness of it all.

A sound made him blink and look around with more purpose, straining his ears until it came again: a moan carried along on the hot gasp of the wind. The noise seemed to shimmer at its edges, unearthly and half-lost in the heat haze, and Elliot called out, his voice a cracked echo in the lank air.

The only answer was a flash of movement: white like a flag of surrender – a pallid hand that looked like bleached bone in Afghanistan's merciless sun. It came from within some tall grass off to his left, almost as high as Elliot's shoulders, and he parted the reeds with frantic slashes of his arms, trying to find whoever was caught up in the parched vegetation's grasp.

When he found him, he wished to God he hadn't: milky skin, dark hair and a suit – not military fatigues. Elliot wanted to scream because this was not how these nightmares went, but the sound got caught in his dry throat, coming out as a groan of misery. If he could have torn himself from sleep, he would but, though part of him knew this was a dream, there was no way out. All he could do was stand there and stare at the man who did not belong in Afghanistan's heat.

London was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest and his hands pressed to his face, blocking Elliot's view. His hair shone like wet ink, the curls almost obscenely dark against the skin at his temples. Yet even as Elliot took in his friend's hunched form, he noticed the blood. It was caught in London's ear, gleaming like a ruby: an endless well that had no place in the curve of that cartilage shell. As Elliot watched, it spilled over, carving a gory line down his throat.

'Holmes?' Elliot staggered forward, dropping to his knees and reaching out, wrapping tanned fingers around slender wrists. 'You're hurt. Let me – let me see. Come on.'

His only response was another, miserable pulse of sound from low in London's throat but, inch by inch, the hands began to drop, revealing what lay beneath. Rivulets of red ran from London's nose, the corner of his lips, the ducts of his eyes, writing a visceral story down the blank paper of his face. It made his irises look like green cut glass, impossibly bright and burning with pain, yet it was the circle at his brow that caught Elliot's attention: bone shards and pulp, brain matter swelling into the breach left by the bullet.

Head-shot.

It should have been fatal, immediately so, yet the Consulting Criminal was still alive, his eyes sharp and his breathing hitched with agony. 'It's – I can't – I can't think!'

Elliot's fingers fluttered uselessly, grazing over London's cheekbones and up to his temples in a futile effort to soothe. Head injury, brain swelling... He should relieve the pressure, but with what? He was in the middle of fucking Afghanistan, and nothing in his kit could do this kind of surgery. This was for the cold clinics of the hospital and a skilled neurosurgeon. That's what it would take to make London's miracle of survival something meaningful. He was just – just an army medic: amputating legs, patching bullet holes and hoping for the best... Not this.

Not London.

'Please!' It was a desperate cry, almost child-like but for the deepness of the man's voice, and Elliot launched into action, trying to stem the blood-flow, swearing and praying under his breath as London's voice hitched on dry, terrible sobs.

'We need to get you back to base. They can help you there.'

It was a lie, and London knew it. The knowledge was there in his eyes, sick and terrified. Elliot twitched as London's fingers fumbled at the holster on Elliot's belt. The pistol thudded into the dry grass, and for a moment they both stared at it. London's breathing sounded ragged: death's slow approach. It could take a while, Elliot knew that. Hours of pain and panic, of a body falling apart as its control center was crushed and torn by its own swelling.

'You can still help me,' London rasped, his head sagging forward into the curve of Elliot's palm as he picked up the gun and put it in Elliot's other hand. The safety hammer was already cocked, and the gun's black shape seemed to absorb the sunlight, drowning it out in the sleek, dark lines of its form. Elliot's finger curved on the trigger automatically, but it was London's shaking hands that guided Elliot's arm up until the muzzle of the pistol pressed into the flesh beneath London's jaw.

Elliot's heart turned to ice. He felt the chill even as he found his voice. 'No...'

'Elliot –'

London’s hand slipped for a moment, sweat making his palm slick over the back of Elliot's wrist. Yet the grip returned, tighter than before, and the pressure in the knuckle of Elliot's trigger-finger increased ten-fold.

'No.'

The Browning was trembling: a twitching, lively thing in Elliot's grasp, stamping its presence onto London's skin. It rattled faintly, a cool, metallic sound in this hot, dry, other kind of hell, where the Consulting Criminal's blood still flowed and those eyes pleaded from the pallor of that familiar face. 'Help me.'

A noise escaped Elliot's throat: heartbreak, even as he shook his head and tried to form the words he needed. 'No. Don't – I can't. I can't.'

'It's the last thing I'll ever ask of you,' he managed, and for the first time that confident, arrogant, beautiful voice cracked right through, hoarse with unshed tears. 'The very last thing.'

He felt London's fingers tighten over his on the trigger – felt the moment when the gun went from a killing machine poised for action to an implement of utter destruction: balance lost and no going back.

The sound of the shot exploded through Elliot's head, and his own scream tore him, panting and choking, from the nightmare's clutches.