Inspector Cruz had gone and done the unthinkable.

He had taken a two week vacation.

However for the Consulting Criminal, he may as well had gone and retired. Elliot had briefly found himself wondering, with the way he had taken the news, if it was indeed the first time Cruz had ever taken time off in all the years he had known London.

Regardless of whether it was indeed fact, for the next fourteen days, London Holmes was exiled from Scotland Yard by the Inspector's temporary replacement, much to the delight of Donovan and Anderson.

So it was up to Elliot to keep the Consulting Criminal from getting bored, which was always easier said than done.

Fourteen days.

336 hours.

20,160 minutes.

86,400 seconds.

God dammit.

He was screwed.

For the first full day of idleness, London had entertained himself well enough. A test on poisons administered through the skin that he ran, and he finally collected all the substances he needed, as well as enough body parts to make it rigorous. Of course it would be more conclusive on living human tissue, but Elliot pointed out that that would be wrong, even if one was standing ready with the antidote.

It’s quite absorbing, not to make a pun, and keep him occupied for that day and most of the next. Elliot hovers more than usual, clearly alarmed by the presence of so many acutely toxic substances on the kitchen table but not wanting to discourage the Consulting Criminal from any healthy activity that prevents him to turning to drugs or anything more destructive in his boredom. Healthy being a relative term here meaning that at least London wore gloves.

He’s not completely insane, and dying in his kitchen while doing a simple experiment would be the height of embarrassment, he can only imagine what Donovan and Anderson would say.

“Don’t you think there might be a better place to do that?” is as far as Elliot will go.

“Not unless you let me turn your room into a laboratory, finally,” London answers, glued to the microscope. But they have talked about this before. Even though Elliot rarely slept there, he said he still needed one corner of the apartment that is just his, one guaranteed not to have had poison, body parts, blood, or narcotics in it. London also knows that Elliot is wary of cluttering up his bedroom, realizing that the spareness and strict order of it is as important to London’s state of mind as the ability to perform medical experiments on the table, keep eyeballs and other body parts in jars, and leave piles of papers and evidence about the flat. London is grateful for this, so he doesn’t press the issue much.

He wouldn’t mind a little more clutter if it was Elliot’s clutter, he’s not a slob, he’s very neat, thanks to the army, but he's still not in the regulated, precise way that London’s obsessive compulsive nature presents in his personal space, leading to the sock index and the suits hung in exact order by color and style and a very bad day if any of it gets muddled.

Day three: Leaves him with less compelling experiments, which he slogs through in a bad temper. 

Day four: He spends the day in bed, sulking.

Day five: That’s the one.

His thoughts inevitably turn to the wonderful stimulation even a small amount of cocaine can provide. By the middle of the morning of the fifth day, London is jumping out of his skin, pacing, chain smoking so aggressively Elliot doesn’t dare to comment but just opens every window, while the Consulting Criminal takes to breaking small items, and picking at the wallpaper until a visible bare patch appears above the couch. He’s determined not to succumb, and he doesn’t have any in the apartment anyway, but dear God it’s completely wretched, how can anyone stand to be this inactive, how can they survive without some kind of stimulation?

At 09:15 AM Elliot puts down the paper he has been reading as he ignores the Consulting Criminal’s tantrums, stands up, and says firmly,

“That’s it. Enough. We’re going to play a game.”

London is surprised enough to pause his manic wanderings. 

"Get dressed and I’ll show you.”

Intrigued, London quickly obeys and then follows Elliot outside. “Okay. You’re so proud of how well you know "your city", so I’m going to give you an address and we’ll see who gets there first. Clock starts from when I say it, no maps allowed for you. I get one because I’m not constantly bragging at how well I’ve memorized every street and alley.” 

“Hmm,” London says, interested despite his inclination to remain in a sulk. “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to hone my skills. Am I to walk as well?”

“Nope, run all you like,” Elliot tells him. “I’ll be in a cab.”

Oh, this is good. This is very, very good.

He hails one and climbs in, rolling down the window. “Ready? 15 Mitre Rd, Waterloo. Go!”

“But that’s more than 4 kilometers as the crow flies, and across the river,” London protests.

“Better run fast then,” Elliot calls back, as the taxi pulls out into traffic. London grins wolfish, closes his eyes for just long enough to map the route in his head, as well as the one the cab will take, and breaks into full speed.

“Six out of seven is still very impressive,” Elliot tells London as they enter the apartment.

“No it is not impressive, it's unacceptable!” grumbles London, but without any real ill feeling. It had been a more than suitable distraction, innovative and very enjoyable, and he doesn’t want Elliot to think he’s failed in his attempt. Even if, as London suspects, this was the equivalent of taking one’s destructive child on a run to tire it out before it completely devastates your home.

It wasn’t better than the cocaine, nothing’s better than cocaine but it did the trick if only temporarily and he's trying so very hard for Elliot’s sake, though Elliot says he should try for his own sake but he can’t bring himself to care about that half as much as he does about Elliot's.

London is pleasantly exhausted, Elliot had taken him in a wild zig-zag around the city. He’d traveled at least 19 kilometers on foot, and actually worked up an appetite. While Elliot goes to assemble something for lunch, London checks his inbox, which is essentially a wire tray he affixed to the wall next to the front door that was used whenever he and Elliot were not physically there to deal with people. He was hoping for a case before the boredom and thoughts of cocaine ramped up again.

Sorting through several pieces of paper begging for his help with dull and mundane things, he spots a name and handwriting that he hadn’t seen in years, and the accompanying sketches a picture of what could be potentially be a very interesting case indeed. Even if it is in the country.

Actually, there’s not enough information to tell whether the case is interesting, but the person asking for his help and the fact that it has been so many years is enough to make him more than curious.

“Elliot, cease what you are doing,” he calls. “Get packed. We’re going north.”

Elliot pokes his head into the sitting room. “North? How north?”

“Near Berwick-upon-Tweed, Northumberland.

“Holmes, that’s basically Scotland! What the hell is up there?”

“An old acquaintance with a unique problem, a lot of cows, and virtually nothing else.”

“I see. Any other details you’d like to share at the moment?”

“Not particularly. Be sure to bring a jumper,” London adds dryly, and Elliot gives a small snort.

“Do we at least have time for lunch before we go?”

“Eat on the train.”

Elliot groans, and in less than an hour they are on their way to the North Country.

“So, where exactly is this place?” Elliot asks after they’ve both gotten depressing sandwiches and unrecognizable coffee from the food car.

“From what I understand it’s a recently restored, but rather isolated,estate near the coast. It’s a ways away from the station but our client said he’d send a car for us, and he has rooms for us in his…well, I suppose castle would be the most apt term for it.”

Elliot raises an eyebrow. “And our client is?”

Someone he doesn’t think about anymore, someone who seems so far in the past it’s almost like the Consulting Criminal is looking at a film strip of things that had happened to a stranger.

London pauses, trying to think how to explain it to Elliot. At last he settles on, “A university friend of mine, we did our first year together. I solved something for him once, but I fear it brought more grief than anything else, and I haven’t seen him since. I had heard he’d moved abroad.”

He can tell Elliot wants to ask more, but restrains himself, and they both fall silent. London stares out the window at the rushing countryside and as much as he tries to fight it, he finds himself getting lost in the past, to the degree that he has actually forgotten Elliot beside him and is startled when his friend touches him discreetly on the thigh and asks, “You okay?"

He blinks to clear his mind. “Of course, why do you ask?”

“Because you’ve been completely silent and motionless for a good 45 minutes now.”

“Ah.” Had it been that long? “Just thinking.”

“What were you thinking about? The case?”

“No. I was thinking about how much I despise working in the country.” This is not strictly what he had been thinking about, but it’s true enough.

“You do? Don’t you think it’s nice for a holiday now and then? And if there’s ever not a miserable time to visit the north, it’s the height of summer.”

Elliot likes getting out in what passes for wilderness in England, sometimes he even goes trekking voluntarily which is truly beyond the realm of comprehension, maybe he misses the vast expanses of sand and mountains in Afghanistan…

“I don’t take holidays, and this isn’t one. The country is so much more…sinister…than the city.”

“Oh yes,” Elliot agrees gravely. “With all the trees and birds and friendly farm folk waving hello to everyone all the time. All that fresh air. Ominous.”

“Birds are fine. Trees are a hassle. It may be beautiful out here, but for cases and crimes it’s far worst than the roughest neighborhood in London.”

“Okay, you’re going to have to help me out with this one,” Elliot tells him, shifting a little closer. “I’m lost.”

“Unsurprising,” London comments, sharper than he means to. “In the city there’s plenty of crime and violence, I’ll grant you. But there is always someone to hear, to see, to notice something even in the darkest alleyway. Someone’s always watching, even if they don’t do anything about it. They can always be tracked down. No one just disappears without a trace, at least not for long. There’s always something to go on, someone who knows.”

Nothing goes truly unobserved in London, which is both comforting and unsettling, it’s lovely for finding things out but the thought of who else might be observing him, observing them, is enough to give him a chill sometimes.

“True enough,” Elliot says mildly, showing no offense at London’s snappishness. “So, what about the countryside?”

London snorts. “Houses far apart, estates in the middle of nowhere, deeds hidden by high hedges or deep forests, miles of empty moor and fen. Anything could be happening. No witnesses, no questions. Everyone turns up for church on a Sunday with a clean face and their best clothes and no one knows if the devout man in the third row beats his daughter of a Saturday night or if the well-bred lady in the last pew is growing marijuana in her back garden. Anything could be going on and there might be no witnesses, not even a rumor.”

“Hmm. Well, thank you for that.”

“For what?

“For ensuring I never look at a pastoral landscape again without seeing a grim scene full of violent, church going, drug dealing housewives and double lives."

They arrive at the station just at sunset. They are pretty much the last people on the train and the only ones to disembark here, so it’s not hard to figure out that the single vehicle in the car park is for them. It’s about twenty minutes drive to a massive, ancient, stone structure not far from the sea cliffs, surrounded by a few smaller buildings but otherwise not within sight of any other home.

Perhaps castle was too mild of word, London thinks as they get out of the car and gaze up at the monolithic building. He judged it to be as early as the 12th century, with new repairs to it obvious even in the dwindling light. It had been comfortable enough when they got off the train, but here with the sun nearly gone and the wind blowing in from the sea, it’s shockingly chilly.

The chauffeur shows them in through a set of doors one could drive a carriage through, into large hall with a roaring fire. The room is well lit, but mostly by candles and lanterns.

“Did we just travel back in time?” Elliot whispers to him, as they shed their coats.

The Consulting Criminal has no chance for a snappy comeback, as their host strides briskly into the room, flashing a wide grin as he spots London.

“Holmes,” he says warmly, breaking in to a trot to meet him, grabbing his hand and pulling him into an hearty, unresistant hug. The man is nearly as tall as London, slightly broader but still slender on the whole, with thick auburn hair and bright blue eyes, both glittering in the firelight.

Last time London had seen him he’d been so gangly and thin, a stretched out adolescent just hinting at his future handsomeness, but then they both had been, a pair of awkward teenagers playing at being men, at being sophisticated and worldly.

“Vincent,” London greets him. Vincent still has one hand on London’s shoulder and the other behind his neck, almost but not quite brotherly. “I had heard you went to Saudi Arabia with some big oil company and then something about a knighthood?”

“Long story, not important. I hear you’ve refused a couple knighthoods yourself. I still get Christmas cards from your brother. But I am very glad you’re here – let’s hope this mystery has a less traumatizing resolution than the last one, eh?”

London nods, relieved that there’s no lasting resentment from Vincent. Not that it had been his fault, but sometimes people retain negative associations for a long time.

Elliot coughs pointedly next to him.

“Oh yes… sorry… Vincent, this is… um… Elliot…” he manages lamely.

That was potentially 'Not Good' but he’d been caught off guard, they never have discussed a proper name, and “person upon whom my existence depends” seems ungainly, besides their relationship usually doesn’t come up when working cases and everyone who knows them just says London-and-Elliot and understands what it means.

Elliot steps forward and, uncharacteristically, puts a hand firmly on the small of the Consulting Criminal’s back.

“Elliot,” he says. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Elliot, this is Sir Vincent Trevor, previously of Norfolk.”

Vincent give them both an appraising look, then withdraws his hands from London and takes a few steps back, removing himself from London’s personal space. His expression wavers briefly, but then he smiles at Elliot as well, teeth dazzling, and welcomes him graciously.

London detects a distinct, non-verbal exchange taking place between the two men but is unable to decipher exactly what is happening, except that Elliot is flickering at least as fast the firelight, and crackling a bit and Vincent is keeping carefully at arms length.

That is what Elliot looks like when something is wrong, not so much dim as disjointed, uneven, going from dark to bright in an instant and back again, sparking with displeasure, he wonders what’s happened, whatever it was took place in the last few minutes.

“Well, unfortunately I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to show you the grounds, but you must be famished anyway. Let me show you to your rooms – they’ll be heated and lit properly, unlike this one – and you can freshen up. We can catch up over supper.” The last he addresses to London, but includes Elliot with a friendly glance after the fact.

They are led up a cold stairwell to the third floor, to a well-furnished room that is as warm as the hallway is frigid.

"There’s a connected bathroom and study,” Vincent tells them. “I also arranged separate rooms for Elliot, but if you don’t need—”

“This will be fine,” Elliot cuts him off. “Thanks.”

“Well, then,” Vincent says, rubbing his hands together. “Supper in an hour? No need to dress, of course, it’s just us three.”

London flops into an overstuffed chair by the window, worn out and not sure why. He realizes Elliot is staring at him and that it is not a good stare.

Still flickering, out of kilter, unhappy but not sad, angry but not furious, annoyed perhaps…

“Well?” Elliot asks.

“What?” London replies, genuinely baffled.

“You told me,” Elliot replies in a calm, cold voice. “That we were helping out an old acquaintance. Not visiting a former lover in his own personal fortress!”

“Lover?” The Consulting Criminal sits up straight. “Is that what you really think? Don't be dense. We were never lovers. Acquaintances, even friends but that’s as far as it went.”

“Right. You were never lovers and I got this hole in my shoulder by falling on a picket fence.”

Elliot is holding back, at least to some degree. London knows his ability to read the nuances of emotion in facial expression and tone is not always to be relied upon. He’s best when they’re touching, and he can read in Elliot’s body the things that aren’t being said. Elliot seems to have figured this out on his own, and often moves closer to London when there is a misunderstanding, to make it easier for him to catch on.

But Elliot doesn’t move closer now.

“Your jealousy and alpha male show of dominance is not needed. We were friends. That’s it.”

It’s it and it’s not-it, he doesn’t know how to explain what it was, just like he doesn’t know how to explain what he and Elliot are, but the two aren’t the same, not at all, still Elliot might not believe that it’s completely different.

“Like you and I are friends?” Elliot coldly says, reading his mind.

London shook his head. "Enlighten me will you? Do you believe that I sleep with every person I help? Perhaps you would like to also accuse me of sleeping with Cruz? Donovan? Anderson? Hm? You know maybe I should, certainly would be a smart business move, don't you think?"

“Now who is being dense? You know what? No. I’m not doing this. I'm going to take a shower and then change my clothing. Hopefully by the time I am finished, you are ready to act like an adult.” Elliot adds, rummaging through the bags that were brought up before them and taking out the nicest button-up and pants he has with him.

Both which the Consulting Criminal had brought for him.

“We don’t need to dress for dinner,” London reminds him, ignoring Elliot's words.

“Oh, you don’t,” Elliot agrees. “Nor Vincent. Seeing as how you’re both already wearing perfectly cut, designer clothing in a modern yet timeless style. I’m not showing up in this.” He indicates his current attire.

“I like that jacket,” London offers.

“You hate this jacket.”

“I like it on you?”

“Liar.”

“I… like you in spite of the fact that you are wearing that jacket?” he tries.

He does like the jumper on Elliot, because it is so very him, he doesn’t want him dressing smartly all the time, that would be very not Elliot.

That would be very 'Not Good'.

“There we go. Snob.”

Dinner is, thankfully, in a small room off the kitchens and not in the cavernous and drought main hall. It’s what Vincent considers simple fare – roast pheasant, bread, cheese, soup.

“I apologize for the leanness of the spread,” he says sincerely. “I didn’t know what time you were getting in.”

Elliot seats himself closer than usual to London and puts an arm over the back of his chair, casual but definitively possessive. They make small talk while they eat, and Vincent is mindful to include Elliot in the conversation, steering away from old reminisces and private jokes. Slowly London feels Elliot’s tension ease next to him, to the point where he even laughs at some of Vincent’s remarks. Vincent is very charming and very funny.

Vincent is that rare aristocratic creature, well-born, at least on his mother’s side, wealthy, titled, educated, generous, unfailingly gracious, kind to a fault, liked by nearly everyone, not many people can manage that, London certainly couldn’t and he’d had far more advantages as a young man.

“So, how did you come by this place?” Elliot asks finally. “Family home?”

Vincent laughs, an easy silvery chuckle. “Not quite. As I’m sure London has told you, there was some family unpleasantness after our first year at uni and I found myself without parents, money, home, or even a name I could call my own. I got a job in oil on the last of my father’s good reputation and did very well there - made my fortune and my name, but I missed England. I started looking for an estate, and Mother had some people from up here so it was a good place to start."

“I found out about this place, pretty much left to ruin since the 1800’s, and thought if I could fix it up it would be a nice tourist attraction, you know, help the economy around here. This is a lovely area and it doesn’t get as much attention as it should. But as you can imagine it’s a rather Herculean job – half of the place is still completely uninhabitable and only a small part of what is has heat or electricity right now. Wiring a place like this is an undertaking in and of itself. Sometimes I feel like I’m camping out inside of it!”

“So, what’s the problem that called us up here? London’s been rather tight lipped about it,” Elliot adds pointedly.

Still annoyed with him but not dangerously so, he can relax for the moment.

“Oh, don’t blame him, I didn’t give him much to go on. And in fact, I think it should wait for the morning… it makes more sense if I show you rather than tell you,” Vincent says sheepishly. “I didn’t call the police because I figured they’d think I was crazy. I get enough of that talk just from moving into this place. And of course, London’s the smartest man I’ve ever met. I’ll bet you’ll have it solved before tea tomorrow, right?”

“That remains to be seen,” The Consulting Criminal says in a carefully neutral tone, but pleased at the compliment.

“Well, early start then, yeah?” Elliot pushes his chair back. “I think I’ll turn in.”

London makes a half a move to get up as well, then hesitates, looking at Elliot uncertainly.

Is it a test, doesn’t seem to be, Elliot doesn’t usually play mind games like that, although nothing about tonight has been usual.

“No, it’s fine. Why don’t you stay and catch up?”

“If you’re sure…”

“Of course,” Elliot says pleasantly, although London thinks there might be the barest hint of an edge to his tone. “I’ll see you upstairs. Thank you for supper, Vincent.”           

Vincent nods to Elliot, and Elliot leaves, brushing London’s shoulder with his hand on the way past. Once he is gone Vincent asks, “Are you sure you shouldn’t join him?”

“No. He said it was fine.”

It is fine, isn’t it, Elliot said it was but he uses fine to mean so many things and some of them are most definitely not fine and he can’t tell if this one of those times or not.

Vincent raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. He puts his feet up on the table and leans his chair back on two legs, sprawling comfortably, while London pulls his knees to himself and wraps his arms around them so he forms a surprisingly compact figure, both men unconsciously assuming old postures and attitudes around each other.

“I just want you to know that I had no idea about you and Elliot when you came here. I hope he knows I wasn’t trying to… well, I hope I didn’t make him uncomfortable. He seems like a very good man.”

“He is,” London agrees firmly. “I see you’ve never married.”

Vincent doesn’t ask how London knows this, he’s seen him work things like that out hundreds of times before. “Not the marrying kind, I suppose. No more than you. A few fleeting things, but relationships are bad for business in conservative Muslim countries, even secret ones. And up here…well, you can imagine. I keep myself entertained though. The role of eccentric bachelor landholder suits me. You haven’t changed, have you? Same as ever. I wish I had your talent for compartmentalizing, would have saved me a lot of grief. To just put something painful away in a box like that, and not have to look at it if you don’t want to… it’s a gift, my friend.”

They chat a bit about their university days and old memories, Vincent doing most of the talking. London isn’t one for rehashing the past, but listening to Vincent is rather enjoyable and they both avoid any emotionally loaded territory. After some time they both lapse into companionable silence, nursing red wine and staring at the fire. “Did you ever think we’d sit like this again?” Vincent asks after many minutes have passed.

He always was sentimental and romantic, loving poetry, to hang on the past, to dream of the future, he knew how to spin such pretty stories, how many hours had they spent by a fire just like this, Vincent telling outrageous tales, or the Consulting Criminal lecturing on forensics, or neither of them saying anything at all.

“No, I didn’t. But it’s… pleasant.” London shakes himself. “I should retire if it’s going to be an early morning.”

“Do you still only sleep a few hours a night?”

“Usually.”

Vincent gives him a knowing grin, and if it’s a bit sad as well London doesn’t notice. “Off you go then.”

If London and Elliot are late for breakfast, Vincent is far past due. There is a more than adequate spread of both hot and cold selections laid out for them in the makeshift dining room by the small household staff, but their host is not in evidence and doesn’t show until Elliot is well into his second helping of sausage and London, predictably, has shredded his toast into tiny pieces without eating a morsel.

At last Vincent rolls in, dressed but attractively rumpled, and makes his apologies. “I’m trying to fit in with the rural ethic of rising with the dawn, but I’m afraid 15 odd years in business made me more accustomed to late nights than early mornings.”

He never was a morning person, rarely seen before ten am if he could help it, while London sat up all hours, haunting their college's grounds, as Vincent had called it, Elliot’s ways were much less extreme than either of them unless pulled into the Consulting Criminal’s schedule by a case.

“All set, boys? Then I can show you around and explain my little problem.”

He leads them out through the kitchens with a nod to the cook and they emerge on a grassy knoll facing the ocean, less than a mile away with some sea cliffs in between. It’s a bright morning, although clouds on the horizon portend rain in the afternoon. London can finally get a good look at the castle and the buildings around it, ranging from low stone structures as old as the place itself to wooden cottages not much more than a hundred years old. The southern and western sides, where they are lodged, look intact, but the north side is in bad shape and the eastern tower, where most of the current work seems to be centered, is almost gone.

“Welcome to Corvin Castle,” Vincent says effusively, spreading his arms wide. “As you can see it’s a work in progress. Always has been really. From what we can tell, this site was constantly inhabited from the Iron Age until around now. Makes for eclectic architecture, and quite a restoration challenge let me tell you. Main building is Norman construction, very early, but it seems to be built at least partially on the foundation of an old broach, and you can see remnants of a previous mote and bailey structure as well in the landscape. We’ve found Roman bricks as well.”

Elliot looks impressed by all of this, while London is mainly uninterested in anything other than the fact that is very, very old.

The Consulting Criminal keeps a file on history and architecture of the British Isles in his Mind Palace, it’s come in useful on more than one case, but he finds it tedious, how could anyone devote their lives to something so dull, it’s in the past, it’s over, it doesn’t matter.

“It’s been in private ownership forever,” Vincent continues. “Although of course I’m working with English Heritage to make sure we don’t accidentally destroy anything important. I have a guardianship agreement with them. Apparently they’re more than happy for me to spend my money instead of theirs. Had some proper archaeologists up and everything.”

London is scrutinizing the layout of the property and the surprising number of people about, mostly construction workers, and vaguely hears Elliot ask, “So, how much land do you actually own?”

“Pretty much everything from the bluffs to the road, and then a bit further than you can see to the north and south. A few farms on my land, mostly derelict  except for one, but I’ve been getting some new people in. It’s good land for sheep and cows and hay, hoping to get things producing again, get this place into shape for visitors and maybe a little museum.”

Vincent's voice is shining with pride and excitement for his project. He’s a do-gooder at heart and now’s he got enough improvement projects to keep him busy for the rest of his life. He makes to continue his speech but London cuts in.

“What exactly is the problem you called us up here for?”

“Ah. Yes… all right, this way.” He leads them around the corner to the north side of the castle, to a gaping hole in the foundation of the building, ugly and yawning. “It’s…um…this…”

London raises an eyebrow. “The restoration project hit a snag? How is this supposed to be a concern of mine?”

Vincent shakes his head, tossing his hair and then running his fingers through it to put it back in place.

Vincent tended to be a bit vain, London remembered, especially of his hair, he didn’t like anyone to know, but he was always checking in looking glasses out of the corner of his eye.

“No, this isn’t part of it. I mean to say… this stone was here until two nights ago. Then it just…vanished.”

“Vanished?” Elliot asks incredulously. “How does a giant piece of limestone vanish?”

Leave to Elliot to ask the obvious questions, it’s rather endearing, although of course it didn’t actually need to be said, they all know it’s improbable, still there’s a space in the conversation that begs to be filled with the unnecessary question and Elliot obliges.

“Well, that’s what I’d like to know. This is the third one, too. The others were on the opposite side but exactly the same as this. No one sees anything, the times aren’t predictable, and there’s no evidence of it being dragged away. If this keeps up it could destabilize the entire foundation.”

London looks at him sharply. “Three stones? When?”

“First one was six months ago, then about three weeks, then this one when I got in contact with you.”

London swears. “Why didn’t you contact me at once? All the evidence from those first two will be useless by now!”

“I didn’t know if you would want to hear from me,” Vincent says mildly.

Elliot breaks the ensuing silence with a polite cough. “Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything unusual?”

“Other than massive blocks of stone disappearing from my home at seemingly random intervals? Not really.”

“The ground is pretty well trampled by workers,” London notes, really interested now. “But it’s impossible that the dragging of a block this size wouldn’t have left marks. Likewise, the ground around is soft enough that there would be evidence of a vehicle. No one heard anything?”

“Not a thing. You might not inside, the walls are 12 feet thick here and it’s the uninhabited side, but the boys staying in the cottage and the groundskeeper would have heard if there were people messing about.”

London pulls out his pocket magnifier and crouches, leaning into the vacated space in the foundation. He examines every corner and crevice, licking a finger and putting it to the stone and tasting the dust there.

Pitting, corrosion on the three sides but not the blocks above, fresh, not water or weathering, grooves from being moved, sour taste for limestone, new dust, no hand-prints, no unusual footprints or damage to the turf, movement quiet but couldn’t have been silent, not completely, doesn’t add up.

He’s aware he’s moving his lips soundlessly as he goes through all the possibilities he can think of, running a finger along the seam between the bottom and back stones.

"He’s always like this when he’s onto something, just kind of have to wait him out… well, I guess you already knew that.” London hears Elliot speaking to Vincent very distantly.

“I do,” Vincent admits with a low laugh.

“Right.” London springs to his feet in front of them. It’s an odd sensation having both Elliot and Vincent looking at him expectantly, but he is far too into his deductions to worry about that at the moment and forges on. “No mortar remnants, but that’s not surprising.”

“Why not?” Elliot asks, and London shoots him an impatient look.

“Original dry stone construction down here,” Vincent tells him. “Some of it’s been replaced with mortared stonework on the upper levels over the centuries, but the foundation is intact. Or was.”

“Yes, okay, we don’t care,” London snaps peevishly. “As I was saying, the blocks in the base fit together perfectly, so even without mortar it would have taken some loosening. Note the pitting and grooves on all sides? Acid was applied here to create a bit of space to wiggle the stone out, but it still left marks on the surrounding pieces as it went. Look, here.”

Vincent peers at them. “Yes, I can see them. But what does it tell us?”

“The marks are vertical. And there are no such marks on the blocks above it!”

His companions stare at him without comprehension and he makes a noise of frustration. “Imbeciles!”

Really, sometimes he doesn’t know why he puts up with it, they make him go so slow, why can’t they just get out of his way and let him work, but then again there’d be no one to be impressed when he got the answer, and sometimes he missed things when he went too fast.

“Holmes!” Elliot chides.

London waves him off. “Come on, it’s incredibly obvious. Neither of you? Why do I bother? It wasn’t pulled out of the wall, it slid down!”

“But that’s impossible." Vincent interjects. “Where would it go? How?”

“Don’t know, but the evidence is right before your eyes. And look at the stone below it. More marks.”

“Back to front,” Elliot observes.

“Close. Front to back. If the stone had been pulled out this way there would be back to front horizontal marks here, on both sides, and the top and no marks on the back.”

“So, what are you saying? That the stone below it magically moved out the way to allow it to drop…where?”

“Not magical, but essentially correct. You can see there’s just the barest bit of a gap between the block in the back and the one on the bottom. It must be able to be moved back into a space behind it. Probably not part of the original construction. As to where, Vincent, what’s underneath us?”

Vincent shrugs. “Until just now I would have said nothing but more stone foundation of one era or another, but now I couldn’t say. It’s not like there’s blueprints for this place. I’m still discovering new things about it, and I’ve lived here four years.”

“Well, clearly there has to be some kind of chamber or tunnel beneath the missing stones, probably leading somewhere inside.”

“You’re saying my missing pieces are…inside the castle itself?”

“Or under it. They certainly can’t have gone very far, even with the several men this operation doubtless would take. Have you explored the cellars or dungeons or whatever it is you have here?”

“The ones I know about, yes. But it’s a maze of tunnels and collapsed passageways, even parts of previous incarnations of the building, earth, wood, stone... Some are blocked up and there’s likely more I haven’t found.”

“Well, you’re about to become intimately familiar with them.”

“Can we just try to push the lower stone out of the way, like you think was done before?” Elliot asks suddenly. “Would save a lot of trouble in the secret passage-searching department.”

“Oh.” London pauses. “Yes. That is possible.”

It always threw London for a curve when Elliot offers one of his simple, obvious, practical solutions, something the Consulting Criminal should have noticed but was too high above it to see, now he remembers why he keeps him around, well, that and all the other things Elliot does that have nothing whatsoever to do with casework.

Vincent calls over some of the workers, the brawnier ones, who bring with them a large iron bar. There’s more stonework under the turf they’re standing on, but the men manage to find a point of leverage and shove for ten solid minutes without budging it.

“No use,” Vincent says finally. “Thanks mates,”

London is irritated. “Whoever did it blocked it up after so no one could follow. Can’t we just dig it out to get to the chamber underneath?”

“I’m concerned about my building being undermined by missing foundation stones and you’re proposing to smash a hole in it to find out how?” Vincent asks archly. “Besides that, you saw the underlying masonry, even I don’t know where it ends. It’s not exactly a shovel job. And Heritage would have my head.”

Obviously brute force isn’t the answer. London resigns himself to a different tack. “All right. How many people live here?”

“In the house or on my land?”

“Everyone, total.”

Everyone has to be a suspect, must be an inside job at least to some degree, someone intimately familiar with the castle and grounds, can’t overlook even the frailest individual, anyone can hire muscle to help them, though it certainly would take quite a bit of it to move those blocks.

Vincent thinks for a moment. “Well, there’s Maggie, the cook and her son, Justin, just out of school. He helps in the kitchen, runs errands, that sort of thing. The housekeeper, Mrs. Cook. And Alicia, my PA is usually here as well but she’s seeing to some investments of mine in Spain at the moment. That’s all for the main house. The groundskeeper has his little place, over there. And my trainer, Linda, keeps rooms in the back of the stable, down that path. Likes to be near her babies.”

"Trainer? Babies?” Elliot asks, confused.

“Horses, Elliot. Vincent breeds racehorses.”

Vincent shakes his head with a rueful grin. “No, I’m off the racing scene. Andalusians are my passion now. Dressage horses.”

“How dull,” London rolls his eyes.

“It takes finesse. And no one places bets on dressage. Should have switched years ago, I’d be a much a richer man. You ride, Elliot?”

“Uh, that’s a pretty firm no,” Elliot answers, taken by surprise. 

“Can we please return to the topic or do you two want to stand here all day discussing the finer point of equine care?” London growls.

Vincent sighs. “Where was I? Right. The trainer, she lives alone but sometimes has a girl or two up to help her out, for up to a week at a time. Right now I’ve got the master stone mason and his two apprentices in the cottage there.”

“What about the rest of the workers?”

“Ten in all, but they drive into town every night and have lodgings there.”

“What about the farms you mentioned?”

“Well, there’s the Deakins to the south, old man and his wife, their son and his kids. From what I can tell the family’s been working that land for centuries. Owners like me come and go, but they just keep at it. Then I’ve got Angus McKeller, first farm to the north. Started two years ago, says his family used to live here and work the land when his grandfather was young. Widower with no children, not a young man either, but he’s been working hard to turn his little piece around. And then right at the very north edge of my property, just moved in about four months ago, is Susie Griffin, nice girl, very bright. She and her partner – Lily, I think – plan to raise sheep for artisan cheese and grow organic veg to sell in town. Ambitious. That’s everyone, I believe.”

“Anyone else about the castle or property regularly? Anyone with an interest?”

“Well, I get Northumberland Historical Society people up once in a while, but they don’t have regular access. I can get you the names if you want.”

“Give them to Elliot. Obviously it would take at least four strong men to handle a stone of that size, but they don’t necessarily have to be men who are around here all the time. The construction workers are, of course, suspect but all it would take is one person with access to the castle to let accomplices through to the basements or wherever the entrance to the chamber is. So it’s most likely someone in the immediate household, although I’ve seen you don’t lock up so it could be anyone who wouldn’t be immediately out of place in your home. I assume that includes your tenants?”

“They come by regularly, yes. It’s a big place, sometimes I don’t know I’ve got visitors until we stumble upon each other in the halls.”

How was he supposed to solve a case where just anyone could wander freely on and off the property without detection, Vincent was so universally trusting, even after the deaths of his parents and sister and losing everything, Elliot doesn’t understand it either, he can see, but it too polite to say anything.

London gives him a disapproving glare. “You might want to think about tightening security, ie, getting some at this point. Do you seriously leave a historical building full of your personal affects and priceless antiques open to the winds?”

Vincent shrugs. “People are honest and peaceful up here. I like it. Besides, I keep most of my valuables locked up in my rooms. And are you really suggesting my 63 year old housekeeper might be facilitating a ring of international masonry thieves to plunder my walls?”

“Hang on a second,” Elliot cuts in. “Have we dealt with why on earth anyone would want to steal chunks of rock out of your home to begin with? A prank of some kind? They aren’t worth anything in and of themselves, are they? It just doesn’t make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” London smirks. “But once we get the who and the how exactly, I suspect we’ll stumble on the why.”

“And for my part I don’t really care why, I just want it to bloody stop,” Vincent adds. “So, what now?”

“Research and data. Elliot can interview the household members and workers on the grounds. People like him.”

“Thanks,” Elliot dryly replies.

Well, they do, it’s one of his best qualities, London likes him and that's all that matters.

“I’ll need to look at whatever records you have on the building itself and the surrounding area."

“Right. I’ll need the use of your office for the day. Alone. Elliot, get started on interviews and if you run out of those to do go into town and poke around the worker’s lodgings and whatever sorry pub they spend their evenings at.”

“And what am I to do?” Vincent asks. “Shall I help Elliot—”

“No, your staff won’t talk in front of you. Just do…whatever you do. As long as it’s not in your office. Play with your horses or something.”

Vincent looks a little bit hurt but recovers quickly. “Elliot, you all right or do you need me to…?”

“It's fine. I’ve got it,” Elliot tells him. “I’ve gotten surprisingly skilled at prying personal information out of strangers.”

“Okay,” Vincent says, cheerful but a bit adrift. “London, I’ll just show you where everything is, then.”

Vincent was used to being in control, doesn’t like to be made useless, particularly in his own home, but can’t be helped, his poking around would only make everyone jumpy and if he could have figured it out on his own through research, he would have, he’ll only be in the way at the moment.

Vincent leads London back in through the kitchens, through a set of doors, the only locked ones the Consulting Criminal’s seen since his arrival, and into a large study decorated in flawless Edwardian style. Vincent opens the massive desk and pulls out a large stack of folders.

“This is the one with all my building and land records on it,” he tells London and when the Consulting Criminal did not respond, Vincent let out a breath. “Well, I’ll let you get to it then,” he said, but London was already engrossed in files and correspondence. There’s an amazing amount to go through, and while Vincent had organised everything fairly well, the information is still fragmented, jumbled. Ownership records from the 1600’s, a land survey done in 1745, appraisal from the mid 1800’s. Nothing he finds turns up any sort reference to underground chambers or movable stones in the places the blocks were taken from. Already this is one of the most frustrating cases he’s ever had, but it is fascinating.

He jumps when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Easy,” Elliot says. “Just came to check on you. It’s supper time.”

“Is it?”

“It’s half eight. You’ve been at it for nearly twelve hours.”

London squints at the tiny clock on the desktop. “Ah. Did you get anything from the staff?”

“Don’t think so, but I’ll give you the full account after we eat.”

“Not hungry. I’ll stay here, be up later.”

Elliot reaches towards the Consulting Criminal, grabbing his wrist and gently placing it down on the desk, finally forcing London’s eyes away from a piece of paper. “Have you looked at everything?" he asks gently.

“Yes.”

“Twice?”

“Yes.”

“All right then. Leave it for now. You haven’t eaten today and we shouldn’t be rude.” He takes the paper from the Consulting Criminal’s fingers, and London follows him reluctantly into the little dining room.

“You exhumed him from his cave, I’m impressed,” Vincent says to Elliot as they enter. London nods to him with ill humor and sits. “I poked my head in there three times and he didn’t even notice.”

“He’s here under protest,” Elliot informs Vincent.

London glowers and picks at his food, eating just enough to prevent nagging from Elliot. Vincent and Elliot and are carrying on a lively conversation that seems to center around countries they’ve both been to, cuisine, and fishing. Does Elliot even like fishing? He tunes them out, trying to focus on the case, but there’s not much to grab onto at this point. He knows little more of relevancy than he did this morning after inspecting the site.

Vincent and Elliot’s buddy act is making him annoyed, even though he’d hoped they’d be friendly, not that he’s jealous, he doesn’t want to be talked to right now anyway and he’s hardly worried about Elliot’s fidelity, it’s just more stressful than he anticipated having the two people who know him the best together at the same time, it’s worse than when Elliot and Alexander talk about him, at least Elliot is usually hostile to Alexander on his behalf.

He stands abruptly, halfway through the meal. “Right,” he announces. “I’m going upstairs. Elliot?”

Elliot wipes his mouth and hesitates a moment. Something is not right. “Um, well, I suppose.”

Vincent nods. “By the way, tomorrow’s Sunday so there’ll be church in the little village down the way.”

London brightens. “Excellent idea. I imagine everyone in the area goes there? If get there around eleven we can catch them coming out. It will make questioning easier, won’t have to track everyone down.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Vincent says, giving him an odd look. “Also that’s when I go. To church. So if you’d like to do any questioning of the parish you’ll have to go when I do and sit through the service. There’s only the one car right now.”

How Vincent had managed to still be a devout C-of-E man after all these years is beyond even the Consulting Criminal, and he positively could not abide it, Vincent's piety had been quaint when they were young, but now it seems preposterous, London had smelled a rat there when he was six and refused to ever go back to Sunday School or Eucharist unless physically dragged, a strategy vindicated as he grew up and discovered the church’s stance on nearly every aspect of his life.

“Absolutely not,” London coldly said. “We’ll wait outside.”

“Oh, that won’t attract any attention or make anyone suspicious,” Elliot mutters.

London looks daggers at him and then turns back to Vincent. “Then I’ll do it the hard way. Visit everyone separately.”

“As you like,” Vincent says with studied indifference. “I’m sure people around here will be more eager to open up the door to a taciturn stranger asking intrusive questions than to speak to a guest of mine who’s just sat through church with them and is chatting over coffee.”

London has no retort for that and spins on his heel and stalks away, furious. He hears Elliot say, “Sorry, he means… um… we’ll be there,” and then goes after him.

He lengthens his stride enough so that he gets to the bedroom door before Elliot can catch him and slams it firmly in his face.

Elliot barely even pauses before yanking the door open and storming in after London. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Me?” London is indignant. “What about you?”

“What about me? Vincent’s being completely practical. It will help us with the investigation, he’s not trying to convert anyone – I’m sure he knows you better than that! What’s the harm in sitting through one single service? I’m sure you’ve done it before. When was the last time you went?”

Seventeen, just done with school, only the second time in more than ten years, flowers, distant relatives who didn’t know his name, meaningless chatter about eternity and a better place but he knew what dead was and all the talk in the world wouldn’t change a body rotting in the ground or invoke the help of a god who never existed.

“That is not the point,” London snaps. “Don’t tell me you’re religious! Of all the feeble-minded things you could believe in, I really thought better of you, but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised with your level of intellect. Although even you should realize what the church would have to say if they knew everything about your life, and then where would you be?”

“Christ, Holmes, get a bloody hold of yourself before I break your nose again,” Elliot barks. “I don’t care how much better insulting me makes you feel, keep speaking to me like that and you’ll have a whole other set of problems that not even you can solve.”

Elliot looks dark and dangerous and London, though still does not back off. “Then why are you insisting on this? Think I’ll get something out of it, become a better person?”

“Oh, come off it! The only thing I expect either one of us to get out of it is an in with the locals for the investigation. And I’m not insisting on anything other than that you try not to be a unreasonable arsehole to the person in whose home we are currently residing. Or to me, for that matter. Go, don’t go, I don’t care. It’s your case!”

Your case, not our case, he hates it when Elliot does that, it’s like a slap in the face, a denial of their partnership, even though sometimes he himself pushes Elliot off cases out of pique, which he knows Elliot hates even more.

London says nothing, lips pressed together, balanced on his toes by the window like he’s ready to fight or run.

“And since you were so kind in asking,” Elliot continues bitterly, “I am not religious. But when I was young my family went every week and our parish was nice. The priest was kind, you got sweets and pages to color in at Sunday school, and there were picnics and fundraisers for good causes. It was a good thing for the community, brought people together. Remember, I’ve seen first hand what religious extremism brings, but this is hardly it.”

“What would your kindly vicar say if you turned up with me in tow then?”

“Mazel tov, probably. Liberal city parish.”

London rolls his eyes. “Not that liberal, not really. The official line still calls for repentance of pretty much everything you and I have ever done, together or separately. But that is minuscule beyond the problem of attempting to use an eclectic set of ancient and mistranslated mythology to construct a code of conduct that flies directly in the face of every known fact of human nature, and then thinking you can apply that to people en mass to convince them to believe in a deity there is no evidence of, with the threat of an eternity in agony as a stick and the promise of intangible rewards after death as a carrot! I had that worked out by the time I could read picture books. It’s a method of control, nothing less.”

Doesn’t matter how many bake sales or visits to the poor or fundraisers for a new firehouse, he could never see religion as innocuous, it’s just a way to manipulate people, to stop them from thinking for themselves, to allow them to feel better than others and give them false hope to distract them from their miserable lives, he had never wanted any part of it and resented every single time he was made to participate, and that was before all the hours and weeks and months his mother had spent begging an imaginary deity for her life, as their priest promised her a bright future in heaven while her body and mind wasted away.

Elliot frowns. “Are you quite done? Because I believe the topic was whether you could or could not manage to sit quietly in a church for forty-five minutes, and not the premise of all world religions or the existence of a god.”

“Well, I’m making it the topic. Do you believe in god?” London practically spits the question at Elliot.

“Does it matter? Would you lose all respect for me and walk out the door if I said I did?”

“It does matter. I should know if you do.” London is attempting to rein himself in now but it is going poorly, he realizes.

Elliot sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve seen far too many terrible things to be able to hold onto the notion of a loving creator or an all-powerful being of some kind, because if god exists and that’s the sort of thing he or she allows then I wouldn’t want to know. And I’m a rational man. The supernatural doesn’t make sense to me."

“But when I think about meeting you, I hate to imagine that was just an accident, I know what you say about coincidences but I can't help but think. It feels impossible that such an important thing should hang on such trivial circumstances. It feels like we have to mean more than that, like there had to have been a reason beyond coincidence. And when I think about… the end…whenever it comes, I have to hold on to some glimmer of hope, delusional though it might be, that we won’t be just gone, separated, non-existent forever. I need to believe there could be something for you and me after this, together, because it’s the only way all the risks we take are bearable for me.”

The end, he hates to think about it, the final problem, more than just an academic exercise now, the thought of nothingness never bothered him but the inevitable separation is terrifying, even though it shouldn’t matter if nothingness really is all there is, he’d never know the difference, but it still frightens him to imagine any sort of existence without Elliot and he hates that it does.

London swallows, all his anger gone. He doesn't know if he should move closer to Elliot, who is visibly upset.

“Okay,” he tells Elliot almost meekly.

“What?”

“I’ll go tomorrow.”

Elliot lets out a long, weary breath and nods. “Good.” He sits on the bed and London decides to take a chance and sits beside him.

“I…” he begins, not really sure how he’s going to finish that sentence.

Elliot shakes his head.

"I was harsh?”

“Yes.”

"A bit not good?"

“Yes and I’m still angry, but we'll talk more about it later.” Elliot tells him and he nods. They sit quietly for a few moments, and then Elliot seems to make a conscious effort to shake it off.

“Now, however,” he says with false cheer. “Do you want to hear about the people I talked to today or shall we do another twelve rounds on theology?”

London is careful to listen attentively to Elliot’s rundown of the interviews instead of bombarding him with questions and interruptions as he usually would do. He is not entirely above the concept of penance, although he’s aware it’s a meager measure.

“The only one who seemed at all unusual was the groundskeeper. The housekeeper was unfriendly, but straightforward about it and seems very loyal to Vincent. The groundskeeper, Hobbs, is a local though – he kind of came with the castle – and seems to regard Vincent as an interloper. He wouldn’t answer any of my questions directly but was only too happy to hold forth on his opinion of the restoration project and the archaeologists and tourists who were going to tramp all over his land. I couldn’t tell if he had something to hide or just doesn’t like outsiders. There seems to be a lot of that in this area. He could want to sabotage Vincent to make him give up and leave, but it seems like there are easier ways to do it. And he’s old – in his seventies and not healthy. He’d need help, a lot of it. But he might know the place better than anyone, the history, the tunnels, the ins and outs of every passageway, living there his whole life, feeling proprietary about the building and the land, he certainly is a decent candidate if it weren’t for his frailness, perhaps he knew secrets he had passed them on to someone else."

“A possible, if unlikely, suspect, then. What about the stone mason? He’s got the skill set.”

Elliot shakes his head. “He loves old castles and churches like most people love their children. He was almost in tears to talk of the missing stones, how perfect an example of early Norman technique it was, what a loss to the structure.”

“And the apprentices?”

“I didn’t know it was possible to be a geek about stonework, but apparently it is. They’re absorbed. And I asked around and all the other workers are regularly accounted for at The Heath and Holly, drinking their pay away. Including the night of the last disappearance.”

“So, we’ll keep an eye on the groundskeeper then but see what we can learn tomorrow from the local populace. Hopefully some of Vincent’s tenants will be there as well. Anything else?”

“Nothing that struck me.” Elliot did look worn and a little grey, very dim and subdued still. “I'm pretty knackered, though. I'm going to catch some sleep before tomorrow's adventure. Are you going to go back to your research or…?”

He really should, but there might not be much more to glean from the files and he’s reluctant to leave Elliot after the fight, not sure if he’s been forgiven yet or not.

“No, I’ll stay here… if… it won’t bother you.”

Elliot nods and smiles a little, tiredly as he gets ready for bed without speaking and settles under the heavy blanket, while London sits in the chair by the bed and thinks.

“Elliot?” he says at last, before his friend’s breathing slows into slumber.

“Mmm?”

“I think about it too. What might have happened if we had never met. And what will happen. The end. I can’t bring myself to believe the things you do, even a little. But you’re the one with the heart… if you want to believe it for both of us, I wouldn’t object.”

He can feel that Elliot is surprised, but he only says, “Okay” before settling back down on the mattress and closing his eyes.

The Consulting Criminal doesn’t sleep that night, turning the facts over and over in his mind, but watching Elliot is restful, and by the time morning comes his excitement for the case has returned and he’s almost eager to get to the church and start canvassing for suspects. He asks Vincent to keep the reason for their visit quiet, but he only laughs. “Do you really think there’s a single person with in 50 kilometers who doesn’t already know who you are, why you’ve come, and what your shoe size is? Visitors are the ripest gossip.”

Corvin Village barely deserves the name, consisting only of a stone chapel, a small shop selling necessities that doubles as a post office and petrol station, and a few houses clustered around. They are nearly late, so there is no time for chit-chat, although judging by the smiles and waves from many of the congregants as they slide in to Vincent’s pew he is quite popular with the locals.

Of course he would be, he seems effortlessly at ease in this setting, as does Elliot, London sticks out like a sore thumb with his city clothes and strange face, one that couldn’t possibly belong here.

Did it belong anywhere?

London attempts to blend in as much as possible, appearing to look intently at the hymnal Elliot holds up for them, although not actually singing. Instead he uses it as a chance to survey the crowd. Several people jump out at him as having something to hide, although that’s no sure sign of guilt in the case. Church is enough to put anyone on guard and there are plenty of other crimes a person could have committed.

He stands and sits as others do, though he will not kneel, and tries to block out the words of subjugation and praise, faith and supplication. He can feel himself growing agitated by the rituals, the mindless, pointlessness of it all and by the time of the homily he is almost crawling out of his skin in his efforts to stay silent and still, appear a normal church-goer. The priest drones on about self-sacrifice, resisting temptation, and the consequences of failing to do so.

He feels wound tighter than a spring, especially once the priest begins to go into specifics, and feels the compelling desire to stand up and denounce the entire Church of England, and every other religion, loudly and in great detail, deconstructing every false ideology he has heard this morning (he’s counted twenty seven so far).

How are Vincent and Elliot so relaxed, how can they even be here, both moderately intelligent men, both essentially good in a way that London can never be, listening to a stranger telling them they are evil at heart, that they should renounce so many of the things that make them good for an arbitrary standard of holiness, what if they actually believe what is being said, what does that mean for London, does Elliot think somewhere deep inside that what they have is wrong?

Elliot senses the Consulting Criminal’s mounting discomfort and shifts a little closer to him. He doesn’t say anything but hands London a little scrap of paper upon which he’s scribbled several verse references: Song of Solomon 5:16; 6:3; 7:10.

Intrigued and temporarily distracted, London pulls the Bible out of the pew in front of him and looks up the scriptures.

Shocked, he looks at Elliot, who gives a little smile. “When I was a teenager I used to look for all the naughty bits when I was bored,” he whispers very quietly. “It’s not all bad. Comes quite in handy, really.”

London feels some of the tension leave him. He still feels somewhat under attack, but is warmed by Elliot’s stubborn loyalty to him, even here.

At last the ordeal is over, and they are released outside for coffee and baked goods set up on little folding table. No one seems in a hurry to leave; it’s likely this is the main social event of the week for many of the more rural families. London and Elliot sip their coffee in silence as Vincent speaks briefly to the priest. London observes the movements and interactions around him silently, taking mental notes, and he can tell Elliot is doing the same beside him, though likely missing much.

Snippets of conversation drift by, mainly about children, livestock, crops, the upcoming fair, and a large amount of inconsequential gossip. Suddenly, he hones in on a group of men not far from them, catching just part of a sentence.

“…and I don’t care whether ‘tis a prank or a crime or an act o’ God, I don’t know why he thinks he needs to bring a couple o’ London queers in to sniff around our business – he should keep ‘is own house in order…”

London tenses instantly. From Elliot's sudden change in attitude London can tell he heard it too, and is about to do something lovely and foolish. He's tempted by the potential enjoyment of letting him go off, despite the damage it would likely to do to their investigation.

Elliot flares with anger, sodium dropped into water, it’s electrifying for the Consulting Criminal when he’s like this, because it’s for him alone.

Before he can decide what to do or Elliot can rip anyone a new arsehole, Vincent materializes and steps smoothly into the group, motioning to London and Elliot to follow. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he says pleasantly. “Have you met my very good friends? They’re staying with me and helping with my little mystery. I certainly would hope they would receive the same kind of welcome and respect you all are always so kind in extending to me.” He smiles at them, assured and unblinking, a confident alpha dog commanding by sheer force of personality.

After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, the men back down, shamed, and mumble greetings to London and Elliot, avoiding eye contact, before they disperse.

“I apologize for that,” Vincent tells them gravely. “I’m afraid many people out here are not very open minded. You shouldn’t have much more trouble though – word gets around. Here, let me introduce you to some people you may wish to meet.”

London has been called worse, much worse, but it does resonate deeper now, insulting them is so very different than insulting just him, he’s used to being a target, hardly notices, but now he’s hyper-aware of every unfriendly look and whispered slur he gets.

Everywhere.

London shakes off the encounter quickly, though Elliot retains a distinct aura of wariness, standing beside him with an expression as if daring anyone to say a word. London puts on his most convincing and friendly normal-person persona, nudging Elliot as he does. He appreciates the defensiveness, but it won’t exactly help people open up to them. Reluctantly Elliot relaxes and lets his usual open and harmless demeanor return, but remains on alert.  

Vincent introduces them first to Mr. Deakins and his son, both of whom have such thick local accents even London can barely understand them. The elder Deakins is a gnarled old specimen, aged and wiry, but looking like he could probably lift twice his own weight for all of that, while the son is a hulking man who appears to have the approximate IQ of a baked potato. Neither show any interest or ability to converse beyond farming and the weather, and London dismisses them as suspects immediately. Their family may have been attached to the land for centuries, but they appeared untroubled by any change of ownership provided they were not disturbed in their work.

How could anyone stay in one place for so long, doing the same thing generations before had done, never moving, never changing, any reasonable person should go mad with boredom, of course the Consulting Criminal would stay in the city he was ironically named after for a thousand years if he could, but London is always new and changing, it’s not the same from one day to the next.

“Do you need to meet Suzie and Lily? They don’t attend, but I can drive you up to meet them after this,” Vincent offers.

“You said they moved in four months ago, but the first incident was six months ago, correct? No need, then.”

Vincent nods. “Right. Ah, Mr. McKeller, come and meet my house guests!”

A dark haired, barrel-chested man in his early sixties lumbers amiably over to them.

“This is Elliot and –”

“London Holmes,” London offers with a high-wattage smile, shaking his hand heartily.

Large rough hands, calloused but not from farming, weather-beaten face, tattoos in a Bantu language, hair cut short, distinct pipe tobacco scent, clothes un-ironed but clean.

“Navy man, I see. Lots of time around Africa, I presume?”

McKeller looks startled. “That’s right, Mr. Holmes. Sir Vincent been telling you about me?”

“Not at all. Ship’s engineer, am I correct?”

“More’n thirty years,” he says proudly. “But got too much for my back and knees to be crawling all around like that.”

“What brings you to farming? Quite a leap from a sailor. Did you grow up on a farm? I’ve always had a fancy to try it myself, but I’m afraid I don’t have the fortitude of a man like yourself.”

McKeller grins at the flattery. “My grandparents farmed this land, but they died when my mother was a baby. I got no people left, so I figured I might as well do what I could with the family legacy.”

“Well, best of luck to you,” London tells him, shaking his hand again and waiting for him to turn away before he lets the fake expression of friendliness slide from his face.

Strong man, some connection to the land, but not to the people around here, they’d be viewing him as an outsider, he’d still need help, seemed like he put most of his energy into his farming, definitely kept to himself.

London mentally places him in the same category as the groundskeeper; a suspect but not a strong one. The crowd is beginning to thin out now, and Vincent excuses himself for a brief talk with the deacons about some upcoming event or other, while Elliot heads for the bathroom. London doesn’t spot anyone else who seems to be worth interviewing, so he goes and waits impatiently by the car. As soon as he reaches it, a thin blonde man, perhaps in his early forties, makes a beeline for him. London had seen in him the service and marked him as one of the ones with something to hide.

Not farm folk, he’s got all the signs of an educated, indoors man, a scholar, he squints at the sun like it’s unfamiliar, awkward in his own skin, but determined about something.

“You’re staying up at the castle, aren’t you? With Mr. Trevor,” the man says without preamble.

“Yes.”

“Well, I think the whole thing is a travesty. Turning an historical landmark like that into a circus for tourists.”

“And you are?”

“Andrews. James Andrews of the Northumberland Society for Historical Preservation.”

“I assume that’s different than the Northumberland Historical Society?” London drawls, amused.

Andrews all but snarls at the mention. “Very. Those sods only care about economic development, they have no appreciation of true history. If they did, they wouldn’t be supporting Trevor’s ‘reconstruction’ plan, which is really just a veiled excuse to turn Corvin Castle into a money-making enterprise to exploit the history of the country for his own gains. He’s literally steam-rolling over thousands of years of English heritage, and the government and their toadies are all too happy to let him do it. Ruins like Corvin castle need to preserved in their current state, carefully studied by professionals, and protected. Not tarted up and rented out to the highest bidder!”

This is intriguing, not everyone in the county is cheering Vincent’s efforts, puts a new twist on the whole thing, a motive, if not for Andrews then for others like him, he looks far too nonathletic to attempt it himself, but presumably he is not the only member of his society.

“I see,” London says carefully. Andrews has gone red with anger during his little speech. “And you’re telling me all this because?”

“I have little hope of anyone being able to persuade him to change course now, but if you really are his friend perhaps you can make him see the folly of it. If he is a true history lover, he must realize it will only end in disaster and the loss of precious data about our predecessors. Good day, Mr. Holmes.”

The other man stalks off, just as Vincent returns.

“Oh Lord,” he moans. “He got to you, didn’t he? He’s a determined bugger, I’ll give him that. He’s been trying to stop my restoration project since the day I bought the property.”

“Why didn’t you mention him before?” London asks sharply. “I asked about enemies and people with interest in the castle. He seems to qualify as both.”

“He’s not an enemy, he’s an annoyance.”

“He might say differently. You should have told me.”

Vincent sighs. “Probably,” he agrees. “But frankly I try to put him and his people out of my head as much as possible. They’ve been quiet lately, I was rather hoping he’d given it up.”

Not a man to give things up, that one, not any more than Vincent or London himself, he bears investigating more deeply, but interviews won’t do any good, man like that’s bound to have a paper trail though.

“Hmm…” London says, but doesn’t elaborate.

Elliot still hasn’t returned. “I’m sorry again. I know that was uncomfortable for you. Church. I know you never liked it,” Vincent says.

“It’s fine,” London says tightly. “I just. Never mind.”

“No, tell me.”

“I don’t understand how you can still believe in any of it, how you can tolerate sitting there week after week, listening to that rubbish!”

“It’s not completely rubbish,” Vincent replies mildly. “No one is more aware of the flaws of the Church of England or organised religion as a whole than me. But I find comfort in my faith. It makes me a better man, it gives me something to strive for. The lessons of community, of caring for others, of generosity and kindness and responsibility, the sense of something greater than myself. It means something real to me. I know you don’t understand it, and that’s fine. But it works for me.”

“And what about the judgement and doctrine of hell and the misogyny and the condemnation?”

Vincent shrugs. “Nothing is perfect. I take what I need and let the rest go.”

London marvels at his ability to remain unscathed by negative teachings, completely faithful yet totally unburdened by any guilt or shame the church would try to impose upon him, absorbing the good and rejecting the bad, London will never understand how he manages it, even after leaving as a child he had still been infected by the poison of it through his family, conduits of its harmful doctrines, ideas that took years to be free of even after dismissing them as ludicrous with his rational mind.

Elliot rejoins them shortly. “Well, now what?” he asks brightly, seeing that London has something in mind.

The Consulting Criminal quickly shoves the bad memories away and refocuses on the case. “I need you to find out everything you can about James Andrews and the Northumberland Society for Historical Preservation. Vincent and I – and anyone else he can spare – are going to go look for secret passages.”

It seems to take ages for the sun to set, even after trekking back to the castle, taking a long soak followed by allowing Elliot to tend to the friction burns he’s accrued in novel places, and sitting through an agonizingly leisurely supper. London spends the meal downing cup after cup of strong coffee and Vincent and Elliot follow his example, though with the addition of actual food. Even after the sun goes down it won’t be completely dark until almost eleven pm this near to the solstice, but London wants them in place before then.

He sets each of them a side of the castle to keep watch.

“What about the front?” Vincent asks, as he passes around torches and crowbars.

“Stones are different on the facing,” London says dismissively. “Are you sure Justin has enough attention span to keep his watch?” They had asked him to stay up in the great hall to make sure no one came in that way. London had discounted it being an inside job almost completely after their search of the building, but one could never be too careful.

It would certainly make more sense but he was almost positive there was no existing way under the foundation from the inside, looking more would be a waste of time, they’d looked for an outdoor entrance too, but fruitlessly, this might be their only chance and he knows the thieves will strike tonight, knows it in his gut, he can feel the victory so close…

Vincent nods. “He’s a good lad. He’s proud of the responsibility, he won’t let us down.”

“You think everyone’s good,” London grumbles, but lets it go.

“Right, so what are these for?” Elliot asks, examining his crowbar. “Can’t say I’m a fan of heavy iron bars these days.” He rubs his lower back, still bruised, ruefully.

“If one of the stones drops down, we jam this into the sliding compartment underneath to stop it from closing completely after it. Then we might have a chance of finally getting into the chamber below. Obviously.”

Elliot rolls his eyes. “Obviously. So now what? We just hide in the tall grass until we hear something?”

“No, the walls are too long, it might be over without anyone hearing a sound if we stay in one place. We’ll have to each patrol our section. Keep your torch off until you really must use it – we don’t want to attract external attention if there’s an associate keeping an above-ground watch and if any light makes it through the cracks while the thief is at work he’ll likely abort before we can work out a way in.”

“How will we see anything?” Vincent asks. “After twilight you have no idea how dark it can be all the way out here, particularly on a cloudy night like this.”

“I do,” Elliot says quietly. “You’d be surprised what your eyes can adjust to.”

He imagines Elliot in a dark desert somewhere, even more distant from city lights than here, had he patrolled alone in the pitch black night, had there been nights of a billion stars to walk under, or other nights even darker than these, waiting for an enemy to leap out of the black, he didn’t like to ask but sometimes when Elliot thrashed in his sleep London knew he was back there and longed to be there with him, to learn what it was like to be that brave, but right now Elliot’s still glowing in the dark, like the northern lights, he doesn’t want him to go out of sight but there’s more important things now.

“Enough talk,” London cuts in. “Let’s get to our stations. Remember, try to jam up the mechanism before calling out or they’ll know something is up.”

The others disperse. London’s given himself the eastern side of the castle, facing the ocean, so that he won’t be far from the action if something happens either on Elliot’s or Vincent’s side. He starts walking the length of the wall, pacing with slow, measured steps, peering carefully at each foundation block as he passes for any hint of a change.

It’s fully dark now, a darkness the Consulting Criminal is not accustomed to, even though his eyes seem to be coping as Elliot had said. It’s never this dark in London, at least not outside. It’s not possible. He knows his friends are only a few hundred meters away, but it feels like he might be the very last person in the world. It feels like the world itself might very well not extend beyond the tiny radius which he can make out dimly around him.

If there was a hell, is this what it would be like, a world of total blackness with only himself and his brain, eating itself alive while things moved in the unrelenting shadow beyond, never to be known or studied, no new data, no new problems, no Elliot, just alone and trapped and forever bored, so bored it should kill him if he weren’t already dead.

A cold fog has moved in, making the experience even more unearthly. He pulls his coat more tightly around him and turns up his collar against the unpleasant moisture trying to seep into his body. He refuses to let his mind wander and falls into an almost trance-like state as he walks up and down his route.

After two hours he finds he’s beginning to tire, both mentally and physically, but reminds himself it’s infinitely preferable to laying motionless on the ground in this weather. And more difficult to accidentally fall asleep. He’s tempted to check on how the others are faring, particularly Vincent. Elliot’s used to this, but Vincent’s determination might be starting to wane – he’s not accustomed to extended discomfort and London doubts his fortitude. Still, it’s his home so he ought to be motivated, and calling out or leaving his post to check on him aren’t really options. London has to content himself with not knowing.

Two more hours pass with equal unpleasantness, although the Consulting Criminal supposes the numbness in his extremities is preferable to the original painful cold he had felt. It will be starting to get light again in an hour and a half, and he’s beginning to doubt his estimation of the thieves’ persistence. Maybe they had called it off once they knew he and Elliot were investigating.

It didn’t matter if they’d given up, he’d still find them, he’d still solve it, he wasn’t going to leave this one no matter how ridiculous and hopeless it got, even if he had to spend the next ten years in god-forsaken Northumberland digging out the foundations with a spoon to get the answer.

He’s shaken from his reverie by a shout off to his right – Vincent. Instantly alert, he springs in to a run, using the castle wall as a guide to keep from stumbling. Elliot overtakes him in the dark, a bright streak like waving a sparkler in a slow-shutter photograph, navigating almost blindly at a speed that even London wouldn’t dare under these conditions.

Vincent is kneeling on the ground at the base of the wall, near to the front of the castle. There is a gaping hole before him, exactly like the others.

London swears. “You missed him! That may have been our only chance. Wasted! Why can’t you ever bloody focus?!”

“Stop it!” Elliot tells the Consulting Criminal irritably. “Vincent, what happened?”

“I was on the other end of the north side, and I thought I heard something, so I turned around and walked back quickly, just in time to see the lower stone sliding back into place. I wedged the crowbar in there but…” He holds up his tool and London can just make out that it’s been sheared in half. “That’s when I shouted.”

“That’s more than just man power that did that,” Elliot points out. “They must have some machinery on their side.”

“Quickly, did you hear anything mechanical? An engine, a whirring noise, anything?” London demands.

“No, just stone against stone. I’m lucky I heard anything at all, the distance I was at. I just can’t believe the whole process took…what? Less than three minutes from the time I left this spot till I returned.”

“They are right beneath us! We’re missing them, right now, as we speak!” London shouts, frustration and anger boiling over, pacing in a tight circle before the missing block. “I know you’re under there,” he yells at the ground. “I can feel you there and this is not the end of it! I will get you!"

So close, so close, failure now is not an option, he should have taken this side, he never would have missed it, he’d have thrown himself down the rabbit hole if that was what it took, let the stones slice him in half, now all he’s got is impotent, useless rage, at the thieves, at the building, at the very stones themselves, at the Norman masons, at himself, at Vincent and Elliot and anyone who dared to get within his eye line.

“London…” Elliot begins, approaching him carefully, as if he were a feral dog. He knows he’s not acting his sanest right now but he hates it when Elliot gives him that look. He hates being handled, even by Elliot, even when he knows he’s being at least vaguely unreasonable.

“Shut up, just shut up,” he barks. “The thieves are literally underneath our feet right now and we can’t do a single thing about it. Probably laughing at my humiliation.” He lets out another impressive stream of curses aimed at the ground and continues his pacing.

“Right. I am going inside.” Elliot says calmly. “I am going to have a cup of tea, a hot shower, and sleep – and hope that I one day am reunited with the feeling in my toes. If you would like to join me for any of those things, feel free. Otherwise, enjoy stomping in the dark and swearing at the turf in a freezing fog for as long as you like. Goodbye.”

He spins on his heel and walks towards the front of the castle. After a slight hesitation, Vincent follows, leaving London alone.

Good riddance, they were being useless tonight, he shouldn’t be surprised about Vincent, but Elliot, even Elliot, he should have managed something, London doesn’t know what, but Elliot’s the man of action, he ought to have done.

It’s entirely maddening, knowing how close they are, knowing the answer is literally right in front him and being able to do nothing about it. It’s like being deliberately taunted. He is sorely tempted to obtain a backhoe and dig them out like a nest of voles, damage and injury be damned. He needs to know how, he needs to know why, the frustration of the situation overwhelming even his admiration for such an elegant and brilliant scheme.

Slowly, though, his rage recedes, if only due to sheer exhaustion and chill. It is a tad unseemly to be standing outside in the middle of the night screaming at people who may or may not be able to hear him or even still be there. He collects himself with difficulty. It is very cold and he can’t deny he’s reaching the end of how long he can go without sleep and still be effective.

Grudgingly he goes inside and makes his way up to their rooms. He can hear the shower running in the bathroom and he waits as patiently as he can manage in his current mood. Roughly ten minutes after his arrival, the shower shuts off and a minute later, Elliot steps out of the bathroom, wearing his usual sleepwear and drying his hair with a dry towel that looks like the Consulting Criminal's.

“Are you done now?” Elliot asks as he walks over to London, throwing the towel in the direction of the bedside chair. “You sure there’s nothing else you’d like to say to the empty countryside? A few more choice words for the local inhabitants? I’m sure they could hear you clear into town.”

London tries not to bristle at his taunting, unfair though it seems, but it isn't. “I’m done. I'm sorry” he admits reluctantly as Elliot sits down next to him the bed.

“Damn right you're sorry. However it's not me you need apologize."

London says nothing.

"So… what do we try next?”

“You don’t know, do you?” Elliot says, turning to face him, catching the look of uncertainty on his face before he can quite hide it away. “Well, never mind that. You’ll figure it out after you’ve had some rest.”

Consciousness and the answer hit him at almost exactly the same moment and he wakes with a shout, startling Elliot. It’s not entirely safe to wake him without warning, and he crackles brightly as his brain assesses the danger level, cycling through possibilities and reactions until he subsides into a low, annoyed shade upon determining that it’s just London having a brainwave.

He didn’t do it on purpose, but it’s a nice bonus, seeing him flick from soldier to doctor to room mate in a few heartbeats, knowing that had his shout had been one of alarm Elliot would already be armed and on the attack before his conscious mind even woke up.

“Christ, I’ll never get used to that,” Elliot mutters, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Bloody menace. One of these days...”

London grins at him. “Shut up! I know what’s next. Get up. We need to find Vincent. No, don’t bother getting dressed, hurry up!”

Elliot grabs his dressing gown and follows London, still grumbling, but the Consulting Criminal can see how sharply he’s gleaming, caught up in London’s excitement. He bursts into Vincent’s room, Elliot trailing apologetically after, and gives the still-sleeping man a hard shake.

“Vincent! Up! Now!” he shouts near his ear and slowly Vincent claws his way towards consciousness.

“Holmes, wha…? Elliot?” he manages. “Is everything…alright?” He yawns deeply and shakes his head, blinking. “What time is it?”

“It does not matter! Move!” London informs him. “We’ve got work to do!”

“Work? What?”

He’d never known a man to sleep so soundly as Vincent, he used to amuse himself by determining the exact disturbance level, down to the decibel and amount of physical force, that Vincent could tolerate before he finally woke, playing every type of music he could think of and piling objects on top of him, from blankets to a dozen glasses of water to a tower of blocks, while he slept, not that he’d known how others slept, mainly Elliot and Alexander, who didn’t sleep any longer or more deeply than London did.

London smirks. “We’re going to find the entrance to tunnel running underneath the foundation. And when we find that, we’ll find our man. Or men.” He preens visibly, but Elliot and Vincent do not look as awed as he’d hoped.

“Didn’t we try that?” Vincent asks.

“Yes, but we were looking inside the castle and on the immediate grounds. There has to be a way people are getting under the blocks to steal them, and if the entrance isn’t nearby, then it must be far off and we have to find it!”

“And how will we do that?”

“By looking!” London says, exasperated. They really ought to be more impressed, even if it is an obvious next step and he is a little ashamed he hadn’t thought of it earlier. “We do a systematic sweep of the land in a wide radius around Corvin Castle, until we find the entrance.”

He’s determined, he’ll wear out his boots, all their boots, all their legs before he gives up, there’s got to be an entrance and he’s going to find it if it kills them all.

“That’s… a lot of land…” Elliot says weakly.

“Which is why we need to get started right away!” London claps his hands. “Come on, get dressed, both of you, I want us outside and ready to go in ten minutes!”

Once everyone is more or less ready, London divides the land around the castle up into even thirds, like overly large pie pieces. “Now, we start here and sweep back and forth like a searchlight, moving outward until one of us finds something, then he calls the others. Obviously the entrance has been well used lately, so there should be footprints, trampled plants, a path near it even it is well disguised. It might be a hatch or hidden by a cave or cairn. But I’m betting once we see it, it will be obvious.”

“How will we call if one of us finds it?” Elliot asks 

London pulls out his gun and fires three shots in the air as the answer.

“Fantastic,” Vincent mutters, and goes back inside to retrieve one of his hunting rifles before they set out, each in a different direction.

Vincent could never kill an animal in his life, but he always did keep up appearances, he was a good shot, they once had gone stalking with his father, an avid hunter, and each and every time they got in range of a stag Vincent had successfully put a bullet exactly three inches to the right of its ear, the harried creatures might now be deaf but at least they'd survived.

London thinks he will have had quite enough of walking when this case is over. It’s coming horrifyingly close to exercise. And sweeping back and forth like this is more tedious than enjoyable, particularly as the fog and clouds have persisted and it is now a surprisingly chilly afternoon for nearly July.

His progress is slow and unfruitful, and by the time the sun starts to dip to the horizon he’s forced to admit he’s not going to find anything else today. And he’s far enough out now that it’s unlikely any tunnel would be quite so long. Perhaps the other’s have found something, but he’s heard no shots.

London tramps back in defeat and meets Vincent in the dining room, where he is warming himself by the fire with a stiff drink.

“Good Lord, did you just get back?” he exclaims, jumping up pressing his drink into London’s hand. “Here, you need this more than me. I’ll call for some food for you, I ate already.”

Vincent gets Maggie to put on something hot for London and settles back into his chair. “So, no luck either? Neither you nor Elliot? I must have walked 20 kilometers today myself and I’ve been back two hours already.”

“You haven’t spoken to Elliot?” London, previously slumping over his drink, snaps to attention.

How in the hell had he forgotten about Elliot, why hadn’t he checked for him right away, was he that tired and caught up in the case, of course he was, he always was, Elliot knew that, would have been waiting for him not expecting London to seek him out, something was wrong.

“No… I mean, I thought you’d both gotten back earlier and were upstairs. He wasn’t with you then?”

“No,” London snaps, springing out of his chair and running up to their room. He finds it empty and dashes immediately back down and out the rear door, shouting Elliot’s name into the darkness.

“He’s not back?” Vincent asks from behind him, knowing the answer.

“I have to go after him, now!” London declares, sprinting back inside. Vincent finds him up in their rooms once again, frantically collecting torch and Elliot’s medical bag and damn it, what else?

What else would he need, something warm and dry to wear, something to eat, rope, a weapon, did he have all those things, did he even need them, if Elliot were here he’d know.

“London, stop! You can’t!” Vincent tells him. “It’s pitch black out there, he could be almost anywhere. It's like looking for a needle in a haystack. Blindly. We have to wait until we can see something.”

“No, now!” London repeats.