'You're still tired. You've not slept.' London pulled at Elliot's hand, shuffling over in wordless invitation.

'Nurses frown on that kind of thing,' Elliot pointed out, trying to ignore the way his body ached. 'The chair will be fine.'

'The chair will kill your back and make your shoulder ache,' London pointed out with flawless logic, a thin sigh escaping his lips. When he spoke again, his words were plain and to the point, reluctantly voiced as if wrenched from him by necessity. 'You need a bed. Get in.'

Belatedly, Elliot realized he had risen to his feet, already obeying London's instruction without thought. Now, he hesitated, torn between acceptable behavior and what he wanted.

He did need a bed, though, yet here there was nothing like privacy, and any nurse would probably show him the door if they found him curled up next to London, no matter how chastely. Then there was the risk of another seizure. It would be all too easy for one or both of them to get hurt if London experienced any more convulsions.

He pursed his lips, closing his eyes in a blink before striding over to shut the door to London's room. It was a thin barrier between them and the world, but for all his reservations, Elliot could not bring himself to say no to London's demand: the logical arguments of the doctor in him overwhelmed by the basic desire for the comfort of London's presence.  

Just for a little while.

Kicking off his boots, he propped his hip on the narrow edge of the mattress that London had vacated. There was no IV line to get in the way anymore, and only the pulse monitor on London's other hand offered any kind of restraint, its long, lax cable giving him all the mobility he needed to budge closer to the edge so that Elliot could lie down on top of the sheets.

'For God's sake, just don't bloody fall out,' Elliot muttered. The bed was painfully narrow, only ever designed for one, and even with the two of them at the very borders of the mattress, they were pressed together face-to-face: a close seam of fabric with warm flesh beneath. Gradually, the litany of reasons about why this was such a very bad idea began to fade from Elliot's mind, muted by the downy weight of encroaching sleep. Yet next to him, for all his apparent ease, London's breathing had not grown slow and deep.

'You should sleep. You've got to be tired. All that poking and prodding.'

'I will,' London whispered, his words barely disturbing the air of the peaceful hospital room. 'Later.'

Elliot wanted to argue, to drag up his military training and infuse his command of “No, now!” with some strength, but it was no use. His arguments fell quiet, left unsaid as the unstoppable tide of sleep crept in.

Beyond the door, the hectic to-and-fro of the hospital continued.

Yet in the slender bed Elliot found peace.

The thought of holding someone else while they slept had, before now, struck London as nothing but an enormous waste of time. What possible interest could he have in a somnolent person when there was so much else in the world – enfolded within the dark veils of the night – to catch his attention?

Now it felt as if, for Elliot at least, he could happily make an exception. He could try and restrain himself to the confines of a bed for the hours of darkness and focus all his brilliance down to this point – this one man and his mysteries. Being captivated by a human being who was not an interestingly murdered corpse was fairly rare. Most were so simple, and on the surface Elliot had been no different. Other people saw the doctor, the friend, the man saint-enough to put up with the Consulting Criminal and all his eccentricities.

Yet Elliot had shown London the chimera complex of his nature that first night. Good doctor, heroic soldier, cold blooded killer: his parts set out for the Consulting Criminal to see but the sum of him, the equation of his entire existence, still a mystery. A puzzle that, for once, London could not solve. He deeply suspected he could know Elliot all his life and still never gain the full measure of the man.

However, that was not the root of his fascination. It was merely the best approximation his logical mind could create: a cold comfort to appease his analytical nature while in the abyssal, bloody depths of his heart, more accurate suspicions stirred. They were not facts – there was nothing known or quantifiable to what he felt – merely a certainty that, in Elliot, he had found all the things he had not even known he was looking for.

London could not decide whether he was enthralled or terrified.

A knock at the door prevented him from reaching a suitable conclusion. For a moment, he considered feigning sleep in the hopes that he and Elliot would be left alone. Nurses were sympathetic, after all, and might not want to disturb a resting patient. However, the footsteps told him that the intruder was not medical personnel. Alexander's efficient pace was distinctive anywhere: clean-soled shoes tapping on the linoleum. There was nothing as undignified as the squeak of leather or the clatter of a trailing lace, but London did catch the falter in his brother's step halfway into the room – a tiny moment of hesitation that spoke volumes to the discerning ear.

From the doorway, it would be impossible to see Elliot curled up close and tucked in against London's chest, but it seemed his brother had noticed that the bed held two people, rather than one.

London was tempted to look over his shoulder and read his brother's expression – perhaps then he would be able to gauge the sincerity of Alexander's earlier encouragement. However, it was unnecessary. His brother's movements resumed, and there was a smug tempo to his stride. Something slower and more pleased, as if he wanted to claim the credit for the fact that Elliot was currently asleep in London's arms.

'Doctor Patel is on his way,' Alexander whispered, and London arched one eyebrow in surprise. Not at the message, but the tone. The hush of his words showed an odd consideration for Elliot's continuing peace. 'Perhaps you should awaken Elliot before he arrives? I'll wait outside.'

London blinked, hearing the hiss of his lashes against the pillow as the door closed behind Alexander's back. This was the second time he had found them in bed together. Both occurrences were relatively chaste, but his reactions were polar opposites. London doubted that the reversal of behavior was through any regard for him. His brother delighted in causing both discomfort and embarrassment. However, perhaps at last his older brother was giving Elliot the respect he deserved, neither jolting him from sleep by speaking at normal volume or causing embarrassment by lingering when Elliot was at his most vulnerable.

Glancing back down at Elliot's restful profile, London held back a sigh. He did not want to disturb him. Elliot had sacrificed sleep for his benefit, and now breaking the sepulcher of slumber felt criminal. However, he knew Elliot would rather be woken than left to face the consequences of being found in London's narrow hospital bed.

'Doctor Patel will be here soon,' London murmured, not daring to suggest vacating the bed. That felt too much like Elliot was unwelcome, and nothing could be further from the truth.

Elliot pulled back and screwed his eyes up tight, charting radial lines at their corners before blinking them open again, his pupils contracting as he focused on London's face.

'Right – I should probably get up then,' he rasped, his voice rusty and low. However, he made no move to leave the feeble cradle of the mattress. 'Are you all right?' he asked, frowning as he seemed to take in more of London's appearance. 'Did you sleep at all?'

'I rested,' London replied, deliberately vague. Not that it fooled Elliot for a moment. Even like this, lazy and dense from sleep, he was sharp enough to read London's real answer.

'You didn't even close your eyes, did you?' he sighed as he swung his feet over the edge of the mattress and easing himself upright. He stretched his arms above his head, and London heard the “pop” of Elliot's joints beneath the shroud of his clothes and skin: one of the tells of middle-age. 'How are you feeling?'

'Hungover,' London replied. It was the best analogy for the situation. He felt no worse than anyone would after a very intoxicated night out, and no better, either. If he had awoken with this, he would have spent the day in bed, avoiding noise and light and swearing never to drink again. It was only in comparison to the migraine's previous stampede that it could be considered mild. 'Nauseous and pained, but otherwise much improved.'

'You really should have tried to sleep. Your body needs it. You look done in.'

London hummed, a sound neither of agreement nor debate. He would sleep properly when he was back at Baker Street, in familiar surroundings and his comfortable bed. Now, even if he hadn't spent the time watching Elliot, he knew he would not have managed more than a shallow doze. There was simply too much of everything: noise, fragrance, people, data... The flow was ceaseless, even on his own in a seemingly bland room, and his mind was too sluggish to process it effectively. The end result was him lying, lethargic but unable to switch off. 

At least with Elliot here he was able to ignore the ephemera of his environment.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside reached London's ears, and he looked up to see Doctor Patel shoulder the door aside, hands full of files and his gaze fixed solidly on the paperwork in front of him. His glance of acknowledgement was brief before he set the dossiers down on the table at the other side of the room and reached for London's chart.

London could sense Elliot tensing nearby, muscles coiling as if bracing himself for bad news. Alexander was hovering by the doorway, wearing a poor mask of aggravation over his concern. No doubt he had tried to quiz Doctor Patel before he got here and had failed miserably. He always had been tight-lipped about London's condition, preferring to speak directly to him, even when he was a child.

With a sigh, London settled back into his pillows, flicking one last glance over the Doctor before he spoke. 'The Norazophen caused the seizures.'

'I see you still have a habit of diagnosing yourself, Mr Holmes,' Doctor Patel murmured, his tone unimpressed as if he had seen the trick a dozen times before – which he had. His shock and discomfort had worn off within an hour the first time London had deduced him. A quicker recovery time than most other people, some of whom held a grudge for years. 'What made you arrive at that conclusion?'

'Pipette in the pocket of your lab coat; solution stain on the right sleeve, dark because it's not quite dry. Your eyes are not bloodshot from staring at monitors, so you have been using lab equipment instead – centrifuge, microscope and spectrometer, probably.' He pointed meaningfully at his hands, where tiny white grains were still caught in the webs of his fingers. 'You have powder from the latex gloves on your skin – gloves which you wouldn't need to analyse imagery data. You've been re-running the blood-work to check an earlier finding, which probably relates to the Norazophen.'

Doctor Patel's sigh was restrained and, perhaps, faintly amused as he set London's file down and met his eyes. 'You're right, as usual. There is no sign of any abnormal growth, brain activity or blood vessel disruption in any of the scans. Nothing to indicate either a structural problem or a developing condition. The hematology was the only thing that showed anything unusual.'

He grabbed one of the files, flicking it open and offering it, London noted with surprise, to Elliot. 'As you can see, prolactin levels are normal. We took blood within ten minutes of a seizure, and if it had been caused by epilepsy, we should see a rise in hypothalamus hormones.'

'There's a high-level of Immunoglobulin E,' Elliot murmured, a frown creasing his brow as he looked up at Doctor Patel. 'He had a bloody allergic reaction!'

Doctor Patel nodded, hands folded demurely in front of him and gaze a little unfocused as he began to explain. 'As Norazophen decays, it breaks down into different protein strands which the body filters out in the kidneys and liver. In a small percentage of users, a gradual immune response to these proteins has been seen.' He sighed in professional irritation as if aggravated by the failing. 'It means that a patient can receive the drug on and off for years with no ill-effects. However, even when the Norazophen is gone, the antibodies remain.'

'What does that mean?' Alexander asked, his voice flat and pinched at having to ask for clarification.

'It means that each time he's been exposed to the Norazophen, he has produced more antibodies, adding to the number already present in his cells and bloodstream,' Elliot explained, his eyes scanning back and forth as he read the notes.

'This time there were enough antibodies to cause a noticeable reaction. In this case it manifested as seizures. Rare, but not unheard of,' Doctor Patel finished, standing aside to let one of the nurses through. 'I would like to take some more blood and check that the levels of both Norazophen and Immunoglobulin E have fallen to acceptable levels. The lack of seizures for the past six hours or so indicates that the issue has passed, but we'll provide antihistamines to speed recovery.'

London narrowed his eyes as more blood was drawn and a serum was injected into his vein. He stared at his arm after the needle had been withdrawn, dwelling on Doctor Patel's words. An allergic response was unexpected; there had been no other symptoms – no itching or rashes – but he had seen enough victims to know that allergies were anything but predictable. They could kill instantly, or present as nothing but a mild discomfort, and any rhyme or reason seemed well beyond the grasp of the general populace.

'So there was no immediate reaction when I administered the injections because it's not the drug molecule he's sensitive to,' Elliot said, speaking in the steady way of someone working through a problem.

'It was only once there was a certain amount of degraded Norazophen in his blood that he began to suffer.'

Doctor Patel nodded, writing something on London's chart and circling it repeatedly. 'It has occurred previously in a small percentage of users, hence my suspicion.'

'What about the next time he requires medication?' Alexander asked, speaking up as he approached his brother's bed. 'He has suffered these migraines for almost twenty years. He will need pharmaceutical assistance to deal with future attacks.'

'I will endeavour to find an alternative,' the doctor replied. 'Unfortunately, the drug is no longer a viable treatment for Mr Holmes, but now we are aware of the allergic response, we can monitor any potential sensitivities and be prepared to react promptly should the situation repeat itself.' He retracted the nib of his ballpoint pen with a click, slipping the chart back in the holder at the end of the bed and retrieving the file from Elliot's hand. 'You'll still need to stay another night for observation, Mr Holmes. However, as long as no further complications arise, we can discharge you into Elliot's care tomorrow morning.'

London drew in a deep breath through his nose before giving a minuscule nod of his head. When neither his brother or Elliot spoke up with additional questions, the doctor departed, his stride more weary now that his job was done and the small mystery solved. Of course, the greater puzzle of London's migraines remained unanswered, as always: a threat that would no doubt recur, and now there was no minor relief of the Norazophen to see him through the next storm.

'Christ,' Elliot murmured, sitting down in the chair and scrubbing his hands over his face. 'I don't know whether to be relieved or terrified.'

'An allergy is better than a brain tumor, surely,' London replied, trying to string the words together as his eyes drifted shut, too heavy to keep open. He suspected the antihistamine was to blame, and he struggled to focus as Elliot continued to speak.

'Of course, but what if you had gone into anaphylactic shock instead? What if you'd just – just died on me?' Elliot sounded distantly horrified. 'I never thought I'd actually be grateful for seizures.' He paused, and London could hear the dry whisper of Elliot's palms rubbing against each other as he considered the possibilities.

London managed an inquisitive noise deep in his throat, too weary to articulate a question, but Elliot understood anyway: finely tuned after so long living together.

'Just because you had seizures this time, doesn't mean that it won't be worse if it happens again. Also, the only way to find out if you're allergic to the alternative drugs is to give them to you and see if you develop a sensitivity.' Elliot's sigh sounded far away, like the distant Mistral, and London struggled to keep his grasp on the clinical coolness of the hospital room rather than the soft darkness of tempting sleep. 'I don't want to be caught unprepared.'

It was a sensible response, practical, like Elliot himself, and London smiled. He had never known, in all his volatile existence, that this was what he needed: both a stable counterweight and a dazzling catalyst. It was hard to remember how it had been different, once, how his entire life had been unbalanced – on the edge of a precipice and braced for the fall.

As he slipped back into darkness, London's final thought was of the man at his side: the one who did not hold him back from that dangerous edge, but instead let him fly.

Elliot stood on the threshold of Baker Street, his keys rattling in the lock as he shoved the door open and looked back. One of Alexander's sleek, black cars idled at the curb, and London, dressed in a t-shirt and the pajama pants he often wore around the flat, was easing himself free from the vehicle.

It was hard to believe that, only yesterday morning, he had been carried out by paramedics, almost insensate from the pain in his head. Now, at least, he could stand on his own two feet, though Elliot did not miss the way he winced at the dreary light of the overcast day, or the delicate way he held his body as if every muscle ached. The Consulting Criminal was not at one-hundred-percent, not yet, but he was feeling well enough to sulk.

'It's unnecessary,' he muttered, his comment directed at his brother. The older Holmes was standing on the other side of the car, one hand resting patiently on the roof as he watched London pick his way over to Elliot's side. 'Can't you do something about it?'

'It's unlike you to ask me for a favor,' Alexander replied, his lips curving into a smug smile before he shook his head. 'Even if I could, I would not oblige you, brother mine. You will get your license back in six months, as long as you do not have any further seizures.' Alexander met Elliot's gaze, and there was a hint of shared understanding and pity for London's fractiousness before the expression was gone. 'I will leave you in Elliot's more than capable hands. Do call, won't you?'

With that, he folded himself back into his car, the door easing shut in his wake. Immediately, the vehicle carried him off to wage war, world domination, or whatever it was that Alexander actually did when he wasn't spying on his brother.

With a sigh, Elliot focused his attention on his the Consulting Criminal, running his gaze over that slender body in mute interrogation. He kept telling himself that he was fine, recovering nicely and released from hospital with the doctor's permission. However, that did not stop the twitchy anxiety that continued to roll through his stomach.

The antihistamines London had been given the previous night had plunged him into a deep, thick sleep that lasted almost twelve hours. Thanks to Alexander, Elliot had been able to spend it at London's side on a spare bed that the nurses had wheeled in. Surprisingly, for all the space available, it had not been nearly as restful as being tucked up against London's warm body, and Elliot had tossed and turned while London remained oblivious.

The blood tests taken first thing in the morning had been promising, showing that the allergic response had significantly diminished. Doctor Patel had prescribed some more antihistamines to be taken orally over the next few days before finally allowing London – who was at least well enough to be aggravating the medical staff by announcing embarrassing details about their personal lives – to leave. However, there had been one last sting in the tail of the whole scenario. One that did not bother Elliot one bit but that had left the Consulting Criminal severely disgruntled: 

His driver's license had been revoked.

'Are you sure it's standard procedure?' London asked suspiciously as he shuffled through the door and into the front hall, looking over his shoulder at Elliot.

'They do it to everyone who has a seizure. Convulsions and driving aren't a good mix. It's not like you really use it, anyway,' Elliot pointed out, guiding his friend's wobbly footsteps up the seventeen stairs. 'You rather take cabs or walk everywhere.'

'That's not the point,' London grumbled, but it was fairly half-hearted as he leaned against the wall by the door to the flat, waiting for Elliot to let him in. 'What if I get a case outside of the City?'

'Then I'll drive.' Elliot fought back a smile as he added, in a tone faintly reminiscent of London at his most arrogant, 'Obviously.' Pushing the door open he rested his hand on London's elbow, absently guiding him into the familiar surroundings of their home. 'Either that or there is a perfectly good public transport system available.'

The look on London's face – a mixture of doubt at Elliot's driving abilities and repulsion at the thought of public transport – had Elliot struggling not to smile. With every passing minute it was as if London was reclaiming the mantle of his existence and becoming more himself again, and to see him like that was a balm to all the open wounds of Elliot's concern.

'I think I would rather stick to walking,' London replied, reaching up to tunnel his fingers through his hair and then wrinkling his nose as they caught in the lank tangle of his curls. Without a word, he turned towards the bathroom, his fingers catching on the hem of his t-shirt before he dragged it over his head and dropped it on the floor.

Water hissed in the bottom of the bath, and Elliot lifted his voice to be heard over the cascade. 'Shout if you need help, and don't lock the door. I don't want to have to break it down if you keel over!' In fact, the thought of London being alone in a room with a dozen different ways to drown was enough to crank up the tension in his muscles, and Elliot swore quietly to himself, loathing the lingering fear and insecurity that plucked at him.

The Consulting Criminal had every right to privacy and did not need Elliot hovering uselessly around in case something went wrong. Yet the thought of stepping back from his vigil and doing something useful was almost inconceivable. In the end, he settled for leaning back against the wall to the left of the bathroom door and keeping an ear open for any sounds of distress.

Logically, he knew the risk of a seizure had all but passed. The allergic response to the drug had faded, and London had improved in leaps and bounds. He was no longer rendered immobile by the pain in his head, nor befuddled by the confusion of his senses. Instead he was like anyone else recovering from an illness: fatigued and uncomfortable, but caught in the half-way stage between bed-ridden and complete health. He would not be well enough to go charging across the City in the next few days, but nor would he be so ill that lying in bed would be a necessity.

Before all this, the thought of London caught in that no-man's land would have filled Elliot with dread. Boredom was a given, and the inability of the Consulting Criminal's transport to assuage it would lead to dark moods and sulks all round. Now, though, he could almost see it as a blessing. He would take London shooting the walls and screaming bored over sobs of agony any day of the week.

The drum of the shower cut out just as there was a knock at the apartment door, and Elliot heard a distinctive titter of greeting.

'Woohoo!?'

'Hello, Mrs Hanson,' Elliot called. He pushed himself away from the wall and looked around the corner to see their landlady wandering over to the table, clearing a space among the Erlenmeyer flasks for a casserole pot.

'Oh, dear. You look exhausted,' she fussed, flapping a tea-towel in his direction before craning her neck to see over his shoulder. 'How is he...?'

'He's in the shower, and much better now. He had an allergic reaction to the migraine medication,' Elliot explained, keeping it basic. 'Gave everyone a bit of a scare.'

Mrs Hanson tutted and shook her head in pity, absently flicking the kettle on and reaching for Elliot's mug. 'I brought you boys some dinner. Hospital food's no good for anyone, and London needs to keep his strength up. He looked so pale when they took him away!' Her hands fluttered briefly at her chest before she straightened her shoulders, making Elliot's tea with the absent-minded efficiency of someone keeping their hands busy.

'I also changed his sheets while you were gone, since I didn't know how long it would be until you got home. I would have done yours, but there was no need, since you'd not slept in them.'

Elliot paused in the act of reaching for his mug, glancing sideways to see Mrs Hanson smothering a smile, her cheeks rounded with the effort. 'It was best for me to stay with him, in case he took ill during the night,' he managed, wondering why he was bothering with an excuse. Mrs Hudson had not believed a word on that score since the day he moved in.

'Of course, dear,' Mrs Hanson replied, her eyes sparkling as she patted his hand. 'You look after him so well. Now, you make sure he eats something, and if you need anything just let me know.' She looked up as London exited the bathroom, his curls damp, his jaw clean-shaven, clean pajama pants, a shirt that was inside out (as usual) and his dressing gown slung around his shoulders and untied at his waist. 'And you, young man, make sure Elliot doesn't work his fingers to the bone taking care of you,' she chided, giving London a firm look before shaking her head. 'It won't do for him to fall ill as well.'

London's eyes met Elliot's, sharply focused as if scanning him for any sign of poor health. Yet it was not the normal chill scrutiny of London's deductive gaze; there was a hint of softness to it.

'Elliot will be fine.' London replied in his usual brusque fashion, gifting her a hint of a smile. 'I'll make sure of it.'

Mrs Hanson's gaze took on a more knowing edge, and Elliot restrained a sigh as she waved a farewell and headed down the stairs, leaving him to examine the contents of the pot. The scent of beef and rosemary assailed his nose, making his stomach groan and his mouth water. He did not care that it was too early for dinner and almost too late for lunch. Meals had been hit and miss the past few days, and his stomach demanded satisfaction.

'You need to eat,' he called out to London, who had retired to the couch, one arm pressed over his eyes again and his body a boneless sprawl. It was a far-cry from his usual contained repose. The blue silk of his dressing gown was doing its best to slip away from him. 'You all right?'

The hum of agreement seemed like an inadequate answer, and Elliot sighed before grabbing a pair of bowls and doling out some of the stew. Plenty for him, and just a bit for London, who was occasionally like a small child and tended to be put off by a full plate. Setting them down on the coffee table, along with some cutlery, he wandered over to the windows, drawing the heavy curtains and blocking out the daylight before turning on one of the more mellow lamps.

'Come on.' He gave London's feet a shove until there was enough space for him to sit down at the end of the couch. 'If you don't sit up and eat, I'll just have to feed it to you.'

The Consulting Criminal lowered his arm and raised an eyebrow. 'Is that meant to be a threat?'

'I'll deliberately spill gravy on your dressing gown and ruin it,' Elliot promised, shoving a forkful in his own mouth before watching London carefully. Familiarity made it easy to pick out the lingering signs of strain, and Elliot wiped his chin with the back of his hand before grabbing some cushions and gesturing for London to lean forward.

He did so stiffly, his lips tightening in discomfort before Elliot eased him back, letting the cushions support London's weight in a half-reclined position before handing him his bowl. 'Was the shower too much?' he asked, unable to hide his sympathy as London scowled in annoyance at his own weakness.

'It felt refreshing for the first couple of minutes,' London explained, chewing a mouthful and swallowing it before lifting one shoulder in a shrug.'After that it became more reminiscent of having nails hammered through my skull.'

Elliot winced, easily imagining exactly what he meant. 'There are some painkillers you can take with the antihistamines. Good food and decent rest should do the trick.' It sounded like a cop-out cure, but getting London to attend to his most basic needs other than breathing was nigh on impossible. All it meant was that, when he became unwell, his body was ill-prepared to handle it, deprived as it was of rest and resources. 'You barely touched the breakfast at the hospital.'

'Only the most generous of people could call that swill “food”.'

'I'm surprised you're so picky since you wouldn't know a decent meal if it bit you on the arse,' Elliot replied jokingly. 'Want any more?' He nodded towards London's empty bowl, anticipating the reply as London shook his head – a stiff, grating motion – and set the dish aside.

It was a small victory getting him to eat even that little bit, and Elliot pressed down on the familiar temptation to push and cajole. In the end, London was not malnourished, and Elliot really had no right to interfere. Instead he simply did his best to nudge the Consulting Criminal in the direction of sustenance when he got the chance and tolerated him pinching bits of food from his plate those frequent times when he ate dinner and London refused to order anything.

Walking over to the kitchen, Elliot sorted out the leftovers, keeping them safe from anything vile in the fridge. Nothing in there had started to smell, but Elliot knew better than to believe there weren't any experiments hidden in the depths. Finally, he got a glass of water and tapped out some tablets, double-checking the strength of the dose before returning to the Consulting Criminal's side, the slender white capsules nestled in his palm like pearls.

'One antihistamine, two paracetamol,' he said, not missing the fact that London didn't hesitate when presented with the drugs. Either he trusted Elliot not to give him something dangerous or was too eager for relief to care.

It was only when the water and pills were all gone that he took the glass from London's grasp and placed it on the coffee table before grabbing his book and easing back onto the couch again. Normally, the couch was London's domain, fully occupied by his long, lanky frame. However, sitting in his usual armchair felt too much like exile, and besides, London for now still seemed fairly willing to share his space – for a given value of share.

Opening his book to the page with the corner folded down, Elliot tried to force himself to focus on the words. After a patchy few nights of inadequate rest, his brain was not up for anything too complex, but dozing off now felt like defeat. Besides, he would pay for it with a messed up sleep schedule when everything finally settled down.

Yet the story was failing to hold Elliot's attention. He was too aware of the man a bare hand's length away from him. London had his arm draped over his eyes again, head leaning back on the arm of the couch.

'You've been on one page for nearly seven minutes. It's the Pope,' The Consulting Criminal muttered, jolting Elliot back to reality. 'The Pope is killing the cardinals. Predictable. Why do you read such drivel?'

'It's entertainment, Holmes. It doesn't have to be rocket science,' he said at last. 'And just so you know, enjoyment of a book isn't just about knowing how it ends. Sometimes it's in the detail.'

London made a derisive noise in the back of his throat, but the pitch of it changed halfway through, coming out as something more uncomfortable. 'How long until the painkillers work?' he asked.

Elliot heard the need in that question. 'Another twenty minutes or so.' He did not have the heart to tell London that the antihistamines would probably kick in at the same time, thickening his mind with drowsiness and lethargy, and rendering him unable to do anything to stave off boredom except sleep. 'Can you move? Bring that aching head up this end?'

London shifted slowly to oblige, and Elliot turned where he sat so that one leg was stretched out along the couch and his back was against the arm. That left London free to lean against his chest, and Elliot smiled at the déjà vu .

His paperback lay abandoned on the floor as he gently rubbed fingers over London's brow and temples, careful to apply only a light touch of pressure as he stroked along the orbital ridge and up over the zygomatic arch. The clean curls had started to fluff themselves up into untamed chaos, and they twisted around his knuckles lovingly as he tunneled his fingers through London's hair.

'Is this helping?' Elliot asked, wincing at the low, gravelly tone to his words. It said far more than the sentence he had uttered, but thankfully London either ignored it or failed to register it all together.

This time the noise London made was a rough, rumbling sound deep in his chest as he steadily relaxed against him further, his breathing becoming deeper and more even with every passing minute until finally the Consulting Criminal was gone, lax in sleep against Elliot's chest thanks to the pull of the drugs in his system. Yet even then, Elliot was reluctant to let him go for fear of waking him.

'The kettle's just boiled,' London murmured, a smile gracing his lips as his gaze flickered up to meet Elliot's, bright and glowing and perhaps just the slightest bit shy in this strange new territory. 

'I take it that's a hint?' he asked, keeping his voice just the right side of playful as he reached for a couple of mugs and dropped a tea bag into each one. 'How long have you been up?'

'I got up about an hour ago,' he explained, gesturing to the notebook. 'I should have been trying to write down the symptoms of the migraine as I went along. Now I have to try and remember them in the right order.'

'You keep your own notes?' Elliot set a plateful of toast down at London's side. It was meant to be for him, but he did not comment when the Consulting Criminal commandeered a slice for his own consumption, crunching it happily as he nodded his head. 'Can I see?'

'If you can read them.'

The cryptic statement became clear when Elliot leafed back through the book, taking in the mess of London's script when he was under the influence of each episode. Normally, the Consulting Criminal wrote in a relatively elegant cursive. Even when in a hurry his letters were well-formed. Yet this was not simply a case of deciphering the symbols. Missing words, incomplete sentences and whole lines of mirror-text spoke volumes for London's state of mind at the time. 'Bloody hell. Can you read any of this?'

'Some of it. It's a trade-off. If I make notes while they are happening, the sequence of symptoms becomes more reliable, but the coherence is greatly reduced. If I write about it afterwards –' He turned back to the latest entry, smooth ink flowing in comprehensible words across the page.'– It's easy to read but I can't be sure I'm getting the time-line right. It makes any attempts at pattern recognition hazy at best.'

'Does it help?' Elliot asked, settling into the chair next to London, shoulder-to-shoulder and perfectly comfortable in each other's space. 'Knowing what to expect?'

London shrugged, reaching around Elliot for some more toast. 'Somewhat. I started doing it in an effort to try and understand what the doctors couldn't, but –' He trailed off, obviously not wanting to vocalize his failure to comprehend the complex malfunction of his own physiology. 'Now it's just a way to get the extra data out of my head.'

Elliot reached for his tea, taking a sip and nodding his head. London might not have said it in so many words, but Elliot knew a ritual when he saw it. Perhaps the Consulting Criminal tried to excuse it with logic, but the act of getting things down in the notebook had seemingly developed its own importance, as much a part of recovery as actually banishing the pain. Why else would he go to so much effort to chronicle the empirical data even in the midst of his own suffering?

'Well, this time, you've got a witness. So what can't you remember?' Elliot asked as he settled on the couch, sprawling lazily even as London perched with a bit more delicacy beside him, his legs folded under him and pressed so close that the sharp angle of one knee was almost in Elliot's lap.

'It's the order of it,' London explained, tapping the pen on the paper and rubbing one hand through his hair. 'I have it all up to the crime scene, but then everything went wrong at once. I remember the murdered woman – carbon monoxide poisoning – color everywhere.'

'So the colors came first?. Your balance was also poor and you were sensitive to noise. You called Cruz “gunmetal-grey”.'

'And brutal Beethoven,' London mused, jotting something down in neat shorthand. 'I remember that. Donovan and Anderson were both sharp, like barbed wire, but Cruz was smooth and cold.'

It was fascinating to hear the random associations of the Consulting Criminal's mind. Now, with hindsight, and perhaps the perspective of an outsider, some of the impressions made sense. Both Donovan and Anderson went out of their way to be obstructive, catching London up with thorns of spite. Cruz's interference, on the other hand, was without malice. The times he got in London's way on an investigation were about procedure, not some petty, personal vendetta.

'Why Beethoven?' Elliot asked, curious. His knowledge of classical composers was limited at best. 'Were you actually hearing music?'

London was already shaking his head, an absent-minded gesture as his pen flew across the page. His left hand was all motion, charting messages of ink on blank paper.

'It's impressions, sensations. Not so much about anything auditory as...' London trailed off, glancing at Elliot as if struggling for the words to convey what he meant. 'Cruz was not Beethoven because he sounded similar to any of the compositions, but because his nature reflects similar traits. Professionally firm and decisive, direct.'

'Brutal?'

'Cruz is not the brutal one, he's a victim of it. Beethoven's personal life was a mess of unrequited love and tragedy.' London shifted, looking back down at the notebook. 'There are parallels, in some respects.'

Elliot pursed his lips, glancing down at his half-empty mug. He should have known that the strange descriptions the Consulting Criminal had uttered throughout the migraine's path were not mere superficial phrases. He looked at the world and saw everything, unapologetic and unashamed. It made sense that, while his mind was twisting itself in knots, some of those deeper, more personal observations would shade his perceptions.

'Do you remember anything else?' he asked eventually, plucking through his mind for any details that might help London get a time-line of his symptoms. 'You said the sound of the car engine tasted like petrol.'

London's eyes met his, something unreadable in their depths as he scanned Elliot's face. 'I remember you,' he replied after a few moments of silence. 'You were a constant when everything else was unpredictable. Not just at the crime-scene or in Cruz's car, but at every moment since.' He said it as if the idea of anyone wanting to devote themselves so entirely to his well-being was almost inexplicable, and Elliot set down his cup of tea before turning to face London properly.

'What did you expect?' he asked softly, his brow creasing in consternation as London's shoulders merely shifted in a shrug. 'You think I'd have left you alone? I –' Elliot swallowed, trying to collect his thoughts and choose his words with care. In all fairness, he was not that much better at expressing sentiment than London, but of the two of them he was probably the only one willing to try.

'I can't lie and pretend it was just for you. I couldn't have sat out here knowing you were suffering, and not just because despite everything I'm still a doctor.' He shook his head, a tiny, negative movement before pursing his lips. 'Seeing you like that... I couldn't – could not try and help. If you had asked me to leave, I'm not sure I'd have been able to. I care too much about you to turn away, even if it's what you wanted.'

That last part was said almost as a murmur, a quiet confession, but Elliot knew that London heard it anyway. 

'I couldn't have asked you to go,' he said at last, glancing down at the paper before meeting Elliot's gaze again. 'Everyone else was an intruder – they always have been – too sharp or hard or wrong. You, you are light and Brahms.'

London shrugged again, a fitful gesture as if he knew that his words did not clarify his meaning, but to Elliot it was everything. 

It was tempting to say something else, to crystallize the mist of sentiment that lingered around them into something more tangible, but Elliot suspected that might be a step too far for both of them. There would be other times and other places for more concrete declarations, if they were needed, but right now he was content to sit with London and simply appreciate.

'Brahms?' he asked, wondering what London had attributed to him in the haze of pain and mixed signals. He watched the smile light the Consulting Criminal's eyes, not arrogant or knowing, but something softer. There was tenderness in that expression. Elliot raised his eyebrows, tipping his head to the side as he listened to the answer.

'Obvious,' London replied. 'On the surface Brahms seems straightforward. It's only when you look deeper that you truly appreciate the complexity of it. His work often gives the impression of innocent simplicity, but it's incredibly nuanced. At first glance, you're ordinary through and through, but all anyone has to do is look again to see you're so much more than you appear.' He glanced away as if embarrassed by his own explanation before he added, 'Besides, you always respond best to Brahms. If you ask me to play something for you, it's always his work you request, even if you don't know it.'

Unbidden, a dozen different memories unfurled in Elliot's mind, of firelight and London, the violin brought to life beneath his fingertips accept those times when there was Alexander to deliberately annoy with dying cat noises, or trite nothing-tunes to irritate the neighbors at 3AM because he was bored.

Yet occasionally, in those first few months of their acquaintance, Elliot heard something true from him, something beautiful, and he had taken to asking for more. It had reached the point where they would stumble home, wet from the rain and tired from an endless stream of dealing with other people, or Elliot ripping himself from a nightmare sweaty and trembling, and London would reach for his bow without any encouragement.

'Can you play now?' Elliot asked. 'Not – not if you don't want to, it's just –' He cleared his throat, feeling suddenly stupid for asking. 'Its been a while since I've heard you.'

He was not sure why the need was so urgent. Perhaps he wanted to prove to himself that this London was the real one, in possession of his faculties and still here.

'Of course.' There was a hint of understanding in his expression – something warm and knowing as he made his way over to the chair by the window and freed the violin from its case. Confident fingers checked strings and pegs before smoothing rosin on the bow and guiding the instrument to rest beneath his chin. There was no need for a written score – for stave or interval to dictate the melody's tide. No doubt it was all locked up in London's head. It seemed to come to him as easily as blood from a wound, and Elliot smiled as he recognized the sweet tune that flowed forth.

The Consulting Criminal was right; it was his favorite. Before he found himself by London's side, his appreciation of classical music had been minimal at best. Nothing in the compositions had changed to catch his interest. Rather, it was the man who set them free to float in the air that earned his fascination. It was impossible to watch London play and not see the passion in him, so well-hidden at other times, suddenly and freely step into the light.

Elliot leaned back into the softness of the couch, letting the music wash over him – and watched London surrender himself to the refrain. The silk of his robe hinted at the movement of back muscles beneath, swaying with the glide and sweep of the arm which carried the bow through its dance. Yet it was the expression on his face that held Elliot captivated, intense enough to take his breath away, as if London were pouring himself into the rise and fall of music that filled the room.

It was easy to tip his head back, devoting all his attention to the melody and London's message contained therein, and this time, Elliot was listening. He could hear every promise in the flow of notes and the quiet oath that wove its way between each movement: a hint here, a glimmer there, never said aloud but somehow audible all the same.

“Tu ne m'as jamais échoué.“